Hawaiian Music

Before the visit to Florida, Jesse told him Elan was Hawaiian instead of black. You would think it shouldn’t matter but that would mean you didn’t know his father. During Katrina, people trying to survive, he couldn’t shut up on the phone of “the animals down there.” His take on Obama was that he was an “affirmative-action baby.”

They hadn’t been in the house fifteen minutes. His father had always loved music, especially classical, so he dropped that in, that Elan played the violin, string quartet.

His father handed Elan his old portable radio.

“Play something for me,” he said.

From Guest Contributor Jon Fain

Musician

Annika Dagmar, skilled with a violin, had dreamed of playing on stage with other musicians entrancing the audience. That would’ve been possible had there been no war.

Priceless paintings and other expensive belongings were sold to have food on the table, except Annika’s violin and case. Her father didn’t have the heart to sell them.

The war had ruined Annika’s family and many other Jewish Germans throughout the country.

“It’s not safe to live here. We must leave everything and go tomorrow before things get much worse,” said Mr. Dagmar.

The violin would never be touched by Annika’s fingers again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

This Boy's Life

Sammy's live-in, Tanya, abhors Sammy's pet tarantula, Quentin. Tanya's friend, Gwen—Sammy's illicit lover—sees murder in Tanya's eyes. Quentin disappears. Sammy suspects Tanya. Time smolders. Back into the picture Quentin dramatically creeps. Tanya proves Gwen prescient, then moves out. Gwen moves in, eventually giving birth to a boy they call Quentin. Time bursts into flames. Hating his parents for naming him after a spider, Quentin kills spiders to spite them, worrying school counselors. Twenty-first century America. Mad boy. 3-D printers. Time, get wise. They call the boy Thomas. He learns violin, no spiders wantonly harmed in this boy's life.From Guest Contributor Darrell Petska

Darrell is a Madison, Wisconsin writer. View some of his fiction and poetry at conservancies.wordpress.com.

Swan

Why such sorrow for the swan on the water? Why is it her head is hung with such woe? The moonlight lines her with silver as she glides ripples atop the placid pond. And there are banks of passionflowers that glint their crimsons through the night. Had I been that swan, never would you see my nape so weak and crestfallen, so inwardly curved like tendrils at winter’s start. Because there are other swans on the pond with dispositions just the same. And if I swam my sadness to theirs, perhaps our troubles would combine like violin strings and bows.

From Guest Contributor Man O'Neal