Pick Your Poison

Michael C. Keith

And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin

Is pride that apes humility.

–– Coleridge

Something distracted Cecil Winthrop from the road ahead.

It felt like the weight of a boulder and caused him to veer his new

Audi Q5 hybrid into a telephone pole. While the collision was not

exceptional in terms of damage to the car, it proved sadly fatal for

its driver. Thus Cecil had not lived to receive what he had regarded

as the ultimate recognition for his extraordinary career––an

honorary degree from his alma mater. The accident occurred only

two miles from the campus of Dultry College, where the

ceremonies were to take place. He had been alone on his way to

the institution because he was eager to meet up with his former

classmates for an early brunch at The Rat. His wife and daughter

planned to join up with him before the commencement exercises

got underway at noon.

Cecil’s childhood had all the earmarks of a 1940s B-movie

melodrama. His life had begun in poverty in a western

Pennsylvania mining community. His mother had cleaned houses

while his father labored as a roof bolter in the underground shafts

of the Cleary Coal Company. On two occasions, Perry Winthrop

had suffered on-the-job injuries, resulting in long periods of

convalescence. His relationship with his four sons was not a

cordial one, as the elder Winthrop had long been afflicted by

serious bouts of melancholy. For him, the world was as drab and

cheerless as the mines in which he toiled for low wages.

By the time Cecil was in grade school he was certain he

wanted a very different life from that of his parents. Neither had

graduated from high school, and so it became his first major life

goal to get his diploma. This pleased his mother who preached the

gospel of education to her offspring.

“If you don’t finish school, you won’t get anywhere in this

world. I missed out and look what I’m doing, cleaning up other

people’s messes,” declared Mrs. Winthrop countless times.

While Cecil took her words to heart, his older brothers saw

little value in pursuing useless studies when they could make real

money in the mines. Despite their mother’s pleading for them to

remain in school, one by one they quit when they reached the age

of sixteen. So it was one of Mrs. Winthrop’s proudest and happiest

days when her youngest child donned a cap and gown and gave his

high school’s valedictory address.

* * *

Four years later, Cecil’s mother would see that same

ambitious son graduate with highest honors from the state

university. By then his father had died, and the oldest of his three

brothers had taken his mother in. Cecil promised himself that as

soon as he was financially able, he would give his mother a better

life. And he was able to do this sooner than expected as he quickly

rose in the ranks of the company where he worked as an account

representative. Little more than three years out of college, he was

promoted to sales manager. A nice salary jump came with the

advancement, and Cecil found his mother a small apartment of her

own and paid the monthly rent. Doing this filled him with great

satisfaction and pride, although it inspired a degree of jealousy in

his blue-collar siblings. They appreciated his generosity but felt

Cecil had become smug about his success and critical about their

modest way of life. From their perspective, he was becoming like

the people who ran the mines––haute and imperious. The Cleary

family clearly looked down on their low-level employees.

“Now don’t get too good for us, Ce Ce,” counseled Ben

Winthrop.

While Cecil laughed off his brother’s remark, deep down he

did feel superior to his siblings. He had achieved something they

never would. If that made him appear superior, so be it, he thought.

I can’t help what I am, and what I am is pretty damn impressive.

He continued to rise in the business world, and before he

reached thirty, he became vice president in his company. Two years

later, he was lured to a larger business and given the title of chief

operating officer. It was there that he met his wife, Tara. So as not

to give the impression of preferential treatment by her spouse, she

left the firm after they were married. During the years that

followed, she would give birth to a son and daughter. Unlike what

he’d experienced as a child, Cecil made certain his children had

every possible opportunity, which included private schools and

frequent travel. Life was better than he’d ever imagined, but he

was determined to rise even further. His drive to accumulate more

wealth and the reputation that went with it was far from sated.

* * *

By the time his children entered high school, he had risen

to president of his company, and his wife had joined several civic

groups. As his close partner in the quest to reach as far as he could

in his career and life, Tara urged him to become involved in charity

work. Soon his effort on behalf of the community brought him

accolades and awards. It even inspired talk of his entering politics.

