The Ticking Clock - Russ Bedord

George was driving five  teenagers down a a country road on a cold, snowy, night. I was on the left side of the back seat and couldn't see because the windows were fogged—probably because the bodily heat from five condensed on the cold windows.

Apparently George couldn't see, either. He lost control and the car spun 'round and 'round on the icy road. It finally stopped spinning and slowly edged forward. Visibility was probably still bad because the front end of the car began to drop, and soon pointed downward, sinking into a pond beside the road.

As we sank, I shouted: “In the front—when we are underwater, open the window or door and swim to the surface! There is a pocket of air back here. We can last longer.”

We sank, and they probably escaped that way. Rich, on my right, panicked. I told him to take a breath and hold it, grabbed him by his collar and belt, forced him underwater, over the front seat and out the front window.

I filled my lungs from the pocket of air and followed, then swam for what might be the surface. The water was so cold, it compressed my chest, creating a strong desire to breathe, but I dared not. Finally, after a few seconds, air! But the bank was so step, there was no way to climb out.

Fortunately, George was there, hanging on to the broken post of the barbed wire fence that had been pulled into the water by the car. Though the fence was broken, up above it was still anchored. The only way up was to climb that barbed wire. George went up first. Bloody hands were a fair trade for survival. I followed.

We sat on the edge of the road, wet clothes freezing. I was not saying anything, but numbly thinking death by drowning was escaped only to face death from freezing. I imagine George was feeling the same.

We spied a building alongside the pond and sought its shelter. It was a hay barn. Pulling hay down around ourselves to stop from freezing, it absorbed the cold water and slowed the heat leaking from our bodies.

I don't know if I had drowsed, or how much time had passed. I became aware of sounds, voices, and lights flashing through the cracks of the board walls of the barn.

I exited the barn door. I saw he flashing lights of a police car and an officer flashing a light down into the water.

“There seem to be no survivors,” he said.

“We survived,” I said.

George and I were quickly retrieved from the barn, stripped, and wrapped in warmth. On the way to the hospital, we finally talked.

“Why only us?” George asked.

“Why hadn't the clock stopped ticking for us? I don't know,” I said. “Maybe because we weren't afraid to die.”

                                        *** 

The Population Bomb - John Field

Belief in tomorrow

Demands all of our fidelity

Because the future lacks experience,

No year is twice the same

Or has occurred before,

Yet already our great-great 

Grandchildren

Have begun to plague our thoughts.

How will they survive when crowds,

Like cages, enclose them?

Or take sweeping turns

On earth’s dance floor

As we did when we were young?

Best to let the air out of the moon

And watch its old scarred face 

Whiz off, shrivel in the absence

Of its vanished light

And sink into the tides

On Moonlight Bay.

Then turn as one often does

In situations like this

To other thoughts, 

Such as what the sky

And all of its impurities 

Would look like

Had it not been polluted

By a right-wing conspiracy.

When was the last time

We thought about that?

Well, what is there to do?

Sign petitions? Why?

One voice in a billion

Has the same impact

As a drop of rain 

Falling on the ocean.

But imagine 

What would happen 

If a billion drops

Fell on our president’s

Coiffured hairdo.

                ***

Dazzled by the Body

by Michael Miley

All my life I’ve been dazzled by the body, 

by the whiskering face in the reflecting silver,

by the intelligent, eager willingness of hands, 

by the knowing, hardy mobility of feet, 

by the warm cloak of the torso, 

which wraps the heart

in a flesh disguise, so the beating

in its chest is like stealthy footsteps

in a radio thriller: heard, but not seen.

What is this creature? Who shaped its shape?

How did I come to inhabit such a house? 

Each morning, I step into a kind of cloud

to wash its face, shampoo its hair,

christen the soft vessel―a boat made of hide―

with a bottle of rain, and sail into the day. 

Each day I debark on the shores

of a green world, 

dreaming of what I seek, 

but more amazed by what I find,

and the body is the sponge

from which I drink the cider of life.

How is this possible?

How is this sea-sponge 

filled with gold water?

Yet, the novel times 

I’ve buzzed out of the flesh,

I know I’m more like a swarm of bees

than the hive that’s hung on the tree of bones,

and the deeper dazzlement is yet to come

when I kiss this honey world good night

and fly from this house

o’er the road to pure daylight.

                     

                                             ***

Listening Pills - Janet Wentworth

listening pills        

and the world would 

be different place

we take tranquilizers

drugs to calm 

drugs to make us happy

listening pills

could cure the feelings

of isolation & loneliness

just think

the president of Iran

takes a listening pill

he understands 

why Israel is there

just think

President Trump USA

takes a listening pill

he understands

“what in the world

 its all about”

no need

nuclear energy

listens to
birds instead of bombs!

