When I was seven, I was accidentally poisoned when our housekeeper left cleaning fluid in a drinking cup on the counter. I was in the hospital for a week and shared a room with another little girl who was there for a chronic stomach ailment. She spooked me. She convinced me that we were both left there by our parents to die. We used to get up in the middle of the night and go to the window, looking up at the sky and the stars and pray. At some point I was released but I think she never left. "Prey" was published in Friday Flash Fiction, September, 2022
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A malignancy of apex predators is on the prowl. They maneuver at night from bar to bar, fanning out as solitary hunters. It’s the birds they’re after. White silkie hen, Blue-throated fantail, Lady Amherst’s Pheasant, and European Shag. They beguile with confabulation, bald-faced lies, and a killer smile. Like poison candy, the birds swallow it all, falling all over themselves preening, tweeting, and chirping, in party-dress pink and lollapalooza-red. But the apex predator turns it on and off like a spigot. No one hears their mournful howl, the subterranean grieving of an imposter; emotions threatening to dysregulate. Prey—idealized, devalued, and discarded. "On The Prowl" was published in Backwards Trajectory January, 2022 -September 1, 1939- I watch the gunmetal-black behemoth pulling away from the crowded station, as its gigantic steel wheels churn up billowing steam and smoke, darkening the platform and skies above. I can no longer see you, my darling Gisela. But I promise, we will be together very soon. I am close behind making arrangements to follow. Your cherubic face and delicate hands pressed against the window, almond-shaped eyes imploring, confused, bargaining, so angry with me—the last image I have of you. -September 2, 1939- There was no time amid the fury and melee to properly explain or prepare you. The warning, the opportunity, so brief, so quick, there was only to act. I have sent you away, alone. My only assurance, a hand-scrawled note with names and contact details of distant relatives north of London. They are our only hope, and your urgent destination. I was desperate to get you out, my precious Gisela. Sept 1, 1939, the day before your seventh birthday. Timing could not be helped. Look in your left pocket, nestled in the soft corduroy, an embroidered linen handkerchief filled with your favourite sweet Madeleines. A birthday treat. And, sewn into the hem of your navy pea jacket, seven gold coins. Keep these as your secret. Only look when no one is watching. Be brave, my young girl. -September 3, 1939- I am sorry to break my promise, my love. The last Kindertransport, from Berlin to the Netherlands and on to Harwich, had no room for me. Another transport has come to take me in the opposite direction. We are going to camp, for a while. It is very crowded, and I miss you terribly. I close my eyes, blocking everything out so that I only see your face. You are always such a comfort, my constant joy. Be brave, my young girl. -September 4, 1939- The steam and smoke billow and darken the sky all day and all night here. Germanische Urhunde barking barking. Caleb is beside himself with worry. Another killing spree. At four, he has seen it all. Molly's swollen belly is drooping. She is restless; panting, pacing, shivering, refusing food. Little’uns pressing to come out. Granny marches in ankle-length Sears catalogue cotton housedress and flea-bit army boots, dragging the hosepipe to the water barrel. She is fix'n for a whelping. The possum stew and batch of moonshine left on the potbelly to slow burn. In the hey of the sweltering afternoon, Caleb tracks Molly crawling through clumps of bindweed and thistle, under the roughhewn clapboard porch to her nesting spot. He follows on knees, elbows, and palms, only slightly grazed —his skin still wrinkled and raw from wading through the tangled maze of roots in the mangrove swamp digging for carp fingerlings; chubby little fingers clamoring to hold on to the slippery silver fry. Granny refusing to let him out until the bucket was full; his heat rash blistering from fright each time she wrenches the bucket to check the tally—as he maneuvers with skill around brown recluse spiders and water moccasins, nestling in the insect swell and wood rot close to the dog. Granny is stomping like thunder along the fetid slough, jabbing long canes into recessed hiding spots, hollering for the boy and dog. The rifled burrows lay bare discarded and decomposing critters. Seasons of doing and undoing. At the far end of the slough well beyond Granny’s reach, Molly's soft panting muffles the outside world. The air beneath the ramshackle porch is stale and cool. Time slows. Caleb nibbles on found bits of dried pawpaw and maypop fruit. The twisted eel knot inside his belly slowly unfurling. Whispers and coos let slip. The space between boy and dog floats like dandelion puff. The afternoon sun bends low, light all but disappearing. In the black maw of night, the pups squeeze out one after the next, squirming, warm, and velvety. Caleb nuzzles in with the brood, falling into a deep newborn sleep. Days slide by, dreaming and suckling. The bitch grooming her offspring indiscriminately, teats flowing a-plenty. Thick downy pigmented hair sprouts all over Caleb's body. He grows small, curling like a cashew, exchanging low-pitched squeals and grunts with his canine siblings. He is soon indistinguishable from his littermates. Content. When Granny discovers the scruffy pack, they are yanked out; all the fuzzy ones culled. Imagine a desert, biscuit-coloured and crumbly, with tumbleweeds, dust devils and carrion. The air parched with finely crushed sorghum. Its rough-hewn canyon snaking like a river; but there is no water and there is no snake. In this desolate terrain nothing stirs, nothing breathes. Nothing remains. Imagine if all you hear is the sound of your own footsteps. There are no birds squawking or flapping, no orgy of gorging raptors, no howls or yips of coyotes, braying of wild dogs. Only a heavy silence. Imagine if the desert is all you see, for miles and miles. The only return, a pale diminished vanishing point. Imagine it was not like this yesterday. Yesterday when you had your youth, when you had your wherewithal. Yesterday, when you could have done something. Published in The Wild Word, July 2, 2021
