The Death
In the land of the dead, reapers usher the spirits of the dead across a river. One such reaper, Grimm, has done this for over six hundred years.
Unquenched
Grimm studied the familiar map showing where to collect his next spirit. As he approached, the spirit eyed him with disdain, and refused to pay for the ride. Grimm, momentarily taken aback, informed him that no money was needed to cross, after which the spirit happily boarded. Grimm asked the spirit his name and where he came from, but the spirit scoffed, insisting on payment for his answers. Grimm rolled his eyes beneath his hood, but tossed the spirit a gold coin, the metallic clink echoing in the stillness. The routine of ferrying souls through the underworld had left Grimm thoroughly unentertained, and the spirits’ tales were one of the few diversions left to him.…
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Last time I gripped
a badminton racquet: Puerto Rico.
Wide white sand bracketed
by palm trees, Atlantic Ocean.
Small waves rose a half mile
from shore
broke in rhythmic ripples,
spilled warm water
onto heated afternoon sand.
Tardy for family dinner
and we didn’t care,
protected by vaulted status
of newly betrothed.
There was no badminton.
We snorkeled in a crescent cove,
searching for the barracuda
Bob glimpsed the day before,
sharp needle-file nose
sliced through clear water.
He likes to hang out in that reef,
Bob said,
dove under.
I shook my head like a dog
freeing water from her ears.
Grinned with anticipation.
The man I’m about to marry
believes he thinks like a barracuda.
– Christy Wise…
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It was the kind of smell that could lift you off your feet. The aroma attracted half a dozen children with smiles as big as croissants. Sniffing like curious dogs, they looked at the counter and said nothing as they awaited their treats. My joy mirrored theirs as I presented the muffins.
Wow, they’re so warm! They said, and they’re so soft! How right they were. They get sweeter every day! Indeed they did. Once each child had taken one, more pastries still remained. Why did you bake thirteen? I told them I called it a baker’s dozen: two for each of them so they could share with a friend. The last one? That one was for me.
In time, they found their way back onto the cobblestones, laughing and singing, bellies full.…
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On the eastern face of the six-story Student Union Building, the architect had added a striking feature—the fire escape, instead of being clad in concrete, was enclosed in a glass shell, so that all twelve flights of delicate stairs, as though suspended in air, were visible from the courtyard below. The fire escape stairwell was thus transformed from a purely functional feature into what looked more like an Escher drawing that had somehow been straightened out. On a campus of drab buildings, the stairwell was an architectural gem.
It was precisely this aesthetic quality, this airy transparency, that caught the attention of Bernard W. Boggs, erstwhile graduate and successful entrepreneur, as he was escorted across the courtyard patio one sunny day in June. Boggs had been invited to campus for a special VIP Alumni Donor dinner at Eye in the Sky, the faculty restaurant on the sixth floor of the Student Union Building.…
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Growing up our family were the only kids at funerals. My father regretted not going to his own father’s funeral. He didn’t know how to act, afraid to embarrass and there was shame with suicide. The family worries, “What could we have done.”
My own son told me that, “It’s as if Grandpa were already dead,” when his paternal grandpa was in a nursing home an extended time. I took my kids to a friend’s funeral to show them the concept. They said the deceased “smelled like pumpkins.” When l felt my grandkids were old enough I would point to the dead squirrel on the ground and say, “No more squirrel!”
My father said the gravediggers took gold from dead people’s teeth; that it was a mistake to eulogize. …
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I rage
I rage against so much that I cannot handle all this pain in my body
I refuse to submit to the numbness of apathy
Of the sugar coated nihilism of easy escape plans
Halfhearted shrugs
This is the way it’s always been
And they move clockwise, another cog in this blood soaked, dying machine
I rage against it all
Scream to jumpstart the momentum
Force myself to stay standing
Move against those shoving me back
I exhale and run due north
Where change lies and a better future waits for us
– Amanda Leon
Author’s Note: I wrote this poem after a school shooting occurred in the news, and witnessed a congressman’s response to the question if there was anything lawmakers could do to pass gun control or any measures to keep children safe.…
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The birds are singing again. Their melody wafts through the bedroom window, and a breeze soon follows, making the curtains sway, as if dancing to the rhythm of spring.
This was always your favorite time of year.
Even if the air had a bite to it, you said it was a small price to pay to listen to that song, to feel that breeze, to breathe in those wonderful scents of the season: lilacs and magnolias and freshly-cut grass.
We weren’t religious, but you always adopted a spiritual tone this time of year, pointing to its cyclical nature: with winter comes decay, yet a few months later, life springs anew. It wasn’t heady stuff, but I loved how spring made a would-be philosopher of you, my beloved accountant, your concrete world of numbers and equations briefly melting into something mystic, something beyond words’ limitations.…
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