How odd the imagination. It often takes you close To where the flowers grow, Splendid and perfumed and failing On their dehydrated stalks. Then gives you an ashtray full of dogends.
‘Colitas’ by Elisabeth Sennit Clough
It’s fair to say that the talented poet Elisabeth Sennitt Clough has a passion for the easterly portion of England, known as ‘The Fens’ – or ‘Fenland’ – covering much of the county of Norfolk, Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, alongside parts of Suffolk and Huntingdonshire. Indeed, her 2019 publication, At, Or Above Sea Level, focused strongly upon this region of marshland, and former marshland, much of which originally consisted of fresh, or salt-water, wetlands. Now, in her recent book, The Cold Store, Elisabeth returns to this area with a collection of imaginative and personal poetry.
The title of the collection – a real place called The Cold Store; an automated warehouse located at Wisbech, Cambridgeshire; once the largest frozen food warehouse in the UK, until superseded by another in 2018 – is used throughout the poetry as a metaphoric, shapeshifting presence. Elisabeth morphs The Cold Store into different forms across The Fens, allowing her to address memories from her youth, as well as buildings of importance, specific characters and various objects.
In some ways, the poems remind the reader of the Fens’ landscape; as they can be edgy, dark and mysterious. Yet, the poetry also contains consummate measures of light, with abundant detail and creative imagination, played out via Elisabeth’s choice, adept vocabulary to immortalise the flat landscape and unhindered skies that hold so much personal meaning for her.
Here, beyond the old toll gate Where the edge-of-town factories And car showrooms have long faded, Agriculture becomes the only industry. Each square of land carries me into the next And a pink horizon emerges from dark Earth.
‘Fenland Elegy’
The poems are varied and eclectic. While some focus upon descriptive elements to create powerful visual descriptions, others are clearly more personal, focusing upon an individualistic glimpse into the past, such as the poem, ‘Widowed Single Mother, 1970s’,that I could strongly relate to.
After she drops me off at the school gates, I try to mimic the villagers, call my mother By the names they give her.
Elisabeth’s mastery of words plays through this entire collection and produces strong, creative visuals within the reader’s mind.
You can find more of Elisabeth’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Getting up in the morning I’d rather be canoodling with a stranger in my dreams But work isn’t going to wait for me As I push the duck feather pillows away My bones ache with the strain of age I would rather spend the day Numbing my mind with soap operas And stuffing my face with chocolate Instead of going to meetings Filling the bath with soap and water I am exhausted As lavender and vanilla permeate my senses The urge to call in sick increases But the hot water does little to ease my woes Because the routine itself drains my energy Work, home, friends, and so on The same pattern, the same people, I’m tired of this routine, I’m tired of my life, I’m sick of these walls. I’d rather be somewhere else. These thoughts fill my mind As I sink further into the bubbles Trying to escape from another round Of self-loathing and regret.
The Beach
Charcoal sands is my only company As I stare down the icy blue ocean
Flowing as the wind skinny dips in it Whilst my thoughts are elsewhere
Wondering how many people have stood In this sand admiring nature’s landscape
How many breaths have been inhaled here? Questions without any answers
As I pick up a pebble and throw it I wonder if my lover is across these tides
This beach is my anchor In the chaos of my pursuit to find love
An action some people spend a lifetime on But I know regardless of the outcome
I can always walk on this sandy panacea Without sadness and without judgement.
K.G. Munro is an author and poet. Here are a few of her writing credits: Oddball Magazine, Poetry Potion, Scarlet Dragonfly Journal, Splendeur Magazine, Green Ink Magazine, Feversofthemind and so on.
Let me think One word To talk about the day. Let me feel One feeling To talk about the night. Let me draw One drawing To colour life. I dwell in my garden I attain The university of imagination. Let me be one lesson That rethinks the ambition Of escaping time Running away With the modern cobweb. Being me Is the true Unselfish desire. It does not create misfortune On the less fortunate ones and Every possible door greets Everyone.
