The Worn Wallet - Flash Fiction Story by Nasreen Tamaa Zankawah

 

The Worn Wallet

Flash Fiction Story

by Nasreen Tamaa Zankawah

Though he looked familiar, Kojo had never met the man sitting in the corner of his rooftop terrace. He was naked and thumping the bricks as if they were hollow, and he didn’t have a wallet like the others. He didn’t speak to the other guests or bid on the auctioned champagne. Just like the past five years, Kojo had spent months organizing this year’s Wallet Party and was meticulous with his guest list. He didn’t want another climate change activist disguised as a waitress, hijacking the DJ’s mic and chanting the words, “Stop destroying our trees! Stop the madness!” as if it were a crime to own a successful sawmilling company at thirty. It would have been a crime if he hadn’t found the abandoned wallet at the Pra River six years ago, when he was on the verge of jumping in. Inside the wallet were four rough diamonds, faded receipts, and an identity card. Kojo embraced this newfound fortune and the identity of its owner. Though this rescued him from gambling debts, it ushered in insomnia and a keen awareness of the police.

“Why are you gaping?” Kanyiti, Kojo’s best friend, screamed into his ear, competing with J. Cole’s “I know she knows” blasting from the speakers.

“Your belly looks ready to burst! How many plates of kelewele and beef have you devoured already?” Kojo asked. Kanyiti chortled, slapped him on the back, and swayed away with a slender lady who deliberately danced into them. When Kojo’s attention drifted back to the strange man, he was gone. Beneath the chair where the man had been lay a wet wallet, and the gold chain around Kojo’s long neck tightened ever so slightly. Kojo flung the wallet that was clipped to his shirt and left the party in haste, shoving anyone who stood in his way and ignoring Kanyiti, who was chasing him and calling out his name.

Nasreen Tamaa Zankawah is a Ghanaian writer, a journalist and a mental health first aider. Her novel, “The Wild Rose,” was published by Malthouse Press, and her poem, “Fallen Vine,” appeared in Spillwords. She is the sole writer of her blog, nasreenzankawah.com, where she publishes short stories, nonfiction, poetry, and opinion articles. She is an alumna of the University of Alabama at Birmingham where she pursued a master’s in English with a concentration in creative writing.

Five Poems by Silvatiicus Riddle

 

The Heart of War 

 

The raised blade covers half my face,

and reflects for you, half your own.

 

I glimpse myself, half-victim.

You glimpse yourself, half-villain.

 

From the eye of the rolling sun, 

to the misty ear of the mountain,

whom might wager a bet from afar,

calling wicked truths from noble deeds, telling

any face for another?

 

You cannot force the flower of verity

to unbloom; to fold up 

around the jewel of knowing,

the seeds that germinate

in the heart of broken men.

 

Cleaving the air, 

the blade's flash falls swift.

And, quietly, we both turn,

walk each other

home. 

 

“I once had an ocean.”

            For Tex 

 

I had a therapist once, and I told her that I revel in my sadness, that I don’t try to climb out so quickly, that I like to rest there, and let it hurt for a while. She acted as though I had just admitted to the cardinal sin of wellness. But, I knew she was wrong. Sadness isn’t the enemy. It never was. Apathy is the true enemy. Sadness is the price you pay for loving deeply, and loving well. Love is capturing sea water in the palm of your hand, knowing, carelessly, that it will soon go away, but still trying to care for it anyway. Sadness is the empty palm, the dregs of salt left behind.

It is saying, “I once had an ocean”.

 

I once had an ocean. And it was glorious.

It was wild. It was cooling. It was kind.

It showed me violence.

It showed me magic.

It showed me meekness.

It showed me loss. It gave to me my reflection.

It gave to me my heart—a moss-covered, jagged thing,

smoothed and carved by the tumble, the rolling depths of time.

 

I once had an ocean. I captured it myself.

And still, it went away.

I don’t think it was ever mine, actually.

But, I could pretend for a time that it was.

And some days I can still feel it in my hands—the coolness of it there,

the arch and curve of its back, how it lapped at my fingers now and then,

the storied salt beneath my nails,

the soft and fearsome waves come and gone,

the dreams it left behind. 

 

 

The Pulse of Stars 

 

Life, death,

life, death,

sunrise, moonrise,

life, death,

sunrise, life,

moonrise, death,

inhale, life,

exhale, death,

ebb and flow–

the waves

of the ocean,

it is all

the same,

and so

the pulse

of the stars

continue. 

