The Cowboy

The Cowboy
Lisa Marie Basile
Lisambasile@gmail.com

I didn't know much what to do. My night was cool and calm and I just wanted to find some stars. Then a man came around.

"Pardon," he said, and he was chewing that damn tobacca. I told him, 'why don't you get outer here with your 'bacca?' Told him the Mrs. don't like it. He says, "now that ain't got much manners, William." Then he took out a cigarette.

I said, "It's Bill."

He rocked in the chair, and when the chair got all the way back, he stuck out his foot and stopped it from moving with his heel. I watched him, and he watched me. He was sitting with his back to the house, and I was sitting looking in. The last of the sun was right coming over the roof, into my left eye. But I kept my eyes on her. I saw her through the window, watching that dumb old show with all the cops. She hates blood, but she keeps on watching. I think she likes to see the worse-offs. She's been on the vent for about a year now. I guess it's been since last July. That's when she started the drinking on and off again, even though all the doctors said she was gonna die if she kept going.

Her first husband was a navy bastard. To me, that just meant he didn't have the nads for war. He was called Brian, and he died of Asbestos after working all those years in the walls of ships, maybe.

She always talked about all he got was a golden watch when he died. Then, it became hers. And then her only daughter stole it and probably sold it for drugs.
30 years, they scratched into the back of it.

And 30 years later, the watch was somewhere. It said his name and the date of his birth and the date of his death.

Now, there she was. With those long white tubes up her nose, and that machine breathing as loud as that television box. Her hair was short again. It used to be short when we met, and when she was skinny. But now it was short again, but in patches. Said she looked like a field of cotton balls.

I told her it was a bunch of clouds. She said, "Mister, you are a very nice gentleman."
I imagined the sun setting, smoothing those clouds out over the sky. The field's a dark place, and ain't the kind of place for any man.

He still had his foot up on the porch like he owned it. "Go on," I said to the gook, "light it."
So he looked at me, lifted his eyes up so he could see over the brim, and just stared at me. The corn of his mouth was crusty and old, and I could tell no woman had ever loved him. The rest of him just as much the same.

"That a statement or a question," he said.

"What's the difference?"

"Means you got the upper hand."

"So what?"

"Well," he said. "Do you got the upper hand?"

This fellow's got whiskers, I thought to myself. I guess I did laugh a little.

"Laughing at me?" he asked.

"I guess I was."

He put his foot down, and leaned forward. The chair squeaked for a long, long time and I couldn't hear her vent.

"You like having control don't ya," he said.

He took the cigarette from his mouth, and looked at it closely. His giant hands looked like he had worked hard his whole life. They sure did strangled a good many men, I thought. They were hairy, with big fat Mexican knuckles.

Then he examined it like a gift from God. He poke the tip and smelled the thing and put it up inside the hair under his nose. Smelled it, and looked crazy.

"So I can't smoke this cigarette?"

I reckoned this guy was looking for a last fight.

"No," I said. "Can't smoke that cigarette." I was thinking I'd go in to retire, so I stepped up.

"Sit," he said.

I looked at him. Couldn't have been more than 65.

"I'm older than you by a few, Fella," I said. "I got to get to bed."

"You goin' in there?" he said. "With her?"

I looked inside. Her sweater was a dull grey, all covered in little fabric balls. I bought her that when we were young, and she loved it. The wrists kept coming undone, and she kept having it sewed up.

Said to her once, "Why don't you let me buy you another sweater?"

Then she said "because the sun ain't gone down yet."

I asked her what she meant by that, and she told me she never gets rid of a good keddle.

I bought her a new keddle the week earlier but I didn't say nothing.

The woman and her riddles. My baby.

The man said, "Well, Bill. You get on to bed."

I tipped my hat, and he stood up. Then he tipped his hat, and we stared at each other under that moon for a few minutes. The cacti were very still, and all you could hear was the breath.

"You're a good man, Bill," he said.

I thanked him, and he said, "No. Thank you."

I said "pleasure's all mine."

Then, right there, he looked inside and cocked his head. "You gonna need this," he said. Handed me the cigarette and told me I could have it, his last rolled cigarette.

"Well, thanks," I said. Wasn't sure if I would smoke it.

"Ain't no matter that there are navy men and gunmen. We're all on the same land," he said. "Or water." Then he stared at me really deep, looked me up and down.

"Don't got a light?"

"Nope," I said.

He handed me the matchbook. "You know you won when you come to see the end."

The machine in the house was all beeping crazy. I knew that there was trouble, and when I turned around, that man was gone.

The place-mat under my feet made noise. It said, "Home."