Cecil was intensely pleased with everything he had accomplished

and was deeply gratified by the formidable respect shown him by

everyone.

I’ve got it all, he’d remind himself with ever-increasing

frequency, delighted by a life that had turned out the way he

dreamed it would. And things got even better as his children

graduated with distinction from ivy-league colleges and his wife

assumed the leadership role in the local gardening club and

women’s auxiliary group. The Winthrops exemplified the phrase

“pillars of the community.” Then came the honorary doctorate.

Cecil excitedly invited everyone he knew to a lavish dinner to

celebrate the honor.

“You’ll all have to call me Dr. Winthrop from now on,” he

half-joked at the gathering.

How far I have come, he congratulated himself, as the

guests raised their glasses in a toast.

“To the man of the hour!” declared his second in command,

Bill Castle. Man of the century you mean, thought Cecil, bowing to

the admiring throng.

It was in this rapturous state of mind that Cecil headed to

the rendezvous with his Dultry classmates on the day of his further

elevation. As he drove, he suddenly experienced a physical

irritation so profound that he lost control of his vehicle and

slammed into the utility pole, leaving his glorious world behind.

* * *

His death was a shock to everyone who knew him, and his

family was beyond devastated. The coroner’s report of the incident

that caused Cecil’s death reached Tara Winthrop early on the day

of her husband’s funeral.

“Oh my, God! This is . . . terrible. Humiliating. The press

can’t get this,” she cried to her children.

“What’s wrong, Mother?”

The report of their father’s unfortunate mishap detailed the

exact cause of his death. To everyone it had been unclear why a

relatively minor accident would kill anyone, especially since the

car’s airbag had deployed. When the Winthrop children read the

coroner’s description, they, too, were aghast.

“You see what I mean? That can’t appear in the papers. It

will stain your father’s good memory. He’ll be the subject of all

kinds of insulting comments, and all he did in his life will be

belittled. Everyone will think of him, . . . and us, differently. All

we’ve achieved and worked for will be diminished.”

“Let’s call the newspapers and ask them not to publish that

detail,” suggested Ronny Winthrop to his mother and sister.

He was informed by both of the town’s papers that it was

too late to consider his request. Neither would reveal what they had

printed, saying that he could soon read the obit himself, since the

papers were about to be delivered. The Winthrops held their breath

until their newspaper arrived, and then they let out a collective

moan after reading Cecil’s death notice.

Because of his lofty status in the community, his tragic

passing was a front-page story. The headline in one of the papers

read:

Prominent businessman and community leader dies

from picking his nose.

The story continued:

The autopsy revealed that Cecil L. Wintrop’s index

finger had been lodged in his nostril upon impact and that it

had apparently punctured his brain.

Cecil’s eldest brother gave the eulogy at his funeral. The

Winthrops’ weeping intensified when he spoke, though not because

of what he said about his tremendously accomplished sibling. He

could not help but chuckle whenever he thought about what led to

his esteemed brother’s untimely death.

Frank's Place in the

Desert

W. Jack Savage

Behind those capable and unselfish eyes was a faraway

sadness and for those who cared about Frank, it was a comfort to

know he had a desert getaway and a good friend named Carl.

Frank’s place in the desert was actually a small trailer with a

porous awning and more remote than the other seasonal trailer

homes on the ridge. Every morning he took coffee on his makeshift

patio and he would talk to Carl who came to visit everyday about

the same time. Carl would stretch out a few feet away and

appeared to be sleeping most of the time. He never moved even

when Floyd the postman delivered the mail. Sometime after noon

he’d crawl off and now and then would return after sunset. Carl

was a good listener for a rattlesnake and had grown to three feet

over the years. But whether or not that rattle actually worked,

Frank had never heard it.

Early Fall Light

William Martin

“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of him.”

Aunt Beth said the same thing every summer. She gave my mother

a tentative hug, then stepped back beside me. Looking me over,

she softly squeezed my arm.

