Saragun

Bulls by David Henson

They surround you

like mountains their shoulders

flanks like boulders

the way they tighten

your breath

strong as a

built like a

mean as a

balls like a

it’s all true

and too too close

don’t worry

about stepping in

those steaming piles or

the urine-soaked straw

don’t pay any mind

to the afterbirth hanging

from that cow’s

mouth keep your eyes

on those bulls

always remember

you’re not one

of those children

who can toss

their arms around

those nightmare necks

whisper secrets

from the corn

into those twitching ears.

(“Bulls” Originally appeared in Poetry Now (defunct) Issue 38, 1983. Print only. Not available online.)

David Henson

Her Husband Keeps the Swords by David Henson

Everywhere. At breakfast he’s taken one

from behind the bran in the cabinet

then poked holes in her over-easies

from three feet away.

She’s found blades

growing warm balanced

across lampshades; sparkling

like water in the shower stall;

in the dresser drawer, smoother

curves than she’s had for years,

he tells her.

One evening she sliced her toe

sliding between the covers

then dreamed all night

about her dog plunging

under the bed after a rolling ball.

He tells her everyone has to

have a hobby. She gives in

and every day while he’s at work

swallows swords like stiff drinks,

the sound of metal honing her teeth,

her body become a razor edge

which one day will greet him with open arms.

(This poem originally appeared in Pikestaff Forum (defunct), #7, Spring, 1986, print only. Not available online.)

David Henson

Date Rape: A Play by Gary Beck

(image is of the author, http://www.garybeck.com)


Scene 1 (Sunday morning. The living room of the Bennett family. Enter Jennifer. Distraught. Megan enters.)

Megan: “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been walking around this morning like death warmed over. Are you sick?”

Jennifer: “I’m not sick.”

Megan: “Then what is it?”

Jennifer (She looks around to be sure no one can hear her) “I was raped.”

Megan: “Oh, no. (she rushes to Jennifer and hugs her) When?”

Jennifer: “Last night. At a frat party.” (she cries)

Megan: “My poor baby. (comforts her) Tell me about it.”

Jennifer: “A guy in my lit class invited me to the Lacrosse team party. Larry was away this weekend, so I went. There was a lot of drinking, pot smoking, I think some of them were snorting coke. I didn’t like it, but it didn’t threaten me. People were dancing and having fun. Ron, the guy who invited me, offered me coke, but I refused. He got me a beer and we danced. I started feeling dizzy and he led me to another room. I guess I passed out, because the next thing I knew when I woke up was my clothes were off, he was on top of me and he was inside me. (Jennifer looks at Megan, horrified) He was doing it to me. I tried to push him off, but I could barely move. It was hard to talk, but I said: ‘Stop. Get off me. Please stop’. But he kept on until he came in me, moaning like an animal.” (She breaks down sobbing)

Megan: (comforts her, asks) “What happened after that?”

Jennifer: “He left. I found my clothes, got dressed and snuck out of there. I didn’t want anyone to see me. When I got back to the dorm I was so agitated I couldn’t stay there. I was afraid I’d go crazy. So I came home.”

Megan: “Well we’ve got things to do.”

Jennifer: “What?”

Megan “First we’ve got to to go the emergency room and get you examined and let them take DNA samples of your attacker. Then we got to the police and report it…”

Jennifer: “I don’t know if I can deal with that…”

Megan: “You’ve got to. Monday morning we’ll go to the school and report it.”

Jennifer: “No. I can’t. Everybody’ll know.”

Megan: “You didn’t do anything wrong. He did. Let them look at him. It sounds like he gave you that date rape drug, then assaulted you. He’s a criminal. You’re an innocent victim. (Megan hugs her and whispers) If you don’t have him arrested, the same thing that happened to me will happen to you.”

Jennifer: “What do you mean?”

Megan: “I was raped when I was your age.”

Jennifer: “Oh, Megan. I didn’t know”

Megan: “I was so ashamed I didn’t tell anyone. I started drinking, had panic attacks, became depressed and dropped out of school. When I finally told Mom, she took me to the doctor and he diagnosed me with post-traumatic-stress-disorder.”

