Local writers and special guests

Loren Webster taught English for many years in Battleground, Washington. After retiring, he moved to Tacoma. He travels throughout the west and posts his photos and commentary at LorenWebster.Net

The biggest disappointment of our Thanksgiving trip was that it was so cloudy and threatening that we decided to skip Grand Canyon this trip.  On the other hand, because we had an extra half-day we decided to drive sections of Route 66 rather than staying on the much faster Interstate 40.

I’ll have to admit I was surprised that “Route 66” attracted so many tourists.  A lot of the small towns we drove through would probably disappear without the tourist trade. We began our morning with a stop at the Route 66 Bakery. 

Probably not surprisingly, I took a lot more landscape shots than I did shots of old buildings. The plants were quite different from the vegetation I remember in the Mojave Desert around Ft. Irwin, and the vegetation changed dramatically as we climbed the mountain range.

As we climbed even higher, what little vegetation there was gave way to rock gardens. 

Route 66 to Oatman was quite the challenge.  The road was narrow and the drop off so extreme that Leslie refused to look out the window until we stopped at a pullout at the summit.  Looking out from the top of the pass, it was hard to believe that anyone would ever have chosen this as the main route from Los Angeles to Chicago.  

Oatman seemed like a tourist trap, but the rocky cliffs provided a dramatic backdrop for the town. 

I did stop at the edge of Oatman to take a shot of an original gas station that has been restored, though the pumps no longer pump gas, but I refused to pay $2.00 to park so that we could feed the burros carrots or visit the shops selling Indian crafts to tourists. Still, it was pretty clear that lots of people were more than happy to do so.  I don’t know where all the people came from since we didn’t see a single car on the highway, but the town itself was bustling with tourists.

Our Thanksgiving trip covered nearly 4,000 miles.  When you cover that many miles you’re grateful to have anything that detracts you,  reading about and seeing landmarks from the original Route 66 certainly helped make the trip more interesting than it would have been if we had just remained on Interstate 40 the whole way.

See photos at LorenWebster.net 

Nandita Banerjee has a B.A. and M.A. in English Literature. She taught English for ten years in Oxfordshire, England.  She loves classical works from Milton, Oscar Wilde, and Charles Dickens as well as from contemporary writers like  Deborah Harkness and Jhumpa Lahiri.

Sometimes a song

Touches my heart;

Strikes a chord

In a hidden niche-

The tremors spread,

Adrenaline hits,

 Goosebumps crawl...

I listen addicted

I cannot let go;-

It swamps my soul,

It drenches my brain-

My feelings drown,

All my cares too.

I call it perfect bliss.

It’s illimitable

The world fades;

My mind chills,

My senses awake,

My spirit takes flight...

In that blessed state

I begin to write.

Mashi peeked in. “What is the matter, Hema? Why are you crying?”

I pointed to the open book on Hema's bed. “She sees ghosts.”

Hema’s mother hugged her. “Hema, beti, there is no such thing as ghosts. I told you.”

“Yet you believe in them yourself. I heard you tell the doctor that Baba’s spirit came for me, that my days were numbered.” Hema’s words were arrested by her dry, hacking cough.

“That was when you first told me," Mashi said. "Yes, there is a superstition that the dead return for their loved ones when it is…”

“Time for them to die.” I finished the sentence for her.

Mashi bit her lower lip so hard, it bled. “But Hema is still with us...” She wiped her mouth with her sari pallu. “Hema is safe. She won’t die.”

“I am not the same and you know it.” Hema scowled at the mirror opposite her bed. “Can’t you see? You should have seen Priya’s expression when she came in.”

Her mother looked away.

My eyes stung. If only I could disguise my feelings. “No, Hema, I was just sad that we didn’t get back sooner.” I swallowed and pulled out the dress from my basket and laid it on the bed. “Hema, I brought this for you.”

“I will not wear that dress. Priya, take it away.” She stared at herself in the mirror. “I look like Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters, much worse than I looked after number five.”

“Five?” Her mother gasped.

I opened my mouth to explain, then stopped.

“I saw other ghosts after the first, Ma, and each time a new one arrived, I felt worse than before; I didn’t want to tell you because you would be upset.” Hema broke into a terrible cough that robbed her of her breath.

“She has seen six ghosts. Look in her book.”

Mashi peered into the book. Her restless hands fingered the pictures. When she spoke, her voice was tiny. “Why would they come to her? She is all I’ve got.”

“Don’t worry, Ma, they haven’t been able to take me. I was strong, but I don’t know about number seven.”

My stomach flipped. I swung around. “The number of completion?”

Hema nodded. “The last one.”

“That one will kill her,” my tongue spoke before I could stop it. “Do you think it will be Uncle Dev?”

Hema cast a furtive glance at her mother.

“He isn’t dead.” Mashi evaded my eyes.

“But it’s got to be someone, someone who is dead and is close to Hema.”

“Nonsense!” Mashi sprang up. “How can you be so sure?”

“Seven always completes a process,” my six-year-old tongue blurted out. “Miss Wilson said, and Hema is dying. Number seven will come and finish what number one began.” I flipped through the pages of creation in Hema’s book. “When God created the world, he finished it in seven days.”

