By Lucille Domizio

    When I was in the first grade I thought my teacher was bald. She wore a big black bonnet and a huge black dress. All I could see were her hands and her face. One of the kids asked if she was married and she replied “I’m married to God.” I barely knew who God was but I knew he didn’t look like any of the other fathers in our neighborhood. 

    At supper that night, I told my parents that Sister Mary Gabriel was married to God and had no hair. My mother said “Oh.” My father didn’t say anything. Short of a house-fire, his fish sticks came first. 

    I asked my grandparents about it. My grandpa said, “Who told the child that the Sister shaved her head?”  Even though they’d moved here from Italy about 60 years ago, they always got everything wrong.  Then my grandma chimed in, “Maybe the Pope wants nuns to get married now.”  Then my uncle shouted “Where’s Sunday’s Bulletin? Maybe they have something about it in there.”  While my uncle was yelling and calling the rectory, my mom and I escaped through the back door. 

    The next day we played soccer at recess and the ball landed on a small hill. I ran up the hill and saw a tall fence with little spaces between each slat so I got closer to see what was back there. I saw three women hanging laundry and laughing. One of them turned around and it was my teacher, Sister Mary Gabriel. No bonnet, tons of hair. 

     Does God know about this? 

     My heart was pounding as I ran back down the hill. 

    At supper I told my parents what happened behind the fence. Mom said nuns are people just like us, but choose to dedicate their lives to God. I feel that I’ve got it in me to be a saint. But I’ll never wear a hat.       

                                                     # 

      By Ed Baranosky 

      How and when did some American cities become like a Third World country?

      It’s there for everyone to see on the Travel Channel. You can see when the 
   narrators go to the cities of Europe. Those cities were devastated in World War II. 

      The people of these cities prospered on what used to be American traits: initiative,
  and hard work. They restored the grandeur of their heritage.   

      The national spotlight has been turned on Baltimore and Detroit, point out 
  deplorable conditions in which the people are living. If people there are waiting
  for someone else to come in and fix them they will be waiting until hell freezes over.

      If Cleveland and Pittsburgh have been rejuvenated, what’s holding back Detroit and Baltimore?
  Common sense would tell you it’s the wrong people in charge. 

      Why aren’t the citizens of these cities asking where the billions of federal aid money went? Instead 
  of Elijah Cummings, the Maryland congressman, using the opportunity to rally the people of
  Baltimore into action to better their conditions, his comment is: “The president is a racist.” 

     Three thousand years ago Moses said to the Israelites: “Mount your asses and camels
  and I will lead you to the promised land.” 

      If the people of Detroit and Baltimore want  their cities to get cleaned up they had better get off their asses, snuff out their Camel cigarettes, pick up a shovel, kill a rat then use the shovel to pick up thrash. 

      If any one of the 20 Pied Pipers that were on TV in Detroit for two days had gone there, put on old clothes and picked up a shovel and started to clean up trash, they would have shown a leadership that might have helped their cause.

    The part that’s lost on Americans today is work is always hard and usually dirty.  

    In the end if they put their backs into it they will find the results are worth it.                                                #

By John-Paul Marciano

    “Wake him up!” Sgt. Jim Hanson demanded.  “Throw a rock in his hole and wake him up!  And make sure he’s got his damn shoes on!”

    “What’s the big deal, Sarge?” Bird Dog called out.  “Ain’t no harm in a guy catchin’ a few winks.”

    Mordecai Jones was a big strapping farm boy from Iowa who pitched in the Federal League before the war.  Learning Mordecai played for the Chicago franchise during a night of heavy drinking, Jim started calling him “Chicago” and the name stuck.  Now Chicago fumbled around in his hole blindly searching for a rock and came up with one about an inch in diameter.  He flung it toward Hillbilly’s hole.

    “Hey!” Hillbilly whined and shot up in his hole.  “What the heck’s that?” Hillbilly asked drowsily.

    “Wake up you idiot,” Chicago hissed.  “Yer snorin’s gonna git us all killed.  An’ Sarge says ta git yer dang shoes on.”

    “They hurt my feet,” Hillbilly replied.

    “Quit yer bellyaching and do what Sarge says,” Chicago shot back.  “And do it quietly.”

    “Yeah, yeah,” Hillbilly retorted as he felt around the hole for his shoes.  “If God wanted us to be awake at this hour he’d a given us head lamps!”

    “Jus’ git yer dang shoes on an’ stay awake,” Chicago spat.

    “Gitch yer dang shoes on,” Hillbilly mimicked under his breath while putting on his shoes.  H.B. McCall, a.k.a. Hillbilly, was a brawny, 19-year-old West Virginian with a fourth-grade education who stood 6=foot-6 ½.  One evening during basic training someone asked him what H.B. stood for.  When H.B. responded with a blank stare, Jim couldn’t resist and said he thought it might be Hillbilly.

    Jim slid under his shelter-half and lit a cigarette.  He glanced at his watch before blowing the match out.  It was 2:30 a.m., another hour and a half until day break.  He was hungry but didn’t want to risk breaking any teeth on his hardtack, the only rations he had left.  So he just lay there smoking his cigarette while listening to his empty stomach grumble. He figured it would take about half an hour to slow crawl back to his original hole; no rush.

    The division was supposed to be relieved last night but, just after sunset, a runner from HQ came around and informed them the relieving division needed another day.  Jim told the guy it was no big deal because he didn’t have any plans anyway.  Not knowing how to reply, the runner just crawled away and moved down the line to the next hole.  Soon after Jim crawled out of his hole to where he was now.

    Jim took a final drag off his cigarette and buried the butt.  He packed his shelter-half, grabbed his rifle, and took a deep breath.  After gathering himself he made the sign of the cross and slithered out of his hole, beginning the slow crawl back to his original position.

#

By JR Jurzynski

Metallic.

The smell.

No getting rid of the smell.

Spilled.

The knife was sharpened to razor-sharp.

Preparation.

Cuts like a knife.

Heh-heh.

Focus.

Stay focused.

Trace evidence.

Drip, drip.

Oil.

The honing motion leaves markings on the sharpening stone and the blade.

Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows.

Heh-heh.

Minute serrations.

The oil and markings can be identified.

Problematic?

Trademark.

Sadistic bastard.

Who?

Me?

Heh-heh.

The sun settling toward Greenwich.

It was almost time.

Did she know it was almost time?

Probably not.

I did not ask her to edit my work.

And now…

Heh-heh.

Someone else’s work is about to get edited.

Heh-heh.

Busy-bodies, dead bodies, no life.

Will she piss her pants at the same time?

She doesn’t wear dresses.

Most don’t.

DNA.

Blood yes, urine possibly.

Pig Mountain or high cholesterol?

Nope.

Heh-heh.

I stopped typing and thought.

Where did that come from?

1000-pound mammoth.

What do you do with it?

Can you submit to it?

Would you?

Reflecting.

Kick the tires.

Peek under the hood.

Snoop around.

See what you find.

Fear.

Parked adjacent.

Drive away from the curb, Jeffrey.

by Karen Cheney

Sins of the mother rot her soul, children chide and Father scolds.

Father’s sins are seen as play, rolling into another day.

Mother’s sins are branded deep, into her flesh and haunting sleep.

No forgiveness can be found, and in the rot she slowly drowns . . .

Down

    down

       down

          down

           to

             Death’s

                cold

                   and

                      grey

                                         #