 

The Soul is a Walled Garden

An Ode To Little Edie

 

Is a garden still a garden 

when the flowers, taken by weeds,

wither black and shrink from the sun,

when my summer dance has just begun,

and mother’s song swims 

beneath the sweeping eaves?

 

And what makes a weed ‘not a flower’?

Is it that they do not weaken, they endure—

and mark not the hours that shine, petal by petal,

but flourish like ivy with the sweet sting of nettle,

wild poets of bitter medicine; an ounce of gold

traded for a pound of cure?

 

So the garden blooms fed the earth;

in Winter’s cold they fell, resigned—

and the ghosts of friends like phantoms swept

from stair to room, in hallways crept—

was it real, or eras past;

the crumbling mansions of the mind?

 

Although the golden hour has come to pass,

the stars still flicker like city lights,

I lay beneath them, number my dreams,

for there was never a line, but certainly seams

between the past and present, where I can go

behind closed eyes, and slip from sight.

 

Daydreams of a time when the world comes looking

for me down the lanes, over the drives;

will they see the weeds or the roses that grow?

Will they see me as I surely know?

A weed–no, a flower! spurned by the world,

in defiance, still thrives.

 

The soul is a walled garden

that cannot be breached by death;

wherein my heart, unassuming,

planted flowers, ever-blooming

in brilliance, undisturbed;

see how they dance with every breath.

 

The Little Astronomer 

 

“Your days of mischief are done!”

said Mother, to the dreamer, her son.

He still slipped away, though,

with the eyes of Galileo,

when he swore he'd captured the sun!

Silvatiicus Riddle (He/They) is a 7x Rhysling Award-nominated Dark Fantasy/Speculative Fiction Writer & Poet haunting the bones of an old amusement park on the edge of New York City. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in: Strange Horizons, Apex Magazine, Enchanted Living, Eternal Haunted Summer, Spectral Realms, and Creepy Podcast, among others. He combats despair and entropy with his newsletter, The Goblin's Reliquary. For all available works, please visit: http://linktr.ee/silvatiicusriddle

 

 

 

 

Three Untitled Poems from White Labyrinth Series by Joel Chace

 

Three Untitled Poems from White Labyrinth Series

At the incline, he

begins trudging.  A path

upward is for the

old; that downward, for

the young. Incontrovertible, but

he doesn’t know why. 

Damp mid-winter air chills

as he treads carefully

 

over icy patches. He’s

forgotten these pleasures of

cold, muted sunlight shimmering

the moist facades, gray

and brown, of houses

abutting each other; and –

where the park opens up

near the summit – black

 

branches jigsawing pale sky. 

Taking his initial step

of descent, he recalls:  

a path upward is

for the old; that

downward, for the young. 

Cautiously, bending aged knees -- 

calves and thighs tightening –

 

he lands on a    

narrow stretch of ice.

His heart bangs his

chin. But his fear

and the years that

have brought it on

commence to slide away. 

Frigid air rushing by

 

his ears exhilarates. Despite

momentum, no blurring occurs.

Vision  --  all senses – sharpen

those neighborhoods passing by. 

Sweeping around a curve,

month after month dropping

away into the past,

he marvels at maroon

 

scalloping midway up the

façade of a house

he used to visit. 

Whooshing through one square,

he opens his lungs

to delights of a

bakery then a tobacconist’s;

through another, he shivers 

 

at a Schubert melody

played upon a piano           

slightly out of tune. 

Younger.  Younger.  Farther down

into the city, until

that thin rivulet of

ice abruptly ends, and

he has to catch

 

himself from hurtling headlong. 

He stands in another

square.  No more radiant

hues; only a monochrome               

of lead.  Pervasive odor,

mop water. Sounds muffled

as those beyond asylum

walls.  Before him, a

 

washed out three-story building  -- 

his workplace.  Glancing at

a clock, he sees

he’s tardy.  So, small

and old as he

is, he enters, takes

a seat in the

grimy anteroom, and waits      

 

       to be summoned.

Emergencies  --  thicketed, secret, deep. 

Emergencies of thorns, dust,

dusk. Clouds thicken twilight.

 

On those distant hills,

lights begin flickering and

rising in a line.

 

Following emergencies  --  announcements, blood

on this ground.  If

there’s hope, it’s in

 

    the mountains.

 

 

 

Time’s taken its time

with him.  96. 

