I have lived on an island my entire life. I grew up on the water and on boats in the bay, but thanks to Steven Spielberg’s brilliant classic, Jaws, swimming in the ocean has never truly appealed to me. Most of my oceanic experience has been gained as an observer. One morning, off the coast of a boreal and seasonal port, I experienced firsthand how little of a sea-farer I actually was.

We were vacationing in Maine and I decided to buy tickets for the whale watching tour. So, after purchasing the Family of Four Whale Watching Tour Package, we enjoyed a decadent meal of deep-fried fish, scallops, too much white wine and ice cream. Driving back to our rental was a white-knuckled trip in slick rain and dark, only to turn on our heels and catch the boat out to the whales at daybreak. And momma was in no way at her best. Never pair undercooked scallops, deep fried anything and too much white wine with the impulsive purchase of an early morning Family of Four Whale Watching Tour Package. I wouldn’t have done well on a walk from the kitchen to the couch to the bathroom and back again holding a bucket, so a boat that was really just a dinghy of a ship at the mercy of wind and weather was pure, unadulterated hell. I was as sick as I ever want to be. Typing these words sets my face in a contorted grimace while I recall the ebb and flow of those great, sublimely churning, translucent sea-foam waves and how those waves perfectly mimicked my bowels.

The gentleman at the whale watching kiosk who had signed us up mentioned something about seeing Gray whales and Minkes, but once we were all aboard I couldn’t do much more than grip the rail and stand halfway straight. I prayed for God and Neptune to quell the horrible, horrible swaying, the wretched back and forth, back and forth- they did not. My husband had one kid and I was responsible for the other, but the one I was with kept wedging herself between hordes of fellow sightseers. Brandishing cutting-edge binoculars and cameras, they craned their necks over the side in search for the sea mammals I wanted to see, too, if I could have pried my eyes open a smidge more. Some of these tourists had children and I flatly observed they were all smiling and pointing toward the horizon, not acting like they had hangovers.

When you imagine whales in their natural habitat, do you see magnificent giants gracefully breaching, barely breaking the surface, only to nose-dive back into the water, but not before their massive haunches, twisting like barnacle-encrusted behemoths, remain suspended in space for one hot millisecond behind your family so that you can snap that perfect picture? Is it just me? Well I promise you, It would have been more rousing to see two sofas out there then what the animal kingdom was showboating starboard. Our whales were a little off. They looked like two tree stumps that floated away every time the captain tried to steer close. Gritting my teeth through relentless nausea, I mused it would have been more of what I was expecting if the whales swam up to the boat and interacted with us. By the end of the trip I wasn’t at all convinced they could even swim.

After five or six hours we headed back to shore, but did not return safely before some family drama involving a big wave, my daughter defying gravity, her chocolate milk and several trips to the bathroom. What was most memorable? How frightening my children were on a ship that simply could not stop going up and down. Ocean waves can be ridiculously gigantic. I may be exaggerating in hindsight but Christ on the Cross I had no idea waves could be that big. No one seemed to care except for me, my lower intestine and my husband who I would see in passing, double fisted with a coffee, corn muffin, maybe a turkey sandwich, a power bar, a bottled water, some wafers, orange juice and gum, acting like we were going on a ten mile hike and sleepover instead of holding on to the side of the wall in the ship innards (or cabin) for dear life, screaming for the firstborn to get back here because that is not a toy, damnit! We caught one another’s gaze, my husband and I, and it was as though he was seeing me for the first time. He was afraid.

Speaking of magical moments, there are no magical moments of our whale watching tour saved to video or digital or anything at all because if memory serves, the disposable, (waterproof) camera managed to find it’s way off the bow and into the crystal depths of those chilly Maine waters.

Bitter Skin was published in Volume 13, Issue 4 of Meat For Tea; The Valley Review, 2020.

“Golly, is that your cologne? It makes quite a statement.” The lawyer inhaled deeply. “I can’t place it, Sal, maybe like pine fragrance or an astringent. Either or, my eyes are watering.” He sifted through a file cabinet and hauled out two thick manila folders. “Some of these complaints go back nearly fifteen years. How long have you been with the company?”

“Fifteen years.” Sal could only tolerate being in the presence of anyone for a short time. This was no exception.

The lawyer glanced up at the nondescript man fuming on the other side of his massive desk. “Well, let’s get down to it, shall we?” and then flashed a perfectly enameled smile to no one in particular. “We certainly have a lot to work with! You’ve been a busy boy.” He leafed through the papers. “Unless I’m missing something, you’re lucky to have never been incarcerated. This list of accusations is bottomless. And this,” He removed a page sandwiched between the stack that was covered in post-it notes. “You were observed in the employee bathroom doing something to a woman’s shoe? What were you doing? Don’t answer that, by the way. It says here you mauled a dog on this note. How is that even possible? There are complaints here ranging from the confusing to the annoying to the blatantly psychotic. Yikes.”