Sushant Thapa is from Biratnagar, Nepal. His fourth book of English poems is going to be published by World Inkers Printing and Publishing, Senegal, Africa and New York, USA. Sushant has an M.A. degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India.
Griffith Park in the early morning. Mateo cycles past joggers and dog walkers. A group of elderly Koreans in wide brimmed hats doing Tai chi. Off to the west peacocks in full voice at the zoo. He enjoys this start to the day, cutting through the park down into Franklin Hills and then across to Sunset, which he rides all the way to downtown. At Angelino Heights he stops at a coffee shop and checks the app for the day’s first pick up.
Mateo can make his own hours, but the best times to ride are from around eight to three. With UCLA out for the summer he can make good money on his bike for a couple months, and then go meet up with his mom and all her spirited siblings down in Guadalajara. The first package is at a realtor on Wilshire. Mateo drains his second cup, adjusts his helmet, and pushes off into traffic.
Noon. It’s hot, July letting LA simmer. Mateo has been staying hydrated, avoiding hills. He’s in line at a Jamba Juice, taking a breather. Ordinarily, he’d go another hour or two but he’s baked and wants to head down to the ocean. He takes out his phone to shut off the app but another job lights up the screen. A lawyer’s office just a couple blocks away, a package going to the Federal Courthouse over by the Civic Center. Just one more job. Mateo hits the accept button.
The package is bulky and digs into him through his backpack as he navigates standstill traffic. He lifts the bike up steps and walks it across the wide plaza to the courthouse. Two uniformed officers check his progress at the entrance. They are surly, uncomfortable in the heat. Mateo hands one of them the package, has him sign for it on the app.
He is a block away when the blast sends him sprawling, hauling all the breath out of him. His ears are muffled as if underwater. Blood trickles from his nose. The bike is on its side, wheels spinning. Car alarms, dozens of them. Then sirens. So many sirens. Another sound, harsher, urgent. Officers are barking at him to remain on the ground. He feels a sharp pain in his arms as his wrists are cuffed. A realization comes to Mateo, his brain joining the dots. The package.
Assassin
Its journey complete, the Norwegian tanker anchored out in the gulf near the entrance to the Mexican port town of Tampico. The January day was blustery, the water choppy. Huddled on the dock, the welcoming party: police officers, government officials, Frida Kahlo. A sturdy boat brings Trotsky and his wife ashore, their final stop after a decade of restless exile. Kahlo greets them as if they were old friends, ushers them onto the president’s personal train for the half day trip to the capital where her expectant husband, Diego, waits.
Like a Jackson Pollock, Kahlo and Rivera’s relationship was messy, colourful, complicated. A pairing of leftist artists, the boundaries of expression and convention purposely blurred. Marxists both, a celebrity of the revolution now in their midst whom they could offer safe harbor at their iconic casa azul, the blue house.
Cobalt inside and out, the house occupied a corner hidden among palms and tropical plants. The tranquility enhanced with birdsong and the rhythm of water fountains. Leon and Natasha explored the cool interior filled with the artists’ work and indigenous collections. They hugged, feeling a world away from Europe’s new turmoil and Stalin’s malevolence.
A summer downpour leaves its humidity to linger. Birds emerge from shelter, making announcements. A young man arrives at the house carrying documents. He is known, trusted, having spent a full year selling the deception. He enters Trotsky’s study with deference. Leon takes the documents to the window for better light. The young man reaches into his jacket and grips the cold iron of the ice pick.
Golan Heights
It takes a moment for the brain to properly process that it’s hearing gunfire. But the repeated sharp cracks and urgent shouts in Hebrew confirmed there was a situation. Connor and Craig were waiting by the main entrance for a ride to the local store. An Israeli, middle-aged with greying hair ran into view. He knelt and fired off his Uzi in the direction he’d come. The settlement came alive with the sounds of combat, Israelis responding to unseen assailants. Craig took off running through the main gate. Momentarily rooted, Connor followed.