Mashi swallowed. “Seven is also a happy number. God finished the world in seven days; that was an accomplishment. The rainbow is a beautiful reminder of God’s goodness. If a seventh spirit comes at all, it should cure Hema, not—”

Hema interrupted her. “Ma, Priya is right, they come for me alright, but they are nice. Not just Baba, Dada, but also Nana, Nani, Didu, Dadu.” Hema spoke so quietly, I had to strain my ears to listen. “Since I learned about my illness, every night… all those long and lonely nights… the spirits have watched me cry myself to sleep, and when I have struggled, they have taken turns to hold me in their arms. And when the golden pink hues of dawn have streaked the dark skies, their dull and glazed eyes have brightened as if with life; only I have felt tired, so tired, completely drained.” She exploded into a fit of viscous coughing that racked her tiny body.

Mashi gave her a throat lozenge and hugged her tight. “You should have told me about this long ago; I would never have allowed them to come near you.”

“Neither would I. Nasty creatures.” I squinted at the figures in Hema’s book. “They are sucking her life spirit out of her.”

The phone rang again. Mashi picked up, then whispered, “Your mother… go.”

I scampered off, mindful of the consequences for my nonconformity: pages of Bengali spellings to learn and worksheets to practice in Bengali grammar.

BUY THIS BOOK ON AMAZON

Neesy Tompkins was born in San Antonio but left for Port Aransas as soon as she graduated from High School. She and her then-husband ran a shrimp boat for several years. Later, she was employed in the restaurant and bar industries where she met many colorful characters that are reflected in the stories she writes. It wasn’t until attending college, which was possible because of a Hurricane, that she was acknowledged as a writer by her winning of a National Essay Contest with her story entitled “The Gift.” She graduated with a degree in Mass Communications and a Minor in History in May 2017, which is utilized in her current self-employment as a social media manager and advertising agency for local Port Aransas businesses. Along with writing, photography of the Island she adores is a passion.

Many moons ago, I tried making Austin home. The music scene was great, not so great when your musician partner is in search of that golden spotlight. But where is home?

So I returned here, Port Aransas, where my compass always pointed. Since 1978, my internal compass has always brought me back here.

The other day, someone who has long been barred from my page, posted a joke about me on her page (a good friend of mine sent it to me)....and it said "Look what Hurricane Hannah washed in" with a photo of a dinosaur and my name misspelled on the photo. (Niecy)

At first, this upset me but after great thought,  I agreed that I have been blessed with many years of life, stories, great friends and music, and proud of it. 

I've been lucky enough to watch Port A before it was commercialized, back when neighbors took care of each other when in need. Back when horseshoe crabs were a common sight, back when Island RV consisted of 3 muddy rv spots and that old bald-headed Pete was its keeper. Back when in the dark of February, we all looked forward to Spring Break and the business it would bring in because we were all so tired of eating fish all Winter. Back then we truly were a tribe and Dwayne Matthews took care of us all. 

Yes, call me a dinosaur and I will proudly say that I have been blessed with many years and stories.Yes, I have commercial shrimped, and I sank a boat once. I have been married to two Johns.  I've done some things I'm not too proud of, but I've done a lot of good for others too.   

Every so often when the moon is full like tonight, a song will drift down through clouds with silver lining and highlight a part of my life long-covered with dust. Tonight, it was a reminder of Austin and the amazing Nanci Griffith whose clear, honest voice reminds me of Texas Hill Country and strong Texas women, the voice of hope. Clarity, like this night when those memories return with the song of yesterday.

So, to that person that brought up the dinosaur thing, yes. I am. Am proud of the music I've enjoyed and all these years spent here, and the silver ribbon of life with its ups and downs, the rivers, ravines and the water that forges your presence here on this earth; and the great friends I've made along the way, even those who left for the search of that spotlight.....and on this night, on this "Once in a Blue Moon" night, in her glow I bask and listen to the wind, and smile at all the memories, in the place that has always been my constant. Goodnight, Port Aransas.

I saw the monarchs passing through in large numbers, as they follow their ingrained path in life South for the Winter. In the sand dunes they were resting by the hundreds on dried sunflower stalks, soaking up the last rays of sun at the end of the day, as cars speed by but oblivious to their royal presence.
But who would notice with people getting paid on Fridays and the bustle of the start of weekend, but I did. And it made me feel special and sad at the same time as the awareness of golden days of life are ever present.
As I tilt my head up, I taste the fresh sea breeze with the glow of sun on my face and give thanks for this journey and for given time to be here, right now at this moment watching these beauties make their journey fearlessly to their resting place.
Feeling blessed beyond measure. 

This is how I will remember you, Port Aransas. Before the oil storage tanks and before the dredging. Before the desalination plants and huge oil tankers.

I will remember the way you look at sunset, when the stars have just risen and the air hums with nightfall. Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men, even when those men are intent on destroying the beauty of this special place for the sake of the money that will line their pockets.

It is Christmas and the Harbor is filled with the sounds of Carolers from boats. Festive lights decorate masts and beams as slowly they glide through the marina, and if only for tonight peace fills the air with community. Tonight we stand together, intact, hot chocolate being served and the scent of peppermint from candies given freely by groups.

Silent night, holy night where dolphin roam freely in pristine, calm waters. I will remember this night for all that is held dear is about to change as the darkness of greed and current administration recklessly maintain the advancement of facilities destined to scar this special place and scrape away all the natural goodness.

But on this special night, people were joyous and the World was good and all was well as the boat parade Christmas lighting ceremony brought families and neighbors together to celebrate the Christmas season.  Pray for Port Aransas.

Copyright Neesy Tompkins

Me and this old porch.
Last night I watched the fireworks from my old porch for the last time as FEMA retrieves their loaner at the end of this month.
I don’t own the land where this old porch sits, the land where my old cat Pepper is buried and where I have resided for over 19 years. 
Many memories from this old porch.
I leave my old tomcat Pepper here in his grave but the porch will go with me. Pepper, never forgotten and always in my heart. 
To freedom, fireworks, whiskey and making new memories. 
Anybody have a chainsaw I can borrow? 

