Jack in Fiction365

Published on ---> Fiction365

Today's Story by Susan Marie

Jack

 

I greeted the day curled up in the back seat.  Spending the night in my car was not what I had in mind when I agreed to take this job.  It was only supposed to be for two nights.  It is now going on day five.

Damn her, I thought. 

It was still dark outside. I lit a smoke and cranked down the window whistling some Dylan tune. I saw lights on in a window up the street. Hopping into the front, easing into the driver’s seat, I cursed her for leaving me in this town.

Then I saw the note. It was lying on the dash, her usual manila envelope with thick, black scroll on the front, my name, what she liked to call me:  Toni.  I tore it open, thinking how much I loved and hated this woman.

Toni, my love,

Get something to eat, wait for my call.

Love,

Jezelle

There was a twenty-dollar bill inside, crisp and pure.  Like Jezelle.  I snatched the smokes and headed up the street to Bobby’s.

Nobody stared at me when I strolled into the diner.  A good sign.  I could really use a drink, I thought. There were five people that I could see, not counting who might be in the kitchen or getting their jollies in the john. Two men in the back booth, an old man at the counter, and a girl in her teens.  She looked new. You could tell by the way she sat all hunched over looking cold.  She held her cigarette as if she were posing for a picture. I had to laugh. That was me three years ago. I felt sorry for her.

When I turned my gaze from the girl, behind the counter stood Bobby.  God, how I had missed her.  She smiled. I headed for the bathroom. I took off my coat, gave my face a quick rinse and stared straight ahead.

Nothing scarier than staring into your own eyes.

When I came out, Bobby already had my coffee ready, black, as usual, and a plate of toast.  I pushed the plate away and sipped the coffee.  The elderly man mumbled to God.  Egg yolk dripped down his stubbly chin.  I turned away, focusing on the two men.

This is how bad it’s gotten.  Two men in a diner, a twenty-dollar bill and a half pack of smokes.  So this is where it ends.  I couldn’t even drink my coffee thinking of the grimy hands that would soon be groping my breasts.

Bobby nodded.  It was time.  I choked down the cup and took a shot from the pint in my coat.  Nothin’ like ole’ Jack to give you a hug when you need it.

I sat down next to the blond guy and whispered,

“Hi, I’m Toni.  Jezelle sent me.”

They both grinned and the mulatto slid in next to me. Bobby quickly pulled down the shades.  I wanted to scream.

The white guy rubbed my thigh and I closed my eyes.  

I thought of Jezelle.  I always thought of Jezelle.  And at this moment, it was her lips upon mine, her hands on my body and my eyes searching for her, once again, in the darkness of Bobby’s diner.

——-

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every waking thought

On Poems and Poetry

 

every waking thought
is the flight of a monarch
before each bud that blooms 

she gathers
from both hemispheres
left and right,
like her wings
birthed twins,
where every waking thought
begins
- as a first breath
- and the last gasp

where dreams become life
in the dank cloak of midnight
gaining momentum
churning the vortexes
of hurricanes

such raw passion

complicated
never simple

a thought
is the genesis of energy
the beginning of understanding
a means to communicate 
the subconscious of the artist,
insane
writing words such as this
solely to prevent the skull
from bursting,
spewing bits of memories
and rivers of tears, endless
that never run dry

a place where angels reside
sitting upon clouds
of sentences

the most holy poets -

sending telegraphs
to the chosen. 



© Susan Marie 2013 

promise yourself this

On Audio --> here

promise yourself this

no matter how utterly
hurtful
something may feel
when words are hurled
towards you
even direct
and sometimes
on purpose

like a tornado
an earthquake
like Mother Nature
breaking,

finally

and when all the dark chasms of this Earth

break, open
and the plates of this planet
you were born onto
crash into one another

birthing molten lava
that spreads upon your heart,
molding an ashen sculpture

and even as the beasts that exist in the void,
oh, such evil winged creatures,

begin flying above you
as your spirit lie
breathless, exhausted, wasted
and the last atoms
that are left
create

a
nuclear
reaction

promise yourself this

that if one chooses
or does not even know
that they are releasing
all of their insecurities
angers
hatreds
confusions
afflictions
desires
passions
and eventually

all of their love upon your very soul 

promise yourself this

please

simply
forgive. 



