Breath & Shadow

The Dove By Todd Hanks

The salt spray of her kiss stung his ocean and

wind-burned lips softly, like first hunger pains of a fast.

How long did that summer day's kiss last?

The seconds and centuries of the ocean were wrapped

like wet wind around him. That day white sails scissored

waves like skirting glances.

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Decision At World’s End by L.A. Christensen

I jam the interplanetary comm link, belatedly realizing the equipment's upgrade means no
button and my finger slips along the touch screen.

“Hello, Mr. Vanhaeker. Please hold while we connect you”.

The ground rumbles beneath me and I grasp the paneling on either side to stay upright, gritting
my teeth against my own pitted anger.

“Thank you.”

There is a brief swatch of music, something jazzy with an off-worldly descant I haven’t
heard before. Have trends changed so much since I left? Then I hear the blip and silence, an
inhalation. I don't give him time to speak.

“We screwed it up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Or rather, ITC screwed up. Screwed the entire planet.”

The ground rocks beneath my feet. My heart lurches into my throat then plummets to my gut.

“You hear that?”

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A Farewell to Disneyland, This Is the Real World by Mel C. Thompson

When you’re from Orange County
poverty is the one unforgivable sin.

Friends and family drift away
when an illness becomes chronic.

Insanity can be forgiven
so long as you’ve got a trust fund.

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Dress For Success by Nancy Scott

“You don't dress like a poet,” Barbara advised.

“Poets dress like they can't think about mundane things like fashion. Or maybe poets want to
draw attention to themselves. Or they want audiences to think they have odd artistic flair. You
just dress like a normal person.”

I heard the truth of Barbara's observation. I didn't say that since matching colors was not a
high-level skill in my repertoire and I had no fashion sense, I opted for cautious. That, even to
me, didn't sound poet-like. Poets should sound fearless, or at least creative. Maybe they should
look that way too?

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A Great Place for a Seizure: The Hospital By Terry Tracy

Her nose twitched at the smell of disinfectant.

“Mischa, it’s Dad. Mom is here too. Don’t try to get up. The doctors want you to stay here for
a while. You…you had two seizures today.”

Seizures?

Her head felt like it had exploded. It had never hurt like this before. She wondered whether
it had grown larger just to accommodate that amount of pain. When she looked around
questions ran through her head. How did I get into this hospital gown? Where are my clothes?
Where are my shoes? Why is there blood on the hospital gown? Where am I bleeding from?
She tried to lift herself up.
“Why can’t I get up?,” She tried again.

“Why can’t I get up?!”

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Sharp, Shallow Six, Age 10: Sorting the Dead by Brock Marie Moore

the fishing lures have lured

his daughter again.

she floats down the aisles, trailing

small hands in the bins of rubber worms,

her head a damp wisp of dandelion

caught in an unfelt breeze.

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The Cripfic Manifesto by Maija Haavisto

When chronic illnesses and disabilities are featured in fiction, it usually follows a certain
formula. A main character or his/her family member has cancer or depression, perhaps another
type of mental illness, and generally dies of it or recovers. From the perspective of drama,
being "chronic" is stagnant and problematic. Other disabilities are usually relegated to side
characters, just like disabled people are expected to assume less visible roles in the society.
In some novels crips may be bitter villains, but more often they are just there to be damn
inspiring.

I've been guilty of one of those crimes myself. In a novel manuscript I wrote in 2008 the main
character, at one point of her life, works as a care giver for two disabled young women, one
with severe CFS/ME and one with MELAS, a mitochondrial disease. She eventually quits when
she can't cope with the brutal reality of these illnesses and is worried the women are going to
die.

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On Something Stable By Jude Conlee

I told myself I was happy,

as I walked across the bridge,

making very sure

to keep my hand

on the rail.

I was happy, yes.

Happy to think of nothing

and look down into the water

and see nothing

but my own empty face

looking up as a reflection.

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This site created by Norman Meldrum, currently managed by Mike Reynolds, uppitycrip@gmail.com