Demonstration

I’m going to eliminate demonstration presentations from my Speech course. I was erasing the board after class tonight when a student approached me, asked if I’d approve a ritual for the assignment. “I’ll need to make an altar, bring a knife.”

I turned to face her, “Sorry… no, Moira, that’s not okay.”

She narrowed her eyes, whispered words I barely caught, “within wood…split a stone…find me there.”

I smiled weakly, “Was that a spell?”

She stormed out. I gathered my books and bag and walked quickly to the car. Under my blouse, my jasper cross tingled warm against my skin.

From Guest Contributor Yvonne Morris

Yvonne is the author of Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). Her most recent work has appeared in the Santa Clara Review, The Write Launch, and Friday Flash Fiction.

Leading The Formation

I was the second-best dancer then. Mariza, with her long black hair waving down the front of a white cotton shirt, tucked into just-right faded jeans, controlled all of nature’s choreography within her. Her feet skimmed the floor, easy on the beat. Her arms and legs flexed to the rhythm, finding a kind of body paradise. But following her movements, memorizing and imitating, I became frustrated and discouraged. Until I realized I wasn’t destined to be a mirror. I would guide the expression of music I felt, becoming the lead dancer on that thin ledge, possessing my true 13-year-old self.From Guest Contributor Yvonne Morris

Yvonne is the author of the poetry chapbook Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). She has poetry and fiction forthcoming in Cathexis Northwest Press and Drunk Monkeys.