“Whoever invented almond bark is a genius.”  The microwave beeps and my sister grabs two oven mitts off the counter.  She stabs the door latch on the microwave, and the door springs open.  She reaches into the microwave and pulls out a glass measuring bowl full of melted brown chocolate.

“Seriously. Genius.”   

She carries the bowl across the kitchen to the far counter.  A sheet of wax paper has been laid out across the Formica.  She sets the bowl on the counter and opens the cupboard overhead.  It is full of sugar.  White sugar, raw sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar.  Other sweet things, too.  Chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, cherry chips, chocolate chunks, vanilla chips, a bag of M&Ms, assorted colors of sprinkles.

I walk to the refrigerator and open the door.  A half gallon of milk.  A package of juice boxes for my niece.  Ketchup, ranch dressing, Worcester sauce.  Diet soda.  Diet Coke, Diet Dr. Pepper, Diet Mountain Dew.  I push the cans to the side of the fridge, searching for something with real sugar, something that would come out of my sister’s cabinets.  I spy a dark can of something at the rear of the fridge and pull it past all the diets.  Coke Zero.  I crack the lid.  It will have to do.

I watch my sister dump a bag of Gummi Bears into the dark brown liquid. She stirs the concoction with a wooden spoon.  She is blinking more than usual, tensing the muscles around her eyes.  I think about warning her about crow’s feet, but save it for our mother.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

She looks up from her stirring.  “Do what?”

“Run marathons on sugar and diet soda.”  I make sure to follow my statement with a wide smile, keeping my lips closed and scrunching the corners of my eyes in an opposite way than what she is doing.

“I do not!”  She laughs, and I believe her.  It’s nice to hear her laugh so loud.  It is our way, to laugh loudly.  We are all a little deaf from listening to my mom laugh on the phone.

“You do. It’s not a criticism.”  I make this clear.  I am learning to listen to subtext and make my intentions clear.  “I’m impressed.  I can’t even run three miles, and I basically eat potatoes.”  I think about Christmas dinner tomorrow at Mom and Dad’s and the heaping portions of mashed potatoes and sweet potato casserole.

Her laugh trails off to a sigh.  She is gone again, crinkling her eyes, grinding her teeth, pulling Gummi Bears out of the mixing bowl with a spoon, laying them out on the wax paper.  I dip my hand back into a bowl full of chocolaty pretzels.

“Wait!  Take a break from those pretzels and try this.”  She grabs a red Christmas tin, with a large evergreen on the front.  I think how strange it is that evergreens don’t lose their leaves.  I have lived in the North all my life.  Winter would be an awful black and white if evergreens lost their needles and couldn’t break up the horizon with their deep greens.

I open the tin and remove what looks like a ball of chocolate.  My sister waits, half of her bears still drowning in chocolate, watching me.  Her eyes are a little unnerving.  Her face is tense with excitement, but her eyes remain heavy and still.  I make a mental note to kill my brother-in-law. 

]]> http://www.wildviolet.net/2011/05/30/chocolate-spiderweb/feed/ 0 http://www.wildviolet.net/2011/05/30/the-pink-pack/ http://www.wildviolet.net/2011/05/30/the-pink-pack/#comments Mon, 30 May 2011 13:54:00 +0000 http://www.wildviolet.net/?p=1358

She clung to the backpack as if she could not endure the separation that strapping it across her back would entail.  Stick-thin arms encircled the neon pink bundle with such force that I thought the contents would erupt like lava from a caldera.

My daughter — my heart knots at the word — was four years and three months old the day I met her, and I’m ashamed to admit that her pack was what the first thing I noticed, not the satiny tresses that cascaded in a black waterfall over her shoulders, or those enormous onyx eyes. I had yet to discover that one tiny scarlet shoe was missing a strap and that she wore only one sock. 

“Amy Grace, I’m your new mommy.” 

The words were swallowed by my sobs, making my open-armed approach anything but reassuring.  She hid behind her foster mother’s legs much as a playful child might seek refuge behind a tree.  Amy Grace was not playing.  She gripped the pink pack even tighter, knuckles whitening against her dark skin. The psychedelic green kittens that danced across the pink background seemed to morph from playful to macabre with the pressure of Amy Grace’s vise grip.

I looked at the woman-cum-tree trunk, contorting my face in a plea for assistance.  Sarah Pennington, foster mother to Amy Grace Edmunds for the past six months, was fighting tears of her own.  Amy Grace, however, did not cry.  Instead, she peered at me, unblinking, from behind her fortress.

