Phebe Jewell lives in the Pacific Northwest. When she’s not writing, she can be found walking her dog in the woods.

Crosswalk

“I’ve always wanted to meet an angel,” she helps me to my feet.

One hand in hers, I stand and look down at broken glass littering the street. I must get a broom. No one should be hurt because of me. Her hands are small, but strong. Her eyes meet mine. I could stand on this crosswalk forever, holding her hand. She found me. Knows me. 

“Cmon, Gabriel,” tugging me toward the sidewalk. “The light’s gonna change any second now.”

“But the glass,” I point to the shards at our feet. Even angels drop things when they’re in a hurry.

Pulling at my tee shirt, “Cmon.”

I can’t move. The glass is teeth knocked out of the mouth of the sky. I must stay with the pieces until I can put them back together. The sidewalk is crowded with people looking down. I want to tell them the sky is blue, the earth is round, that we are air, but my voice is broken.
            “Move, asshole!” a large man shouts from his truck, hand on the horn as he slows into a right turn. Speeding uphill, he leans out the window and gives me the finger.  Bits of glass caught in his tire treads catch sun and wink at me.

I reach for her, but she’s gone. 

Edwin Litts, a Schenectady native, lives with his wife, two sons, guinea pig, and cat.  An avid runner, he recently began writing and has been published online with Matter Press.  An Army veteran, Ed received an M.S. Ed. Degree from The College Of Saint Rose

Doctor Calm

         I)     Fret and Scurry     (Find new Doctor)

Toxic world, hazardous too, want to live, must stay cool.

According to my wife it is hard to find a good Doctor, “Most won’t take on any patients new.”  If you do get one though, he’ll be available… through and through.

A good Doctor never panics, always is cool, with that reassuring smile  forever emits,   “May I help you?”

When my previous Doctor retired, his office sent me the news.  In that letter were two  candidates;  I must now choose.

From addresses on that page polar opposites  appeared.  One within the newer suburb of town,  the other, older blocks feared.  Probably, brashly dressed, young and new, versus  that second;  a seasoned and saged tried and true.   Experience  is valued,  we always knew.

Parking near that littered curb,  up creaky paint-chipped steps I move.  Hoping this practiced Doctor will have that smile,  and convincingly greet,  “May I help you?”

        
II)     Repose and Happy     (found new Doctor)

With the welcome sight of that old-fashioned waiting room, in enters the grey-templed Doctor, white coat starched and cleaned.  When I saw him, of course I gleamed.  

I knew;  thankful, our healthy Doctor-patient relationship grew.  A good Doctor never  panics,  always is cool, with those words we rely on,  paternally inquires, “May I help you?”

He maintains that ability to turn insurmountable mountains  of medical fears and shrills into just everyday and ordinary ho-hum ant hills.

Always enlightens too,  I learn each symptom is a temporary inconvenience; nothing major requiring medical research.  “Phewwh!”

A good Doctor of course reassures.  When you find yourself in the hospital,  hopefully there is  one on all tours. 

His  optimisim lowers blood pressure be told.  I’m convinced he could do that for each patient on the globe.   Calming the masses  could put world strife on hold! 

Why can’t all physicians be like my Doctor?   I’m thinking  you met that gifted one Pure. Where do these  super helpers  come from?  I wonder who  their special old-world parents were.   Generations have benefited from  weathered, steady  hands on  mother earth’s  tiller,  Sure! 

A  good Doctor never panics, always is cool, with predictable smiles, forever  assuages , “May I help you?” 

Once more wall charts and decanters of cotton ball,  another year later that anxious lull.   Approaching steps on the floor, now that knock on examining room door.  Time to face those results he will deliver, always will be his support in my  quiver.

         III)     Fret and Scurry repeated     (Find new Doctor)

Now his fully grey hair confirms rumors he may be retiring by next time.   Concerned, do I have just one more heavenly “May I help you?  chime?

He opens your file to familiarize himself with your needs.   He whispers aloud last year’s notes:  “In good health and 151 pounds, it reads.”

“Oh no Doctor, I must have been 171 pounds.  I have not been 151 since my high school  days  back in the sixties.  Perhaps your assistant made an inadvertent pencil slight, she have might?”

A  grimace fearful of persecution past loudly spittles out, “NO!,  YOU WERE 151!”  His words feel like a ton.  Like a father to me, I am the scolded son.

Oh, what I saw!  I would never think about tarnishing his ancestor-valued legacy.   Epiphany strikes again;  (d)octor is human afterall. 

Oh my!,   A hopeful young world must never hear….Perhaps there are too few heroes near.  A good Doctor never panics and always is cool.  His predictable smile teach all to say,  “May I help  you?”

Toxic world, hazardous too, have to live,  must stay cool.

Nancy takes writing seriously, attending workshops facilitated by published authors such as Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, Bret Anthony Johnston, Diana Wagman, and Dennis Palumbo. In her day job, she is a consultant, writing and editing internal communication for businesses, which has little to do with the her four completed novels, but a lot to do with the discipline of and satisfaction received from writing.