Some fifty yards up ahead Craig hurdled a low fence topped with barbed wire. No time for prudence. Connor followed suit, the wire slashing at his ankles. The gunfire behind them was intensifying. Then an angry flash and a loud, abrupt explosion. Clumps of earth falling around Connor. Craig’s heaped body, unmoving. A landmine. A voice. Connor turned toward it. The Israeli with the grey hair was standing the other side of the fence, weapon held across his body. Come back, he said, but slow. Go slow. Shaking, Connor locked him with his eyes and took the first step.
Sheer Drop
Daybreak, water the colour of slate. A lone figure stands in contemplation, close enough to the river that its current splashes over her boots. This stretch of the Niagara resides in the commonplace, revealing nothing of the chaos up ahead. Annie steps back up onto the grass, the October dew staining the hem of her dress and petticoats. She adjusts her matching bonnet which, like her dress, was once the tone of ripe plums, the garments now faded and frayed.
Farther down river the water quickens, a menace in its energy. Annie observes it coursing over rocks, dragging reluctant branches. Then rapids, the river shapeshifting, relentless. The air resounds, vibrates. Ahead, the torrent launches itself into the void. Annie is still, awed by the force of nature, her clothes absorbing the clouds of spray thrown high by the Horseshoe Falls. Tomorrow, her birthday, she will plunge over the brink in a barrel.
A small crowd has gathered at the launch point, the interest mostly morbid, as few expect Annie to survive. But this stoic woman in her sixties, widowed since the Civil War, remains confident that prosperity will follow. She engages with a reporter, offers a brief smile to the photographer. The large, oak barrel has been lined with thick blankets. Annie climbs through the opening and settles, cushioned. Resigned to being accomplices to such imprudence, two men in buttoned vests and rolled shirtsleeves toss their cigarettes to the ground and step into a rowboat.
Untethered, the barrel rolls in the calm stretch of the river. It appears inert, laden, until the current imposes its will. Annie’s breaths are shallow, fast, as she braces for the rapids. They receive her with disdain, muscles of water pounding the sodden oak. A thunder fills the barrel, invincible. The energy fractures. Freefall. Annie is relaxed, expectant.
Martyr
The foul weather provided Joan with a temporary stay of execution. Although on the cusp of summer, Northwestern France was awash from relentless rain. The pyre, assiduously constructed, now lay sodden and deserted in the center of the walled city of Rouen. There were those who believed the intemperate conditions to be a divine rebuke.
The late spring regained control; renewal and growth continued, belying the solemn event at hand. The pyre stood centerpiece, timbers slowly shedding their moisture. Commerce, music, livestock all returned to the market square. Below ground a teenaged Joan remained chained to the stone wall of her cell. Once a conduit for the unlikely French victory at Orleans and the inspiration for a resurgent army, she was now a pawn in political maneuvering and betrayal. Baseless whisperings of heresy and witchcraft grew into formal accusations, sealing Joan’s fate.
Mercifully, the thick smoke took Joan before the serpent of flames claimed the wooden cross in her clasp. Her prayers had fallen upon the onlookers, the crowd having to retreat from the blaze. On an adjacent rooftop a black cat narrowed its eyes from wayward embers. It groomed lazily and settled on a ledge as the flames absorbed the martyr.
David Patten is an educator living in Colorado. He was raised in London, England, but has spent half of his life in the U.S. He loves reading and creating short fiction. He is hoping to increase the audience for his work.
You can find more of David’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The myth has happened in darkness of forest, near the old druidic altar with the stone. It was foggy then, shrouded in last summer. Here a fawn was born at dawn and morn – no woe!
Near the spring that belonged to the moony grove, naiad Arethusa is sitting on grass. Artemis – the soft goddess without trouble. It is the dreamy time for the Blue Hours.
The Utopian time is coming with charm. The naiad is musing about nightingales. They were known and famous in the whole land. Their song – for the sake of dazzling paradise.
Arethusa was not a mortal being. Artemis is resting now, only dreaming.
