She walked past his bedroom door and was surprised to hear laughter.
Only last night, they sat together on their sinky-down-cozy sofa, watching the herd violate their country. Americans were attacking America.
They cried together, the Mom and her ten year old. Horrors like this happened elsewhere in this world but never in their own backyard. This is the United States of America. Not a banana republic.
Mom and son are news junkies. They know these things.
‘What will happen to them,” he asked. “Will they go to jail? Will they be fired from their jobs? Will the president get in trouble for asking them to do that? …
What kind of jam is this, he asked.
Seedless raspberry, I answered.
He chewed his English muffin slowly, staring at me. Pensive eyes.
I set the toaster half a degree too high, so periodically, he crunched loudly on some blackened bits. He has strong teeth.
What did they do with the seeds, finally he spoke.
These are seedless raspberries, sweetie.
Another bite and a louder chomp down. That second half was more than a little burnt. I ejected an involuntary muffled squeak.
One cannot grow raspberries without seeds, he continued.
Oh. There are seeds alright, just stored in minuscule organic knapsacks at the bottom of my bush. …
Michonne is my eMentor and idol. You know, the fearless Zombie slayer from the television series The Walking Dead.
Regularly over these past months, I envisioned myself, like the Miche, cruising our city streets, a chained and masked coronavirus shackled to each of my wrists. Unfortunately, the type of zombies out to get us are Covid19 and invisible.
Too bad, huh. Imagine if we could fully see the corona-zombies creeping down our residential streets, burrowing into our bodies, and collapsing our lungs to mush. Would these visuals unify our collective response?
We will never know. The case numbers rise, the doubters remain rigid and uncaring. Safety is in the hands of those of us trying to be responsible and respectful. …
Sunlight crashed through my window
this morning, cloaked as a
lightning bolt ramming my eyelids
It carried a question:
Inherent goodness in humans,
it cackled in my ear,
Finally, you see the folly
in that belief?
Blinding rays seared my exposed
skin, yet I felt no
Tears rolled down
my cheeks refusing to trigger
My heart, brain, gut, soul
now hollowed out,
those carved pumpkins
littering frost-kissed porches
the end of October.
(On a sunny day like today, they will stink.)
Mimicking an automaton
raising a coffee cup to
my lips, I taste nothing.
Yet this armor of
numb is pierced by my
my eternal conviction
about a pedigree of
love and altruism somewhere
in all human souls. …
Hold the phone. Lemme see if I understand.
You have a chance to charge through the tunnel, toward the light, riding a cleverly disguised hot bike, bring back the cure for Covid, save humanity, and we are talking about a plaid shirt?
Yeah but, I have to look great while doing it. Instagram, you know. I would be happier in a little black dress. Zippered back. Manolos. Maybe we could outfit the bike with a selfie stick? And no helmet. Not changing my hair color either. I want to see if I can get a shampoo endorsement. …
Yep. That’s what was said. The long term and satisfied clients choosing to work with me in my former business. It was an industry that doled out tickets to sporting events and theatre, calling it (hollowly) client appreciation (CA).
I refused to embrace the shallowness of those CA words, and never did they emerge from my lips. I prided myself on hosting unique events. Those festivities needed no label. They were simply part and parcel of taking good care of my peeps.
Flip, then, to a bunch of years ago, close to our Thanksgiving holidays. My clientele enjoyed two, yes, two Thanksgiving dinners. One was a tremendous turkey shindig with all the trimmings hosted by yours truly. …
Today you see the
skin plastered with punctures,
cavities of varying sizes.
Some bloody and others
oozing with pestilence.
These craters on human bodies
suffer visibility and obscurity
all at once.
Our perception of the assault wanes,
the time of day or
whether a good sleep descended
the night before.
The mutilations, the stabs
Soothing, or sometimes
an imagined state of numb unfolds
whenever a spray of bullshit
exits the aerosol can
controlled by the
bully on the pulpit.
Wounds like this are known
extinguish life or else
convert beings into some version
of walking corpses. …
Norman was in his element.
“Hey gang, get ready.
Here comes a pair of legs.
Time for a head trip of
gotta get me some
of that red elixir.
I am a lech
for sucking back that punch.”
“No, you are not,” said the rest of them
forming a line and
swimming toward Norman
and his prey.
The lake water temperature
“You are a leech,”
bubbled his bloodsucker
© Suzanne V. Tanner, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
After a rough last week reading and coping with the latest news, I was relieved to receive the Scrittura Team prompt from J.D. …
The obvious conclusion from this week of speeches.
My Mama once said to me
about lies and fudging the data.
Suzy, keep throwing shit
at a wall and
watch how much of it sticks.
Because some of it will.
I always thought a tidbit like that
was golden wisdom,
personally witnessing many small examples
of its reality over the years.
Then on August 24
this week arrived,
revealing clusters of metal buckets sitting on the grass
and in the bleachers, all brimming over with
a gelatinous brown liquid.
The presentations of fabrications began
one after another.
Into the pails, they reached with their
freshly manicured claws,
clutching a mitt full of
the brown poop.
Then pitching toward a fantasy home plate,
handful by handful,
like leaky sacks of gelatin
hurled at a rigid partition. …
Look at me.
I was born and bred to be a doll,
a dolled-up-dolly on the arm
A perfect human candy cane.
My brain devoted solely
to wanton male entrapment schemes.
Guaranteeing the security of
my future cash flow.
To those shoppers out there
bargain hunting and
buying my deception because I
am excellent at conniving to do
what you expect of me.
Beauty does what
beauty is, you mistakenly believe.
Making some of you
consciously or not
fostering this primary role
Since your expectations allow me
to sell you a bill of goods,
I can exterminate color and diversity
from a famous garden.
Oh no, some of you sing,
that travesty couldn’t possibly be a message
about inclusion no more,
if embracement ever was.
Nor do some believe my raking and tilling was
a statement about an immediate future
where variety and compassion is
excised and plowed under
in service to wealth, nepotism and
a perpetual regime of privilege. …