Last-Night sits alone in her carved-from-the-earth bedroom deep within a hidden valley, reciting her book: Last Night at the Telegraph Club, whispering something about palms being damp and glancing over one’s shoulder. She had been assigned Malinda Lo’s novel when the newest regime demolished the final secret library that contained books banished from the government-approved curriculum. Last-Night had been six when assigned and it was explained to her that she had become the book’s guardian and that the others within the underground repository, whom she’ll minimally interact with, will only refer to her as Last-Night.
Last-Night had just turned twenty nine according to the book’s publication date, which she assumed as her birthday, eight years ago. And which the librarians and her parents had advised her to do: “You’re now Last Night at the Telegraph Club,” her mother had said, “we don’t want you to get confused.”… ...continue reading
While still fairly new to the job, Ally had been there long enough to determine that there was no “Bert.” The place was called “Bert’s Diner” because the original owner thought it clever to name the place after his dog, Bert. She stayed because the tips were pretty good, the customers were OK, and the current-owner/manager-not-named-Bert wasn’t a complete asshole.
Ally had noticed the woman camped in a booth by the window, slowly eating a sandwich and watching her as she worked. The woman, with brown shoulder-length hair and unassuming clothing, sat quietly, as if wanting to blend into the background. Ally wondered, is this a local having a light meal after work? Or perhaps she was dining alone after having been stood up on a blind date?… ...continue reading
Along the moonlit river tame
A silent vessel glides
Where maiden voices grace the night
In silvered choral tides.
All robed in white, with flowered crowns,
They lift a vesper song.
The water listens, hushed and still,
And bears the prayer along.
The gentle hymn the moon receives
From hearts unsmirched by day.
It drifts like incense o’er the stream
And keeps the dark away.
Then sudden mirth the stillness cleft
With torch and timbrel wild.
Red smoke in wavering circles swept
Above the singers mild.… ...continue reading
The path is always the same
The sequence is always the same:
The door of the school
The sidewalk
The sloping walkway down the hill
The concrete bridge over Ann’s Run
The crossing guard on Main Street
The gas station
The climb up Davis Street
The parking lot of the apartments
The empty lot with the long grass
The short stretch of Gordon Street that connects
………….the disjointed blocks of First Street
Mrs. Coffman’s house
The turn from First Street to Liberty Avenue
Home
The same pattern
The same routine
Day in
Day out
The door of the school
The concrete bridge
The crossing guard
The gas station
The parking lot
The empty lot
The disjointed blocks of First Street
Evenings spent with Mrs. Coffman in front of her coal fire
………crackling embers
………acrid smoke
………the warm sitting room
………the cold never-used living room beyond
She wasn’t my babysitter
I chose to visit her
I don’t recall our conversations
or her first name
only our connection
………The door of the school
………The concrete bridge
………The empty lot
………First Street
………Mrs.… ...continue reading
Old Ken is crying. The tears roll down his wrinkled cheeks into his grey stubble. His misty green eyes are reproachful. His head sinks into a mountain of pillows.
This isn’t the Ken I used to know – proud of his toughness, assertive, and loud. “No one gets one over on Ken,” they said. The dodgy car salesman, the insurance twister, even the girl in the café who fiddled his change -they all got their comeuppance. Not that Ken enjoyed being nasty. Only the bad guys got the wrath of his tongue and more besides. Fairness was his guiding light. He’d misquote Marx: “From each according to what he can give and to each according to his needs.” He’d mumble this as he wrote another cheque to pay for clean water in a far-off country or a children’s playground nearer home.… ...continue reading
“An able-bodied man must put in his forty hours a week minimum. It’s called working, also known as making a living. Doesn’t matter what your chosen profession is, every day you go out there and perform to the best. And remember, there’s no such thing as a humiliating job, only humiliating salary. You’re a young guy, healthy and strong. Can’t just walk away from your responsibilities for hitting an occasional hurdle here and there. It happens to all of us, and more frequently than you think. Ups and downs is the way of the world. But a guy who gives up and refuses to carry his own weight is a skiver who invariably becomes a dreg of society, a boozehound, a junkie. I understand if you want to skirt the issue and don’t want to talk about it, but as a friend I beg you, don’t go down that road.… ...continue reading
Those lovers’ stains
will soon coalesce
on the burgundy flannel
sheet like old Polaroids.
But they needn’t breathe on it,
timing the minutes. Their fixative
might just be the moonlight going
down across the tarred road.
*
In the turquoise Android photos
taken around the pool
last July, you can almost hear
a belly smacker but this one,
developing where they laid,
whimpers into the box springs: Oh
man. Oh God. And later: It feels
so cold. Let me stay
over on your side.
– Christopher Dungey… ...continue reading