Least you can do is know your place, Bill.
_______________________________________

BIO: Lisa Marie Basile is a writer and editor living in NYC. Her full-length poetry collection will come out in 2012 by Červená Barva Press. She is Editor-in-Chief of Caper Literary Journal, a monthly poetry and prose journal. She is an MFA student at The New School.

She has published or upcoming work in Poets & Artists Magazine, The Moon Milk Review, CommonLine, Aphros Literary Magazine, Vox Poetica, The Medulla Review, Melusine, Physiognomy in Letters, Feile-Festa and The Broome Street Review among others.

Her site is: www.lisamariebasile.com

It's Over, Over Here

It’s Over, Over Here
by William J. Brazill

The man who should have been my grandfather died during World War I in some pointless skirmish in the Argonne Forest in 1918. His name was Dwyer Christie, and he was nineteen years old. I found out only afterwards, after my grandmother’s death, that he was the love of her life and she lived for sixty-eight years with nothing more than the memory of that love.

She did, of course, marry, as women brought up in the social confines of Virginia’s Culpeper County were expected to in those days. The man I knew as Grandfather Travis. Her family said it was a successful marriage, meaning that he had a steady job, provided a good home, and treated his wife and children with respect. But even as I boy I detected something was wrong without being able to give a name to the feeling or identify an emotion. It was as if there were an absence, an elusive sense of void, a shadow on every sunlit moment. I now know that a marriage that did not begin with love never developed it, that Grandfather Travis grew ever more estranged in his bewilderment and increasing anger, that Grandmother turned more and more inward. She had settled for what life had offered, and she sensed that was not enough, that in some profound way she had been deprived of what she treasured the most. When Grandfather Justin died, after fifty years of marriage, there was no sense of parting, for they were strangers at the end as they had been at the beginning.

From my earliest days I was aware of a ritual Grandmother followed every night. When she went up to bed, she opened the cedar chest that stood in her room and removed some objects to hold for a few moments before retiring. Years later, after she died and bequeathed the cedar chest to me in her will, I learned what the ritual was and discovered the identity of Dwyer Christie.

In a leather frame was an aging photograph, formally posed in a studio, of a handsome young man, scarcely more than a boy dressed in a man’s khaki uniform. Grandmother must have stared at this portrait so often and for so long that I sensed her eyes staring back at me from its glass covering. Even as I saw Dwyer Christie looking at me in what I wanted to believe was a welcoming greeting. There were also letters enclosed in envelopes which bore her name and address written in a fine cursive penmanship. I did not read the letters, and, though years have passed, I still have not. I had heard family stories about Grandmother and Dwyer Christie, and I felt that the privacy of love and the immortality of its embrace should not suffer intrusion. Staring at the portrait and feeling the letters in my hand gave me an intense feeling of what the absence I had felt all those years meant. It also gave me a sudden sense of presence, of life fulfilled. I did wonder, however, when they met again, would she be eighty-seven and he nineteen? Or would they both be forever nineteen?

Reflecting on my grandmother’s bequeathment, I have long wondered why she entrusted her cedar chest with its precious contents to me. Maybe it was a sign that I was her favorite. Maybe she felt I could be trusted to do what was right with the contents. But I like to think instead that she believed I was truly his grandson in spirit, his living presence in the world. And I have taken it as evidence that, despite all the doubts I have felt, I was – and am – loved.

The bequeathment turned absence into presence. A cycle has been completed.

_____________________________________

William Brazill lives on the banks of the Potomac River in Virginia. He has previously published stories in Amsterdam Scriptum, LitBits, Electric Acorn, FlashShot, Powderburn Flash, and Long Story Short.

Dad's Leather

Dad's Leather

I traded my shoes
that day...

The fish weren't biting
in the trees
or the water
so we packed the minnows
with the bologna
and cheese sandwiches
and walked

past a waddle of ducks
grass
swishing
at water's edge

the pole in my right hand
forgotten
like my favorite
Converse...

for the memory
of my left hand
lost in his.

_________________________________

Author: LeeAnn Patrick


LeeAnn writes: "My Name is LeeAnn Patrick I live with my husband, five children and one grandchild in King NC. Most of my poetry involves my family as dedication, subject or inspiration. After finding the market for teachers non-existent, I found a part-time spot at a retail store. My work has appeared in tinfoildresses and The Saint's Placenta."

Drew McDonald's Fifteen Minutes of Fame

DREW McDONALD’S FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME


One of our local boys here in Waverly was a self-taught chain saw artist named Drew McDonald. He usually carved animals, and they were pretty good, except for the eyes. No matter what kind of creature it was, the eyes were slightly crossed, giving it a somewhat dazed expression. It was disconcerting to walk into his workshop and be greeted by the cross-eyed stares of beavers, possums, eagles and even the occasional catfish.