Arethusa and Alpheus I
In the grove where the druid’s fire sparkled at last evening, the Naiad dreams of the righteous, dear, beauteous time. The glade should be cleaned up after the amazing meeting of the Olympic gods and goddesses last pretty night.
The logic of Arethusa dreams of deductive wings. At the edge of forest the God Alpheus is waiting for the Naiad and apollonianly propitious mind. Having stroked the forest-like fawn, she is to him – coming.
He has hunted for wildcats at midnight with fancy – here. The love for her is such fabulous, gorgeous musing about the ontologically perfect Golden Fleece. The love is lost delight and only stardust of feelings.
She should become his amaranthine wife – the virgin. for life in depths of unending artemislike timbers!
Arethusa and Alpheus II
If dear Arethusa miswedded, she would sully tender crystal soul. She is going home quickly – away, dreaming of scintilla of the morns.
Don’t pick musing flowers of my hope! Leave me alone and my wizardries! Moony paradise seems to be lost. The naiad escapes soon from the forest.
On ship towards Ortygia-island, she meets the captain, former pirate and three divers with pearls in their hands. They want to dream and sleep, it is late.
The captain remembers the midnight storm. Naiad’s homeland becomes indeed lost.
At the sea II
She must find motherland in exile. Legendary seagulls are flying. The country of sailors is the sea. The waves of Poseidon are dreaming.
She can praise the morns – the charming dawns, full of celestial spirits of spell. The dreameries rest in new homeland, which shimmers over the meek vessel.
Despite this Artemis´ forest lives, where stags and does dance, muse forever. She thinks about the ambrosial tears. She listens to choir of pearl divers.
Naiad begins praying to Artemis just in the most Apollonian ways.
The prayer senso stricto
Owl from the grove listens to prayer. The most propitious and gorgeous words. Let moony star-like memories fly! Goddess sleeps in alluring forest!
Your roe is so appealing and grand! Your hedgehog is handsome, good-looking! Your bear is so cute and delicate! Your squirrel is so fascinating!
Enrapture the beauteous diamond! Beguile the splendid – classy agate! Enthrall the angelic emerald! Allure the bright – divine sapphire!
The wings of birds need to enchant world. Star of philosophers – next to owl.
in Dreameries
Arethusa embellishes a dawn, bewitches the fantasy of the moon with ravishing, resplendent stars, becomes bucolic dreams of the gods.
She is such a good, cute Eden. or an apollonian Arcadia land that was eternally Promised, as the mirth of Eudemonia.
Be charm fulfilled such epiphany! It is from an ontology – child. I wish you were from eternity. She would be the perpetual stream.
Sempiternity is immortal. Her stream-becoming is eternal.
At the oracle
God Alpheus was at the Pythia. He needed a plethora of feelings. She looked at the ancient amphora. Eudemonia would be clear in dreams.
The oracle wanted to help them yet Pythia, having drunk, told the pure truth. She told: The Naiad was on the isle. She is spring – such a heaven, so blue.
Pythia wrote for Apollo poetry about dreamiest mysterious from wind, as well as of stolen Golden Fleece about apollonianly soft mirth.
Long live an eternal oracle! May poems be the most delicate!
End-sonnet
The poem is an obol. The nightingale is singing. The naiad needs from live more. The lover is new dreaming.
Styx – river of destiny. The God would be the river, through the dreamed eternity. They become philosophers.
I love the stoic sparklets of Arethusa – naiad, and of the brave Alpheus, so beautiful is the time.
I want to finish sonnets, in dreams of the Grecian myths.
