See the world through the eyes of

A COURTROOM

and more...

January 2010January 2010January 2010

2

PM—Jan 2010

In this issue...

Eye Glasses p4

Glassy or Classy ~ Pervin Chhapkhanawala

Candle p6

Waxing and Waning ~ Rach Loveday

Courtroom p7

Turnabout ~ Sean Young

Credit Card p8

Reaching Limits ~ Andrea Zappone

Knick-Knacks p9

The Things ~ S. V. Wolfland

Hairbrush p10

A Brush with Time ~ Peggy Fletcher

Pumpkin p11

A Pumpkin’s Life ~ C.D. Reimer

Park Bench p12

In Loving Memory ~ Heather Miller

Guitar p14

Fretting ~ Rhonda Melanso

Army Uniform p15

Army Uniform ~ Newborn by Norma West Linder

Tattoo p15

We Are Tattoos ~ Lynn Tait

Wishing Well p16

Life of a Wishing Well ~ Rebecca R. Taylor

Umbrella p18

The Umbrella ~ Debbie Okun Hill

Womb p19

A Womb’s Love Song ~ Monique Berry

About Perspectives Magazine

ISSN: 1715-9148

Frequency: Biyearly

Founding Editor: Monique Berry

Design and layout: Monique Berry

Contact: perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com

Site: http://1perspectives.webs.com

——–——-

Photo credits: All photos courtesy of Brian

Cobbledick

LYNN TAIT

We are Tattoos, p15

Lynn Tait is an award-winning poet/

photographer living in Sarnia, ON.

Her work has appeared in The

Windsor Review, lichen, Contemporary Verse 2,

and in over 50 North American anthologies. She

has also published a chapbook titled Breaking

Away. Her photos have adorned the cover of three

poetry books and one literary magazine.

[lyta@sympatico.ca]

S. V. WOLFLAND

The Things, p9

S.V. Wolfland has been published in magazines

such as The Argotist Online, Spokes, The

Bathyspheric Review, etc., in an anthology called

North Yorkshire One Nine Nine, and has a novel

and three poetry chapbooks out - Porlock the

Warlock and The Books of...Trilogy respectively.

She works as editor of a live and written word e-

newsletter, has appeared at many festivals

including the Glastonbury Festival, and is a

member of artist's network The Cartwheels

Collective. [www.cartwheels-collective.co.uk]

Meet some of the contributors

C.D. REIMER

The Pumpkin, p11

C.D. Reimer lives and works in Silicon

Valley. His interests are ceramics,

painting, tropical fish, and web programming.

These keep him out of trouble when he’s not fixing

broken users and consoling hurt computers. He is

currently working on his first novel, a short story

collect ion, and various short stories.

[chris@cdreimer.com]

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PM—Jan 2010

Dear Readers

I thought is was important to acknowledge some important people:

To Dr. Michael Cain and Penny Greenberg, my first two advertisers, your support means

more to me than you will ever know.

To Brian Cobbledick, your creativity helps make this magazine a success. If you could

photograph my heart, you’d need a panoramic lens to capture the length of its smile.

To Jennifer L. Foster, my friend, thank you for your honest input.

Finally, a big thanks to my contributors; I wouldn’t have a magazine if it weren’t for

you!

Keep the ink flowing,

Monique Berry

Massage Therapy and Injury Rehabilitation

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maintaining and restoring physical health from:

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Hip, buttock, thigh, knee, lower leg and foot pain

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Numbness, tingling and/or weakness in arms/legs

Child-related care such as “growing pains”

Cain Chiropractic

Hamilton, Ontario, Canada 1-905-523-7246 | www.cainchiropractic.ca

Dr. Michael Cain

Chiropractor

A Message from the Founder

4

PM—Jan 2010

Eyeglasses

GGGGLASSYLASSYLASSYLASSY OROROROR CCCCLASSYLASSYLASSYLASSY By Pervin Chhapkhanawala

T ransparency, I believe, is an

important virtue in both life

and work. Especially when the lat-

ter involves balancing yourself deli-

cately on your boss’s nose, taking

care to always be present and yet not

interfere.

My boss has never given me the

credit I deserve; in fact, on my first

day at work, all I got from her was a

repulsive and disgruntled stare.

True, I don’t have much of what

people call ‘looks’. My frame is

dark and lanky, my limbs are ex-

tremely long, and my middle is a bit

too round and bulging. But so

what? Isn’t there any room for the

hardworking and faithful in this

world? Like females all over the

globe, my boss is appearance-

conscious, and I suspect that she re-

sents me simply because the word

‘good-looking’ could never be asso-

ciated with me.

The other day, she took me with

her to a place that is often described

as ‘happening’. She seemed very

excited about it and a tad bit scared,

too. She had almost hidden her

charming face behind make-up and

jewelry, but had taken care to ex-

pose as much of her limbs as her

hawk-eyed father permitted. I, too,

went through an extra scrubbing. So

much so that I emerged sparkling

and glassy–the best I could get.

The place was swarming with peo-

ple just like her: half-dressed,

largely-drunk, and on the verge of

deafness (if the volume of the music

was any indicator). I went where my

boss went, I saw what my boss saw.

Or rather, she saw what I saw.

