With a mind that's sharp,

And a skill set to envy,

I'm a wasted potential,

That's the reality.

It's a tragedy, really,

For I'm an overachiever,

With a passion to prove

And yet,

I'm a procrastinator,

With a lack of motivation to move

I have the potential,

To rise above the rest

And yet, I'm held back,

By not trying my best.

Arts, music, writing, and academics,

I'm unsure, why I can't write my own lyrics.

And it's in these moments,

When I see what I'm wasting,

That I realize how it's a paradox,

It's so clear, and yet I'm confusing.

Once upon Ye Olde English heath, as the door to her cottage swung open, Hildegard smelled burning. Her husband’s boot had crossed the threshold, he would expect dinner, and he would not want it to be burned.

Hildegard rushed to the hearth. She grabbed the dangling pot of stew and instantly, agonizingly, the metal seared her palms.

“Zounds!” she cried.

“Woman!” her husband remonstrated.

“Zounds, it hurts!”

“Hold thy foul tongue!” her husband roared. “Thou wilt not blaspheme in my house!” (For zounds, dear reader, derived from God’s wounds, a reference to the crucifixion of Christ, and to employ the torture of one’s Lord and Savior as an epithet was as shocking to a pious old Englishman as the lyrics of NWA would prove to his descendants' erstwhile colonists 400 years after.)

“But it hurts!” Hildegard cried. “Thy stew burneth, and the metal hath proved too hot for my tender hands!”

“Stow thy pitiful excuses!” her husband retorted. “Find thyself a godlier path, or never again look me in the face!”

Hildegard departed. She wept even after she treated her second degree burns at the home of a crone who practiced homeopathic medicine, for Hildegard loved her husband, for some reason, or at least loved having a roof over her head to escape the goddamned English rain. To keep her husband roof husband, she needed aid, so Hildegard set out to a person who could set her on a godly path.

“Woman, why dost thou weep?” the Archbishop of Canterbury asked.

“Forgive me bishop,” Hildegard answered. “I hath displeased my husband.”

“How?”

“With an ill word.”

“What ill word did thee speakest?”

Hildegard hesitated. “I said, Zounds, your bishopness.”

“Jesus,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, “that’s fucking awful word. Why wouldst thou say such a thing?”

“I burned my hands, your bishopness. On a pot. Heaven help me, if I don’t find a safer way to hold a pot, I might blaspheme again, and my husband will disown me. Is there any hope for such a disgraced wench as me?”

“Let us pray.”

And Hildegard and the Archbishop knelt and prayed, and, i dunno, burned frankincense or something, and lo, the Holy Ghost sent them down a dove, which carried in its beak a thickly woven fabric, and they gave thanks to the Lord.

“Almighty God,” asked the Archbishop of Canterbury, “what wouldst You, in Your Infinite Wisdom, have us call this thickly woven fabric with which to hold pots?”

The candles flared, the stones of the cathedral shook, the Archbishop wet himself, and a voice from the heavens boomed, “A potholder.”

And so Hildegard carried the potholder home, and gave knowledge of it unto other women, and prepared many delicious stews without burning her hands, which meant she never again said the unforgiveable zounds, which meant her husband loved her, five times a week whether she were in the mood or not, and she bore many children and had a roof over her head to protect her from the goddamned English rain, and they all lived happilyish ever after until the plague destroyed their bodies and minds.

The End.

by

Wilkinson Riling

Every game felt like a symphony to eighteen-year-old Kelvin White. The chirp of athletic shoes braking on the parquet floor. The rhythmic drumming of a dribbled basketball pounding on wood, building tension as he planned his approach to the hoop. All the while surrounded by a cacophony of whistles and whoops and thunderous applause inside the Lower Merion High School Gymnasium just outside Philadelphia where, in this orchestration, Kelvin was the conductor, leading the players down the court, directing the drive with a pass here, a pick there, finishing off with a cymbal-like crash on the basket.

The young black man's concert hall this evening was the Kobe Bryant Gymnasium named after the famous alumni. Bryant’s high school jersey banner, number thirty-three, hung from the very rafters under which Kelvin performed. Kelvin White had dreams of living to see his own number sixty-four hanging right next to it. This night’s quarter final game against Chester would see that dream realized sooner than expected, not because of his Bryant-breaking record with 2,897 points, but of something totally unforeseen.

This playoff game against Chester High School was as dramatic as any Beethoven opus. The rivalry between the two teams went back years and many passions stirred. The gym was packed to spill over with fans from both schools. In the stands things got heated as the game clock wound down on a tight score. A fight broke out in the bleachers between a group of students and a rowdy bunch of Chester supporters who had no affiliation to either school. In the melee, one of the fans, a gang banger from across town pulled a gun from his waist band. How he got past the metal detectors was a question for later; no acceptable answer was ever given.

