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The Pinching Wrestler, by Christopher Elieson

31/10/2017

Charmaine Parcero looked up at her opponent, known as Mister Kurot, with a sense of ambivalence. On the one hand, she was scared. He was older than her by at least twenty-five years, stood over her by at least one foot and an inch and outweighed her by at least a couple hundred pounds. He looked intimidating in his black bodysuit, matching boots and red devil mask while she felt humble in her purple and pink leotard.

On the other hand, she could barely suppress a chuckle. Why would he, a white man, use a word in her language as his own ring name?

Charmaine took a deep breath and looked down at her bare feet. No turning back now, she thought, I have a job to do.

Charmaine ran towards the ropes, bounced off, and headed towards Mister Kurot. She performed a couple of handsprings to give herself momentum and lunged towards him, only for her to bounce off and fly onto the mat. She quickly got to her feet only for him to run up to her and grab her by the arm.

Charmaine squirmed and punched at his gut, but he did not budge. Charmaine whimpered as she now had no choice but to await whatever he had planned for her.

Mister Kurot bent Charmaine over and she screamed when she felt his heavy fist land across her back, driving her to her hands and knees. She had no time to absorb the blow when she felt a piece of flesh between her shoulder blades get squeezed and twisted, causing her to yelp. Did he just pinch her? Could that be why he was called, ‘Mister Kurot’?

Charmaine whimpered as he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to her feet. Her heart skipped a beat as he tilted her neck to the left. What was he going to do to her now?

She shrieked when he grabbed a piece of her flesh, twisted and held on, this time near her carotid artery. Charmaine flailed her arms about wildly and fell on her knees. At this point, her vision began to fade along with the shouts of the crowd started.

“Charmaine,” cried the referee, “do you want to submit?”

“Yes,” she replied in a voice barely more audible than a whisper,
“I submit.”

The bell rang and he unceremoniously shoved her face-first onto the mat. As Mister Kurot celebrated his victory, Charmaine rubbed her neck and then her back, moaning as she did so.

Simultaneous feelings of humiliation and relief washed over her. On the one hand, she was glad that the match was over. At least the pain in her back started to subside. On the other hand, she lost the match, as a victim of pinches, right here in her native Phillipines.

The Benediction, by Bobby Warner

28/10/2017

Hardly able to contain his excitement, Frank Hodges trudged up the snow-covered walk way and entered the church. He stepped quickly back to Reverend Comb's office and set a paper sack on the pastor's desk.

"Good to see you, Frank. What brings you out so late on a wintry night like this?"

"I was just sitting in my den, staring at the television, when I heard this knock on the door. There was no one there, but someone left this sack on the porch. You won't believe it, Rev, but it's there, sure as it's cold outside."

"What's there, Frank?"

Hodges bent over the table and undid the top of the sack. "Come look for yourself."

Reverend Comb reached out and undid the top of the sack wider and peered inside.

"My God, Frank, what on earth is it?"

"Nothing on earth. Reverend, I think that is God."

As both men bent over the sack, a sudden brilliant light filled the room.

"What do you think, Rev?"

"Yes," said Comb. "Yes, of yes, Frank. It is It IS!"

Both men stood transfixed, listening to sounds and seeing sights no man has ever heard or seen, while outside a gentle snow continued to fall and a soft winter's wind whispered a late night benediction

My Eldritch Cockerel, by Virginia Maybury

22/10/2017

With his spurs he scores the walls and floors. I leap the grooves as I move about the house, dodging his bulk. He's grown huge and suffocating, grown out of that hand-cupped little nestling I loved.

His cry would shiver my house to bits, like an egg, but he no longer crows, just wheezes a broody little cluckle. His very voice makes my neighbour scream... but then again, she hasn't been right in the head since her little ones were stolen by the fair folk.
~

Autumn comes, as russet and bright as his plumage. My own little egg of a babe comes to me as a surprise from the Midsummer rites, the only time of year when I can leave Cock Rubin.

~

Winter now, but there's warmth, the new, nestling warmth of a little baby. My slippery white babe twists and squirms happily in the water of a shining tin bath.

Cold in the draughty fastness of the cottage ceiling, Cock Rubin's icy eye tips toward us, in his cocked, balancing head.

Quick and flashing as a falling topaz, he follows his own jealous gaze down; drops and seizes her in his beak.

~

I follow, too, and with Cold Steel, I carve through his red feathers into flesh.