“First we’ll get a little meat on his bones.” She said. And

she meant it. Her meals weren’t extravagant, but squelched the

most voracious appetite. After a heavy breakfast of eggs, pancakes,

milk thick with cream, and what seemed like two hogs worth of

sausage, getting up to working speed often proved a slow-going

process. But once you reached your stride, you felt as if you could

go all day and well into the night if need be. You weren’t

necessarily hungry by lunchtime, but Aunt Beth still made a

sandwich or two to last until dinner. Surprisingly, by dinner hunger

hit again and the usual meat, biscuits, potatoes, and gravy settled

deep inside you. The heavy, hot meal along with the hard day’s

work prepared you for a night of deep, soundless sleep.

“We’ll get him toughened up.” Uncle Morgan said,

dropping a huge, callused hand on my shoulder. And he meant it.

By the time I reached the cattle ranch in early June, the first cutting

of alfalfa was complete and the 60 to 70 pound bales of hay dotted

the fields. They needed loading onto the flatbed truck, hauled and

stacked in the three tall, long, open-sided sheds that were

interspersed around the ranch property. It seemed as though the

silent bails waited for me, challenging me, somehow mocking my

thin frame. The bails were the first of three cuttings—sometimes

four if the weather held.

“You be good Danny.” Mom spoke, just for something to

say, something to fill the awkward silence. The isolation and

steady work of the ranch made mischief unlikely.

Her face always held guilt and anticipation when leaving.

Every summer she both looked forward to and dreaded my going

to the ranch. Since dad died she spent most of her days working

and her nights doing housework and looking after me. The

summers gave her a chance to be a single woman instead of a

single parent—without the continuous responsibility and watchful

eyes of a son at home. I somehow knew this and looked forward to

going to the ranch each summer almost as much for her sake as for

mine. By summer’s end, however, we both missed each other and

looked forward to being reunited.

“Write to me. And call collect if you need to.”

Her eyes moved from me to Uncle Morgan. An odd sense

of disapproval emanated from him, as though he neither

understood nor condoned his sister’s actions. To be sure, he looked

forward to my summer stays, but at the same time he seemed

bothered by the example my mother set for me. Of course, I would

never have asked him about his feelings. Men simply didn’t

discuss those things.

“He’ll probably be too busy to write too much,” he said.

“But we’ll make sure he finds time now and then.”

With a last, brief glance mom climbed into the car and

pulled out of the wide gravel ranch yard. Aunt Beth slipped her

arm through mine as we walked to the ranch house.

“Let’s get you something to eat. You look like you’re about starved

to death.”

“When he’s got some food in him send him out to the shop,”

Morgan said. “We’ll get lined out on the work for this afternoon.”

Although my Uncle Morgan didn’t own the cattle ranch, he ran it

as if he did. A tall, solid, tough man, his skin looked like worn

leather framed by a thick, gray beard. His blue-gray eyes and stern,

experienced face made him appear older than his years. He’d

worked other jobs in his youth, including a stint in the army, but

ranching was the only trade he really knew.

For the last twenty of the thirty years he ran the ranch, he

and my Aunt essentially worked it alone. Although modern

equipment eliminated the need for hired hands, it didn’t prevent

Morgan and Beth from working long, brutal hours. Of course,

during the summers I pitched in to help, but it seemed like little

contribution. Other ranchers often produced enough offspring to

comprise a small workforce, but that possibility ended for Morgan

and Beth when they lost one boy in infancy and another in birth.

After that, children became a medical impossibility.

The ranch changed ownership twice during Morgan’s

tenure, but each time the new owners kept him on as manager. The

last owners, a group of investors, handled numerous and varied

interests literally around the globe. They rarely visited their new

investment. The annual profit and loss statement told them all they

needed to know about the old, remote ranch with the cold, harsh

winters.

I spent my school-free summers at the ranch, moving irrigation

pipe, cutting, bailing, and stacking alfalfa, branding and moving

cattle. Sometimes we even used horses, which I loved, but Uncle

Morgan hated.

“Damn horse is just a tool,” he said. “Just like a rope or

hammer. Only most horses are dumber than a hammer.”

