All the Buzz

There I was with a large box filled with other folded boxes on my way to the recycling station of my building. I was alone and I could hear the mechanisms of the elevator heading my way when an unusual buzzing noise Interrupted the mechanical sound of the elevator and I noticed a huge bee at the top of the closed elevated door climbing out from the elevator shaft. He was black and furry with thick arms and legs, and he fell to the terrazzo floor before me with a noticeable thud. He was not dead, but he sounded angry with his antennas swirling around trying to get his bearings while I was the only living thing in the hallway to vent his frustrations on! A panicked self preservative instinct overcame me, and I decided to smash him with my box before he fully came to his senses. I did this and he laid still now. But was he dead or playing possum? When I had left would he drag his broken body to my front door pointing his stinger at it to give a clue to his bee buddies or bee detectives, that would come to investigate the murder? Would I return home to find the chalked outline of where the bee had finally died scratched onto the polished terrazzo floor? It is well known that bees seek revenge, and they are a specialized society possibly they had a division of hit bees that would come to settle the score? God forbid I thought possibly I killed the Queen Bee but that seemed unlikely as she would have been protected. Such are the trials and tribulations of responsible recycling!

The next day passed uneventfully although throughout the entire day I had a feeling of foreboding. That evening there was a knock at the door combined with the sound of a terrible hacking cough. I opened the door to find an immense Bee blotting out any light behind him in the hallway as he coughed incessantly while trying to communicate between his gasps for air “HONEY, HONEY “ Which I eventually deciphered and ran to the cubbord frantically pulling out three attached plastic bear shaped bottles of organic honey and giving it to the enormous Bee. With his appendage he grabbed the closest bottle tore off the lid and swallowed the entire bottle in three large gulps.

“Ahh That feels much better!” said the bee enforcer.

“Can I help you?” I stammered.

“You already have” buzzed the bee.

“You were very lucky to have that honey on hand even though it was stolen from some hard-working bees somewhere who was just trying to make an honest living”.

It was hard to tell when the giant insectivore was mad or when he was content, sarcastic or simply doing his job.

“I was sent here today to either kill or maim you for killing my little brother but I have decided to spare you, however if you ever retell this story make sure to embellish it with a good deal of violence on my part!”said the bee.

“Oh thank you I will be sure to do that. “I expostulated.

“I am going to hold on to these two additional bottles of honey just in case my cough comes back as I deal with an inordinate amount of pollen, grasses, beeswax and such,” said the super bee,” Oh, and stock up on that organic honey it is top shelf as I may stop by again if necessary for more honey in exchange for sparing your life” buzzed the BEE ENFORCER.

“Thank you again for sparing my life and I will be sure to embellish our encounter leaving all who hear my tale wishing to never make your acquaintance in the future, and I will never raise my hand to a bee again! “I exclaimed.

The bee said nothing else and walked away with a quick wave lumbering down the stairs and exiting the building never to be seen again.

Jim- June 25’

I Can't Believe Poppa Threw it Away

 

 

How could he?? How could Poppa have thrown it away?? I can’t believe Poppa threw away Momma’s treasured wind-up victrola and her entire record collection. Was it indifference? Was it thoughtlessness? Was it a shortage of space in the moving van? Was it malice? No-one to ask!! My older sister and brother have died. We never talked about the incident when they were alive. Maybe they would have an explanation. I gave it little thought growing up. When I started writing, I began to examine Momma’s and Poppa’s relationship. 

 

Let me give you the facts. Our family spent the two summer months in a rooming house in the Catskills. Poppa toiled as a house painter in the city and joined us on the weekends. When we left the city, we had been living in 1932 Crotona Parkway. Unbeknownst to us, Poppa packed up our apartment and moved us to 1215 Simpson Street. At the end of the summer, we were surprised to arrive at this new address. Everything was in place but the wind-up victrola and record collection were gone. Her collection of operas, popular songs, Jewish dance music, all gone. Momma cried for many days and probably never forgot or forgave him. I can’t believe Poppa could have done such a thing!!!

 

Ethyl Haber

Memorial Day Musings

 

It is early morning as the day unfurls, while the flags are unfurled on this Memorial Day spilling streaks of red and white stripes along with a field of deep blue spangled with white stars.

You can almost hear a thousand pots of coffee percolating all over town as everyone prepares for a day of remembrance and reflection.

Barbecues are being cleaned and connected to natural gas for later in the day.

Most holidays are joyful, but this one is sad and mournful.

It is a day off from work but not for shopping and frivolities.

An old soldier is polishing the buttons on his uniform and shining his dress shoes.

Somewhere a marching band is practicing with their instruments.

American Bald Eagles are leaving their nests to hunt for their fledglings high above the Hudson River.

An old warrior in uniform is rolling down Main Street in Ossining with a jug for donations and a pocket full of red poppies, being greeted by some and avoided by others. He is fully cognizant of those ingrates who cross the street to avoid eye contact and the customary donation to the Veterans Association.

A little girl dressed in a navy-blue dress with white shoes, and red beret approaches the old soldier and removes a bill from her small pocketbook and places it in the jug.

“Thank You, Sir, for your service.”says the little girl.

