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.

M.E. Proctor worked as a communication professional and freelance journalist. After forays into SF, she’s currently working on a series of contemporary detective novels.

One Second Venom

There isn’t much to do for entertainment on moon base Alecto. Yes, I know. You’re going to say that I’m an ungrateful jerk, that with free access to all the OBS ever invented complaining about the lack of entertainment is like complaining about the booze at a party with an open bar. The point is Out of Body Simulation is what I do for a living, every single damn day. To say that it doesn’t give me a kick anymore is a huge understatement. When I disconnect from work I don’t feel like plugging myself back in, even if it’s to pretend going down Niagara Falls in a barrel. The operative word is Pretend. As our team shrink, Doctor Ling, is fond to say, “Humans are wired to do things.” What he means is that you cannot happily fool your brain all the time or for a very long time. That’s why Roger, our boss, has taken up quilting. It was a little surprising, frankly, but who am I to decree that some hobbies are better than others? We’re not making fun of Roger, we understand what drives him. Besides Roger is built like a tank and you don’t cross a tank. Anyway, I didn’t learn crochet or needlepoint, I learned fire breathing.

Why? You ask. Isn’t it dangerous? Yes, it is, especially if you don’t know what you’re doing, like spitting whisky on a flame, that kind of thing. Idiots have set themselves on fire that way. The alcohol in their blood contributed as much as the alcohol that hit the flame. I have completely given up drinking. Fire breathing is a very healthy pastime. I recommend it.

Anyway, I was entertaining my colleagues in the rec room one evening last week when a guy I’d never seen before heckled me. He didn’t call me a charlatan, not exactly, but he dismissed my accomplishments and he was extremely rude. My kind of fire was nothing according to him; it was an illusion, a cheap trick. I wasn’t really breathing fire–of course I wasn’t, I never pretended to be the Son of the Dragon or such nonsense. Moreover, he said, I didn’t know what a real burn felt like. I offered to show him my blisters. I had painful ones on my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I had been experimenting with fire eating lately, feeling I had to beef up my act to keep myself and my audience interested. That slowed down my critic but not for long. The guy was persistent. His argument was that I could never stand real burning pain because the worst burn was not from flames but from food. I thought my colleagues would laugh him out of the room but Doctor Ling, of all people, came to his rescue. Our resident scientist, it turned out, had personal and painful knowledge of very hot peppers. A variety from his village in the Himalayas had a lethal reputation, its colorful name–roughly translated from dialect–was One Second Venom. Doctor Ling had not tried it; he had tasted a tiny sliver of Ten Seconds Venom, and that had been more than enough to put him out of commission for a week.

I’m sure you guessed what happened next. I couldn’t refuse the challenge.

This morning the Earth shuttle delivered a crate to Doctor Ling. It contained a dozen peppers. Two would have sufficed. The ominous vegetables are displayed in a refrigerated glass case in the rec room. They are red and ugly, covered with warts, and perfect stand-ins for the toads in the witch’s brew. All the employees of the base have paid their respects and contacted their bookies. I am considered the favorite, by a pepper seed.

The rec room is too small to hold everybody and the techs have hauled in the recording equipment used once a year for the official State of Alecto address. Rumor has it that interest in our little contest has gone galactic. I feel like a boxer about to enter the ring. I have an entourage of supporters and groupies. Roger gave me a cape he designed for the occasion. It features a plump pepper on a background of flames with the caption Fire Inside. It is inspirational. I’m moved. The entire medical team is on standby, oxygen masks and defibrillators at the ready. They might need hoses and fire extinguishers too. My opponent is a little green and sweating profusely. I know I don’t look much better, even if the odds favor me.

We take our seats at the table set on the podium and Micaela, the cute engineer from Surface Ops, brings the poisonous plants and several gallons of milk. Two large metal buckets are under the table for emergency relief. The audience falls silent. Doctor Ling, the referee, makes the official introductions. I shake hands with Gustav, my opponent, and there we go.

I bite only once and swallow immediately. The sensation is pure horror. Fire inside, indeed. My entire face goes numb and a long red-hot iron spear slashes my throat and everything below down to my knees. Gustav was right. This is worse than a rocket fuel mouthwash with a side of nitro. Give me my blisters anytime. I love my blessed blisters! I am vaguely aware of a nurse prying my mouth open to pour a tidal wave of milk down my throat. After that everything goes dark because my head is in the bucket.

#

Doctor Ling says I will be fine because I got rid of everything. He credits this miracle to my training as a fire breather. I apparently have a remarkable gag reflex. Gustav, poor slob, is not so lucky. He’s in the hospital wing, on an IV drip. The prognosis is bleak. Specialists in internal medicine are monitoring Gustav’s plumbing. He’s already famous—the only man who ever swallowed a whole One Second Venom. Me? I’ve taken up origami.

