Free Copy - Flash Fiction by Zvi A. Sesling

 

Free Copy

Flash Fiction

by Zvi A. Sesling

 

            He was considered a wonderful  cook by his friends, especially his girlfriend. So, when the unsolicited email arrived with the offer telling Gilbert he was entitled to a free copy of the Cook’s Delicious Gilbert was quite excited by offer. He read and reread the offer certain it was not a scam or some other trick and clicked the Enter Site button which led to another button titled Accept. He placed the cursor on Accept and clicked on that one, which he assumed was an agreement to allow the website to track him. I wonder if they bake their own cookies, he thought as he laughed to himself as he filled in all the required spaces for name, address, phone and all the credit card information.

            Two weeks later a large carton arrived at his front door. Gilbert took it in the house to the kitchen. Inside were five frying pans of varying sizes, four sauce pans ranging from small to large, nine glass tops, nine wooden spoons of different lengths, nine plastic spatulas and three cook books, one each for meat, vegetables and fowl. Also, in the carton accompanying his cookware was an invoice for $375.99 plus $26.50 shipping and handling.  But what made Gilbert happy was the enclosed free copy of Cook’s Delicious.

Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has published poems and flash fiction and won international prizes. A five-time poetry Pushcart Prize nominee, his flash fiction books are Secret Behind The Gate. and Wheels. His story “Chili Man” is Pushcart nominated MA Sesling’s Selected and New Poetry and his short stories Infidelities are forthcoming. . He and his wife Susan J. Dechter live in Brookline.

Five Poems by Russell Rowland

 

Regina’s Jelly-Jar

 

She will let you open it,

or open it for you, should your fingers slip.

Gentle is the murmur

of the cap revolving on its threads.

 

Your choice of flavor: is it currant jam today?

 

A prior gentleman opted grape.

Regina does her very best to accommodate.

 

Now, if you visited

the cellar in Regina’s bed-and-breakfast, you

would be humbled, counting all

the jelly-jars she has, lined up against a wall.

 

Still, this morning draws

a tang of sweetness from the jar.

The spread gleams darkly on a slice of toast.

You’re made to feel

 

like you’re the man Regina loves the most.

 

 

Reading My Back

 

In the domesticity of nakedness,

knowing each other fore and aft, she rolls

me over to read my back—

 

its portents.  There is that erstwhile scar

from removal of a sebaceous cyst:

 

she fears something might be going on

there again.  Does not

neglect shoulder-blades, backbone.  Ten

 

fingers interpret the Braille

of my back, as Daniel did for Belshazzar’s

"Mene, mene tekel upharsin." 

 

Have I been weighed in the balance also,

and found wanting;

 

my kingdom to be divided?  How pleasant

a back finds these attentions.

 

 

A Little Rain Goes a Long Way

 

Down to the roots, then up through the veins—

trees can make do with a pittance.

 

An empty well is a serious thing.

Faucets puff air; the water pump in the basement

grinds its gears.

 

And a little love goes a long way.

 

My brother and I got whatever our parents had

before they both ran dry.

 

If they’d tried harder, harder,

we might have had less tight-lipped Christmases.

 

If we had only dug our wells deeper, deeper,

 

somewhere underground

there might have been a water table, waiting

for shovels to make it a gusher.

 

 

The Odds Aren’t the Same

 

A dead limb of oak

overhangs dirt Philbrook Road, where people

live who like the woods.

 

Oh, that limb will come down sometime; yes,

it would squash a car flat,

 

and the driver with it—but what are the odds,

 

folks say, with that fatalism

that befits a physical world.  And they’re right:

the limb is more apt to fall

 

in the dark watches of the night,

when no headlights pass on Philbrook Road.

 

The highway department seems to think so too.

 

Of course, a tree came down

upon one tent in a homeless camp in Concord,

recently.  Killed a man sleeping.

 

A tent beneath trees: the odds aren’t the same.

Nobody seems to know his name.

 

 

Family Unit

 

The goose family paddle their way

on Winnipesaukee.  You and I can only guess

how many places they go,

 

among its islands and inlets. 

