The Project
He felt as if he were born to the sawdust and nails of writing, working daily in hours of solitude to construct an architecture which at times seemed like a pointless task, devoid of shelter for any dweller, a paper house easily toppled in a stray breeze. On many afternoons he abandoned the work, meandered outdoors to view the project from afar, somewhat defeated yet relieved once he soaked his head in the light of the sun which cleansed the metaphors from his brain, allowing a bit of respite while the half house toppled in a sigh of wind. He could hear the creaks of settling rubble. Fallen...
Read MoreThe First I Heard of It
Most of the nine months I should’ve spent in the third grade I spent in bed. On the first Friday in September of that school year, my mother got me and my brother up like she always does. Then she said she was keeping me home today. She didn’t say why, and I stopped asking after the look she gave the second time. I didn’t want to push her into one of her whacking moods. She didn’t seem to have any problem with Louis going to school though. He was in fifth grade at Cooperstown Elementary. He and I polished off our Lucky Charms and bananas, like we usually would, but neither of...
Read MoreFeatured: Week of Nov. 5
This week, as much of the East Coast recovers from Superstorm Sandy, we celebrate those who fight against hardships: the fighters and survivors. “I Wander Into a Memory,” an essay by Robert Kingett, delves into memories of childhood abuse and kindness, prompted by a poem. “Coloring Book,” a poem by Timmothy Holt, looks at the second-guessing experienced by someone with AIDS. “Driving Into Beverly Hills,” an essay by Cyndy Muscatel, depicts the emotional journey of a cancer survivor. “Leap Away,” a poem by Vicki Mandell-King,...
Read MoreLeap Away
I have given away a herd. Come to this late, I long for lift and flight and the hard touching down. Barbaro snaps his leg at the gate. What rivets and burns in memory is the image of running on. Yes, he runs on three legs and a heart. Life changes. That fast and gasped, all bets are off, put down. A small death here. A big death there. And there. And there. I have stepped out onto a remote island the sea is reclaiming, bringing the grass to sodden weeds. These horses will all drown if they do not bend and grow armor, hide among the eels. The aging actress cannot play the ingenue. No rescue...
Read MoreDriving Into Beverly Hills
I am driving in heavy traffic to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. It takes all my concentration to navigate the 405. This freeway is always clogged with crazy L.A. drivers. A lot of them think their destination is more important than anyone else’s. Talk about entitlement in action! My appointment is at 9:45 a.m., and it’s already 9:10 a.m. I feel like I’m in a capsule, creeping along a slow-moving conveyer belt. My mouth is so dry, I have to gulp down some water. I re-grip the steering wheel and notice that my palms are damp. My palms are never sweaty! I order myself to take a deep breath....
Read MoreColoring Book
There’s something wrong with my coloring book: I can’t see the lines. Is this a cow or a horse? God must need glasses, perhaps a change in prescription, or clean the present ones. Maybe God’s eyes with age can’t see well; looking over all creation is a strain. Maybe the printer mixed up my book at the shop, or it got smudged in the printing process. How am I to stay within the lines, let alone know what color to use? If I could have read more clearly, would I have stayed within the lines, pledging an unobtainable life of purity? You see I strayed out, was called sinful, an...
Read More