Sal bared his teeth in a grimace. “May I ask YOU a question?” His voice inched toward hysterical. “What’s the big deal? Since when is smelling a shoe in the bathroom a crime?” The lawyer squinted at the fine print. “I don’t think there’s anything inherently illegal about smelling a shoe on your own time, however, you snatched it off of someone while she was still wearing it.”

“Big deal. Tell me the bad news.”

“The bad news is that your behavior, on average, is so sickeningly repugnant they just want you out. Severance pay included. They are practically paying you to leave. Consider yourself lucky and go find yourself another job, and good luck with that. You have the moral standing of a wet noodle.”

Sal’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. “Who the hell are you to judge?”

**********************************

Sal stalked out of the lawyer’s office mumbling and cursing. He trudged over concrete pylons, shimmed between cars and finally emerged on the north side of the road where his own car was parked. It was dark and the pavement was slick, and just as Sal fell into the driver’s seat, his cell phone vibrated under the lapel of his corduroy jacket.

“Hello?”

“I understand they’re trying to push you out of the company.”

“Who is this? Is this so and so’s friend from Kentucky?”

The woman cleared her throat. “I’m hunting down disgruntled employees in order to get a lawsuit going.”

Sal paused. “What do you need from me?”

“Not much, really. Just an interview with my team. Are you at all interested?”

“Sure. Why not?”

************************************

“Thank you for meeting with me.” They were sitting at a snug booth in a service road diner. Sal couldn’t remember the last time a woman willingly sat with him for any reason at all. He couldn’t guess her age, but noticed that she smelled good.

“Where’s your ‘team’?”

The woman acted as though she didn’t hear the question. She leaned in and said, “Tell me something. If you had a chance, wouldn’t you like to do something different with your life?” she put her hand on his arm. “If you could have anything in this world, what would it be?”

Sal rubbed his chin. “Who knows? Money, I guess.” Suddenly, he had an epiphany. Sal yelled out, “I want people to notice me!” Then he blushed and got a warped look on his face. “I want people to revere me. Worship me!”

“For doing what?”

“Nothing!”

“Ah. I see.” The woman tapped a lacquered nail on the tabletop. “I think maybe I can help you. How do you feel about the great outdoors? Are you at all partial to gardening?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? Are you making a list?” He scanned the back of the diner and tried to make eye contact with the waitstaff, but no one obliged. “I thought you wanted to know about the ingrates at work and my back stabbing co-workers.” In that split second, Sal began to think thoughts he hadn’t entertained in a long time. He wondered what her shoe size was. The woman turned to him with an expression consumed with disgust and he looked offended. “What? Now you’re a mind reader?” Sal chuckled to himself.

**************************************************

The first thing he noticed was feeling warm everywhere. He felt illuminated. Glowing. Somehow it all made perfect sense. Time was irrelevant. He understood that he was connected to a vast network of roots entwined like synapses and that everything was infinite; much larger than he could have imagined. He was no longer alone and cold, but safe and content.

“Get the crate and grab the basket off the truck. These are ready.” The man shielded his eyes from the sun. “Look at that! It’s like a gift from God when the sun shines through, just like jewels on a crown.” He walked over to the vine. “Come here and taste this.” There was more shuffling on gravel. Another man walked over.

In his former life, Sal would have recognized the pattern of vibrations as footsteps approaching, but he was no longer himself. He was, well, happy, until he felt a quick tug. The man exclaimed, “This is divine!” and popped Sal, the formally nondescript man into his mouth. After a moment of grinding the bounty between his dentures, the man reconsidered. He spit out Sal’s remains. “This one’s not so good. I’ll have to try another.”

In the Spring of 2o18, an edited version of Travis is a Real Peach was published in Gone Lawn issue #28.

Travis Ramekin was put out after his laundered shirts had been sent back creased at the seams. He drove downtown and really let them have it. When he arrived home the pasta was boiling over and James was nowhere in sight.

Travis placed his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter. “James?” A faint light emanated out from under the pantry door. He peeked in and there was James, curled up tight and rocking under the pale glow of an Edison bulb. James picked his head up and looked at Travis. “My parents are coming to visit.”

A few days later, a taxicab dropped Mr. and Mrs. Del Buenos off in front of Travis’ and James’ charming brownstone. Mr. Del Buenos tipped the cabby a fiver and helped his wife safely avoid the potholes to the curb. When James met his parents at the door his mother lavished him with kisses and held his face. His father patted him on the back and tousled his hair. “You’re too thin and you have circles under your eyes.” Mrs. Del Buenos didn’t stop talking from the moment she greeted her son outside until they had reached the fourth floor and stood in front of the door to the apartment. Before he opened the door, James turned to his parents. “There is something I should probably tell you about Travis.”

