The Lotus Reader
The Lotus Reader
Literary Magazine
 

Previous Issue

Posted March 19, 2008

Poetry

Rose Halls
 
By Junie Moon
Chesterfield, VA

She had it all; pedigree, enviable

beauty, social position, gregarious

attitude, allies, defenders;

popular at charity balls, philanthropist haven;

respected not pompous;

impeccable reputation;

now abandoned, orphaned, a

skeleton from another era;

bloom of youth snatched without complaint

deranged, a madness fell upon her,

malady of sadness affected the facade;

Grande Dame, aging, lonely;

entrance once inviting,

overgrown in cobwebs;

cavaliers once escorting crimson accents

magnum opus holding court, now

sounds, curious, ominous, frightening;

rusted iron latchkeys cast into a stained

algae covered foyer fountain;

who is to blame? 

Magnified profile blotchy, pale,

predictably in disrepair, striped barren

of her title, cast off as blase;   

history unjustly accused the remains

condemned without a trial,

indifference contaminated the jury,

penalty sealed, resurrection denied;

savage winters hammered the tin roof

rust biting into metal, collapsing sections;

blistering summers; hot flashes;

hibernating transients, refugees

staking claims, decimating,

an aging, fragile Victorian treasure;

viscera ripped open, deep reddish

oils, bleeding from mortal wounds;

no gallant chivalrous white knight

to defend her honor

once shinning copper pipes, exposed

turning a sick verdigris

haphazard knotted joints, cracked

ceilings; bones of a dinosaur exposed;

aristocratic ideals collapsing;

tarnished, shamed, trapped,

a fantasy landscape lay in waste

water lilies and pond scum still

sucked at the lions head tap;

memories of party tents and laughter;

whispered in the wind;

only a drunken, emotionless cad

would spread damning lies

to disgrace this royal gem

disgraced, forced to accept condemnation

frail, aged, once a profile of wonder

Only a chorus of sparrows nesting

Under the eves singing each day

Keeping the fantasy alive

To see her shine in all her glory

As if time had been standing still

Would save her now and

that chance was slim

Just down the beach beyond

the narrow jetty  

a boy had watched in awe and

grown up, memories he held

onto like snapshots

then in horror the Lady

passed thru seasons alone, afraid

unsure

History took a turn;

now a man, he confessed his

love for her and vowed to

make it right;

Take a ride down Parker Street

Beyond the beach, pier 9

Madame Rose Hall will greet you

Any time,

 

Sweeping snow white veranda

Hydrangeas hug her base

Gingerbread adornments, add

Jewelry on every floor

  

Red roses climb the lattice

Adding ruby to her cheeks

The cozy tearoom, sits so inviting

Dine anytime to watch the beach

AH, the grandfather clock chimes

High tea at four, you're just in time.

 

 

Urban Fantasy


by Ava Callahan
New York, NY


She came to my Narnia
The white witch; my mother--

Past the door
The closet-dark
Deep breath
Hold it
One more step
And falling through

There are no grown-ups
In Narnia.

Silent forest
Concrete wonder
Grandfather tree
Canopy swaying
Weary ocean
Sidewalk bricks

She came to my Narnia
The white witch; my mother--

Creaking lamp post
Majestic iron
Burnt-out light
Swinging slowly
Lonely, tiredly
Back and forth

There are no mothers
In Narnia.

Pavement hills
Rubber-scuffed
Field of cars
Humming sleepily
Aluminum white
Side by side

She came to my Narnia
The white witch; my mother--

Metal bench
Cool, green
Feet swinging
Peacefully content
--"Are you coming to bed yet?"
No answer

There are no bedtimes
In Narnia.

Cycling New Hampshire

By John Grey

Providence, RI

So what do the legs have to say of it.

Nothing really. They do their centrifugal job

and muscular complaints aren't loud enough

to reach the head, especially the eyes

grooved wide and brown into the scenery's refrain.

Hands, robbed of old scores to settle,

merely grip the bars, make believe they're

steering when really it's the road ahead that's doing it.

And legs, there they go again, pedaling madly like

conductors waving their batons. So let them

believe whatever symphonies the woods,

the hills play, are of their doing. The eyes

triumph in the audience front row, even

as cheeks flutter as they greet wind going

the other way, and lips whistle like two year olds

describing beauty. And what do hands know.

So what if they have it in them to brake.

Only eyes know what they're are braking for.