5

PM—Jan 2010

All around the room, I caught people looking at me

keenly and pointing at me. How I enjoyed those few

moments of attention! I finally felt important. I

finally felt imperative. I beamed with pride, my hard

work was being applauded, my sincerity was being

appreciated. I assumed that my boss would now

realize that she would never be able to do without

me. But my happiness was short-lived.

That evening, I overheard her talking to her father

about me.

“Dad! This is disgraceful. I was so embarrassed!

People were staring at me as if I had just landed from

Mars.”

“Dear, you must realize how helpful--”

“I don’t care! I am a progressive-minded person

who believes that all her needs must be catered to

using the most advanced and sophisticated tech-

niques possible. You would be extremely reprehen-

sible if you allowed your daughter’s humiliation to

continue due to your conservative mindset.”

I was too shocked to comprehend what was said

further. They should have had the decency to hold

their talk until I was out of earshot. The last thing I

remember her saying is, “That’s it, daddy! I need a

change.”

Thus, my employment span came to an end–for the

time-being at least. I lay in my box-home all day,

wondering whether it was criminal to be ugly. I

knew my replacement well–those who do the job that

I do, correction, the job that I used to do--are in

constant fear of those modern types. My replace-

ment was just as transparent as I was, but the simi-

larities ended there. Where on one hand, I had long

limbs, it was as though he lacked them completely;

in contrast to my thin frame, he was rotund, almost

spherical.

I had always had a soft corner for my boss, and in

spite of her insolence, I was glad that she had what

she thought was good for her. I would often see her

from my box-house, scurrying about her work.

Then Wednesday morning came. I had woken up

as soon as the first rays of the sun had reached me.

You see, I cannot sleep when I am exposed to light.

As soon as light reaches me, I become aware and

alert–I start seeing. I had gone about my newly

acquired routine of simply lying inside my box-

home, with nothing much to do, when around mid-

afternoon the bomb fell.

Tears! Red eyes! She was crying! I peered more

closely at her. Strange. There was a smile on her

face and she was merrily chatting with a friend.

Even stranger. Only one of her eyes was red. Occa-

sionally, she would rub her eyes and sniff a little.

Was that moron causing her any kind of trouble or

inconvenience? In all my few months of employ-

ment by her, I had never seen her cry, let alone be

the cause. So what if he was debonair and suave, he

dare not make my mistress--oops, ex-mistress--cry. I

always knew the poor thing was naive and a poor

judge of character. She needed someone like me,

who truly cared about her comfort and went about

his job well. I silently prayed that she would realize

this before it was too late…

The next few days saw me in a pathetic state of

despair. It is awful when someone you love is in

pain because then you are in pain, too; but it is worse

when she is aware of neither your love, nor your

pain. I watched mutely, as my malicious replace-

ment bothered her whenever he was with her. In

between reading, she would suddenly rub her eyes

while she was talking; sometimes, a tear would

saunter across her cheek.

Just when I thought that I could take it no longer,

the goddess of fate favored me. On Saturday, her

father rapped at the door of my house-box, and then

opened it. He then lifted me up gently and bestowed

upon me my previous office, never again to vacate.

So now, I am perched on my mistress’s nose,

content, and happy. My mistress regrets the menac-

ing mistake she had made and is thrilled at having

me back.

I am of course, glinting with pride. It is not often,

after all, that a pair of repellent spectacles triumphs

over contact lenses.

Pervin Chhapkhanawala is an English Language Teaching

(ELT) Consultant and a freelance writer and editor. She has

written a book of poetry, ‘A Tinge of Turmeric’, published

by Writers Workshop in June 2009. Her work has also been

showcased by Platform and Page Forty Seven. She is now

working on her first novel. [pervin0607@gmail.com]

6

PM—Jan 2010

Candle

I t’s been awhile but Mary’s finally taken my

long-time companion, the Strawberry scented

candle, and me out of the cupboard; we’re ready to

be used.

Strawberry and I clash as Mary holds us

together in her left hand, the unique rose-gold

wedding band that she once wore with pride no

longer occupies her ring finger, and a bottle of red

wine in her right hand.

As she turns—I turn, too—I see an oriental stir-

fry simmering on the stove and a table perfectly set

for two. She’s planned a romantic dinner. It’s

been a while since Mary has had one of those, too.

She places us in colored-glass candle holders.

Thank God! The last time we were out for a

romantic dinner, we were placed on too small and

tarnished silver candlesticks. The glass candle

holders are roomy, comfy and fire-safe, which is

great for a long working night.

After a couple of hours, dinner is cooked. Mary

has changed into her little black dress; she’s all set.

Strawberry and I are finally brought to life with

one lit match gently stroking our faces.

We hear the doorbell ring. He comes in. He’s

about 6 foot tall, in his thirties, good looking and

he’s brought her chocolates and flowers. That’ll

earn him some brownie points. He kisses her on

the cheek, pulls out her chair, she sits down and he

tucks her chair back in, waiting for her to get

comfortable—he’s a gentleman. The conversation

starts flowing straight away. They have a glass or

two of wine and take their time eating the stir-fry,

which he compliments her on. She laughs and

smiles, showing her beautiful white teeth, which I

also haven’t seen her show in a while as he makes

jokes and tells her entertaining stories about his life

as a travel agent. She didn’t even smile at her last

romantic dinner.