© Susan Marie 

the perfect poem

On audio HERE

the perfect poem
is without words

it is heard within the cries of lovers
legs entwined
like trees
limbs reaching roots
climbing vines
towards heaven

it is the sun dappled dawn
rich and vibrant
like cheeks rising
as apples, ripe

it is the laughter of children
encrypted within chalk lines on sidewalks
where no words are spoken
and no language exists

it is the heart, racing
through atriums and ventricles
pumping blood to breath

so your eyes
show laughter
through your tears after rainfall

the perfect poem
is you

perfect,
poem

it is the presence of love

and the breath of angels.

© Susan Marie  

 

Creative Writing I, II & III with Susan Marie [Buffalo, NY & Virtual]

Geared Towards Teens, Young Adults, and Adults 

You only need to bring your imagination. This is not your typical creative writing workshop. This is all about the creative process as a whole, reaching into yourself, finding what is in there, and bringing that out to the world. 

All 3 workshops are virtual [live & recorded due to timezone] and in Buffalo, NY at Main Studios. http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/gallery/#Workshops. You can take two workshops, one, or all three. Whatever workshop speaks to you. 

INFO:

Buffalo Workshop: $25 per workshop, discounted price for all 3: http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/gallery/#Workshops

Virtual Workshop : $15 for all 3 workshops, info here : http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/gallery/#Workshops and then I will need your email address after sign up there to give you virtual access. I can only allow up to 90 attendees each virtual workshop.

DATES:

I:  June 26th, 6-8/9PM : Creative Writing I : Intro: Breaking Creative Writing Barriers also with guest speaker Jim Petretta on Storytelling

Jim will talk about a few things he learned about storytelling from his mentor, Prof. Max Westler, St. Mary's College, South Bend (Sister to Notre Dame), read a short excerpt from his book, hold a Q/A session, and offer the Kindle versions of his book for any interested persons --> http://www.animpossibledreamstory.com/

II. July 31, 6-8/9PM : Creative Writing II: Expanding on the Creative Process also with guest speaker Ken Feltges, writer in residence, Mount St, Mary's. [educator and performance artist --> http://www.mt-st-marys.org/news/article/current/2012/06/13/100117/mount-st.-mary-academy-teacher-kenneth-feltges-featured-in-business-first

III. August 21st, 6-8/9PM: Creative Writing III: Reading & Recording Your Work and Publishing Tips/Suggestions also with guest speaker Janna Willoughby-Lohr aka MC Vendetta, performance artist, musician, educator --> http://www.facebook.com/papercraftmiracles and http://www.bloodthirstyvegans.com/

DETAILS:

There are countless free things for all attending to be listed. You will end [if you wish] with a spoken publishing credit, recorded, archived and promoted by me. If you attend the last workshop only, please be prepared to have a piece to [perform, read, sing?] then record. I will assign during June & July to prepare for August. Your final recording is 100% up to you. Virtual attendees will need to record this and send me the mp3 or wav file.

Sponsors:

1. Jim Petretta : http://www.animpossibledreamstory.com/

2. Perry Nicholas: www.perrynicholas.com
 
3. Jennifer Campbell : http://www.pw.org/content/jennifer_campbell

4. Randy Rumley: https://www.facebook.com/randy.rumley.50

5. Loren Keller: http://eres.medaille.edu/library01/alt/lorenkeller.asp

6. Ken Feltges: http://www.mt-st-marys.org/news/article/current/2012/06/13/100117/mount-st.-mary-academy-teacher-kenneth-feltges-featured-in-business-first

7. Just Buffalo Literary Center/Barbara Cole: http://www.justbuffalo.org/

8. Poets & Writers.Org: http://www.pw.org/
 
9. Theresa Wyatt: http://www.sevencirclepress.com/theresawyatt.htm

10. Big Marker : https://www.bigmarker.com/about

11. Susan Marie [my ebook/book of poetry/prose "knots'] http://susanmariepr.blogspot.com/

12. Janna Willoughby-Lohr aka MC Vendetta.http://www.facebook.com/papercraftmiracles and http://www.bloodthirstyvegans.com/

13. Think Twice Radio: Recording/Editing/Archiving of Spoken Word : http://www.thinktwiceradio.com/sue-marie/sue-marie.html

14. Hany Ghoraba/Delizon Publishers : http://www.delizonpublishers.com/shop/index.php?route=product%2Fproduct&path=61&product_id=96

15. Publish America: http://www.publishamerica.com/authorwebsites/index.htm

16. MAIN(ST)UDIOS :[Erica Eichelkraut-Zilbauer]  http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/

MORE TO COME!