Fiction

A Needful Distance

By T.R. Healy

     Mosby rolled over on his side and squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand.  It was four minutes past four in the morning.  He waited until another minute passed then climbed out of bed and stretched his long arms above his head.  The bedroom was ice cold and as dark as a cave.  Quickly he pulled on an old pair of work pants and a flannel shirt, laced up his boots, then found his keys on top of the bureau.

     In another minute, he was out the door and inside his pickup truck, which slowly grumbled to life after a couple of false starts.  He put it in reverse and backed out of the gravel driveway then swung past the bus stop on the corner and headed toward Remington Road.  Not every morning but nearly every morning lately, he got up around this time.  Seldom able to sleep for more than a couple of hours, he figured he might as well go for a drive rather than lie awake in bed.  And, almost always, he found himself on Remington Road, heading south toward the edge of town.

     The twisting two-lane road was still damp from all the rain that fell during the night and quite slick in spots.  He proceeded cautiously, not wanting to slide into a ditch.  Around some turns his tires splashed loudly, spattering the windshield with specks of mud.  He had driven the road in much worse conditions, still he considered going back because he felt like driving fast this morning.  Not another vehicle was in sight.  He had the road all to himself, as was often the case when he and his girlfriend used to drive on it late at night.  Smiling faintly, he remembered how Melanie often scolded him for going too fast, sometimes screaming hysterically when he raced through one of the tight turns.  He thought of Remington Road as their private rollercoaster, something they could enjoy together as if they were at an amusement park.

     All of a sudden, as he started up a slight rise, he spotted something lying in the middle of the road and furiously turned his steering wheel, just missing it.
     "Son of a bitch!" he cried angrily, his heart leaping into his throat.
     Immediately he backed up, trying to make out what the object was in the rearview mirror.  He thought it might be a deer then saw that it was a mattress.
     "Son of a bitch!" he railed again.

     Letting the engine run, he got out of the truck and hauled the soaking mattress off to the side of the road, then got back in and continued on his way.  He was amazed how many people used the road as a garbage bin, discarding whatever they didn't want on it.  Over the years he had weaved around television sets and couches and armchairs and desks and tables and lawn mowers.  It was a wonder he had never hit anything, though he had come close a number of times.
*
     He drove almost five miles before he passed another vehicle, a tomato truck heading no doubt to produce row on the waterfront.  That wasn't unusual, not this early in the morning.  Sometimes he never saw another person and other times he saw several, including a few hitchhikers making their way to the border.  Just the other day, shortly after he turned onto Remington Road, he spotted a young man trudging along the side of the road with a cardboard sign stuck in the back of his backpack.  It read, "Going My Way?"  At once, he pulled over and offered to drive him as far as the next town, Wheeler.  The guy, half asleep, seemed reluctant but Mosby assured him he intended no harm.

     "Thanks but no thanks."
     "Suit yourself."
     Then, abruptly, the guy changed his mind.  "But you better not try any funny business, mister.  Because I carry a Gurkha commando knife with me."
     Mosby smiled.  "I'm not out to bother anyone, pal.  Believe me."
     The young man didn't say anything for several minutes, slumped against the window with his hand cupping the handle of the knife attached to his belt, then all of a sudden he asked, "You got business in Wheeler?"
     "Nope."
     "So why are you going there this early in the morning?"
     "Because that's where you're going."
     "So if I wasn't going there you wouldn't be, either?"
     He nodded.
     "What are you some kind of taxi service?"
     He shook his head.
     "Then what are you doing out here at this ungodly hour?"
     "It's something to do."
     "So's getting a good night's sleep."
     Stifling a yawn, he said, "Sometimes I get tired of being tired, if you know what I mean, so I force myself to get out of bed and get in my truck and go for a drive."
     "For no other reason?"
     "That's reason enough."
     "You're a funny guy, mister."
     Mosby didn't reply as he surged up a steep rise, knowing that the downtown lights of Wheeler would be visible soon.
*
     As requested, he let the young man off on the outskirts of Wheeler near an overpass where Reservation Road merged into a four-lane highway that stretched across the rest of the state.  He was sure the hitchhiker would be able to catch another ride in fairly short order.
     "Thanks, mister," the young man said after he climbed out of the truck.  "And I want to say I'm sorry about telling you about my knife."
     "No problem.  Out here, alone, you can't be too careful.  I understand that."
     The young man smiled.  "You're still one funny guy, though."
     The memory made Mosby smile too.  Then, glancing at his watch, he saw it was time to start back if he didn't want to be late for work again.  Now that it was beginning to get light out there were a few more vehicles on the road but, surprisingly, he didn't see any hitchhikers.  As ever, he carefully regarded each driver he passed, to see if he recognized anyone.  In fact, though, he was only looking for one person:  whoever was responsible for taking Melanie's life.

