We get out of Donna’s glossy midnight-blue BMW. The air is filled with spikes. It’s not supposed to be cold in the tropics but tonight is special. We’ve finally done what we’ve been threatening to do since we were teenagers. Poor Anwar. He’s just the in-between person in this, if you ask me, but the judge will say he’s the victim and the cause.
Donna lifts the cradle out of the back seat and throws it against a large dark tree. “That’s what you get for forgetting your roots,” she says, softer than I’d expected. I saunter towards the tree, spit into the cradle and bless it three times with my open palm.
“You know, I never trusted him.” Donna raises her hands and dusts it in the cool air.…
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In the infancy of humankind, during the age in which our ancestors struggled against not only each other, but other equally fearsome beasts, the most important discovery came from the hands of a woman. She was called Zar, and through much trial and error, she learned how to start and nurse a small flame into a healthy blaze with only sticks and her hands, which no one had ever seen. She was a proto-Prometheus, stealing from gods that had not yet been named. Her partner, Qoh, often entertained the group with his own accompanying talent: the singing of stories. As they felt the heat of Zar’s fire radiating through their bones and sinew amid the icy chill, the weary crowd would listen enraptured as Qoh sang tall tales like this:
“Long ago, before even our fathers walked the earth, there was a Man.…
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I think the Monster is in love with me. Ever since it arrived in the city, it’s been following me everywhere. When I go for a run in the park, it jumps out from behind a bush and runs after me. When I get home from work, it’s there at the front door waiting for me. I’m not sure how to deal with this situation. No one else seems to think it is a problem.
“It’s actually kind of cute,” My friend Laura says.
”It’s not cute, it’s horrible,”
“Admit it, you kind of like it.”
“I don’t.”
Truthfully, so few people love me it’s hard not to feel grateful to whoever does, even if it happens to be something that – quite literally – has escaped from hell.…
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The garden cries out “Help! Please weed me now.”
A muggy day, but I do as I’m told.
Before starting I see a red dahlia, wow!
The garden cries out “Help! Please weed me now.”
I say “Chill, I’m ready. Trust my know-how.”
I pull and pull, stop to drink something cold.
The garden cries out “Help! Please weed me now.”
A muggy day, but I do as I’m told.
– Kenneth Pobo
…
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“You can’t just force someone to connect with you, Poppy.” Mimi doesn’t smile at the trays of macarons and seri muka as she usually does. The least she can do is pretend.
Poppy appreciates Mimi’s on-the-dot arrival every Sunday at three in the afternoon but does she really need to say it out loud in order to earn a smile from her friend of five years? Isn’t it enough for Mimi to quietly know that her presence means Poppy can finally open her mouth and speak after a full week of zipping herself up, doing housework and work at the office studiously, like a good woman? Being with Mimi means she can drop that nonsense and complain freely about her inability to connect with her husband.…
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The contributions of singular individuals to human history vary both in degree and visibility. The vast majority leave no substantial impact at all, beyond the confines of their little spheres of influence, their little families, their little communities, their little speck of dirt on a bigger speck of dirt in a bigger vacuum in the bigger Mind of God. Such a life is by no means pointless. Spiritual nobility is a state of the soul that anyone can achieve. A few rewrite the trajectory of civilization in a way that cements their legacy as Great, so long as the successive generations maintain and transmit the stories of their Greatness. However, there are a few whose impact is just as significant, but they operate completely in the shadows (whether by choice or fate), receiving no recognition at all.…
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Sun patinas snow mounds,
causes boy’s dirt bike
to slither to skitter no helmet.
Salt-trucked boots clack pavement
to car,
looking for blankets or bandages,
but it’s just my ex’s cigarette whispers
and shrimp dumplings half-bagged,
frostish unfeeling,
taste of
whine
on my lips.
– Rebecca Ferlotti
Note: This piece was originally published by The Carroll Review in 2015.…
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