With degrees in physics and chemistry, Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 30 years. His novel, short stories, and poems are works still defining his style. He lives in 1974, has been married for 26 years, and collects occupations (the current tally is 96).

This Should Never Happen

It is Saturday and on Saturdays, I go to see Karen.  Today is her 67^th birthday.  I am bringing her favorite desert (red velvet cupcake), but no candles.  The home Karen lives in does not permit any fire source (safety issues).

Karen began slipping away from me when she turned 62.  Her doctor says her Alzheimer’s is progressing rapidly and her time is short.  I will have to schedule as many days as I can between now and her final day to make the most of the time we have together.

Sometimes I bring the grandkids with me.  It was easier when they were little and she still remembered details about each of their lives.  However, as they grew, they noticed their grandmother making mistakes.  At first, it was simple things.  She mixed up the names of the boys.  She forgot about Lucy’s (her granddaughter) school play.  They starting asking the embarrassing questions about Karen and then asked embarrassing questions in front of Karen.

I asked my brother and sister if they wanted to come see Karen.  They told me this was solely my job.  I know this sounds hurtful, but just like the grandkids, they also have their own life.

When I am with Karen, I take my time to make sure she is comfortable.  I have heard horror stories about these types of homes.  Years ago, I worked for the state as an inspector.  I no longer have any authority, but I still am keenly aware of the details that will make her remaining days as comfortable as possible.

Karen talks with me, not with a parent-to-child bond, but more of a friend-to-friend ease that only time can cement.  I may have to reintroduce myself each time I come to visit, but her eyes sparkle when she realizes I am someone who cares.

If only those eyes would sparkle if she could recognize me.

That was unfair of me to even utter that.

I have no right to make even the slightest demands upon her.  She didn’t ask for her lot in life.  She didn’t do anything wrong to deserve this decay.  My Karen deserves so much more than what life has offered.

The orderly pokes his head in to give me the two minute warning.  Visiting hours go by so fast.  I tell Karen I will return again next Saturday morning.  She just smiles the smile I always remembered her having.  Her smile is the same smile her mother had when we met 68 years ago.

Karen doesn’t remember that story of how her mother and I first met.

So, I will remember it for the both of us.

Dan has an MS Degree in Education. He is the author of three poetry Chapbooks, and a book of fiction titled Second Stories.

Shovels

I tell the salesclerk I’m just looking, and like any valued host he says, take your time.  You know where to find me. By the way, we have more coming in next week.

I think, “What a good steward.”

The shovels are all stacked in their designated boxes, row, one next to the other, diverse. Some reveal smooth hickory handles from the Richland Company, in Arkansas. Others disclose fiberglass handles, manufactured in Bristol Virginia, yellow and orange. They’re a few short shovels presenting grip handled ends, for a more confident fit, purpose, maybe ambition. The hardware shop boasts square shovels too, for down under the cold, one painted black for trenches that narrow, two that seem serious about shoveling deep snow, with names like Ames, Seymour, and Bond.

Most designed for all sorts of depth, width, and length of what was whole, in advance of shoveling any specification or design of hole. All their resumes nearly perfect, light use, all with warranties ensuring long life or replacement if broken.

Before backhoes, shovels boasted a celebrated reputation, more dignified.  In their heyday, they buried the strong, the fragile, even children. Designated duties were somber, yet renowned, performed to honor, often cause for literary mention in poems and novels.

Most contemporary shovels are designed for vocations in mind, less occupation, mainly for renewal as seen in the hardware stores of spring. Chores include the planting of carrots, tomatoes, maybe corn, maybe fill a few post holes.

Or perhaps for digging up the past, so curious children can dream big, to dig clear to China through a pile of sandy loam, or if very lucky, discover the tip of a devil’s horn. 

With time, it’s difficult to keep the past covered up, like the real reason for my enthusiastic shoveling, chase for imaginary discovery, so mother could speak to the Chaplin, alone.

In the Civil War, they buried soldiers, and slaves, and elbows and legs, and stallions in fields where fifes played Dixie and drums beat Yankee Doodle Dandy, both instruments loved and hated. In World War two, at Normandy, they buried the honorable, where each spring locals swear not to stare at the hills, because the yellow yarrow will blind you like sun. And in Vietnam they dug foxholes for G.I.’s who lay in a fetus posture, crazed and low through the dawns early light, begging for mother.

As I fix my eyes on the shovels they begin to dim, as a string of fluorescent lights click, switch off, then out, then row, after row, after row, the way the November sentinel moon zigzags and snaps through the tall gaps in the stand of shaky Sycamore, at Arlington Cemetery.  Grave row lights switch off, dim, row after row, this way the dead can rest in the dark, not anxious to close a hardware store, to go home with their family. So can they dream, while I do the math of how many shovels that wait their throw will it take to back fill the craters that pock the moon?