Poetry Metagenics at the Pulitzer Center

Original article here --> Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting 

Inspired by the serendipitous algorithm-generated poetry of the New York Times Haiku, we're hoping to feed our own award-winning writing through a concept of similar but more human design: the staff and readers of the Pulitzer Center website.  

Our resident poet, Jennifer Nguyen, got the ball rolling: 

@jen_vnguyen

A dividing line
of walls, mines, wire, land and men,
unites Korea.

We write on behalf
those who may risk death for words
this Poetry Month.

When given the "choice"
sick, ailing Cambodians
prefer HIV.

What is a haiku?

Haiku is poetry in three short lines using a 5-7-5 syllable structure. Typically haikus contain strong sensory or synesthetic words and images. 



Poetry Month: Telling Untold Stories:

Haikus about international untold stories help interpret global issues for a wider audience. 

Amanda Ottaway  

@amandaottaway

in and of shadows 

the stateless stumble, ever 

the nowhere people.

Susan Marie  

@SusanMarie_NY

Bones emitting truth 

stack, one atop another 

collocating flies.

Poetry can help us reflect and see things we might have missed in everyday life. 

Poetry can be a call to action or, as Pulitzer Center grantees Eliza Griswold and Seamus Murphy found in Afghanistan, a way to express dissent when self-expression is dangerous. 

Jack

I greeted the day curled up in the back seat.  Spending the night in my car was not what I had in mind when I agreed to take this job.  It was only supposed to be for two nights.  It is now going on day five.

Damn her, I thought. It was still dark outside. I lit a smoke and cranked down the window whistling some Dylan tune. I saw lights on in a window up the street. Hopping into the front, easing into the driver’s seat, I cursed her for leaving me in this shit hole of a town.  

Then I saw the note. It was lying on the dash, her usual manila envelope with thick, black scroll on the front, my name, what she liked to call me:  Toni.  I tore it open, thinking how much I loved and hated this woman.  

     Toni, my love,  

                              Get something to eat, wait for my call.

                                                                                                     Love,

                                                                                                                 Jezelle 

There was a twenty-dollar bill inside, crisp and pure.  Like Jezelle.  I snatched the smokes and headed up the street to Bobby’s.
 
Nobody stared at me when I strolled into the diner.  A good sign.  I could really use a drink, I thought. There were five people that I could see, not counting who might be in the kitchen or getting their jollies in the john.  Two men in the back booth, an old man at the counter, and a girl in her teens.  She looked new.  You could tell by the way she sat all hunched over looking cold.  She held her cigarette as if she were posing for a picture. I had to laugh. That was me three years ago. I felt sorry for her.  
 
When I turned my gaze from the girl, behind the counter stood Bobby.  God, how I had missed her.  She smiled. I headed for the bathroom. I took off my coat, gave my face a quick rinse and stared straight ahead. 

     Nothing scarier than staring into your own eyes.
 
When I came out, Bobby already had my coffee ready, black, as usual, and a plate of toast.  I pushed the plate away and sipped the coffee.  The elderly man mumbled to God.  Egg yolk dripped down his stubbly chin.  I turned away, focusing on the two men.  
 
This is how bad it’s gotten.  Two men in a diner, a twenty-dollar bill and a half pack of smokes.  So this is where it ends.  I couldn’t even drink my coffee thinking of the grimy hands that would soon be groping my breasts.
   
Bobby nodded.  It was time.  I choked down the cup and took a shot from the pint in my coat.  Nothin’ like ole’ Jack to give you a hug when you need it.
 
I sat down next to the blond guy and whispered:
 
“Hi, I’m Toni.  Jezelle sent me.”
 
They both grinned and the mulatto slid in next to me.  Bobby quickly pulled down the shades.  I wanted to scream.  
 
The white guy rubbed my thigh and I closed my eyes.  I thought of Jezelle.  I always thought of Jezelle.  And at this moment, it was her lips upon mine, her hands on my body and my eyes searching for her, once again, in the darkness of Bobby’s diner. 




© Susan Marie  [TBC]

Reading Billy Collins Watching Billy

When I taught my son to read,
rather, when he grasped the written word
his lips pursed so slightly in time
with the crunch of his brow

And his eyes registered each character
churning and bouncing inside his head,
like atoms dancing -
as a Gentleman and his fair Lady,
bowing gracefully to the other
before a waltz.