Shots rang out followed by bedlam. A tsunami of fear caused a stampede for the exits. More people were injured by falls and being trampled than from gun fire. Still, three bullets found targets before the gun was wrestled away and the perpetrator beaten to within an inch of his life. A middle-aged woman near the top of the bleachers on the far side of the gym was struck in the arm. On the floor, a referee caught a slug in his hip. Only by the grace of God, it was said, no one died. Yet, what were the odds that in the middle of a possible game winning lay-up, the final round fired from the .45 caliber weapon would strike a young team captain down?

Kelvin White lay wounded beneath the basket unable to move, surrounded by teammates forming a protective barrier. An opposing player removed his jersey trying to stop the blood loss from the gunshot wound in Kelvin’s spine. For his part, Kelvin felt no pain. His face lay sideways on the parquet floor with Kelvin paralyzed, trying to look back at what was happening behind him, trying to remain calm. His eye locked onto the single jersey banner hanging from the rafter above. A tear slipped down his cheek onto the floor.

“I ain’t going! You can’t make me!” Kelvin shouted. Nine months had passed since the Lower Merion Mass Shooting as it was called in the media. Kelvin White, the once promising athlete with scholarships and endorsement contracts in his future, found himself a paraplegic living with his uncle in a West Philly row home. Thanks to an incredibly successful GoFundMe page they were able to remodel the house for handicapped access with an access ramp, safety bars in the bathroom and throughout, plus a pulley system to assist in transferring from bed to wheelchair. The living room was now converted into Kelvin’s bedroom. The wheelchair, too, was purchased from the donated funds. That’s not to say maneuvering within the home was easy. The two-story structure was narrow as was its entrance. That fact made it easier for Kelvin to brace himself and keep his wheelchair from moving forward as his Uncle Nate futilely pushed from behind.

“Please, Kelvin, this is your night.” Nate Gorman, his maternal uncle cajoled. Nate stepped into a parental role after his sister Rhonda, Kelvin’s mother, was incarcerated for larceny. She had written bad checks on her employer’s account to the tune of a five-figure amount. She was sentenced to five years at a Lehigh Valley Woman’s Prison. That happened two years before the tragedy. Part of Kelvin’s drive to succeed was to make sure his mother never had to steal again. Kelvin never knew his father. Nate never tried to fill that role, but a more dedicated uncle and brother you couldn’t find. “The school is honoring you.” Nate reminded him.

“You mean they’re pitying me.” Kelvin shot back. “I don’t need their pity.”

“Yes you do! You need their pity! And you need their charity! We’re barely staying afloat now with all the medical bills and lawyer fees!” Nate pulled Kelvin back into the house and spoke into his ear. “How long do you think I’d keep this house if I missed a mortgage payment? My postal salary alone won’t cut this. We need that GoFundMe money to provide you with care until the lawsuit is final. Now I’ll clean your ass everyday until hell freezes over without bitching. The least you can do is help see we both don’t end up homeless.”

Kelvin let go of the doorway lowering his head with a sigh.

N offered a simple, “Thank you.” He pushed Kelvin out toward the awaiting van and chair lift.

The crowd at the gymnasium couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. Kelvin and Nate entered from a side door. “All I Do is Win” by DJ Khaled blasted from the speakers. Applause rolled like a wave through the gym as people recognized Kelvin. Reporters from three local channels with camera crews were present. Nate had already vetoed any interviews. Principal Harold Stark guided the pair to center court where two dozen folding chairs set on a black carpet were aligned in rows. They contained Kelvin’s coaches, teammates and teachers from last season. A rectangular black drape about three feet wide hung inches off the floor lit by a single spot. A video they were to show of Kelvin’s basketball play had been nixed at the last minute and replaced with a sole high school photo, Kelvin, waist up with an ear-to-ear grin wearing his letterman jacket.

Coach Martin Devers stood at the podium to speak on the occasion. He spoke of meeting Kelvin as a freshman recruited from Our Mother of Sorrows Catholic Grade School where Kelvin was a star athlete in several sports and about how he was blown away by Kelvin’s determination and drive. He told how Kelvin’s mother explained that she named him after the temperature measuring Kelvin scale because of his inner fire—his ability to go from absolute zero bringing energy and intensity to whatever he does. The coach spent the next several minutes highlighting Kelvin’s statistical accomplishments, ending with, “…Kelvin White, number sixty-four is only the second number here at Lower Merion to be retired, thank you for honoring our school with that privilege.”

