Until August 1st, that is.

Yes, we need a vacation, too.

See you August 1 with lots of great stories and poems and great authors.

James Kowalczyk was born and raised in Brooklyn but now lives in Northern California with his wife, two daughters, and four cats. He teaches English at both the high school and college levels. His work has been published in print as well as online

Hungry

The truck’s crusher-mouth rotated its blades chomping, debris before swallowing the bone and cartilage it had already picked up from the neighborhood butcher shops.The driver rolled the last drum of the day off the curb and hoisted it into the churning debris when suddenly his apron began to tug at his neck. He tried to free himself.

He didn’t even get a chance to scream.

Scott Hogan is a Math and Physics teacher in a public high school.

As Real as It Gets

It was the start of a new school year.  I sat next to the new chemistry teacher, Dr. Sayid.  He was in his early 60’s, with gray hair, about 5 and a half ft. tall.  I had been at the school for 4 years and this was the 4^th chemistry teacher in that time—a new one each year.

The first one was enormously overweight and died in the middle of the year.  His name was Mr. Vickers.  He was in a wheelchair most of the time.  The 2^nd one was named Mr. Bond.  He had long hair and a braided ponytail and lived by himself.  He was from South Carolina and had a southern accent.  He was an odd bird, showing off pictures of his pet monkey to students.  The third one was Mr. Flowmax, an African American man in his late 30’s.  He had worked in boarding schools and considered himself a superior human being.  His method of communication was sarcasm, as he acted above everyone else.  He sat in his room at lunch and played chess by himself.  He once asked me if I had any heroes, and I did not know what he meant.  “Didn’t you watch Hogan’s Heroes on TV?” he asked me.  Then he gave me a sarcastic laugh and said “that was before my time.”  I never spoke more than 2 sentences to him the entire year.  Students hated him.

Dr. Sayid was different.  He was from Egypt, soft-spoken, with a distinct hard-to-understand accent.  He had worked for the Department of Water Quality in Arizona and also worked in an inner city high school teaching chemistry for several years.  He had a doctorate in environmental studies from University of Arizona.  Kind and deeply knowledgeable about chemistry, he was a bit of a loner, eating lunch by himself in his room each day.

The first 2 weeks of school I visited his classroom each day, in the morning and after school.  He was teaching juniors and seniors in AP and Honors Chemistry classes.  He had a list of math problems I borrowed for bell work.  My favorite was this one—“If 20 mits equal 1 erb, 1 satz equals 2 levs, and 10 erbs equal 1 satz, how many mits are equivalent to 5 levs?”  He complained each day that his lab lacked the proper equipment; it had only 8 glass beakers, some old triple beam balances and a handful of sensors.  In his quiet way, he was discouraged about the paltry chemistry supplies.  I noticed he was using handouts from modeling chemistry, a fancy pedagogy, and I told him it might be too hard for the students, but he didn’t listen.

The teacher who ran the STEM Club last year had left and I volunteered to run this year’s STEM Club along with Dr. Sayid.  We had a banner made and posted it in my classroom.  Announcements were made over the intercom for our Tuesday lunch time meetings.  We got 5 students to attend.  We met for three Tuesdays.  He told the students “there is a difference between struggling and not trying!” as we tried to motivate them to design experiments.  We discussed events students would like to do at our district STEM CON festival in February.

The next day, Wednesday, the 3^rd week of school, I was sitting next to Dr. Sayid in our PLC meeting.  He looked worried and agitated but said nothing.  He was called to the principal’s office and walked out of the room.

That was the last I saw of him.  By the middle of the day, he had quit.  I learned this when a few new students were transferred into my 4^th period class.  His classes had been disbanded and all his students were sent to other teacher’s classrooms.  No longer would there by AP Chemistry or Honors Chemistry.

No one knew what happened.  His name is still posted on the door, but the room itself is locked and he will not be replaced.  I went in to see the principal on Friday of that same week to inquire about what happened to Dr. Sayid and she told me “For privacy reasons I can’t talk about it, but Dr. Sayid is no longer here.”  Administration never said a word to any of us about what had happened.

A few days later at lunch, I asked Mitch, an anatomy teacher, if he knew anything about Mohamed’s leaving the school. He had heard rumors that Dr. Mohamed did not feel respected or supported at the school.  He had heard that Dr. Sayid had gotten into an argument with one of his students who was making fun of his last name and calling him a “crazy Muslim” and a “terrorist.”  Students had apparently made fun of his accent with his soft-spoken, hard to understand manner of speech.  They had complained to their parents and parents called for a meeting with the principal.  The final straw was a parent that had yelled at Dr. Sayid in a meeting with the principal “You can’t teach and my daughter can’t understand you”.  That meeting was on Wednesday, his last day, the very day he left the PLC.

