Nothing At All #fridayflash
There is nothing I am desirous of. My immediate needs, such as they are, have been attended to.
How can I be certain?
You are right, there is so very little I can be certain of. But I am certain of this. There is nothing I need that I don’t have.
The ice in my drink provides ample cooling. The brew strength of my tea is just such that it combines in a pleasing fashion with the melting ice. My mind is clear and my belly absent hunger. I am completely sated from any physical desire at this very moment. The weakness of my bladder may at some point prove other-wise, but just now I want for naught.
Will his Holiness be long?
Of course, you can’t be certain. Of that I am certain. I certainly do not mind waiting. Should I mind?
His Holiness has waited lifetimes, actually many lifetimes waiting. Perhaps an eternity, though of this I am not certain. I’m certain I don’t know what an eternity is, though it is most certainly more than a lifetime. You can be certain of that.
No, nothing more for me thank you. You are most hospitable. How did I arrive? By carriage, yes by carriage. No, the journey was not at all arduous. I crossed over no conventicle, nor did I meet with ill tidings. It was a journey without event, other than my arrival here. Your hospitality is welcoming and pleases me.
Yes, my associate is quite content to wait with the horses. He’s actually been with me since birth. His birth, not mine. His father was in my father’s, then my, service and I wondered how we would ever replace him. His son took an immediate liking to me and my family and fell quite naturally into position after his father’s passing. Yes he provides fine service. He was born into it! A fine lad, and quite the horseman I should add. Does his Holiness ride horses? No I expect he would not.
No, I remain comfortable, thank you though. Have you been long in service to his Holiness? Since before he was his Holiness! My, that is of substance. Yes that is tremendous loyalty. I am certain of that.
Yes, I will have some more tea, thank you. It won’t be long now, I’m certain of that
The Lesson #fridayflash
I am a member of a dying breed. I am a child of the soil. I am a farmer’s daughter.
My grandfather’s father was a sharecropper and took the 180 acres given to him by the state of New Jersey after the First World War on the promise of farming the land and operating under a 100 year lease for $1.00 per year.
He died with red clay in his veins after scrubbing the earth under his feet for 40 years, my grandfather at his side the last 20. My father joined him as a young man and I soon followed as was the custom for the first born, of either sex, to follow in the farming tradition established in our family.
We were egg ranchers. Chicken farmers. Poultry purveyors. Great granddad had grown corn and soybeans but Papa converted the farm to eggs after watching corn prices go to nothing and Uncle Sam drop all subsidies for grain production.
My father was a gentle giant. Wouldn’t even kill a spider. Then one day he buried a rooster alive. I’ve never forgotten that lesson.
That particular rooster had raided the prize hen-house, gotten into the mornings production and generally made a mess of things. Now, there’s is not much more useless and even dangerous on an egg farm than a rooster. The last thing you want is to slow or stop the production of eggs.
So, when Daddy grabbed that bird by the neck and threw him into the hole that he quick covered with dirt, I knew right then that men would play a subservient role in my life going forward.
I am a farmer after all. I don’t have time for useless cocks.
Issue of Seat
if I put the seat
down and peed all
over it and
you sat in that
you’d be even more
pissed at that
so what is the
big fucking deal and
by the way I’m not
the one who
forgets to flush in
the middle of the
night but
I seem
to always
get that morning
welcome
Over-reliance
Logs surrounded him. Some were the size of skyscrapers, he was certain he’d never get out of this predicament. Yes, the Sequoias were beautiful, Yes he had come there to specifically sleep amongst them, sleep like a log, so to speak. But when he realized he’d forgotten his Paxil and anti-anxiety medication, the forest took on a rather menacing and ominous look to it.
If he ever got back, he’d likely kill his therapist. She agreed with him that venturing out for some solo camping would restore some long lost confidence. The demons had possessed him far too long. It was about time he forgot about Sheila, got over how she shit on him and got on with his life.
He used to love camping. He even went in the winter. It made him feel self sufficient, reliable and in control. The black hole and death grip of depression had emasculated all those feelings and more. He descended into doubt and self loathing.
Nothing he did, would do or could do was ever right. The tape played constantly.
His therapist really didn’t understand him, she was used to treating children. Her office was filled with hand paintings and scrawled notes from fourth graders pledging undying love to Dr. Schwang.
He couldn’t even bring himself to laugh at her name but referred to her as “The Big Schwanger” to his co-worker who knew what his deal was.
