a familiar narrative: a fragment

betty blaine was very bright she wore her dresses short and her sweaters tight she sat in the drugstore with her bases covered sipping a soda, waiting to be discovered her mama wanted her to be a nun but that didn't sound like very much fun her daddy wanted her to settle down she had her pick of the men of the town but one day, without any fuss betty went down and got on the bus she had her plans set out real good and left behind the neighborhood which would have sheltered her all her days from the big world's pernicious ways if she would walk her destined path but betty had figured out the math husband and kids did not equal fame she wanted to play a faster game the odds against her were prohibitive but betty wanted to really live... she took her place among the masses with cashmere sweaters and dark glasses who dreamed so big and tried so hard to soar above hollywood boulevard guys named al, and bob, and jim guys called fats, and guys called slim gentlemen with waxed mustaches and rivals with long legs and lashes all flowed like water through the sieve of this familiar narrative the faces passing by the mile mirrored her own - without a smile... one night the rain began to fall she'd waited all day for one phone call she went to the drugstore to buy a pack of chesterfields and never came back...

lines - to a nephew

by alice marston sternwall little lad, poor flesh and blood why are you playing in the mud? we know not what the morrow brings please consider higher things life is long, if not cut short fate is cruel, at last report fortune's wheel oft spins unjust why spend existence in the dust? look upward, then, into the heights and let your soul attempt pure flights soar above the gray faced clods with their false prophets and dead gods though lighting blast you from the sky give it "the old college try"