“Thank You little girl!” says the old warrior handing the girl a poppy as his cracked weary face lightens up for a moment, temporarily forgetting the many faces that haunt him of those companions who never made it back home from the battlefields of Europe.

Prisoners sit in their cells at nearby Sing Sing reflecting on their squandered lives.

New recruits at nearby West Point Academy study and workout and dream of their future accomplishments.

The wonderful, combined smell of five hundred barbecues float down Main Street.

The old soldier’s jug is filled now, and he is running out of red poppies in his pocket. His brass buttons are bursting with pride from the many accolades that he has received today.

Each streetlamp on Main Street displays the picture of a soldier who has paid the ultimate price for his or her country while every house has a flag on display as the parade comes down the street.

F-18’s can be heard screeching over the Hudson River, long before they can be seen flying past West Point Academy.

The American Bald Eagles are flying home to their aeries with fish for their fledglings.

It has been a good and respectful day.

Jim- May 25’

Re: Alliterative Assignment - (5) Sentences

 

• Curious cats crept through the clover. 
• The Siamese silently sat in the sunlight. 
• Puppies played like panthers.  
• Felines frolicked flipping fish in the forest.  
• Tabby toppled through the tall thyme.

Georgia

Five Original Similes

 

Regret is like a shadow walking with you day and night. 

Nostalgia is like the perfume you can no longer encounter.

Anxiety is like a radio, always on, never clear.  

Fear stayed over her head like a threatening storm.  

Hope settled in her chest like a candle in a dark room. 

 

Georgia

Things Don't Like Me - The Experience of a Benign Despot

 

When we were first married, my husband and I cautioned each other about our enormous collections of books. Prior to the official union of our libraries, we ordered four imposing bookcases, each seven feet tall and able to hold over five hundred volumes. This philanthropic commitment created a stable home for our diverse tomes, and I spent many happy hours introducing them to each other. As I attempted to establish this new literary community, I noted that only one single title had subsisted in both our collections. Catch 22 appeared as fraternal twins, one in hardcover and his brother in paperback. They were forced to clasp each other awkwardly amidst the teeming crowds of other titles.

My intent was to create harmony among the defiantly diverse subjects, align the authors and their titles into eclectic cliques of subject matter. Whether they were attired in leather, cloth, or paper, I strove to give them a sense of belonging and security. Delicate novelettes were safely bolstered by sturdy anthologies and regiments of reference materials. Strongly opinioned volumes were sequestered far enough from each other to establish distinctive camaraderie.

On the first two occasions when our household was relocated, the stoic wooden towers strode confidently into their new abode, re-welcoming their citizenry and re-establishing communities with few arrivals or departures of specific individuals or families. But our third exodus created a great upheaval; the contented literary community would be obliterated when we determined that the four loyal bookcases could not survive another relocation. The books themselves would also need to be thoughtfully examined and reduced in number - either incarcerated in storage, orphaned in thrift shops, or sacrificed at the local recycling center.

As I soberly considered this necessary triage, I noticed how quiet the books had become over the past several years. The security of place upon the solid shelves had made them both complacent and reluctant to seek my attention when I walked past; I realized that in bookstores, the titles seemed to shout at me; the colorful covers waved to get my attention and tempted me to peer deep within, pursuing their unique essence. The books that had been standing shoulder-to-shoulder on my own shelves felt a bit ignored and neglected. They also feared that going so long without a friendly flip through their pages had left them dry and brittle, at risk of injury if I handled them too roughly.

But no matter how benign a despot may be, a time will come when difficult decisions must be made. The most precious volumes were lovingly nestled into trusty cardboard “book

boxes” and carefully stacked in a climate-controlled facility. Books that were still eager to speak - to someone else, no longer to us - were gently released to local libraries and thrift shops. Bibliophiles may find the last matter a bitter one. Only those with a strong stomach and a fierce creative streak may appreciate knowing that assaults were conducted upon this last category of literature. Most of the remaining, unsalvageable volumes were twined for recycling. However, if they were determined to contain unique illustrations or passages, they were first vivisected before disposal of the remaining husk. During this surgical procedure, I reminded myself that the harvested treasures would one day serve to vitalize a journal, scrapbook, or artistic collage. Finally, only one bit of carnage remained: the destruction of the bookcases themselves.

We were unable to find anyone needing something to hold a collection the size of ours. We placed all four towers at curbside, on a night before the scheduled bulk pickup. When we returned the next day, only a few wooden shards lay scattered in the gutter. The kingdom had fallen, and the citizens dispersed. Over the next years, new lands welcomed the various survivors. In our home, a much smaller community found itself under wiser, more attentive rule.

Shelia S.

My Cell Phone

 

Ugh, a necessary evil. There’s no living without it anymore. My cell phone is both a lifeline and a leech—always in reach, always demanding attention. I use it for everything: endless surfing, learning strange and fascinating facts I never thought to wonder about, staying entertained, staying distracted. It’s a tool, a toy, and sometimes a trap. I even keep my old landline, just in case I misplace it—so I can call my cell phone from my home phone and follow the ring like a bloodhound. Isn’t that something? Technology ruling the day, but I still rely on the clunky relic from the past just to keep up with the sleek gadget of the present.

Georgia