Definitely A Whimper

I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation

busted for
malfeasance.

Crying glib
crocodile tears.

The codpiece of
tenure ripped aside like so much recycled paper.

Keening.

Staggering
through Bridgeport,

foul of breath
from ersatz Cuban panatellas,

singing out tthe
true stories of their lives,

fuelled by
Maker’s Mark, Dylan and a heaped tablespoonful of self-pity.

Embittered.

Half-written
memoirs, unfinished romains,

the glorious
shimmering stank of student pussy in their mustaches.

Trapped in the
afterglow of the grins of lesbian colleagues.

Their chances
now doubly improved, they smile,

bask in your
misery. A Superior predator

Grateful.

Their kids and
anti-trophy wives

like question
marks burned into forehead

by the tip of
the white-hot rapier that was once your own sense of humor

but now belongs
to your spawn.

Crying.

Yeah, cry,
motherfucker, you only went into teaching for the three free months
of summer

so you could
disappoint your parents,

show off your
scintillating repartee

and shagshagshag
little slags.

Laugh.

Gigglle when you
encounter the winners.

Their classrooms
trouble free.

Risk averted at
the very gates.

The dross
propaganda of Derrida, Beaudrillard and f-f-f-fucking Foucault,

dead without a
gutter, without a singular tear.

Hallelujah.

I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation purple with envy.

Preaching
against the national debt .

Haunted by the
prospect of perpetual war,

and a singular
dream where their children’s children bear prayer rugs.

Dream.

World’s end, as
the sun, a pitted, acne-infected orange,

spitting its
haliotosis accompanied by a bass-heavy worldbeat soundtrack,

weights and
measures,

whimpers-versus-bangs

God and the
devil in the final World Series.

IVOR IRWIN is a native of Manchester, England. He is the author of A Peacock or A Crow and has published writing in Sonora Review, The Sun, Playboy, Shankpainter, The Long Story, Actos de Inconsciencia, The Review of Contemporary Fiction and various other journals. He writes a weekly column on Premier League soccer for Global Football Today. He thinks that a kidnapper who quotes Malthus may auger well for future sociopaths!

Fat Girl

By Brandon Graham

I consider myself an attentive father. And I know my daughter; I know she has a big heart. So when she made friends with this big fat girl who has two big fat parents I asked “Who’s that?”

My daughter answered “That’s Jackie? The other kids were picking on her and I thought she could use a friend.”

I said: “You ever think there might be a good reason the other kids were picking on that big fatty? Huh? You listen. You’ve got to quit hangin’ out with that Fat Jackie. And I mean now. Or her loser-stick will cling to you from now all the way through High School. Now you don’t want that, do you?”

“No,” She said.

“That’s my girl,” I told her.

I think we really dodged a bullet there.

Bad Heart

by Brandon Graham

The phone rings.

I know it’s my wife calling before I even look at the caller i.d. She calls everyday at the same time.

The phone keeps ringing. Even though the receiver is right by me, I let it go. On the fifth ring I pick-up and say “Hello.”

“My heart doesn’t feel right,” she tells me. “It keeps racing and I can’t catch my breath. I feel like I might pass out. I just wanted to let you know so when I die you can tell the doctor what was wrong. Also I was thinking you should keep the house when I’m gone; because we have a lot of good friends in the neighborhood. Plus the kids really like their school. Also church is near by and Reverend Chandler is great in a crisis. He’s just great. You will need all the help you can get. There’s a supportive network for you and the kids right where you are. Tell the Reverend I want to be cremated. I liked the eulogy he delivered for that nice old lady with the facial hair. Tell him that; but not the facial hair part. And play that song by the Cranberries. You know the one.
I really think you should keep the house. I am serious about that. Not to mention the burden of trying to find a new home, and put our place on the market and pack and clean and unpack and decorate a new house. You are not great at that stuff. I’m just being honest. That is not your best type of thing. You would already be grief-stricken, of course, and then all that stress piled on top; it would be too much. You would get irritable with the kids. And the kids will need you to be as patient as you can. This sort of tragedy is hardest on the kids.”