She runs her right hand over her ring finger,

which reminded her that she no longer wears her

wedding ring. Mary smiles slightly as she realizes

that it is okay to move on with her life after an

emotionally draining divorce.

Strawberry and I haven’t got long to live as our

bodies are already half-melted. We didn’t work

much at the last dinner. I always knew this day

would come and that I was made to die. But I

would die for Mary, especially for this occasion.

They look happy and my dying wish is that they

will stay this way. After all, every woman

deserves a man who truly loves her.

WWWWAXINGAXINGAXINGAXING ANDANDANDAND WWWWANINGANINGANINGANING By Rach Loveday

Rachel lives in Wagga Wagga, Australia. She is published in Dolly, an

Australian teen magazine, and in Perspectives. Rachel finished high school

last year and has applied for university study in journalism and creative

writing for 2010.

7

PM—Jan 2010

As gavels pound my face

I taste the secreted sweat

of guilty men.

I feel their fidgeting fingers

whilst I watch their forlorn faces.

Wigged liars spin their

webs of half-truths to

ensnare impressionable minds.

At my right hand a dejected

Jury sits. Ready to determine

fate on the flip of a coin.

At my left guilty

mothers weep.

The thick silence as a

verdict is prepared.

The clearing of a throat

The chaotic choir of outrage.

The riot simmers and

order returns.

The room drains of life

and naught is left but a

memory and the scent

of disinfectant.

TTTTURNABOUTURNABOUTURNABOUTURNABOUT By Sean Young

Sean Young is a bachelor of writing based in Liverpool, UK. He is a contract writer for several video game websites, but provides

articles of varying subject matter to other publications on a freelance basis. [malfesto@hotmail.co.uk]

Courtroom

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PM—Jan 2010

I look quite a bit older than I did before black

Friday. I can see my reflection in that shiny new

driver’s license snuggled behind the plastic frame.

That’s the king of the wallet right there—the

driver’s license. We all envy his view. Anyway, a

couple of years has added quite a few age lines to

my magstripe and I can feel ink loss all over. My

embossed black lettering crests into naked white

peaks and the signature so eagerly scrawled across

my back is rubbed to a bluish smudge. I’m trying

not to be self-conscious about it, but vanity is an

intimate part of my very being, you understand…

Christmas is in large

part to blame for my

condition. I’ve had a few

seasons of it now, so I’ve

got it all down pat—things

get abrasive, one machine

to another. The old fogey

in the wallet says I ought to

shut up and count my

blessing cause they used to

use these old metal sliders

that went “clunk clunk”

and they pressed down real

hard sometimes. He says

they were a whole lot

worse than magnetic

scanners. I think he’s

making it up. He’s bitter

from having been in the

wallet underneath the

Supermarket Saver card for

a good many months…reached his limit, you know.

Anyway, I don’t mind about Christmas so much

anymore, ‘cause afterwards, there’s always a nice

long break coming. It was a thirty-degree night and

that nasty ol’ gold card that ruined my holiday

spirit...

We were all snug in our pockets—barely aware

of that familiar chatter of the small change and

breath mints who occupied other parts of the

handbag—when we were lifted from our residence

quite abruptly. The light hit us and I got hauled out

into the cold. Next thing I’m up on end against the

windshield being used for an ice scraper! I’m

getting pushed up and down and sideways and

everywhere else and little splinters of frost are

melting down around my logo just like tears, and

just when I think there must be a full millimeter of

me rubbed away, I suffer a discourteous swipe

across coarse denim and get shoved back into the

wallet. They rub me the wrong way all the time,

but nothing like this before. Not ever!

The old fogey, he laughed, which was all I could

take and I did it—did what was the most insensitive

thing I could do and I says to him, “What are you

laughing at? Your life is

over the end of next

month!”

“It isn’t,” he said

numbly.

I should know when to

stop, but I kept going

anyway, “February 2010,”

I say. “It’s a short month,

too. Only 28 days. What

you got to say about that

old timer?”

He said nothing to that

at all and suddenly I

wished I hadn’t said

nothin’. It was kind of

cruel; no, really cruel. I

know just as well as he

does what it’s like to live

with an execution date

embossed right there

across the front of you and know all the time you’re

headed for a heavy-duty shredder… It makes you

want to bury yourself between the “10th Coffee Free

Card” and the cat food coupon—scrawny little

scraps of paper who sometimes get lucky enough to

be forgotten.

Andrea Lea Zappone resides in Northern Maine

with her husband, Charles, and her two sons,

Joshua and Daniel. She works part time as a

writing tutor at the University of Maine at

Presque Isle where is she is a senior in the

English program. [a.zappone@yahoo.com]

RRRREACHINGEACHINGEACHINGEACHING LLLLIMITSIMITSIMITSIMITS

By Andrea Zappone

Credit card

9

PM—Jan 2010

W e sit about, watching, sometimes waiting.

Many of us are borrowed for evenings or days

and nights and returned unscathed—but only after

adventures. To show us off, we are carefully lit and

positioned. Some of us were gifts but most of us were

carefully chosen, thought about, ordered. Or we were

rescued from second-hand shops, junk shops or at the

dump. Some of us are regularly dusted—for instance,

the delicate or transparent ones. But not all of us. It’s

a dusty old place and Elizabeth is busy but she does

her best. What needs a good shaking is shaken

outside.

