Literary as hell.

Category: Uncategorized (Page 1 of 3)

No Horses Here by Leslie Dianne

No horses here
maybe an antlered moose
in the distance
stopping when it catches
a hint of our scent
there’s no color this winter
just white kissing
steep slabs of mountain
formed from the shifting
of earth by faraway gods
we are tiny in this valley
the wind could lift us
and carry us for miles
and over time we
would become stone
caressed by the cold
and we’d mimic the mountains
and fall in love with
the snow

 

______________

Leslie Dianne is a playwright, poet, novelist, screenwriter and performer whose work has been acclaimed internationally at the Harrogate Fringe Festival in Great Britain, The International Arts Festival in Tuscany, Italy, The Teatro Lirico in Milan, Italy and at La Mama, ETC in NYC.  Her stage plays have been produced in NYC at The American Theater of Actors, The Raw Space, The Puerto Rican Traveling Theater and The Lamb’s Theater, and at Theater Festivals in Texas and Indiana. She holds a BA in French Literature from CUNY and her poetry appears in The Wild Word, Sparks of Calliope, The Elevation Review, Quaranzine, The Dillydoun Review, Line Rider Press, Flashes and elsewhere.  Her writing was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net.

Poetry by Donna Reis

Comrades in Grief
For David

We are finally together.
How we loved the blessed,
but it is only you and I now.
We must drink each other
like holy wine as though
we can never get enough
knowing the morning light
could vanish at any moment.

 

Strikes

My father loved to savor a rainstorm.
I’d join him under the corrugated, green
fiberglass held up by wrought iron
scrolled posts. We’d sit in those circular
straw chairs that are now all the rage.
I’d shriek as lightening pierced the sky,
and thunder crashed and rumbled.
Dad would say, There he is. That’s Rip
Van Winkle bowling. We’d listen.
That’s a strike. I’d breath in the metallic
air cheering Rip’s perfect score
knowing the stormy evening with my
father was perfect as well.

___________________

Donna Reis is the author of two full length poetry collections: Torohill (Deerbrook Editions, 2022) and No Passing Zone (Deerbrook Editions, 2012), which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is co-editor and contributor to the anthology, Blues for Bill: A Tribute to William Matthews (The University of Akron Press, 2005). More at: https://www.donnareis.com/

“Phat Man,” a short story by Patricia Trentacoste

Before
Personal Blog, Entry 1 Open to Public

Everybody’s fat, phat, obese, stout, plump, a lard ass weighed down by excess. Here’s how it works: some, me for instance, carry our metal on the outside. Fat is armor. We’re like knights. Some days I can’t turn around in the saddle. My bulk starts in the gut, plates over my ass, and widens in my shoes. Get the picture? Lifting all that weight 24/7 makes me strong as hell. Think about that. Think about this too: Fat cells store energy. I’ve got lots of it. It’d take an eon to starve a dude like me. I’m like the sun. I got billions of years left.

Low weight people? They think they’re not fat. But they aren’t skinny either. Fact is, they wear their poundage where you can’t see it. I feel for them—having to haul it around, getting no sympathy. Food has a weird vibe for them. The vibe is guilt. Look at their guts, tight with self-loathing. No one spends more time thinking about pork-grease and butter than they do. Salmon and hard-boiled eggs only go so far. Paleo is for Neanderthals and we ain’t them no more. Get it? Least I’m not.

How do I know this? I used to be spare. Raw boned, as they say. I ate my fill. Cut to me in the john puking. Men can’t be bulimic? Sure we can. Not many of us, I’ll admit, but I’m evidence that some of us do it. I did it from middle school on. Eventually, I couldn’t take it—holding my immensity inside like that. No one knew how gorged I was, how much pressure I put on myself to look like the “Bieb,” hair and all. After college, I got sane again. By that I mean I transplanted my pounds to the light of day. Got it all out, pushed it out through my cells, packed it on in plain sight, the real stuff, physical, not mental crap. I added tangibleness till I was gargantuan … insulated.

Okay, so now you know. I’m big. I’m inundated with adipose tissue. But you should also know other things. One: I can dance. Two, I can roll over in bed easy enough. (I know you had to wonder.) Of course, I’m still young, twenty-seven. Just wait, they tell me, your heart’s gonna turn to suet. People I love tell me that. They call it, big love. Ha, ha, ha. They text me links for pills and gyms that make you piss all day and work out in front of mirrors. They want me to watch TV’s The Biggest Loser with them, pretending not to notice the ambiguity of the title while they trade me my Buds for fat-burners.