Jennifer: “I had no idea. Mom told me you were sick, but she never explained what was wrong.”

Megan: “What did you expect? You were 12 years old. She couldn’t tell you I was raped. You were an innocent kid. You wouldn’t have been able to deal with that.”

Jennifer: “Someone should have told me something to make me understand what was wrong with you. All they said was you were sick.”

Megan: “It took me a year to finally tell Mom what happened. By that time I was an alcoholic. I was miserable and had lost control of my life, which was a mess. I was beginning to think about suicide. Out of desperation I told Mom. She got me help, but it took two years and a lot of money we couldn’t afford before I got back on my feet. Then I went back to school and rebuilt my life.”

Jennifer: “I wish knew. Maybe I could have helped.”

Megan: “There was nothing you could have done. Now we have to make sure the same kind of thing doesn’t happen to you. I know what you’re going through. I was there. You have to protect yourself. The only way to do it is by overcoming your shame and feelings of guilt that it was your fault, then facing what has to be done.”

Jennifer: “I don’t know if I can. It’s so humiliating.”

Megan: “That’s why it’s so important to get treatment, with proof that it happened, and have your attacker arrested. He’ll be the one who’s humiliated when he’s in jail.”

Jennifer: “Alright. I’ll do it. But you’ve got to go with me.”

Megan: “Of course, Jen. I’ll stay with you every step of the way. First you’ve got to

tell Mom and Dad.”

Jennifer: “Do I have to?”

Megan: “Sure. They’ll be part of your support system. We’ll need them.”

Jennifer: (Hugs Megan) “Thanks, Meg. Last night I thought I’d die of shame. As long as you’re with me I can face it.”

Megan: “All the way, sis.” (exit Jennifer, Megan)

Scene 2 (Late afternoon. The Bennett family living room. enter Jennifer. Megan leads in Julia and Mitchell Bennett)

Mitchell: “What’s up? We were about to take a power walk before dinner.”

Megan: “Jennifer has something to tell you.”

Julia: “I assume that’s why you brought us here. What is it?”

Jennifer: (Megan gestures for Jennifer to speak. Jennifer stares at her parents for a moment) “There’s no easy way for me to say this. I was raped last night.”

Julia: “No. No”. (Rushes to her. Mitchell stands there stunned. Then slowly goes to her and hugs her. Julia and Jennifer are crying. Mitchell is miserable)

Megan: “We went to the hospital and they checked Jen thoroughly. They found some of his hair on her clothes and one of his pubic hairs. They also found his semen on her abdomen, even though he used a condom. They tested her blood which still had a heavy presence of Ryphonol. There was almost no alcohol level, which proved she wasn’t drunk. Then we went to the police station, spoke to a detective and filed a complaint. We gave them the medical records and after they questioned Jen they issued a warrant for his arrest. Jen was terrific. You can understand how she was feeling, but she did everything right.”

Julia: “Well thank heavens for that. We couldn’t survive another case of a daughter keeping her mouth shut and going nuts.”

Megan: “Mom! Don’t talk like that. Jennifer did us proud. She actually asked the detectives if they could arrest the guy in class.”

Mitchell: “Good for you, Jen. That took nerve. (He pats her fondly) We’re here for you. Whatever you need we’ll get for you.”

Jennifer: “Thanks, Dad. I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”

Mitchell: “Of course not. It’s him I’m mad at. If they don’t send him to jail I’ll get him.”

Julia: “Don’t talk that way, Mitch. Jen was smart enough to go to the police. They’ll take care of him. You don’t have to pound your chest like the righteous avenger.”

Mitchell: “Are you telling me I can’t hate the guy who violated my daughter?”

Julia: “No, Mitch. Just don’t stir her up. She’s going through enough as it is.”

Mitchell: “I know this is hard for you, Jen, but you did the right thing going to the police. This way everyone’ll know the scumbag’ll get what he deserves.”

(Jennifer nods, beginning to believe that she can deal with the nightmare.)