I came to the ranch pale, weak, and tired after nine months

of school boredom, but Uncle Morgan would immediately put me

to work stacking hay. Alfalfa dust filled the air catching sparkles of

light before filtering down my shirt and clinging to my sweat-

soaked back. The bales seemed to weigh more than I did and it

didn’t take long before I stopped to rest on one.

“That’s feed for cattle, not a recliner.”

“I just need a minute to catch my breath.”

“Okay, but I’m timing you,” he smiled. “Give it a week,

two at most. You’ll toughen up. You’ll be able to grab a bale in

each hand and one between your butt-cheeks. All I’ll have to do is

point you in the right direction and give you a shove.”

He joked, but I knew there was a measure of truth in what

he said. We worked from sunup until sundown and it didn’t take

long before I could keep up. I soaked up the sun, Uncle Morgan’s

ranching knowledge, and his stories of rough weather, rough cows,

and rough men. I worked hard for him and in return he worked

with me, teaching me in his stoic way. I admired his strength and

independence. I imitated his speech and mannerisms. At the point

of exhaustion, I looked to him.

“It’s not the man that makes this way of life,” he said. “But

this way of life that makes the man.”

I loved the way of life and emulated the man. By summer’s

end I was dark, strong, and another year closer to the man I wanted

to be. I found myself possessing energy to spare and a deep regret

that school was fast approaching.

Besides our labor, Morgan worked a cattle dog on the

ranch. It was unequaled at herding cattle and often did the work of

two men. Morgan himself did the work of three men, for even a

well-trained cattle dog has its limits.

After the death of Blacky, his top cattle dog for nine years,

Morgan began looking for a “suitable replacement.” He knew of a

neighboring rancher, whose dog had had a new litter, so he went to

inspect the new pups.

The pups were a mottled gray, black, and brown color, with

large paws and compact bodies; half Australian shepherd mix and

half God-knows-what. Uncle Morgan picked a male with frank,

intelligent eyes, paid the rancher and brought it back to the home

ranch. The pup developed an immediate affection for my Uncle

and didn’t even whimper when separated from the litter.

He named the pup Sue. Of course the dog was male, but

Morgan thought it a good joke. Obviously, the dog didn’t know the

difference between gender names, but Morgan thought this only

added to the irony of the joke.

I was glad to see I wasn’t the only newcomer to the ranch

that summer. The pup provided evening entertainment and

enthusiastic friendship. Although he labored to keep up in the

alfalfa fields he never whimpered nor lagged behind. He even ran

in circles, gathering alfalfa stems in his mouth as if contributing to

the work. His ears pricked up at the sight of cattle and his puppy-

growl contained serious intent if not a realistic threat.

Sue was a perfect fit and Morgan molded him to life and

work on the ranch. Their personalities began to reflect each other

in their independence and actions. By the next summer, with

Morgan’s training, Sue was already working cattle. I stepped back

from my interactions with the pup, so Sue’s training could continue

unimpeded by the possible confusion of two people’s instructions.

Morgan trained Sue by alternating praise with infrequent,

yet severe punishment. The dog was intelligent, eager to please and

quickly learned verbal herding commands and whistles, as well as

hand signals. Playtime with Sue was rough housing bordering on

brutality. Morgan’s favorite game—and Sue’s for that matter—

consisted of firm slaps at the pup’s head while it in turn bit at my

Uncle’s hands. The game grew in intensity until the dog became

frantic, prompting Morgan to slap him down in earnest. Sue didn’t

seem to mind, for his eyes held nothing but adoration as he sat

panting at my Uncle’s side.

“Just toughening him up,” Morgan said grinning. “I’ll make

him one stout son of a bitch.”

Morgan also decided to “bob” Sue’s tail that summer. I

didn’t understand the need for cutting off the dog’s tail, but

Morgan insisted. He held Sue and tied surgical tubing tight around

the base of the tail. He left it there for the day, cutting off

circulation and deadening the appendage. That evening, Morgan

unfolded his Kabar knife and once again held the dog still.

“Don’t worry, Danny,” he said. “It’ll only hurt him for a

few days. He’ll get over it.” He took the knife and with one smooth

stroke, cut off the tail. The tail landed in the dirt with a spattering

of blood. Morgan untied the tubing and more blood slowly oozed

from the remaining stump.

