The following submissions are the happy results of our various craftshop exercises. We thank our Salon members for sharing their work with us and welcome others to do the same. Submit work for publication on the Salon blog by sending it violettuce@juno.com or via the Salon's yahoo group.
VIOLENCE, WORKSHOP
By Sujata Naik
There she was. weaving, for the past twenty minutes, ahead of me. Then gone. Tumbling down the left curb. I found myself speeding up to the spot. Then scrambling down. Where the steering wheel had met the driver, blood and some innards splattered man and machine. His neck seemed to have cracked. The head lay limp, hanging lose to one side. A toy. No groans, no moans. No moans, no groans. Looking back, it makes me sick. Then, then I only took what was given.
My thought was more to immediate myself than the driver. It could have been me. Thank God he's dead, I don't have to make the effort to extricate the mess. I remember being angry with the dead man. Angry that he had been weaving. Angry, like some religious fanatic, that he had been drinking. No, I had no time to feel sick. Or grieve for the stupid. Then, only then, did I call 911
THE CITY
by Sujata Naik
The city
is alive and kicking well , thank you.
Just discharged,
minor stitches.
Thankful that
its innards are not derelict,
desolate
crime-sneaking
(unlike Buffalo).
Here, it's
the very propah
who sneak in,
on the Washingtonparkers.
A glass of beer
camouflaged in a
coffee mug.
Everything
has a chamillion quality.
Even corruption.
Not cops shaking
you down for a fiver
But schools and providers
Kids is education
Kids is big bucks
Tomorrow sneaks in on the city
Tomorrow, robbed
even of its shadow.
FOUND POEM
by Sujata Naik
This world...
Mythical walk
down
The syntax street.
This world,
an instruction
in
my own devices.
Fractured, found
fractured.
(suddenly industrious Sujata
Suddenly
industrious
I)
HELL ON I-71
by Kalman Kivkovich
"Papa," I said, "I'll miss you." My throat was burning. Will I see you again? I thought. This thought had hit me many times lately. He was not doing so well since mother's departure---something to do with his heart.
"You'll see me again," he said with a soft smile, as if he read my mind. "Israel is just a flight away . . ."
"Sure," I said. I kissed his cheek just before he boarded the plane to New York. Would it be for the last time? The thought kept gnawing my mind as I was driving back to Cincinnati.
It was early afternoon, a pleasant spring day. I was sad to see Dad leave, but I was happy that at least he managed to visit me in Cincinnati. My parents always had promised to do that. At least he did.
My eyes darted from the road ahead to the empty seat beside me. He was just there . . .
I-71. North bound. Traffic is light. I am trailing on the slow lane. I guess thinking has something to do with my pressing on the gas peddle. The seat beside me is still empty.
BOOOM*** I was startled to my core. "What the . . ." BOOOM*** The explosive sounds came from my left side. A FORTY-FIVE footer obstructed my view. My hands were on the steering wheel, but my Monte Carlo was flying on an autopilot controlled by the fucking truck driver. My white vehicle was dancing on the highway. Don't ask me how, but after several zig zags, and I mean ZIG ZAGS, I found my car positioned perpendicular to the freeway. My hands at that point were off the steering wheel. I was helpless and hopeless for the ride. The front passenger seat was still empty, except all the glittering glass fragments that littered the maroon velvet upholstery. There was no window left intact. The GIANT was still obstructing my left view. This time it was the front of the MONSTER. I could have reached and grabbed the grill. The fucker-trucker was pressing on, pushing me forward . . . I grabbed the shiny chrome grill . . . "STOP!!!!"
For a freaking short second it seemed as if my adversary driver or God had listened to my plea. Somehow a gap of a few feet opened between us. I am still alive . . . maybe---
BOOOM*** The gap was gone. He was coming for the kill. I closed my eyes . . . I must have been praying. I could hear the screeching of the tires below; they were turning fast but taking me nowhere. Burned-rubber smell seared my nostrils. Is it over? Is it Heaven . . . it feels more like Hell . . .
BOOOM*** No, it wasn't over. My deformed car and I were airborne. My eyes were still closed, but I could feel the flight. It must be my last---
TAHHH*** It was a short ride that ended with a thunderous blast of metal-concrete collision. We hit the median. One tire exploded. We bounced off back to the center lane.
SILENCE. Am I alive? I got out of the wreckage. It wasn't a car. I don't remember opening any door or climbing though a window opening. All I remember was staggering away from a smoking thing and dropping to the asphalt.
"Are you okay? The ambulance is on its way. I'm a nurse . . ."
"What?"
"Don't move . . . you'll be fine," she said, gently wiping the blood off my face. "What's your name?"
"What?"
"Your name?"
"Papa . . . Papa, are you okay? Papa . . ."
"You were alone in your car," she said. "Your Papa must be okay. Relax. Oh, I can here the sirens."
"What happened?" I asked, trying to focus on her face.
"You were hit by a semi. You were so lucky."
"Where is he?"
"There," she said, pointing. The Devil was parking about one hundred yards ahead.
Traffic was lined up for who knows how far. The paramedics had arrived, trailed by the police and fire trucks.
I was on my way to Bethesda North. They wanted to clean me up and make sure that there was no trace of concussion. By that time I felt more alive, far more than I had felt a little while ago. I quivered at the thought that my father could have been sitting in that seat beside me. Oh God, thank you . . .
"I'm sorry, but I have to write you a ticket," the officer said, standing by my hospital bed.
"What?"
"There were witnesses."
"What witnesses? He just hit me . . ."
"I'm sorry," he said, handing me the orange paper. "You can fight it in court if you wish. Sign here please."
"Okay . . ."
"By the way, were you wearing a seatbelt?"
"I . . ."
"Never mind . . . you must have been."
"I-71 has reopened after Thursday afternoon crashes near Hyde Park.
A police dispatcher with the Ohio State Highway Patrol told 9News that two separate collisions involving semi-trailers occurred almost simultaneously on both North and South bound. Emergency crews took two people to the hospital. No names or conditions have been released. 9News, Hagit Limor reporting."
"More news after this . . ."
VIOLENCE
by Dick Mashburn
Basic facts: Loaded cement truck approaching intersection at bottom of steep hill. The traffic light for traffic coming down the hill is red. The truck driver apparently disregards the signal and crashes into the mid-section of the auto, killing driver and passenger in the car.
Our job is to figure out why truck ran red light.
The accident investigator later said that the truck could have stopped. Testing showed that the brakes were fully functional. That left intent as the only plausible reason for the wreck, but there was no motive, unless the truck driver had a reason or no reason at all, if worthiness of motive counts, for running the red light and vaporizing the sedan that was filled with a young man and young woman just a moment ago and is now filled with bloody body parts.
Wasn't the truck driver Rodney Smerling?, thought Officer Albertson
Didn't he graduate from high school in the same class as Bart and Molly, who only seconds ago were probably on their way to a class picnic? If I weren't working, I'd be on the way myself.
But I have no clue as to any motive involving the three of them.
Rodney and Bart and I played on the same high school football team, did't we? wondered Officer Albertson. Was there ever tension between him and me?
And what about Molly? Could Bart have intended to put her in the path of the truck? What if she was pregnant? What if she was carrying Rodney's child?
No comments:
Post a Comment