Knock Shrine

by Christian Reifsteck

God appears to me in such plainness sometimes—

here in Mayo, where the Virgin and some sheep and a cow

appeared behind the church to a group of farmers

nearly one hundred years ago.

And now a concrete shrine

has covered over the fields.

God appears to me in such plainness sometimes—

but not in the stark white statues marking the spot,

not the wall of glass encasing them,

not the massive stone rosary,

not even the rows of post-modern holy water fonts.

Not in these.

But God appears to me in such plainness sometimes—

in the elderly woman half-blind and timid

and thankful, so thankful to that selfsame God that I,

some stranger who has determined how to coax

the holy water from the font’s silver udder,

am here to guide her hand to fill up her cup.

And so God has appeared to me in such plainness—

in the old woman who can hardly see,

in her nervous request for assistance,

her relief that I just happen to be there,

and in the used plastic water bottle

that God flows into.

Slimy Lemons in Aged Whiskey

by Brent Lucia

The old bird walked in, flapping her cheap wings.

Scouting for rusty Johns.

Screaming at Hell’s gate to let her in for her sins.

She clung to our noses like burnt rubber.

Peeling at the rind.

Dumping a twist in her Powers on the rocks.

And in the black sea, against her empty palm.

Sinking against the past.

Passing away from all the lonely touches of her day.

Anonymous Relation...

 by Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav

 

They were not just friends keeping in touch by phone calls and sharing the occasional lunch together.

They were not lukewarm acquaintances, scribbled names in some address book, a smile shared on mutual sidewalks, a hand waved in greeting. They were more, much more, sharing a more close knit relation. They were not lovers, sharing intimate gazes over flickering candlelight and their lingering touch scribing poetry on the skin of another. Their realms did not spoon together to make one perfect whole. They were strangers bound together by cords of loneliness; as the lonely moon becomes acquainted with the bay, yet their existences are destined to be separate. They fill the vacuum of their haunting silences with innocuous words, just to make those moments more palatable, but it is not a communication, a sharing of thoughts, a blending of ideas—just meaningless tirade to fill empty hours. They recognize each other, are familiar with their habits and idiosyncrasies but the thoughts of one are not reflected in the gaze of another. Understanding is elusive, for they are just archipelagos disjointed and separated with no bridge joining them but the frail threads of necessity. 

Remembering Dibrugarh...

 by Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav

She is a blushing bride at dawn, cheeks tinted in cerise with vermilion streaked between parted locks by fingers of sunshine. There is a piquant aroma in her breath emanating from morning yawns of tea leaves. Bejeweled in dew, she wakes up stretching her limbs as fragrance of withering hursinghars caresses her sleepy contours waking her with a kiss. Her moods are like the tempest’s whimsy whose strain echoes in dulcet notes of sitar in the breeze, when drizzles fall from skies to pepper the trees in wet pecks. She dons verdant apparel always, draping it over lush realms and her laughter is heard to reverberate in the rippling gait of the Brahmaputra cascading down into her embrace with whispered covenants of fertility. She is a woman through and through painting her versicolor dreams on the clouds for all to see at dusk. At night she adorns herself, dreaming of her beloved, in satin quietude and ornaments of asters and fireflies,

her raven mane braided in fragrant orchids. The distant blue hills are her tiara softly glowing in daylight to proclaim her as a queen on nature’s throne...

Important Update

With the new year, and the success of the previous year, we at Life As An have decided to change our publication format. We intend to make our publication more of a magazine and less of a blog. To accomplish this, we will now publish 4 issues per year, each containing 10-15 pieces. Everything that we decide to publish will still be viewable on this site, but will be published in bulk 4 days per year. We also hope to have these issues available in a downloadable format appropriate for e-readers. Don't worry, everything will still be free.

This new publication schedule will enable Life As An to be listed on certain websites that do not feel that our old format was appropriate for a literary magazine. Details on what this means to you as a writer are available under “Submission Guidelines.”

These changes go into effect December 16th. Anything submitted before then will be published according to our previous guidelines.

So what does this mean to our readers? Basically, it just means that we will only be publishing new work on January 1st, April 1st, July 1st, and October 1st. Anything already scheduled to be published (or that is accepted between now and December 16th) is not affected, meaning that until March 31st, there will still be some stories and poems published that are not included in the new issues. After March 31st, this will not happen. All of our archives will still be available and unaffected.

The Alarm's Screech...

 by Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav

The shrill screech of the alarm clock echoed to tatter the gossamer veneer of a fuzzy dream or was it a hazy memory replaying as some old mute movie on mind’s canvas in swirls of grey and sepia? They had held me mesmerized as languidly unfolding fairy tales that breathed their fragrance into my thoughts, like orchids sighing scented vowels into stained glass flutters of butterflies. The alarm’s wail was the chime of the bell of consciousness that drag reluctant thoughts away from alleys of Morpheus. I tried to recall that scene vivid moments before and now strangely vague, almost forgotten, lost in amnesic depths of unconscious thought. I wondered if I closed my eyes silently would those faded realms be revived, in swirls of sienna shades, alluring, intriguing and unworldly. Lurking at the edge of the eyelashes, those scenes refused to replay themselves, a poignant medley of faded scenes refusing become completely lost as well. The adamantly ticking hands of time denied such reincarnation, simply earmarking those moments in the ambiguity of nostalgia. They dispersed like fickle friends in adversity, for they were like carmine sighs of withered rose scattered on soil never to feel the kiss of pollens. The window gilded in morning’s grin beckoned as dispelled with traces of languor, dreams died and consciousness soared high like dove’s feathers over heights of a newborn day.