You seize the stallion by its mane. Waves of titian hair cascade from poll to withers. Nose nudging, a purr of warm breath washing over your face. It's what you know. It's what you remember. You hoist your leg over his long torso and settle in circus-style. The beast pulsing with energy. A smouldering energy worming its way inside of you. An impulse, feverish and giddy, awakening. It's what you know. It's what you dream about. Strands of flaming hair clump in your fist. You press your body closer into the beast. Dig your heels into his barrelled chest. You move effortlessly, in tandem. Thundering hoofs spark torrents of milky way. The long black tresses whipping in the slipstream are your own. The wind is wild. The wind is fierce. It's what you know. It's what you crave. You leave the city behind. Its depravity and corruption, its bustle and alienation. A metropolis filled with dead zones. Ruins that have kept you caged, your soul crying out for more. The night is awash in a filmy haze. Air turning sweet with manna grass, bull thistle, lavender and sage. The tableau a shade of eerie. You flow like water, chart as a comet. —The winding arpeggios of the erhu, kora, and dudek, envelope you in an hallucinatory splendour. Liquid Senegalese melodies and gauzy synthesizer tones transport you, open your mind's eye. The calliope pulsing and pushing its hypnotic tempo. —You are mercury, rising. You are equine. You are free. It's what you know. It is who you are. For an instant, you look back. The carousel is spinning. Its neon lights still aglow...... Ahead, the neverlands. Published in Sledgehammer Lit, July 2021
Murmuration of starlings again this morning. The sky holding back, just a bit, as thick menacing clouds squeeze into place. We prepare for a deluge, slicker and wellies by the door. Sophia is racing around, shrieking, long golden tangles whipping, frenzied, as I neatly lay out her undies, pedal pushers, t-shirt, socks and shoes. My banshee daughter is attacking the day. Never soft, gentle, slow; her movements a blur. At seven, she still doesn't speak; it's all guesswork. The sea is a calming influence. It entertains her, teaches her, embraces her. We descend along the well-trodden path over boulder, shale, and timber, to our little stretch of beach. Rain and blustery winds never a deterrent. The cove a safe haven for exploration and release. The view, a never-ending vanishing point. Sophia hunches over, red wellingtons wedged deep in the tide pools. Her pink plastic shovel prods and jabs into crevasses, hunting for snails, mussels, anemones, urchins, and sea stars. High-pitched wails morph into sing-song as she focuses, digs, tormenting tiny crustaceans. Her skin a healthy rosy glow. I hang back a few meters leaning against the fallen Douglas fir, grown too tall and heavy for its rocky mooring. Lesser trees still standing, dead and broken. The area is secluded, and I don't worry about noise and commotion disturbing the neighbours. In the distance a solitary loon issues a melodious tremolo. I disengage, take an unhurried drag on my cigarette. It takes an instant for the rogue wave to barrel in, roaring. The vertical wall of frothing water stinking of brine and decay, towers over Sophia. It lunges, like a Rorqual whale—its gigantic mouth gaping wide over its prey—swallowing her whole, carrying her off into the churning black sea. It is all over before I have a chance to react. My chest lurching as I gasp for breath. The turbulent surf reverting flat like carpet. My burden gone, forever. I snap the elastic, hard. It leaves a welt on my wrist, as the image dissolves. My hairs still staggering. I give it another snap, banishing the intrusive thoughts. I am exempt from culpability, I am told. It is my subconscious working through my fears, giving me some semblance of control. It doesn't reassure. I feel depraved, ugly, a bad mother. I snap the elastic over and over, as the dark murderous images resurface. I stamp out my cigarette. The shoreline is littered with pebbles, knots of seaweed, crushed hermit crab shells, and barnacled driftwood. I tease out pointed shards of dolphin-blue sea glass and deposit them in the yellow plastic pail next to Sophia. She doesn't notice. The waves lapping and lipping, ever so close. 442 words Published in JMWW April, 2021