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Wine country returning to Napa and Sonoma too Camping to teach kids about safety in their rooms Smart Home new service for the groom Southern Oregon’s leaf strewed Kazoo California’s wine country is bouncing back to-do Larger than life instaurations of the sun at noon Super powers of skin multi-sensory to bloom Three generations sail through the Greek taboo Camouflage armour identity of course Be good win big in Alaska even drunk Suppose now it did happen would he bleed remorse? The Hearse on the Cross-Gun Bridge with a sleeping Monk Haulage rope mud choked bottled Carron Horse Only circumstantial odour from a Skunk
Sonnet CCLXXXXIII
Unshed tears were not dropping in her Gin Sad plight Golden Rule Cajole Philosophical assertion control Faint sent of urine on her skin Butterflies don’t play Violin Hand-Maids of the Moon patrol Bristles shining wirily around the May-Pole Seated crossed-legged smoking a Coiled Pipe in Berlin Reign of uncouth stars plot Shadows lay over her Blindfold Corps rising salt white from under a Robot Loom of the Moon’s old Stench of his Green-Grave Gut Augur’s rod of ash Centerfold
Sonnet CCLXXXXIV
Little pool by the rock’s music Bold as brass delicate high jump Soft clinging white aristocrat slump Her very heart in a limerick Gnawing sorrow now she is sick Cry nicely before the Stump Stole an arm around her rump Impetuous fellow strength of a hick Spit fire blue in the face clever She tickles tint tots’ Brains Saying an un-lady like thing to the server Long slow kiss after the Champagne Wisk well like white of eggs forever She wanted his ball having won again
Sleepy Whale 485
Relinquished his post arch wine Ten Seconds surface of her land Contemplate suppressed grand King Street smells of pine Frequentative erroneously swine Pleasures derived with literature at hand Drank jossers silence contraband Supervision pantomime sign
Sleepy Whale 491
Her neonist wears an Opal Ball-dress to write Improper overtures from men Writing on Tortoiseshells with Pens Lines between shutters light Frost- bound coachman arrives to night Drawn the limit of ten Her caves in silk hose with them Insulting any lady’s double-envelops white
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Elavation.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
You are an enjoyable juniper! You are a pleasurable bush! You are an agreeable poplar! You are a delightful spruce! You are a gratifying cedar! You are an amusing birch! You are a diverting corn! You are a bonny pine! You are a lovely palm!
Your sepal be alluring! Your petals be delightful! Your stamens be appealing! Your carpel be graceful! Your corolla be good-looking! Your filament be pretty! Your ovary be stunning! Your ovule be foxy! Your anther be ravishing!
You honour starlet-like dreamland. You admire moonlet-like mirror. You exalt moony fairyland. You deify moonlit enchanted rose. You praise starry gingerbread house. You glorify starlit forest. You apotheosize comet-like spell book. You magnify spherical tower. You gratify sunny Ovidian sword.
Pawel and the Neoceltism. This poem is a dreamy manifesto of the Neoceltism, the spirit in which Paweł has created his English poesy.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Only in war and trouble could I comprehend Who was my foe or friend? In times of tranquillity and peace it wasn’t clear When all was well my friends were there
When the sign post showed clear blue sky I consorted with friend and enemies but never knew why Still a friend is one who will tell you the truth Be by your side when there is no proof
Jealousy and envy is not in a friend’s heart And a love rival will never tear you apart They will give you a bed to sleep on at night Be there to stop you from having a fight
Knowledge and wisdom always share with a friend That unbroken trust and bond can’t end A friend knows your secrets and should be quiet But will follow you to war or political riot
Even when you doubt yourself, a friend gives assurance And will carry your heavy load and bear endurance Money, should never come between you and a friend Never ask for interest when asked to lend
Jesus had twelve friends but knew one would betray I do hope and pray that you never see that day In years to come real friends shall remain by your side Trust in a real friend, secrets don’t hide
You can find more of Brian’s poetry here on Ink Pantry.
