What Have I Lost
by W. Edward Harris
(Prompt: Same as the title)
I have so much—good life, good health,
money in the bank, warm house—
indeed gratitude is my daily discipline. I have lost
my baby-teeth
my stunning black hair
a mother
then years later another
my sarcasm
and smart mouth
the boy who would argue with a signpost
the inflated feeling of being special
thinking I was exempt from
selfishness, meanness—the devil
hid in me just because
I was so good
I lost so many of my ambitions.
Forced to be one sort
of man, instead of another
lives not lived are revolving
around the universe as possibility.
I lost control and do not
want it back.
Much have I lost yet I have in memory,
the shards of lives of persons who have
loved me, a longer and longer list.
I say I lost a child just this year—
but I have her so firm in memory, so real in dreams, I see her in her daughter, her art, I can hold her in my heart and hands.
'Only Lovers' by David Bloomfield
(Prompt: A quote from the works of Roman poet Sextus Propertius, used as the last sentence of the story.)
A Fateful Turning
(Prompt: The title, two examples)
1. By Rebecca Forrest Hozak...
Right or left?
Her pink nose twitched as she considered her options. To the right lay dark woods brimming with possibility but also with risk. To the left, houses, people, the promise of a warm bed and a good meal. Her tail flicked as the temptations lured her in both directions at once and left her immobilized under the oak tree.
Right or left?
Her pink nose twitched as she considered her options. To the right lay dark woods brimming with possibility but also with risk. To the left, houses, people, the promise of a warm bed and a good meal. Her tail flicked as the temptations lured her in both directions at once and left her immobilized under the oak tree.
Suddenly the underbrush rustled, and in a flash of black and white, she darted toward the safety of the houses. The issue decided, she set about finding a new caretaker. She knew all the tricks—eyes wide, head cocked, twitch the nose, and head-butt the leg. A loud purr would seal the deal.
Visions of tuna dancing in her head, she made her way to the nearest house. An older couple—perfect! Just like her last owner who had disappeared a week ago. She had darted out the back when the strangers came in and started carrying off the furniture.
She tiptoed behind the man, following him as he made his way through the yard. He caught a glimpse of her and bent down in her direction.
“Well, look at you,” he said. “Aren’t you a pretty one?”
Hand extended, he scratched behind her ear. She purred, knowing she was home.
2. By Beverly Crawford...
She was never the same after he was gone. In the last few years of their 55 years together, it was he who reminded her of the day, the week, the names of their grandchildren, and the many miscellaneous facts that had faded from her memory as snowflakes disappear when they fall on a warm surface. When he was gone, she spent her days in a gentle state of bewilderment. Sometimes she tried to retain her grasp on time and place. I know this, because I saw written on her calendar “This is today.” They’re together again now, no longer solitary halves of a pair honed and weathered by time. What a reassuring thought.
Mercy by Michele Wood
(Prompt: A photo of an African American woman from a historical collection of the Library of Congress)
I hear the footsteps of Mastah Thomas Reno come in as I draw the water from the well. Mercy! Mercy! De woman cries my name, walking frantically while toting water behind Mastah Thomas. A child’s hands reach fo his mother; he is locked in de arm of de man, Mastah Thomas.
In the fields, voices are in a whisper, speak of de matter. Have mercy O Lord! Have mercy upon their souls, some one says in a prayer.
In de tree sits Missy silent as he walks by with baby boy and mother crying after her child. Mercy! Mercy! She cries again. Then a white dove appears, swooping gently pass them both.
Walking down where de houses grows close together, I see the steps. Yes, de short dreadful stack of steps of de old slave market. The boy ain’t ever seed one before. Seated, he gets up like he was told. The boy stands afraid with a glaze in his eyes at de top of de platform. People gather around, around and around surrounding the boy, enclosing him in a circle. One man checked his teeth to tell his age, another checked his limbs, and his hair fo lice. He was pulled, poked, prod, nudged and sold for $800. “Right fair enough,” Mastah Thomas said, smiling with the money in his hands.
