Algebra

by Susan Cameron

(with my deepest apologies to Joyce Kilmer)


I think that I shall never be
A fan of x times y plus z.

Within parentheses they nest,
With pi and log and all the rest;

I sort the segment from the ray,
And disentangle i from j,

And graph parabolas with care;
I plot the points, come up for air,

And know the true source of my pain:
I'll never use this stuff again.

The textbook's size amazes me --
For this we sacrificed a tree!


Susan Cameron, copyright 2012

Emma's Prayer

by Liz Zuercher


If I said the day my mother died is my worst teenage memory, I would be lying.

I would be ignoring the two years leading up to that October day just after I turned sixteen.  I would be putting those previous two years into the shadows and making them less than they were.

My mother’s death was a blessing.  For her it was the end of pain and suffering.  For me, it was the beginning of a more normal life where I no longer had to pretend not to hear the moans she tried to hide from us, or keep a false smile on my face for her.  It was the day that set me free of all that playacting, all that being strong for the family.  Finally, I could be a teenager and go out with my friends without feeling guilty that I wasn’t with my mother-who-was-dying.  My mom was dead.  I didn’t have to be there for her any more.

But, those thoughts made me feel guilty, selfish.

When she first got sick, I prayed for her to live.  In the last weeks of her life, I prayed for her to die. Then as soon as I’d think those words, I’d take them back.  No, no, don’t let her die, I’d say.  But that was fake.  That wasn’t how I really felt.  I loved her.  I should want her to live, I told myself.  But I don’t want her to live like this, I answered, like the devil and angel, one on each shoulder arguing.

The day before she died, she couldn’t raise her head off the pillow or move her hands from where they rested on the covers.  When I entered her room, her eyelids fluttered, opened and she looked hard at me.  There was a raw intensity in her eyes that I’d never seen before, that she’d never let me see before.  She’s pleading with me, I thought.  For what?  What could I do? It scared me, but I tried to smile for her, like always.  Answering my effort, my mother put her own mask back in place, her eyes softening.  The corners of her mouth tilted up in a slight smile, the most she could muster before she closed her eyes again and slept.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I told her as I stood beside her bed and stroked her hand.

That evening I sat in the porch swing waiting for James to come over, and I asked God to let my mother die.  Straight out. No pussy footing around this time.  “Enough,” I said right out loud to God.

Then James came and we went to the movies and laughed at a silly comedy.  For a few hours I didn’t think about my mother-who-was-dying.  When I got home, I went right to my room without even saying goodnight to her.

While we all slept, my mother died, tiptoeing away without bothering anyone, as if she knew we were almost as exhausted by her battle with cancer as she was and needed the rest.

I should have felt bad about that last prayer, but I didn’t. I felt guilty for spending the final night of my mother’s life eating popcorn, snuggling up to James and laughing at a movie.  I felt guilty about going to bed without saying goodnight to her.  But all I ever felt about my prayer and God’s swift answer was grateful.

A New Man in My Life

by Susan Matthewson
    

I have a new man in my life, an exciting event in my solitary existence, one that has been manless since my divorce when, after 36 years, my husband put me out to pasture and wandered off to greener ones.

Surprisingly, I’ve found that being out to pasture—despite the unappealing connotations of worn-out old mares, crotchety nags, and mangy plugs—has its upside. In fact, in my pasture, I’ve discovered tasty wildflowers that tickle my imagination, shady nooks of towering trees that relax and refresh me, and even a lovely hillside for sunning on a cloudless day. Actually, being put out to pasture has perked me up, turned me into a filly that discovered she has a lot of trot left. However, while many a handsome stud has passed by, and despite my lively interest, none has ever given me a second glance or even a friendly snort. None that is, until Gus.

It was a family member who suggested that I’d like Gus because he was not only intelligent, but good-looking, well-groomed, funny, and likable. To entice me further, my relative noted that Gus was several years younger than I and I’d have a chance to be a cougar!  

Me, a cougar! My fantasies went wild. I’d let my hair grow. I’d get hair extensions like J Lo and the Kardashians, so I could fling around masses of wild sexy tresses. I’d lose ten pounds and get a Spanx, that body girdle that pushes up your boobs, sucks in your stomach, and flattens your fanny. I’d re-read that book about sex, you know, the Cosa Nostra or the Karma Scuba, whatever it’s called.  I was cougar primed, more than ready for Gus.

I wasn’t disappointed. Gus has lovely green eyes, rich brown hair, a muscular physique, and long legs. He is all that he was promised to be with one minor exception. Gus is a puppy, a three-month-old Vizshla, a Hungarian hunting dog that my son bought, somehow forgetting that he had a job and couldn’t take care of Gus. But good son that he is, he remembered his poor old manless mom, all alone out there in that pasture, and Gus metamorphosed from “his” dog to “our” dog. Gus now lives with me during the week.