Three: I like classical music. You might think that’s a non-sequitur, to jump to classical music like that. It is and it isn’t. I like music with gravitas, heavy instrumentation, like parts of Beethoven’s 7th, or Berlioz—sometimes he’d use 1000 musicians. That’s what I mean. Ponderousness is the right answer for the world today. Flutes can’t handle me, you know? I’ve gotta have bassoons, oboes, tubas, double basses. I’m the Phat Man. I’m a freakin’ nuclear weapon. Anybody out there?
The Phat Man

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“When the Road Calls Your Name” by Jeffrey T. Heyer

I crossed a continent, an ocean, and an island and now that I stood at last within the unthinkably ancient ring of stones reared by my forgotten forebears, all I heard in the well of my own soul was the echo of the well-cover when I drew it back.  I hitched up my pack, struck my crude walking stick against the wet grass, and headed for the little local museum.

Stepping inside, I found I could proceed no further.  The Avebury museum was manned by an elderly gentleman in a dark blue suit.  His white hair neatly slicked back, his face arranged in an expression of professional hospitality, he was attempting to elucidate the exhibits for an American couple.  Since my fellow Americans blocked the way, I could do nothing but pull off my mist-dampened slouch cap and wait. 

Looming over the English curator, the elderly American demanded through loose lips, “What’s so special about this place, huh?”

“Well,” smiled the curator, “Avebury is the largest stone circle in the world…”

“Saw it.  Is this the whole town?”

“The modern town of Avebury sits entirely within the ring of …”

“What’s the museum for?”  The American angrily shook England’s October chill from his Hawaiian shirt.  His voice dripped with contempt for a country whose temperature failed to fit his tourist’s uniform.

The curator replied patiently, “We house a small collection of artifacts discovered…”

Out thrust the American’s finger.  “What’s this?”

“I’m glad you noticed that display.  This…”

“It’s a rock.  We have rocks at home.  We don’t build museums for ‘em.  Do you have anything good?”

Before the curator could indicate his prize display, the tourist declared, “I’ve seen it.”  The Ugly American turned his back and shoved past me out the door, his wife remora-like at his side.

The curator turned his eyes on me, propped up his smile, and nodded in greeting. I admired his resilience — something I had long lost. 

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked, glancing over my army surplus ski-jacket, weathered jeans, and rough shoes.

I took off my glasses and polished the mist from them.  Not trusting contact lenses on a rough trip, I wore an 

old-fashioned pair of sturdy black frames.  I had stopped shaving the day I quit my job and it suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen another bearded man since I had arrived on the island — as if I needed an appearance guaranteed to distance me further from those around me.  But I was not thinking of appearances when I withdrew my savings, tossed a few things in an old army backpack, and flew away over the great Californian desert, across the wide states, and over the rough Atlantic, reversing the course of my westward-driven forebears.

Embarrassed at seeing myself through the curator’s eyes, I was about to demur, but considering the brush-off the man had just received, I changed my mind, saying, “Actually, yes.  I’m particularly interested in the excavation of the West Kennet Long Barrow.”

The curator’s smile became genuine and he swiftly ushered me to a series of photographs of neatly stacked finger bones and skulls within the Long Barrow.  The more questions I asked, the happier my white-haired acquaintance became. 

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Spring 2020 Contest Finalist: “Another Failed LDR” by Jennifer Ruth Jackson

Another Failed LDR

 

I taste him in your mouth, his name stretched

past three syllables on your frosted tongue.

Combination of lime & taffy dreams. Lipstick

 

on your teeth like perfumed blood. Kiss goodbye

blotted on the bathroom mirror. You hold

phones in place of babies & beaus. Condensed

 

love pressed to your ear like a conch shell.

It isn’t waves you long to hear, anymore

but merry message-chimes. Acronyms

 

absorbed into your workday. I’m shocked I hear

him in your voice, your disconnected overage,

the lack of hang-ups as you brush my gums

 

in your need to feel something IRL.

We all sound the same in text form. You won’t

even have to close your eyes & pretend.

 


Jennifer Ruth Jackson is an award-winning poet and fiction writer whose work has appeared in Red Earth ReviewBanshee, and more.  She runs a blog for disabled and/or neurodivergent writers called The Handy, Uncapped Pen from an apartment she shares with her husband. Follow her on Twitter @jenruthjackson

Book Review: City of Hate by Timothy S. Miller

City of Hate by Timothy S. MillerReview by Pete Bradt

If Chinatown were a novel by Bukowsi or Palahniuk, you might end up with City of Hate.