sunrise

it was all over. the jig was up. there was no tomorrow. he was up the creek without a paddle, and there was no rest for the weary. he was caught like a deer in the headlights, between the devil and the deep blue sea. soon it would be morning. dawn would break over the city like the sneering smile of a railroad boss, ready to crack the whip over the millions of chumps and losers and punks and hacks who sweated and strained to keep the machine of so-called civilization running. running and running and running until it wore them all down and threw them away like pairs of old shoes. like yesterday's papers. morning. he would have to man up, get his act together, and do what had to be done. he lit his last cigarette with his last match. the bottle of cheap whiskey - the devil's brew, which had undone many a good man and true - was empty, drained to the last drop. all his so-called friends had deserted him, like rats leaving a sinking ship. only trixie was left, passed out on the couch. she was a cheap floozie with a heart that had turned from purest gold to deadest lead a thousand dimes a dance ago, across a thousand red dawns coming up over a thousand cheap rooming houses, and a thousand torn up love letters blowing down the boardwalk into the sand. she'd stick around as long as there was a nickel or a smoke to bum or a drop of booze to mooch. then she'd be gone like a cool breeze. suddenly there was a knock on the door, breaking the silence with a noise like a machine gun. before he could make a move the door opened. there was maxie, the big guy's most trusted gorilla, with a cheap stogie pasted in his ugly mug. and a roscoe in his right hand. and right behind him his sidekick phil - phil the parrot, with his permanent giggly sneer, the slimiest rat that ever crawled out of the lowest sewer. phil had both hands in his pockets, but you could bet dollars to doughnuts he had a .22 in one and a shiv in the other. "hello, johnny," maxie drawled. "hello, maxie. i wish i could say it was a pleasure." "then the pleasure will have to be all mine, johnny. no problem." "come on, maxie, let's get it over with." maxie raised his bushy eyebrows. they looked like two evil gray caterpillars getting ready to fight. "get what over with, kid? we just came to have a friendly little chat." behind him phil giggled like a hyena. "don't try to play me for a sucker, maxie. i know the score. i know the big guy don't forgive and forget. and he's got a memory like an elephant. it's over. it's the bottom of the ninth, and i got two strikes on me with nobody on base. there is no more light in the tunnel. there's no more water in the well." maxie laughed. "don't be so dramatic, kid. you sound like sarah bernhardt playing hamlet at the white house. there's no need to be nervous. we're all friends here." phil giggled again. johnny nodded. "yeah. when i had money i had lots of friends. but now nobody knows me when i'm down and out." maxie looked around the flea-bitten room, noticed trixie on the couch. "who's she?" "just a dame." "yeah, i kind of figured that." maxie stared at trixie for a few seconds and then looked at johnny . "well, back to serious business. it seems the big guy, in his inscrutable way, and for reasons known only to himself, has decided to give you one last chance." "one last chance," johnny repeated. behind maxie, phil giggled again. he sounded like a broken record. "the big guy has a job for you. just one. it's easy." "he wants me to kill somebody." "no, he wants you to go out to his farm on long island and milk a goat. what do you think he wants?" maxie turned and nodded to phil. phil took his left hand out of his pocket and tossed something to johnny. johnny grabbed it. it was a zip gun. it looked it was held together with chewing gum. "you like it?" phil tittered. "i made it myself. i'm real proud of it. like an old mama lion watching her boy go off to war." johnny turned it over gingerly in his hand. "it doesn't look like --. " he didn't know what to say. "no," maxie finished for him. "it doesn't look like something remington hand crafted for j p morgan or the prince of wales. but it will work like a charm if you walk right up to somebody and stick it in their guts." "it's got one shot in it," phil added. "one. so don't be getting any ideas, punk." "phil's right," said maxie. "it's got just one bullet in it. so make sure you aim straight and true." johnny shrugged. he put the zip gun on the table beside the empty whiskey bottle. "all right. who's the one lucky customer?" "a guy named skorzys, he has a little tailor shop over on 21st street." "what kind of name is that?" "foreign. he's a foreigner. he just fell off a slow banana boat from china." "let me guess. he doesn't speak the language?" "no," said maxie. "he don't speak the simplest language of all - the language of knowing who his friends are." "or knowing how to play ball," added phil. "you don't want me to try to talk to him?" johnny asked. "he's already been talked to," said maxie. "the time for talk has passed. we just want you to write the book on him." "the final chapter," added phil. "it's your party," johnny agreed. he got his coat and hat. he didn't want to stick the zip gun in his belt or his pocket so he wrapped it in his coat and put the coat under his arm. johnny put his hat on and followed maxie and phil out the door. trixie was still asleep on the couch. johnny didn't lock the door behind him. he had lost the key. * skorzys the tailor was small and bald. his mustache looked thick enough to sweep grand central station with. he stood behind a counter and didn't say anything to johnny when he entered, just watched as johnny put the rolled up coat on the counter. "what i do for you?" he asked as johnny unrolled the coat. johnny showed him the zip gun. "you can do something for yourself, pal. say a prayer. prepare to meet your maker. " the little man's eyes blazed. "ah... you come for me, eh? just like the old country!" "the countries are all the same, pal. you got to pay the price. no tickee, no shirtee." "i thought this country different. i work hard, i save my money to come here, to the new world where a man can be free..." suddenly a door behind the counter opened. someone started to come through, with something in their hand... johnny fired the one shot. it sailed above the open door and into the ceiling. a girl stood in front of him, with a coat on a hanger. she was about seventeen years old. she was the most beautiful girl johnny had ever seen, with long black hair, dark eyes and rosy cheeks. i could marry a girl like this, thought johnny, go away and live on an island with her forever, have nine or ten kids... "you punk!" she screamed at him. "go ahead and kill us! burn in hell, you no good cowardly punk!" johnny dropped the empty zip gun and turned and ran out the door. the sun was coming up over broadway. phil was waiting for him. he had a gun in his hand, not a .22 but a .45. "you had one chance, punk," he told johnny. "you blew it." he put two slugs into johnny's guts, slugs that would have stopped a charging rhino. "yeah," said johnny, "i had one life. and i blew that." * "recognize him?" officer o'malley asked father joe. "i sure do," father joe answered. " johnny 'the blade' o'flaherty. a real tough guy." officer o'malley stuck his boot under johnny's body and flipped it over on its back. "he was a tough guy, all right. a real tough guy." johnny's hat rolled away and the wind picked it up and blew it down 21st street. ***

2 more poems

sleep morning gilds the fallen dew words of lovers false and true linger in the fading distance as the sunbeams meet resistance from a sudden fall of rain the world goes back to sleep again who would ever wish to rise to face such gray and weary skies but return to fitful slumber as the raindrops quite outnumber any good intentions or meaningful pretensions rather sink beneath the stream of an endless violet dream * drink brothers, let us no more think or dream, but have another drink with foolish things let us be done and only seek oblivion from wives and children let us hide and let the bosses scan the tide to find the wreckage of the ship on which we made our final trip the good ship jolly smiling drunk on which we sailed but now have sunk so peaceful now our happy band beneath green water, on silver sand and let the fish upon us feed silent in the waving weeds *

