Culpeper Quarry by Mercedes Paz-Carty
A scorching afternoon Silvery sparks of quartz Escape from sandstone crevices Into the basin of the quarry
Hot rocks ghostly moan At the touch of our steps (Perhaps, for its Sunday, The world stops in prayer At this solitary grotto)
Suddenly, like a mislaid god From the entrails of the earth A splendid black bird flutters To the obscure gravelly cliff His chest, a radiant flare Of ripened orange groves in summer
Wing-strokes of iridescent feathers Burst the glass of the feverish sky Zephyrus, the western wind Defying the burning sun
Ghost Point (Excerpt): A Story of the Potomac Oyster Wars by Diane Scott Lewis
Colonial Beach, Virginia 1956 Luke and his crewmates slipped the dredges over the sides of the high-powered motorboat as it rocked on the river. He listened to the cable squeak along the rollers amidships, then heard the dredges begin dragging over the oyster bed. This basket-like scoop with chains and iron teeth raked the bed, scraping up oysters.
The frigid wind seeped under his coat; the Potomacs spray dampened his face and hair. Waves slapped Monroe Sallys hull in the black night. This was the first season that Luke had done this nocturnal work and he questioned his sanity.
He should have stayed with the legal tonging. But dredging did in one hour what tonging did in eight, though it ruined the beds. Luke needed the money; he had a wife and a little boy to support. Yet he never told Yelena that his father had urged him to break the rules in this way, saying it was his duty as a Virginian. Do you want your family to starve? the old man had asked in accusation.
Limerick by Donna H. Turner
There once was a snake on a mission To perk up his homeless condition He sobbed through his tears, Ive been searching for years And I cant find a pit I can hiss in.
The Loyal American (Excerpt) by Rod Vanderhoof
DURING THE SUMMER before the attack on Pearl Harbor, Michio Kobiashi was twenty-five and I was eleven. He spotted me as I walked past one of the familys three greenhouses. "Over here, Max! he called. I want to show you something exciting!" He held up a small metal instrument. As I came near, he said, "This, Max, is a micrometer. Isnt it something?"
"I guess so, Michio. Whats it for?"
Michio found a small piece of sheet metal that leaned against the greenhouse. With obvious delight, he placed the micrometer under and over the edge of the sheet, closing the spindle as far as it could go. Then he showed me how I could read the thickness in fractions of an inch. He let me try it a couple of times until I got the hang of it.
"Thanks for showing me, I said, sharing Michios enthusiasm. That micrometers really swell.
I had gone over to see Michios younger brother, Kamata, who was my age. Kamata and I spent endless hours that summer exploring the woods and beaches north of Seattle. It was a rare day when Kamata had no chores to finish before he could leave. While I waited for him, Michio and I usually talked. Michio could answer questions about almost anything. My questions drove most adults a little crazy, but not Michio. He was patient.
Old Women Are Invisible by Anne H. Flythe
Hipshot, shirtless, he stood in the small dark post office both hands filled with mail. Late day sun slanted through the open doors gilding the strong curve of his naked back, young skin moist and shining, brown forearms lightly thatched with golden hair. The sudden chiaroscuro made her heart lurch. Her belly tightened at her hands' sure knowledge of how they would change their shape to trace that long smooth line. A dizzying awareness of his scent, stronger than the faint janitorial pine caused her breath to catch a heartbeat away from touch. What would he have thought, said, done at such presumption?
Rush Hour by Joe Metz
I stop. I start. I sit. I wait for reds and greens that fluctuate
in ways that Einstein might predict; with State Police that interdict
my pirouettes on balding tires, my poorly calculated gyres.
A van cuts in and blocks my view of miles of cars, an endless queue
of hapless drivers in this mess, with caffeine highs for urban stress.
I move an inch, next time a foot, with thoughts of how I could have put
my application for a job somewhere that skirts this dreadful mob!
A sign says STOP, the light glows Go. Which one to heed? I just dont know!
There must, I think, be a potion I could take for locomotion,
a witchs brew of wings and brains that leads me to all open lanes.
The light turns green, I forge ahead; then screech my brakesthe light turns red.
I swear, just then, I pause to hear, No backup, folks. Your way is clear.
Control now gone, feeling bleaker, my fist goes through the left-front speaker.
So here I sit on grid-locked roads with poor designs for overloads;
my knuckles hurt, my back feels pained, I guess Im glad it hasnt rained.
But dont you know, and heres the fright, I drive back home this way tonight!
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