I Was a Nasty Bitch

 by E. Martin Pedersen

            “Hey, Pepe, gatocito, I’m home.” Gloria yelled.

            “Back here.”

            “When you get back?”

            “I left Portland at ten last night, got here about an hour ago—easy run. I brought tamales from that lonchera down by Madera. You make us some refritos and ensalada, honey; I get the cold beers from the garage, ¿okey?”

            “Bueno. I need to take a shower first. That old lady died today. I was watching. Her last words was: ‘I was a nasty bitch.’ White people are loco, huh? ‘I was a nasty bitch,’ and then she died. Just died, you know? Comprende? Where are you, man?”

            Pepe was watching ESPN in the den in his bathrobe. In the bedroom, Gloria peeled off her white Dr. Sholl’s clogs, her white nurse’s uniform, her slip, her pantyhose, her white bra and big panties, and put on her shower cap and thongs. After she showered, Gloria and Pepe had their tamales on TV trays, speaking loudly over the sports news.

            “Who was she?”

            “Who?”

            “That old lady who died?”

            “She said a civil rights lawyer. No, a woman’s rights lawyer, back east, you know? I don’t think she was very good at her job.”

            “Why not?”

            “Women still don’t got no rights.”

            “Who loca now, woman? Dang, good tamales, huh? I got tortas too, for tomorrow. Pass the salsa.”

            “She start telling me her life story. I got stuff to do, but she said ‘sit’ and told me how back in Washington she’s fighting against men, patriartic or something, against men, for women’s rights. I didn’t listen too good till she got to talking about equal pay. A very angry old woman. Like she regrets her whole life. She starts crying.”

            “Why?”

            “Huh?”

            “Why?”

            “Oh, ‘cause she always treated people like shit for her whole life, a big-shot lawyer, you know? She was really sorry, crying so much. I also cried. Then she took my hand and said, ‘Gloria, I was a nasty bitch.’ Then she relaxed and died. It was so sad.”

            “You want another beer?”

            “No.”

            “I do.”

            “I’m not getting up.”

            “Dodgers won today.”

            “What do you think it means? Like she had a message for me, a warning to pass on about women or something?”

            “Ay dios, baby, nothing. That’s what it means. Let’s go to bed early. I’m beat.”

            “Man, you just want me to beat your meat, you dirty puerco.”

            “Come to Pepe, you nasty bitch.”

The Gloves

by Loukia M. Janavaras

These are the gloves of parting

left by you one morning without words

in a soft heap like two blackbirds

nestling on their last breath

not worn, to be worn 

by me through the streets of Vienna

where leaves had fallen

all turned the colour of your hair

as I inhaled slow decay,

wove paths that vanished with the wind,

hands raw, gloves left on the table.

These gloves have witnessed departures, visitors

like you they have travelled, seen snow with you

filled tightly by your hands

their homeland stamped with pride,

an offering to be kept

perfect for parting

so tender, felt, black

left with you accidentally amid words

only to return

bringing you

despite their crumpled wings.

These are the gloves you handed me

without a word

they have taken residence here

permanent visitors in a warm welcome

they glide over my hands,

caress my skin like a gentle breath,

silent comfort as I walk the winter streets of Athens

I bring my hands to my cheek

close my eyes and inhale deeply

the scent that is you

and as they rub together, wings flutter.

David Wendt

by Paul Lewellan

“How was your week?” I asked. The others in the circle looked over to David. Unlike them, he was still employed. His coworkers didn’t know his diagnosis; they only suspected. Or they dismissed the idea because he was too young to have Old Timer’s disease.

“Last Friday there was this student . . .,” David began. He looked at the notebook in front of him, turned to the page from Friday. He stopped.

“What about him?” I prompted.

“Her.” David shifted in his chair. He was wearing the sport coat and dress slacks he’d worn to school that morning, but had taken off the tie and traded his loafers for Nikes. “You’ll really think I’m losing it . . ..”

“No one is here to judge you.” I waited. “You were telling us about a student.”

“Of course.” He glanced down at his notes and started again. “I was at my desk at the back of my classroom.” He gestured as if to show us the location. “I looked up and saw a young girl seated across from me. She wore a white and black cheerleader’s uniform with a large G on the front of the sweater. That told me I was at Goldwater High School.”

“As opposed to . . . ?”

“Sometimes I get confused and think I’m back teaching at St. Stephens College. Anyway, I knew where I was. I looked around. On the wall were my posters of Boll, Gordimer, Solzhenitsyn, Solinka . . ..” I noted that David could recall the Nobel Prize winners for literature, but not the school where he taught. “I got flummoxed. I didn’t know who she was.”

“What did you do?” asked someone anxiously from the circle.

Boy

by Adukuri Jagannath Rao


We came away as we found boy missing
From a motor cycle on a hill road racing
With a train ,chug- chugging to his song.

A saffron shirt was all we know of the boy
Who brought his eyes down for love in snows
Setting hearts aflutter in many a blouse.

(On the passing of Rajesh Khanna, yesteryear's superstar today)