3 Prose Pieces by Rickey Rivers Jr

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Funeral

Thank you to the obituary but the funeral wasn’t as funny as it should have been. You see, it should have been hilarious. There should have been dynamic colors and sounds. There should have been animals and puffy outfits. There should have been something worthwhile. Instead there was nothing, suits and tears. Imagine being told of a clown dying and expecting a speculator funeral showcase but instead receiving mundane mediocracy. It was enough to make me sick. I felt like I’d been tricked. A bunch of suited men and women without face paint, they probably weren’t even clowns. I had more make up on than anyone there. You understand how embarrassed I was? And this was a closed casket funeral too. I wanted very much to open the lid and see what the big deal was. Imagine if the clown in the box died wearing a funny face. Wouldn’t he want people to laugh one last time before his burial? Am I the only one with a sense of humor anymore? I know some people are afraid of clowns but the idea is so foolish that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge the phobia further. After the burial I walked around the cemetery looking at the gravestones. I began to make faces at them. Every single row of bodies received a silly face. I was so angry that I had to do this, childish as it was. I was so angry that I began to laugh hard and loud. No one came to me in concern and I ruined my face with wetness.

 

Care

I’m a nurse. I’m in the business of care and pain management. I’m firm. Pain relief should be priority. Even when the doctor doesn’t agree I still help the patients. I have to. It’s my job. I don’t want them to suffer. It’s cruel. Being in a lonely hospital bed, staring at the walls, ceiling and television is no way to live. Imagine being surrounded by so many beeping machines and such, of course you’d want relief. They’re fragile. I feel that way. Of course they’re in pain and if I can relieve then I relieve. I won’t let them suffer so needlessly. If they buzz I run. I relieve. Trust that doing so doesn’t lead to addiction. No. I’ve never had a patient become a slur. Doing so instead leads to thankfulness and oh, such euphoria. Why buzz when you no longer suffer? Why buzz when pleasure has left you unable to lift even a finger? I satisfy. I relieve with the care and gentleness of a mother. When you’ve suffered for so long of course you’d want someone to whisk away worries and manage your pain so sufficiently that you’re left in brilliant states of bliss. As an angel, dress certainly doesn’t hurt, alas no wings for me. Oh, I do live to serve. I do live to assist. I care so dearly for them and I notice their affinity. It is accepted, respectfully, as are they.

 

 

Streets

I’ve been walking up and down for a while. These streets are lonely. People are cruel. They give dirty looks as if I’m a beast. I know this isn’t true. I am who I am. My life has led me here. Yesterday evening I saw a little boy sitting on the path. The boy was crying. I planned to walk on by but the boy’s crying began to anger me. What did he have to cry about? Past approach I stopped in front of the boy and asked what was wrong. The boy looked up at me, his eyes were stained red. He told me that his parents were fighting again. He said he left home because he didn’t want to see what would happen next. I looked behind him and asked him if his home was the one that seemed to be splitting down the middle. The boy nodded confirmation. I asked him if he had ever been struck. He nodded again. I wanted to take that boys hand and lead him to a better place, a place where he could be free from such violence, a place where he’d never have to cry from pain again. I felt for him, so much so that it physically hurt me to speak with him further. The boy asked where I was going. I said nowhere. He said “that sounds nice, to be nowhere.” I told him that’s wrong. He insisted, said “I want to walk with you.” I told him no, because my road doesn’t end. Cruel as it was I had to leave him there. He deserves a future, no matter if troubled.

 

Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. He has been previously published with Fabula Argentea, Cabinet of Heed, Back Patio Press, (among other publications). https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/. You may or may not find something you like there. His third mini collection of 3×3 poems is available now: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VDH6XG5

Twitter: @storiesyoumight

“Wounded” by Mileva Anastasiadou

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The wounded bird appeared out of the blue. I take it in my hands and carry it onto the operation table. I hold the scalpel tightly and clear the wound, pouring water over it. I’m the best of surgeons, but not a veterinary. I call the nurse but she doesn’t answer back. We have a life or death situation here, I yell. She ignores me again.

The bird stops making sounds, or movements. Cold sweat runs down my spine. I push up and down its chest and yell at the little creature, as if it was its own choice to pass out, as if it fell asleep and I only need to wake it up. The poor bird stands still, enduring my efforts, its eyes wide open, staring at me, as if blaming me for my incompetence. 

The nurse finally rushes in. 

What are you doing, she asks. Stop the nonsense, I tell her. She rolls her eyes like I’m stupid. She urges me to swallow the pill she’s put in my mouth. That’s my job I say, to repair reality, to step in and fix things, when the end seems inevitable. That bird is dying, I yell at her. She seems perplexed at my words. That stupid nurse is so incompetent, she hasn’t noticed the bird yet. I show it to her. It’s still on the table. 

She holds the bird in her hands, squeezing all life that was left out of it, and I cry and yell but she doesn’t seem impressed. That useless nurse is killing the bird. Until there is no bird anymore. She’s now holding a piece of cloth in her hands. And she’s my daughter, her eyes blue like her mother’s, her brown hair cut short, the pixie haircut her mother likes. How did I end up in here? My brain is slowly penetrated by oblivion or illusion. Where’s the bird? Where’s my wife? I ask. 

She turns around and I see her tears. I wipe her cheek with the back of my hand, and she smiles, but it’s a forced smile, like she’s still sad but wants to hide it. I can’t stand seeing tears on her face. When did I see them again? When she broke up with that boy from school.  I’m sure that was the last time. Or was it later? I was standing above her mother’s dead body, a wounded creature who wished to live, a last attempt at resuscitation, but it all happened so fast. I’m a good doctor who’s saved many lives. How did I fail this time? It’s a complex thing, when your loved ones suffer; you suffer along, you may even ache more watching them suffer, yet from a safe place, where you’re safe and sound and slightly relieved you’re not in their shoes. And that complex emotion includes guilt which can’t be easily erased. I’m holding my head between my hands and close my eyes, as if memories will be obliterated if I shut down my senses. My legs are trembling, my heartbeat rises, while this painful reality fades away, like bad dreams fade and I won’t open my eyes before I wake up to a more tolerable version of the world. 

It wasn’t your fault, the nurse tells me.

I’ll never forgive myself, I say. But then I see the bird move, then stumble, then spread its wings and fly high in the room and out of the open window, and I feel like a hero, for that’s what heroes do; they repair reality, despite all hardships, defying all rules.

 


Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist from Athens, Greece. Her work can be found in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, the Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Bending Genres, Litro and others.

“We Are Fucking Happy” by Kristin Garth

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A steakhouse parking lot, first date, first dom
will ask to tickle.  You’ll cooperate —
a subtle nod, half-closed eyelids.  His palms
first touch your trembling ribs.  Breathe against, wait,

until fingertips pry paroxysms,
open thighs, one hand around a throat, can’t
cum until you will comply — conditions:
you are a pleasure, denied, he may grant,

unexclusively, to you — and then some
friends.  You could learn to like it or you can
hold it in behind a cervix fingers strum
numb. We are fucking happy. Understand?

A protocol practiced, parking lots before,
brings college girls to his living room floor.

 


Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker.  Her sonnets have stalked magazines like Five: 2: One, Yes, Glass, Luna Luna, Occulum, Drunk Monkeys, and other places.  She is the author of eleven books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Puritan U (Rhythm & Bones Press) and Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press) and the forthcoming Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press, 2020) and Dewy Decimals (Arkay Artists, 2020).

Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie 

and her website (kristingarth.com)