This story of our times, by Denise Ruttan…
You have thought about death a lot lately. Not in the same way that you used to think about death, as if it were an existential threat. Those times …
Creative Nonfiction: Day by Day
Across the face
of the blown up moon,
a thing with headlights flies.
In a desperate search
for a dish and a spoon,
and a cat with a fiddle, besides.
When all of a suddle,
a sight to befuddle-
it spotted a magical cow.
‘Twas taking a rest
from its jumping, i guess
(an impossible thing until now)
***
Art by Emily Stepp
Somewhere
in great Andromeda’s arm,
little Donelda comes to herself
at the sound of trickling water.
In the stream’s iridescence,
something bobs-
circle-twirls in the undertow of an eddy.
On this day, the water is warm,
and her thin fingers feel no change
as she scoops up the doll.
Raggedy Ann has made it through.
Together, they’ll be just fine.
Muffled.
The world cannot get in.
I can’t get out.
A purchased illness to assuage another.
Recycled thoughts,
boring in their dirtiness.
I devise a fool’s plan
to use this tedium.
A grand flourish.
Since I have no sword,
I’ll untie the Gordian Knot.
Childlike,
I imagine that sound never decays.
That I could put the needle on the record,
and listen to whistles
that can’t come anymore.
That we could hear childlike things
we once said to each other,
but have forgotten to write down.
Cry for this deafness and dumbness,
at last.
When you look at me,
sometimes it’s very odd.
I feel as if you are seeing something
that I don’t yet know.
Figuring the future.
Got it down pat.
But I don’t want to know,
unless you show me.
When I look at you,
I wish your flurry of flights would end.
Stay. We’ll share stories.
Is there a Forever
Who can scope the great mind
A yolk in an egg
Then what is beyond the egg
Monkeys and typewriters
ad infinitum
Think your deep thoughts
and they surely will write ‘em
Stories of ours
will be amber-ingrained
and lain among flowers
all freshened with rain
under my thumb
i have felt
felt
then, enveloped
in warmth,
i have sent four soldiers
as peacekeepers,
with trimmed nails
and an artistic bent.
Looking back,
I think she was afraid
when I saw her truth.
We had never spoken,
but in the group sessions,
she surprised me
with split second glances
and strange blushes.
Then, tables turned,
I made a game
of trying to catch her eye.
Not a single word.
That’s how it goes.
…and then one night, as I walked under a streetlight in the fluttering snow, she pulled up to the stop sign in a pickup truck. Rolled down the window. Smiled and waved. I waved back, though I didn’t know who it was, or how the heck anyone would have recognized me in a winter parka. Next morning, I waited in line for a coffee at the drive-thru. As I pulled up to the window, there she was, with her half smile and eyes averted. I broke the ice and said “I know you. You drive a black Ford pickup, right?” Again, a blush. “Thanks for your order, Sir.”
Here is a Book of Faces
of a nobler sort.
Each one (that can be seen),
beautiful in some way.
If we but read between the lines,
we can divine their colours.
So many are umbral now,
I fear.
But I am fatalistic, cynical.
I hope I am wrong,
when I cry
for the ones who smile.
Aremyfeetofftheground 