To our surprise, and my Uncle’s delight, Sue didn’t

whimper. He didn’t even flinch. He merely turned and sniffed

dumbly at the severed tail, then picked it up in his teeth and

playfully flipped it into the air. He had toughened up. Morgan

pointed, laughing and began the slapping game with the joyful pup.

Within two years, Sue became an invaluable asset on the

ranch. Where as a puppy he struggled to keep pace in the fields, he

now herded cattle untiringly, nipping at their legs with blinding

speed. He struck so fast that it often appeared as though he had

missed, but the tell tale flecks of blood on the cattle’s legs proved

his deadly accuracy.

One time a steer cornered Sue in the corral. The big

Hereford had the dog off balance and head-butted him, hammering

Sue against a corner post. The steer’s hooves kicked up dirt,

mixing the smell of dust with manure and turning the air into a

gritty haze. The dog scrambled to regain his footing between

blows, but lacked enough speed. The steer fell into a savage

rhythm, relentlessly grunting and butting, grunting and butting. He

hammered away, slamming Sue against the post.

“He’s gonna kill him.” I watched in frozen, fascinated,

horror. My eyes darted between the action in the corral and my

uncle’s face. I stepped forward, but faltered.

“He’s been in worse scrapes,” Morgan said. “If he can’t get

out of this fix, he ain’t worth a damn anyway.”

But his words didn’t mask his concern.

He hesitated only briefly, and then vaulted the rails of the

corral. At the same time the steer backed up, bellowing, Sue’s jaws

clamped tight on its nose. The dog hung on with a death grip. The

steer tossed its head frantically and finally dislodged the dog. Sue

thudded to the ground and lay still. I ran to the corral fence, hazing

the cattle away, while Morgan removed his blue denim jacket. He

spread the jacket on the dirt and carefully placed the dog in its

folds. The cattle crowded the corners of the corral, staring dumbly.

Morgan handed Sue to me, and then climbed back over the fence.

The dog blinked up at me and gave a low, menacing growl.

“Easy Sue,” Morgan said. “Sorry about that, Danny. Don’t

take it personally. He’s just got to where he won’t tolerate anyone

but me. You know, he’d die fighting for me if I was to put him to

it.” He gently lifted the dog from my arms. “Just last week a cow

lay dead up by Beaver Creek –hell, that’s a good ten miles away—

and ol’ Sue got it in his head I wanted that cow carcass protected.

So, he stayed there to guard it. I was halfway home before I

noticed he wasn’t in the truck, but I went on, figurin’ he’d catch

up. Well, two days went by and no sign of Sue, so I drove back up

to have a look. He was still right there and it must have been a hell

of a fight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Coyotes,” he said. “You could tell by the tracks that they’d

come down to the carcass and Sue held them off for two days. He

took a few knocks and scrapes, but he didn’t let them get the

carcass and he didn’t touch it himself. Two days of fighting

coyotes. Can you imagine that?”

I could. With Morgan as his trainer, I could easily see Sue

gaining the tough independence needed to survive and keep the

coyotes at bay. It was the same independent strength I admired and

emulated.

Morgan scratched Sue behind the ears as he cradled him with his

free arm. The dog looked up at Morgan, with just a hint of the

puppy like innocence I remembered. Morgan carried the dog to the

ranch house to place him in Aunt Beth's care.

“I think he’ll be all right. Hopefully this won’t ruin him as a cattle

dog.”

But the next morning Sue was right on Morgan’s heels, noticeably

sore, but ready for a new day and new challenges. Morgan

laughed, gave the dog a slap, and began their game once again.

“I’m going to have to stop playing with him like this,”

Morgan grinned. “He’s getting hard to stop.”

The third summer after Sue’s arrival at the ranch, the

neighboring rancher stopped by to visit. He had kept another pup

from Sue’s litter to raise and called the dog “Max.” Max was the

same mottled color as Sue, but had grown considerably larger. He

sat in the seat of the neighbor’s pickup while the old man and

Morgan talked in the front yard. Sue lay unconcerned on the

ground nearby.