We do not speak ill of her or answer her unkindly.

We do not give her queer looks or disappear when she

needs us. We are loyal to her and stay close by.

The glass things shine

and sparkle when she

holds them to the light.

The jars, vases, and

wineglasses split the light

into rainbows, which

makes her smile and

sometimes laugh. The

cards are an endless

source of fascination as

she tries to remember

where we came from.

The candlesticks are one

of Elizabeth’s comforts.

She loves light—light in

the darkness—and rarely

spills wax, making sure

that they’re always

cleaned after.

We mas ks s he

sometimes talks to, though rarely aloud. Our eyeless

faces, half-faces and fantastical faces look at her and at

the others as we are strategically placed around the

space. Looking out over everything. Watching who

comes and who goes. Few are permitted to enter the

inner room now.

If only Elizabeth could listen in on our

conversations. She’d know that: the blue-green moon

and the star are pleased that they’re well placed; that

the star is happy to be have been rescued and be seen

as a beautiful coveted thing; that the cherub dreams of

flying through the heart and jumping over the moon,

skimming the large faceted star; and that the moon

hanging over a basket of silver branches smiles as it

remembers its handsome maker—a young man at a

craft market.

We hear her singing sometimes—singing more

often than sighing now. But she still sings the same

song. Even with all her new friends, the ones who

move of their own accord, the animate ones who give

her many things—mainly things to wear and make into

other things. She is grateful and happy but she sings us

the same song. ‘People come and people go, but the

things they always remain…’

She owns huge paintings given by people with

whom she spilt up long ago. Much music is recorded

from friends, none of whom she now sees. One by one

things went wrong. Different paths chosen, arguments

or geography. Old presents

decay in corners from one who

still owes her money, one no

longer alive. One who was

angry about a phone call she

made, one who was habitually

negative. And others; still

others. Clothes hang from ones

who left them behind instead of

themselves.

But we, we always remain. We are here for her; endless

sources of delight and solace—

boxes full of beautiful treasure

if ever she is bored. Books full

of wonderful tales and colourful

pictures. Images on the walls

full of windows onto other

worlds. Things hanging from

the ceiling like stalactites.

Together, we are like the inside of a colourful lantern.

She talks to us sometimes as if we were as she is

(which we of course are not). Sometimes addressing

one thing and sometimes everything. Whenever

anyone disappoints her, says something she’d rather

they hadn’t, doesn’t get in touch when they say they

will, acts strange or distant, we hear her sing…………Because people they come and people they go, but the things they always remain…’ and then she picks me up—me,

the jacquard bolster—and hugs me. I represent all of

us so there is no jealousy where she chooses one of us

over another. I am just more like a doll, it seems.

Soft, if without warmth. And here. Always here.

TTTTHEHEHEHE TTTTHINGSHINGSHINGSHINGS By S. V. WolflandBy S. V. WolflandBy S. V. WolflandBy S. V. Wolfland

Knick-knacks

10

PM—Jan 2010

Peggy Fletcher is a retired teacher and journalist. Her work has appeared in international journals and her poetry books across Canada and the United States.

[p_fletcher@live.com]

A BA BA BA BRUSHRUSHRUSHRUSH WITHWITHWITHWITH TTTTIMEIMEIMEIME

By Peggy Fletcher

Tossed from her life I am useless now

I lie on my lacquered back

stiff bristles upright on fake mahogany surface.

Fine hairs still cling to me in sad disarray

my aging owner bedridden

unable to tolerate my brisker touch

skin tingling massage.

Now I watch as a soft baby brush passes over

her thin pink scalp covered with silver grey strands

gentle, but ineffective

its small curved handle held in the firm hand

of a pleasant support worker

allocating her ten minute clump of care

without complaint.

I am lonely now, soon destined for a yard sale

a fifty cent insult will be taped

to my Mother of Pearl face

a relic of the past they will say

ignoring my proven capabilities

my former dedication to her well being.

Once her hands were beautiful and strong.

They lovingly grasped my slender arm

pulled me with exciting vigor

through a lustrous crown of golden hair

readying herself for love

and I was the queen of her dressing table

serving her with devotion.

The room is silent now. Her breathing shallow.

If I had tears I would shed them for the both of us

lying forgotten in a throwaway world.

Hairbrush

11

PM—Jan 2010

A PA PA PA PUMPKINUMPKINUMPKINUMPKIN’’’’SSSS LLLLIFEIFEIFEIFE By C. D. Reimer

Dear Old Jack was cut young

from the vine, smaller than most

with a smooth orange face

and a craggy gray bottom.

Dear Old Jack was laid down

to rest on the cut straw,

waiting until the last day

to be taken home by someone.

Dear Old Jack was very happy

when a youngster picked him up

to carry him -- one-step, two-step

to an adoring Mom and Dad.

Dear Old Jack was faint hearted

when the sharp knife sliced him

open to pop his top,

young hands pulling out his seeds.

Dear Old Jack was whacked hard

from the wooden spoon that scoured

his insides all around until

he was clean as a whistle.

Dear Old Jack was looking good

with two round eyes to see,

a triangle nose to smell,

and a toothy mouth to smile.

Dear Old Jack was on fire

with a brightly-lit candle that night,

greeting the trick or treaters

who came knocking at the door.

