(Scroll down to find the audio link to hear the poem read by Marcus Goodyear.)

for David Tulley

The pianist plays alone every time
learning not to let the world decide
when he creates and when he rests.
Studios, concert halls, practice rooms
hallowed, not hollow, never empty.
The walls, the chairs, the carpet tremble
with potential decisions. Synthetic
fibers of carpet twist together,
their friendships forming expectant
berber curls, their voices hushed
waiting for the performer’s approach.
He clacks the cover from its keyboard,
coughs once and begins to say this
I am
Meaning something more than self,
more than These hands are mine. These legs
pump pedals, sustain notes, build chords.
This room was not empty before.
I have not filled it except with thanks.
Though as for that, no thanks
depends on him or the one listening,
who wandered into the studio looking
to kill time and fighting music instead.
The battle lost, the audience slumps
low in the back row and hears
practice give voice to everything here.

You can also listen to the poem as read by Marcus: Practice Is an Art

Editor’s pick by Heather Goodman at L’Chaim. I chose this piece because of the beauty of the creation of art, not just the product. Marcus Goodyear writes about poetry and philosophy on his blog, Goodword Editing. When someone asked him to share more of himself, Marcus said, “I have to admit that I was a bit confused. Which ‘me’ did this person mean exactly? You know, more poetry, more philosophy.”

You can find more of his poetry here. He’s also written about how to revise and edit poetry. He’s a believer in the sound of poetry and embeds audio files with his poetry. I agree. Listening is lovely.

You can subscribe to his blog here.

She asked for my bag to search it for stolen library books, and she wanted me to come back inside too. I refused. As if I would willingly walk back into the library with a toddler throwing a tantrum. Stupid woman.

“Feel free to take it,” I spat out, struggling to hold on to my angry son.

She blinked at me from behind her glasses, than picked up the bag and marched back in.

“Are we in trouble, Mom?” my older son asked, shrinking himself into the shadows of the building.

I shook my head, silently willing the small, stiff child in my arms to calm down. Instead, he arched his back into the curve of a scorpion’s tail and wailed.

I’d hunted scorpions as a kid. Armed with an empty mayonnaise jar, I’d wander out into the vast stretch of sandy desert that was my backyard and start kicking over cow patties. Scorpions burrow small holes under the dung, flat as a Frisbee, and hide out during the hottest part of the day.

Sometimes, my brother and I would capture five or six at a time. From pincer to tail some of them were longer than my dad’s thumb. Others were small enough to fit on a dime. Of the hundreds of scorpions we captured, grew bored with and released, I remember two: The one found under plywood, whose body alone measured three inches and whose tail was thick as jute, and the mother with a million babies on her back. She got away.

That’s what I wanted to do now, just crawl into a hole as people gave my toddler and his meltdown lots of space. A bitter, angry brew boiled in my belly. I’d been taking my children to this library long enough for a few of the librarians to know us by name, but I didn’t know this one, nor had I paid attention to her face when she stamped our books. Instead, I studied her hands, studded with rings that squeezed her flesh and forced it to ooze around them. Those pale, sticky hands usually busy with musty books and cups of sugared tea were poking through my things, pulling out water bottle, bike helmet, knitting.

“She’s taking out your wallet, Mom,” my older son reported from his hiding spot near a window. “She dropped it.”

I’d given the wallet to my toddler earlier in the day to amuse him, and when it no longer held his attention I’d shoved it into the bag without snapping it shut, so when the librarian picked it up it fell open, spilling coins. Quarters and dimes bounced across the table, tangled in yarn, rolled under the bike helmet. I shot an angry glance through the window, and my jaw tightened, my head throbbed, my arms ached.

Hiding under the helmet, a dime turned from silver to pale yellow and unfurled. A set of tiny pincers snapped and a tail tucked into the belly of armor curved upward to expose a venomous dagger at its tip. On eight small legs it skittered across the table unseen, grabbed hold of the librarian’s dress and climbed. When it reached her neck, it slipped under the fold of her collar, clinging to the fabric as she walked outside.