Right into his stony guts, where I find her, pale and soft, in a charnel heap of grinding gizzard stones and the bones of other fairy-stolen babes.

Everything's Fine, by Michelle Bowdler

21/10/2017

My mother had big troubles during her divorce. Her second marriage involved a move from a family network of support in Chicago to a sparsely populated swath of road in rural Ohio. Jews were a rarity there, but not in a lovely precious gem kind of way. Even good times felt lonely. Bad times, well, they came quick, and dazzled in the way anything unexpected might. Her new husband drank, gambled on the horses with my dad’s teacher’s pension money, and fooled around unabashedly. But we stayed -- for a while, anyway. Marriages and the hopes they bring are surprisingly hard to extricate a newly formed family from.

After confirming his philandering by following him to a hotel one afternoon, my mom bought a ticket for Florida to live with her sister, Barbara. A month into the visit, my mom called from the mall. “I can’t find my car anywhere. Can you come and get me?” she asked. When my aunt arrived, she found her sister pacing in the garage, eating truffles from a candy box. Chocolate streaks covered her lips and cheeks; her wig was askew. My aunt phoned me in my college dorm with the story, adding that she kept her concerns to herself.

“Your mom has quite enough to deal with right now. Why make it worse?”

Later that month, my mom had a moment in the car where she tried talking but what came out made no real sense at all. The ER resident referred to this speech pattern as “word salad.” Each word could be defined, but didn’t belong next to the one before or after it – potato, heaven, jam, baseball, Walmart – offered up like a sentence where the meaning was abundantly clear only to the speaker. By the time, the attending physician arrived, everything had returned to normal. The doctor thought it was stress or a small stroke according to Bar.

“Nothing to be done, but watch it,” she reported. “It’s called a TIA. Look it up. No Biggie.”
Soon, my mom couldn’t think of words.

“Can you pass the stuff in the jar? The stuff. The jar with the white stuff in it,” she said to me, her finger wagging at the mayonnaise jar, after minutes of looking at her sandwich like something were missing. My mom was barely fifty at the time.

She tripped and fell repeatedly when there was nothing to trip on.

“I think she needs a neurologic exam. People don’t act like this because they are getting a divorce.” I said to various family members.

“No. She’s fine.” They said.

“You worry too much. You always were a worrier.”

The Sound of Dogs, by Bobby Warner

17/10/2017

The neighbor's dog is barking. Dreadful sound. But often I dream of barking dogs, and awaken drenched in perspiration. Yesterday I came across a huge spray-painted image of a rabid dog on the side of a building. It's mouth foamed through sharp fangs and its eyes were red and burning – and accusing. Stunned, I knelt and wept in terror.

The dog--her dog--growled at me the night I killed her. I took the elderly spinster's precious hoard of jewelry and cash and fled. The dog, a massive beast, would have torn me limb from limb had I not had the revolver. It leapt at me, and I shot it in the chest. My hand was splattered with its blood.

That was last week. Now the dogs bark, yell and growl day and night, even in my dreams. I cannot silence them – nor can I wash away the damned blood of the old woman's dog from my hand.

Often I toy with the idea of placing the muzzle of the gun against my forehead and squeezing the trigger. That seems to be the only way to put an end to the unholy sound of those damnable, vengeful dogs.

Murder “By Order”, by Sankar Chatterjee

17/10/2017

Days turned into months in current strongman’s regime with his dictatorial style of governance, turning a democratic nation into a banana republic. His insults were directed to the members of the opposition party, along with the members of his own party. He continued bullying an economically poor neighboring nation insulting its citizen with the idea of erecting a wall at the border to deter them from entering into his rich nation. He threatened to obliterate a nuclear-powered rogue faraway nation run by a similar dictator. At home, he initiated to implement policies that would only enrich his cronies, while devastating the fellow poor citizens.

But, none of his actions was surprising, already being displayed on the campaign-trail. What surprised Prof. John Meyers was the collective inaction of his own party-members! Majority of his close enablers were highly educated citizens of the society including a leading neurosurgeon, a talented lawyer who did his clerkship under a renowned Supreme Court justice, practicing golden-boy MBA-s from powerhouse financial institutions. Most of them earned their credentials from country’s prestigious Ivy League academic institutions. “Aren’t they going to stand up in protest against a dictator to save their own country?” wondered Prof. Meyers. And this was the time when Prof. Meyers came across to an article, published just a year ago in one of the country’s leading newspapers. The newspaper quoted a press-release from the government of a nation born after the World War II, out of the ashes of six millions of its perished to-be-citizens. The newspaper published an image of a historic original hand-written letter from a notorious Nazi war-criminal, the architect of humanity’s worst crime of murdering those six million human beings. In that original letter (in German), the war criminal was asking for a pardon from his death sentence to then-President of that nascent nation. The newspaper would also provide an English translation of the document. Following few sections stood out in Prof. Meyer’s mind:

“I never served in such a high position as required to be involved independently in such decisive responsibilities. Nor did I give any order in my own name, but only ever acted “by order of”.”

