in the dugout

dugout time

is measured in ups and outs

 

bats crack and

speeding balls thump

into outstretched gloves

 

innings spread ahead

in summer twilight

sinking sun blinds outfielders and

runners slide home

spitting sand

 

stats are kept

scores tallied

triumph snagged from

defeat

 

clouds of dirt and ebullience reign

gifts from the gods

 

The Future Road

Jarod breaths deep as he speeds along. His body vibrates in a rough rhythm to the road striations. The engine hums beneath him and the tires squeals as he rounds the corner.

Almost there.

He tops the hill and there’s the whole valley spread out below him. All downhill now, literally. Jarod chuckles at his clever little joke. It sounds strange inside his helmet.

He can see Jamie’s house next to the river. He hopes her parents aren’t there. He wants privacy.

The rapid drop in altitude makes his stomach flip. The task ahead of him may be another factor in his discomfiture, but he’s not thinking about that yet. He’s focusing on the crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and mowed hay, the sound resistance of the wind as it passes over his helmet and around his body. He’s in the moment. Jamie taught him that.

He leans left and angles the bike off the road and onto the long gravel driveway. She’s out the door before he even has a chance to kill the ignition.

“I thought you’d never get here.” She looks up at him, a smile flirting at the corners of her mouth.

He leans down and rests his forehead against hers inhaling her scent. There are tears in his eyes when he pulls away.

“What’s wrong?” She touches his cheek.

“I’ve been thinking about you. About us. It’s just that I love you so much.”

“And I love you too.”

Jarod took a deep breath.

“Then prove it.”

“How?”

“Well, everyone around here has expectations. Your parents. My parents. The teachers. My boss.”

“I know. So?”

“It’s just so much to deal with. We’re prisoners of their expectations, strangling on what and who they think we are and should be. I just want to be with you.”

He pulls a box from his pocket. Jamie gasps as he opens the box revealing an antique silver ring.

“Before my mom she gave me my grandma’s ring. She said someday, if I was lucky, I’d find the right woman to wear it.”

He looks up at her, expectant, nervous.

“I know we’re young, but I feel like someday is today. This is the right moment to claim our lives, to be who we want to be. I am the best me when I’m with you, Jamie.”

Jarod lowers himself to one knee.

“Will you marry me?”

And Jamie says, “Yes.”

Daredevils

By

Susan Reetz

 

That old man shuffles down my sidewalk, head buried in his parka hood.

Mind the slippery spots. Please, please, mind the slippery spots! I send these urgent messages telepathically through the window. He doesn’t even glance up. Just shambles on, cane held aloft as though he expects danger to come from the air rather than beneath his feet.

I snuggle into my blanket and sip my tea.

How many times have I seen him out there? He makes his rounds regular as clockwork. Tick tock, its old Doc, taking his walk around the block. Kind of a daring feat for someone as old as him. He pauses near my driveway to catch his breath.

My children used to play on that driveway – and, when I wasn’t watching, in that street. They were all daredevils. Skateboards and bicycles and roller skates. Anything with wheels it seemed. Their only speed was breakneck but even so, they never got worse than scrapes and bruises. I had enjoyed their energy and loved to hear the excited screams, each child trying to be more daring than the others.

I hear a scream now, emanating not with excitement, but pain and fear.

I stand, blanket falling to the floor. Doc lies flat on the sidewalk, hand scrabbling for his cane which is now beyond his grasp.

I grab the blanket, throw it over my shoulders, and rush out the door. The snow squeaks and my feet register the cold through my thin slippers but there’s no time to put on boots.

“Doc, can you hear me?”

I kneel, looking him over. He looks at me and blinks. I imagine he must be stunned. Maybe his ears are ringing?

“Doc,” I enunciate very carefully and pitch my volume toward bellow. “Are you hurt?”

“I just fell on the ice. What the hell do you think? Of course I’m hurt.”

Tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

“Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know.”

Slowly he rolls to his right elbow and eases himself up to sitting. I don’t see any blood, and there don’t seem to be any broken bones, but there’s a scrape on his chin and a bruise blooming above his eye. He’ll need to see a doctor.

My kids gave me a cell phone years ago in case I have trouble and always nag me to keep it with me. But I can never find it. Why do they make those things so small anyway? They get pretty upset if I’m out and about and they can’t reach me. What if I have another heart attack, they say. How would you call for help, they wonder. I don’t need them fussing at me all the time, but I don’t want them to worry either. They’re not getting any younger. My friend Shirley has one of those gadgets that you wear all the time and if you need an ambulance you just push the button and it calls one for you. She really likes it, says it gives her peace of mind, so I got one too.