Outside, my toddler lay limp in my arms, exhausted from his tantrum. My son eased himself out of his hiding spot, and my anger drained away.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell them.

Doors opened. The librarian set down the bag, and silently marched back inside, carrying my revenge. Pincers clicked, dagger poised, it waited.

Editor’s Pick by Heather at L’Chaim. I love this piece because Rachael Levy does what any good writer would do: she exacts her revenge through story. Her blog reveals a storyteller’s heart as she relates the everyday in engaging and quirky narrative. A couple of Rachael’s stories you might like: Slate’s Loss, Your Gain and We Met in Line at the Fabric Store. You can subscribe to her posts to keep up with her imagination.

I’m in no hurry. You know that guy on the highway? You can’t get into the left lane because it’s a swarm of caffeinated speedsters and you’re trapped behind some fool going 5 under. That’s me. Good morning.

I had a friend. Skip. Every time we parted, without fail, he’d say “Take it slow”.

My path to work winds through a cluster of yawning mountains. Just before the sun rises, the top, just the bare tip, of the jagged horizon’s all lit with the glow of a faint orange hum that aches to be something – looks like the mountains are about to have a big idea, like something’s about to happen. You know what I mean? You know that weird feeling you get when something’s about to go down? Your kid is walking with a glass of juice. A man stares too long at a woman’s purse. You take the first drink. Something’s about to happen.

There’s a subtle negotiation between the black sky of last night and the sleepy orange morning waiting for its time. A deep staggering blue, stumbling, confused. Sometimes it’s blood purple. In some vague space between words, it doesn’t know what it is. But it’s not bothered by this. It’s in no hurry.

I may have missed my calling as a cab driver. Can you imagine? I would look in my rear view, check out my passengers, write little stories about their pasts and futures. That guy. He keeps checking his watch and calling someone who doesn’t answer. I’m taking him to a part of town where only a couple things happen. The crying lady. Going to the airport. And those two, kissing, groping, wearing wedding rings that don’t match. Everyone’s going somewhere. They start out here. I take them there. But me? I spend my days in between. Lingering between what just went down and what’s waiting to happen.

People honk their horns. Flip me off. They gotta get what they’re going. But where are they going? Do they even know? Enclosed in their cars, they lip-synch enraged profanities. But I’m in no hurry. I take it slow. I was born. I’m gonna die. And I love this vague space in between.

Editors Pick by Amy from Doobleh-vay:  BHJ is awesome! He is the kind of writer that I would have hated in my university round table fiction or poetry workshops because of jealousy only. I would have probably stalked him around campus and sent him poems. His writing is just so right. He has a voice and we all love it. The original post and comments can be found here. You can also check out WWBHJ do on Twitter.

I dream of riding the Orient Express

for two nights in a row now

I am in a bright cabin with paper and pencils

and very Bohemian in an authentic way

like the way I used to wrap scarves around my head in college

and head out to the bar for a drink

when it was not even chic- just odd

scarves that my Kurdish friend would give me

and how they were so bright turquoise

that I stood out from miles away

like a beacon to other strange girls

blinking and calling out

be the person yr supposed to be

and later you will be fine with it

I am on a journey and at some point in the dream I freeze frame for a second and hit some sort of intense epiphany- only I wake up right as I feel the hairs on my body stand and stir

it was like that yesterday too

only I was walking in the heat of the day down the street here with the boys and we were headed to the creek

finn was jabbering away with so many questions that I thought my head might explode

only it didn’t and I just gave in and started answering the questions

and as we walked the crickets were loud against the landscape of suburbia

and I came right to a place that at the same exact moment long rivers of sweat were snaking down my back and pooling into my underwear I knew this was one of those days

where I was the queen of all he knew and I had come here

just here to make sure he knew all about the world

and we talked for over an hour about things that might have bored me senseless just the day before but this day they excited me much like the time I was the first person to show him The Mona Lisa or the first rock he ever broke himself against

