from Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin
What a surprise, then, when Isaac Penn looked him in the eye and said quite sheepishly, "Um, ah, do you take wine with your meal?"
"Sometimes," answered Peter Lake.
"Good, we'll have wine tonight. Would claret be all right with you? Chateau Moules du Lac, ninety-eight?"
"Oh yes, anything," replied Peter Lake. "But isn't it pronounced 'claray'?"
"No. Claret. You say the 't,' just as in 'filet'."
"Filet? I thought it was 'filay.'"
"No. Filet just as in wallet...."
"You know what?" said Isaac Penn.
"You look like a crook. Who are you, what do you do, what is you relationship with Beverly, are you aware of her special condition and what are your motivations, intentions, and desires? Tell the absolute truth, don't elaborate, stop if a child or servant comes in, and be brief."
To all watchers and visitors: Thank you very much for everything you do to help me.
a quoi ca sert l'amourShe remembered that night better than he did. The way he was dressed, how he talked, what he ate, where he was stayingthe ring on his finger, fresh from January, and it shined under the dim light, her warning sign to stay away; a warning sign she took seriously and knew well. She kept the thought vigilant in her mind with every fidgeted rub to her own naked ringfinger under the table, the ghost of the engagement then and the marriage that never was. Her boyfriend beside her should've been reason enough to resist the obvious magnetism and subsequent temptation, but she found herself captivated by this man of her French homeland, who listened to every word she said with a rapt attention her boyfriend would never match. He kept conversation going. He asked questions and listened to her babbling answers. He made her feel special in a way that the Hollywood gift baskets and showering of flashing lights and Al Pacino and Entertainment Tonight couldn't replicate. He was real. He made he
fishermanI am a fisherman-
all roaring waves
and rush of sea salt
beating seagull wings
and a tongue carved from
My hands break levees
and my breath births dams
the taste of chilly morns
still melt on the roof of my
mouth like I never wished
for anything besides the smack
of sodden rubber boots and
the scars from entangled
hunks of ivory nets
the sea has not
forgotten my voice-
I can hear them
when the wooden floorboards
crackle like hurricane bruises
from water laden saunters
through land sunk libraries
it has been a forever
since I held a dream
caught between my fingertips
and the gentle rock of a
boat and foamy froth on
but this new trip I have embarked upon
carries more clanking hooks
than screeching sinkers
yet- my line has not changed-
I am a fisherman and the sea
forget who its children are.
The Civilized (1040 Words)Pushed out into the dusty arena, Kuru looked around. A roaring crowd surrounded him, but he couldn’t understand a word. Though they obviously weren’t cheering for his victory, they’re cheering for his sacrifice.
Rewind, this isn’t where the story begins.
In shackles Kuru shuffled along one of the famed roads that lead to Rome, as all the roads did. All the beaten and bruised men of different coloured skin shambled along the road led by the soldiers.
Kuru heard someone speak something in front of him. He realized that the words were in a language he didn’t understand. Then he heard the voice cry out in pain. The line of marching men didn’t stop at the sound, they didn't even slow.
Rewind further, something’s still missing.
His daughter's tanned skin, his wife was teaching her how to work leather. Kuru was watching them as he sharpened his scythe. He smiled, the scene made him remember the times he spent learning from his father.
PorterI went to my car, late for work for the third time this week. There was a piece of paper under the windshield wiper.
GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE
UP TO 75% OFF ALL LADYS CLOTHES
BUY 1 GET 2 FREE TOYS AND BOOKS
EVERYTHING MUST GO
ASK ABOUT ARCADE/THEATER EQUIPMENT
LAST DAY FEBRUARY 28, 2014
The other cars in the parking lot had the same flyer. I walked across the street.
“Charlie, what is this on my windshield?”
He stood behind the register, wet-thumbing receipts on the counter. He didn’t say anything.
I walked up to him and tossed the flyer down, messing up his work. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you, Porter.”
“How can you close this place?” I asked.
Charlie took off his glasses, let them hang around his neck. “Remember when I told you my wife had a cough?”
“That cough turned out to be lung cancer. I not only have to sell Tattles, I might have to se
Winter BonsaiWind-chipped fingers
shape copper wire into bonsai trees
as snowflake fairies pirouette
around her gold-tinsel hair,
a plumage of daisies
sweeping across chiseled cheekbones
before falling back into ice.
Imagining Summer stroking her skin
with his breathing flower tattoos
and his crawling ivy-vine freckles,
Winter bends another tiny, timeless branch
and wonders what it might feel like
to have somebody melt for her
for a change.
An Oldtimer's Tale“Why does everyone think Lansing House is haunted?”
“That’s ’cause it is. By a woman named Caroline St. Paul and a boy named Matthew Caine. Sad story, how both of them died. He weren’t no more than eight years old.”
“They died together?”
“No Caroline died first. Tripped and broke her neck while fending off a buncha hired thugs that was harassing her about the boy.”
“Was she his mother?”
“In every sense except biologically I’d say. Caroline was new in town. She come into some money when her aunt died and wanted a quiet life so she bought the house and set up shop as a music teacher, giving piano lessons to kids and anybody else who wanted to learn. Matthew was her student and she loved that boy the way his mother should have. Anastasia Caine was the boy’s mother and well…she’s the kind who always has to get her way and ain’t happy less she’s ruining someone’s da