2 poems

by alice marston sternwall a flower the little flower bends before the wind that never ends and feels the heavy drops of the rain that never stops as the road is washed away it can hear the ocean say we have come for you at last all your sunshine now is past beneath the darkened sky the flower has no reply and can only wait for dawn although all the birds are gone with their lingering melody vanquished by the surging sea * a princess the princess woke in darkest night and felt that something was not right and heard the dragon's sad lament in the dark outside her golden tent all her guards had run away because that was their useless way leaving her alone to bear the burden of the dragon's tears oh, thought the princess as he roared have we not passed this way before days are endless, nights are long but he will never cease his song beneath the sky, across the sea no prince, no army, to rescue me *

sonnet: to oblivion

comrades let us rest a while before we walk our final mile fortune has withdrawn her smiles so now we must go out in style oblivion to us now doth call in tones both sweet and stern the water rushes o'er time's falls beneath a bridge already burned the way was long, and had its moments more of minus than of plus now its ended, and our opponents can sit and laugh at us the race is run - what else could we have done?

sonnet: to a bird

little bird, what makes you sing the same song every morn? your chirping is a weary thing that makes me wish i were never born oh! life is not very long and is devoid of much surprise but your repetitive song beneath the dreary morning skies only aggravates the bleakness of the empty yawning day and in my helpless weakness i just wish you would fly away the road is long, the sky is wide but neither of us has a place to hide

expanding universe sonnet #2

by helena garfield sternwall i strove to be a sensitive soul and love the world without restraint universal acceptance was my goal at any nastiness i would faint at first my fellow humans smiled and only slightly raised their brows but soon grew weary of my style and quit my company with polite bows "tiresome", "bluestocking" , "thundering bore" were the inevitable epithets i walked along a lonely shore no longer one of society's pets into darkness the idealist slinks as the world orders another round of drinks

expanding universe sonnet #1

everybody should write a sonnet as soon as they arise each day at dawn grab a pencil and get right on it before they even put their undies on because buddy it seems to me although nobody asked me for my view the world can not get enough poetry because it is always beautiful and true true, these are the end times the encroaching darkness can not be rolled back and polishing your syllables and rhymes will never get the cosmos back on track roses are red, violets are blue you got to do what you got to do

the book

by samantha monday sternwall

everybody has a book being written inside their head and no one will ever read it not even when they are dead in the book is the story of everyone who will ever live and die and if you could only read one page you would sit right down and cry everybody has a story that only they can tell and it all gets written down in a book a book that will never sell everybody is a dragon a dragon they slay themselves everybody is a wizard with a book of spells on their shelf everybody is a princess leading the hero to his doom everybody is an evil queen plotting in a dark-draped room everybody is friar tuck hoisting a tankard of ale everybody is guinevere so beautiful and pale everybody is blackbeard's cat watching the wind fill the sails everybody is a bulldog wagging its stumpy tail everybody is tarzan swinging in the trees everybody is sherlock holmes watchng his bees in the breeze everybody is robin hood hiding in the woods everybody is long john silver bringing home the goods everybody is cleopatra floating down the nile everybody is oscar wilde stepping out in style everybody is jesse james shot in the back so sad everybody is salome born to be bad everybody is samson trying so hard to do right everybody is delilah whispering good night everyone is dracula taking what he can get everybody is lucy who can never forget everyone is medusa's child slowly turning to stone everybody is a monster walking the world alone

down the last road

the mysteries of this world add up sum to sum to sum and yet there are depths, and depths and depths no human should ever plumb every grain of sand is a riddle laughed at by the beach every star is a laughing sage with nothing to teach every street has no beginning every road has no end every sunset has a message that it will never send there is a light in every window that goes out as you draw near there is promise in every smile that dissolves in desperate fear the beautiful people beckoned but only in your dreams now the streets are all deserted as rain in the gutter streams no cat or dog or police car as far as you can see or even a fellow drunkard for pathetic cameraderie the party goers have all gone home vanished without a trace there is a picture pasted on the lamp post "wanted" - of your own face

thunder

i sat down and wrote a poem it was not very good i tried hard to explain myself but no one understood i went out in the garden to watch the flowers grow but the rain began to fall and the wind began to blow i went back inside my house and lay down on my bed and passionate thoughts of love and war thundered through my head