right as the moment came I was present and able to feel it

everyday as a mother there are moments that stop you

wouldn’t it be lovely if we could save them on some portable device like an ipod or something

take em with us and hit repeat

feel it viscerally

anytime we needed to know we were just fine

that we were here for them

and they were here for us

like a glove

Editor’s pick by Heather A. Goodman at L’Chaim: Amy Turn Sharp is one of our own here at Blog Nosh, so I suppose you could consider this nepotism. But good poetry is good poetry. Amy’s writing catches me perhaps because I love scarves. Or perhaps because she loves to travel. Or perhaps because she loves words. But I think it catches me because she chooses to savor every moment of life as if it is a 1945 Mouton Rothschild. Through her poetry, she invites us into her world, which is swirling, dancing, and glittering on fairy wings. Amy blogs at Doobleh-Vay. Check out the original post and subscribe to her here.

Richard Dansky’s short story, besides being an intriguing story about monsters and possibilities and what hides in the dark, challenges the reader to think about our preconceptions and how they affect what we see.

He introduces the story with this tidbit:

There are a lot of lakes and ponds in the Triangle, many of them man-made. There’s one I pass driving to work every day, and another that sits across the street from my office. You can go there on your lunch break and see people fishing or sailing or throwing frisbees into the water for their dogs to chase. I’ve even availed myself of the facilities a few times, and am pleased to report I’ve only fallen out of a rented canoe once, and briefly.

An admittedly unscientific sample suggests that most of those folks have no idea that Lake Crabtree (and the “lake” part is purely an honorific; it’s about as deep as a Bret Michaels interview and covers only slightly more territory) was dug out with backhoes and bulldozers in the not-too-distant past. Even the signs posted at various semi-prominent points don’t get the point across. Maybe they’re ugly signs. Maybe people have come up with their own stories about where the lake came from and how long it’s been around, and if things are otherwise, they don’t want to know. Either way, it works for them.

Which, I suppose, is the point of the story.

Enjoy.

***

THE DEEP END OF THE SHALLOW WATER

We got out of the car just before sunset, a half-mile down a gravel service road that we shouldn’t have been able to access. The spot where we’d stopped was a pretty one, a clearing in the second-growth pine woods that ran up the edge of the body of water we’d come to investigate. Soft dirt gave way to sticky clay down by the shoreline, and tree roots and tufts of grasses marked the bank all the way down. I could see reeds poking up through the water, stands of them here and there in places where the bottom was muddy enough to support plant life that ambitious. Across the way I could see the other side, red dirt and green grass underneath a purpling sky. It didn’t look terribly far away.

“What do you think?” Lester said, and grinned. His boots crunched on the white rock of the road as he moseyed around to the trunk, the better to pop it and get out the equipment. “Is this spot perfect or what?”

I stared at him for a minute, then pointed at the water. “Lester,” I said, “That is a pond.”

He nodded. “So it is, Tyler, so it is.” The trunk squealed open and his head disappeared inside as he began rummaging around.

“Let me try this again,” I said, and took a couple of steps closer to the water. “Lester, this is a pond. Moreover, if I am reading that sign there correctly” – I pointed to an innocuous piece of metal that proclaimed the pond to be “Flood Control Structure #32? – “it’s a man-made pond. Constructed, I might add, in 1966.”

His head popped out for a moment, now adorned with night-vision goggles. “Is it, now?”

I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and let it go slowly. No sense letting Lester drive me crazy this early in the evening, I thought. He’d have all night to do it, if I let him.

“Lester,” I said in my most reasonable voice, “stop that. What we are looking at is an artificial pond so small I could swim it without kicking my shoes off first. Hell, it’s so shallow I could probably walk it, and never have to hold my breath. If there are any fish in there, they were artificially introduced when this thing was built. There is maybe enough biomass in that whole thing to support one moderately anorexic snapping turtle as the local apex predator, and that’s it.”