I do not recall hearing words
fly from his mouth,
yet saw behind his eyes
trapeze artists leaping across synapses,
jolting ancient clocks to spark
holding ages together,
strands of DNA.

Nothing more than the woolen scarf
I once wrapped snugly around his chin
before we ventured out
to make snow angels.


© Susan Marie  

Thoughts While Sleepwalking

 On Audio --> here

it leaps and bounds
love
climbing vines towards Heaven

zinging past stars, galaxies
meteors flashing
supernova stargaze falling embers

like a waterscape canvas
melting nightscape backdrop
settling upon blooms
springing forth
from each bud

an electrical buzzzzzzzzzz

resonating
a bumblehum
of drones
leaving the air
thick and heavy
like buttercream frosting.

If you look to the sky, you will see the energy
electrical lines quake and quiver 
a sonic boom
like static
traveling down one arm
to the fingertip
that touched Gods' own
on the ceiling of the Sistine.

Michelangelo knew about love.

Aboriginals knew.
They needed no speech.

They felt the Earth
pull their chests
outward
magnetic
a throbbing ache
of telepathic temple
told presence of
Mother Earth
God
Buddha
Muhammad
The Great Spirit
Yahweh

The bum in the gutter
has knowing eyes.
I bet you never took
the time to see.

Next 
         time
                  look 
                           closer

the iris
reflects
the freedom
of knowing
the same crazed stare
of a driven soul
escaping through 
tunnels of poetry
waiting to flood
the city streets
and drown 
the foolhardy.

The Genesis 

of an Apocalypse.  


© Susan Marie 

to sleep, to dream

Oh, to sleep to dream
of completion, 
genesis ascending
from each clavicle.

The beginning of flight.

Towering two feet above my crown
and one foot above the ground,
my spirit would no longer suffer
the torture of good versus evil.

They would be glorious, my wings.

Perhaps, they will serve
to thaw my frame when I become chilled,
meld into arms when I am lonely,
and turn, quick and sharp
if crossed, to smite one
who did not respect their beauty.

Oh, to sleep to dream
within the room of my son.
I collect his feathers,
delicately lain across his nightstand.
Plumed obsidian, magnificent.
As that of a raven.

We picked them together, planning to create a headdress
 
yet now,
I place them upon his back
heeding the fate of Icarus',
and stand sentinel, mesmerized
by his sprouts of tufted down.

And before dawn,
we search for a willow tree
to nest in, perhaps -
away from the bloodstains
and stench of the city.

Our hands clasped
as we take flight.

Together.


© Susan Marie  

the most beautiful songs

On Audio --> Here


Sometimes
the obscurest birds
sing
the most beautiful songs.

Like a child,
placing blocks,
worn,
letters faded, atop another.

Oh . . . so carefully.

Or in the kitchen,
where one woman,
beautiful,
with her hair tied back,
cooks
and silently hums to herself,
her family, waiting,
in the other room.

And the man,
viewing his child below him,
placing worn blocks with such intent
then shifting his gaze to the back of his wife,
in the kitchen,
standing.

And there is no music.

No words are spoken.

It is simply understood
that sometimes
the obscurest birds

sing

the most beautiful songs.

 

© Susan Marie and Shivpreet Singh

*Shiv said to me, "Sometimes the obscurest birds sing the most beautiful songs." 

starshine

On Audio



Strange
the moon

she only shows her face
sullen, yet bright
after the dusk of each day

beautiful
she is

setting the purpling velvet sky alight
waking constellations from deep slumber
causing them to sparkle and dim
lighting the way for us all

our wretched poor souls
wandering and lost

beneath
starshine 

© Susan Marie 

Amber Tan

I find myself missing you

and it ain't that bad

 

I find myself missing you baby

but it don't leave me sad

 

You helped me pave that rusty road

a line from you to me

It was always give or take 

and never in between 

 

I find myself thinking

about your eyes so amber tan

I see them shine then fade within the light

like a stone held in my hand

 

They lit up in my doorway

a refuge from the street

And it was always give or take with me 

and never in between  

 

I wonder how you're doing

if your feeling on the up

Saw your ride driving by

wished to stop and take a look

 

Because it was always give and take with me

and never in between

You helped me pave that rusty road

a line from you to me

 

You set me alight

let me fly right from your palm

I can't describe this desire

this void you fill, my soul to spill

 

inside this empty skull of mine

 

inside this empty skull of mine

 