Megan: “I told her what happened to me.”

Julia: “Did you tell her what it cost us because you didn’t have she sense to speak up?”

Megan: “No, Mom. I thought it was more important to help her, rather than tell her about how much you spent on doctors, therapy and medication.”

Mitchell: “We did whatever we had to in order to save our daughter. Just like we’ll do for Jennifer.”

Julia: “Judging by how sensibly she’s dealing with this, she won’t need addiction rehab, or hospitalization.”

Megan: “That’s a little cold-blooded, Mom.”

Julia: “I didn’t mean it like that. We’re still paying off our debt from your treatment. We just couldn’t afford another major treatment expense.”

Mitchell: “Let’s stop talking about money and do whatever we have to to take care of Jen.”

Julie: “Of course. That’s what we all want.” (exit all)

Scene 3 (Sunday evening. The living room of the Bennett family. Enter Jennifer and Larry)

Jennifer: “I have something to tell you.”

Larry: “Let me guess. You’re not going to sneak into my dorm room tonight.”

Jennifer: “No. It’s something serious.”

Larry: “Like what?”

Jennifer: (She hesitates) “I was raped last night.”

Larry: “What?”

Jennifer: “You heard me.”

Larry: “Are you joking?”

Jennifer: “No. It happened.”

Larry: (Getting upset) “How?”

Jennifer: “I went to a frat party last night…”

Larry: (Amazed) “Why did you go to a frat party?”

Jennifer: “You weren’t here. It was Saturday night. I was bored, so I accepted an invitation from a Lacrosse player.”

Larry: (Indignant) “You went on a date?”

Jennifer: “It wasn’t a date. It was a party.”

Larry: “Some guy asked you and you went? Sounds like a date to me.”

Jennifer: “That’s not important. I’m trying to tell you what happened to me.”

:Larry: “So you went out with this guy and he raped you?”

Jennifer: “I didn’t go out with him. I met him there. He gave me a drink that was drugged  and I passed out. When I woke up he was raping me.”

Larry: “Did you try to stop him?”

Jennifer: (Outraged) “Of course I did. I had trouble speaking, but I told him to stop. I was so groggy that I couldn’t resist.”

Larry: “Did you enjoy it?”

Jennifer: “Are you crazy? How can you ask that?”

Larry: “You know what they say. Most rapes are invited by the way women dress and act.”


Jennifer: “I don’t believe you said that. I was drugged and overpowered. It wasn’t my choice. I was violated. Don’t you understand that?”

Larry: “It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t go to the party.”

Jennifer: “Are you saying I asked for it?”

Larry: “What else should I think? You went out with a strange guy to a frat party. We 

know what happens at those kind of parties.”

Jennifer: “I hoped you’d understand and care about what happened to me.”

Larry: “What do you want me to do? Go find the guy and beat him up?”

Jennifer: “I expect you to be concerned that something terrible happened to me. Instead you’re saying it was my fault.”

Larry: “Well you shouldn’t have been there.”

Jennifer: (Crying) “You’re just making it worse. Get out of here.”

(Larry shakes his head angrily and stalks out. Jennifer exits.)

Scene 4 (Evening. The living room of the Bennett family. Enter Jennifer, then Megan)

Megan: “So how did it go?”

Jennifer: “Not good. He thinks it’s my fault I got raped because I went to a frat party.”

Megan: “Why the lousy bastard. What did he say?”

Jennifer: “That if I didn’t go out on a date it wouldn’t have happened.”

Megan: “I’m so sorry. I thought he was a nice guy, though I didn’t know him very well.”

Jennifer: “I couldn’t believe he blamed me. He was always so nice. It was a shock to find  out how he really felt.”

Megan: “Just remember that guys don’t always know how to deal with something like this. It can threaten their masculinity.”

Jennifer: “Are you defending him?”

Megan: “No. I’m just trying to be fair.”

Jennifer: “Well don’t. He turned out to be an insensitive jerk.”

Megan: “Better to find out now, when you have a support system and can do without him.”

