| Wendy Howe |
Call Girlread by carla martin-wood The congressman sent her home on a train, as day rolled off the shadows of night and bells confessed time in spires that held up the sky. Nothing had fallen yet except her name from his tongue. Her description lingered -- brunette, dainty, and finger nails that whirled in the darkness like blossoms in an Asian twilight. He loved those pearlescent tips turning on the plush air, silhouetted against the matchstick blind as if they were Geisha's innocence falling to him -- nobleman, patron... but she was not Japanese or schooled in that culture's dance. Her hands wanted to fan Euros and make connections beyond the lean wiring of his body. He knew this but never guessed while riding alone in her rail car to a city of other spires and shadows, she would stretch those slight hands planning to palm silver from his opponent -- a pail for champagne, thirty minutes worth of moonlight and currency for revealing skin and her night with client seven. Everything had been negotiated, even the pavement crack waiting to catch her heel as she hurried downtown thinking her sleek charm so unstoppable.  © Peter Rodulfo Sophie's Viewread by carla martin-wood The pigeons have followed me here -- to this house and life nouveau. They like the window ledge facing the sea and its salted wind that shakes branch tips resembling the Roman five. For half a decade, I lived as a freelance model wandering through the best and worst of fashion, captured like a chiffon ghost between glass archways and stainless steel. . The urban loft appeared chic, a place where Modigliani's brush might stretch some girl's neck into the white grace of a flamingo while she sits inhaling her own perfume and wine. But then I met you and the apartment was rented out. We married and moved to your home on the coast where fog strips the smart veneer and swabs the bone with a domestic glaze. Even these gypsy birds arriving from a park fountain or churchyard bell invoke a song of gathering. Carefully, my hands have piled those items that call for mending. Fingers have stitched your shirt, your jacket and a sheet reflecting blue moonlight across our bed. So much of the fabric wound gathers my need to nourish and bind our lives. The only tear left untouched is dawn ripping slowly into another day. Sympathetic To Aisharead by carla martin-wood This law pushes women not to feel comfortable with themselves. - Muslim activist, Noura Jaballah. I think of you standing in a French park -- Muslim girl wrapped in her veil of golden silk while arms hug a shivering body. Forbidden to wear this fine garment in school, you come outside among pine trees and pigeons to be yourself. Winter has not yet delivered snow but its air threatens to freeze the breath of anything that grows bends or bows eastward. This morning you braided your hair, held the style with perfumed spray and wondered how Islam would cling to your soul; perhaps, like the tang of oranges to the tongue or the shimmer of heat to the courtyard stone.  © Anja Papenfuss Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives with her life partner and teenage stepdaughter in Southern California. Writing is an integral part of her existence, as essential to her being as breathing air. She is inspired by life, its nature, people and history. She has been published in a variety of on-line and in-print literary journals including : Stirring, A Literary Collection, 3rd Muse, Eclectica, Panda Poetry, The-Muse-Apprentice-Guild, The Green Tricycle, Skyline Magazine, Southern Ocean Review, Saucy Vox, Mi-Poesias, Lotus Blooms. Journal, From East to West -- Bicoastal Verse, Niederngasse, Black Mail Press, The Ancient Heart, Red River Review, Flutter and Goblin Fruit. |