His car almost out of gas, and the sun going down the sinkhole with the speed of his darkening mood, he began to weep.
Now he’d done it. He would have to rely on the one person he hated most to get out of this predicament.
Himself.
Bina Gupta – Poet Extraordinare
I get exhausted using superlatives in describing today’s special edition guest writer. After gracing the NOT’s pages sometime back, I begged Bina Gupta to send me some additional work. Silly me, it fell between the cracks at the NOT and the bagatelles below have been sitting undisturbed in my in-box instead of dancing upon my reader’s eyes as they should have been weeks ago.
Bina is one talented, bi-continental gal sharing her talents in both the USA and her homeland of India. She has recently published over 125 of her poems in a book entitled My Heart On My Sleeve. Enjoy the special “perspectives” shared below.
between the sheets unglossed- new perspective
by Bina Gupta
opened book of life
found
self
a grandmother
a mother
a wife
a daughter
a child
a newborn
as life waxes
it wanes
time same!
As I grew
Life span shrank
withdrew!
As I bloomed
I was step
Closer to withering
As the sun rises
It was a step
Closer to setting
Such is life’s conundrum
Maker’s mystery thus spun
Be it grief or joyous fun
Knowing in my heart
This is the ultimate truth
I carry on, it understood
Hold my soul
Like water in hand
Without spilling out of hand
Happy
Spreading joy
I am HIS toy
As HE cranks my key
I sing n dance accordingly
Out of steam, I’ll cease to be
Win or lose
It is all a chess of life’s game
At the end King n pawn retire in box, same
Life thus endures, as we endeavor
to endure it with grace…
my voyage of self discovery is still on…
*** **** ***
BETWEEN THE SHEETS – UNGLOSSED – Old perspective
by Bina Gupta
Between opposing sheets hard
Lie a whole mess of wordy shards
Some pungent, some repugnant
Some cloying, some buoying
Some boisterous, some vociferous
Some malicious, Some sagacious
Some pernicious, some capricious
Some reminisces, some winces
Some piercing, some ferocious
Some precocious, some innocent
Some gentle like mom’s mantle
Some hard like teacher’s stern ogle
Relations that boggle
Some curdle
Some inane
Some insane
Some shallow n vain
Some we dare disdain
Some we have to tolerate
Some help n hurt
Some confide n subvert
Some change over time
Some shifty sands
Some slippery eels
Some greasy wheels
Some weasels
We pick a few here n there
Mix match n ignore
Some reject or get rejected
Some deject some are cruel
Some we still care about n knowingly
Are glutton for their punishment
Masochistic- yet realistic
We are all slaves to our needs
Weaknesses, goals, aspirations
And striving respirators until
Expiration. release from
Self invited bondage
All residing between
Sheets
Silken
Tensile
Tough
Blood ties or not…
between the sheets
of life
in book of
lifespan
of self
Guest Photo Essay – Kristin Fouquet
Kristin Fouquet is one of the most creative, talented and prolific photographers on the indy press scene today. Her nuanced and finely crafted work can be seen at Full of Crow, 1000th Monkey, Danse Macabre, Hobo Camp Review, Blink/Ink, Disenthralled, Right Hand Pointing and countless other indy journals, zines and mags. A talented fiction writer, Kristin has had her work featured in Literary Fever, Twenty Stories, Full of Crow and others. Today’s photo essay represents a personal journey for Kristen as she takes us to apartments where she has lived in her home town of New Orleans both before and after the devastation of Katrina.
The NOT is delighted to share her work with you today.
The Third Son
The tiny ribbon of blood that trickled from his freshly cut finger eagerly found the drain in the kitchen sink, obediently joining the flow of cool water that enveloped his hand as he cursed his clumsiness. It held the markers that since birth had predestined him to assume the responsibilities of his station as the third son, just like his father before him, his grandfather and his father too. At that moment though, his index finger throbbing, his thoughts turned to his maternal lineage and the greater, yet unspoken burden that to his count had already upended the lives of each of his brothers, his mother, her siblings and each of his cousins on his mother’s side. Perhaps if he bled long enough he could extricate himself of the certain darkness that awaited him, without warning unleashing its fearsome grip. He knew this was absurd, yet he had only recently come to the realization that of the 13 relatives on his mothers side that he personally knew, each of them had been stricken. There was a time when he considered it a character flaw, yet as he became personally acquainted with it, he came to understand the physiology behind it and it frightened him.
The timing sucked. Now was a terrible time. Right, he thought, like there is a good time for this.