Thick, jet-black hair; same

weight he would have

been before quitting school;

 

ruddy, wrinkleless skin.  When

he does speak, he

pushes high, raspy sound

just barely beyond his

lips.  Lived with his

 

older sister for eighty

years, with her and

her husband for sixty. 

Both gone, now.  On

occasion, a grandniece visits

 

the facility.  She recalls

just once when he

made loudness, when  --  the

parlor filling with words,

laughs  --  he rose from 

 

his chair, plodded to

the TV, cranked the

volume on his show

full blast, scaring the

Christ out of everyone. 

 

His sister pointed up

to his room, where

he went, puffing a

voice thin as breath

mere inches in front

 

      of his face.

Joel Chace has published work in print and electronic magazines such as Lana Turner, Survision, Eratio, Otoliths, Word For/Word, Golden Handcuffs Review, New American Writing, and The Brooklyn Rail. Underrated Provinces is recently out from MadHat Books. Bone Chapel is coming out soon from Chax. For more than forty years, Chace was a working jazz pianist. He is an NEH Fellow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two Poems by S. T. Eleu

 

THE FOX, THE SCORPION, & THE SKUNK

Fox, kicking back against a riverside poplar, rolled

her eyes when Scorpion sidled up with twice the smarm

oozing from their exoskeleton, oozing as if musk

from the tail end of their shoremate, Skunk

fool my kind once: natural selection

attempt it twice: prepare for vivisection

Scorpion, needing to cross the river, had no desire 

to end up as fish food like their insolent cousin of yore

so they locked up their stinger, handed the key to Fox

and warned her of Skunk’s spasmodic approach 

nothing ventured: species stagnation 

nothing gained: species cessation

Skunk, smiling the smile of furious form rabies, raised

his tail, his voice, his flag of hydrophobic irascibility

then launched into a rant about the evilly evil evils

of rain, of unlikely allies, of unholy alliances, of rivers

come lie with me: I have neither fleas nor gas

trust me: never will I ever never bite you in the ass

Fox and Scorpion, shaking water off their backs, danced 

upon the green, green grasses of the opposite shore

and sang to the moon, to the stars, the next day’s sun

songs of survival, of friendship, de libertad, de Muerte

if the enemy of your enemy is to be your friend

make nice right away or else you’ll get it in THE END

CHEAP LOCKS

robberies

again rattle the neighborhood

Police Chief gives a press conference

blames everything on cheap locks

everything

then washes his hands, puts on sunglasses

slowly        walks        away

* * * 

neighbors: Richard, Hannah, Venancio, Karam

fed up with weasel words, wolf-snake winds

form a council of mages

so as to combine their unique skill sets

unique 

and then some

conjuration, herbalism, technomagic, psychokinesis

* * *

potions mixed, charms blessed, entryways enchanted

each spell bestowed with a personal piquancy 

each spell cast with devil-may-care knavery 

to serve and protect families, homes, relics, sanity

protect

ab iniuria aliquem 

defendere

* * *

two thieves break into Richard’s home

but instead of ransacking the place for valuables

they have an uncontrollable urge to take out the trash

fix the screen door, do the laundry

laundry

sorting, presoaking, loading

unloading, loading, unloading, loading, . . .

* * *

Hannah’s second cousin sneaks in to grab

what she can convert to cash fast

so odd to see her later, though, bathing

the rescue cats: Krallen and Claus

claws

box of bandages, business card of her sponsor 

under the blow dryer

* * *

thief uses a keyless entry hack to jack Venancio’s truck

but finds himself driving to the local supermarket 

where he shops for the family’s groceries

where he shops for the family’s unmentionables

unmentionables

hexxxxxxid cxxxm, lxxe shxxxoo, bxdxug sxxxy

axxe cxxxm, txxo shxllx, fxxxxn pxzzx, . . .

* * *

an identity thief rifles through Karam’s garbage

finds a magic flute, marching band sheet music, moldy cheese

in no time he’s pied piping About Damn Time up and down

the alleys of broken glass, lost mittens, swole-ass rats

RATS

squeak, squeak, tickle: EEK

squeak, squeak, nibble: OUCH

* * *

the council comes together for dinner, discusses

the Sox, the heatwave, the symphony, the Police Chief

found passed out in his car with someone

who was neither his wife nor his niece

neither

rumor has it he’ll keep his job, and why not

crime is down

S. T. Eleu - Raised in Vegas then exiled to Chicago, I (they, them – gay, femme) have been a musician, teacher, and neurodivergent Vulcan. Gloriously retired from time clocks and authority figures: life is good. Real, real good.