I wandered the streets in a haze. For the first time in many months I moved about directionless, and without idea of where to find a cause to travel. So I simply moved, passing under street lights and swimming in the cold haze of night between their islands of effervescence. I glided through Shibuya, through Akihabara, and eventually into Minato. All the while awaiting a reason to move, a definable destination. Finally, I reached the Minato train station.
It was then that I saw the woman.
She had been standing by one of the pillars outside the terminal. She was dressed quite smartly, with a long brown coat opened to reveal a form fitting office skirt and a little crossover tie. She looked like she had dropped straight out of an eighties flick about some aspiring young girl who goes to the big city and meets the man of her dreams.…
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I am an hourglass
constantly turned
before time is through
– Christiana Doucette
Author’s Note: “Life’s Line” was written during one of those life moments where everything turns on its head. The expected does not happen. Instead, life suddenly reorients around a new, uncomfortable normal. The time one thought one had, runs through the fingers the wrong direction, and there is somehow less, or more. Always something in place of what one thought one would have.…
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I.
They call me a monster,
ignoring the true Frankenstein,
who crafted me
from stitched sinews and mismatched
skin and lopsided limbs—
an amalgamation of forgotten scraps—
he who activated my heart with a
defibrillator,
then abandoned me,
fearful
of his own creation.
II.
They call me a monster,
screaming when I approach
or murmuring when I leave.
Flinging darted glances
as I stand in a grocery store line,
holding a birthday cake with one candle.
Don’t they know
this skin was not chosen?…
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“Drinking drivers/Nothing worse/They put the quart/before the hearse/
Burma-Shave” Series of roadside signs by Burma Shave, 1950s
In the driveway sat the 1950 Buick Roadmaster Estate Station Wagon, its toothy grille like an angry steel smile, proud of its dynaflow automatic transmission, and wooden body side panels. The back of the car was packed with suitcases for a trip to my grandmother’s funeral five-hundred miles away. Dad was intent on making the trip there in one day, go to the service, and return home the following morning, so we could, as he put it, “get it over with.” When it was time to get in the car, my mother and father sat on the front bench seat and my little sister, older brother and I sat in back.…
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My daddy didn’t teach me how to hold my keys between my knuckles or scare off a cat-caller. Coming from the country, I never had to worry about them; strange men didn’t make a habit of lurking out in our woods. We did have chickens, though, and they were high on the menu for a lot of mean critters. So, my daddy saw it fit that my self defense lessons consisted of which color of bear to run from, which snake bites will send you to the hospital, and how to fight off a coyote.
Thumb in the eye, grab the muzzle, knee on the throat.
Once I loaded my life into a u-haul, I didn’t think I’d need those lessons anymore. But I was gonna have to learn all the standard stuff that girls my age had years of practice with– how to use pepper spray and not get it in your eyes, how to break free when someone grabs you from behind, that you need to yell “fire” instead of “ help” when someone assaults you.…
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Again the scent
Of wet fur and burnt grass
Returns to this humble abode
The wolfman is crashed on my couch,
curled ball that twitches and growls
In slumber, a comfortable comforting
Old friend, though strange even to I
Who rests by the window
Empty wine glass in hand,
Taking in the music of the night
An hour will pass
And he’ll leap to his feet
Alive! We’re Alive!
We’re not old news
Time to hit the town
And spread some fear!
Time to crash the club
To Monster Mash
Or at least
Hit up McDonalds…
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I am the bad seed who chose where to sprout,
alongside these meadows. I moved again
despite your need for me. When I came out
West without one look toward where I had been
it was because the things that choked me—worse
than thistles or stones, all the ordnance thrown,
your savage son waging unholy wars
in the memory of Cain. But here I own
my square, honest piece of the well-worn dream
one half I’ll mow and leave the rest to woods
enough room to take root by friends who seem
quite happy I am close. Who thought I could
grow strong beside these windswept stalks of grain?
Where bravery yields a remedy for pain.
– D.E. Kern…
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