The Denver Police Department had signed my paychecks for almost twenty years.  The first fifteen, I was a street cop, mostly on the night shift.  Five years previously, I decided, with a total lack of rational thinking, to transfer to a desk job.  My sleep-deprived brain figured that I would be more attractive to men if I was: a) available for evening dates and other such interesting entertainment and b) out of uniform, with no gun at my hip.  So, I began pushing press releases across a metal desk and stepping up to a microphone every couple of days to assure the citizens of Denver that the DPD had the — pick one: robbery, murder, kidnapping, hit-and-run — well under control and was focusing extra manpower on the crime.  I became a talking head.

Like many things in life, however, the change did not work out as planned.  Prospects for a husband looked grim, and, anyway, I’d already had one of those and was in no hurry to repeat that disaster.  What I hadn’t had was a baby, and at 40, time was running out.  I decided to adopt a child.   

The Internet, cyberspace’s big-bang explosion of technology and information, is both a blessing and a curse.  Before I knew it, there were half a hundred adoption Web sites saved in My Favorites.  Some encouraged me; many more depressed me.   It wasn’t just my age (borderline old), my health (breast cancer survivor — albeit of ten years) or my income (adoptions are expensive… very expensive).  Web site after Web site rained negative information down on me.  Adoptable children were few, babies almost non-existent.  Unless I wanted to draw Social Security and lead a scout troop in the same year, I couldn’t expect to specify age, sex or ethnic origin.  By the way, the agencies admonished, send a check, with lots of zeroes.

Patience had never been one of my strengths, but I was determined to see this though.  I persevered through two years of medical exams, psychiatric evaluations and Nosy Parkers sifting through my financial records.  The mountains of adoption paperwork put the IRS to shame.

]]> http://www.wildviolet.net/2011/05/30/the-pink-pack/feed/ 0 http://www.wildviolet.net/2011/05/30/terminal-opera/ http://www.wildviolet.net/2011/05/30/terminal-opera/#comments Mon, 30 May 2011 13:44:08 +0000 http://www.wildviolet.net/?p=1362

I watched a mockingbird die this morning,
With factory smoke and runway to backdrop her exit.
Having banged her skull soundlessly against
the thick window, she fell on her back.
“Oh, no.” I heard myself say.
The scaffold of weightless skeleton descended
to graceful slow-motion.  Feet lost their hold and sank;
seed-eyes emptied, tailfeathers froze
straight to blank, blue sky. Out.
The man who heard me, looked.
“Oh that.” He said,
turning back to take an obliging picture
for a mother nearby whose little boy
did not notice the body on the ledge
as he pressed his nose toward the planes
rolling in and his grandmother hummed
“Amazing Grace” over her People.

This poem placed third in the 2009 Wild Violet Poetry Contest.

2009 Contest Winners  

Main Contests Page

The September topic was “Back in the Saddle.”

The first entry is flsh fiction, “My Fear Factor,” by Terry McKee:

Here it comes again, that ever so faint fluttering in my stomach. It sits in one little spot at the bottom on my tummy, tickling me like a mother tickles her small child, except this isn’t fun. This is fear, unabashed, full-fledged, tingling FEAR. I know it all too well, and as much as I try, I can’t seem to escape it.

I try to reason it away but it’s no use. It’s as if this emotion has a mind of its own and stubbornly refuses to believe what I know to be true that my young horse Stryker, who I’ve not ridden in four months, isn’t going to hurt me, at least not intentionally.

It doesn’t help that I shipped him to Florida from New Jersey two days ago, so everything is new to him. New sights, sounds, smells, horses, everything, even me, all of which probably scare the you-know-what out of him. A win-win situation, perfect!

In fact, I’m sitting here writing all of this when I should be off to the barn to ride Stryker but I’m so scared I can’t move, save my fingers along this keyboard. My toes are curled so tight, my feet can’t go flat, so I can’t push away from the desk to get out of the chair and walk to the car.

“I’m only making things worse.” I say resolutely, while my head knows it to be undeniably true, my stomach isn’t buying it. Knots begin to form.

Horses are like a self fulfilling prophecy gone bad. Their acuity of their rider’s mood is second to none. It’s sort of like a ‘if you build it, they will come’ thing. If I’m afraid of it, the horse will definitely do it. Although not scientifically proven, it’s a fact every horse person knows to be true. If I’m afraid Stryker is going to buck me off, and not maliciously mind you, either out of youthful exuberance or because he’s afraid and spooks, chances are very good that he’ll do it.