Hal Scott is a poetic everyman with secrets, who stumbles upon the suspicious murder-or-suicide of his friend Bob, while living in the deep shadows of the Kennedy assassination, in a jungle of substance abuse recovery, in a swamp of infidelity and blackmail.

If it sounds like we’re getting ahead of ourselves, we are: Author Timothy S. Miller drops the reader and protagonist into a multi-layered criminal underworld from the very first line of his moody and philosophical noirscape, which reads like a gothic love letter to the city of Dallas.

With Hal, we tour a micro-world of conspiracies and memories, fist fights and condo-couch intimacies, bland bank teller jobs and glitzy gubernatorial campaigns. We don’t learn things as much as we play volunteer-therapist to Hal, an observer seasoned with love, humor, sorrow, and the ability to beat the crap out of douchey finance dudes–as demonstrated when a guy demeans (one of) Hal’s love interests, his colleague, Maggie, a married mother. Continue reading

“Class Clown” by Stu Newman

Dear Parent or Guardian,

   SKYLAR RICHARDS    has been suspended from Southport High 

School for       FIVE DAYS     , commencing on        IMMEDIATELY       

The grounds for suspension are                    MISCONDUCT                   

An administrative conference to determine the above was conducted 

before    SCHOOL FACULTY     on ____TODAY       . The student will be 

expected to return to school on                IN FIVE DAYS                          .

 

Personally, I thought suspension was a bit over the top. I mean, all I did was stick out my middle finger during the junior class portrait. Not exactly a high crime. I thought I had gotten away with it. I placed the finger on my thigh and hooked my thumb into a belt loop so the photographer wouldn’t notice. He was shooting a group portrait for the yearbook. It was the picture we’d all look back fondly on when we were old geezers. I imagined people pointing to me and saying, Look at that Skylar Richards, flipping the bird. What a card. 

But the photographer caught it the next day. Submitted the evidence to the principal who, in turn, awarded me with a one-week suspension. Effective immediately. I didn’t care. I figured I would catch up on some TV. Maybe dust off my bong pipe. But this was not to be. Mom and Dad went ballistic. Placed me under house arrest. Assigned a litany of chores so onerous it would have horrified the Council on Human Rights. Scrub the floors. Polish the furniture. Mow the lawn. I’ll spare you the rest.

There weren’t many ways to ratchet up the punishment, with the exception of death or dismemberment. So, I figured I’d better comply while I still could walk. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that you should always show remorse. The system is set up to reward the sad sack who regrets his actions. It pays to be a good actor. And let me say, I could give Tom Hanks a run for his money.

Unfortunately, the sad-sack routine did nothing for me. You see, it wasn’t the first time I’d been in trouble. Not even the first time that week. Just a few days before, I made a fart noise in study hall that nearly rattled the windows. I didn’t mean for it to be so loud. It’s amazing how sound will travel in a big room like the cafeteria, where they held study hall. BWARF! went the noise when I flapped my upper arm against the back of my other hand, which was lodged in my pit. The kids thought it was hysterical. They all knew it was me. So did the teacher. She sent me straight to the principal, who, in turn, called my parents. Just for making a stupid fart noise. God, what is this world coming to?

I’ve pulled about every stunt on Earth. And I’ve been caught just about every time. I’d make a terrible thief. Would probably land in jail for trying to steal a peanut. And I’ll admit, my antics are none too original. The fart noise was not original. Neither is mimicking teachers behind their backs, which I do a lot. I exaggerate their movements while crossing my eyes and pushing out my front row of choppers like they’re buck teeth. Drives the kids crazy. A real crowd pleaser. Skylar Richards, at your service.

And now I was about to pay for my sins with a week of hard labor. My parents sat me down. My father clasped his hands so tight, he could have cracked a walnut between them. My mother’s brows were knitted in anger. She did most of the talking. Most of the screaming, that is. Hysterical, would be a good word. Told me she was “gravely disappointed,” like I was a kitchen appliance that stopped working. Said she was “putting a list together.” Some sort of regimen fit for a Gulag laborer. All work, no play for five days. No video games. No TV. No internet.

“No internet?” I said. “How can I keep up with my schoolwork?”

“Read your books,” my mother said.