It was like any other day, the day my father died. Oblivious to the crying and runny noses on the other end of the phone line, it seemed surreal, like the way talking sounds through the fog across a ship channel, muffled. With shaky voices, they talked of arrangements.

Voices repeated that he was really gone, as I tried to comprehend how I was supposed to act. And this huge sense of nothingness overcame me, like trying to stay adrift through a dark sea of bitterness and disappointment, blindly searching for an answer that is not there as I attempted to feel what they were feeling.

After the funeral, after the law books and business had been divided and before returning to the Island, my share of possessions resulted in a cardboard box filled with ships that my father had collected throughout his years, always on his credenza shelves in his law office collecting dust. Some metal, others bamboo, and even an oil painting in cobalt blues of a Spanish galleon tossed upon stormy seas.

The box went into the storage room of my old mobile home, in the place I stored things that I didn’t care to see. A junk room, cluttered with bird feathers and seashells, a rusty ironing board and old photographs of a life long ago known that had somehow changed so drastically to have tossed me here on this Island known as home for so long.

Home, such a strange word. How to define home? I was not born here but knew I belonged here. Here with the harsh Winters and a chill that reaches down the corridors of your heart, yet the ocean gave me comfort, like a warm blanket and a buffer between the world and me.

Until that day in August and a storm that drove in unsuspected, so only a few pair of clothing changes were taken as I loaded up for higher ground.

A week passed, holding my breath, stuck in a city with concrete and buildings that obliterated any chance of viewing a sunset. With an aching heart I returned, knowing that what was left might not be much after seeing video after video of first responders on social media, some of them close to my street but never my street exactly. Prepared for the worst, my feet trampled heavily through still wet and muddy ground, and a stench that was almost as unbearable as the mosquitos dive-bombed any flesh left uncovered.

My old mobile, what was left of it, lay on its side, white walls fallen like broken wings in the mud, weighted down by sewage and stinky mud. Everything was covered in a putrid brown color, the stench of rotting fish and seaweed halfway up the sides with wires exposed. Ironically, the kitchen shelves and dishes in the cupboards stood untouched, coffee mugs ready for a new morning and a new day. Searching through remnants for anything that might be salvaged, a few dead birds lay in awkward positions pointed the way on the saturated ground to where a book lay open. It was the only book found, Sue Monk Kidd’s The Invention of Wings, pages still damp, barely legible and opened to expose a line reading “Let not your heart be troubled. Neither let it be afraid”. And I started to cry. One of those long moaning cries that comes with the pain of letting go, and giving in.

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2018

Passed by the stores shortly after Thanksgiving Dinner, which in my family really means lunch because everyone has other places to rush to.

Got to see my little brother ten minutes as he is married now so they rush in for a cameo visit and out to spend Thanksgiving at her family’s house promising to return, which they never do.

So my daughter, Tahnee, and I get in the car and drive; drive to nowhere in particular but with the music on and the cold air coming through the windows cracked with cars whizzing by, and let the sour words always spoken inevitably at the table as the sweet rolls are passed around, roll off our backs and out the crack of the window into the fast moving air with the fast moving lanes with the others rushing to get to some sale before Christmas rushes in.

We listen the sounds of the music that calm down the surroundings as the day comes to a close and spend time together sipping on pop and grateful to escape the roar of rush together. And tomorrow I return to the sea, as she, the extension of me, continues to remain here in this fast moving City. Bittersweet.

Born in Taft, Texas, Patricia Alaniz is the 13th of 14 children. She graduated from Taft High School. Then graduated from Bee County College with a cosmetology license. She has been married for 26 beautiful years. The couple has been blessed with 4 children and 2 grandchildren. Patricia has devoted 12 years of her life to working with children with special needs. She can frequently be found writing a new poem down. Her love of reading and writing poetry began when she was a teenager.  In college, she joined a poetry club, and one poet said her poetry was not poetry. Hurt and embarrassed, she threw away her poems. Her love for poetry never died, and she started writing again a few years ago. Her current focus is on the process of putting her poetry into the form of a book to share with the world. WHISPERS OF LOVE POETRY should be available soon. Patricia's poems are inspired by the lives of those she holds dear. Patricia's poems are written to take you away into a world of passion, love and hope. They will leave you breathless! Yearning to read more! 

Patty Alaniz read Restoring Her Fate

Sitting here alone,
 messing with my phone
Trying to figure out,
 what's the fuss about!
Caught up in a stare,
 clicking here and there.
What's this here I see?
Gadgets new to me!
Beauty by click.
Oh, so many tricks!
Hey now.. look at me!
Loading Apps for free!
Making me so small.
Sometimes even tall!
Let's me Beautify,
 every flaw to hide.
Oh look, here's a light,
 I can use at night.
Wow.. look at this app.
 it's a Google map!
Text a telegram,
 right on Instagram.
Listen to a song
 while I sing along!
Take another pic,
Hurry.. Make it quick!
Now leave me alone!
Cause I'm messing with my phone! 