With that, the black drape was pulled aside revealing a large maroon and white banner with the block numbers “sixty-four” five feet high and crowned with the name “WHITE.” The DJ set up by the bleachers played Boys to Men’s slow torch song “The End of the Road.” The crowd listened solemnly. Kelvin watched his jersey, followed by a spotlight, ascend like a ghost. Tears began to fill his eyes. His teammate, assistant captain Earnest Stitt, could see the vibe was all wrong. He jumped from his chair toward the DJ, accidentally tilting the folding chair which smacked the floor with a crack as loud as a gunshot. Kelvin’s head shook at the sudden noise. Stitt admonished the DJ. The song quickly changed to “Motown Philly” and the crowd began to applaud as Kelvin’s number took its spot next to Kobe Bryant’s jersey banner. Still startled by the noise, Kelvin’s mind was somewhere else, he reached over to Nate. “Take me home.”

Nate leaned in. “What’s wrong?”

Kelvin shielded his face with a hand to his brow. “Get me out of here. Take me home, now. Don’t you ever bring me back here.” For Kelvin it was a bitter reminder of what he once was and believed he would never be again, a champion.

Nate could see Kelvin’s urine bag on the side of the wheelchair beginning to fill. He leapt up, pulled a 360 with Kelvin’s chair while at the same time apologizing to Principal Stark and Coach Devers for their hasty exit. The crowd watched in confusion wondering if the ceremony was over. Nate and Kelvin made for the exit. The gym doors closed behind them to a smattering of perplexed applause.

Another three months had passed. Nate, when not at work, had a neighbor check in on Kelvin. He was concerned Kelvin was showing the signs of an agoraphobic. He refused to leave the house, had to be coerced to bathe and spent his days watching television shows from the 70’s, reruns of reruns, which is how his days were beginning to feel. But the house was beginning to smell like a nursing home, and Nate was going to change that on this Saturday.

“Wake up, your going out today.” His uncle opened the living room blinds letting the sun in for the first time in months.

Kelvin shielded his eyes with both arms. “I ain’t going nowhere. There’s a Sanford and Son marathon today.”

“Either you’re going outside, or the TV is going out in the trash and Lamont can come and get it. You don’t want to test me on this.”

Kelvin peeked out from under his arms to see his uncle’s angry face. Kelvin shook his head in surrender.

An hour and a half later Uncle Nate pulled the van into a handicap space at Clark Park in West Philly. After parking, he lowered Kelvin and his wheelchair down on the lift. They entered the park and stopped. “Now what?” Kelvin grumbled.

“Now you can get yourself some exercise. I’m gonna go play some bocce ball with my friends over there.” A group of men Nate’s age were rolling colored balls across the grass in a game of bocce. Kelvin watched the group greet Nate with smiles, hugs and laughter.

“Looks like fun, why don’t you play?” The voice came from behind Kelvin. It sounded like Morgan Freeman had just eaten a stick of butter; it was deep and smooth and gentle. Kelvin spun around in his wheelchair. A black man, in his seventies, thin and lanky wearing a fedora was sitting on a green checkered folding chair by a table-high block of stone. Kelvin saw several other stone blocks with men seated apart, all playing chess. “Unless you prefer a bigger challenge.” His large hand gestured to chess pieces lined up ready for battle. “My opponent quit. He tired of losing. You ever get tired of losing?”

“No.” Kelvin spun his back to the man.

“I guess it’s hard to tire of losing if you’re too scared to get in the game in the first place.” The velvet voice mocked.

Kelvin retorted. “I never played chess before. Make it checkers and I’ll whip your skinny ass.”

“I can teach you in no time.” The man replied with confidence.

Kelvin turned and wheeled over; the man removed a chair to make space. “Samuel Simutowe. Pleased to meet you…?”

“White. Kelvin White.”

“Okay, Mr. White. Let’s start you off with the white pieces then, shall we? White gets first move.” He turned the board placing the white pieces in front of Kelvin. “Now the first thing you need to know is there are sixty-four squares on the chessboard. Thirty-two light, Thirty-two dark.”

“Sixty-four?”

“Yes, why do you have a problem with that?” Sam asked.

Kelvin thought it odd it matched his jersey number. “No.”

“Good. Now, we each have sixteen chessmen lined up for battle. Your goal is to capture my King while preventing me from capturing yours. Think you can do that?”

Kelvin pointed to the chess pieces. “Just tell me how these things move, Grady.”

Sam leaned back. “Grady? Who’s Grady?”

The man reminded Kelvin of the character in Sanford and Son. “I meant, Sam. Now show me.”

In under an hour, Kelvin had learned the rudimentary aspects of the game enough to put a smile on his face when he moved a bishop into place and firmly said, “Check.”

Sam looked at the board, indeed he was in check, and he was in trouble. His hand went to his chin as he surveyed the battle field.

Kelvin pushed. “C’mon, move.”

Sam lowered his hand to his king holding a finger on it deciding where to move.

Kelvin grew impatient. “C’mon.”

Sam took his finger off the king and pinched his black knight. He lifted it and toppled Kelvin’s white bishop. He took the piece. “Checkmate.”

With a swing of his arm Kelvin cleared the table scattering the pieces to the ground.

“Son, you’ve got to learn to lose better than that.”