“Really.” He sounded distracted, or at least he did until he straightened up too fast and bounced the back of his head off the inside of the trunk lid. “Owww.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I stomped over to the car and relieved Lester of half the armload of equipment he was carrying. It was all there, the usual gear for this sort of trip: NVG, infrared cameras, motion sensors, microphones, and more. There was also a sealed thermos marked “rotten fish” in Lester’s wife’s handwriting, more proof that she was the most patient and sainted of women to walk this earth, and what looked like 250 feet of 50 pound test line with no other fishing equipment in sight. “You all right?”

“Yes, yes, fine. Just…put that down over there.” He waved vaguely toward the water. “Ow.”

“Don’t think self-mutilation’s going to get you out of answering me,” I told him, even as I did what he said. “You still haven’t told me why the hell you think we’re going to find something here.”

“Because it’s there,” he said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, and slammed the trunk with casual malice. “That’s the reason we go everywhere, right?”

I shook my head. “Lester, we go where there are genuine, verifiable sightings of cryptozoological specimens, not hysterical impossibilities.”

He joined me at the top of the bank and deposited his load of gear next to mine. “You’re absolutely correct, and again, that’s why we’re here. Give me a hand down?” Without waiting for me to answer, he slid down the muddy slope. His heels gouged long, smooth lines in the clay as he went.

I waited for him to find his footing, then started handing pieces of gear to him. “Les, we did not have a genuine, verifiable sighting here. We had a couple of drunk teenagers with a cell phone camera.”

“And the images they recorded clearly show something in the water. Which is why we’re here.”

“For God’s sake, Lester, where’s the breeding population going to come from? Old packets of sea monkeys?”

He shook his head, and brushed his hands on the well-worn fishing vest he always wore on trips like these. “You’re missing the point, my friend. Come on down here and I’ll try to show you.”

“Show me what?” I grumbled suspiciously, but by then I was already moving. “Another cell phone video?”

“No, not quite.” My heels hit ground and I skidded backwards. Only Lester’s hand caught me, stabilizing me from going over while I lurched to my feet. He said nothing until I was upright and steady, then gestured toward the far shore. “Now, look out there. What do you see?”

I peered out into the gathering dusk. Overhead, the sky had settled to a shade of deep-bruise purple, warning us that we were running out of light. The water’s surface was still, an indigo mirror reflecting featureless heavens. Across the way, a single heron picked its fastidious way along the shoreline, pausing every so often to stab at something small and unseen. Frogs, maybe, or minnows.

“I see a pond,” I said.

Lester shook his head. “No, you don’t. You know there’s a pond here, a crappy little hole in the ground they poured some water into, so that’s all you’ll let yourself think there can be. But what do you see?”

“Lester-” I started, but he shushed me.

“You see a flood control structure. Those kids? They saw a pond that’s been here all their lives, dark and scary and with something they’ve never seen the bottom of. Maybe their older brothers told them that it had a monster in it, and they believed.”

“Then they’re idiots,” I muttered, but Lester was rolling now.

“How deep is that water? What moves underneath it? What might have been buried, asleep in the muck for centuries before the return of the waters awakened it? From here, we don’t know; they certainly don’t, or they do, and their answers have nothing to do with what the engineers might say. Us? We can’t know. All we see is that-” he waved out at the smooth surface of the pond before us – “and that reflects all our thoughts back at us. It’s impenetrable, and beyond it lies whatever we can imagine living in those murky depths. Why shouldn’t there be monsters here, if those kids want there to be some?”

“Because there can’t be,” I said weakly. “Because there’s no room, and no food, and no history. There’s a million reasons there can’t be anything bigger than a catfish in there.”

“Ah, but there can, if we want it to be there badly enough. That’s the thing about monsters, you know. They come when they’re called. When they’re possible. When they’re told that they’ve always been there.”

I opened my mouth to tell him that he was crazy, that we’d agreed to do scientific investigation only, that I was done with this partnership if he was going to sprinkle magical pixie dust over everything I’d thought we’d stood for.