I don’t know what prompted Max, but he hopped out the

pickup window and trotted lazily to where the men stood talking. I

also don’t know what prompted Sue, but in an instant he was on

Max with flashing teeth and a sharp, ugly snarl. The swiftness of

the attack surprised both men and the viciousness of the fight made

interference foolhardy. The men stood shouting while the dogs

fought on, a blur of teeth, dust, and fur.

At first it appeared Max was winning. Being larger and

stronger, he virtually overpowered Sue. But Sue’s advantage of

sheer stubbornness and a toughness slapped into him almost from

birth pushed him on. He fought savagely, seemingly impervious to

pain, until he eventually overcame the larger dog. Max attempted

to break away, but Sue offered no quarter and fought until Max lay

still. The neighbor’s dog lay alive, but barely. Sue limped steadily

over to Morgan. He paused briefly, then carefully lay down,

panting at the feet of his idol.

The neighbor slowly scooped his dog up in his arms. Shock

and anger mixed on the old man’s face. He gently laid the dog in

the seat of his pickup while yelling obscenities at my Uncle.

Morgan apologized, but after all, Sue was simply protecting his

territory. The rear tires of the old man’s pickup threw gravel as he

drove from the yard. He never spoke to my Uncle again.

The last summer I saw my Uncle was the last time the

ranch changed hands. The new owners had decided not to keep

Morgan as manager and after thirty years he suddenly found

himself unemployed. He was too old to hire out as a ranch hand

and too financially unstable to retire. His limited experience

handicapped him severely, but he eventually found work in town at

a small feed store. Aunt Beth also found work in town at a local

restaurant. At the end of that last summer, as fall crept early onto

the empty fields and mountains, Morgan and Beth left the ranch

that for thirty years had been their home.

The last of the boxes were packed and hauled away. The

few remaining odds and ends were loaded into the back of

Morgan’s pickup. My own old pickup sat next to his, faintly

mirroring it, despite its thirty-year age difference. Aunt Beth stood

in front of me and gave me a brief hug. Then she placed her hands

on my shoulders and looked up in my eyes.

“You’ve grown into a strong, young man, Danny,” she said.

“Take care of yourself. I mean that.”

Her voice and eyes held a sadness I’d not seen in her

before. Her furrowed brow and pursed lips seemed to be imploring

me. I raised an eyebrow in question, but her expression remained

unchanged.

“I suppose now that you’re working at a restaurant you’re

going to charge for fattening me up.”

She briefly returned my smile and then walked to the

pickup. She sat patiently on the passenger’s side, eyes forward,

hands folded neatly in her lap.

Uncle Morgan came from the house and we stood talking in

the yard. Sue sat in the shade of the pickup watching our every

move. The dog may have lost its puppy like innocence, but its

affection for Morgan showed even stronger in its eyes. The cold,

early fall wind cut sharp in the morning air.

“I’ll bet Sue will miss this old ranch,” I said. “And getting

after the cattle.”

“No he won’t. ‘Cause he ain’t going with us.”

“What?”

“He couldn’t take being cooped up in a house and I can’t

take him to my new job every day.” Morgan walked over, opened

his pickup door and began rummaging under the seat. “He’s too

used to cattle ranch life.”

He emerged from the pickup with a small revolver in his

hand. “I can’t give him away—hell, he won’t tolerate anyone but

me. C’mon, Sue.”

Glad for the attention, the dog jumped up and dutifully

followed Morgan. I wanted to protest, but my voice failed. I stood

awkwardly, my Uncle’s cold logic ringing in my ears. In the

surreal silence, he and Sue disappeared around the corner of the

barn. There was a long moment of silence and then the crack of the

pistol broke the cold, crisp air, echoing off the empty buildings.

Morgan reappeared from behind the barn and went to the pickup.

He pushed the gun back under the seat and turned to face me.

“Well Danny, you take care,” he said. “And come see us in

the city.”