there is nothing in life like old friends, long-termers who have always been there aware of the entire journey one has taken, all the up and downs and round-abouts, the secrets of i can tell you anything at all, and i have a valued handful of them, greatly appreciated and much loved, with the warming comfort of familiarity, and two or three who have disappeared, though whose fault is hard to tell. new friends don’t come along as often as you get older i’ve read and been told; less chances to meet them and share time, not as many encounters as when young, situations for socialising not as frequent, but i’m going to throw that theory out, for there is something to be said for making new friends as old age creeps in as it does, and i’ve taken to it several times recently with some awesome friendship outcomes. being older you know your type and tribe, your values and attitudes are fully formed and the way of looking at what is and has been sits in a particular way, and meeting someone new to you gives a quick sense of suited or not. we can hold on to old friends for reasons that may be more related to history and time; we may no longer even share similar outlooks on life in the current world, for we have grown independently by ageing; and so, while we may have long time friends who mean much to us and who we want to keep forever, it is senseless to not embrace new friendships that in old age may come to be close and dear and in becoming so offer amazing experiences. as older new friends you both arrive with a past and an acceptance of it. two older souls meeting later in life opens a communication truth and related calm maybe not as possible while in the rush of youth.
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen’s play, ‘Johnny Chico’ has been running in Spain for 4 years and continues.
You can find more of Stephen’s work here on Ink Pantry.
As I rounded first base I felt a tear in my hamstring that shot up my leg with a stab of hot pain. It forced me to slow down, but I had to keep running because I was on the edge of the bubble and was afraid of getting cut from the team. I risked a glance to right field and saw that the ball would get to second before me. I tried a desperate hook slide into the bag, but the second baseperson blocked me and came down hard on my legs when she tagged me. A streak of fiery pain that made the hamstring feel like a tickle seized me in an agonizing grip and I writhed in anguish. I heard the second baseperson’s hoarse voice through the haze of shock: “Your season’s over, old man.”
The team treated me as I expected: abrupt removal to a third level med-center, since I only had a tier three contract. I was very lucky to see an intern, since tier three didn’t entitle me to a doctor. The most I could normally hope for was a med tech. Tier three didn’t include x-rays, but after moderately careful manipulation the doc informed me that the anterior cruciate ligament was definitely torn. So second base was right. The team’s HMO representative had accompanied me to the med center to ensure that I didn’t exceed my benefits. He announced my options: laser surgery and three days care in the open ward, with appropriate medications, then departure by public transportation; or laser surgery, transport to my residence by ambujit and one week of home care by a licensed nurse’s aide. All veteran ball players knew what open wards were like, so I didn’t even think about it before opting for home care.
The HMO rep was already indignant that the team would have to pay for a doctor and had me sign various forms exonerating the team from any liability. I had to sign, or risk losing my meagre pension. The HMO rep had more power than the coach. He tucked the documentation in his bizsac, authorized the doc to provide laser surgery and spoke into his comphone. A few minutes later a nurse’s aide entered and properly identified herself according to guild requirements. “Hello. I’m nurse’s aide Felicity, guild registration number 672, reporting for assignment. The HMO rep gave her the care restrictions. While she listened attentively I had a chance to look her over. She was tall, about 5’9”, with an athlete’s body and looked as if she could handle any kind of emergency thrown at her. She was around thirty years old, but her untroubled face, bright blue eyes and blonde hair cut in the short lezzie style made her seem much younger. I had worse caregivers over the years.
Nurse Felicity looked at me reassuringly while she drew a hypo. The HMO rep hovered fretfully and verified that she used the minimum Demerol dose. He was beginning to annoy me almost as much as my aching leg. The injection started to take effect and although it didn’t remove the pain, it made it bearable. I had nothing else to do while I waited for the doc, so I began to take stock of myself. I was a thirty-eight year old professional ballplayer with a body going on sixty. I had lasted years longer than most players because I still looked young on camera, the prime career determinant now that ball games were no longer played in front of live audiences. If I recovered from this injury, if another team wanted me, if a little hair dye could fool the judgmental camera, I might eke out another marginal season. After that I didn’t know what else I could do.
It felt like centuries ago when I graduated from George W. Bush High School, in Amarillo, Texas, as a star football, baseball and basketball player. I wasn’t college material because of poor academic performance, so I opted for a professional sports career. Fortunately the pro teams will take anyone who can play well enough, despite the lip service they pay about the necessity for education. Then I made the most intelligent decision of my life. I knew even then that I couldn’t do much besides play ball, so I chose baseball, because it was less of a contact sport than football or basketball. I thought I might be able to extend my career longer, if I didn’t get knocked around every time I played. It turned out to be the smartest move I ever made.