I sit down next to Doc, fix the blanket so we are covered together, push the button, and wait. I sure hope they hurry.

 

 

 

Mourning Joe

Breeze brushes water

painting swirls and waves.

Leaves flitter, unsure.

 

Clouds anchored in blue beckon.

 

He moves along the shore

shedding shape and corporeality,

goodbyes rising

like fresh coffee steam.

 

And then he’s gone.

 

STILL

My flight arrives late and cabs are scarce. It’s after midnight when I unfold myself from the taxi's back seat and escape the cloud of stale smoke and curry. The cabby takes my cash without a word and drives away, destined for God knows where. I pause, deep slush soaking my new suede boots, then take a deep breath and push myself through the door.

 

Hours of silence are shattered by a siren screaming by. She doesn’t stir, just the rise and fall of her chest mark the moments before dawn. I shift in the chair, uncomfortable.

 

We’ve been friends for over 20 years. At Thanksgiving this year, after putting my kids to bed, we shared a bottle of wine and caught up. She got back together with Jarod. She said he treats her like a princess, buys her gifts. He really does love her. I told her I’ve heard it all before.  She said I’ve been bitter since my divorce. She left early and I didn't call. Now, here we are.

 

The ventilator inhales and exhales for her. Jagged lines track her heartbeat across the monitor, always returning to the start. I reach over and brush stray hair from her forehead, careful, so careful, to avoid her battered face. The necklace of bruises he left her will fade in time, but the damage runs deep, maybe permanent. It’s too early to tell.

 

The sun struggles to conquer the horizon, casting prisms from the melting icicles as it rises painfully slow, clouds lit up and glowing. 

 

My friend remains with me, still.

Live at the Polack Inn

Ben walks into the Polack Inn, taking in the Friday night crowd and hazy atmosphere. In the back a band screams and plays raging guitars. Some things never change.

“Hey Dave.”

“Ben! What brings you to town?”

Dave picks up an empty beer glass and dunks it in the soapy water behind the bar.

“Oh, just felt like seeing some familiar faces.”

“Cool. I heard your tour sold out. Congrats man!”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Rum and coke.”

“Coming right up.”

Ben takes another look around.  Same pool table, same beat up floor, same feeble lights struggling to illuminate the room.

“Here you go. On the house.”

“Thanks Dave.”

Ben grabs his drink and heads to the backroom. It’s like he never left.

The walls around him vibrate and the decibels climb. He sees himself in the guitar player on stage, sweat soaked and high beyond belief, all attitude and push. Girls with pink-tipped hair whip their heads in time to the frenetic beat. The song ends in an orgy of feedback and swagger before the band disengages from their guitars and goes in search of beer.

In the deafening silence that follows, Ben steps onto the stage and picks up a guitar. He unplugs it and begins to play a simple tune that slowly rises like smoke hovering 5000 feet above ground level. He closes his eyes, lost in the moment, weariness from the road jettisoned and far away.

People applaud. He smiles, lost in the music.

New Start

The wheel continued to spin even after the car slid to a stop. Funny thing was, Jamie couldn’t remember now where she was going so early and in such a hurry. Something about a chance for a new start. But that was before the deer stepped into the path of her headlights.

She remembered being fired from her job. Her boss’s wife, the surly old hag, had made accusations about missing funds, and then pointed her gnarled but well-manicured finger right at Jamie. Now she tried to focus, but her thoughts kept slipping away.

Jamie shifted in her seat, the pressure of the safety belt digging into her shoulder gradually gaining her attention. The car slid a few more feet and the trunk popped open spilling her emergency kit and her suitcase down the brush covered embankment.

She undid the seatbelt and dropped, bumping her head on the compressed car ceiling before shimmying out the window frame, her purse in tow.  As she stood, ears ringing, the car tipped and fell, already burning before it landed.

Jamie opened her purse and pulled her tattered prayer book from its depths. There, in the sanctity of its pages, nestled a thick stack of hundred dollar bills.

Her dad had once told her, “There are a hundred things you have not dreamed of, some good, and some bad. It all depends on the choices you make.”

She put the book back in her purse and, in the sunlit silence, turned and walked away.