If he felt any regret it didn’t show in his face. It didn’t

register in his voice. He showed no more concern than if he had

broken a tool and he slowly smiled as he held out his hand. It was

cold to the touch and the handshake was brief. He climbed into the

truck and he and Aunt Beth drove away.

I stood shivering in the yard as the pickup rounded a

corner and moved out of sight. The sound of the shot still seemed

to faintly echo through the air, drifting on clear, cold, currents

toward the mountains.

I buried Sue behind the barn. He lay on his side where

Morgan had left him, the cold wind riffling through his fur. A thin

layer of dust already coated a still, open eye. A dark, wet, dime-

sized spot matted the fur on top of his head and a tendril of bright

crimson trailed from his dry nose.

The blade of the shovel cut easily through the crust of the

ground. I worked steadily, methodically, while the dog seemed to

watch with its unblinking eye. The only sounds were the shovel’s

bite into the hard soil and the whispers of the cold, cutting wind.

When I had finished, I carried Sue over to the freshly dug

hole. With his front paws in one hand, his rear paws in the other, I

eased him into the grave. His head hung low, causing his body to

shift as it slid down the side of the hole. He ended up lying on his

back, legs in the air, his forefeet bent in a submissive pose. The

indignity of his position in death lacked the honor and respect he

had earned in life.

I knelt down, nose running, and reached into the grave.

Grabbing two handfuls of fur, I shifted his body until it lay on its

side. With the same methodical pace and without looking at the

dog, I stood and filled in the hole.

I stayed there awhile, leaning on the shovel’s handle,

feeling the smooth hardness of the tool. There was no sign of life

across the ranch yard, no sense of purpose. Empty. The steady,

chill wind gave a sudden, puffing gust, and then stopped. All lay

quiet. The cold morning sunlight pierced through the high, hanging

clouds, giving a last, brief hint of summer. But I knew summer was

really gone and that the glimpse was just an illusion.

Two Flavors of Sand

R. W. Haynes

You have to throw some maudlin sand into

The mix. If boozy tears embarrass you,

You’re likely to do what others like to do:

Stage the page for some cute stunt that shows

What a very clever little person you are,

Clean and up to date, the past no blast,

All those white corpses (hold your nose!),

Twitching like Hitler’s pickled brain in a jar

In Russia, twitching and bitching and switching fast.

You have to toss in some dirty sand you’ve found

Where stupid people wept and wallowed around

As if they were reeled up to a jukebox raft

Commanded by silver-tongued devils with knives,

Where these diablitos hollered and laughed,

To see these suckers fight hard for their lives.

As the Alapaha River goes underground,

Its old bed, its second-best of sand,

Still heads sadly to Florida, in demand

Only when oblivious rains have drowned

The new escape of love down in the limestone,

But only briefly, for this old love is gone,

And if a while the gar and sunfish cruise

Old haunts, the flood subsides, the river dives

To darkness; just its autograph survives

Retailing the flow of sedimentary news.

The shades of lonely ghosts come round,

Snickering emptily as everything dries,

And whisper about old memories they’ve found,

Though each already knows the others’ lies.

God's ComputerMiriam Sagan

I always wondered

How competing prayers were counted

All children praying "Snow Day! Snow Day!"

Grown-ups praying that school stay open

You say the prayers of parents

Are already word thin, transparent from overuse

Pleading, bargaining, the rot

Of panic at 3 am

While children's prayers

Will always win

Are plump and wet

As snow.

Freshman Barometer

Richard King Perkins

Four girls sit on a bed

in the summer before their

first year of high school,

playing the game of revelation

called “Truth or Dare.”

“What scares you the most?”

is the cycling question to which

they will all tell their truth.

“I’m afraid of getting fat.”

says the first. Murmurs of assent.

This is a good response.

“I’m afraid of being poor.”

says the second. Murmurs of assent.

This is a good response.

“I’m afraid of bad hair days.”

says the third. Laughter of assent.

This is an excellent response.

“I fear not being understood.”

says the fourth. Bolt of silence.

“What do you mean?” says the first.

“I mean,…. I’m afraid of bugs.”

says the fourth. Screeches of assent.

This is the best response.

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