The door opened. Travis took a formal, low bow, graciously grabbed the coats off the gaping couple and whisked them through a labyrinth of topiaries, climbing vines, white birch, tulips and birdsong. The furniture was draped with Virginia Creeper and moss grew up the William Morris wallpaper on the North side of the sitting room. Mirrors (there were several) reflected a vast, canopied forest. Two Turtle Doves carrying a flowing banner in their delicate beaks swooped low enough for the Del Buenos’ to read the inscription, Welcome D & M!  The banner was abbreviated because the doves could not have handled the weight of a full, embroidered sentence.

Overhead, a honking flock of Canada Geese appeared. Mr. Del Buenos ducked and Travis said, “I apologize for the geese. My supplier was out of swans. Not the same, is it?” In a clearing in the woods stood a thick mahogany table dressed with four impeccable settings. “James and I thought we should all get to know each other over lunch. Hungry?” He walked to the table, pulled one of the chairs out and invited Mrs. Del Buenos over by patting the cushion. Travis then began ladling an extremely fragrant soup out of an immense terrain. The consommé was gorgeous to look at; a bubbly paste with a slick of translucent purples and blues, poured over seared scallops and succulent, glossy mussels. Dollops of sour cream bobbed in the center of each bowl, frothing over like clouds. Travis had paired the meal with crusty artisan bread and a sweet young wine from Portugal.

“How did you two ever meet?” Mrs. Del Buenos was beginning to feel the yummy effects of the wine. She batted her eyes and splayed her arms across the table. James and Travis told the story of how they first met and Mrs. Del Buenos shared a story of how James acted as a baby. The pink sky melted to lavender. When Travis jumped up to replace the spent beeswax candles in the candelabras, Mrs. Del Buenos turned to her son and said, “I really love his nose ring, James. It reminds me of my bracelets.” She shook her wrist and the bangles pinged like chimes. His father leaned in. “I’ve noticed his teeth are pretty big.” His mother exclaimed, “James! He is so talented! There are trees in here! I can’t get over how beautiful everything looks. How does he do that?”

“Travis can do anything.”

Mrs. Del Buenos dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “Travis, I adore him. You have my blessing.” 

“Danae, he’s half of a cow.”

“Shut up, Maurice! Every time we leave the house you ruin everything!”

“Excuse me?” Travis’ backlit silhouette cast a massive shadow across the table. “Did you just refer to me as a..” He paused for dramatic effect, “..cow?”  Carefully and with the agility of a prima ballerina, Travis navigated his great frame around the carnage of feathers and goose poop. He opened the drawer of a breakfront, withdrew several linen napkins and in the blink of an eye sculpted eight origami linen swans surrounding an origami linen monkey sitting in an origami linen basket that was being held up by the trunks of four origami linen elephants. Several origami linen clouds billowed past an origami linen hot air balloon and an origami linen sun rose and set behind the table, followed by an origami linen moon with, lo and behold, and origami linen cow jumping over it.

“HA!” Travis glared defiantly at Mr. Del Buenos. “Could a cow do that?” Mrs. Del Buenos started clapping. Mr. Del Buenos blanched. 

“Boy! That..that was quite a feat Mr. Travis!” Mr. Del Buenos tapped the trunk of an elephant with his finger and his wife slapped his hand away. “Where would you ever see something like that happen, I mean, typically?”

Travis sighed. “Minotaurs are exemplary kinetic sculptors. I guess you didn’t know that, most humans don’t.” Mr. Del Buenos’ eyes grew as round as saucers. “I did not know that!”

“We have a bad rap. All we’re known for in this world and several others is  causing chaos. We’re very good at it, of course.” As he spoke, Travis whittled a sprig of parsley out from behind an incisor with his claw. “It’s our defining feature.” Mr. Del Buenos maniacally nodded his head in agreement. “Of course it is!” and for the rest of the evening, love croaks from amorous frogs, besotted by a cobalt sky pin-pricked with stars, serenaded the jovial foursome over dessert wines, port and french pastries.

************************************************************************

The following Spring and right before Equinox, Travis and James were married on a Celebrity cruise ship under a full, pink moon in a civil ceremony officiated by the Captain. There was a small reception on the promenade deck afterward and only James’ parents, some close friends and a few thousand passengers were in attendance.

Although domestic life was sometimes a chore and James would usually over-react when life served up a minor set back, it was something of a lucky turn that he had chosen to share his life with someone who was practically addicted to hysteria. It worked out perfectly for everyone involved.

