As Vera stood at the threshold of the labyrinth in the hospital courtyard, she recalled when she first met Charles thirty years before. In 1990, “It’s Only Lunch” had just launched as a way for singles to meet over a meal. When Vera asked her date about the hobby on his profile, the bearded, lanky, serious-looking man shared his passion.
“A labyrinth is not the same as a maze,” said Charles. “By design, mazes confuse and have more than one pathway. You can actually get lost.” His deep voice resonated as if he were giving one of his math lectures at the university. “Labyrinths, on the other hand, create mental clarity and have only one way in and out. Did you know they’ve existed for over 4,000 years, and ancient ones exist worldwide?”…
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At his desk early on Monday, scrolling through inbox crap from the weekend, Randy Wasserman made the mistake of opening a strange email in his junk file. In the preview, he could see the salutation invoking his high school nickname, ‘Waz’. Only somebody who knew him back in the day would use it. When Randy read the message and saw the sender’s name, Mike Thomas, he drew a blank. Zero memory of a Mike Thomas from Central High.
Oh, well. Randy patted the bald spot on the crown of his head. Everybody was having trouble with names these days. Later, sipping coffee with his weekly breakfast group, Randy turned the discussion to this phenomenon. He said, “It seems we’re at the age when long-lost acquaintances feel compelled to reach out and reconnect, for whatever reason.”…
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I’m a Rhett Butler with whiskey stains on my shirt
dashing after a Jamaican princess
running room-to-room in an opulent mansion.
She intends to marry another man.
I intend to stop her.
Sancho and I chase her perfume,
always one door short of catching up.
I corner her on the third floor
under chandeliers that sparkle
bright as the costume jewelry around her neck.
“How dare you!”
Her eyes blaze royally.
I pull out my whiskey bottle to proffer as proof:
Don’t look at my stubbled chin – I’m not him.
She doesn’t believe me, so I tell her the rest:
You’re right, but feel inside me – then, you’ll see.
– Mike Wilson…
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The moon has shrunk itself
into a single bright bead
inside the porchlight—
like a thought I meant to finish,
or an apology I kept editing
until the meaning fell out.
It’s the porch of the blue house,
the one just down the road
from that whole Malibu dream
we tried to inhabit.
And I keep replaying
our first Halloween party,
remember? You in the ruby slippers,
me in that stupid “KANSAS” tee
in BRAT font, like I was auditioning
to be a state you’d speed through
on your way to someplace shinier.
We called the place “Maliboo”—
yes, the pun,
I know, I know, but back then
nothing haunted us. Not really.
Only laughter slipping
under the doorframes,
glitter welded to the baseboards,
a bowl of punch glowing
like liquid rubies
on the kitchen table.…
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Joyce’s stooped body couldn’t escape the scent of the roses lining the fence as she passed on her way to the bus stop. Her eyes were so red and irritated that when her granddaughter visited last week, Lauren wouldn’t stop mentioning it. “You should get some eyedrops,” she had said.
So, Joyce rumbled along in the front of the bus on the local route, headed to the drug store. The bus lowered, beeping its shameful beep. Finally, her cane rooted itself on the curb, and she stepped off, letting the young man—who smelled very deeply of marijuana smoke and had been waiting patiently—onto the bus.
She felt like she couldn’t avoid the smells anymore. She couldn’t walk fast enough to escape them, and something about the crook of her spine seemed to funnel the air right in.…
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“I don’t know why it is we are in such a hurry to get up when we fall down.”
Max Eastman, The Enjoyment of Laughter
Just lie there.
Maybe fall asleep
or roll around a bit,
hunker down under the radar,
let gravity hold you
in its arms, let the grass or floor
or sidewalk kiss your cheek.
Standing up is overrated.
As a kid, I remember lying on my back, staring
for hours at clouds tumbling in slow motion
against blue, seeing shapes like dragons or sheep,
sailboats or sharks or bearded faces.
The body needs to rest, to slow down
and wallow in what little time it has.
I’ll enjoy the view from down here and forget
about everything in this world I won’t be able
to keep.…
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I buried my heart on the marble floor of the moon.
The blood kept seeping out from the grave,
staining the moon’s white floor.
Heartless, I stand every night, staring above,
out in the open meadows of green,
mourning the heart that keeps bleeding still,
birthing a giant stain of faded red, even after three years.
What have I done? A celestial crime.
The glowing white moon will one day turn pink,
and every soul in the universe will curse my name.
Because the heart still keeps bleeding from its broken veins,
and for eternity, it will.
It bleeds, and lets me know:
to me, it doesn’t belong.
– Syeda Mansur
Author’s Note: “The Bleeding Moon” emerged from a moment of sudden darkness during a power outage at midnight, while I was painting beside my open window.…
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