It was early fall. The old dog had just come back from a week-long hunting trip. A self-respecting dog in Amsterdam knew how to take care of himself. He had a home here, in the nicely-kept small house on the St. Anthoniebreestraat. His master looked after him when he was around—in the winter, his master would feed him milk and table scraps and let him sleep inside. In the summer he slept outside on the porch when he was not roaming around, sniffing the docks and the countryside.
This time when he got home, the smell was strange. His master’s smell was there, but it was faded. He kept coming back and sniffing, but the smell was more and more faded, and the door never opened. … ...continue reading
From the time he reached puberty, Ezekiel Morgan had been the punching bag for Sydney Powell III. As a slave on the Powell Plantation in north Mississippi, he couldn’t muster much of a defense. The beatings didn’t stop until “Trey” was exhausted from raining blows on the undersized teenaged boy. Ezekiel’s salvation was occasionally provided by his sister, Rose. Although she was statuesque and old enough to be with men, she showed little interest in the opposite sex. But when she saw the Master looking for her little brother, she would sidle up to the man and lure him to a secluded spot. After the seduction, Ezekiel was safe for the rest of the day. Such was the pattern of the young man’s life until Captain Powell was commissioned into a Confederate infantry regiment and sallied forth to face the “Northern oppressors.”… ...continue reading
the collar i turn up
against the cold
reminds me
draws me back
to a life
before
when
rushing cold against my skin
meant you
drawing near to share
your warmth
your life
cascading
out of control
drew me to
its flame
its fury
its fate
sealed
by visions
and missions
and empty streets
in dark
of night
falling
about us
capturing heart and soul
entwined
in this dance
of despair… ...continue reading
I’m just a servant
Who serves these
Words,
Inky sentiments,
Nearly sentient-
And the mind
Works on her own time,
Sometimes,
She works against mine.
I’m just a maid
Who cleans up after these
Thoughts ablaze
And they swarm
Like bees in a summer haze,
You cannot force them in a cage,
And sometimes they say messy things
So,
Someone must oversee them.… ...continue reading
After a long day of travelling, Claire followed Robert through the hotel lounge to a table by the window. Soft piano music played, mingling with the low hum of conversation from customers seated sparsely throughout the lounge. The circular bar in the center of the room was empty of patrons, and behind it a bartender mixed drinks at a leisurely pace while talking to the lone server. Robert held Claire’s chair for her, then sat down across the table, their chairs angled so that they were not directly facing each other, but rather, looking out into the room.
The server approached the table to take their order. She was a friendly looking young woman, with thick, luxurious eyelashes and long flawless nails.
Claire studied Robert as he conversed amiably with the server.… ...continue reading
With thanks to my friends John Pappan and Mike Berger
Frances pulled up to the steaming patch of road tar and eased the white City truck to a stop. From the driver’s seat she looked at the site and rubbed at her sore knees. She rolled a delicate cone of a cigarette without looking, and despite the rough tobacco it tapered perfectly from tip to tip without pucker or bulge.
Normally she’d be done work by now and already up home, but today she’d signed up for four hours overtime, same as she had yesterday and same as she would tomorrow, too. With the winters coming harder and earlier, the extra hours were a Godsend.
Hard winters hadn’t been a worry when the good firewood was still coming down from Canada.… ...continue reading
My college history teacher said:
white flour fed oppression—
a false staple that starved nations
while filling the conqueror’s plate
Empty offerings persist,
served now on Styrofoam:
flimsy triangles of dough,
sides of ranch dressing,
class sets with covers that read
Of Mice and…,
corners curled, pages thinning—
a curriculum worn down
to a narrow canon
classrooms frigid in winter,
stifling in early summer.… ...continue reading