“…there is a need to draw a line between the leaders responsible and the people like me forced to serve as mere instruments in the hands of the leaders. I was not a responsible leader, and as such do not feel myself guilty.”

Suddenly, the memory of a large-scale replica of an original historic document flashed like a lightning bolt in Prof. Meyer’s brain. The exhibit had been on display in that young nation’s memorial museum. It was a list of murdering of eleven millions of its future citizens in various countries around the world for the complete annihilation of that race. And it was crafted none other than that particular war criminal to curry the favor of his leader in a show of “anticipated obedience”.

Democracy Needs Constant Vigilance, by Sankar Chatterjee

14/10/2017

This country has been world’s oldest democracy, born more than two hundred years ago, out of a revolution against the rulers from a faraway land. The leader of the revolution himself could have become a dictatorial emperor, but he chose the path of a democratic election by his fellow newly-independent citizens. They would show their deepest gratitude and respect towards the leader, thus electing him the first president of the country. Since then, the democracy, though not always perfect, prevailed even surviving a civil war from within. The country always welcomed immigrants from all corners of this earth to build the nation as well as advance the human civilization. Recently, with the covert intervention of an arch enemy, the country elected a racist, and xenophobic demagogue as its new president who is bent on destroying nation’s founding principles. Old evils have been sprouting throughout the nation, tearing the fabrics of the society. The ugly heads of these poisonous serpents recently would appear in Charlottesville, Virginia. One of them would plough his car in full speed through the peaceful protesters marching against the current dictator’s shameful bigotry. The crowd heard a chilling scream. There lied motionless Ms. Heather Heyer on the middle of the road, murdered by a speeding thug influenced by the hateful ideology preached by the dictator throughout the past electoral campaign. Later, friends would describe Ms. Heyer as a passionate advocate of the poor and disenfranchised, always standing up against injustices. And that’s what she had been doing at that very moment.

The other country is world’s most populace democracy winning its independence, only seventy years ago, from its colonial power. But, it was more like an overnight “transfer of power” from the rulers to the country’s elites. Still, the country had adopted democracy since its birth, giving citizens the power of “one voice, one vote”. However, the journey so far has not been an easy one. Poverty, corruption, caste-system along with many other societal ills effected the country’s forward advancement. But the democracy persisted along with country’s becoming a regional super power. Now a new, tech-savvy leader, under the guise of modernizing the country with technological innovation, unleashed the members of his right-wing nationalistic religious base to turn a secular country into a religious one. Ms. Gauri Lankesh, a fierce and independent woman reporter and a staunch critic of the current government had been watching the development and speaking out against the injustices in her own newspaper. On a recent evening, she was returning home when a motorbike sped past her. Citizens of another democratic country in a different continent heard a similar chilling scream. Ms. Lankesh’s bullet-ridden motionless body was lying on the sidewalk, just in front of her home.

As the citizens of both America and India, world’s two strongest democracies introspect, they are coming to realize that only constant vigilance will shield their precious democracies, for not to be imploded from within.

The Bystander, by Michael Croban

14/10/2017

I look at the world passing by. In the morning, during the rush hour, the streets are filled with busy people. Their eyes focused on the little gadgets in their hands. Then, as the morning transforms into a day, they become more relaxed, and more often they stop and look at me. I smile at them, but they don't smile back. I don't mind, I'm used to their indifference. Only children notice me. Their innocent eyes look at me in wonder. Sometimes they even wave at me.

With every new season, I dress accordingly and by the latest fashion. You may even say that I am a trendsetter. But, fashion is a tricky thing, it's unstable and ever-changing. Today they came to replace me with a new model. He’s just like me, frozen in time. Only, he’s taller and thinner. Now I wait in the storage until my time comes again; fashion has a tendency of repeating itself.

I can wait, don’t worry about me, I am made of plastic. Therefore, almost immortal. I’ll see you soon, maybe in five years’ time or maybe in ten, but trust me, we will meet again. We always do...