I didn’t often think about the past. I had some good years as a right fielder, including five with the Hiroshima Dragons. I had been very popular with the local fans, who easily recognized a distinct American from afar. My only regret was that I didn’t learn Japanese so I could talk to people. It would have been fun to jabber away in their language, but I never could remember enough words. I did like their manners. They still showed some respect for others. I would have stayed in Japan for the rest of my career, but they got a younger, faster token American. After that I came back home and moved from team to team, sometimes on the field, sometimes on the bench. I hung on when younger and better players were cut, because I could play any outfield position and first base in an emergency. It also helped that I could still manage to hit close to .250.
So here I was in a grubby med-centre with at least a season ending injury, probably a career sign off, with no ideas for the future. I didn’t have a nest egg. I never managed to save, despite a meagre life style. I was an ancient journeyman in a young profession, without name or fame that could be traded in for civilian security. I had no skills, no credentials and no experience, except as a marginal pro ballplayer. I wouldn’t even be desirable in a low life sports bar, because I lacked sufficient celebrity. I guess I had to start thinking about what to do with my life, but I wasn’t well-equipped for making a life plan. Too many years of just being a hit and fetch ball dog had worn away most of my thought process. I sort of accepted whatever came along, without worrying too much about the future.
Nurse Felicity brought me back to the present with a gentle pat. “We’re ready for surgery now.” She lifted me onto the gurney with surprising ease and wheeled me to the laser room. Despite all my injuries over the years that included broken fingers, toes, sprains, strains, as well as innumerable aches, pains and other ailments, I never required surgery. I was scared and it showed. Nurse Felicity crooned soothing sounds that were supposed to reassure me. The HMO rep kept getting in my face, babbling about how grateful I should be for receiving generous extra contract services. All I wanted to do was look at strong, shapely nurse Felicity, but the HMO rep kept blocking my view. I couldn’t insult him because he controlled health benefits, so I drifted into a fantasy, where I picked up my tungsten bat, swung for the fence and blasted the chub’s head clean out of the ball park…. I idly wondered why they called it a ball park.
Nurse Felicity looked at me as if she could read my mind. I instantly forgot about the HMO rep and tried to look innocent, because I wanted her to think well of me. I didn’t have a girl and it had been a long time since baseball groupies chased me. The thought of a week with a pretty nurse who could haul me around made me forget my fear for a while. At least until the doc came in. He looked too young to be an intern and I suspected they could be pushing a med student on me, but I didn’t dare say anything. If I offended the HMO rep he might cancel my treatment and I’d find myself on the street. So I carefully bopped my tongue stud on the roof of my mouth so it couldn’t be seen and didn’t say anything. A tier three contract didn’t allow piercings.
The procedure itself didn’t take long. Nurse Felicity curled me on my side, the doc adjusted my position with a clumsy hand that gave me a jolt of pain, then zapped the torn spot with a beam of light. He looked me in the eye for the first time. “Don’t put any weight on that leg for two months, then carefully begin to walk on it. I think we can give you crutches until then.” He looked inquiringly at the HMO rep, who consulted his handbook, then begrudgingly nodded yes. “With any luck you’ll be good as new in six or eight months,” the doc said. Right. Good as new. I wasn’t good as new when I was new. “Can you give me some pain pills, doc?” The HMO rep was there like a shot. “Your benefits package doesn’t entitle you to painkillers. You’ll have to manage with neurodumps. Now let’s conclude the treatment session and get you on your way.” This chub was really ticking me off, but I didn’t dare offend the power structure, so I gave him the same conciliatory smile that had worked for me for years.