“Don’t tell me about losing. I lost everything, old man.”

Sam pointed to his own head. “You didn’t lose this. I can see you lost use of your legs, for that I’m sorry.”

Kelvin snapped. “I don’t need your pity, Grady.”

“But if you lost this.” Sam pointed to his own heart. “That’s completely on you.” There was silence. “So, what do you say? Rematch?”

Kelvin tilted his head with a look of disdain. “Fine.”

Sam stood up. “Okay, then. You sit there, leave me to pick up the pieces.”

Two hours later, Nate approached a small crowd gathered around his nephew who was talking with a stranger and playing chess. Behind the spectators Nate peeked over a shoulder just in time to see Kelvin declare, “Checkmate.” Murmurs of surprised approval ricocheted within the group; money exchanged hands.

Nate stepped in. “Kelvin, what’s going on here?”

“This your son?” Sam asked Nate.

“My nephew.” He extended a hand. “Nate Gorman.”

“Pleased to meet you. I guess you can call me Grady.” He looked at Kelvin. “That was the bet, wasn’t it? You get to call me Grady if you win?”

Kelvin smiled and nodded. Nate double blinked. He hadn’t seen a smile on Kelvin in about a year.

“Nate, your nephew here is a natural born chess player. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could achieve an Elo rating of 2000. He sees the board three moves ahead. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah. He was like that on the basketball cour…” Nate cut his sentence short letting it drift into the ether. But it was too late, it still made Kelvin wince. Wishing he could take it back; Nate cleared his throat, changing the subject. “What do you mean Elo rating?”

Sam began to pack his chess pieces away. “It’s a rating system named after a Hungarian physics professor Arpad Elo, a chess master. A 2000 Elo would qualify Kelvin to join The Philadelphia Chess Club one of the most prestigious in the country. This could open him up to timed tournament play and monetary awards.” On that he folded the board and stood and shook hands with Kelvin. “Mr. White, it was a privilege.”

Kelvin backed up. “Thanks, Mr. Simutowe, but I think we’ll pass on tournaments. Unk, I want to go home now.”

Their familiar silence followed them on the way to the van. Nate spoke first, “Kelvin I didn’t mean to dredge up…”

“It’s okay, Unk. I’m just tired. Let’s come back tomorrow and hear more of what Sam has to say. At best, it’ll give me something to do.”

In the coming weeks, Sam helped Kelvin prepare to qualify for acceptance into the Philadelphia Chess Club. It required him to win club sanctioned tournaments. This included local, regional, national and invitational tourneys with an added wrinkle of needing to learn how to play timed games and how to manage the clock. Kelvin would be pitted against opponents the with highest Elo ratings in order to advance his rank quickly to gain acceptance into the prestigious club.

For the next nine months Kelvin played in seven local tournaments, five regional, traversing three states, against a total of thirty-five high ranking players each with an Elo above 1900 resulting in Kelvin achieving an Elo score of 1800, 200 shy of the required ranking of 2000. His ranking was still good enough to rate him a Class A player and procure a seat at the Invitational Chess Tournament in Atlantic City.

Nate, Kelvin and Sam loaded into the van to make the hour-long ride to the beach side resort. Their first stop was the tournament pairings board. The pairings were chosen randomly from the pool of qualifying players. At the board Sam ran a finger down the list then groaned. “Fuck. Sinclair Beaumont. What are the odds?”

Nate asked. “Who is he?”

“Just a chess master with an Elo rating of 2100.” He turned to Kelvin. “Who happens to be president of The Philadelphia Chess Club.”

“Fine. Let’s kick some ass!” Kelvin smiled but got no reaction from Sam, who understood just how badly the odds were stacked against Kelvin.

Kelvin took his place at the tournament table awaiting his opponent. Heads turned as a man entered the room and crossed the playing floor toward Kelvin. Sinclair Beaumont was a balding thirty-year-old, tall and thin with a hawkish nose tilted as if sniffing the air before him following a noxious scent. He seemed to walk on his heels while his arms had little sway to them. He sat down across from Kelvin like a marionette lowering into a chair. His accent was old money Philadelphian as if Katherine Hepburn’s voice were male. Without looking at him, he addressed Kelvin. “I understand you’re the West Philadelphian wunderkind.”

Kelvin reached a hand out to greet him that was ignored with a wave from Sinclair who had one eyebrow raised in disgust. “Yes, let’s acknowledge we’re both gentleman, but let’s not forget this is more or less a duel to the death, for I am going to kill any chance that a flash in the pan, street bred amateur, and son of a felon, like you, has of joining our prestigious club.”

"Well, fuck you too." Kelvin thought in silence.

Sinclair gestured to the official holding the lots that determine who goes first. “After you, Mr. White.” Kelvin reached into the box and pulled out a black chess piece.

Sinclair removed the white. “Looks like I shoot first.”