Jennifer: “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Megan: “You have to develop a different mindset now. You were victimized. That doesn’t mean you’re helpless. Someone took advantage of you, but you began fighting back today. That shows character. It may take some time, but you’ll come out stronger from this.”

Jennifer: “It doesn’t feel like that.”

Megan: “Give it some time. You’ll see. You’re a survivor. You’ll come out of this alright.”

Jennifer: “I hope you’re right. But how can I ever trust a guy after this?” (Exit Jennifer and Megan)

Gary Beck

Farewell January, Hello February: Or, Meet the New Boss, yadda yadda yadda. And Happy Birthday Klaus Nomi, You Are Missed

(The image is a wish for an early spring taken by Leila. It is a Pacific Madrone tree, they lean and reach and do all sorts of odd things)

Greetings one and all. Today marks the end of the first complete month of Saragun Springs as a public site. Although there can be month anniversaries for public toilets, if so desired, I prefer thinking we are way above such a pay grade and are not a place for deviants to cottage at.

We are increasing our presence in listings but such things require patience and time. One thing is for certain, there will be no stress during times when submissions are low. I have over two hundred files I can present and Dale is also well stocked. I would rather not write day to day, but I will if I must.

Why? You may ask. Good question. No real answer except for the arrogant Murican standby “That’s how I roll.” The only guarantee I can give the reader is the promise that something will zap into this site the same time every night and day in this round time machine we inhabit.

But mainly I am still naive enough to believe that hard work aimed at helping is rewarded. So I guess that’s as good a why I can offer.

I also want to make every post interesting in some way. Of course the weight falls on the guest writer of the day or my esteemed Co-Editor Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar (who already deftly commands Sundays) for that on most days–yet today it is my turn to entertain.

‘T is not sin to raid YouTube for memorable entertainment. And today I believe I am about to present a person who has never been completely in the limelight, yet deserves much better than what he got.

I have chosen the aid of a great artist who almost broke through and would have if AIDS hadn’t murdered him in 1983. A fellow who would have turned 83 earlier this month, but was, tragically an early victim of the AIDS.

His name was Klaus Nomi, an operatic/punk/pop singer who had a great streak of art and absurdity, which he delivered with world class talent. I first saw him in a music documentary that came out shortly before his death at the age of thirty-nine. I was twenty-three and not yet mature enough to recognize his wit and reacted in a “What the hell is that?” way that I regret–but also am pleased to understand that I grew out of that ugsome “phase” if not a tad later than I should have.

Before I present Mr Nomi, who will sing two songs, I encourage one and all to submit to us. And I also encourage one and all to remember that their names will be attached to it in big black letters. A cautionary thing just in case anyone feels that Saragun Springs will absorb any more than our fair share of heat.

And, now, The Great Klaus Nomi

Leila

And….

Forest Voices by John Davis

No reason the crescent moon

can’t scrape off pond scum

and see its face put on make-up

for its date with coyote,

wander hillsides before howling begins.

No reason at all.

No reason silence can’t

stand on its toes, sing

love songs to the cove that’s

so deep so alone by the shore

so ready for love.

No reason at all.

No reason that wind can’t

find a lover when daylight

has held its breath all night

waiting in a white dress

for a gentleman caller.

No reason at all.

No reason rain can’t explain

its sobriety to the river

that drinks all night never

leaves the party or stops dancing

but craves touch.

No reason at all.

No reason tree can’t lean

against the cold, stretch its limbs

around the ground that wants

to be held when stars

bend their light like violins.

No reason at all.

John Davis

(Image by DWB)

Blonde Noir by DC Diamondopolous

Kit Covington sat on the sofa in her Pacific Palisades mansion with a cigarette lodged in the side of her mouth. A cloud of smoke floated around her head. She adjusted the oxygen tube in her nose, then brushed ash from her dog Muffin’s champagne-colored curls. The miniature poodle dozing in Kit’s lap startled when the camera crew from The Great Morning Talk Show banged equipment into Kit’s antique furniture.