Gus may not be exactly what I was hoping for, but he has his good points. When we watch television, Gus snuggles up on the couch and tickles my neck with little love kisses. He never wants to be away from me. He whines if I leave the room or if I sit on the couch, unless he can sit beside me. He comes to the bathroom with me, mesmerized while I shower, fix my hair, and dress. Sometimes as Gus licks my arm and rubs against me, I feel like he wants to crawl under my skin, to get that close to me. No man has ever loved me this much. If I had a pouch like a kangaroo, Gus would be in paradise.

Gus also has some qualities that only a woman can appreciate. He doesn’t leave the toilet seat up. He doesn’t leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t hang around the garage operating noisy power tools. He eats whatever I put in front of him with gusto. He doesn’t burp at the table and he never, never asks me to pull his finger, lets one loose (fart sound), and laughs like crazy. Best of all, he lets me monopolize the remote control. The more I think about it, Gus may actually be the perfect man.             

Sally Eunice Griswald

            Barbie stood, hands on not yet developed hips, eyes glaring, nostrils flaring, her mean streak alive and well. “Stupid Ugly Girl! That’s what your name stands for Sally Eunice Griswald. S-U-G! Stupid Ugly Girl. We should call you SLUG Stupid Looser Ugly Girl!”

            Barbie and her five followers began chanting. Their nine-year-old voices a cacophonous sing-songy unison: “Stupid Looser Ugly Giiiiiirrrl! Stupid Looser Ugly Giiiiirrrirl”

The Lady of the Flies was proud. The six fly-girls shared knowing gleeful glances. Sparkling eyes looked upon each other with excited amusement. Pig and pony tails flying, heads bobbing, hugging each other and moving their limbs in awkward jerky dancing motions as they threw cups full of water and handfuls of cornflakes over the stall door as if they were overtaken by a Dionysian god and ordered to perform some long forgotten but joyfully remembered virgin maiden ritual. It was fun to have someone to hate.

            Sally sat on the coverless toilet seat, her skinny clothed bottom atop the toilet, her hands covered her head in attempted protection from the cornflakes and water. Quiet, oversized tears streamed down her narrow face to her skinny tanned arms and into her lap. She wanted to cry out loud, but if she did, she knew she would just be giving them more ammunition to use against her.

They were not the first to pick on her, though they were the first to use her name as a weapon. She didn’t think it would help to tell them Eunice began with an “E.”

She’d been picked on before and feared that this was to be her lot in life. She wished she knew what it was that made her a target. She was nice, people told her that. She wasn’t ugly though she was plain. She just wanted to fit in, but had never felt quite like she fit in anywhere. She did have a few friends, but not here, not at camp. She sat quietly crying and listening to them chanting their horrid mantra. She wanted to punch the person who came up with the phrase “sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me.” Words hurt terribly. Words cut deeper than any stick or any stone ever could and their pain stayed longer. She hated her name; Eunice was a weird name, but a reason not to like her? She had been named after her gandmother’s sister. Great Aunt Eunice had died in a concentration camp during the holocaust, and Sally was sure that the name had been cursed.

Bored, probably because of the lack of response from Sally, the evil queen and her spritely quintuplets who were drunk on their clever cruelty left Sally alone with her thoughts.

Sally hated camp. She wanted to go home, but she could never tell her parents about this. She didn’t want to hurt them, and she could never tell the counselor because that would just create more problems with Barbie and her sidekicks.

When the only sound left was the pounding of her heart and the far away shouts of kids, she stood still, listening, her ear against the splintery wooden door. She looked underneath to make sure a sneak attack was not being prepared and then stood gingery on each side of the open toilet seat to make sure she was alone.

Sally climbed back down, ran her hand over her damp, brown hair to remove any corn flakes, and looked at her clothes to see how wet she was. Now what? Where should she go? Where could she go? She opened the stall door and nervously walked into the main room.

Then she saw his face at the window looking around the room. She thought about running back into the bathroom when Josh Stone spotted her, smiled, and waved to her, a broadening smile on his face. She just stood looking at him. He waved her over, and she looked over her shoulder as if she expected to see someone else. He pointed to her and she pointed to herself questioningly.  He shook his head yes and scooped his hand in a ‘come here,’ gesture, but she didn’t know if she could she trust him. She could not be sure that Josh Stone was not the sneak attack she’d anticipated before.

The Fourth Of July

How can a haiku take as much time to write as a story?   :)

The Fourth Of July

Fireworks stun the sky;

brilliant, ephemeral life,

so sweetly ablaze!