The game was a best of five timed match with each player under a clock and their color designation selected after each game. They were at a main table and drew a small crowd around them. Kelvin lost the first match in what seemed to be a blink of an eye. They drew for color again and once more Kelvin selected black. Game two was longer if not closer. Kelvin lasted for a time even after losing his queen. But the clock added a pressure he wasn’t used to. He was now down two games to nothing and was looking like their trip would soon come to an end. In the back of the room a gust of ocean wind pushed open a door slamming it against the wall with a bang. Kelvin shuddered. The noise was the gunshot sound all over again in his mind. Kelvin froze, now mentally paralyzed in fear.

Sinclair Beaumont leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you’d like to resign? A forfeit at this stage is quite understandable.”

Kelvin could only mouth the question. “What?”

Nate could see Kelvin's urine bag filling. He leaned down, “You okay, Kelvin? You want me to take you home?”

Sam leaned down on the other side. “It’s okay, son. There’s no shame in a withdrawal at this point. It happens all the time.”

Kelvin gathered himself, steadied his breathing. He turned to Sam, "Grady, I got this."

He reached over to the lot box. For a third time Kelvin randomly selected the black chess pieces. This gave the advantage of first move, once again, to Beaumont.

The next two games, Kelvin, playing black and despite the disadvantage of moving second, eked out both wins, stunning Beaumont and changing the momentum. Sinclair Beaumont turned to the arbiter and requested a break to use the restroom. An unusual request but not unheard of.

When Sinclair returned Kelvin noticed white flecks of powder in the corner of his flared avian nostril. The next several games were played with Sinclair making his moves in rapid succession while Kelvin tried to slow the clock to control the pace, much like he had done when playing basketball. Each one of the tie breaking games ended in stalemate. Both players were beginning to tire the frustration of tie after tie affecting them both.

After a third stalemate and before the next lot draw Sinclair spoke ominously. “Armageddon Game.”

Sam explained to Kelvin what it was. “In an Armageddon Game the “white” player or player with the white pieces, has the privilege of a full extra minute of time to make his move. In return, should the game end in yet another stalemate, the “black” player is automatically declared the winner.”

Kelvin accepted the terms. He drew the white chess piece. Sinclair smiled still confident, “It appears the privilege is yours.”

If Beaumont was expecting Kelvin to use the extra time allotted to him to slow the game, he was mistaken. Kelvin reversed strategy. Kelvin’s moves were quick, precise and ruthless. It was Sinclair Beaumont who was stumbling trying to keep pace and control his clock at the same time.

Kelvin hadn’t needed the extra time, he attacked with a blitz mentality. Once again, Beaumont took his queen, a crippling blow by all appearances. Only the queen wasn’t so much “lost” as it was sacrificed. The play matched one of the most beautiful and daring moves in chess history known as “The Immortal Game.” In 1851 Adolf Anderssen playing against Lionel Kieseritzky sacrificed his queen to deliver a decisive checkmate a few moves later. Which is just what Kelvin did.

Two moves later Kelvin stated, “Checkmate. Guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.” Backed by a confident smile.

Sinclair’s arm swept his pieces off the table and stood. “Send in your application I’ll get to it when I get to it.” His chair scraped the floor as he turned in a huff and left.

Kelvin smiled at Sam. “Grady, he’s got to learn to lose better than that.”

The ride home took forty-five minutes and was filled with tales of the day’s events and laughter. They dropped Sam off at the park. Kelvin handed him the trophy, “Sam, I want you to have this. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

Sam refused at first until he told Sam it be easier if he brought it to the park to show off. He could use it to recruit more kids into the game of chess. Sam agreed and thanked Kelvin.

Nate and Kelvin headed for home. Nate asked Kelvin why he gave the trophy away.

“I dunno. It was never really the trophy I was chasing, now was it?” With that he leaned his head against the window and let his mind drift as they rolled through the West Philly neighborhoods.

The van made its way along Girard Avenue, the trolley track catching its wheels a few times shaking the van. Kelvin shook from his deep thoughts noticing they were heading out of West Philly. “Hey, where we going?”

“I want to watch a basketball game with my nephew. Is that too much to ask?” The van headed towards Lower Merion. Kelvin protested the whole ride there.

The wheelchair lift lowered; Kelvin felt as if he were descending into a mind shaft. “Stop.” The electric whine halted, Kelvin's whine continued. “I don’t want to do this. Let’s go home.”

Nate held the lift button. “You just won your way into the Philadelphia Chess Club on a move no one had seen in a hundred years. Inside that gymnasium where your name and your number hang from the rafter. Next to Kobe Bryant’s for Chrisesakes!”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it and do the work! You can be great. You can be great at chess, you can be great at…”

Kelvin answered sarcastically, “…at basketball?”

“Within reason, Kelvin. I was going to say, ‘At life’. Now c’mon.” The lift reengaged.