So fear begets fear begets even more fear, and fear is my nemesis.  I can’t run, I can’t hide and I can’t shake this tightening in my belly. The tickling is more like thumping now. The more I tell myself it’s a mistake or try to ignore it; the vice-grip around my stomach tightens so severely it hurts. I feel like the gastric juices are eating a hole through it.

Taking a lesson from Chicken Little, the only way I know how to get rid of fear is to face it head on. So in response to that age old question: what do you do when a horse bucks you off? Let the instructor get back in the saddle.

The second entry is a poem, “The Ballad of The Once Sir Charles,” by Ron Runeborg, which you can read at this link:

http://when-horses-fly.livejournal.com/29945.html

You can vote only once, so please choose carefully! The poll will be open until 6 p.m. on Friday, October 8.

The winner of the June contest will receive a Wild Violet rectangular magnet, publication, and will be eligible to compete as a finalist in the annual short-form contest.

My apologies for not running contests in July and August, but I was busy adjusting to life with my newborn baby. Gradually, I’m getting back on track, so now I’ll announce the topic for our monthly short-form writing contests (500 words for fiction, 20 lines for poetry).

Topic: “Back in the Saddle”
Deadline: midnight, Friday, September 24

To enter, post a link to your entry, which can appear on either a personal site or any blog. If you must, you can e-mail it to wildvioletmagazine@yahoo.com, with the subject line: “September Contest Entry.” Please do not post your entry directly into the comments.

After the deadline, I’ll create a poll, allowing people to vote. The September winner will receive a package of Wild Violet postcards and publication.

Gizmo is missing. I’m
moving on Friday so the search is
frantic. Fliers, phone calls, all without
direction. Gizmo is missing. He left
Tuesday afternoon. I called
up and down empty streets.
The only response from a neighbor
who lost her cat to coyotes.

Up and down the halls, no fat cat
content to sleep in the sun. I’m
moving on Friday so the search is frantic.
Wondering, wandering but
Gizmo is still missing. He left Tuesday to a
neighbors who lost her cat to coyotes.
I stay up all night waiting, hoping he will see
the lights are on at 3 am.

The topic for June 2010 was “Round and Round.”

The June topic was “Round and Round.”

The first entry is a poem, “Gizmo is Missing,” by Lindsey Renuard, which can be read at this link:

http://dishwaterdreams.com/2010/05/gizmo-is-missing/

The second entry is a poem, “Incense,” by Amy M. Levy, which you can read at this link:

http://amylevy.com/wp/2010/06/incense/

The third entry is a flash fiction piece, “Self Repair,” by Elizabeth J. Allen, at this link:

http://elizabetsyallen.blogspot.com/2010/06/self-repair.html

You can vote only once, so please choose carefully! The poll will be open until 11:30 a.m. on Monday, July 5.

The winner of the June contest will receive a Wild Violet rectangular magnet, publication, and will be eligible to compete as a finalist in the annual short-form contest.

Because my due date for my first child is rapidly approaching, I’m posting the June topic early for our monthly short-form writing contests (500 words for fiction, 20 lines for poetry).

Topic: “Round and Round”
Deadline: midnight, Friday, June 18

To enter, post a link to your entry, which can appear on either a personal site or any blog. If you must, you can e-mail it to wildvioletmagazine@yahoo.com, with the subject line: “June Contest Entry.” Please do not post your entry directly into the comments.

After the deadline, I’ll create a poll, allowing people to vote. The June winner will receive a Wild Violet rectangle magnet and publication.

In a circle
Of wind savaged trees.
Branches

Leap from their mothers.  One babe
Taps my door,
But I stay inside, in uteri.

I harbor my thoughts. They fold within.
Pride
Is a constant tiller.
I will—

Not ask him again.
No, not again.

The topic for May 2010 was “My Favorite Mistake.”

The May topic was “My Favorite Mistake.”

The first entry is this poem by Mary Ellen Walsh, which was received over e-mail:

Impact

I park my car
In a circle
Of wind savaged trees.
Branches

Leap from their mothers.  One babe
Taps my door,
But I stay inside, in uteri.

I harbor my thoughts. They fold within.
Pride
Is a constant tiller.
I will—

Not ask him again.
No, not again.

The second entry is a flash fiction piece by Amy M. Levy, which you can read at this link:

http://amylevy.com/wp/2010/05/upgrade/

You can vote only once, so please choose carefully! The poll will be open until 5:30 p.m. on Saturday, May 22.

The winner of the May contest will receive a Wild Violet rectangular sticker and will be eligible to compete as a finalist in the annual short-form contest.