As the local librarian, I tried to steer Drew in the right direction with his carving, lending him such books as, “Carve with Perspective,” and “No Detail too Small,” but Drew would have none of it.

“I been carving for years,” he expounded to the habitués of Carl’s Coffee
Shop. “And this chain saw is my ticket to fame and fortune. There isn’t another chain saw artist for miles, and once people hear about me, they’ll want one of these critters for their yards. After all, everyone is entitled to at least 15 minutes of fame,” he said, “and these animals should guarantee me more than that!”

Well, time passed and people weren’t exactly fighting in line to place orders. Drew brushed aside our suggestions that the animals’ eyes were off, possibly because he didn’t know what to do about it. As I said, he was self-taught.

“Maybe animals are too common,” he said. So he branched out by carving a bust of President John F. Kennedy.

Unfortunately, the completed product bore an uncanny resemblance to Pinocchio before he started telling lies. Little kids, spotting the sculpture in Drew’s front yard, cried out, “Look, Mom, there’s Pinocchio!” without noticing that Kennedy/Pinocchio also looked slightly cross-eyed.

Drew declared, “I got to get myself known,” and the next step was publicity by way of ads in the newspapers of neighboring towns.

Finally, he received notice that a van of golden-agers from Rockville, about 50 miles away, were coming to see the sculpture.
“This is it,” a delighted Drew assured us as we sat around the Formica tables in Carl’s. “Once they see Kennedy, they’ll order portraits of their folks. Maybe they’ll buy some of the animals, too.” Order forms were ready, the workshop swept, and the animal sculptures arranged graciously around the room. Kennedy/Pinocchio resided in solitary splendor in the front yard.

Drew, dapper in clean jeans, ironed shirt, and string tie, waited in the doorway while the van pulled up and its elderly passengers slowly emerged. A tall, wiry fellow with thin brown hair and wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt, led the group past Kennedy directly to Drew and said,

“Hi! I’m Sy. We’ve come to see the chain-saw sculpture of President Kennedy.”

“Well,” said Drew, “you walked right past him there in the yard.”

“Ah, I didn’t see him.” Sy looked around the yard. Seeing nothing but the one sculpture, he blurted, “Oh, sorry, I thought that was Pinocchio.”

There was murmuring from the group, “Don’t look like Kennedy to me,” and, “Is that what we came all this way for?” and “When’s lunch?” Sy cleared his throat and, trying to stave off mutiny among the seniors, said,

“Well, perhaps we could see your other work.” Drew, hiding his disappointment, invited them into the workshop.

“Holy cow!” exclaimed Sy with a whoop of laughter, “These critters are all cross-eyed!” Laughter erupted as the rest of the group entered the workshop.

“Pretty darn clever, making all these animals cross-eyed.” proclaimed Sy. The senior citizens chortled as they pointed to a bear, or an otter.

“It can’t be easy to carve a cross-eyed possum,” exclaimed a short fat fellow in a flannel shirt, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Finally, the group got back in the van.

“Thanks,” said Sy, shaking a stunned Drew’s hand. “We really enjoyed this. Haven’t laughed so much in years.” Drew watched them drive away.
We were worried about the effect this would have on Drew, but later that night we heard the reassuring roar of his chain saw.

The next morning Willie Laxton ventured over to see what Drew’s latest idea had produced. We regulars at the Coffee Shop had barely settled down with our first cup when a shaken Willie strode in.
“Drew’s gone plumb crazy,” he said in a shocked voice. “There’s body parts all over the place."

“What? Whose body parts?” Sheriff Langton stood up so fast his coffee spilled over the tabletop and ran onto the floor.

“No people’s parts, except for Pinocchio’s. Drew chain-sawed him and every one of them animals into bits, it looks like some weirdo slaughter in there.”

Drew flatly refused to discuss the matter and left town soon after. He did not take his chain saw. Now, Carl keeps it on a shelf in the Coffee Shop and when visitors ask what a chain saw is doing in a coffee shop, we happily regale them with a tale about how one should be careful what they wish for. After all, fifteen minutes of fame resulted what we refer to as Drew McDonald’s chain saw massacre.

_____________________________
Author: Lucile McKenzie

Lucile writes: "I'm an oral historian and a writer. Flash fiction caters to my short attention span."

Broken by Karin Slaughter - Blog Tour this week!

The Dew is part of the Blog Tour for Karin Slaughter to share her new book, Broken, that comes out on June 22nd.

Go to our Book Review Section to see our contribution to Karin's Blog Tour and read a review of her new book, Broken, n June 25th.

Follow the tour! Sites listed below.