Morning Kill

One shot from Raid meant to kill flying insects and the spider rappels along a radial of his web, manufactures another filament (it should be his last), and plummets towards the rosemary hedge like a shimmering bauble from a shattered chandelier.

Incensed, he struggles under the weight of chemicals, beads clinging to flaying legs glistening in the backdrop of the sun. I appreciate his efforts as he fights to hold onto the thread, to life, greased as they both are with a compound of Permethrin and d-Trans Allethrin.

His intake of oxygen, now surely laborious, is wasted on appendages extending and retracting against the still air. I blast him again, watch with respect, imagine the decisions he must make, the synapses of his multiple brains strategically positioned in all those joints, snapping. To continue the silent churning, or to drop further into the asylum of the hedge. Is he allowed to know this option exists, or does he still desire the sanctuary of his web, sparkling and alluring like a thousand diamonds on a Tiffany necklace?

Another discharge of toxic ingredients and he grows still. I move in for a closer inspection, my hand solid on the gate, and blow on his sleek body. He rotates, bulb-like, star-like, bulb-like, star-like, his legs limp or stiff, impossible to determine. I deliver a final blast, satisfied, and place the can on the brick walkway where viscous dollops of the lethal ingredients, the size of inconsequential coins from third world countries, have assembled.

I go through the house to the garage to retrieve the broom. Approaching the gate with the sun now to my back, the web is invisible and thus was impossible to see when I first passed through. How easy our roles could’ve been reversed, I the victim, the spider the aggressor, had I not earlier turned, looked into the late morning sun that at that angle revealed the web.

He moves again, and I imagine he’s played possum, staring down the offending nozzle of Raid Flying Insect Spray intended for the common gnat, willing himself to not breathe, jubilant once I abandoned the can. He couldn’t know about the broom, and its fatal arching sweep that separates him from his web, pulling him to the brick, the bristles impaling him, dissembling his body.

I walk through the garage and house a second time, reach the gate, the sun again the back drop, to admire the web, still intact, twinkling under its noxious shroud before consigning it to the shrubs and indifferent brick, never to allow another spider to take residence.

I hide the can of Raid behind the staked “Welcome” sign. Guests will arrive in eight hours.

What the Spider Sees

One shot from Raid and I rappel along a radial of my web, expertly manufacture another filament (less flawless this time), and plummet towards the rosemary hedge. Coated in toxins, I look like a shimmering bauble from a shattered chandelier.

I allow myself a brief and fond memory of that web I built after scuttling indoors to escape last winter’s rains. I deflowered her newly cleaned crystal prisms floating over a shrewdly curated table setting, and escaped as she screamed in protest.

This time, I need to remember not to breathe.

I struggle under the weight of chemical beads clinging to flaying legs. I’m incensed as I make every effort to hold onto the thread and my life, greased as they both are with whatever, exactly, that shit is.

My laborious intake of oxygen is wasted on appendages extending and retracting against the still air. This is not good. Yet the synapses of my multiple brains homesteading all my joints are still snapping. I waste no time deliberating her motivations or imagining the decisions she must make.

I can’t afford to be shortsighted. To continue the silent churning, or to drop further into the asylum of the hedge, those are my options. Screw the sanctuary of my web, sparkling and alluring like a thousand diamonds on one of her Tiffany necklaces.

I tuck and curl.

Another discharge of toxic ingredients and I grow still, a lesson learned from watching possums. She moves in for a closer inspection, her hand solid on the gate. She blows on my sleek body. I rotate, bulb-like, star-like, bulb-like, star-like, my legs limp or stiff, impossible for her to determine. Confused, she delivers, hopefully, her final blast.

Yes, she is satisfied. She places the can on the brick walkway where viscous dollops of the lethal ingredients, the size of bird poo, have assembled.

She retreats to the house. A beat or two and she exits the garage with a broom. This is not good. Had she approached the gate with the sun to her back, my web would have been invisible, impossible to see when she first passed through. How easy our roles might have reversed, I the aggressor, she the victim. What had made her turn earlier, look into the late morning sun that at that angle revealed my web?

No time for idle contemplation. I move again, newly incensed with the realization she used Raid Flying Insect Spray intended for common gnats on me. I could have stared down the offending nozzle, jubilant once she abandoned the can.

But the broom? I couldn’t have known about the broom, and its fatal arching sweep that now separates me from that isolated filament. The bristles harbor the potential to impale, to dissemble.

Screw her. I ball up again, tumble about in the thicket of bristles, roll into the rosemary until she claims victory.

She walks through the garage and house a second time, returns to the gate, the sun again the back drop. She pauses to admire my web, still remarkably intact, twinkling under its noxious shroud before she consigns it to the shrubs and indifferent brick.

She hides the can of Raid behind the staked “Welcome” sign. An invitation for my return.