Dear Old Jack was soon retired

to the compost pile, decaying slowly

back into the mother earth

after pleasing so many children.

Catch more sales

Advert ise in

Perspectives Magazine

Visit http://1perspectives.webs.com or email perspectives.ads@gmail.com

Pumpkin

12

PM—Jan 2010

“Good morning, Mort.” “Mornin’ Jon.” “Is Fran up?” “Course not. When has Fran ever gotten up early on a weekday, ‘specially in fall?” Jon mused. “Is it fall already? It seems like last week there were bikers whizzing past and little ones splashing in the fountain.” “It was last week. But that ‘ill be the end of the summer weather. It’s getting cold and dark faster. The leaves over you are starting to go.” “Are they?” Jon wished he could see the tree behind him. “Any good colors yet?” “No, bit of red on the edges. Fran’s maple’s got some orange.” Jon sighed. “Mort I think it’s unfair you can see the whole park and all I can see is you.” “Not my fault.” A yawn came from behind Jon. “How’s a girl supposed to get her beauty sleep with you two yammering?” “Sorry Fran.” Much practice had Mort and Jon replying in unison. “Oh never mind, the sun’s too bright to sleep now anyway.” She yawned again loud and heavy to remind them of the deprived sleep. A plump pigeon waddled down the path between Mort and Jon. “They’ve got a stop feeding the birds,” Mort mumbled to Jon. The pigeon flapped a few feet and landed on Jon. It walked back and forth along the top rail of Jon’s backrest before settling in the middle. “Darn birds.” “Now, now. They are nature’s creatures,” cooed Fran. Mort snorted. “You wouldn’t say that if you were stuck under this oak tree and had squirrels making bombing runs with acorns.” Jon agreed. “They do seem to have it out for you.” A man walked past Jon backwards carrying one end of a bench followed by another man struggling to hold up the other end. The unexpected procession startled the overweight pigeon on Jon. It flew off.

“New bench,” observed Jon. “Who died?” “Mort, have a bit more respect for the dead,” Fran scolded. “We don’t know someone died,” suggested Jon. “Maybe they’re just putting in some more park benches.” Jon watched the men closely as they set up the bench. It was facing toward him on the same side as Mort, but it was further down the path. It was a newer version of his bench with wooden rails supported and framed by black metal. The backrest had a graceful arch, which Jon’s lacked, and so far, it was unadorned. “Well? Plaque or no plaque?” Mort was impatient because he couldn’t see the new bench. “Nothing yet, but they’re not done,” Jon reported. The difference between an ordinary bench and a new companion was nothing more than a scratched rectangular piece of metal. “What’s that glint?” Fran caught something Jon had missed. “Screwdriver.” “So someone did die.” “Stop jumping to conclusions, Mort. A screwdriver could be used--” Jon stopped. The man had taken the screwdriver out of his back pocket. He pulled out some screws. The other man unwrapped a small brown paper package. He produced a bronze plaque. “They’re screwing on a plaque.” “I knew it. I knew this town was too cheap to buy new benches,” gloated Mort. “I wonder who it will be. I hope it’s a girl.” “What’s wrong, Franny? Don’t like spending time with the boys?” “Oh, be quiet Mort, they’re almost done.” Fran’s voice dropped off as a low grown came from the new bench. “It’s awake,” whispered Fran. No one spoke. The workmen packed up their tools and left. Jon recalled his arrival in the park. It had taken awhile for him to become aware of his surroundings and even longer before he could talk. After a few anxious moments the new bench spoke. “Whoa, I must ‘ave hit hard. I can’t move.” The new bench sounded remarkably calm, like this kind of thing happened all the time. “He’s just some punk kid.” “Mort!” Fan’s voice squeaked a bit as the word shot out. “Oh man, I’m hearing voices too. I must really be out of it.” “Oh, honey, you’re not hearing voices. I’m Fran and this is Jon and Mort.” “Hello.” “Hi.” “Ah, correction imaginary dudes, there’s no one here,” protested the new bench. Jon started gently. “You see the park bench to the right of you and the one behind that?” “Yeah.” “Well, the one on the right is me, Jon, and Fran is behind me and Mort is in front of me, but you can’t see him because he’s even with you.”