June 21: http://centralcrimezone.blogspot.com/

June 22: http://www.lesasbookcritiques.blogspot.com

June 23: http://www.bookgasm.com
June 24: http://www.bookbitch.com
June 25: The Dew!
June 28: http://www.writerunboxed.com

June 29: Inreference to Murder

June 30: http://www.mysteriousreviews.com
July 1: http://www.spinetinglermag.com/


Also fun.. Karin has a short movie clip on Georgia - facts and fiction... Go Here to see it.

A Summer Night

A Summer Night

By gina below

The heat lessened as the sun inched lower behind the trees and the dusky tendrils of evening teased the shadows of the coming southern night. Our anticipation was barely contained in our young minds as we waited, not so patiently for the darkness. We were seasoned comrades, there was not much we had not been through together, and tonight we would brave the feared dark. The evening grew blessedly cooler as we eagerly waited for our adventure to begin and we laughed at our cleverness. The music of the night crickets and the bullfrogs mingled with our voices and the creak of the garden swing and a lone whippoorwill called lonely from across the pasture. The scent of freshly cut grass blended with the perfume of our Mothers flowers to make a heady fragrance as the evening breeze rustled the mimosa leaves above us.

All the preparations had been made, everything was planned, and all that was left was the waiting. We had snitched some of our Mothers best mayonnaise jars with lids from the basement where she had put them for safekeeping. A confiscated butter knife and a large rock was all it had taken to render the necessary breathing holes and now we watched the shadows for them to come. Our excited chatter turned to hushed whispers as the gloom thickened and we began to doubt our courage. I began to falter as I felt the fear of the unknown tickle up the back of my legs and I bowed my head to hide my eyes from the shadows we had so eagerly searched just moments before. As if an answer to a prayer the porch light flicked on, grounding me, and it gave me the strength to push my fear back down.

And then they were there, blinking and floating in the murkiness, beckoning us as they slipped in and out of the apple tree leaves. A collective sigh escaped from us as we sat mesmerized by their light, the trees now heavy with the dance of the fireflies. Our original plan momentarily forgotten in the serenity of the vision before us, we found we could not move. But slowly we stood, drawn to the beauty of it, we abandoned our jars meant to capture them and joined them in their dance, weaving in and out of the trees. Thrilled that we had been invited along, certain that no one had ever been this lucky, that we were somehow special. Dancing and laughing until our sides hurt and our breath came in choppy gasp and we had to sit on the dew-dampened grass to collect ourselves, just outside the ring of light from the porch.

We continued to watch them from the safety of our small group and few words were spoken as we felt the magic slowly fade to a whisper. The chill from the damp grass began to take its toll, but we could not bring ourselves to leave just yet as the hum of it still lingered. We felt her before we heard her and we looked up into her smiling face as she stood behind us at the edge of the light. “It’s getting late” she said softly as if not wanting to break the spell and we all nodded in unison and began to stand. We had not realized how weary we were, as we took steps toward the porch. “Oh, wait,” I said realizing that we had left her jars. “You can get them in the morning,” she said knowingly and she took my hand as we walked toward the light, leaving the fireflies to their beautiful dance.

Homecoming

Homecoming

By Joseph D. Venanzi

Tylan paid the taxi driver and shoved the change into his pocket. The trip had cost a king’s ransom, he’d be forced to live off Ramen Noodles for the rest of the semester, but it was worth it at any price to see Emma.

He’d last seen his sister six months ago. She’d been in Manhattan to promote her latest film, a low budget gore-fest about sewer vampires and the coming apocalypse, when she visited him at school. Between her appearances with Lauer and Letterman there was barely enough time for their exchanging hellos, hugs and kisses before she was whisked off.

Today had to be different. But with the relatives visiting he knew he was up against it, they’d all want a piece of her, too.

Tylan eyed his mother’s house. To his relief there were no cars in the driveway and no paparazzi hidden in the maples or camouflaged behind bushes, maybe if he were lucky he might have her all to himself after all.

He picked up his suitcase off the asphalt and trudged down the long, spiraling driveway leading to the white colonial.

“Lord it’s hot,” he whined as large beads of perspiration seeped through his shirt. “No wonder these people move so slowly. It’s their only way to keep cool.”

Back only two hours and he was already complaining about the heat and the southern propensity for easy doing it. What was next, condemning their passion for Bulldawgs football? He never used to criticize Dixie. But after spending three years in New York City he considered himself a northerner now.

A few years before while in high school he discovered the perfect solution for beating afternoon heat: He’d go straight from the school bus to the backyard where he’d take a quick dip in the pool. Recalling this, it became his priority. But when he entered the backyard his plans changed.

Tylan’s eyes lit up at the unexpected sight of Emma, who was enjoying her favorite activity, taking a cat nap on the suspended swing seat in the gazebo.