     His girlfriend was a part-time community college student who worked as a hostess at a cigar bar downtown on the weekend.  Almost nine weeks ago now, driving home from work on Remington Road, her car was struck and knocked into a ditch along one of the curves.  The driver who rammed her fled the scene, leaving her to bleed to death from a damaged femoral artery.  The only evidence the police were able to collect were some traces of powder blue paint found on the passenger door of her crumpled Cavalier.  It was a color common to many brands of cars, but Mosby still looked very closely at everyone he saw driving a blue car.  One morning he even followed a light blue Pontiac for a couple of miles until the driver pulled into the lot of a Presbyterian church and Mosby saw that he was a minister.

     He supposed it was probably a waste of time to drive up and down Remington Road as he had the past two months but he thought perhaps he might spot the deadly car.  If nothing else, if he saw someone driving erratically, he could report the person to the police and maybe spare the life of someone else.  He wasn't sure how long he would continue to patrol the road.  Some mornings he was sure he would stay in bed and then, a few minutes later, find himself climbing into his old Dodge pickup at an hour when most people were still sound asleep.

Big Jim, the Mormon, and Hitler's Grandson

By Quincey Burkhalter

Roswell,NM

Note: This piece is the final section of a longer piece, which chapters appear in previous and will appear in later issues of The Lotus Reader (see previous issues of Lotus Reader)

And it was two days right on the button when Big Jim showed up. It wasn't
unannounced in the least bit. There were little black and white posters of
him everywhere. I couldn't even find an empty space on any wall, and I
looked.

For a week we had worked our ass off for this man on the poster. None of us
had ever even met him. We weren't even sure if he had a last name. We worked
like none of us had ever done before. We labeled. We straightened. We
dusted. We cleaned. We stocked liquor. I hadn't worked harder in my life,
but it felt good as long as I was in the sanctity of the cooler. On the day
Big Jim arrived I was still trying to make order of the strange way the
Mormon had organized the cooler.

Big Jim came in with no pomp and circumstance, no trumpets blaring, not even
riding a big white horse. The poster's had all been taken down before his
arrival and it seemed as if no one cared. He came in unnoticed. At least I
assume he was unnoticed.

"Hey son!" he said in a voice that nearly knocked me over. I jumped, nearly
dropping a twenty-ounce Red, White, and Blue.

"Sorry, son. Didn't mean to scare you. Big Jim here," he said. I could see
his hair trying to escape. I wanted to say, How are you sir. Nice to meet
you. I'm Kevin Rosencrantz. Instead, I said, "Where's the Mormon?"

"What, son?"

"The m-m-manager."

"Ooooh, him. Skipped him, didn't bother. Store's making a profit. Why should
I bother the manager?" He looked around. I remembered the fresh bottle of
Jim Beam I had just stolen and started to zip my jacket. "Tight ship you run
here," he said. I tried to keep from screaming as the zipper on my jacket
was stuck. The whole reason I was back here was so I wouldn't have to meet
him. "How you keep from goin' batty back here," he said. I reached in my
pocket trying to shove the bottle back further so he wouldn't see it. "Oh, I
see," he said looking directly at my hand. I knew I was caught for sure.
"Can I have a swig?" he asked. I pulled it out, still unsure of what he was
doing. "Here," I said handing it to him.

"Used to do the same damn thing," Big Jim said as he took a long drink. "Had
one of them just about every couple of days. Only way to keep sane, when
you're working with a potential dictator."

I had heard it, but couldn't believe my ears. "Potential dictator?" I said
as if I knew nothing about it.

"Yeah boy," he said laughing and patting back his escaping hair. "You
probably don't read those stinking rags. This tabloid keeps on printing
these articles about how Hitler's grandson has been workin' in my store."

"Really sir. That's fascinating."

He laughed again, this time harder. "Yup. And I'll be damned if that boy up
front don't look just like the Goddamn picture."

My hair stood on end. The beer bottles were breathing. I can't tell him, I
thought. He doesn't really believe. Then the words came out of my mouth.
"You gonna give my Jim Beam back sir."

