Short Fiction: Hot Dogs

Scrumpy hated the circus. He nearly pulled my arm out of the socket with the fuss he kicked up when we passed by. I was no big fan either. Their presence in our clean wholesome little town created a small rank cesspool  on the village green. I thought the mayor must have lost his mind to allow them to set up there but he had made a big public statement about the old fashioned quaintness of this kind of family entertainment and anyone who said anything to the contrary just looked like some kind of child hating jerk.

Poetry: Goodbye, Dear Ladies

When we join plots, themes, thoughts and notation, out comes our own Swiss Confederation!

In sync we devise, scheme, and spin out a tale, with six, eight or more parts, we always prevail.

Our collected troupe crafts and composes each line, where evil and pure in our story entwine,

intrigue ensues quickly as features unfold, with narrations winsome or silly or bold.

Our narrator reads in a humorous tone, then we share hearty laugh or sometimes a groan.

Short Fiction: The Letter

It is right that we should part; I feel that deeply in my heart.

We are so different you and me; me and you. I have loved you for so long that even my vivid imagination cannot conceive of another person, another love in my life. We are intertwined like the twisted limbs of a rampant wisteria. At times abundant in uplifting bloom and at others with ill-formed whips waving aimlessly, desperately in the breeze; trying to form a lasting connection to grow along in tandem.

To continue is probably too hopeless; too painful. Yet we look at each other and we see a person who is akin to family. Someone we loved with every breath and someone who can bring us to rage.

Poetry: The Six Ages of Nature

Seasons come and seasons go
Yet the one thing that I know
Is how we look on nature’s gift
Depends on age for views to shift.

The small child is wild to touch and explore
Rolling in mud, grappling with the shore

A little older and nature must bend to our will
We’ll dam that creek, build a treehouse, yet still

Within a few years we’ve a billboard attention span
We want snow to ski and sun for our tan

As adults nature is no longer our friend
With the hard drive, stapler, phone and car we contend

But then a mature instinct takes flower
Our gardens, the season’s pure beauty gain power

’till finally with age wonders great and small we face
And appreciate within this bounty we have a place.

—Terri Martin

23 June

Short Fiction: Emotion

I saw him approaching the bus stop and envied him his air of golden assurance. From his neat haircut greying at the temples to his discreet cufflinks and polished brogues he gave off an aura of middle-aged success.

He sat in the bus shelter, placed his briefcase on his knees and slipped a photo from the front pocket.  Then his whole body language changed. His shoulders sagged and I caught a searing flash of raw pain in his eyes before he closed them. The low winter sun glinted off a tear in the corner of his eye. This he dashed away, then glanced swiftly either side to see if anyone had noticed. The chubby housewife nearby was busy trying to keep her many shopping bags from disarray. Meanwhile a teenage goth nodded into cyberspace to the pace of his blaring ipod.

Short Fiction: The Tube

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled crookedly. Anybody watching Glenda would have noticed the immense sadness in her wide cornflower blue eyes or the droop of her thin shoulders, so at odds with the smile. Glenda knew, in fact, that she was quite invisible to the other commuters on the busy circle line tube, except for the two bearded men in dark clothing who were busy pretending not to look at her. They had been following her ever since she left her grim tower block flat at Elephant and Castle. It was clear to Glenda that they intended her to know that she was being monitored on this journey of vital importance to the sect.

Short Fiction: Thanksgiving Day Parade, 1978

“Are you going out?” Aunt Mason sang out from the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

Bodie hunched his narrow shoulders and hung his head to hide the blush rising up his neck, but he kept moving toward the front door.

Uncle Royce half levered his bulk out of a protesting Laz-Y-Boy. “You answer your mother now, Boy. And no sass.”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie slowed a fraction and said, “Going to see Leesha.” Then he just darted through the door, leaving behind the rising bellow from Uncle Royce’s chair and the shocked stares of the rest of the cousins.

Short Fiction: A Walk Around the Greifensee

Jim and Sue were often seen spending time walking on the path around the lake. They could drive by car to this lake outside of Zurich in ten minutes time. A walk around the lake took them less than 3 hours. Their record was 2 hours and 37 minutes. Having lived in the U.S. many years ago, they both enjoyed the fact that here there were no billboards and while at the lake, they both agreed to turn off their cell phones so as to enjoy the serenity and the sounds of the great outdoors.

Last week a couple Jim had met at his office agreed to join them for a walk around the lake. David and Sarah had come from quite a distance and when the two couples met at the parking lot at 10 a.m. David commented on the traffic in Zurich. “It was a hard drive, getting through the city, but here we are, looking forward to spending this great Spring day with you two.”