“Perfect,” he thought as he quietly crossed beside her and set down his suitcase. “Unless a helicopter lands and grabs her, she’s all mine.”

“How ya’all doing?” he cried, exaggerating his drawl.

Emma slowly opened her eyes and smiled broadly. She earned millions in front of the camera showing off her radiant smile, but she wasn’t acting now.

He started to say, “I’ve really miss--”

When she shook her head and patted the swing. This was all the invitation her brother needed and he sat beside her. For a spell they said nothing and the only sounds were their breathing and the rhythmic creaking and swaying of the swing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said finally, tightly squeezing his hand. “You’re the only one I really wanted to see.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

“How are you? In your last text you sounded, well, I don’t know. It’s hard to get a real sense without seeing someone.”

“I’m hanging in there.”

“How’s your student film coming?”

“Stillborn.”

“Oh. Well, what else is going on?”

“Nothing much,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Is mom home?”

“Nope. Out picking up Grammy Opal.”

“She’s coming too?”

“If they’re breathing they’ll be here.”

“Whose idea was it throwing you a party?”

“Mom’s.”

“She should be pleased as punch.”

“I’m kinda glad, too.”

“Really?”

“I’ve been looking for an excuse to come home. Last month I drove all over Rome on the back of a scooter doing my Audrey Hepburn impression and I saw some nice things. But nothing there could touch mom’s Cherokee rose garden.”

Tylan smirked and waited for the punch line or at the least for his sister to punch his arm and yell “Gotcha,” but Emma said nothing more.

Finally he said weakly, “I saw your latest film last week.” “It’s terrible.”

“No no, it’s good.”

“Okay, I’m terrible in it. How many times can I play the same part?”

“That reminds me. I bought you something.”

“I told you I don’t have anymore room for this junk.”

Tylan dug into his suitcase, removed an action figure and proudly gave it to her. He dedicated himself to tracking down and buying every collectible with her likeness on it because he was more than her brother; he was Emma’s number one fan.

Emma removed the toy out of its packaging and smirked. At first she enjoyed seeing her likeness on everything from comic books to drinking glasses you could purchase with an extra value meal. But quickly even this byproduct of her popularity wore thin.

“Princess Reject!” she exclaimed, imitating the Statue of Liberty. “All bow in glowing tribute to the stupidest princess in the universe!”

“You shouldn’t have taken it out of its box. You killed its value.”

“Oh please. Anything with my mug on it was worthless to begin with.”

She set the toy on her knee and made it dance. “Do you remember when I used to make my stuffed animals talk in weird accents while you filmed everything?”

“Sure. That’s what made me want to get into this.”

“That was the most fun I ever had acting.” She placed the toy on her lap. “I had a reason for letting mom throw this party for me, Ty.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

“I wanted to get everyone together so I could make a big announcement.”

If this was a soap opera, where Emma had gotten her start, there’d have been a close up on her face as the dramatic music swelled to a crescendo before cutting to a commercial. It’s called a tease, and for a tense couple of minutes the viewers held their breath until the show returned and the possibly life altering announcement was revealed.

But this wasn’t a soap opera, this was real life. And it was Emma who held her breath.

“I’m quitting.”

There, she’d said it. It was out in the open and in saying it out loud she made real. Now it was no longer a silly notion she buried deep down inside because she was too scared to admit how much it really meant to her.

“You can’t quit, you’re a movie star.”

“So?”

“So movie stars don’t quit making movies and give up their cool lives to live in the real world and do some lousy real world job. They just don’t.”

“Well I am.”

“Sure you are. What are you going to do instead?”

“I don’t know. First, I’ll come back home. It’ll be nice to be able to see everyone whenever I want instead of once or twice a year.”

“You want to come back here?”

“You bet! Remember, you ran away. I was kidnapped against my will thanks to a face that was perfect for soaps. Once I’m back for good I’ll figure out want to do for the rest of my life. You had your chance to decide. Now I want my turn.”

“You might think that’s what you want, but it won’t work. You’ll miss it. You love being a movie star.”

“I don’t love it, you do. You love reading about me on the web. You love taking your buddies to my movies. And you love buying crap with my face on it. Admit it, bro. You’ve always gotten a bigger kick out of me being a movie star than I did.”

She tossed him the action figure and he tried returning it to its packaging before realizing how ridiculous he was acting.

He looked at her sheepishly and set the toy aside. “You tell anyone else?”

“No, but mom suspects it. It’s not her I’m worried about.”

“The arriving horde?”

“Everyone’s going to remind me how great my life is, how lucky I am and how crazy I’d be to throw it away. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I can’t do it without your support. What do you say?”