Matriarch and patriarch with their long necks

see far ahead.  Goslings remain

 

safe between, unaware how fleeting is safety;

 

how sky is their next recourse,

a vee their final formation.  How, from land,

our eyes are watching.

 

We with our aspirations

realize that, except for machinery we invent,

lake and sky are too vast for us—

 

how then shall we honk our way to heaven?

Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions.  His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His own poetry books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications.

 

 

Four Poems by Mary Bone

 

Finding My Voice

 

I was silent for awhile

until I found my voice.

A shrill sound through the night

echoed in the canyon.

Crickets joined in and the noises got louder.

There are no roses here in the valley.

Food is scarce,

The air is stagnant.

We are waiting for a fresh breeze

to awaken our senses.

 

 

Trash Burners

 

My eyes and nostrils burn

from the stench of

the trash burners.

Windows are closed.

Smoke circles over our heads

When we open the door.

I am still trying to breathe. 

 

 

Crossing Borders 

 

Crossing borders

into other places.

Drawing lines

on a wrinkled face,

speaking languages with gestures

and signs.

Miracles are waiting to happen

In the sands of time.

 

 

The Heart Drum

 

A heart drum is a steady beat.

We have heard through the ages-

resounding in canyon walls,

echoes from a distant drum.

Mary Bone's poetry can be found at Lothlorien Poetry Journal, DoubleSpeak, Bottlecap Press, Blot, Poetry Catalog and upcoming at The Academy of the Heart and Mind, Chewers by Masticadores, and eMerge Magazine.

 

 

 

Eight Poems by John Yamrus

talking about god

 

wasn’t

one of the

things on Ernie’s list.

 

i mean,

i want to believe,

i really do, but what’s the point, right?

 

and

he’d stand there,

on the beach, arms crossed,

 

looking at us,

 

waiting

for someone

to come along,

take his picture and

declare that everything

everywhere was all right,

and was never gonna change,

for now and for ever and ever, amen.

he smelled

 

like

rotten fruit,

but he was interesting,

 

and

she never

knew what he

was gonna do next

 

and

that was more

than a little bit cool.

 

her dad

always told her

to add up the good

and the bad about a person,

 

and Tony

was good with the kid

and he never drank that much

 

or

ever

raised a hand

and when she did the math,

 

the

smell

was no big deal.

after

 

the

second

or third shot,

 

Charley

liked quote

Tom Waits by saying:

 

you know

there ain’t no heaven,

there’s just god when he’s drunk.

 

but,

by the 8^th or 9^th

he’d just lay there in his chair,

 

knowing

sure as shit

there ain’t no heaven,

 

and

there ain’t no god,

there’s just Charley when he’s drunk.

all old men

 

begin

at the beginning.

 

his

was no more

different or special

 

than

any other,

 

but,

it was his

 

and

he carried it

with him for the rest of his days.

everything

 

they knew

about Billy D –

no, not that Billy Dee –

 

but,

Billy Dewalt,

the Billy who lived

out on Old Cabin Road –

 

everything

they knew about him

 

was true,

 

except

for maybe

his story about

that pork pie hat of his

 

and

where it came from. 

 

nobody

in their right mind

believed he got it from Lester Young,

 

because

Lester died in 1959

 

and

that hat

couldn’t be

more than a couple years old,

 

and

it didn’t

really matter

where he got it, or when,

 

because

he sure did

look good in it, didn’t he?

for Benny,

 

the

things he saw

were never just shadows

or ghosts, they were bigger than that,

 

so, he called them shadow ghosts,

 

and

the ones he saw

gave him no moral second chances.

 

it

was awful.

 

some nights,

he’d sit there in that chair,

and stare at them, and they’d stare back,

 

almost

daring him

to do something.

 

but,

he was powerless.

and, more than anything else,

 

he

knew that

suffering is endless

and will always last forever.

she put one hand

 

on

top of

the other

and pulled

the skin smooth

 

and

looked at me

 

and said:

 

i used to be young once...

i used to be

young.

she thought

 

of

the cold,

dark river and

she thought of the boy

 

who

jumped

or was pushed

and she thought of

the clouds and the sun

 

and

the sky,

 

all

of which

would never change

 

no

matter what.