Continue reading →

Sandra Again by Corey Mesler

Sandra never said she

loved me, not even the

night she sat on my lap

and we kissed so long

the room grew warm,

nor the night we lay

together and watched

an old western on TV.

When she died she was

my first death. I turned

out to be someone she

might have loved. This

is what I tell myself any

time her ghost appears,

wearing the daisy chain

Sandra forged in life.

Corey Mesler

(Image of a pretty tree in Silverdale, Washington)

Snow at Twilight by Nick Young

He tried to move as little as possible, shifting only enough to wrench free his right hand which the fall had left partially pinned underneath his backside. The pain in his left leg was excruciating, sending blinding white light pulsing behind his tightly closed eyes. The leg was grotesquely twisted and broken. He knew without looking that the fracture was compound and he could feel he was losing blood.

Opening his eyes and turning his head slowly he saw the sky above, darkening, the angle of the sun slanting very near to the horizon. There was perhaps an hour of light remaining. He wondered if that much life was left to him.

It began to snow, a sifting of fat listless flakes. Through the haze of pain his memory flashed on a snow globe his mother had long prized—tiny Currier and Ives Christmas carolers gathered beneath a street lamp, silent mouths open wide amid the swirling blizzard. He winced and let out a low moan, one that carried as much despair as agony.

The unyielding granite wall of the fissure pressed hard against the left side of his face. It was a cold reminder that in a heartbeat his life had pivoted irrevocably. Such an event was no longer either an abstraction or a fiction’s plot device  It was an errant step on a mountain trail he had traversed before, a small patch of friable rock. His footing lost, down he plunged, thirty feet  until trapped by the narrowing vee of the crack. And as he struggled to raise his right hand—almost surely broken—to brush the falling snowflakes away, he silently cursed his folly.

It was to have been a late-afternoon hike, just above the tree line for twilight pictures of the rising late-October moon, then down and home. He was no back country tenderfoot: he had made the trek before, more than once; but this time he allowed his judgment to be clouded by hubris. He would forego anything he did not deem vital. For such a short trip, this time he would take only a bottle of water, a handful of trail mix and a camera. Nothing more. The cell phone that could have been his salvation he had locked in the glove compartment of his Jeep a mile down the mountainside. There would be no rescue—there could be no rescue. His wife would not grow worried until well after sunset and it would be hours more before a search party found him. By then he would be gone, bled out or frozen.

So now, with each throbbing stab from his shattered leg, he could see before him with great clarity what most men are not privy to—the imminent coda of his life. In the crepuscular light he marked the snow’s quickening descent. He thought of his parents, relieved that neither of them was alive. His mother, especially, would have had her heart broken to know her son had died so young and in such circumstances, mortally injured and alone on a mountainside.

He was her first-born and she had idolized him as the pride of the family—from his glory days as a star athlete and student in high school through law school at Yale, marriage to a beautiful, intelligent woman, two great kids embarking on their own lives in the world, partner in a fine law firm, the respect of his peers. At the age of fifty, he’d had the world knocked.

All thrown away.

As his life ebbed with the light of the day he was brought through the pain to take stock of himself. Yes, there were his many successes, what the righteous among his parents’ church-going friends would term “blessings,” but he knew there was deep within him a singular, poisonous moment that he could neither erase nor atone for, a sin that ate at his core during his darkest hours of self-doubt and loathing. And he knew that he would soon leave this world with the stain still on his soul.

It was a beautiful, mild day in early September, one that brought a respite from the summer’s oppressiveness. He always remembered that clearly—the sunshine, the gentle breeze stirring through the branches of the big willows that flanked the family farmhouse. He was eleven years old, just home from school and ready to ride his bike up the road to the next farm to play baseball with the neighbor boys. His father was in the fields, his mother at the kitchen sink preparing the evening meal when he spotted the dog slowly trotting up the long gravel lane leading to the house. He’d never seen the animal before. It appeared to him to be a border collie, with mangy dark-brown fur, its head hung down and tongue out. As it angled off the driveway and up toward the front of the house, he leaned his bicycle against the wall of the garage and quickly followed.