Jim and Sue’s eyes showed surprise as they watched David and Sarah pull backpacks out of their car and hang binoculars around their necks. “You never know when you might be lucky and see something special,” was David’s comment to Jim and Sue’s not knowing what to say.

Short Fiction: A Walk in the Morning

The plane landed on the uneven asphalt runway just as the sky was turning those magnificent colors she had always associated with sunset on a coast. Pinks, oranges, yellows, blues––the variety and patterns of the colors seemed to hold the promise of adventure for the next six days in Central America.

Karen had to admit to herself that she was a little nervous: There could be sudden coastal storms or disease-carrying mosquitoes or maybe even twenty-first century pirates. But Roger and she had decided months ago that this beach would be their destination––a warm climate away from the hectic pace of their jobs. For Roger, it offered a rich variety of tropical flora and fauna to photograph. Karen planned to enjoy the sun, walks on the beach and, generally, a peaceful week with Roger.

By the third day they had a routine. Roger got up early for his first walk of the day, camera in hand, and returned for a leisurely breakfast with her. Next, they would explore a new path, returning to the cabin for lunch and afternoons on the beach sitting or lying on the warm sand.

Poetry: Perfect World

If it was a perfect world
We’d all have perfect smiles, perfect feet.
There’d be no sadness, no defeat,
No missing shoes or lost regrets
And certainly no misplaced bets.
Or was that debts?
I’m actually not quite sure.

If it was a perfect world
With plenty of food and lots to drink;
We wouldn’t see sorrow, or hunger or cold.
No need to worry about heating or gas,
Homes would be certain, no doubt of rent.
There would be no crying, no disdain;
We’d feel no emptiness, no loss, or shame.

If it was a perfect world
All would be exciting for a newborn child.
Questions asked would answers reach.
Seekers hunt for the known would keep
Curiosity ever on the breach;
Gladness at the forefront level,
Or was it glossy front page covers?
Oh Dear, It’s just not certain.

If it was a perfect world
I’d pray the world my soul to keep
But if I should die before I wake
Would I ask to be forsaked?
Should I really, after all?
Judgment is cruel
and I am really rather small.

If it was a perfect world
Would I see it, would I feel it?
Would I open up my eyes?
Or just turn and hide my fears
Behind my nightskirts or sisters shields?
Hope is elusive in shadowy form
While temptation teases us with haste.
Oh, do not let me force this pace
So I may miss it if I stop the chase.


—GBD
April 2012

Poetry: Together

He said it would be exciting
He said it was true
I sat by his feet with anticipation
Waiting to see it through

He stood proudly forward
One foot upon the rock
The adventure is just beginning
So please don’t stay upon the dock

I gathered my skirts around me
As a chill brushed across my face
I leaned close with ear turned toward him
So no word would escape

With a sweep of his arm he continued
Staring over the rushing flow
Perhaps it was his enthusiasm
Which electrified my skin so

He said it would be exciting
He turned and took my hand
I cannot wait to get started
When next to me you stand

So off we went embarking
On a tumultuous road therein
and never would I change the way
together we have been

—GBD

28 May 2012

Short Fiction: Sketches

She was lying on her back with one arm thrown over her face in the afternoon sun. An open sketch book sat empty and exposed beside her.  A pale pink Izod sweater was tossed carelessly on top of her book bag. Her bare feet twitched as the willowy stalks of grass took turns genuflecting against her skin.

‘I know another way to tickle your toes.’
She started at the sound of his voice.
‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask the same of you.’
‘I’m escaping.’
‘Well, I heard there are young females unattended in the commons so I thought I would offer my protection.’

‘From what’?
‘I could be a stalker who waited outside your class and silently followed you off campus to a secluded place’.

Short Fiction: A Disturbance in the Neighborhood

A disturbance in this neighborhood is nothing new, but tonight we actually woke up. We easily tolerate barking dogs, horn-tooting cars, and crying babies. These noises are forgivable. But now—since the new neighbors had moved in—new sounds disturb the familiar patina of neighborhood life.

They came quietly at first, not speaking our language and trying to fit in. But we didn’t let them. They must have felt unloved and unwanted.

One morning, loud screaming came from their kitchen window and then crying and then a big bang. What to do? Should we call the police? Should we go over and investigate—maybe even help? Typically Swiss, none of us wanted to interfere; no one ventured over. And things quieted down.

Later, in the supermarket, I saw the woman. She was hiding under a big scarf, but a blue-green bruise peeked through. I felt like holding her hand, hugging her, asking her to my house—but I didn’t. I wasn’t able to break free from my strict, socially molded corset.