     

John Yamrus - One of the most prolific writers of poetry on the scene today, John Yamrus is widely considered to be a master of minimalism and the neo-noir in modern poetry. The relaxed style of his writing can be seen as a continuation of the oral tradition of literature associated with Allen Ginsberg and The Beats, and his poems are best appreciated when read aloud.

The unlikely pairing of often dark subjects, combined with humor and irreverence has become something of a trademark of his work.

His nearly 50 published books, which include not only poetry, but also novels, memoirs and a children’s book, are beginning to appear in translation, and he is a frequent guest on podcasts and television programs.

His acclaimed memoir, THE STREET, is a look back at his early years, growing up less than wealthy, in a Pennsylvania coal town in the late 1950s.

 

 

Four Poems by Snigdha Agrawal

 

Fragrance of orange peels

Winter settles against the windows

Orange peels lie scattered

on the kitchen countertop,

bright as remembered sunlight

Its fragrance touches the curtains,

bookshelves, sofa set,

and corners ants file past.

Outside, the day remains

cold and withdrawn;

indoors, the air changes.

A child looks up from homework.

Ma hums near the stove.

The fruit’s sharp sweetness conveys

orchards, distant afternoons,

picnic baskets,

and jars of orange compote

For a moment…

The house itself seems to breathe,

more warmly.

A distilled sun

wanders from room to room,

plucked from the sky above,

its warmth released

into winter walls

Magic happens unmagically.

 

Borderless night roads

The highway stretches

beyond checkpoints

and sleeping towns

with headlights piercing the dark

Inside the bus,

names are folded

into passports, notebooks,

inside frayed backpacks

Some travellers speak

softly into phones

before the signal disappears;

Others lean against windows

carrying silence across borders.

A child sucks at her mother’s breast,

while unfamiliar milestones

rush past like forgotten promises.

No one knows exactly.

When leaving becomes becoming.

 

At roadside tea stalls,

strangers share warmth

without asking origins.

Behind them, homes fade

gradually into memory,

softened by distance and night rain.

Ahead waits another country,

another rented room,

another attempt at belonging.

 

 

Midnight feeding

The house is almost entirely silent

except for the small breathing sounds

between mother and child.

Midnight wraps itself 

around the chair

beside the window

moonlight bathes

the baby’s face,

sleeping in the crook of her arm.

Half-awake, mother watches

tiny fingers uncurl

and rest against her skin.

Outside, the world continues unseen:

distant traffic,

sleepless dogs,

and the slow drifting of clouds.

Inside, time stops

Tenderness eclipses exhaustion

This tenderness becomes

its own kind of strength.

No audience witnesses this hour

Yet the moment,

feels ancient and sacred

A quiet exchange

of hunger, warmth, comfort,

and of enduring love.

 

 

Thin Varicose Veins

 

She sits with her legs,

stretched on the bed,

massaging tired calves,

while the afternoon light

exposes thin varicose veins

blue and purple, thin lines, 

fragile yet persistent,

tracing years of being

mother and wife.

For some time

She tried hiding them,

beneath long skirts,

embarrassed by what age

had crafted onto her legs.

Now she views them differently.

Each branching thread,

with a memory attached:

written in her memoirs

to re-read, and rewind

to the days when her bare legs

invited catcalls.

The marks are no longer flaws. 

But quiet stories the body keeps

When words fail to speak.

 

 

Snigdha Agrawal, a septuagenarian, was raised in a cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to the Eastern and Western cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds.  Educated in Loreto Institutions run by Irish Nuns, she developed a love for writing from childhood.  She has an MBA in marketing and more than two decades of experience working in the corporate sector, which has honed her writing skills in both commercial and artistic parlance. A versatile writer, she writes in all genres, including poetry, prose, short stories, and travelogues.  Her poetry, short stories, essays, and travelogues are regularly featured in online journals published across the globe. 

A published author of five books, the latest titled FRAGMENTS OF TIME, is a book of memoirs, written in a simplistic style. The book is available on Amazon. She lives in Bangalore (India).  Her lifelong passions of writing and travelling remain undimmed.