His mother had also seen the dog and by the time he reached the porch, she was at front door trying to shoo it away.

But it wouldn’t go. It backed up a step or two with each wave and shout, then moved closer again. He could see by the dog’s matted, dusty coat that it was not someone’s indoor pet. His mother had brought with her a broom, opening the door enough to try to push the dog back and send it on its way. But it would not leave, instead sitting back on its skinny haunches and looking at his mother with pleading eyes. It was clear it was hungry—for a bit of food and a small measure of human kindness.

He called out to his mother to give him the broom, and when she handed it to him, he began to swat at the dog in an attempt to force it off the porch. Still, it would not go, bearing up under his swings, by circling around and beginning to whimper. For a reason he never fathomed, his mother found this amusing, chiding him to stop harassing the poor animal while snickering at the same time. This caused to well up within him a delight and he renewed his blows, turning the broom and using the handle to beat the dog. The poor creature’s distress, its pitiful yelps, only fueled his mother’s mirth and his inchoate fury. At length, after landing several hard blows, the dog retreated, ran off the porch and back down the driveway.

He handed the broom to his mother, who made a small show of her displeasure with him, but her insincerity was thinly veiled and he quietly reveled in the satisfaction his act—and her response—had given him.

The dog did not return,and through his youth he gave the episode no thought. But as he grew into manhood, it returned, shadowing his dark days, rising up to haunt his dreams.

Now, as cold and pain gripped him, he saw the creature again—hungry and tired and lonely, asking so little yet receiving only brutishness.

Why had he succumbed so readily to cruelty? Why?

Clouds had drifted over the moon as it edged past the lip of the crevice, casting down a dull ivory glow. The snow was falling heavily. No longer did he bother to brush it from his face but closed his eyes and wept.

Nick Young

(Image by Leila)

Domestickery by Geraint Jonathan

I did not, of course, get round to building the table, any more than I got round to fixing the faucet on the kitchen tap. The wood was ordered, paid for, but remained in a heap in the corner of what Libby laughingly called my “workshop”. The faucet, on the other hand, proved resistant to every effort I made, and there was no lack of effort. But drip on is what the tap did, and continued to do for the duration. A dishrag or sponge sufficed to cushion the sound but this in itself proved remedy enough to acquire the trappings of parable. So Libby saw it. The table, after all, would have been just that, another table, one to replace the table we already had; or an extra table. Not so the tap. The tap was something else entirely. A leaking faucet, no matter how silenced by dishrag or sponge the drip of water, tells a story all its own, a fathomable one, muted, terrifying in its lack of promise. There was every getting away from it; two ways about everything. That Libby laughed on saying a word like “workshop” is testament to her endurance, and much else besides.

Geraint Jonathan

Alice in the Undyrwold by Geraint Jonathan

(Editor’s note: Geraint is one of the truly intelligent and productively enigmatic writers at work today. Further proof of that statement comes your way now–Leila)

According to Alice there are more things in Leavenworth than are dreamt of in your winsome motley of osophies and ologies, not to mention the sundry little isms such ologies and osophies spawn. Saying which, Alice departed, leaving me to deal with what was known in the circles I was going round and round in as “everything”. The everything in this instance comprised all that remained of Alice’s recent descent into the Undyrwold – from which she had emerged not only unscathed but triumphant. Her unfurrowed brow was a wonder to behold. Indeed she radiated the rare calm of one who has seen the very dregs of h.sap up close and lived to half-smile at the memory. She had conversed with some of the world’s worst criminals – let alone worst conversationalists. She had gazed on Dead Persons’ Tree in Slabtown’s Crowbar district and spoken with those whose names were on said Tree. Persons or persons unknown were known to her personally. Indeed the roll-call of miscreants encountered might suggest that a Very Large Rock had been moved, leaving all that lived under it free to crawl out into what passed for light.

Geraint Jonathan

(Image is of Miss Izzy who divides her time being lovely and driving me out of my mind with annoyances; such being definitive of the Feline species–Leila)