The doc condescendingly waved goodbye. I guess he was a little miffed at treating a lowly tier three patient. Nurse Felicity lifted me back on the gurney and we headed for the ambujit. The HMO rep had me sign the fair care release, the med centre doors closed, nurse Felicity stowed me in the back of the ambujit and we pulled away from the curb. The ride to my crib seemed to go on forever. Every pothole reminded me of the current state of urban decay with a jab of pain. My only consolation was that at least the injury happened at a home game. If it happened when the team was on the road I would have really been torqued. I don’t know what they would have done with me, but they probably would have dumped me at the nearest tier three med-centre and left me on my own. My only option then would have been a dubious appeal to the players union, which like most other American unions, had been worn down over the years, or bought off by the bosses.
The neighbours didn’t bother to look when nurse Felicity rolled me into my crib. They were more accustomed to seeing people carried out, than brought in. She quickly and efficiently organized the small space so I could get to the bathroom on my crutches and easily reach the kitchen unit for meals. She adjusted the couchbed so I could watch the large wall TV, my only luxury. She was the first woman who had ever come into my crib. Well I guess the landlady counted as a woman, even though I thought she was a nasty old bag. One of my neighbours, a rabid sports fan, once told me she had lost all her assets, except this building, in the big technology crash of 2001. Well, no wonder she was bitter, living in a dump like this, if she was used to better.
As I watched nurse Felicity do things around the crib, I had an unaccustomed feeling of well-being. I wasn’t used to a woman’s presence, especially in this little room that I never thought of as home. The last real home I could remember was a foster home when I was five or six. The ortho parents wanted a bright, artistic child to enrich their lives. Instead they got a morose brooder, who they quickly tired of. After that I shuffled from one group home to another, until I finally graduated from high school, where I was never the life of the party. In fact, except for time on the ball field, I was pretty much invisible for most of my life. Well it just made me feel worse when I felt sorry for myself, so I just enjoyed the treat of nurse Felicity fussing around, trying to make me comfortable.
She finished her chores and got ready to leave and a well of loneliness rose in me. I urgently snatched at a reason for her to stay a little longer. “Could you just show me how to make a freeezemeal?” She looked at me with an understanding twinkle in her serene, sky blue eyes and my heart raced. She knew I didn’t want to be alone. It only took a few moments to prepare the meal and she was ready to go again. I wouldn’t shame myself by pretending to be in worse condition and I couldn’t find another pretext to keep her with me, so I said the only thing I could think of: “Do you want to have something to eat with me?” She smiled sweetly: “No thank you.” I got a pang of rejection. “Is it because I’m black?” “Oh no. Only the Chinese don’t like black people and you know they don’t like any Americans. In fact they have their own med centres and I’ve never even had one as a patient.”
I was getting desperate for her to stay and asked plaintively: “Then why won’t you eat with me?” “I don’t really eat.” “What do you mean? Everybody eats.” She shook her head. “Enhanced sentients don’t. I take liquid nutriments.” I didn’t know what she was talking about. “What’s an enhanced sentient?” “A flesh and composite being with A.I.” I looked at her, uncomprehending. “You mean you’re not a real person?” “Of course I am, even though the nurses union wants to prove that we aren’t human in its class action suit. I don’t think much about it though. I’m too busy taking care of my patients.” I was stunned. Was I being turned down by an android? After this what was I supposed to do, ask the ball boy machine for a date?
I was at a complete loss for words as she headed for the door. She turned with a bright smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow for your first day of home treatment.” I felt like laughing or screaming, but I did neither. I watched her leave with a feeling of despair that plunged me into a pit of self-pity. The only thought that kept racing through my mind was that I couldn’t ever seem to connect with anything real.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theatre director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theatre. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 21 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections and 1 collection of essays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing, forthcoming is Desperate Seeker); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force and Transitions (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming are Temporal Dreams and Mortal Coil); and Earth Links will be published by Cyberwit Publishing. His novels include a series Stand to Arms, Marines:Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions, forthcoming is the third in the series, Raise High the Walls); Acts of Defiance and Flare Up (Wordcatcher Publishing), forthcoming is its sequel, Still Defiant); and Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His short story collections include: Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing), Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing) and The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. Gary lives in New York City.
You can find more of Gary’s work here on Ink Pantry.