"Oh yeah," he said and handed me back the bottle after he had carefully
screwed the lid back on. As Big Jim left the store I watched the guys up
front, the Mormon and Hitler's grandson, stare at the counter. "Have a good
day," they said in unison as the bell rang announcing Big Jim's departure.

I pulled the tabloid out of my jacket pocket and looked again at the
picture. I stared through the beer bottles at Craig standing up front. He
looked mean and strangely pathetic. Big Jim had not really believed Craig
was ‘you know who's' grandson. I looked down at the picture. I felt
strangely hot and more than a little stupid. A girl came in the front door.

"Lookin' hot," Craig said. "I'll have a burger and fries with that shake."

I took a slow drink of Jim and thought about some way I could possibly get
out of this job. Craig could stay here and plot to take over the world or
maybe he would just stay here and insult women. I guessed he would do the
latter. Craig and the Mormon looked funny. They seemed almost cartoonish
through the brown glass of the beer bottles.

"Gotta hidey-ho," the Mormon said, sounding like Deputy Dog. "Big Jake's
gonna be here any second. Look busy."

"Sounds good," said Craig in a completely non-dictatorial way. He quickly
grabbed a mop and bucket and headed for the floor. "Gonna mop first," he
said, "then I'll take out the trash."

"Do it quick," the Mormon said. "No time to doddle." Craig looked oddly
human, oddly normal. "Hidey-ho," he said. I looked away from the front of
the store and down to the tabloid. "Hitler's Grandson is Alive and Living in
Denver," it said. I slowly tore the tabloid into small pieces and threw it
into the trash can, into the trash can on top of at least a hundred posters
of Big Jim.


 

Nonfiction

 

The Seventies--The Sixties' Mooching Friend 

By Marian Hooper

  

Nixon in Power

 

Nixon assembled a White House staff whose only job was to isolate him from Congress, the press, his Cabinet, and all other existing life-forms (assuming Congress is a life form). Nixon was paranoid. I mean really paranoid. King George was a prime specimen of mental health compared to Nixon.

 

KING GEORGE: *cries*

 

Actually, the two leaders were pretty similar. They were both paranoid. They both hated their Cabinet members and kept switching them. And they both ended up leaving their positions of power in disgrace.

 

NIXON: What?

HISTORIANS: You’ll see.

 

It all started when some government papers got leaked to the press. Nixon freaked out and asked the Supreme Court to find the press guilty. The First Amendment right of freedom of the press was upheld though. Huge setback for Nixon. Well, Nixon wasn’t going to take matters lying down, so he had a team of government officials sneak into the psychiatrist office of an opponent to find stuff to discredit him.

 

NIXON: I am above the law!

 

Figuring that he might as well do the corrupt leader thing properly, Nixon then compiled an “enemies list.” He was going to have the IRS target them for audits.

 

Watergate Scandal

 

Some burglars snuck into the Democratic National Committee. They brought Mace, locking picking tools, and telephone bugging devices just in case. Unfortunately, they forgot to close the door and got caught by a security guard. The leader of the criminals, James McCord, worked for CREEP (the Committee to Re-Elect the President). The name of the group suggests that if people would just look at the alternate meanings of acronyms, they would get rid of bad things much quicker (See MAD, Mutual Assured Destruction in the Cold War).

 

Nixon had sent the group, but the poor presidential press secretary had to claim it was a “third rate burglary attempt.” Really, the world is unfair for press secretaries.

 

PRESS SECRETARY: Just a burglary attempt…nothing to see hear folks.

PRESS: What about the obvious ties between Nixon and the criminals involved.

PRESS SECRETARY: I said just a burglary!

PRESS: What is there of value to steal from the Democratic National Committee?

PRESS SECRETARY: …they were bad burglars.

 

“Surprisingly” no one fell for it. John Dean, in charge of the cover up, got fired by Nixon so he could be a scapegoat. The thing is, Dean was not in favor of the whole ruining-his-life-to-save-a-criminal-president thing, and he testified against Nixon. But who would believe a fired White House worker over the president of the United States? I mean, they’d need some pretty compelling evidence against him, like a letter, or a series of tapes recording the criminal actions themselves. And there’s no way the president would have been stupid enough to record himself breaking the law right?

 

NIXON: *has tapes of himself breaking the law*

 

Well, what do you know? He did have the tapes.

 

SUPREME COURT: Give us the tapes.

NIXON: No!

SUPREME COURT: We demand them.

NIXON: Oh, so what, I’m president! I am above the law!

SURPEME COURT: *takes tapes*

NIXON: Noooo! I’m melting!