#

Tylan was drinking a soda in the kitchen when his mother entered and set a large cake on the table.

“It’ll be fun having you both under the same room again.”

“Sorry, no can do. I’m taking the red eye out tonight.”

“Change of plans?”

“Yeah, just I realized I got to get back to this film I’m working on.”

They stared through the window at Emma. She was perfectly content walking barefoot through the Cherokee rose garden where she sniffed flowers and set them in her hair when the notion pleased her. Noticing them looking at her, she made a funny face and stuck out her tongue.

“She looks good, doesn’t she, Ty?”

“Yeah, real good.”

“I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been worried about her for a while. She tried hiding it and wore a brave face for everyone, but I’m her mother and I could tell she hasn’t been happy for a long time.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Emma’s excited about figuring out her next step in life.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I think it’s cool. Whatever she decides I hope it makes her happy, she could be doing it for a long time.”

“Can you help me put the cake away?”

“Sure, grab the door.”

His mother opened the refrigerator. Tylan picked up the cake and read the inscription written with pink icing.

“‘Happy eleventh birthday, to our darling Emma.’”

Then to himself, smiling. “Yeah, a very long time.”

_____________________________________________

Joseph writes about himself: Although I currently live in my hometown of Trenton, NJ, when I was twenty-four I spent a year as a volunteer building homes under the hard, red GA clay for Habitat For Humanity. I lived and worked in their headquarters in Americus, Ga and it was the best year of my life.

My writing credits are the following: This summer The Storyteller will publish my short story The Cane Mutiny. U.S.1 published my short story The Invisible Man.

Later

Later

By Jane –Ann Heitmueller

They would have been great parents, but they never had a child.

It seemed the time was never right, and so they’d wait a while.

Her mom and dad were aged and ill, needed her love and care.

We’ll wait a bit, they rationalized, which wasn’t all that rare.

Perhaps when all our debts are paid. The house is free and clear.

Excuses that seemed sensible…just wait another year.

And so the decades piled up, as time and days moved on.

Till suddenly, they looked around and their options were gone.

Past middle age was evident, their dream left unfulfilled.

‘Twas silver threads among the gold. Their wishes must be stilled.

They would have been great parents, but they never had a child.

It seemed the time was never right…

So they’d waited awhile.

Miss Teensy and Collard Greens

Miss Teensy and Collard Greens

Now, last time we met, I told y’all about Teensy Kilbraken of Blue Falls, Alabama, how she buried her beloved dog, Dewey and the resulting furor over Mayor Wolford’s bald spot. It was jest plain scary how that girl blathered on at Dewey’s grave and a few days later…BAM…now she’s seen as two eggs short of a breakfast platter.

But she’s one of us, and southern folk stick together.

Now, Teensy and her momma lived over on Creekside Drive, jest south of Main Street.
When she was thirteen, she had a new pet, a turtle that went by the name of Collard Greens. Teensy loved that turtle, and even though she never fully got over Dewey’s death, she carried that turtle around with her everywhere she went.

She’d be at the Set and Curl with her momma, Annalee Kilbraken, and Collard Greens would be right by her in a little shoebox, chewing on a lettuce leaf. Sometimes you’d even see them in church together. She’d be hidin’ that little turtle box under the pew, so’s the Right Reverend Baker wouldn’t notice way up there on his pulpit.

After church I’d say, "Miss Teensy, what are you doing with that turtle?"

And she’d always respond, "Jest teaching Collard Greens about Jesus, Ma’am."

Now, Randy Joe Lightner lived next door to Teensy and her folks. He was a popular boy, musical and handsome, if you get my meanin’. He would have been all right if he hadn’t have decided one day that he wanted to play tuba for the high school marchin’ band.

For about a week, Randy Joe practiced with that big ol’ tuba in his front yard. Up and down he went, back and forth, playing that oompa oompa and cuttin’ a trail through the grass. Until one day, as Teensy was sitting in the parlor, she noticed that Collard Greens was missin’.

Well, I heard she went hightailin’ it out of that house, screamin’ and a-hollerin’ like there were honeybees in her britches. And Randy just went on a-playin’.

"Collerrrrd! Colllerrrd Greeens! Where are yoooo?"

Ooompa...ooomp...ooomp...ooompa...ooompa.

"Randy! Have you seen Collard Greens?"

Well, poor ol’ Randy was so distracted by all the hollerin’ that he tripped over his momma’s rose bushes and landed on the sidewalk. The tuba and Randy landed with a…

Crunch!

"Ewwww, what was that?" Randy cried out as he turned over to see what he had fallen upon. All he saw was a green smear on his leg and a green blob on the concrete.

" You Killed Collard Greens!" yelled Teensy as she saw his little mashed body.