This bird flies solo 

especially tonight

I can find my way home

but it's lonely on this road

 

and I just sigh

turn up the radio

tell myself that life, 

will come and go

 

they come and go

 

but you . . .

you touched me in places

people never dare to search

 

you placed your palms together

your words are inked forever

 

branded to my soul

 

Cuz it was always give and take with me

and never in between

You helped me pave that rusty road

a line from you to me

 

 

 

© Susan Marie - written for an extremely dear soul, a song of sorts . . .

inevitable death

a single
breath
is as profound
as each subtle vein
engorged
upon the skin
of solitary leaf

it parachutes
to an inevitable death

a tightrope artist
tripping on time
calling skyward

eyes upon branches
half naked
hanging as harlots

awaiting their own
slow descent
to madness

jackdaws mimic
silent cries
waddling through masses
of fallen bodies
in emerald forests

never comprehending

the descent
the death

the breath released
mid-air

never to be caught
and held 



© Susan Marie 2013 

Feathers

she moves slow, languid
the silhouette from the night sky
frames her breasts
the curve of her thigh

her wings are lovely
she knows this
they are silver gilt
and woolen white
they rest upon her back
and come full circle
cradling her as an embrace

turning her head once to the right
she listens close

someone is calling to her

she sighs, nods her head
knowing full well
what she must do

walking to the dresser
she lifts the lid
the wooden box creaks
ever so slightly

it has been ages since she has had to open it

and places within
her heart

lying on the bed
she smooths her chestnut mane

and speaks to God
who shows her the future

every single time
it is she that has to let go
not them

they think of her and smile

yet this is what she is

a harbor
               a bridge
                             a port

she must not do this again
she has told herself before

never
again

yet inside
she is so full of wonder
so full of wonder

so
full
of
wonder

it is not a bad thing
she thinks

to simply

love.



© Susan Marie 2013

Defining Breath

On audio here

To define breath
is like trying to write
poetry

Poetry is the wind
she is the ocean
lapping waves
smashing against rock and slate
dirt and Earth

She is the native tongue
of those who have come before us
who have fought and died
who have written of struggle
beauty
life 
and death

simultaneous

To attempt to catch
a solitary drop of rain
as she cries, the sky,
as eagles clash mid flight
scrying words
in cirrus
falling in ecstasy

is poetry

It is the ultimate sacrifice of the spirit
the selfless giving of the heart
the utmost altar
upon it
a cup of poison

To attempt to define
breath

is like writing 
 
poetry. 



© Susan Marie 2013 


[Thank you Theron]

I Am Kashmir

On

The News Tribe [Pakistan]

We Speak News [India]

© Majid Pandit 

Dedicated to Shaheed Tahir from Baramulla

AUDIO HERE

a
rat
a
tat
tat

ya hear that?

another round
locked, and loaded

where boys,
are forced to be
men

and women
are raped

and children,
throw
stones

until a bullet hits the skin
piercing within
the gentle flesh that God made

My skin is worn
my heart,
heavy
and my mind,
must constantly evade
the darkness

Yet I am light
and my spirit

it IS strong

it flies with the midnight moon
chasing stars
supernovas
faster than the speed of light
stronger than the wind
more powerful than the sun herself
shining

celestial majestic divinity . . .

Aged.

I am

Kashmir.


© Susan Marie 2013


* CNN yanked this off of my professional media profile today. This young man, Shaheed Tahir died in Indian occupied Kashmir this week.

 

Quietly, dying

- "The world is a prison for the believer .  .  ." - pbuh


There are times
i awake
and the day
she greets me
naked
pure

In all her wondrous glory

And i am grateful
for solitary breath
for limbs
that work perfectly
for the sun
when she shines
rain as it falls
and for birds, 

endlessly trilling
outside my window

And there are times
when i simply wish
to close my eyes
to sleep eternal

A most peaceful rest,
one of absolute divinity
where i need not think,
eat, nor breathe

An existence
where i am truly one
with all of creation

Where i am more than energy
more than the speed of light
stronger than the sun
wind
moon
and the stars

as they shine their weary smiles
upon me now.

Gently.


I wish to be the Great Frontier
its grasslands plenty
horses, wild, free
trees, untouched by man

My spirit,
the heartbeat
of wild buffalo

This place exists
in my heart
and i am
a sentient being

Human. 

Quietly,

dying.




© Susan Marie 2013