And from across the water, there was a splash. I looked up, just as Lester did, just in time to see the heron disappearing in a spray of black water. Its wings beat frantically against the water’s surface for an instant and then it was gone. A handful of feathers floated into view, bright against the dark outline of a vast shape moving slowly to deeper water.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. Lester looked at me. I looked at the ground.

“Did you…see something,” I heard myself asking.

Lester sounded noncommittal. “I might have.”

“Right.” I kicked a pebble toward the water. It hit with an audible thunk, then sank out of sight, instantly. “Why don’t I go set up the equipment?”

“Why don’t I help you?”

I shook my head. “Why don’t you keep an eye on the water?”

Editor’s pick by Heather A. Goodman at L’Chaim. Richard Dansky writes for video games and authored the novel Firefly Rain, a supernatural thriller. Richard blogs, along with a team of writers, at Storytellersunplugged. Storytellersunplugged brings together 30 authors, editors, booksellers, and publishing professionals to offer the reader short stories, tips on writing, and “behind the scenes” glances at the writing industry. On any given day, you never know what you might find: a bit of humor, a horror story, or a piece of advice to keep you typing the words that you love. One thing is for sure: This blog is for all who love words and, specifically, how these words come together to create a good story. You can find the blog here and subscribe to it here.

“Taking us by and large, we’re a queer lot
We women who write poetry. And when you think
How few of us there’ve been, it’s queerer still.
I wonder what it is that makes us do it.
Singles us out to scribble down, man-wise,
The fragments of ourselves.”
Amy Lowell

And so I’ve learned, across phone lines with background static, and small children sucking on their mother’s breast, while we jiggle laundry and lovers, balance belief with lack of self-esteem, that we are a queer lot, we women who aspire to the poetic word.

We sit in our pajamas silently penning Pulitzers while the world races by outside our doorstep, unaware. How many of you, how much of me, has been steeped in loneliness? Fear that it isn’t enough, could not possibly matter to anyone but ourselves.

And then there is a voice on the other end of the line, bringing with it the recognition that we are more than the echo in a silent room of fingers tapping impatient keys. We are more than longing. We are more than ache.

We are a queer lot, we women who write poetry.
Each call taken, every word felt.

I have learned, we can be a resolution for each other, a reclaiming of our best selves.

Editor’s pick by Heather at L’Chaim. These words resonate with me–we artists grab bits and pieces between ordinary life. Or is it that ordinary life is infused with our bits and pieces of art? As the title of the blog suggests, Ordinary Art is about the interplay between ordinary life and the art we create. Sometimes that means it’s about everyday things. Other times that means it’s about something transcendent. But who can tell the difference between the ordinary and the transcendent? You can subscribe to the blog here.

Carol was prissy.

Years of living alone had cemented the fact. Without Charlie around to raise his eyebrows, a bit mockingly but largely affectionately, she’d begun to give in to some of her more obsessive tendencies — like taking Charlie’s shirts to the dry cleaners every so often so that they wouldn’t smell dusty. She could not abide that smell of disuse. Or washing the car once a week, even if she’d used it only once, when she’d had to take Penfield to the vet for his shots.

Charlie had brought levity to her table, that’s why she had married him, and without him, she’d grown rigid. A prankster, Charlie had been, and though now and then his immaturity had caused her to throw up her hands, secretly she adored it. He’d always made her feel young, and light.

Until that evening in September when he’d groaned at the dinner table. Thinking he was joking — he always was! — Carol rolled her eyes and issued her standard, “Oh, Charlie.” But for once he wasn’t fooling around. He died right there, still in the middle of eating his pie, and only fifty-six years old. When Carol flashed on the scene, she didn’t see Charlie. She saw his pie, and the forlorn way Mrs. Smith’s apples sat on the plate never failed to make her weep, even now, almost a decade after Charlie’s passing.