Kelvin disembarked, moving slow, he wheeled himself up the pavement toward the building where he left his dreams. Nate closed up the van and caught up to Kelvin at the gym door. “Let me get that for you.” Nate opened the door and Kelvin started forward, stopping instantly.

Inside on the parquet floor a game was in progress. There was no chirp of sneakers against the smooth floor. This was a different sound. The dull skidding of rubber, the banging of metal, the drum like dribble of a ball and a group of players calling for the ball. A small crowd cheered and clapped.

Kelvin White watched ten men in wheelchairs scrambling like a boardwalk bumper car attraction back and forth, up and down the court at surprising speed, starting and stopping, passing the b-ball back and forth and shooting for the basket. A sign read “Wheelchair Basketball, Saturday Nite.”

Kelvin watched a player around his age loop under the net and toss the ball one handed behind him for a score. Family and friends in the stands cheered. It wasn't the orchestrated elegance of his high school days; now, it looked more like navigating a heavy metal mosh pit. Yet, within its chaotic rhythm, Kelvin found a familiar beat. He looked up to the roof at his jersey banner hanging next to Kobe’s, then back to the game.

Nate stepped up next to Kelvin. “I hear they have a national league, as well.”

Kelvin looked at Nate, then back once more back to the game. He was speechless.

“What is it they say in chess?” Nate paused, pretending to think, then grinned. “Your move.”

Sitting around bitching by the coffee pot I should have pissed in. Yelling about nothing while he's built like Thanksgiving stuffing. Probably gets no loving with his belly and chin so repulsing. A disgusting blob eating his bag of Dorito chips and having a cow. Talks down on others when they turn their back. He's so damn loud in the morning I think he's smoking crack. If he's not gimping around he's pimping Trump to you. Funny thing is Trump wouldn't want anything to do with him or his shitty attitude. He's lucky I'm a nice guy and don't demand some gratitude.

by Wilkinson Riling

I was eight years old when an event took place that haunts me to this day like a ghost story from childhood or a bad dream long faded but not forgotten. At times the memory of it comes back to me in a mix of sensations; visual, audible, taste and smell, but most of all, devoid of fear.

It was a sluggish summer day. Humidity kept us indoors. Mother gave my older brother and I a cookie each, sending us outside and out from underfoot. It was a chewy oatmeal cookie half the size of your face. Mother understood the art of bribery, instead of the threat of a kick in the pants, which was Dad's go to; she hit us in our weak spot, our sweet tooth.

Out we went to sit on our front porch steps and enjoy our snack, surrendering to the wet warmth of a sultry August midday filled with the sound of chittering cicadas. I was a slow eater, a nibbler, whereas my brother finished his treat in three voracious bites.

He was dusting his hands getting ready to decide what we should do next when an ear piercing screech of a noise, followed by what I can only describe as a sonic thunderclap, broke the calm, silencing the cicadas. The sound itself felt as if it warped the very air where we sat. I felt the shockwave in my stomach.

It originated one street over. My brother shot to his feet. "Accident! C'mon!" A sound like that wasn't common, certainly not one that loud, but every suburban Philly neighborhood had it's share of fender benders. This was a big one. We were off running towards the sound's origin, joining a dozen other kids and neighbors coming out from their houses to investigate. I held my cookie tight while trying to keep up with my brother.

We scampered through well traveled shortcuts, over lawns and fences, through hedges, to reach the corner at the top of the street two blocks away from our house. There, we saw a large car stalled in the middle of the street. A growing crowd beginning to obscure it. My brother and I had a gift for squeezing through any crowd to get to the front for the best views. It included shoulder taps, side turns and mastering tight spaces to arrive at the head of the pack of gawkers.

What greeted me, quite frankly, was a sight too confusing for my eight year old brain to completely absorb. Two cars had plowed into each other. The bigger car, stopped dead in the center of the intersection, I learned was a Cadillac. A black man on the chunky side, with graying top and facial hair, was being assisted out of his driver's side with the help of two people from the crowd checking to see if he was alright. He looked stunned and confused. The front end of his car had a deep dent, the hood was crunched and raised just enough to allow the release of steam from the radiator. Oil pooled on the ground.

Most of the people had their attention focused on the much smaller vehicle and seemed afraid to move. The car itself was a bright yellow Volkswagen bug, I didn't know the year. Its whole front was accordioned flat against the Cadillac. The front tires raised an inch off the ground.

I can still see the driver in my mind's eye as if it were yesterday and I will never forget her. The driver side door was open. A young woman hung out of the car sideways and upside down with her legs hooked beneath the steering column, the rest of her stretched out on the asphalt. She was dressed all in white. The kind of white I'd see on the shirts Mother picks up at the dry cleaners. It was even brighter in the summer sun. The side of the lady's head was split open, part of her blonde hair soaked dark in a puddle of blood. A nurse's hat lay a few feet away. If you took away the blood, she looked like she was asleep dreaming. She was beautiful. Her face was as calm as a sleeping angel.