IIIINNNN LLLLOVINGOVINGOVINGOVING MMMMEMORYEMORYEMORYEMORY By Heather Miller

Park bench

13

PM—Jan 2010

“Yeah, and you’re a park bench too. That’s why you can’t move.” Mort finished off the revolutionary idea. “Park bench.” The new comer mulled over the suggestion. “No way! Look, I took a bad fall off my board and now I’m out cold in some dream.” “Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself dear?” urged Fran. “Name’s Lexy…well that’s what the boys called me. I’m Alex.” Lexy paused. “Wow, this is super weird. I’m Lexy but I’m not. It’s like watching a movie of someone’s life in your head. Lexy is starting 10th grade. He loves to shred in the park. Hey, Lexy jumped a bench somewhere around here to scare the stupid squirrels.” Mort broke in. “That was you.” “Well, yeah, so.” “I was the bench you jumped.” “Oh, sorry man.” Jon remembered the boy—long blond hair in dreads, baggy pants, and inseparable from his skateboard. “You are a park bench. No question about that, but you also have some memories of the person whose name is on your plaque.” Jon tried to explain the situation as best he could. “So, who’s this Lexy guy? And why is his name on a plaque?” Jon was surprised it was taking this long for Lexy to put the pieces of the puzzle together; but then Lexy hadn’t seemed too smart sliding across the pavement time and time again. Mort answered. “Lexy’s dead.” “Serious?” “Don’t you remember dear?” coaxed Fran. “Um, well, the last thing I, or I guess Lexy remembers, is passing his driver’s test. He took a bunch of the guys out to the skate park in the city. There was crunching sounds, broken glass, and twisted metal.” “Car accident.” Mort said what Jon was thinking. “Over here honey.” It was an unfamiliar male voice. A moment later, a man in a black suit walked passed Jon. He supported and guided a woman in a long black dress and shawl. The women held the hand of a young girl in a short black dress and shiny black shoes. They stopped in front of Lexy’s bench. “It’s Lexy’s mom and dad and his little sister.” Lexy sounded a bit sad for the grief of Lexy’s family. The woman was weeping the slow unending tears of a mother who has lost her son. “Hi guys,” said Lexy. Then he thought to ask, “Can they hear me?” Jon answered. “No, only we can talk to each other.” “Oh, then I guess it doesn’t matter if I say Lexy loved you, even if he didn’t like to show it.” Lexy words hit Jon hard. He hated not being able to tell Jon’s loved ones how Jon had felt about them. Lexy’s mother knelt down before the bench and ran her fingers over the bronze plaque. “In loving memory of our

darling boy, Alex.” Her voice shuttered as she read the inscription. Lexy’s father knelt down next to the little girl and pointed at the plaque. “That’s for your big brother Alex.” She smiled up at her father. “Cause we love him, right?” “You got it kiddo,” cried Lexy’s father as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Ah, Katie.” Lexy’s voice trembled a bit. “She really was a pain the butt but Lexy loved her.” Jon knew what it meant to have visitors stop by. There was nothing better than seeing Jon’s grand kids on the 4th of July and nothing worse than outlasting all those who remember you as Fran had. Lexy’s father put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “We’ve got to go hon. Calling hours start soon.” She nodded and got to her feet with his help. “I just wanted to see it.” “Come on Katie, we’ll come back later.” Katie got up on her tiptoes and leaned over the bench to touch the plaque. “Bye, bye Alex.” “Bye little sis,” Lexy said. Katie ran to catch up with her parents who had already passed Jon. She stopped short in front of Jon’s bench and stared up at him. Mort asked, “Why is the kid gawking at you?” “I don’t have any idea,” replied Jon. Katie reached up toward Jon’s plaque. She opened her tiny red mouth. “Jon.” She smiled. She ran across the path to Mort and stared at him. “She likes you both,” Fran said. “Mort-im-er.” Katie giggled. “That’s a funny name.” “Hey, watch it kid!” Mort snapped. Kate raced after her parents yelling, “Daddy, daddy! Someone loves those benches, too!”

As an Admissions Counselor for the University at Albany I spend an inordinate amount of time in Dunkin' Donuts in the fall between high school visits. This story was inspired by a bench outside one such store in Peabody, MA and is dedicated to Nadine Boyce, the

wonderful mother of a fantastic friend. I will never look at a bench

the same way and I hope you won't either. [HeyMiller@gmail.com]

• Multi-Sensory

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Program

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• Training

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Catherine Adams B.A., Director

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Tel./Fax 905 628-2836

14 Cross St., Unit E., Dundas, ON L8H 2R4

des1@bellnet.ca | www.dyslexiahamilton.ca

14

PM—Jan 2010

Guitar

pick me

you gypsy wanna be

scratch light

my cocoa belly

after weeks of

sloppy g-chords

make me a conduit

for your wild flamenco

in a club washed in

cappuccino and neon

or for a moonlight

swim swollen with

acoustic aches and

blue undertows

because water is always

deepest under the bridge.

FRETTINGFRETTINGFRETTINGFRETTING

By Rhonda Melanso

15

PM—Jan 2010

Army uniform

A scent of lilacs

filled the April air

the day I cradled you in khaki sleeves

the day I took up arms

to shield you from harm feeling the age-old surge

the treasured urge

of life

new life as fragile as a robin’s egg

your big blue eyes

appraising me.

A father wants to be a hero to his young

he wants to have

the courage of a lion

I hope I can provide protection for this man.

He needs me now

to camouflage the fear I smell on him.

My fellow uniforms

will comfort him for he is not alone.

I pray we may some day

come safely home

to feel you cling once more to manly arms.

AAAARMYRMYRMYRMY UUUUNIFORMNIFORMNIFORMNIFORM TOTOTOTO NNNNEWBORNEWBORNEWBORNEWBORN By Norma West Linder

Norma West Linder is the author of 5 novels, 9 collections of poetry, a

memoir of Manitoulin Island, a children’s book, and a biography of Pauline

McGibbon. Her short stories have been published internationally and

broadcast on the CBC. [nlinder@cogeco.com]

engraved on kinetic temples

filled with voices and chants

of 8000 years.

Like fired pottery

they have burned

in mad-made kilns,

swelled unrecognizable

in gaseous states.