It was a match made in heaven.

A Cherokee Nation creation story, Grandmother Spider Catches the Sun, was an inspiration for this series, but another influence came about after a trip to Louisiana. Spider webs as big as quilts were draped over the Bayou and in the middle of each was an orb weaver the size of my hand. They looped through those webs with graceful, tapered legs, one more gorgeous than the next. I’ve been hooked ever since.

I’ll write this as my personal truth; there is fear and then there is becoming a parent.

We were hosting a holiday party when my daughter choked. Someone had served her a slice of American cheese and paired it with a fruit roll up. After I’d fished the goop out with the hook of my finger and performed the Heimlich she finally breathed deep, but it is beyond me how anyone thought it was a good idea to feed that combination to a toddler (and walk away). Each edible sheet was so securely adhered to her plate a metal spatula with a serrated edge was required to scrape off the remains. Within a few weeks my hair line revealed a solid strip of gray and it occurred to me then that we are usually defined by what we fear most.

The editors of Taxicab Magazine have accepted some of my illustrations for their upcoming issue. Highly Receptive was painted in 2016 and graced our kitchen wall until it was purchased by a nice couple at the Rattgirl and Ripe Art Vendor’s Circus. So long, Highly Receptive. You make me proud. Free-Wheelin’ Mojo is a visual response to the North American creation stories I’ve been reading and a nod to my husband’s perceived animal spirit guide.

There’s a garden on our property and we just let the wildness in. That wildness has inspired me over the years and some of the works shown here were made with the thought in mind of designing a seed packet. I still like the idea, so every spring I’m motivated to do more work like this.

These illustrations are grouped together because each one shares with the next a common, ‘free-floating’ theme. Anything that’s off the ground lands in this category. The works are all made the same way; dx Martin watercolor on cold-press paper, and nearly every one was made to accompany a short story or an essay.

published in Knee-Jerk Magazine, January 2016

     I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror of a relatively new yoga studio, The Funky Om. The name is inviting and implies all kinds of edgy coolness, more so than the other yoga studio down the road and to the left of this one, The Essence. The Essence is crunchier than Funky Om, but it’s friendlier than Awakening Inner Spirit Yoga, because Awakening Inner Spirit Yoga discourages speaking of any kind. That’s asking a lot of me.

     I plant myself on my brand-new turquoise blue mat, purchased solely for this new yoga studio experience from an extremely organic local food store. The lighting is dim and encouraging. A thin, cursive line of Nag Champa wafts through the haze, a strong, woody/sweet aroma of incense that is supposed to help guide everyone into a collective, connected state of Oneness any minute now. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a gong.

     It’s SO me, yoga. I went to school in Vermont. I wore Birkenstocks at a very liberal, environmentally progressive college, earning a bachelor’s degree in fine art. The back of my Honda Element is plastered with holistically conscious stickers urging everyone to buy food from LOCAL ORGANIC FARMS. One sticker says NO GMOs with a giant red slash through it.

     I am Yoga. I sit very patiently and feel the beads of perspiration start to form underneath the latex yoga garb that I’ve stuffed myself into. Someone has evidently turned the heat up, and it’s fantastic because I can feel all of the toxins leaving my body from all kinds of places. I’m also very aware of the crisscross applesauce position I’m trying to conquer and how it’s really more like a wishbone position with my knees pointing aggressively skyward.

     I AM yoga. I was a twenty-year old, once. Before I had my children and was launched into my forties, I was just like this gal in front of me, the one who isn’t breaking a sweat despite the fact that she’s balancing everything she owns on one forearm and the temperature has been spiked to 104 degrees. She strikes a perfect profile of grace and thinness-even her nose ring reflects a kind of etherial shine.

     My gaze now lands on our instructor, a woman who is just as physically fit as the gal in front of me and is obviously trying to get my heart to seize up. In between all of my conscious breaths, I look over a contorted thigh and notice that she’s sending a worried vibe in my direction, possibly because my flailing free limbs have become a source of concern. Could I please, she frantically gestures, settle back down into child’s pose? I know what she’s thinking; I can’t hurt anyone curled up on the floor like that.

     Perhaps it would be a good time to reevaluate any preconceived notions I have about myself. After all these years have I settled into a flexible, bendable level 3 Master? I have not. Then why do I keep signing up for level 3 classes? Good question. If I were to give myself the gift of self-knowledge or even self-preservation, it would be kinder to my ego, my hips and to the people sitting on yoga mats close by. How refreshing it is to finally reach an age of knowing and acceptance. Like the chapters in a book, my Yoga Goddess chapter has ended, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe it’s time for kickboxing. Jen G. Peper