This was my first experience smelling blood. I remember the copper-like tinge to it and an underlying strange sweetness. Like the sweet smell that comes from dying flowers. Much different than my cookie, for sure, which bizarrely, I was still eating staring numbly at the grotesque scene. My brother tried to pull me behind him but I shrugged him off. I was trying to understand what was happening. I was completely intrigued by this angelic nurse lying unconscious before me. I heard whispers of adults saying she was dead. I didn't know what that meant exactly. I had just a rudimentary understanding of the concept "people die." I had never been this close to a dead person. In fact, other than playing dead in games of army, my experience with death up to that point was a couple of us kids poking a dead squirrel with a stick to see if it would move.

The EMT and cops arrived and the crowd was pushed back to the sidewalk. They gently wrapped her head with a bandage, carefully lifted her to a gurney and quickly wheeled her past me to the awaiting ambulance. I heard the men discuss what hospital they should take her to, Chestnut Hill being the closest, but because of her head trauma, they decided on Jefferson in Center City. I took that as a good sign she was still alive. I wanted the angel to live. I continued to stare mesmerized with a mouthful of oatmeal cookie as they loaded her in the ambulance wondering how would I ever know what would become of her?

My brother knocked the remainder of the cookie from my hand and ordered me home. The other kids waited around to watch the tow trucks go to work. but my brother had seen enough. We took the long way, not speaking much. As we got to our front stairs I asked him if he thought she'd be okay. He shrugged, "I guess so." was all he said.

That answer wasn't enough for me. That night I added the nurse to my bedtime prayers. The next day I woke early and ran to get the morning paper from the porch. I had learned to read by the time I was six thanks to the daily and Sunday Funnies but now I was searching for something more important than Steve Canyon. I turned the pages scanning for accident reports. Deep in the paper, halfway down the first column, there was a small headline. "Mt. Airy - Car Accident - Two Injured." It went on to describe the head-on accident in which both drivers were hospitalized. A man in his fifties was sent to Chestnut Hill for a heart attack suffered after the collision. A young woman of 24 suffered a brain injury. She was a nurse, at Jefferson of all places! They said she was in something called a coma.

Yes, I knew how to read, but I didn't know what that word meant. Mother would explain it to me later. She said a coma was like a deep sleep, like Sleeping Beauty. Mother was always honest with me. She told me sometimes they wake up, sometimes they don't. She said that's why we need to be thankful for everyday we do wake up. Mother then asked me who was I talking about. I said the newspaper didn't give her name, but I could've told them it was "Angel."

I scoured the morning paper for weeks after that article, but was never to learn what became of her. Throughout my life I fantasized that if she had passed on maybe she became my guardian angel. I don't know why? She didn't know me, I didn't know her, and despite the traumatic visual burned into my memory, she left a lasting impression on me about the fragility of life. One that you never get from poking a dead squirrel with a stick.

Now I may be done poor, but I ain't stupid.

Maybe it is I don't know how to read and write, all proper, but I can make the sign of cross and my signature on paper's same as anybody else. The important part, see, is that I understand—and that, more than I let on.

When they tapped me on the street, the Mi'lady and Lord, wanted only that I's should be capable to adequately sign, with scratch marks like so, X.

In the anonymous old traditional way that signifies a living soul was present: Here.

Mi'Lord, he says emphatically, that t'aint necessary I know my spelling, I need only make that universal slash slash on that line right there. See?

Well, I says shrewdly, I don't have my specs, and this to buy me some time to look over the contractual of it, short and to the point as it is, while I sees Mi'Lord give a loving turn of the mouth to the Mi'Lady, as he pats my shoulder and says warmly the "document" signifies that I am entitled to some quick income and free meal, for a short stint, I need only X on the line below, to show that I agree to attend the funeral banquet of the honorable VIP from nth O'clock for no more than one hour or so...

so long as I partake fully in the offertory meal.

I maybe street urchin, but I weren't born yesterday.

I says, affably, where do I sign? squinting at Mi'Lady as she points with plump gilded nail. Bumbling, I make my chicken scratch, signifying anonymous witness, nameless, faceless— all ready, willing and able—to be plucked off.

The dearly departed is to be buried in a fine plot on Ackers Point, they cheers in chorus, the service painstakingly called a Plein-Air. And they lift a noble finger, over the hill just yonder, can't miss it and don't be late, as it starts in a few minutes. Ta tah!

The offertory meal I know is the supposed rightin' of wrongs indulged in by the deceased, dame or bloke. And I as human supplicant am to eat this anti-waffer so that excess Sin may be forgiven.

Twasn't enough Jesus died and rose again.

Twasn't enough the sinner went to church, for show, and tell, at Confession.

