Mary Margaret Park

Along the forest floor where my feet have yet to tread the spider webs are waiting adorned in prisms thread Remnants of seasons past trace the tree-lined path holding sodden secrets underneath the dewy show Proud against the ancient loam a tender leaf pokes through soon to dust the forest floor with all that’s green and new Tears of joy from rain soaked clouds tap against my cheeks and when the silken quiet breaks with tree frogs piercing cry my heart trills ever upward to the soaring emerald sky where my soul flies free among the branches in reply And so I share in this ancient ritual full of whispered past where the climbing leaves of green are full of hope In this cycle of life and death all inspiring and sublime I am conscious of the ticking and the passage of all time Along the forest floor where my eager feet do tread I am covered in the mist of wonder’s watershed – – – – – – – – – - Make a $5 Contribution?

Anna stepped back from the mirror. Slender and well kept, she looked pretty good for a woman pushing forty. She thought so anyway. Her husband Frank didn’t seem to notice one way or the other, even though she’d tried to get him to—oh yes—she had. Several years ago, she’d gotten down to an anorexic size two. God, what’s wrong with me? She sighed, turning away from the mirror. She was a woman of extremes; no matter what, she went ‘balls to the walls’. Frank was outside mowing the lawn. The drone of a motor penetrated the double paned windows; the sound was alien to her. She looked out the master bathroom window. She was up high; below was a huge lawn of crème de menthe green that stretched from the back of the house to the wall of trees that bordered their property. The lawn was Frank’s pride and joy. He looked ridiculous down there, like an insect buzzing around a light. She watched his circles get tighter then stepped away from the window. He’ll be outside for a while. She slipped her fingers into her panties and rubbed; an image of Frank buzzing around came to mind—she pushed it away—concentrating. Her climax was bittersweet. Too bad Frank doesn’t enjoy riding me as much as that lawnmower. She looked around the room. The wallpaper looked fuzzy. Come to think of it, everything did. It was as if a milky haze had dulled her perspective, like a corona around a bright light. She laughed softly, more like a corona of dog shit; her perception had become ‘hinky’, as if she were floating around in a cottony bubble, and that made her think of her older brother. She reeled her mind back to the present and looked out the window framing a dazzling shock of green leaves; a breeze rippled through the treetops; dapples of shadow and light danced in the air before slowly sighing to a stop. She heard the kitchen door open and shut. Frank was done mowing. She headed towards the stairway; he’d be hungry and would want something to eat. His Read more [...]

our leaders have staked the nation on a horse called corporate greed do they believe the rights of people less than vital, obsolete? the politicians count their gold withhold the truth, so we can’t see has corruption killed our honor robbed the masses, stolen dreams? will the truth enrage a nation? bereft of freedoms will they cry? should we not reclaim the future? fell the fools that sell the lies? – – – – – – – – – - Make a $5 Contribution?

I. Len Oei awakened. His dreams blanketed him in desperation. Everything was still. An alarm clock sounded. “It’s time to get up and head out for another long hard working day,” the morning radio host said. Like a bird perched on a limb, Len sat up, swinging his feet onto the cool wooden floor. He steadied himself on the bed’s edge. (It’s time to get ready for another day at Cochran City Clinic). I should call in sick, could use a day, hell; a week off…  A twinge of guilt followed, as he envisioned the waiting room filled with raucous sounds of sickness and images of hopeful faces. Fuck…  He muttered as he headed towards the kitchen for a cup of coffee. A disturbed trail of thoughts lingered, I can’t handle another futile patient; no more, I’m tired…  He took a sip of the black coffee, yearning to become hopeful—6:03 a.m. flashed. II. Len couldn’t stop thinking about the little girl. Her mother brought her to the clinic a week ago. Her baby was terribly sick, Pneumonia. He wanted to admit her to the hospital right away but the insurance company wouldn’t pay for any services rendered. He did the best he could and sent the tearful mother home with breathing treatments and an antibiotic. With so many patients to treat, he hadn’t given it much thought until yesterday, when the little girl’s mother barged into his office. “There’s something wrong with my baby, help me; please, help me…” she’d screamed.  Len took one look at her child and knew it was too late. The baby’s lips were purple and her skin had taken on a dusky blue shade. He went through the motions of trying to save the child anyway; later, he learned that her mother was unable to obtain the antibiotic he’d ordered. He wanted to chalk the incident up to plain old ignorance but this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. In fact, the supply of antibiotics to the local hospitals and pharmacies had slowed altogether—6:21 a.m. Len took another Read more [...]

A series of fog draped garages and sheds lined the perimeter. John involuntarily slowed at each gap between them; his heart beating viciously. He heard the loud bang of tin garbage cans being knocked over followed by the sound of feet skittering. He quickened his pace and arrived at the end of the alley. The fog stretched out before him onto the street. Heavy mist coated his hair and shoulders. The streetlights remained wearing misty halos. Nothing moved. He started down the sidewalk. Over to his left was a neighborhood park, edges lined with white-powder lights. At the entrance of the park stood a statue, Why not, might as well check it out. John crossed the street and was just about to step up onto the other side when a mournful howl came from his left, Coyotes in the woods. He walked into the park entrance, coming abreast of the statue when he heard the click of a switch, brief static, then music floating around him. To his right, sitting on the crumbled statues ledge was the radio from before, its luminescent green dial at once faint then bright. Beyond the statue, past a line of old pine trees was a ball diamond; there was a chain link dugout behind home plate and a wooden set of bleachers to the side. He walked through the pine scented canopy and came out onto the ball field. His ankle was starting to ache again; his thoughts garbled, Suffering is bliss here. The ground was soft, spongy, broken up by muddy patches. John walked to the bleachers with long strides, climbing two-thirds of the way up, and sat down. The cyclone fence chopped up his view of the tree lined path, and the mist enshrouded statue beyond it. The street lights continued casting lonely pools of light. He wondered if the radio was still playing but was interrupted when he heard a soft growl followed by a shuffling sound. He looked down between his feet catching a dark blur beneath him. The bleachers started to tremor when a mysterious entity below him began scrambling wildly, Read more [...]