No.. she was not your typical girl.
As a matter of fact..
She was far from being ordinary.
Born to be a rebel!
Set in her own majestic ways.
Destined to be queen of her throne!
Her fate laid recklessly..
In the hands of her own chambers!
The only alpha of her kind.
Bound to fight alone!
Refined by her own prosecution!
Perfection was not in her name.
For a true leader is not bred without flaws.
She was fierce!
But defiant!
Chaotically out of control!
No..
Her life was never simple.
But she held her own!
And she wasn't afraid.
Because fear did not exist in her world.
Nor,
did it run through her veins!
And when things got tough!
Well.. she got tougher.
And if war is what you seek!
Then war is what she gave!
No..
Her life was never simple.
But she held on!
And she survived!
So next time you see her..
Do not question her behavior.
And don't be so quick to judge her!
For you know nothing of her kingdom!
Nor will you ever know..
The hell that her crown has been through!

Teri Garcia-Ruiz is a Texas native who enjoys both reading and writing poetry, historical and science fiction. Her work has appeared in The Windward Review and in the Poets Facing the Wall Anthology. 

Like the eye of a storm, the mirador is a quiet moment 

Standing still 

within the swirling sea of passing cars, sailboats and swooping 

laughing gulls that fill the rushing

salt air with the lively song of coastal living. Just stop.

Read the rest of this poem (about downtown Corpus Christi) in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

The author is a veteran of the U.S. Coast Guard and a former newspaper columnist long

retired. Originally from Florida, he has now resided in Kingsville for almost eight years. He and his wife

Jill own and operate a small used bookstore located in historic downtown.

Much to the old man’s surprise, Charles H. Flato Elementary School on West Santa

Gertrudis Avenue in Kingsville, Texas was still standing. Not standing very sturdy mind you,

but it was still there all the same...

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Tom Murphy’s books: Pearl (FlowerSong Press 2020), American History (Slough Press, 2017), co-edited Stone Renga (Tail Feather, 2017), chapbook, Horizon to Horizon (Strike Syndicate, 2015). Murphy has been published in journals such as: Langdon Review, Red River Review, San Antonio Express News, Texas Poetry Calendar, Centrifuge, Nebula, Strike, Switchgrass Review, Voices de la Luna, and Windward Review. Murphy has been published in anthologies such as: Writing Texas, Boundless Anthology, Speak Your Mind: Woody Guthrie Poets, Corpus Christi Writers, Outraged, Beatitude: Golden Anniversary Edition, The Call of the Chupacabra, and The Great American Wise Ass Poetry Anthology. Murphy has forthcoming work in Locus Review, Writing Texas, Switchgrass, Langdon Review, and Star Trek Tanka Anthology. Murphy is a committee member of the People’s Poetry Festival of Corpus Christi. 

Tom Murphy reads "Endurance" from Corpus Christi Writers 2020 

In this God forsaken Bible 

Rust Belt, Margaret Screws

Lived 98 years before going

To the Lord on November 19th

2016 at Mount Carmel CC.

A dedicated nurse, who

Learned her asses and lube trade

In the same hospital, she was born,

St. Paul’s in Big D 

As Margaret Ann Thurmon.

Moved to Kermit with her friend Janie

To nurse that West Texas big sky 

At Robinson McClure Hospital

Where she gave a shot of penicillin

To her love, George Dewey “Pete” Screws.

Humble Margaret screws 

Pete’s Fitz-Willie and pops

Out eight children before

Sun Oil Company shipped them

To San Isidro Sun Oil Field.

A school nurse, then a quick in ‘n out.

The Kingsville Record’s headline 

“Margaret Screws Bishop

Now Screws in Premont.”

Nurse of Brock County, humble, butt-proud. 

Oh, Saint Teresa of the Infant Flower Catholic church of

Premont! 

How do we know Margaret Screws?

The eight kids’ 19 grandchildren

Their 39 great grandchildren

and their 3 great great grandchildren.

Her boys weren’t all that proud or humble.

After childhood torment, teasing and torture 

Two of the sons changed their name to Crews.

The five girls all married, thus taking their husbands’ name.

Except for David Screws in Stephenville.

Remember, when you’re pressing the button

While you’re lying in that hospital bed,

mainlining meds and saline solution,

plus, filling up that colostomy bag,

remember, “Oh nurse?” Margaret Screws.

copyright Tom Murphy

si mi voz muriera en tierra if my voice dies on land

llevadla al nivel del mar take it to sea level 

y dejadla en la ribera  and leave it on the shore

Rafael Alberti

heart-broken shark's teeth rattle with grief in the belfry

Jean Arp (translated by G P Skratz)

Part I

Gulf Sunrise —  like mercury 

leaving the larger glob with a waver

Blue Heron perched upon the dunes 

Beak faces the spread of light

Across the warp and woof

That weaves wet sand  

to dune undulations

 In contact 

Garbage bag and garden gloves

Kneel and squat

Root out washed up trash

plastic in any form

Like a pig snuffling for truffles

The sea expanse 

ripples to roar

North South

The beach line open

Cool salt tang on the tongue

Recognizes the rubbish

Cigarette butts

Soaked diapers

Both shoved into wind blown

Three ply

— inland view

Foredunes of blown sand 

under a mantle

 dropseed & sea oats

the tangle of railroad vine

and gulf croton

on the ridge, forbs

purple morning glories flutter

as ragged warp or broken fill

Foot sluggish step towards the heights

Slowed to watch the unsymmetrical v —

Seventeen gliding brown pelicans — low

over the thundering surf... 

Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2019

In this God forsaken Bible 

Rust Belt, Margaret Screws

Lived 98 years before going

To the Lord on November 19th

2016 at Mount Carmel CC.

A dedicated nurse, who

Learned her asses and lube trade

In the same hospital, she was born,

St. Paul’s in Big D 

As Margaret Ann Thurmon.