A Hero’s Re-emergence, by Sankar Chatterjee

5/10/2017

Prof. Shantanu Sen vividly remembers that first few moments of the classic movie, being shown on a big screen accompanied with stereo sound in the famous Globe Theatre in Calcutta, India. As the movie began, a tall handsome young gentleman exited from his cottage, mounted on his Brough Superior SS100 motorcycle and sparked the engine. He started his beloved machine, soon speeding it up. It appeared that as if he was levitating forward in a supersonic speed. Was he also fondly remembering his not so distant past in the desert on a camelback in the Arabian Peninsula? Suddenly, there was a dip on the road blocking his views to realize that two neighborhood boys were approaching him from opposite direction, while riding their bicycles.

He swerved desperately not to hit the boys and in the process completely lost his control, while getting thrown over the motorbike. That accident would injure him severely, eventually leading to his death. And that’s how the movie “Lawrence of Arabia”, a biopic on British war hero Col. T. E. Lawrence (acted by Peter O’Toole), began to tell the life-story of Mr. Lawrence, ironically depicting his death in the beginning. It was early 1960-s and Prof. Sen was in his sixth grade in the middle school.

Now, in his own sixties, Prof. Sen was traveling in southern Israel when he would decide to cross the border to enter into neighboring nation Jordan to travel to Petra, a re-discovered forgotten city. Petra ranks as one of eight wonders from modern-era. An architectural gem, the city had been associated with the lost tribe of the Nabataeans, though archeologists traced its existence from time periods, long before Christ-era. Prof. Sen navigated through the narrow entrance (known as Siq) of the ancient city to arrive at a magnificent, pink-stone built palace-like structure, known as Al Khazneh (purported to be The Treasury of the Nabataeans). Suddenly, he remembered that opening sequence from the movie “Lawrence of Arabia”. And at that very moment, his local guide Mr. Syed Sultan also refreshed his memory how in early twentieth century, a revolt of the local Arabs from Petra against the Ottoman Empire was led by none other than Col. T. E. Lawrence! “Don’t you remember the movie Lawrence of Arabia?” Asked Mr. Sultan.

Near the other end of the Siq, Prof. Sen climbed a mountain to visit some ancient tombs, unearthed and already looted by the early robbers. From the top, he looked at the distant. A group of local youths on camelbacks led by an elder was approaching towards the ancient ruins. However, all Prof. Sen visualized as if “Lawrence of Arabia” was flying down on his motorbike leading a group of Arab rebels on speeding horsebacks!

Half-Life, by Doug Hoekstra

5/10/2017

On the same evening I watched Liverpool poet Roger McGough wow and flutter his way through a brief cameo in my VHS copy of the Rutles movie, I was poked with a post from the Guardian telling me New York poet John Ashbery died, which in turn made me wonder if, due to our advanced technology and the law of conservation, modern poetry doesn’t have a half-life at least as long as the radioactive waste I’d learned about on comedian John Oliver’s program Last Week Tonight.

The fact is…one isotope of plutonium, Pu-239, has a half-life of 24,100 years, the time it will take for half of it to decay, and remarkably, at this juncture, “we”, not as in “me”, but as in “they”, still have no idea where to put it. I say “they” because if it were me I’d forget it all together, remain a vegetarian, and sit under a windmill writing poetry, taking my chances with Byron, Keats, or Shelley, despite the fact that we’d broken up just that afternoon.

Shelley was what my mom used to call a “live wire.” She was sexy, predictably unpredictable, and had the ability to go on forever. I also loved her name, which reminded me of the song by Nick Lowe that I discovered on an album I bought at a used record store in a college town, while killing time cross-country many years before, only a buck for The Impossible Bird. It gave me great joy to buy that record. Songs that last.

Unlike Nick’s songs, our relationship was short-lived and complicated, half-good, half-bad, half-me, half-her, as we danced and drifted through the dark nights following the laws of conversation, never quite rhyming in a way that felt exciting yet unsettling. I still miss her sometimes, and honestly, like the Pu-239, I never know where to put those feelings.

Maybe that’s where the poems come in, a north star when there is no other. As Frank Outlaw, president of Bi-Lo stores once said, your words become your actions become your habits become your character become your destiny. And, so even though I grew up in a half-empty household where everything was saved, over the years, I’ve let go of as much as I can, throwing off the shackles in my quest to become a half-full person looking for much more than a half-life or plutonium muse.

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