With each attempt to erase us

they remain strong

Scattered temples entwined,

resilient network of bone and sinew,

osmosis of color and tongue,

our living testaments carry us

until these tribes of tabernacles

burn as stars

in Abraham’s sky.

WWWWEEEE AREAREAREARE TTTTATTOOSATTOOSATTOOSATTOOS By Lynn Tait

Tattoo

16

PM—Jan 2010

I live in the middle of a busy shopping mall and love being in the hub of everything. Sometimes when

people need a break, they’ll stop by and sit on a bench overlooking my calm waters. The artificial trees

surround me to project a virtual getaway in the middle of an often-chaotic world.

I am a wishing well and people throw pennies and other spare change into me, sometimes even hoping that

something amazing will come from this small act. While taking time to be pulled in by the magic which some

believe I possess, it may seem ridiculous to certain people. I don’t really have any special powers but I am

important to the community.

Every year just before Christmas, a net with very small holes glides through my waters. Volunteers from a

local children’s charity gather all the cash that was tossed into me throughout the year. This money is used to

buy gifts for children who would otherwise have none. Sometimes the volunteers are stunned by the amount of

money I have built up over the year. Pennies accumulate slowly, but they definitely add up over time.

Knowing that I hold dreams of the wishers and the children who will receive the gifts of kindness is a

wondrous feeling; it makes me shiver with joy.

The fact that nobody steals my money collected throughout the year is a great relief. It would be very easy

for someone to reach into my cool swirling waters and take money. Maybe like me, they believe that this

would be bad luck—to take from the desires, which people have left behind, and from the donations that help

make children smile during the holiday season.

When I—a simple wishing well—think of all the places I could have been placed on earth, I cannot imagine

living anywhere else. To be able to feel at peace in the middle of such a large commercial enterprise seems

strange in a way. Some people come here because they need something, and others use a trip to the mall as an

outing or sightseeing trip; but no matter what the reason is, many of them visit me. Each individual comes

here for a different reason: some to toss coins in me knowing that they are going to help a worthy cause, others

wishing for anything from wanting their parents to buy them something, to a happy ending from a difficult

situation. I get all kinds of wishes. Sometimes people come back to thank me, but really they should be

thanking a higher power who happens to sit in on the conversations had by my waters.

The money and I often converse about what goes on here. We have grown to respect each other. After

some debate about value, the coins in my waters have come to an understanding. Within me, they all have the

same worth: a penny, nickel, dime, quarter, dollar, and twoonie are equally precious—all were tossed into me

for a reason—and all will assist in making a difference in someone’s life. These coins and I are all blessed to

be able to make differences in the world. I will hopefully forever rest within this shopping mall while the

coins will voyage from me into the hands of shop owners, and then go back to shoppers as change or to the

bank in a deposit. Occasionally, different wishers with a different purpose return some to me. The money

ventures out into the world and people venture to me. We are part of a very specific cycle helping make

beautiful things happen.

Wishing gives people hope, which means I am a well of hope. I like that. It makes me feel special, loved.

As a wishing well, I feel life’s affects on humans every day, each one journeying on earth’s powerful and

emotional rollercoaster. I have learned so many lessons being where I am. So much of what I see and hear

amazes me. Having dreams and faith can make anything happen; I’ve seen it in the faces of the people who

come near me, especially those who come back after having received their wish. I have embraced my destiny;

I am meant to be a wishing well and cannot imagine a better job on earth for me.

LLLLIFEIFEIFEIFE OFOFOFOF AAAA WWWWISHINGISHINGISHINGISHING WWWWELLELLELLELL By Rebecca Rose Taylor

Rebecca Rose Taylor lives along the St.Francis River in St.Felix-de-Kingsey,Quebec. She loves crocheting, reading and writing and someday hopes to be a fulltime writer. Her recent publications have been included in Bread n' Molasses, Grainews and Perspectives Magazine. [rebecca_taylor2@hotmail.com]

Wishing well

17

PM—Jan 2010

18

PM—Jan 2010

I open my ribs to you

let my voice escape

from my lungs

rattle against bone bars

the skin opening up

my rainbow smile

like black bowl catching

your navy clouds

my sun shield

over your head

a leather hook

around your arm.

You are my rain man

the iridescent droplet

your wet weather fingers

running down my spine

you are like the mole

who lives in darkness

trickle-crawling, falling

through cloud tunnels

not noticing when

the sun comes out

but disappearing

when it does.

TTTTHEHEHEHE UUUUMBRELLAMBRELLAMBRELLAMBRELLA By Debbie Okun Hill

Debbie enjoys sharing the inanimate voices she hears. She is the 2007 recipient of the Ted Plantos Memorial Award and her award-winning

poems appear in her first chapbook Swaddled in Comet Dust (Beret Days Press, 2008). Since the fall 2004, over 145 poems have been or will be

published in over 60 different Canadian and US anthologies, including the last four issues of Perspectives Magazine.

If you’re going to be publishedIf you’re going to be publishedIf you’re going to be publishedIf you’re going to be published

It might as well be inIt might as well be inIt might as well be inIt might as well be in

Umbrella

19

PM—Jan 2010

I watch in awe

the miracle that clothes your spirit with flesh and bones.

I hold you tight as you grow in our secret place

secured to me, the cup of roots.