As Randy tried to explain, Teensy became still and began to chant.

"Collard Greens, Collard Greens,
sat on and squished,
Give Randy numb lips,
It is what I wish.

"Whaaa?" Randy exclaimed as his tongue and then lips turned as numb as a dead frog.

Now y’all know that I am not one to gossip, but poor ol’ Randy was never the same. He had to give up his tuba and dreams of marching with the band and all, but I heard that he eventually regained the feeling in his lips which is a blessin’ you know.

As for Teensy, well, her reputation was well and set. No one knows what to think of her, but whenever a stranger comes to town and sees her dancing on her pets’ graves, we just shrug and say, "Oh, that’s just Miss Teensy," and we steer them in another direction. It’s safer that way.

The ladies over at the Set and Curl said to tell y’all "Howdy" and "goodbye now". Next time, I’ll tell y’all about the time Miss Teensy learned how to swim.

Man's Best Friend

Did any of you see the movie "Sweet Home Alabama?" Remember the scene in the coon dog cemetery?

If you're a Yankee, you probably thought that was just an affectation designed to "southern" up the movie set. If you're a Southerner, you know it wasn't. Southern hunters take their dogs seriously. REAL seriously.

In 1937, Key Underwood buried his faithful coon dog Troop in a meadow in northwest Alabama. From that gesture of sentimentality came the Key Underwood Coon Dog Memorial Graveyard, the only graveyard of its kind in the world. Only coon dogs are allowed, and when asked why, Mr. Underwood said, "You must not know much about coon hunters and their dogs, if you think we would contaminate this burial place with poodles and lap dogs."

More than 185 dogs are buried there today including Hunter's Famous Amos, which was the Ralston Purina Dog of the Year in 1984.

The graves are marked with a mish-mash of headstones -- some wood, some metal and some not unlike gravestones at a regular cemetery.

The names are different and so are the epitaphs. One marker reads, "He wasn't the best, but he was the best I ever had." Kinda reminds me of a Toby Keith song. :-)

Photos courtesy of American Houndsmen

BELOVED CHILD

BELOVED CHILD
Jane-Ann Heitmueller

While strolling placidly among the weathered markers of a rolling Tennessee cemetery on June 5, 1995, I took refuge from the blazing sun under the expansive limbs of an elderly, gnarled Oak Tree. As I stooped to rest, I spied the worn corner of a protruding, small, gray marker nestled at the base of the tree. Straining to read the words carved into the broken , aged stone I was startled to discover that the date was June 5, 1885, exactly one hundred years ago today! A sensation of intrusion filled my spirit as I sensed the sorrow felt, a century ago, on this very ground by the family of “Beloved Child”. Kneeling silently, a reverence overcame me. How strange that I was led to this plot on this very day.

How many years have passed since any mortal has recalled the miniscule life and heart-wrenching death of this tiny, God given soul? Was there any memory, by family and friends, of one whose life was but a mere ember on the blazing journey of life? Was annual tribute paid in the form of visitation or floral donations? My mind answered these questions negatively, sadly, but with total amazement that I had been divinely directed to this site today. My heart and thoughts were joyful with the realization that they were awarded this generous, unexpected gift; the opportunity to renew and transport homage to this tiny, departed being, whose life and untimely passing I now annually celebrate.

A Tribute

The overhanging leaves of oak obscure the weathered stone.
A child resting at my feet, whom I have never known.
Upon this site, this very day, one hundred years ago, your
family hovered, filled with grief, their sorrow tears did flow.
‘Twas but a mere two years, sweet babe, this verdant earth you
trod , before the angels called you home, your sleepy head to nod.
True happenstance has led me here, upon this sacred ground.
Pure fate, unknown within my soul, this memory stone I’ve found.
So rest dear child, precious one, whose Mother rocks you sweet.
I celebrate your life with joy.
Perhaps one day we’ll meet.

The Saloon I

The Saloon I

We all came from somewhere,
most of us from sticky kitchens
where our Mothers ached a lifetime with spoons
and dust rags in their fingers.

Every time I come home,
even the cupboards are tired.

Her eyes were prairie green with big love,
an apron too small for any dustcan blood.
I opened the thing on the edge of the counter and
set it down right before her,
but she was too tired to make us dinner
because the light was dark
so I told to Mama, I don't
believe in God but I will for you

It takes a good mother to tell us we
don't have to fear God,
and in this way goodbye is just goodbye.

I left for the border, ended up
in the South. I was tired and I was
thirsty and my heart
felt like a brack.

The only two of us in this place know we're still
two babies in a sunlit cradle,
grabbing at the firewater air somewhere
on the edge of a graveyard
at the fourth corner of a loud desert.