 

Nixon melted right there on the court floor. Either that, or he resigned. No one remembers which.

 

The Economy

 

A bunch of Arab countries attacked Israel for the first and last time ever in the history of the Middle East. Henry Kissinger decided it would be swell if American could be seen as a mediator between Israel and Arab countries instead of just a supporter of Israel.

 

AMERICA: *sends supplies to Israel*

ISRAEL: *beats back opponents*

AMERICA: Whoa, whoa… stop having a victory before I get a chance to mediate between you two! *stops Israel from winning for a while*

ISRAEL: …thanks?

 

Then the Organization for Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) threatened to cut oil production until Israel gave up the lands it had taken. There was a massive oil shortage.

 

ENVIRONMENTALIST: Use solar power!

AMERICA: Shut up, hippie.

 

Ford’s presidency

 

Ford became president. He fell down a lot. When first mentioned, his entire presidency took up three sentences in the textbook, only one of which was about him.

 

FORD: *cries and falls over*

 

Ford had the proud distinction of being the first president to never have been elected to president or vice president. Nixon appointed him after the vice president resigned as a result of accepting bribes. That administration. Ford pardoned Nixon, which really didn’t help his public relations. Then Ford accidentally blurted out that the CIA had been involved in plots to assassinate foreign leaders.

 

PRESS: We don’t trust the government. Are these charges true about the CIA?

FORD: Uh, not too many of them.

PRESS: Which ones?

FORD: Well, once the CIA did shoplift a piece of gum, but that was a long time ago. Oh yeah, at it tried to assassinate a bunch of foreign leaders….I mean… it tried to fascinate Ecuadorian readers…Can we do another take of this?

PRESS: You’re not on taped TV.

FORD: Oh, thank God.

PRESS: You’re on live TV.

 

Eight attempts had been made to kill Fidel Castro alone, indicating that in addition to being scheming, the CIA was not too skilled. At least America didn’t have to worry about damaging relations between American and Cuba, that friendship was long dead. 

 

When Jimmy Carter ran against Ford, Carter seemed to have an edge.

 

CARTER: I’ll never tell a lie.

FORD: He wavers, he wanders, he wiggles, and he waffles.

 

Ford had apparently turned into Doctor Seuss. In a dramatic move against fictional children’s book writers, America elected Carter.

 

Carter’s Presidency

 

Jimmy Carter was the complete package: he doubled as both a president and a peanut farmer. He convinced everyone that he was on their side. This was pretty easy for Carter, since he didn’t have any actual political beliefs, a wonderful quality to have in the leader of the free world. As a result, his administration didn’t work out too well. Carter tried to get the economy going after the oil shortage, but it didn’t go too well. Americans were paranoid and refilled their gas tanks constantly. They panicked, blaming the Carter administration and burning peanuts in protest.

Then…

 

CARTER: All of these problems? They’re not my mistakes. They’re your fault, America!

AMERICA: *raises eyebrow*

 

And just like that, Carter lost all national respect.

 

The Cold War Come Back to Haunt America

 

Iran captured some hostages. Jimmy Carter, with all the might of America, sent a couple of low-grade helicopters to rescue the hostages. The helicopters broke down in the desert.

 

The Cold War was fought again in Asia, Latin America, the Middle East, and of course, Russia and America. Since nobody wants to hear about that again, we’ll move on.

 

Social Stuff

 

Women’s rights improved, sort of. The percent of married women working increased. However, the average female was paid a lot less than the average male. So they were working, but not getting paid for it. Slavery?

 

Also, the Gay Liberation Movement started. Police raided a bar frequented by drag queens and lesbians. Gay demonstrators chucked cobblestones at the police. This clearheaded and organized show of political resistance brought about the creation of a bunch of clubs who fought to end discrimination. By the end of the decade, half the states had repealed their sodomy statutes, which apparently existed.

 

Gays were accused of carrying around the AIDS disease. They would have responded angrily to such stereotypical accusations, but they were busy caring for the vast number of them that had AIDS. To further understanding of the disease, demonstrators chained themselves to the New York Stock Exchange Balcony, which apparently seemed to have some connection to the disease back then. Presumably, there was an AIDS stock.

 

In a twenty-year leap that the textbook writers decided to take, it turned out that Bill Clinton wanted to allow gays in the army. The army refused, leading to yet a new way to get out of the draft: faking homosexuality

 

Conclusion

 

Nixon failed. Ford failed. Carter failed. Now go take notes.