Silent Retreat
I am at the start of the line and the hush in the cafeteria is like the muffled dawn after a long night of snow. We enter into silence with all the awkwardness of travelers in a foreign country who know they have no other choice but to surrender to a language that is not their own. The most social among us try to catch someone’s fleeting glance or to meet smile with smile, while others avoid the eyes of those they have laughed with only yesterday, when speech was such a common thing it could be taken for granted, like the air or atoms. But in this other world of nontalk the slightest sound...
Read MoreFather in the Bread Aisle at the Newtown Safeway
The choice seemed consequential only a week ago — would I finally get it right? — remember that it was whole wheat instead of multi and what kind of fancy swirl? — but now I could pick the wrong one and it wouldn’t make any difference at all. Except I can’t for the life of me choose the loaf I should. Not now. So I stand in the bread aisle like a sentenced man deciding on my last meal, and trying to keep this decision as simple as it ought to be while the packages trick the eye with their redundancy, each tie twisted so tightly it would take forever to open them...
Read MoreA Bath
That night, Sierra had told him she wanted nothing more than to take a bath. A nice hot one. So hot she’d have to stick her legs out and rest them on the side of the tub for relief. And bubbles. She had smiled. Thick and foamy, swirling soft under the tap and billowing in a pile she’d have to chop through with her body. She might have done a facial mask, might have conditioned her hair. Afterward, she might even have had the patience to wield the nail file. Instead, Sierra stood in the shower and tried to smoke a cigarette. Her hands shook as she brought it to her mouth. The pack lay dry...
Read MoreWild Violet Featured Works: Week of Dec. 2 (Reflection)
This week, following the hectic week of Thanksgiving in the U.S., our contributors grow contemplative: Simon Perchik’s poem, “As if they once had teeth, your hands,” evokes imagery of autumn decay as it contemplates aging. Richard T. Rauch’s poem, “Shared Stories,” is a cacophonous collection of voices sharing life experiences. Eileen Cunniffe’s essay, “Necessary Things,” shows how everyday objects can become...
Read MoreNecessary Things
Gray Bunny Before Grace names it, the small stuffed bunny is pale pink with purple dots and wears a lavender bow around his neck. A cherished playmate for my littlest niece, he is clutched close at bedtime and in the car seat. Eventually she learns to introduce him, dangling him by an ear and announcing “Bunny,” giggling at her own ability to speak. With so much affection and milk lavished on him, the bunny makes regular trips through the washing machine. Soon the pink fur fades and the original ribbon frays and then falls off, only to be replaced with a rapid succession of...
Read MoreShared Stories
of furious strum, permanent press, truncated Average Joes along for the ride, becalmed anonymous donors beset by mood swings, voided warranties lacking proximate cause; chattering mimes at ease in no-man’s-land, kid-gloved, tear-to-open-push-to-reseal savvy, posturing, taken aback in soft-serve swirls, tilting at no shoes, no shirt, no service signs; mood lit slow dancers fumbling for dimmer switches, neutral buoyancies shaken on the rocks, sucker bets stirred by happy hour distractions, enduring last calls, twists of fate, transactions of No!; plain speakers who know what is, is,...
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