This here contract, that I can read well enough, mumbo jumbo, says I will take upon myself, this hungry body, the food and loathing that would otherwise weigh down the soul and keep it from eternal rest. The Sins worth measured in flour. I wonder something about the yeast of evil, and the unleavened, and turn to the hill.

You'll note, I signed.

My tethers, reassuring Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady that I am well qualified, needy and charitable. What they don't knows is that I have even in these rags, pockets and folds sheltering vermin, and they have overlooked, as snobbery does, the feathered cohort that perches on my shoulder.

Dismissed as dumb blackbird of a batty old lady, soon to die as well.

We arrives timely. My feathered companion's well organized socially and signals his compatriots with a few good kracks and kows.  We go to our work. I breaking bits quickly and scattering them, among bird, rat and mice. It takes a good while for anyone to catch on. Minutes, but tis enough. For us it's short work, the birds are flying in steady, five, seven, in patches, hoards altogether... Peppering the ceremony.

There is fear and a consternation.

The same Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady are rushing aghast to my seated person and shooing at the flock that's gathered.

"What the Devil are you doing?! a person must eat this food, not crows!!!"

I know, and I spread my open hands broad and empty...

Like I've no idea what's going on here...

Then I make a show of picking my yellow jagged teeth with a sharp black quill.

I says: "Maybe somebody with better tooth or bigger stomach could take over... " ?

The flock, heavy with feed, rises, menacing beaks and blimp bellies. And Mi'Lady shrieks, Mi'Lord grabs his gun to stop the offertory from getting away...

She is sobbing: "But... We don't eat crow, we don't eat crow...!"

I know.

while widows weep by the old Saint Francis a procession of dark drags in red lipstick kick up the dust from Katrina

powdering their twisted faces with narcolepsy and narcotics

laced viagra and voodoo

inside there is a silent hum

of hallelujah and warm bread

stacked in cold cardboard boxes

stained glass and suicide

the pity alters the ions in the air as

the thick fingers of the priest

pull at his collar as he prays

silently and struggles to breathe

choking on the thick hypocrisy

in the hot Louisiana air

the line will end at the red string

and all of the marchers will fall

like the fools they are

and the widows will fix

another seat for the wounded

at the old Saint Francis on State street

Parkinsons is not sweet

it's not sour, salty or bitter

it's "je ne sais quoi"

it creeps up on you

when you least expect,

taking center stage

(as usual)

you tame it --

the latest yoga move

brilliant acupuncturist

needlework on

body, corpse.

Parky grabs ahold

and doesn't let

go. sticks around

like Ripley. steals your

money, heart and soul

if you let it.

one can be cocky

and say, I've got this

under

control.

Ha. it surprises you with

a new glitch --

slooooooow movement or

unliveable

weakness,

unlovable disposition

Determined to

win this pre ordained

conflict-

regressive future

acceptance is the way

forward BUT

the meds may kill me.

April 15, 2024

January vapes with illegally flavored vape pens. She is on the outskirts, looking in. She is the serial killer in the corn field, luring you to your death in a makeshift hole in the ground. January might in fact be that hole in the ground, and not the killer herself - but you wouldn't know; you're already six feet underground.

January is the person at the party who both talks too much and also says nothing of substance, she licks a chip and then puts it back in the bowl. She has no redeeming qualities. January doesn't leave a tip for the bartender and cuts people off in traffic who were going to speed limit. She enjoys the dark, and being alone, and when you ask her if that's horrible, she says, "that is reality."

But January goes deeper. She gets in your head. At the lunch table, she might stare too long at what you're eating, and then look at your body too closely. She gossips. She is a nihilist. She hates everyone. She hates her life. Most of all - she hates you.

January is there with you when you make decisions, like what to say in front of important people at work. She is anxiety, and madness, and shuts you down, turns you off, is dead inside, and makes you wish you were dead, too.

January sits on the stoop outside, enjoying her illegal vape pen, when I come over to sit next to her. I'm drawn to her - I have to be. January is necessary to live through. She is the first of twelve months. She is the first roadblock. She is the first challenge.

Today, January talks. She talks like this: YOU ARE A PIECE OF SHIT YOU ARE A WASTE OF SPACE YOU ARE NOTHING EVERYONE HATES YOU YOU SHOULD DIE RIGHT NOW, RIGHT HERE, BECAUSE YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE SHIT EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING.

I'm not a screamer, so I internalize that voice. I make it my own.

Unfortunately for me, January leads as the first month, which means that mantra is stuck in my head all year.

Also unfortunately for me, I am an anxious person who believes every word January says. I am just short of asking for a puff of her vape pen.

I make it better by distancing myself. Boundaries, as they say. Sometimes her voice is low, never quite silenced, but low like a soft whistle.

She is a killer, kind of like the goddess of death - and I am here, every year, ready with my shovel, to be buried six feet underground.