I feel you perform fetal ballets

emotions dance in the water of life.

I hear your mother whisper tender love songs

hearts beat in intimate darkness.

I weep as the umbilical anchor releases you much too soon.

Farewell, my cherished one.

Before you go

let me embrace you one last time.

(((contraction)))

A WA WA WA WOMBOMBOMBOMB’’’’SSSS LLLLOVEOVEOVEOVE SSSSONGONGONGONG By Monique BerryBy Monique BerryBy Monique BerryBy Monique Berry

Monique Berry is the founder of Perspectives and

Christian Perspectives. Her stories and poems are

published in several magazines and anthologies. She is

currently working on a novel and hopes to have it

published this year. [moniqueberry@gmail.com]

Womb

Interesting facts about the objects represented in this issue

Perspectives MagazinePerspectives Magazine WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS HAVE REAL-LIFE EVENTS

MONIQUE BERRY, FOUNDER

Candles (p6) While Martin Luther, the 16th-century Protestant

reformer, was walking toward his home one winter evening, composing a sermon, he was awed by the brilliance of stars twinkling amidst evergreens. He erected a tree in the main room and wired its branches with lighted candles to recapture the scene for his family. The oldest candle manufacturers still in existence are Rathbornes

Candles, founded in Dublin in 1488.

Masks (p9) Ancient masks were made from clay, wood or linen with

the attached wig covering the entire head and they had wide open mouths for easier speaking. The traditional "Comedy Tragedy" masks are used now as a universal symbol for drama, and also represent the two sides of Dionysus, as well as the two effects of wine: joyous,

Bacchic revelry, and a dark, sorrowful harvest.

Credit cards (p8) The largest credit card transaction ever was when

Eli Broad of Los Angeles, CA put 2.5 million dollars on his American Express card in order to buy a painting titled 'I...I'm Sorry' by Roy

Lichtenstein.

Eyeglasses (p4) Until the eighteenth century, eyeglasses either

balanced precariously on the nose or were held by the rim with one hand. Finally, an optician in Paris added short arms that extended to the temples, and an optician in England carried the idea further by

extending the arms to the ears resulting in eyeglass frames.

Lawyers (p7) Although the United States has just 5 percent of the

world's population, it has most of the world's lawyers at 70 percent. The American Bar Association has estimated that by 2000, the U.S.

will have one million lawyers. Twenty-six Presidents were lawyers

before becoming president.

Hairbrush (p10) Camel hair brushes are not made of camel's hair.

They are named after the inventor, Mr. Camel. African American, Lyda D Newman patented a new and improved brush on November

15, 1898.

Jack O’ lanterns (p11) The practice originated from an Irish myth

about a man nicknamed "Stingy Jack." According to the story, Stingy Jack invited the Devil to have a drink with him. True to his name, Stingy Jack didn't want to pay for his drink, so he convinced the Devil to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks. Once the Devil did so, Jack decided to keep the money and put it into

his pocket next to a silver cross, which prevented the Devil from changing back into his original form. See the fascinating history at

www.history.com

Park benches (p12) The park bench that Tom Hanks sits on for

much of the movie was located in historic Savannah, Georgia, at Chippewa Square. The bench is currently held in the Savannah

History Museum, Savannah, Georgia.

Tattoos (p14) The most popular design: The tribal design originates

from many different cultures including the Polynesian, Samoans, Maori, Mesoamerican peoples (Aztecs) and the various tribes in Borneo, Philippines and Mentawai Islands. The meanings behind the designs ranges from honoring the gods, social status symbol to

spiritual power to keep the evil spirits away.

Army uniforms (p14) Army soldiers no longer roll up their

sleeves. First, this had a practical reason as it helped reduce sun and other skin injuries. Second, it was all part of the Army's current initiative to instill a warrior attitude in the soldiers of always being prepared for combat at all times. Most infantry units had never authorized the sleeves to be rolled up. Lastly, the design of the new

ACU's made rolling up the sleeve impractical.

Guitars (p15) Forty years after his death, gypsy-born jazz composer

and guitar player Django Reinhart became the first artist in his category to be celebrated by the French postal services as some kind of national hero, though in fact the man had been born in Belgium

near Charleroi.

Wishing wells (p16) One day about 600 BC, the people of the

Greek city of Ephesus gathered around a big pit in the ground. Someone scattered a group of coins across the bottom of the pit, and then teams of workmen lowered several enormous stone slabs over them. These slabs were the central floor stones of what was to become the Artemision—one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It

seems that wishing wells and coin water offerings to the gods for

good luck dates back to at least the times of the Romans.

Umbrella (p18) Umbrellas were used in the East as early as the

11th century B.C. Members of the political and religious hierarchy used them not only as a protective measure against the hot sun rays, but also as a device to ward off any spirits who might do them harm. Because of the umbrella's sacred relationship to the sun, it is wrong

to open it in the shade.

Womb (p19) The world's first human womb transplant was done on

April 6, 2000 on a 26-year-old woman in an operation. Surgeons gave the woman a new uterus after her own was removed in an emergency hysterectomy because of a life-threatening hemorrhage when she was 20. The transplanted organ survived for 99 days before it failed and had to be removed. The donor was a 46-year-old

woman who agreed to give up her womb for transplant while having

surgery to remove ovarian cysts.