—Susi Spinatsch

March 12, 2012

Poetry: Expat Trilogy, Part III

TIME TO GO ALREADY??

Just eight more weeks then out the door; in Switzerland, I’ll live no more
No more moist Kase firm and ripe, nor young ones treading the zebra stripe
Keine church bells ringing a joyful tune, in morning, evening, weekend, noon
No more Hoi!, Gruetzi! or Guten Tag!, but back to daily, work week slog
No TRAMs that rumble on metal feet, nor trains that whiz by sleek and neat
Or breads with seeds and fruits galore, on brimming shelves in nearby store
No Zwanzig Minuten on morning trip, or Blick am Abend to read so quick
Ixnay on stands with veggies fresh, or Wochenmarkt with sausage flesh
That hangs in lovely shape and size, enticing hausfraus with their buys
Of crisp produce, eggs, flowering blooms, mandlebrot and weiss mushrooms
No ancient church of wood and rock, where candles burn around the clock
Their hand forged locks to guard the space, watched oer’ by hero’s marble face
Zilch cows with ringing metal bells, which echo in Swiss hills and dells
No more Akkusative edict frame, like “der to den, die, das the same”
Zip Alp chateau with rock and tile, their fensters adorned in canton style
No hairpin turns on mountain road or trying to remember my postal code
And zero Roman Turms and walls, or monasteries festooned halls
Grossmunster no more to see or Zurich University
Adieu to Dolder and Poly Bahn, and sun on China Garten lawn
The Brockihaus I’ll shop no more, nor pop into the Globus Store,
My American girlfriends helped my stay, with coffee and workshops and trips away

This year soon over to “home” I go, it feels as if three months ago
I landed for a year abroad and wondered at the path I’d trod
In retrospect, I’ve become freed, as life brought to me folks I need
To inspire and nurture my poet’s voice, they cheered and encouraged my vocal choice
For my journey was outside and inside as well, a chance to discard an unflattering shell
To unknot my nitpicking habit of doubt, to climb from deep crevice and finally break out
And release old emotions I’ve tried to repress, and drop my perfectionist need for success
“Not good enough” to “I’m as good as I can be”, my thanks to der Schweiz for my new liberty

—Jocelyn Moore

March 2012

Poetry: Expat Trilogy, Part II

Homesick

Hustle, bustle, they’ve lots to do; Banking, museums, even a zoo,
This urban spot, I’m out of place; back in the Rockies is my kind of space
And form with snow on mountain peak; but that is not my life each week.
A mother’s call, the rush hour sound; cacophony is all around
With folks above, beside, below; tobacco stench and odors flow
Into my windows opened wide; Inviting air - not smells - inside.
The downstairs neighbor drunken roars, the upstairs neighbor midnight snore
Construction traffic rumbles by; and overhead Swiss airplanes fly.
So grey and rainy many times; with serenades by church bell chimes,

I long for views of miles away; of sage and summer native hay
Which ripen helped by substream flow; and sunny hours of daylight glow
The granite slant above Green Lake; the rainbow trout which rise to take
their meal on cold, wet, tabletop; the shy pronghorn which run nonstop
and dusky eye of mule deer fawn; the winter tracks outlined at dawn
reveal the path of moose and mouse; the tug of home and hearth and house.

But daydreams such are not to be; I’m “foreign” in a strange country -
Is who I am, my life for now; but then, I’ll take a final bow
And shake the dust from off my shoe; and look at home with eyes anew
The commonplace, the everyday; yet miracles for in their way,
I see my own and understand; the blessings of a native land.

—Jocelyn Moore

October 2011

Poetry: Expat Trilogy, Part I

Auf Wiedersehen Wyoming!

Passports, bank drafts, Visas and more, what to sell and what to store?
A dog, two homes, two cars, one truck, to rent or not to make a buck?
We handle the treasures, the junk and then, a goodbye hug and kiss for kin.
Home folks no more, we're "foreign" soon, and "der mittag" we'll say for noon,
excitement in our trepidation, a change in scene and job and station.
We're off to search for aquatic bugs tho' Wyoming on our heartstring tugs.
Our new abode an ancient land with modern features shaped by hand,
and chiseled out by glacial force, the mighty Alps are just as coarse,
and sharp as Rocky Mountain range, though short of elk and grouse and sage.
From hinterland to city life, Professor Thompson and his wife
with bus and train and bike, we'll go, the urban path - goodbye to slow!
We're off to the Schweiz with flags unfurled and "little things that run the world"!!

—Jocelyn Moore

August 2011