Moved to Kermit with her friend Janie

To nurse that West Texas big sky 

At Robinson McClure Hospital

Where she gave a shot of penicillin

To her love, George Dewey “Pete” Screws.

Humble Margaret screws 

Pete’s Fitz-Willie and pops

Out eight children before

Sun Oil Company shipped them

To San Isidro Sun Oil Field.

A school nurse, then a quick in ‘n out.

The Kingsville Record’s headline 

“Margaret Screws Bishop

Now Screws in Premont.”

Nurse of Brock County, humble, butt-proud. 

Oh, Saint Teresa of the Infant Flower Catholic church of

Premont! 

How do we know Margaret Screws?

The eight kids’ 19 grandchildren

Their 39 great grandchildren

and their 3 great great grandchildren.

Her boys weren’t all that proud or humble.

After childhood torment, teasing and torture 

Two of the sons changed their name to Crews.

The five girls all married, thus taking their husbands’ name.

Except for David Screws in Stephenville.

Remember, when you’re pressing the button

While you’re lying in that hospital bed,

mainlining meds and saline solution,

plus, filling up that colostomy bag,

remember, “Oh nurse?” Margaret Screws.

copyright Tom Murphy

Trev Trevino, is a 22-year-old, San Antonio native. They are currently an undergrad student at

Texas A&M University- Corpus Christi and is studying English along with teaching and TESOL certifications. Trev has been actively and independently writing poetry and short stories for over five years non-academically with themes of love, searching for one’s identity, and being part of the LGBTQ+ community. Most recently, they have been published in the Windward Review and spoken at the graduate symposium at TAMUCC back in 2019.

because it is late at night you listen to the trees and close your eyes

the suburbs that are surrounded by mountains are the quietest

you realize no one is around to make a sound

only the wind that pushes through branches and leaves that make it sound like rain...

 Read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2020 

Trish Koval is a citizen of the world. She posts her thoughts on Facebook.

Was on the road, and as I'm driving down swoops a dove from the overpass bridge and lands smack dab in my lane. I was traveling down a steep slope a two lane throughway, clipping along about 50 mph/80 kph. The throughway was quite empty, and I quickly looked in my rear-view before braking to see if there was anyone behind me... there was not. Could only slow down just so much before I was literately on top of this bird (those doves usually take off in flight as a car approaches them...this one didn't for some reason.) I thought, oh crap, I smashed him/her! Looked in my rear-view as I passed, the little bugger was fine, yet continuing into the next lane (no cars coming that I could see.) Maybe it was dehydrated, for it could fly. Hope it made it!

Funny how events suddenly jog the memory of another, for just after this as I continued to drive on I recalled an incident dating back to when I was around 10-11 years old. My father was working a job all the way down in Santa Cruz, CA. Remember well he was constructing a huge sewage plan down there. Anyway, he was on the long drive back home on the coast highway 1 at dusk. As par of the course, it was socked in by fog. He said, suddenly a wild pheasant hit his truck. He pulled over to see the condition of the bird. Its neck was broken, and it was lying dead on the side of the road. He picked it up and put it the back of his truck. When he came home he told he had a pheasant down in the basement, and told me what happened, however he never mentioned it was dead. Guess he assumed that that was understood or he felt bad that it had died and knew how I would react. I went racing to basement to see our new exotic pet! He had laid it out on his work bench. I got all emotional and turned to him and said, 'dad, it's dead!' He said, 'Trisha, of course it is dead sweetheart, it slammed into my truck!' I cried at that point, that I recall so well. My dad felt awful, and was hugging me wordlessly. Then he calmly explained to me that even had the pheasant survived it would have not survived in our care, wild birds rarely do. Nevertheless, him being a country boy, he knew all about plucking, and preparing a bird for cooking. 

Naturally, I did not attend the feast, but my mother and brother did. Soooo... to conclude this bit of small history, he was right about all of it... just took me a bit longer to come to terms.

In coming home and pulling up to my driveway, I encountered after a good long absence, my neighbor who often did pass by on his way to taking his long walks around the park. This would be the fella that suffers deep depression and found that a regimen of Prozac had helped him immensely, and the one that owns a telescope to obverse the skies that also helps him in his battle of insomnia. We got chatting (he's a very talkative and friendly person), going on to tell me he had stopped the Prozac (never said why), but went on to say that he had recently resumed taking it. He went on to tell me about his stargazing with his high-powered telescope and the conversation became intricate, as we spoke of the bright full moon on the 20th, how he has shifted his gaze to observing the volcano in the last months, and politely asked me if he could tell me in Spanish (he always speaks to me in English from the get-go, his choice, not mine.) I told him, as I've told in our last conversations, for he has always asked me if he could do so, 'but of course...adelante (go right ahead/please do.) And as our many previous conversations dealing with astronomy, he takes a deep breath, and continues in English like nothing!! Lol!! He does this every time! I just let him rip. He's a deeply religious individual, a Catholic of course, and grabbed my hand as we spoke blessing me too many times to count, but I feel like I'm covered!! ¡Si señores! He's a man no one would notice, but he's a good guy, with a good heart I think. After 20 minutes of chatting, and many blessings had passed he departed to the park and I was very glad to have seen him out and about once more. 