At that moment, I realized my parents were capable of anything. No matter how sinister. I used to think they were just odd people. Difficult to get along with. My father, with his trim gray hair and thick brows, always reminded me of Mr. Rogers—if Mr. Rogers had lockjaw and never smiled. My mother wore her hair in a short bob. She was rail thin. Looked like she’d been on a hunger strike for the past ten years. Against what, I don’t know. Maybe my father. He complained a lot, especially about his job. I don’t know what he did at his investment firm. Only that he had a bone to pick with a guy named Osley, who had screwed up the budget. Brought the wrong reports to the board meeting. Filled the water cooler with hand soap. I don’t know why he just didn’t fire the guy. After all, Osley didn’t seem to know his ass from a laser printer. My mother’s job, on the other hand, was easy to understand. Real estate agent. No mystery there.

Now here they were, my captors, taking away my internet. For all I knew, they had already changed the WiFi password. Or shut off the router completely. Their hearts were as black as coal. In all my sixteen years, I had never faced a more dire situation. The future looked bleak.

As the days passed, I tried to do the chores as prescribed by Mom. Things did not go well. Mowing the lawn wasn’t bad. But the housework was killing me. I don’t know if you’ve ever vacuumed, but it’s not pleasant. You drag the thing around, this cumbersome piece of plastic—it gets caught on every table leg you pass. And it doesn’t suck up every last bit of dirt. Dog hairs are particularly stubborn. Meanwhile, our black Lab, Barkley, is a virtual shedding machine. His sole purpose in life is to excrete fur. You can hold the nozzle over his hair for hours without drawing up a single strand. You’d think they would have invented a better device by now. I mean, the vacuum has been around for how long? The cavemen had them, right? I believe I read about them in the Bible. In fact, if you look closely at a picture of the Last Supper, I think you’ll see a guy vacuuming in the back of the room.

By day three, I was exhausted. Housecleaning was a thankless task. Labor intensive and unrewarding. Mom even had me changing the bed sheets. Talk about misguided inventions. It’s like trying to put a girdle on an elephant. The mattresses weigh a ton. Then there was dusting, mopping, sweeping. All straight from hell. It’s amazing that men got women to do this shit for the past two thousand years. What a racket us dudes had. No wonder we didn’t want it to end.

It didn’t help that my family lived in a big house. A colonial style job with a pointed entrance. Gabled, I think you’d call it. About nine windows out front. Rectangular. Double-hung, Mom would say. Dining room, living room with a fireplace, and a library filled with books last read when the Mayflower sailed over. Four bedrooms upstairs. A perfect dwelling for a dysfunctional family like ours. Even my brother Collin had his own room. He’s ten. A little blond bundle of joy. Kid’s always happy. I don’t think he even cried when he popped out of Mom’s womb. Although, I wasn’t there. Couldn’t really tell you. Anyway, Collin smiles through everything. Even Dad’s tirades. Just sits there grinning like my father is Big Bird, or Oscar the Grouch. Who wouldn’t love a kid like that?

Which brings me to day four, when a call came in from Collin’s elementary school, on that vintage ornament known as the landline. I picked it up. You use it just like a regular phone. It was the head teacher, Mr. Portman. He asked to speak to one of my parents. I guess he figured they didn’t work, and would just be sitting around the house knocking down a few suds. I clicked into prankster mode. Said to hold on. Stomped my feet like I was walking away. Then I stomped back. I imitated my father.

“Richards, here.”

“Good afternoon, sir. How are you today?”

“Goddamn busy. Busy as a bee. You must know how that is, running that school of yours. Probably not getting any younger trying to keep that nuthouse in order. What time is it anyway? One o’clock already? Where the hell does the day go? How can I help you?”

“Well, sir, I wish I were calling on a better note. But I’m sorry to say I have some rather unsettling news. It’s about your son, Collin. We’re having a bit of a problem with the young man. I’m afraid he’s been disruptive in class. We tried to work the matter out internally but—”

“Disruptive? Collin? You sure?” I said, going out of character. It was such a shock. Collin never disrupted anything. Occasionally, he’d get a little bratty, just to let us know he wasn’t actually a wind-up doll. But that was rare.

I resumed my impersonation of my father. “Goddamn kid. Misbehaving. What did he do?”

“Well, we’re drafting a letter to that effect, this afternoon. It should be finalized by the end of day. Unfortunately, we don’t have an email address for you on file. Nor a cell phone number, for that matter. Regardless, we’ll be giving Collin a hard copy to present to you when he arrives home. We just wanted to apprise you of the situation, to ensure that he delivers the letter as expected.”