Either way, Dr. Sayid is gone.  The students had won.  Once they started complaining and making fun of him, once the disrespect took its course, it only took the first 3 weeks of school to get to him and he was gone.  How quickly we can be flushed down the toilet as teachers—and no one standing up for us.  Despite all his qualifications, the kids had gotten to him with their disrespect.  There were a few ways he could fight back—join the teacher’s union or hire a lawyer–but Dr. Mohammed did not fight back at all—he just quit and walked away.

I found his home address on the web at “people finder” and sent him a card with a note, telling him we were concerned about him and what happened and gave him an email address to get in touch.

It is a week later now and I have not heard anything from him.  As of now, no one is talking about him and it’s as if he was never here.

As a follow up to this story, today the tech came into my room looking for Dr. Mohamed and wanted to get his laptop.  I told him I had not seen him since last Wednesday.  The tech had been told by the principal’s secretary that Dr. Sayid had given his 2 week notice and was around campus.  This was completely false information.  My sense is that is what administration was telling parents or anyone who asked, to protect themselves.

By chance I went into the chemistry room yesterday and found this note on the desk dated August 29, 2018:

Fulton High Chemistry Parents:

Due to unforeseen circumstances Dr. Mohammed will no longer be teaching at Fulton High School.  Today, August 29, we met with all students and moved them to other chemistry classes or other upper level science classes of their choosing.

We are sorry for any inconvenience, please call us if you have any questions.

Administration

Scott Hogan 9/7/18

Clare Chu was raised in Malta and England, and has adopted Los Angeles as her home. She is an art curator, dealer, lecturer and writer who has authored and published twelve books and numerous academic articles on Asian art. This year she was a participant in San Miguel Poetry Week. Her poetry is featured in a continuing collaboration with Hong Kong-based calligraphic and landscape painter Hugh Moss, in which poet and artist expand traditional media boundaries. Her poetry is published or is forthcoming in The Comstock Review, The Esthetic Apostle, The Raw Art Review, Cathexis Northwest Press and 2River View.

How to Fry Okra

Last weekend, Sabiqah couldn’t gather her words,
reluctant to admit she was homeless again,
their ‘Welcome’ mat covered by a blanket of ash,

that after his third stroke, her husband Frank
came home from the hospital
with a hankering for fried okra,
just like his MeeMaw made,

that she refused him,
because she was angry he’d been back to hospital,
because in Bangladesh she’d always made Dharosh Bhaji,
because this was the South — his home,

that Frank was petulant with her,
went downstairs to the empty apartment
where her mother, lately converted, newly passed,
had lain for a week in the scorching heat,

that he fried a skillet of okra,
dipped in buttermilk, dredged in cornmeal,
managed to set the pan alight,
poured water on flaming peanut oil,

and with enthusiasm — or so it seemed to Sabiqah —
burnt their house down in its entirety.

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and. was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To read more of his work, Google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA. 

Huge Stone

I passed a huge kidney stone and brought it in for my doctor to have analyzed. When I took it out of the envelope in which I had placed it, his eyes widened. He said: That came out of you? He brought in all the other doctors in his practice, all the nurses and receptionists, even the insurance lady, to show them. No one had ever seen a kidney stone that big.

You are an American Hero, my doctor said. He had previously been a medic in the Army. Any other man would have been brought to his knees in pain, but not you. For you, it was only discomfort.

I said: No, sir. You may not remember, but both my parents were mentally ill. I became used to bearing pain. Then, in the war, I became a prisoner and their torturers had their way with me. You think a lousy kidney stone can perturb me?

He saluted, and all the employees went back to their duties. The sexiest of the nurses stopped on her way out and secretly handed me a card with her name and phone number on it.

Bryan Edenfield was born in Arizona but has lived in Seattle since 2007. He was the founder and director of the small press and literary arts organization, Babel/Salvage. He hosted and curated the Glossophonic Showcase and the Ogopogo Performance Series. His writing has most recently been published in Mantra Review, Meekling Review, Dryland, and Plinth. He is currently one of the Jack Straw Writers for 2018 and the host of the Hollow Earth Radio program, Glossophonics.