I'm ready to retire from here to other 'things,' and I've got a query. Are good memories no longer something that brings a breath of fresh air into the present? I mean, even the bad memories serve a great purpose in one's life if you permit them. Are the bittersweet memories of the nostalgia now passé?? I'm hearing this out here, but am in disbelieve. I will go hold my nostalgia and fond memories that have already written, etched in stone, and cannot be undone. What are people missing when they choose to forget or erase such events?? I really don't understand this, therefore I will ponder over it with hope to find an answer. 

Taken up through the trees from the front garden a little after sunrise, it is clear, the sunrise intense, and you can clearly see the half-moon in the sky this morning. Only once in a while do I see the moon out in broad daylight and today was one of those occasions. 

My sleep time is really something! My son and his father slept like Dracula...with almost ZERO movements in their crypts the entire night. Isn't that wonderful?! I thought so!! However, I've got a wholly distinct thing going on! My bed looks neatly made when I hunker down at night, and yes, I make it every day, I must!! At 4 AM what do I have? A true rat's nest of disorder, As crazy as it sounds, the spirits visit me in the night! And I will further say that they finally rouse me between 3:30 and 4, and yes, I am awakened immediately, and don't feel the need to linger! I feel something around me in those hours, and no, it is not the comforter strangling me!! So, it's the spirits most likely hangin' out, for I've no other explanation as to the sensation I feel! Yes, the bright sunshine in my room can be blinding for one!! It's crazy love brightness! Mexico's sun is seriously illuminating!! The altitude is relevant to that, in between its very southern proximity. Anyways, my bed is made for tonight's nightly wrasslin' event of the Spirits Vs. Kovalsky!! I happen to love it!!

The month of September is a truly a menacing month in Mexico. The alertness in a general way is high for quakes. My groups here, and on my phone app are loaded with apprehension all through this month. Of, course, who could blame us after Sept. 19th, 1985 quake (8.1) flattening this huge city within 60 seconds, and then once again, but not once but twice in 2017 within a mere 10-day span...the 7th of Sept we were hit at minutes away from midnight with an 8.1 out from the coast, yeah, it was more than felt, woke me up from a dead sleeps with furniture walking away for the walls. On the 32nd anniversary of the '85 quake unbelievably so, we were struck by a 7.1 near 2:00 PM that was much closer to the valley of Mexico, shallow, an unusual break in the plates had occurred (for they didn't shift and move which is more typical, but exploded from within the plates---rare occurrence with little known as to why) and wreaked havoc within the city. Frankly, I thought my number was up that day as I fled my house to the park in front, I really did, as did many!!
So, now the tension is clearly building, and people write/message these apprehensions ever since September began, and only grows as we near the 19th. Ironically, this date is my mothers' BD, and at the time in '85 when my family had contact via a ham phone radio of a friend of my then brother-in-law bypassed the downed lines, yet could call my house phone, to let me know that my mother was terminal, and to come back to SF...recall my sister Sue was speaking to me in a 3 way conversation if I remember correctly) I did go to be with my mother for 2 and a half months, though it took another week to be able to fly out (airport damaged and closed down.) The world news at that time (as we could not be contacted in any form due to the heavy damages) said Mexico City seemed to be gone from the map...yeah that bad at that time!
Nevertheless, this month represents the 'black hand' over us. We all feel it, how could we not? Fingers crossed that we have a calm month, even though in the heart of hearts nobody believes, nor trusts in that!

Well, to my surprise I received a message from my x, and him wishing me a Happy Mother's Day, (con un abrazo fuerte) with a strong hug. This was a pleasant surprise of sorts, for in the 20 years in our marriage, and 17 of them as a mother and him a father, he always told me he couldn't make a big deal out of mother's day with me, for I wasn't his mother!! Lol! His take! Ohh, boy!! He may have found wisdom, and hope he has. However, there was one year, and many ago, that he hugged me and thanked me on this day, and went on to say, 'who wouldn't want you as their mother?' Oh, he was so honest in that moment, and I felt bad for him reflected on his family history, never forgot that moment and he was brave to express such a feeling I thought. Though his mother, whom I really cared for over the years, she was a stay-at-home mom as was the cultural norm when he grew up, she left her 5 children in the hands of a live-in nanny and went off to help the poor in the Catholic church in arts and crafts. Him writing to me today seems to be a revelation.  

Victoria Munt Rogers is a local political organizer with a passion for registering voters. She is the founder of Gulfscapes Magazine, and a North Padre Island Realtor. 

I was 44 in this pic and hated myself. Thought my world was over because I was in my 40s. We women are so hard on ourselves. During this Covid time I have gained weight, don’t wear makeup and haven’t hot rolled my hair once. I feel unhealthy and I do realize I need to get back in shape- for the right reasons - my health, not to be a size 2 (probably not an option anymore any way). However, just being without so much criticism or critique from people around me every day has been such a relief. It’s the first time in my life that I have felt comfortable in my own skin. This year my energy and effort has been allocated only to things and people who I really care about. Today I look in the mirror and I don’t see the flaws, I just see Victoria and she is ok with me now. Ladies don’t wait until you are 54 to finally like yourself. Be yourself and shine. Every age has gifts. The sooner you figure this out, the more you will enjoy every day - no matter how old you are!!!

Dr. Bill Chriss is a trial and appellate lawyer who is also a historian, political scientist, religious scholar, and published author. He was nominated for the Rhodes Scholarship and holds graduate degrees in law, theology, history and politics, including a J.D. from Harvard and a Ph.D. in history from The University of Texas. Dr. Chriss has taught Political Philosophy, History, and Constitutional Law and has written several articles for scholarly journals. His first book, The Noble Lawyer, was published by Texas Bar Books in 2011, while his second book, Six Constitutions over Texas, is currently being edited for publication.   

