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‘Only Lovers’
by David Bloomfield
The day started out sunny, no clouds in the sky. Golden and azure were the colors against the brown and green of the trees and leaves. He slowly made his way to a branch and leaf. He ate heartily of the leaf. After he was finished he rose on his hind haunches and spread his wings. He vibrated them in a rythmic sound only another of his species would understand. A short time later he felt a reply. She landed a few feet from him. He began to sway in dance in hopes of getting her attention. She approached slowly, swaying to his dance. After hours of courtship and mating, she ripped his head off in the throws of her passion. For it was in her nature to do so. And only lovers may expect death without the chill of fear.
Mercy
by Michele Wood
I hear the footsteps of Mastah Thomas Reno come in as I draw the water from the well. Mercy! Mercy! De woman cries my name, walking frantically while toting water behind Mastah Thomas. A child’s hands reach fo his mother; he is locked in de arm of de man, Mastah Thomas.
In the fields, voices are in a whisper, speak of de matter. Have mercy O Lord! Have mercy upon their souls, some one says in a prayer.
In de tree sits Missy silent as he walks by with baby boy and mother crying after her child. Mercy! Mercy! She cries again. Then a white dove appears, swooping gently pass them both.
Walking down where de houses grows close together, I see the steps. Yes, de short dreadful stack of steps of de old slave market. The boy ain’t ever seed one before. Seated, he gets up like he was told. The boy stands afraid with a glaze in his eyes at de top of de platform. People gather around, around and around surrounding the boy, enclosing him in a circle. One man checked his teeth to tell his age, another checked his limbs, and his hair fo lice. He was pulled, poked, prod, nudged and sold for $800. “Right fair enough,” Mastah Thomas said, smiling with the money in his hands.
What Have I Lost
by W. Edward Harris
I have so much—good life, good health, money in the bank, warm house—indeed gratitude is my daily discipline. I have lost
my baby-teeth
my stunning black hair
a mother
then years later another
my sarcasm
and smart mouth
the boy who would argue with a
signpost
the inflated feeling of being special
thinking I was exempt from
selfishness, meanness—the devil
hid in me just because
I was so good
I lost so many of my ambitions.
Forced to be one sort
of man, instead of another
lives not lived are revolving
around the universe as possibility.
I lost control and do not
want it back.
Much have I lost yet I have in memory,
the shards of lives of persons who have
loved me, a longer and longer list.
I say I lost a child just this year—
but I have her so firm in memory, so real in dreams, I see her in her daughter, her art, I can hold her in my heart and hands.
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