dames hold the aces

adapted from the story "l'eternite" by joris-karl huysmans i opened the door and walked into the room. audrette was standing at the window, looking out at the rain. she turned to face me. she had a .357 magnum in her perfect pink fist. "this is how you do it," she said. she put three slugs in my chest. i never had a chance to say a word. a shadow fell across my face. audrette looked past me. "dave," she said. it was my partner, dave flaherty. i knew i was in good hands. dave would avenge me, and take care of this two-timing frail. he would either blow her away right here if she made a false move. or take her down to the station - first stop on the way to the chair, where they would fry her pretty little carcass up like a piece of bacon on the grill at mom's diner at four in the morning with the fog coming in off the docks… "you did good, baby," dave said. "real good." audrette shrugged. "it wasn't that tough." dave laughed. "here, let me have that." she handed him the .357. he put it in the pocket of his trench coat and they fell into each other's arms. they embraced for what seemed an eternity. there wasn't much i could do about it. and i might as well get used to eternity. finally they broke apart. "plenty of time later, baby, " said dave. "all the time in the world," audrette murmured. "right now we got things to do." "do i have to go down to the station?" "nah. i'll go over to the bowery or the docks and find some poor slob to pin this on. some ham-and-egger just off the boat from palermo or vladivostok. " "all right." audrette looked down at me. "just think, we'll never have to listen to his pathetic typhoons of hot air again." dave chuckled. "you mean how he won the war and all?" "the war? i thought he won all the wars." dave laughed again. "i got to get going." he kissed her again, pulled his hat down straight on his head, and left. audrette moved away from my body, back into the shadows. she lit a cigarette. rain beat on the window.

final damned desperation at dawn blues, amigo

when i was young i dreamed of fame of branding destiny with my name and finding the truest of true love by giving fate the faintest shove was i not destined for great things would not the sky that daily brings the rain to earth bring love to me and happiness for all to see? alas! my open heart was scorned i wished that i was never born sneering hipsters and frowning prudes conspired to make my journey rude and every baby step i took was greeted with a mocking look and every hopeful word i uttered was tossed into the nearest gutter and the epics that i spawned in my lonely room from dusk to dawn into which my soul i poured were totally ignored and so the glittering smile of bottled drink with its confidential golden wink trampled my weak defenses and robbed me of such senses as were meet to keep my soul resolutely towards its goal and i fell into the pit which today i have not quit what is now my destiny? who is fate to question me? into oblivion must i sink without a friend, without a drink? darkness, lend a hand to the well and truly damned who can sit alone upon a beach with even desperation out of reach

night is calling

when there is no turning back and the last wallop has been packed and the last freight train runs down the track will the universe cut us some slack? or are we eternally doomed to look out the window of the same room and hear the same gypsy play the same tune and the same dog howl at the same moon the world would be a great place if you never had to show your face but could put yourself in a state of grace and disappear without a trace night is calling the rain is falling i could go outside and dance but would rather fall into a trance and be sported far way to a world without night or day with no need for absinthe, opium or magic spells and wake up changed into - anybody or anything else

dark night of vengeance, part 1

part one of ?

a man walked into a bar smoking a big cigar he had some pennies in a jar and was not a movie star the other patrons hardly reacted by his presence they were not impacted and turned away with nary a sigh as to the bar he drew nigh the man bellied up to the rail his face was strangely pale he continued puffing on his noxious weed and had an altogether ghastly mien indeed (this all happened in the distant past when humans were not built to last and practices decidedly unhealthy were indulged by both the destitute and wealthy) the bartender's name was mike his fellow humans he did not much like (the regular barman named mort was a much more tolerant sort) but mort was on vacation perhaps at some exotic location and mike's glowering visage in the newcomer's gaze loomed large mike announced without a trace of cheer "we don't take pennies in here or personal checks or credit cards" his manner grew increasingly hard oh no, the new chap laughed as he began to unwind his scarf (perhaps you have not yet been told outside it was bitter cold) these pennies are only my hobby i work for a large manufacturers lobby my name by the way is phil and i bear no one any ill will because, lordy, it's cold outside and i have nothing to hide i think a nice hot toddy would bring much needed warmth to my ravaged body the making of so complicated a drink as a hot toddy made mike blink but putting on his game face he began making it with an ill grace phil continued to puff on his stogie like a most contented old fogy but as mike was heating the ginger ale suddenly phil turned very pale because out of the corner of his eye which he rarely used, as he was not one to be sly he saw a figure which triggered his memory and he thought, can it really be he? for phil had not always been an old fud once he had been a dashing young blood with fire in his veins and a body devoid of aches and pains and had competed on a nightly basis for the attention of feminine graces with other young males of his breed before he had gone to seed he had rivals naturally enough who tested his mettle and stuff but it had all gone by so fast and was lost in the dim past could it really be bill smith whom he had a desperate contest with for the love of emily brown the prettiest girl in town at least that was how it seemed before reality intervened - as it was intervening now beneath the bartender's menacing brow which was turbid with tensile traction as he repeated - "satisfaction - does it meet with your approval or do you demand its removal -? " "oh no!" cried phil in haste for he had no time to waste for he wished to consume the beverage and then with sudden leverage to quit this fearsome place where the now remembered face had triggered waves of primal fear which had slumbered many a lonesome year…. part 2