I felt my face flush. I wanted to tell Mr. Portman to take his letter and deliver it to his rear end. Do what you want to me. Suspend me. Expel me. Jail me in a maximum-security prison in Bangkok. I don’t care. But lay off my brother. He never hurt a fly. I needed to get off the line before I blew it. I tried to say goodbye but Portman seemed to have taken a shine to me.

“I’m sorry to have made your acquaintance on such a trying note, Mr. Richards. Perhaps someday, we can meet under more auspicious circumstances. I would like to extend an open invitation for you and Ms. Richards to join me for a meeting, at a time of your choosing, to discuss—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pencil you in,” I said. “Gotta go. Goddamn paperwork is piling up.”

I just about hung up on him. Then I sat on the living room couch. The thing was in vibrate mode. Who knew it could do that? Barkley trotted up. Nuzzled his head on my leg. I noticed a trail of dog hairs in his wake. I gave him a little pat. “Do you believe this shit? Our little Collin causing problems at school.” Barkley groaned in sympathy. It didn’t hurt that I was massaging the underside of his neck. He liked that. After about twelve seconds of deep thought, I decided I would get Mr. Portman’s note from Collin and destroy it immediately. Burn it in that nice fireplace of ours. Keep it out of my parents’ hands.

My brother arrived home a few hours later, looking snappy in a plaid shirt and corduroy pants. I was in the kitchen, scraping dirt from between the tiles with a toothpick. He nearly walked past without so much as a hello. Offered a quick wave of his hand as he hurried by.

“Hey, skippy, what’s up?” I said. “Where you off to in such a rush?” I got up and pulled a chair from the kitchen table. “Here, buddy, have a seat. Take a load off.”

Collin plopped himself down and set his book bag on the table.

“Had a rough day, champ?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“I see. Listen, you hungry? Would you like something to eat? Ice cream? Candy? There’s a cake in the fridge. You want a slice?”

“It’ll spoil my appetite,” Collin answered, sounding all grown up.

“It certainly will,” I said, already removing the chocolate layer cake from the refrigerator. I hacked off a slice. Poured him a glass of milk. “Listen, I spoke to this guy from your school. Mr. Dorfman.”

“Portman,” Collin said, shoveling in a forkful of cake. Half of it made it to his mouth. Barkley attended to the rest. “He talked to Dad. Did he talk to you, too?”

“He did not talk to Dad. He spoke to me, while I was making believe I was Dad. It’s between you and me, buddy. Dad knows nothing.”

Collin frowned. His little brain seemed to be working overtime. He drank some milk. Only a little bit dribbled down his chin. Barkley looked disappointed. I asked to see the letter. Collin pulled it from his bag. It was on Southport Elementary School stationary. The wording was formal. I imagined Portman himself had written it. Had that tight ass’s signature phrases all over it. Dear parents, We regret to inform you, blah, blah, blah. In a nutshell, it said Collin had misbehaved. Scrunched up a piece of paper and threw it at another kid. Fortunately, the other kid survived. Unfortunately, when reprimanded, Collin stuck out his tongue. Things escalated. Collin called the teacher a name. The one that starts with “ass” and ends with “hole.” You get the picture. As I went through the note, my eyes flipped back and forth from the paper to Collin’s face. I poked at the sheet.

“You do all this?”

He didn’t answer. Took the Fifth. Smart kid.

“Well, you’re lucky Mom and Dad will never find out. That’s all I have to say.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t care? Are you crazy? They’ll take your toys away. Your video games. Your Lego Star Wars Set. Your Nerf Dart Blaster. You’ll be stripped of your guns. Every last one of them.”

His eyes opened wide. So did his little mouth. “They wouldn’t …” he said.

“Oh, but they would. Their cruelty has no bounds. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” I jammed the letter in my pocket. “You are hereby absolved of your sins.”

Collin nodded.

“But, listen,” I said, “I have to ask you, why’d you do all this stuff? I mean, you’ve always been such a good little kid.”

“Dunno.”

“That’s it? You don’t know? But you’re a straight-A student, Colly. I’ve seen your report card. Why go crazy on us all of a sudden? This kind of stuff will get you nowhere.”

“You do it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do crazy stuff. You’re always in trouble.”