           ***

The Cave - John Field

During my summer vacation when I was thirteen I worked as a guide at Wonder Cave in my hometown of Decorah, Iowa. The cave was our local tourist attraction. To get there you had to drive out in the country about 4 miles, past Motter’s Ballroom, our local dancehall emporium, and then down a dirt road another half-mile. The owner of the cave and my employer was Stanley Scarvie, a parsimonious gentleman who also owned a neighborhood grocery store a few blocks from my house. Stanley drove me and my friend Donald Fishback out to the cave and home again each day. He’d drop us off and we’d run the show while he was at his grocery store. Donald was the cashier in the cave’s little gift shop. We sold the usual junk to tourists: postcards of the interior of the cave, ashtrays and other cheap souvenirs. Admission tickets cost 75 cents for adults and 25 cents for kids.

      

I enjoyed my job, particularly because the cave was very cool and Iowa summers can get very hot. The previous summer I had worked picking vegetables, a crummy job I hated. A couple of times I got dehydrated because my boss, a horrible man named Duff Simmons, called me a slacker if I came in from the fields to get a drink. He loved to sadistically taunt kids and I was too much of chicken to stand up to him or quit my horrible job. I didn’t exactly love my new boss, Stanley Scarvie, but he wasn’t mean or sarcastic like Duff Simmons, just an old tightwad who was always suspicious of Donald and me cheating him when he was back in town running his mom and pop grocery store. Scarvie never caught us stealing from him which we did on a semi-regular basis, whenever we thought we could get away with it. Donald and I rationalized that we were grossly underpaid. After all, what was 25 cents an hour, our wages, compared to the big bucks our boss was raking in? On a busy Saturday or Sunday afternoon we’d sometimes see 50 visitors, so if we  forgot to tear off a couple of tickets now and then and also forget to ask a couple to sign our guest book, we’d make up for what Scarvie was underpaying us.

     

On busy afternoons I’d wait until I had a group of 5 or 10 visitors before we’d enter the cave. I’d be all bundled up in a jacket, but I never got over the thrill of entering the cave and feeling a blast of cold air envelop me. It was like walking into a refrigerator. Scarvie had spent a lot of money lighting the cave, blasting out low passageways with dynamite between the cave’s deep rooms, and building steps from one layer of the cave to the next. I’d start rattling off my speal as we entered the cave, giving the members of my group all the facts and figures: when the cave was discovered, when it was opened, how long and deep it was, everything they needed to know. Always I’d warn them to be careful; the paths were wet and slippery. Hold on to the railings. Stay together. There are low paths, so duck your heads. 

     

The grand finale of our underground tour was the stalactite room, a gigantic pit 150 feet deep filled with hundreds of 10 and 20 foot stalactites surrounding one huge 75 feet tall monster. I never grew tired of catching my first glimpse of that giant. It made the entire journey worthwhile.

     

Once or twice a month the power would go out and pitch us into complete darkness. I’d quickly turn on my flashlight and reassure everybody that the generator would be up and working in a minute or two, and in the meantime don’t panic. It’s an odd feeling, a confidence builder, to be a boy and lead adults, a confidence builder. Usually everybody stayed calm until the lights came on again, but occasionally a fraidycat trapped in the strange darkness would panic, giving me an unearned feeling of superiority because I held the flashlight. When the tour was over we’d see light filling the cave’s entrance and feel the summer’s heat thaw us out.  Then I’d head back to the cave’s gift shop and wait for my next group to assemble. On weekdays I’d often have a lot of time on my hands between tours so I’d read boy’s adventure books or shoot the breeze with Donald.

      

After I retired from my job there I spent the next couple of summers as a rod man on a surveying crew. A few years later Stanley Scarvie’s health began to fail and he closed the cave. Occasionally when I’d return to Decorah decades later I’d drive out to Wonder Cave and walk around the grounds which through neglect had lost its mystic and turned into an overgrown pasture, and as I’d stare at the cave’s boarded up mouth I’d remember the summer afternoons half a century ago when I’d lead groups into its open jaw and then enjoy the mystery of  my journey into its dark and cool belly.  

                                                 ***

       

Cigar Smoke & Other Temptations - Beverly Koepplin

Between the first breath of your life and your last

there should be moments that lead you astray,

beckon you, wrap you around their fingers,

and tug you into corners of intrigue and temptation.

Cigar smoke wafting out of an open door as you go by,

lamplight glowing on a burnished snifter of brandy

held by an elegant man’s hands, long and tapered and strong.

In the corner, a black man pounds out ragtime jazz on ivory keys.

A bedroom with a naked cowboy stretched out on the bed,

wearing only his boots, a Stetson perched high, and a big smile.

The cigar smoke from his stogie rises like swirling ropes.

In the corner, an old radio blares out county and western music.

Cigar smoke blowing mirages over the cabaret tables,

long white satin gloves, pearls, diamonds and lace,

whisperings and secret smiles and long looks over martini glasses

In the corner, a sax player blows blue notes up to the velvet sky.

The young man outside the wooden cigar hut in Miami,

leaning against the wall, indolently smoking one of his cigars.

lets his eyes wander all over you before raising his cigar in a salute.

In the corner, an old man pats out a soft Latin rhythm on his bongos.

Between the first breath of your life and your last,

you should always be willing to be lead astray

Your soul learns lessons from its wanderings

into the smokey corners of intrigue and temptation.

                                                                ***