I can’t sleep. Sirens whine and pulses of light flash red on the walls of this dingy hotel. There are only ten channels on the television and no wifi, and I’m stuck another night. All the flights home had departed by the time those New York lawyers finished interrogating the witness. Their hourly rates are higher than mine; certainly their cost of living is, so I understand. It’s a long time since our firm, too, had more than enough work, a long time since the days when practicing law was an adventure and billings were mere bookkeepers’ annoyances. I remember trying ten or fifteen cases a year with files only two inches thick – comp cases, fender benders, divorces, DWIs, and occasionally the more complex civil case or white-collar crime. 

But maybe more than the law practice has been transformed. Maybe I was different then, too. Maybe I’m just growing old, inexorable change befuddling my calcifying brain. Maybe everything was wrong. Maybe I just took the wrong path. Maybe I’ll never rest, never feel that I can go up to my house justified, never, like the prodigal son, come to myself and return where I belong. Maybe that place where I belonged is gone.

This kind of racing inner monologue keeps me awake more and more these days. The last in a long string of failed relationships ended two years ago when Jennifer stopped taking my calls or acknowledging my texts. We started out well enough, but like several before her, she eventually came to pity my failure to conquer the world. I used to be afraid to die alone. Now living, and even dying, alone is the only liberation I know of or hope for. I have grown used to the idea. I pronounce it good. What choice do I have? I’m tired of being hurt. 

I must finally have dozed off. Awakening to find a grey dawn peeking through the curtains, I figure my partners won’t begrudge me a long trip back. And maybe the client won’t flyspeck the travel time charged for this deposition on the next invoice. I should be able to drop by the museum before heading to the airport and still get back to North Padre by dark. I’m not crazy about museums, but Michael told me of a painting here. In my current state of mind, any suggestion might bring an epiphany, so I shower, shave, and set out into the icy morning.

The museum down the street is small and old. Most of the art is uninteresting. “Where is the painting of Odysseus?” I ask an usher in a silly red coat. 

“In the next gallery to the left.” 

And there indeed it is, surrounded by a heavy wood frame with a small brass plaque reading: “Odysseus and the Sirens by Herbert James Draper, 1909.” I am struck by the image of Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship, straining against the ropes, head thrust forward in anguished longing for the evanescent female beings flitting along the rails of the boat. They are singing, chanting, moaning, songs of home. 

“It speaks to one, does it not?” The accented voice startles me from behind. French? Austrian? I turn to see its owner, a bearded man in oddly formal attire. 

“I guess,” I mutter.

“Yes, well, I would judge that you are old enough to have been taught such stories in school before they were deemed irrelevant. It must have been quite a test for poor Odysseus, don’t you think? Ten years of war at Troy; ten years of wandering after; cursed by the gods; far from home; captured by the Cyclops; seduced and enchanted by Circe and Calypso; drugged by the lotus eaters; and yet somehow never losing the desire to return home… home to his long suffering wife Penelope. And so when he entered the waters inhabited by these lovely nude creatures, as Draper depicts them, isn’t it strange that he did what he did?” 

“I don’t know,” I answer, “And I’m not sure there ever was a Penelope, then or now.” 

“Yes, but think on this part of the story. Odysseus knew the siren song was irresistible, that …ah…it had lured all the ships before him onto the rocks, and so he tells his men to fill their ears with wax and to row for their lives no matter what they see. But here is the interesting part: he needs to hear the song himself; ah…he accords to himself the privilege of hearing the song, and so he does not plug his own ears. Instead he has the men tie him to the mast so he can do nothing to stop the progress of the ship. He is the hero, the adventurer, but he is also the wise man. He thinks ahead to protect the crew…and himself...from his need for mystical experience. Without the wisdom, the experience will ruin him; he will never get home.” 

“Whatever that might mean.” 

“Yes,” the old man says, “whatever that might mean, and I suppose it acquires a more difficult meaning when one gets to be Odysseus’s age, about the same age as Hemingway when he died, and, I would think, perhaps about the same age as you.” 

I turn my attention back to the painting. Odysseus’ eyes are agape, almost crazy. The sirens appear pale, ghostlike, mesmerizing. They hover close to Odysseus’s oarsmen, who are looking directly at them without expression, apparently oblivious. Is the crew blind as well as deaf? Or are the sirens somehow personal to Odysseus? When I turn back to ask the old art critic, he is gone. 

The ride home is uneventful: the TSA lines, the usual change of planes in Houston. My little Lexus waits where I parked it at the Corpus Christi airport, and the drive over the causeway is, as always, an exercise in decompression. My little first floor condo is undisturbed and I toss my stuff onto the bed, change into my shorts, and throw a woven Mexican “drug rug” hoodie over my shirt. I slip into my “aloha slap” sandals and step out toward the beach for a walk, locking the door behind me. It’s chilly, but not frigid like it was in New York. 

I like winter at home: no surfers; no Spring Breakers; few humans – mostly old snowbirds from Illinois or Minnesota who claim to be fishing, but who are, in reality, worrying over their various ailments and wishing they had the money to be in Palm Beach or Fort Lauderdale. And hardly anyone walks the beach at dusk this time of year. Most of the tourists have gone inside to warm up by now. 

I leave my slaps at the edge of the pavement, my bare feet hitting the cold sand. Waves roll in like muffled thunder. The falling sun streaks orange trails to the west, and a yellow moon rises over the ocean as I trudge on. I like to walk in the wet no-man’s land between the ebbing and waxing waves. Here the starfish and sand dollars live and die and the tiny subterranean bivalve crustaceans filter their food from water they suck down the little chimneys they blow in the sand. 