I leaned forward. “Listen, little man. You don’t want to follow in my footsteps. I’m the wrong guy to choose for a role model. Look at me. Sitting home. Cleaning the kitchen. Scraping dirt from cracks in the tiles.”

Collin gazed around the room. “Place looks clean.”

“Look, Colly. If I destroy this note, will you do me a favor and cut the shit? Go back to being the good little kid you always were.”

“How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Will you cut the shit, too?”

“Don’t say that word. Don’t curse, buddy.”

“You just did. Even Steven.”

I took a breath. “Listen, why do you care what I do? It’s beside the point.”

Collin crossed his arms. “Fair and square.”

“Fair and … huh? What does that mean?”

Collin shrugged. I tapped my finger on the table. I realized my father did this when he was thinking, which creeped me out. I shook out my arms like they do in aerobics videos, then placed my hands on my thighs. “Listen, Colly, what if I told you I was never gonna get into trouble again? That I would turn a new leaf. Mend my ways. Become a model citizen. Student of the century.”

Of course, I could never deliver on that promise. It wasn’t in my DNA. In fact, my words rang so high on the bullshit meter, I thought I heard bells. I was a hypocrite. A crooked politician. I should have run for office right then. Collin didn’t respond. What did I expect? My words were hollow. Not fit for the discerning ears of a ten year old.

“Can I go to my room now?” Collin asked.

“Sure, buddy. Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.”

Collin thumped upstairs to his bedroom. I cleared the table. Scrubbed his plate and held it to the light. I thought maybe I’d see my reflection. Make sure I was still a gangly kid with spiky black hair, and not a middle-aged guy that looked like Mr. Rogers. But there was nothing in the dish’s dull finish. I guess it was old and worn out. Like me. At sixteen, no less. Go figure.

I tore up the note and sent it down the toilet. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. I went to bed that night with plenty to think about. Talk about little brains working overtime. I considered reciting the Gettysburg Address just to slow down my thoughts. Mostly, I wondered why I even cared. After all, I had spent my life perfecting the art of not giving a crap. As I lay there staring at the ceiling, Barkley jumped into bed with me. There would be dog hairs all over the place, come morning. I didn’t care. I’d clean it up tomorrow. There would be plenty of time. I had another full day before my debt to society was paid. I would take the vacuum to the hairs. I’d get that damn machine working if it killed me.

 


You can learn more about Stu Newman at his website, http://stunewman.com/author/

Book Review: Highfire by Eoin Colfer

Highfire book coverFor years, Eoin Colfer captivated a generation with Artemis Fowl, his beloved children’s fantasy series. Now with Highfire, he’s written his very first fantasy novel for adults.

Highfire follows a similar tread to Artemis Fowl. Squib is a 15-year-old boy, just young enough to retain a childlike belief in fairies and mythical creatures so that he doesn’t totally lose it when he meets Vern.

Vern is a character straight out of Colfer’s unique sense of humor. The last dragon on Earth, Vern is a wise-cracking misanthrope who spends his days hiding in the swamps and obsessively researching human pop culture online. Picture a small scaly dragon naked except for a Flash Dance t-shirt. “Vern tolerated the swamp. It wasn’t exactly glorious, but these weren’t exactly the glory days. Once upon a time he had been Wyvern, Lord Highfire, of the Highfire Eyrie, if you could believe that melodramatic bullshit name. Now he was king of jack shit in Mudsville, Louisiana.”

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Book Review: Mandela and The General by John Carlin, Illustrated by Oriol Malet

Review by E. Kirshe

Mandela and The General focuses on one stitch in Nelson Mandela’s legacy. In 1994, as the first post-Apartheid elections approach, and black South Africans are ready to take power with Mandela as their president, a militant faction of white South Africans – the Freedom Front – are ready to riot and fight to the death if need be. Attempting to avert a massacre Mandela held a series of secret meetings with Constand Viljoen- a former general of the South African army and later leader of the right-wing Freedom Front party.

“We must strive to find a political solution that reconciled White fears with black aspirations.”

As leaders of opposing factions they have the pull to keep their people from becoming violent and through reason, Mandela convinces Viljoen to reel his people in, to create true peace and not “the peace of graveyards.”

The book is told mainly through Viljoen’s recollections pulled from an interview author John Carlin conducted with him. The focus is on Viljoen, how he agreed to head the “white resistance”, how his twin brother helped broker the talks, and how Viljoen ultimately came to think of Mandela as “the greatest of men”. The story also serves to underpin what made Mandela capable of fostering this respect even from an enemy.

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