Graffiti: 

D. M. Kerr is the writing name of a Canadian writer currently living and working in Singapore, where he teaches game design and business. His work has been published in Blank Spaces, Eyedrum Periodically and Birch Gang Review. He can’t afford to eat at Scully’s, not with the money they pay teachers these days.

“I’ll book a late lunch,” Verlane said, “at Scully’s.” He was proud of Scully’s, of its wide white plates, white cloth napkins, burnished cutlery and haute cuisine. Late lunch was even more of a delight there: by a curious alignment, sunlight reflected off the surrounding office towers to bathe its stained-glass roof, and, through it, the tablecloths, the pale oak floor and the conversation of its patrons with a lambent rosy hue.

“I’m downtown,” Scorea had just told him, over the phone, “St. Michaels. My Gynie checkup should be finished by one. Can we do lunch?”

Verlane and Scorea had little chance to see each other after she and Jake had moved to the suburbs. Verlane had chosen to stay in the city, close enough to their mother that he could check up on her regularly. The money he saved from not owning a car he spent on expensive places like this.

Even with the sunlight, Scully’s was not busy in the early afternoon. They got a good table. “Try the sliced black pepper ham,” Verlane told Scorea. “It’s delicious.”

Scorea smiled. “I’ll take a salad instead.”

They didn’t talk much, even after the waiter delivered their choices. Their sibling relationship was like that. It needed only the occasional, innocuous question to add a bit of flavor to the arrhythmic background ambience of the fine restaurant.

But that ambience was suddenly pierced by the primal, anguished wail of a child: “Mooommmeeeeeee!” The “eeee” part of the wail, a sentence in itself, spoke of pride injured beyond repair. “I want! Now!”

The patrons of Scully’s were too polite to break their chatter. Verlaine glanced up once, as he continued to cut the slices of his ham. Scorea didn’t appear to have heard: she was moving her fork through her salad to pick out the less exotic bits.

The cry had come from behind Verlane, close enough that he could hear the woman’s taut, whispered response: “Graham, if you don’t shut up right now, I’m never taking you downtown again.”

The boy responded with another deeper wail.

He’s got her now, Verlane thought. She’s made a threat she can’t carry out, and he knows it.

“Here-” the mother said, angrily. Perhaps something was passed over, Verlane didn’t know, but the boy’s wails subsided immediately into sniffles. The chatter, which had by now, in fact, paused, like musicians waiting out an impromptu solo, returned to its original arrhythmia.

Verlane looked over at his sister. She had not paused plowing the greens of her salad bowl. The sharp lines of her face were beginning to soften. A glow of country freshness radiated from her cheeks.

O Scoreana! he thought. What will your child be like? Will you and Jake cocoon him in your house? What idle threats will you make when your children turn public places into weapons against you? What negotiations will you try, and fail?

Scorea raised her head, as if in response to his questions, and smiled gently. But she wasn’t smiling at him. Her eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. Verlane heard the squeak of stroller wheels on the oak floor, and the faint whimper a child makes when its head is nestled somewhere warm.

“He’s so cute,” Scorea said.

Pratibha is the editor of The Literary Nest. Her poems appear in Plath Poetry Project, Ink & Nebula, Foliate Oak, The Lake, miller’s pond poetry, Akitsu Quarterly, Letters to the World: Poems from the Wom-Po Listserv, and other literary magazines.

At This Very Moment

At this very moment
Someone is taking her last breath
I should be thankful I only have
a twisted knot in my heart
and not bullet in my head
or a shrapnel from a bomb blast
I will take another breath and yet another
until the knot becomes
gnarled beyond repair
and the smile on my face
becomes the witch’s crackle

Night Snowfall

night snowfall
a yellow porchlight
kindling hope

Lauren White currently resides in Orlando, Florida and is a full-time engineer. She writes poetry on the side as a therapeutic outlet. For more writing samples, follow her blog at https://hellolaurentms.com.

The Winds

looking at my lone
reflection and feet in the puddles
in the morning hours
hail cab to next adventure
on the fickle winds of time

Out at Night

Riding my bike through
New York night shimmers and glows
People watching to
My heart’s content oh
How the freaks come out at night

In the Right Light

In the right light,
No one notices anything
The shadows run away
to play at the edge of perception
In the right light,
I am resplendent
You look through my wild eyes
Both glorious and glistening
But they see through you
Your armor is dull
You are charmless
In the right light,
Blindness is our friend
We relish our ignorance
When the shadows tire of their play
The mind’s eye can see again!
Our fear is realized
The magic was a trick of the light