The beach feels almost deserted; just a few oldsters with ice chests or chairs ready to be packed up. I wave as I pass. 

The next stranger is farther distant. The sun is almost gone and reveals only the outline of a lawn chair occupied by a figure with one knee crossed over the other: male or female? The top leg kicks in the air, a burnished silhouette of arched foot, pointed toe, slender ankle, and long calf. The form and the motion betray the truth even at this distance. I’ll probably keep my head down. No point in making conversation. But at fifty paces the woman waves a greeting, and for reasons that are still unclear to me I veer up the sloping sand toward her. Maybe it just made sense to approach any sign of welcome.

I open with, “Do you like watching the sunset?” 

“Yes it’s beautiful.”

“But you’re facing the water. The sun’s behind you.”

“Doesn’t matter; it’s still beautiful,” she says. “How about a beer?”

I haven’t had an invitation like this in a while and I’m leery, but “sure,” I say, even though I’m not crazy about beer. And when she hands me the bottle I tell her the half-truth that I am a writer. “I collect stories,” I claim. “Tell me yours.” 

She introduces herself and shakes my hand, then invites me to sit in front of the shallow pit she has dug where a few small logs burn. The sand is cold, but soon the fire envelops us in warm pungent smoke.

“Where did you get the wood?” I ask.

“I bought it down the road. I try to think ahead.”

She is plain and fortyish but not unattractive, visiting from Wisconsin, half German and half Japanese by ancestry she say, with short dark hair and almond shaped eyes. Two hours later, I feel I know her. Both her parents died young and she cries about that. She says she is happily married with three sons. By then we are lying face-up in the sand on opposite sides of the fire, gazing at stars in the indigo dark, and she has come to know me, too.

“Can’t you relax?” she asks after I have finished both the beer and my complaints about life. 

Am I shaking from the chill or my anxiety, or both? She downs her third glass of wine and moves closer. “Why are you so jittery? It’s a beautiful night, and I’m not coming on to you,” she promises, even as she reaches out and touches my shoulder ambiguously. 

“I’m sorry; I’m afraid of everyone,” I admit. “I don’t trust anyone anymore.” 

“You aren’t afraid of me, are you? We’ll never see each other again.”

“Yes,” I say, “I am.”

The full moon, now silver, hangs directly above us, encircled by a halo of cloud that expands outward in a spiral. My heartbeat and breathing begin to slow. 

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” I whisper. “It’s incredible…dome-like…makes me feel like I’m in a church.”

“Hey,” she responds, “pick a star, any star. Pick a star and make a wish.”

I do, and we talk about it, and about our respective wishes and dreams, as the fire slowly burns out.

At some point the smoke begins to dissipate and I realize we have been here for hours, alone in the dark. Fear, an old friend, rises again within me. What if she has some scheme to entrap me or accuse me of something? How can I explain what we are doing here, even though it’s totally innocent? What would I say if cross-examined by her husband? What would I advise a client in this situation?

I stand. “It’s time for me to go.” 

She rises in response and I reach out to shake her hand again, this time in parting. 

“Let’s do one of these instead,” she suggests, laying her arms around my neck and leaning her torso into me. I glimpse an inquiry or invitation in her eyes, one I ignore. Instead I hug her closer to hide my face behind her shoulder, but she pulls back and kisses my temple chastely. “I hope you find what you are looking for,” she says. 

“Goodbye,” I reply, already walking away toward my empty room. As the building’s outline grows in the moonlight and I near the sidewalk, I can just hear music coming from the bar down the beach, Steely Dan: 

Well, the danger on the rocks is surely past.

Still I remain tied to the mast.

Could it be that I have found my home at last?

Home at last?

Read more great writing like this in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology. BUY NOW.

ZER was born and raised in Corpus Christi. They study chemistry and creative writing at Texas A&M-CC. They have been a poetry editor for the Windward Review since 2016. Their work has been featured in the Switchgrass Review, Sink Hollow, and the Sagebrush Review. They were also awarded a 1st place prize in the 2018 Scissortail undergraduate creative writing contest. Their latest work (in progress) is a multimedia zine which pays homage to social media culture and its impact on communication styles. 

We are under the trellis of Nueva Vita, a garden that murmurs with heaves of impatiens. From somewhere, the scream of autos tears at the plum of gingersnaps. They coil and fold their leaves into boats. I hold your hand while leaning, watching passerines blowing kisses to one another. This is just as you like though we are not llamas gemelas; we are the stems of an allium shooting off in diverging directions, never to touch but always close, borne from the same fruits. We swell from the heat of that glowing suspension and the sun is singing. It singes your skin into milky champurrado. Liberated winds hold their shining ends as if a vessel. And hummingbirds bait and stick us as we turn to sap all over the tree scenery. An SUV bares its teeth across the way to remind us that we are machinery. You cup your hands into buds and hold them over these ears. Your words are soil to me with my ligaments of buzzing bees and veins rippling with honey. “Suelo bueno, tomar este corazón y comerlo.” The cherub fountains of flushed marble cry themselves onto the floor. Brown translucence melts into creases between planets, with our shoes dripping into softness, wasted pollen stolen on fingertips. Now, we no longer stand but float atop the white and scarred swing, still creaking back and forth like the hands on a clock. Usted toma estas flores picante como el suyo en su boca. I give you my roots and you give me your flowers. 

copyright Zoe Ramos