She arrives early, hands comported neatly on her lap, waiting, silent, thoughtful. Her olive-green chenille skirt hovering just above the knee while seated, slides down some inches to a more respectable length when she stands, as the door opens for the fifty-minute hour. She will make the most of it today. Sitting on the edge of the buttery-soft tufted leather divan, she draws the Kleenex box within arms' reach. Dr. Watzlawick-Pohl inhabits the matte black Eames lounge chair, across from her, his knees pressed together in slate-grey nubby wool slacks, hands neatly comported atop a slender clipboard with notepad, Montblanc pen poised. And says nothing. It is the same lament. She has taken a pair of jewel-encrusted earrings, this time from her friend Yung Li, at Yung Li's home, during a dinner party. She excused herself to attend the ladies' room but withdrew to scout for something to pinch. Again, she cannot explain her behaviour, and she cannot stop. She has become far too good at this game—stealthy in keeping hidden, while bemoaning the transgression, yet betraying friends and colleagues. Today she confesses she lifted an Isaac Sellam leather jacket at work. When the email circulated inquiring if anyone had seen it, she hid in the ladies' room and was sick. This is the fourth therapist she has seen. She does not speak about being wrenched from her biological parents as an infant in the dead of night, abandoned in the cold on the stoop outside the police station, left alone for hours, to live or die, found dehydrated and sickly, shipped off to an overcrowded orphanage, fought to keep hold of the one rice milk bottle given her each morning, and abruptly displaced from her new caregivers, country, language and culture, when she was adopted by her Western Asian parents, who insisted they save face, vowing never to tell her, their only daughter, or anyone else, the secret. This she does not speak about. Because this she does not know. Her body knows. And her preverbal self knows. But she does not remember. Instead, she is compelled to repeat over and over again, searching for what she has lost. Soon she will move on to the next therapist who will also not know what questions to ask. 379 words Published in the Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, April, 2021
He slips his fingers into the belly of the girl. Bloody juices squelch and splatter as he rummages, plunging deeper and forcibly, yawning layers of epidermides—stratum basale, spinosum, granulosum, lucidum, and corneum wide open—looking for the source of his pain. They are lined up one after the other, brunette, redhead, blonde, silver-haired, and are shuttled each in turn into the examining room; white, seedy, and carnivorous. Over the console table, next to the gurney, a single emboldened lightbulb illuminates a silver pan lined with S, L, H, C and HSS-shaped surgical instruments, and a thin spiral notebook. His notebook, filled with hand-drawn sketches of the occipital, temporal, parietal, and frontal lobes; cerebral cortex, cerebellum, hypothalamus, thalamus, pituitary and pineal glands; amygdala, hippocampus; and mid-brain. He ratchets up, removing bits of grey matter here and there, from all but the blond girls, cataloguing some and others, not. It is the twins he is interested in. One is bent the other more bent. One is tall the other more tall. One has asthma the other suffocates. One can no longer bear children the other is left for dead. You sit in the waiting room, nervous for this appointment; your babies kicking and turning. The obstetrician called away on an emergency, a replacement is available you are told. You stand when your name is called, but instead of following the nurse into the examining room, Doctor Mengele will see you now, you turn in the other direction cradling your swollen belly. The corridor is long and as you begin to run, it stretches, l-e-n-g-t-h-e-n-i-n-g so that you can no longer see or reach the exit. Yet you keep running -clamouring- as your water breaks; your twins almost out. 287 words Published in Bear Creek Gazette, May 2021
We hear the frenzied click-clacking and trumpeted honks before spotting the swelling throng, our necks twisting in the wind craning to catch a glimpse; the gathering of birds advancing as one entity—heel toe kick, heel toe kick—like Alvin Ailey dancers in hot pink leotard, the synchronized clusters glide along the cerulean blue of the estuary, poised, straight-backed, noses thrust high into the air, heads flagging from side to side, the ebullient mating calls deafening as the procession advances; their dance fierce and without end until all have paired, for life—heel toe kick, heel toe kick. Marvin is missing the whole thing, futzing with his Nikon, beside me. Ultra-wide-angle, super-telephoto, circular fisheye.... nothing new, he often misses the big picture and the little ones too. Yesterday back at the hotel, when I asked him what he thought about the charming young couple sitting across from us at dinner recounting thrilling stories about their eco-tourism excursion whale-watching, he hadn't heard a word. Here, I spot the pair farther down the river, so close— almost standing in the same footprint—sharing the thrill of this event arm-in-arm. Turning back to the pageant, blushing and bleeding and blinding pink, I marvel at the devotion and promise of this ritual. The effort these creatures put into selecting a mate, the fervour of their dance, the ache in their hearts; hyperextended legs, petits jetés, flamboyant bobs, twerking and whirling; flaunting the best they have to offer. Not giving up till the deal is sealed. No looking back, no cold feet. I gesticulate and caterwaul for Marvin to look...Look...LOOK, as the procession sails on by. But he is busy doing that clucking, tutting, and twisty thing he does with his tongue; head down niggling and piggling with wide apertures and miniscule settings. There is a flurry of wings from the left flank as matched pairs begin to take off into the wide expanse of sky, hurried pedaling with elongated feet gaining initial flying speed; bright crimson and vermillion wings tapping, snapping, flapping until airborne—forever in alignment. I look over at Marvin clutching his SLR and wonder... what does he see. 357 words Published in South Florida Poetry Journal - Flash Fiction Issue , May 2021
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