There are so many old dead places I bet
Mama won't know where to run when
the devil finally comes to take her
to his big bucket of blood.

______________________________

BIO: Lisa Marie Basile is a writer and editor living in NYC. Her full-length poetry collection will come out in 2012 by Červená Barva Press. She is Editor-in-Chief of Caper Literary Journal, a monthly poetry and prose journal. She is an MFA student at The New School

She has published or upcoming work in Poets & Artists Magazine, The Moon Milk Review, CommonLine, Aphros Literary Magazine, Vox Poetica, The Medulla Review, Melusine, Physiognomy in Letters, Feile-Festa and The Broome Street Review among others.

Her site is: www.lisamariebasile.com

Young Love

Young Love

by Jim Harrington

First published in Perpetual Magazine

Sharon stepped into the alleyway behind Metzer’s Hardware, turned an ear toward the street and listened for any sounds of trouble. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Barry perched on the first floor balcony outside his mother’s apartment. She clutched the canvas bag with the day’s receipts to her chest and took a step toward the street.

“Evening, Sharon.”

“Hey, Barry.” She looked up. Seeing him reminded her of the five dates they’d gone on in tenth grade and the crush she’d had on him. She also recalled his trial and how he claimed it was an accident the gun went off and shot the convenience store clerk.

“How’s your mom?” Sharon said, confused by her willingness to stay.

Barry frowned at the question and looked into the apartment.

“‘Bout the same.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Spends most of her day on the sofa sleepin’, drinkin’ beer, and bitchin’.” He stopped and blew a wad of snot from his right nostril.

Sharon winced. She’d watched her son do the same disgusting thing at his little league game last Saturday.

“Fell asleep on Tuesday with one of them putrid cigars in her mouth. Nearly burned the place down.” He cleared the other nostril.

“Too bad. I remember her as being a nice lady.” A neon light on the bodega across the street flashed. She observed Barry’s bare feet sticking out of baggy jeans.

“It’s been a long time”.

“Fifteen years,” he said. “Coulda been longer.” He rocked forward. “Junior Prom.”

“What?” Sharon said. “Oh right.” It was the last time she’d seen him in person before tonight. He’d robbed the store the next day. “You went with Judy Smithson.”

“Wanted to go with you,” Barry said to his toes.

A shiver raced down Sharon’s spine. She wanted to ask him why he never asked her out again. Instead, she said, “How long do you plan on staying with your mom?” She wondered if he heard the same nervousness in her voice she did.

“Parole is for three years.” He grabbed an iron bar in each hand. “Can’t stay that long, though. Need to get some money and leave.”

Sharon nodded and tightened her grip on the canvas bag.

The sign flashed, and she saw the desperation in his eyes.

“Your mom came in the store a couple years after you left and told me you earned your GED.” Sharon said, her hands shaking.

“Learned I was good at fixing things, too.” He leaned back against the window sash. “Don’t matter. Nobody’s gonna hire a yardbird.”

Silence filled the alley.

“Well, I’ve got to get going.” Sharon said.

“See you tomorrow?” Barry asked.

“Tomorrow’s my day off,” she said and turned to leave.

“Sharon.”

She paused and kept her back to him. “Yes, Barry?”

“Maybe we could get some coffee sometime.”

Sharon stood motionless.

“Probably not a good idea, you being married and all,” Barry said when she didn’t reply.

Sharon chased the what-might-have-been thoughts from her mind, and in a soft voice said, “Probably not.”

____________________

Jim Harrington
http://www.jimharringtononline.net
http://quotesonwriting.blogspot.com/
http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/

I see some angels hover...............

This poem was written by my Great Great Grandfather after his wife passed away. He was a devout man who lived in eastern Tennessee. This would place the writing in the very earliest part of the 1900's in rural Tennessee.

_________________________________

To:
Allie Vincent (later ID’d as VanZant) Fletcher

Written by: J.C. Fletcher
(James Claude Fletcher)

________________________________

I see some angels hover
above an ancient gate,
and I do not wonder;
I know for what they wait.

I hear one of them singing;
The voice I’ve often heard
while crooning over a cradle
just like a nesting bird.

They are the whitest angels,
of all the lovely host,
and on the hills of heaven
their place is uttermost.

They are the Mother angels,
how silently they wait,
until the last white morning
shall close the ancient gate.

Blue and grey-eyed Mothers
shall surely wear a crown,
one I know among the others,
whose eyes were very brown.

Of all the hosts of heaven
The one whom I best know
This one who with me struggled
in this world here below.

When time for me is ended,
and I have crossed the tide;
nothing can do me better
than to lay me by her side.

______________________

Poem generously shared with the Dew by James Pressley