She was in the supermarket inspecting eggs for cracks when Charlie’s unfinished pie came to mind. The image, unbidden, unwelcome, still so vivid, flustered her. With trembling hands she picked up egg carton after egg carton but couldn’t find one that had twelve perfect eggs, eggs without fissures or breaks, eggs that didn’t look half-eaten like Charlie’s pie — damn him, couldn’t he have just finished that pie? She was breathless and red in the face when she felt someone behind her. She turned to find a seventy-something man, his beard and hair salt-and-pepper, his eyes bright and mischievous, his physique not trim, exactly, but no worse than her own.

“Cracked eggs make better omelettes, didn’t you know that? It’s in all the finest cookbooks. I always choose the carton with the MOST broken eggs. Sometimes I even help a little.”

With that he grabbed a carton and started tapping its eggs, one by one, on the rim of the supermarket shelf, until all twelve of them were broken. Then he tossed — tossed! — the carton into his basket. And directed a lopsided, boyish grin at her. With his eyes he challenged her to react.

Carol’s mouth hung open. Charlie was back! She smiled coquettishly and turned to the freezer behind her, gesturing down the aisle towards the frozen desserts.

“If you’ll make me that omelette,” she said, “I’ll bake a pie.”

Editor’s Pick by Catnip at Catnip and Coffee. I’ve been a huge fan of Slouching Mom for a long time – from way back when I was a lurker and she was still Slouching Towards 40! Recently I realized she writes fiction too – and that just made her even better. This bittersweet piece is lovely, just as Slouchy is. Don’t forget to subscribe to her feed, check out her favorites in her sidebar, and follow her on twitter.

She pops up the red flag , glancing over her shoulder as she does. They all do. She looks at the sky and presses the palms of her hands to her eyes.

It’s Jack I feel bad for. A postal worker in life, he didn’t know he’d be required to continue his courier services by death.

When she’s gone, I collect the letters, one from her to “Mrs. Virginia Anders” and two others. Mrs. Anders is her mom. Or is it was? I’m never sure on these things. I know this because this is her third letter to leave. The first was tentative. “I miss you and love you.” You could tell she didn’t know where this was going. The second letter was needier. “I could use you this week! What do I tell him?”

I steam the envelope to her third letter and carefully peel open the flap. She’s angry, oh so angry! “How could you leave me!” she says. In spots, the writing smudges. The color of the ink distends into this circle with ragged edges. The paper’s wrinkled.

Then I do something I’ve never done with any of the letters. I add a note at the bottom. “Mrs. Anders,” I write. “Please don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.” I refold the letter, return it to the envelope, and glue the flap shut again. Then I take it and the rest of the letters in a metal bowl to John’s gravesite. I light a match and watch them burn like I have for two years now. It’s not in my job description.

The letter in my pocket crinkles when I lie on my back. I pick out a few constellations and wonder about the families of Orion and Gemini. I ask them, Is this right? Will the gods punish me for this? But it doesn’t matter if they do or don’t, so I take the letter and slip it in the mailbox.

It’s almost a week before she comes back. She rifles through the other letters in the mailbox. They all do. No one expects anything, but they hope. You can tell. I know when she sees my letter. Everything in her body halts like she was hit by a sting ray gun. She looks around, but no one else is in this section of the cemetery right now, and she pulls the letter out, pocketing it almost before I can see she has it. She starts to put in her letter, but stops. Instead, she leaves with it.

Later that afternoon, she comes to me. I’m in the backhoe, digging another gravesite. My stomach does some sort of basketball play, running every which way. Her facial expression could mean anything. I jump out of the tractor and wipe my hands.

“Yes,” she whispers. I can barely hear her, but I know that’s what she says because the next instant, she’s in my arms.

Editor’s pick by Heather A. Goodman at L’Chaim. I couldn’t help myself. I had so much fun writing this piece, inspired by the photo above, so I’m sharing it with you here. I blog about writing, fiction, art, music, and books. You can subscribe to my blog here.

{Originally published on Truth Is Freedom.}

A daily ritual for 40 years, the door swinging open on creaking hinges. At first that noise had bothered him, but now it was a comfort. Something familiar. Step, shuffle, 12 steps with the right leg and 11 shuffles with the left foot. The distance hadn’t changed, but the numbers had slowly increased through the years. The door closed behind him, a creak followed by a thump and then the snick of the oiled latch springing home.