She stops talking. But I don’t say anything.

“Well, what do you think?” she asks.

I say “I will take that under advisement. But really, that will be a decision for me and the new wife.”

My wife laughs and says “You’re so funny,” because she thinks I’m kidding and she likes when I make jokes.

I knew she’d laugh. But I’m not kidding. Not at all. I’m dead serious. Not only that, but I don’t think it would be so unbearable if she died. It would be a lot of work. But you know – everyone likes a fresh start now and then. And I think I’m due.

huckleberry patel

by Ashok Rajamani

Characters:
Arun Patel
Greg Atkins
Mr. Wills
Patel Family
Atkins Family

Setting: high school in small-town Illinois
Time: present

Arun Patel and Greg Atkins are best friends at Bluefish High School, a commonplace small-town high school in a commonplace town in Illinois. They are eighteen, in the senior year.

Greg is a dumpy, plump, pale Irish American. Arun is a stunningly handsome, dark-skinned Indian American. Cue scenes of Greg standing up for Arun, who is taunted mercilessly by his classmates and given names like camel jockey, towel-head, and sand nigger.

Arun and Greg dream of becoming famous, world-renowned actors. Arun, however, has the talent. Greg does not. Both hope to go to NYC after graduation, and attend Juilliard. The school’s final theatrical show is announced their senior year: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer.

The two chums cannot wait to audition, and know they are made for these roles. The far-more talented Arun, however, believes he is right not for Tom but of the main character, Huckleberry. After the auditions, held by the school’s frumpy middle-aged drama teacher, Mr. Wills, they are told that they will likely get parts, and would find out the results a week later. Although Mr. Wills does not specify what the parts will be, his demeanor (winks, smiles etc) suggest that they have won the lead roles.

Arun’s parents, like most parents of Indian descent, want Arun to give up his foolish dreams of being an actor, and do something “important” like becoming a surgeon, engineer, or IT man.

When they discover that Arun has the chance to play a major lead along with his friend, they change their minds and throw a party with Greg’s family. Both sets of parents are delighted. The party, held at Arun’s small house, is a vibrant scene that evokes an embracing of Indian culture by contemporary White America. Here, at long last, Arun and Greg have gotten their parents’ permission to pursue their dreams.

Come Monday, Mr. Wills calls them into his classroom to personally tell them which roles they won. With delight, he tells Greg that he will playing Tom Sawyer! Arun is delighted, knowing that he has won the lead role! Observing Arun’s grinning face, Mr. Wills reassuringly tells
Arun that he has an even more special part.

Last scene: the play’s opening night performance

Greg is giving, as expected, a bad performance as Tom Sawyer. Arun, onstage, is rowing a boat. But he is not playing Huckleberry; a nameless young blond White boy is playing the lead role. Arun, instead, is playing Jim. The Runaway Slave. His dark brown skin has been made-up to look even darker in the bright lights. ###

Ashok Rajamani is a writer and artist living in NYC. His work has appeared in numerous publications, including South Asian Review, Catamaran Literary Journal, and 3am magazine. His memoir, BRAIN KARMA, will be published by Algonquin Books in 2011. For more info: www.ashokrajamani.com.

Marriage

I explain. You

hear shouting. You

regroup. I see

you’ve picked my scab.

You are reasonable. I

see shades clipped onto your bifocals. I

apologize profusely. You

sniff out expedience.

I am a nice Jewish dove. You

say I’m crazy, like Saul. You

throw me an olive branch. I

am cut by its thorns.

You gush blood. I

see no tears. You

will not take a dive. I

have loved you for eleven years.

IVOR IRWIN is a native of Manchester, England. He is the author of A Peacock or A Crow and has published writing in Sonora Review, The Sun, Playboy, Shankpainter, The Long Story, Actos de Inconsciencia, The Review of Contemporary Fiction and various other journals. He writes a weekly column on Premier League soccer for Global Football Today. He thinks that a kidnapper who quotes Malthus may auger well for future sociopaths!
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