JUNE ASSIGNMENT
Georgialee Granger

I’m on the screened in back porch, sitting at the blue checked oilcloth covered table, my drawing tablet and crayons before me. Mary has asked me to draw a poster for her Foot-washing Baptist Church. It’s July. Sweltering; ninety degrees with one hundred degrees humidity. I’m dreaming as I look out over the backyard. Above me Jerry, my yellow canary, mimics the mocking birds in the tall oak trees. Two sassy squirrels tailagraph each other. The long seesaw under the blossoming catalpa tree in the back yard seems lonely with none of us there to play. The rope swing under the broad spreading hackberry tree hangs listless. Dad’s pink roses, bordered by red and white Sweet William, droop their heads.

Buxom, tawny-skinned Mary calls to me from the kitchen. “Georgialee Honey. This is gonna be a watermelon feast. Put lots of seeds in the watermelon slice. Folks gotta pay a penny for each seed.”

“Sure, Mary. I’ll use my brightest greens and reds. I’ll be sure to put in lots of shiny white seeds too.” I pick up a fat green crayon, and go to work.

Dreaming on a Rock
Gene Koltvet

He is sitting on a large volcanic rock at the ocean’s edge. Warm water laps at the bottom of the rock. An occasional wave rolls in and creates a breathing sound as it rolls up on the sandy beach. His feet dangle and toes wiggle in the warm water; thoughts of a stressful job wash away, wave by wave.

A south pacific breeze blows in his face and the bright yellow sun darkens ever so slowly. The sun turns orange as it lowers itself into the earth’s dusty atmosphere. The orange reflection on the water turns darker and darker until it’s finally swallowed up by the ocean.

Twilight. A warm breeze. The soothing sounds of moving water and the sight of sand pipers scampering in an out of the waves, all mingle together to create a world only imagined – the south shore on the island of Kauai.

He sits quietly, his thoughts hop, skip and jump from one time in his life to another, briefly dwelling on his boyhood during the time of the Great Depression; over college years sprinkled with new relationships; to military duty in far away France and back to his current career filled with crisis’ to be faced daily.

Twilight creeps into darkness; warm darkness carries sounds of night birds singing to each other and little waves click as they slap against the rocks. Alas, he leaves the dream world of memories, returns to his room and seeks a quiet night of rest in this island paradise far away.

June 2, 2007

Diane Marcus
June 1, 2007

A Fine Line

When I saw him my skin turned to ice. The hairs on my arm froze. My mind kept rolling over and over inside a spiral coil and I couldn’t stop myself from catapulting deeper and deeper into its depths. Nothing around me felt real, everything was echoing outside of me. The ocean breeze that cooled the air on the pier in Santa Monica was no longer refreshing. The sounds of children’s uninhibited joy and the music from the merry-go-round were distant, as was my brother’s voice speaking to me from some faraway place though he was standing beside me.
I turned and followed the young man who in a rational moment I knew wasn’t Randy but I so needed him to be. He was alone, having an animated conversation with someone visible only to himself who was making him cry and then laugh all the while flailing his arms. His hair was thick and wavy and in the sun looked auburn. The cowlick on the back of his head was exactly the same and he walked toe to heal. His height, his weight, the shape of his face that had heavy dark eyebrows and black eyelashes were too much of a coincidence. I wanted only to take him home. I wanted to wash his clothing and put him to bed in his room, beneath a new blue down comforter that I would buy especially for him. Blue was his favorite color, like the Chargers football team he always rooted for.
“Is this what insanity feels like? Have I finally succumbed, given into the pain of grief that rules my life?” I kept following him, daring to get closer. Part of me was terrified. All different scenarios were wrapping around my brain like a ball of yarn being wound tighter and tighter until it rips apart.
“What if it’s really Randy and he doesn’t know me?” What if it really isn’t Randy? Will I ever accept his death? Why was the coffin closed? I have no proof that he died, do I?”
Suddenly he turned and shouted in a panicked voice. “Why are you following me? Get away, don’t come closer.”
I stopped, awaking from my trance, realizing for the first time what I had been doing.
“I’m sorry” I started to say. “I thought you were someone else”, but he ran away before I finished the sentence.
The breeze on the pier from the ocean, the salty taste of the sea on my tongue, the music from the merry-go-round and the uninhibited joy of children’s laughter surrounded me. I was back and I survived my trip over the fine line that leads us to the other side of sanity.

COMTEMPLATING THE OBITUARIES
By Judy Saxon

Why do I read obituaries? I’ve done it for years. Could it be because as someone who likes to write, I’m interested in people and their stories? Yes. But there’s more. I want to see what people have accomplished in their years here. If they’re my age, I go into comparison. If they’ve done marvelous things, accomplished all kinds of benevolent acts, started foundations and made a huge impact on those around them, well, I can end up closing the paper and thinking what have I done? What would they put in my obit? She lived, she died, send any donations to the Humane Society. While I’m sitting by the pool working on my tan (yes it’s true, here I am a woman in her sixties still working on her tan) others are feeding the poor, delivering meals to shut-ins, and knitting blankets for babies in the evening while they watch TV.

I’m curious about those obituaries that as soooo long. Is it that the deceased has accomplished so much, or that the loved one left behind, wants to tell us obituary addicts what a wonderful person just left our shores, and wants us to know ALL about their various activities while here.

And the people that only have a few lines like date of birth, death, and survivors, well what is that saying -- that the said person didn’t do a heck of a lot that was noteworthy while here, maybe spent much of his or her time working on a tan?

I don’t have the answers, so I think the best thing for me to do is grab my sunscreen and head for the pool.

WINTER IN FLAGSTAFF
By Pat Hecht

As I look out the picture window big lazy flakes drift slowly down from the sky. They predicted

twelve inches of snow by tonight. Just dawn: already the golf course fairway is covered. I

open the garage door and inspect the driveway. Six inches at least.

Pulling on heavy coat, boots, hat and gloves it’s time to grab the snow shovel and get busy. The

metal scrapes noisily on the cement while I carve a path to the street As I pause to catch my

breath a calm stillness permeates the air. No one is out at this early hour; a squirrel watches my

progress, his tufted white ears upright alert. The blue jay tilts his head hoping I will fill the bird

feeder. The snow on the rest of the driveway beckons but I just want to lean on the shovel and

soak in this soul sooth ing quiet.