The rows of faded post boxes covered the rear wall of the foyer; many were empty now, holding only memories. The labels spoke eloquently of times when hope and promises filled the room, but that had changed as the world forgot the sacrifices they all had made. The key ring dangled from his right hand as he reached his destination, and with gentle chimes his gnarled shaking fingers slid the worn brass key into the lock. A turn, the door opened, and the letter was revealed.

He tilted his head to one side and caught his breath. Was this finally the one? He reached in and withdrew the envelope addressed to Occupant. A clink and the post box closed, and he dropped the keys back into his pocket. He turned, step, shuffle, six steps with the right leg and five shuffles with the left foot as he made his way to the table bolted to the west wall. There was a clunk as he hung his cane on the edge, 8.5 inches from the right end; the silver eagle’s head was worn, but the engraving, 41st Regimental Engineers, could still be seen on the band.

He set the letter down, three inches from the front edge and directly in front of him. He fumbled for his reading glasses and hooked them over his ears, left side first, then the right. With his left hand, he withdrew a penknife from the inner pocket of his overcoat and turned the letter over until it rested perpendicular to his waist. He flicked open the blade, the shimmering cover said congratulations on your retirement; the sharp steel made a soft hissing noise as he slit open the cream colored paper from bottom to top.

A gentle puff of air, and he shook out the contents onto the scuffed surface of the table. He unfolded the letter, once, twice and then laid it flat pressing down the corners and rubbing the creases. This is what it said.

Dear Occupant,

It has come to our attention that you are recently deceased. Please return the last pension payment at your earliest convenience. If this creates a hardship, then contact our office during normal business hours.

Sincerely,

Jane Carruthers

Pensions and Benefits

There was only a ghostly silence in the foyer as the letter fluttered to the floor to be found later by the janitor who saw the silver headed oak cane still swinging in and out on the edge of the table, a perfect counterpoint to the Earth rotating in its timeless orbit.

Editor’s pick by Heather Goodman at L’Chaim. This story haunts me–immortality and timelessness. I like the details in it, the number of steps the man takes as he goes to the door and to the table. I also like the poetic pattern of his writing. Brian Fowler publishes flash fiction and poetry on his blog, Truth Is Freedom. One of my favorite poems of his can be found here. I like the rhythm and sway of it. He also shares his photography on his blog (like these). You can subscribe to his blog here.

(Scroll down to find the audio link to hear the poem read by Marcus Goodyear.)

for David Tulley

The pianist plays alone every time
learning not to let the world decide
when he creates and when he rests.
Studios, concert halls, practice rooms
hallowed, not hollow, never empty.
The walls, the chairs, the carpet tremble
with potential decisions. Synthetic
fibers of carpet twist together,
their friendships forming expectant
berber curls, their voices hushed
waiting for the performer’s approach.
He clacks the cover from its keyboard,
coughs once and begins to say this
I am
Meaning something more than self,
more than These hands are mine. These legs
pump pedals, sustain notes, build chords.
This room was not empty before.
I have not filled it except with thanks.
Though as for that, no thanks
depends on him or the one listening,
who wandered into the studio looking
to kill time and fighting music instead.
The battle lost, the audience slumps
low in the back row and hears
practice give voice to everything here.

You can also listen to the poem as read by Marcus: Practice Is an Art

Editor’s pick by Heather Goodman at L’Chaim. I chose this piece because of the beauty of the creation of art, not just the product. Marcus Goodyear writes about poetry and philosophy on his blog, Goodword Editing. When someone asked him to share more of himself, Marcus said, “I have to admit that I was a bit confused. Which ‘me’ did this person mean exactly? You know, more poetry, more philosophy.”

You can find more of his poetry here. He’s also written about how to revise and edit poetry. He’s a believer in the sound of poetry and embeds audio files with his poetry. I agree. Listening is lovely.

You can subscribe to his blog here.