There’s a disease that’s taken root in this country, and it’s being heralded as something good; its not the black plague, but I think it’s just as dangerous. I’m talking about the notion that people shouldn’t say anything offensive, the relentless dogma of being ‘politically correct’. I think the original intent was noble, but this country has taken it too far, so far that we don’t even expect to hear the truth anymore. The politicians are happy to perpetuate this nonsense, because it gives them carte blanche on the political stage, they have a supercharged ‘get out of jail free’ card if you will. If you think I’m way off base, think again, remember Enron? And what about the banking bailout? How about those weapons of mass destruction? If you’re thinking, “so what, its all water under the bridge. “, you’re right, it is all water under the bridge, but should it be? In the end, it’s a two sided equation. While there’s little you can do about the out of control ruling class, you can at least start asking hard questions and continue to ask them until you get the truth, and you can form or join watchdog organizations that promote accountability in government. The next time someone asks your opinion about politician X or politician Y, or even your neighbor, don’t bite your tongue in the name of being ‘politically correct’, tell the truth, because there’s nothing wrong with having an opinion. In a democracy (should we ever have one), it’s your God given right; don’t let anyone tell you any different. – – – – – – – – – - Make a $5 Contribution?

red a strange avenue into imagination not seen or heard impaled by the velvet angst of this uncertain virtue tomorrow’s vision the simplicity of skin on skin atonal oblivion in the silk of your lips red a strange avenue into imagination a simple view a still life in profile on the other side of sunset today’s ambition the aspirations of a lifetime totally immersed in the color of your dreams – – – – – – – – – - Make a $5 Contribution?

I lay awake wrapped in the rain’s gentle arms a whispered cadence from yesteryear this moment twined eternally in childhood as water droplets tap dance outside the window ambassadors of peace beckoning towards yon horizon where simplicities promise awaits – – – – – – – – – - Make a $5 Contribution?

I. Harmful—a word daring caution—Chance peers through the window. Another column of black smoke rises in the distance; a noxious slur of ash and debris, the atmosphere a tapestry of gray and black particles. It all started six months ago, well the worst of it anyway. He reaches up, wiping the sweat from his forehead, it feels like an oven inside but he’s afraid to open the windows. The room’s floor is a jumbled mess; a patchwork dotted with blankets, a propane camping stove and bottled water—harmful outside. A fit of coughing racks his body. He clutches his chest and takes shallow breaths until the bout quiets. He roots through a cardboard box of provisions, pushing cans aside, until he finds what he’s looking for. He pauses, staring out the window, his vision blurred, unseeing, thinking about Amanda who he’d buried in the garden three days prior. It didn’t matter that the ‘Red’s’ seized the coast; everything was falling down, tumbling down, democracy right along with it. His sister’s death warrant was signed months ago, right in the good ole’ US of A, compliments of Senator Feingold, straight out of Washington D.C.  Another spasm of coughs erupted. He doubles over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wipes his mouth, his hand comes away sticky with blood. Gotta’ get to the clinic.  He’s weak and he’s tired, so tired. He sinks down onto the floor, resting his head on a nearby clump of blankets. II. Chance runs through a corridor, every breath, drowning; lungs clogged and long collapsed. The hallways of the ER are congested with people waiting to be seen, many of them dressed for dead. Chance finally gets to see the doctor. The man’s eyes are red-rimmed. His shoulders are hunched in exhaustion, “Go home son, it’s too late, it’s a resistant strain. There’s nothing I can do for you.” III. Chance awakens to the sound of sirens. With a grunt, he pulls up off of the floor and edges his way over to the window. The shadows Read more [...]

She was in a daze, sick to her stomach—Rose rolled over and buried her head beneath the covers—the afternoon sun kept poking through the blinds, a reminder that productive people didn’t stay in bed all day, a reminder that they got out and worked, and didn’t spend the whole day hiding, afraid to come out. She was starting to hate her husband. She felt like a bird in a gilded cage. She was trapped, and the people looking inward didn’t understand, didn’t care to, as it only upset whatever preconceived notions they held about the life she and Wally were living. Outwardly, they were the perfect suburbanite couple, with 1.7 kids and a two-car garage, but on the inside, they were sick, rotted to the core. The phone rang; its shrill chirp cut through the bedroom door. She should have gone downstairs to answer it. Wally was probably calling to check up on her, but she didn’t want to talk to him. The ringing finally quieted. A Mockingbird’s tune drifted inside. She pulled up out of bed and went to the window; her long blond hair swayed at her petite waist. She had wanted to get her hair cut short but Wally wouldn’t have it. She hopped in the shower, turning the water up so hot that she could barely stand it. When she got out, she realized that she’d forgotten to turn on the exhaust fan; the mirror and windows were completely foggy. She wiped a small section of the window clear and peered outside. The sky had turned gray, and a dismal mist had settled over the backyard. She paused, listening to the low rumble that echoed in the distance—the birds sang no more and the air tethered in unnatural quiet. She resumed brushing her hair, peering closely at the mirror. Was that a gray hair? She was reaching for the tweezers when something tapped against the window. She couldn’t tell if anything was out there, and besides, what could it be? She was on the second floor. She tweezed the Read more [...]