Won’t you come daughter my son doesn’t come and see me I can’t see the sun and I lost everyone who needs me What I’ve said and done have come back to haunt me I may be helpless but I won’t believe it can break … Continue reading Daughter, Come and See Me
Mr. Clokchuk by RJHoffman Clockchuk is a substitute teacher who considers himself a writer, only he hasn’t gotten any of his stories published and is too lazy to keep a blog. On a Friday morning Clokchuk is called in to cover for a history teacher … Continue reading Mr. Clokchuk
The monstrous and ancient Olds Delta 88 could be heard a quarter mile away, its loud exhaust roaring over the rural two lane highway. It was a sunny Sunday in May in West Michigan and Brock was mowing his lawn. Sunday was his only day off from his job as a parts man at a local used car parts recycler. He had given the morning to weeding the garden and keeping an eye on his five year old daughter Isabelle so his wife could have a few extra hours of sleep. Brock had just taken the little girl back to the house after seeing her stumble in the ditch near the road and had exchanged harsh words with his wife who said she just went to the bathroom to start the water for Isabelle’s bath. Isabelle couldn’t have gotten to the road so quick. But she did. Brock didn’t want his wife to feel more guilty than she already did. They were both upset over the prospect of Isabelle getting hit by a car speeding by on the road.
Brock gave his girl a hug and a kiss and his wife a conciliatory smile then went back to mowing. Over his shoulder he heard the wind shrieking in the grill of the Olds as it whizzed by at 75MPH. And as the rusty blue blur broke from his view, Brock watched a package lift into the air and bloom like a flower that fanned into leaflets that dropped into a neat circular heap on the pavement. He had only gotten a glimpse of a shaggy dark haired youngster, perhaps twenty, in a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off, and a girl in a black tshirt who looked to be younger snuggled next to him on the bench seat of the Olds. Brody ran to the road and grabbed one of the leaflets. There were dozens of them, all 3 x 5 and in various colors. All of them read “For six days man shall work, but on the seventh day he shall rest.” All Brock could do was stand in the middle of the road and motion for them to come back so he could give give them a little advice going forward in life.
Brock watched the leaflets now being scattered by the wind and remembered what a zealot he was for religion when he was twenty. He pictured the young man in the sleeveless flannel shirt twenty years older standing outside the LAX having a smoke and trying to settle down after losing his temper with his kids. A light skinned youngster named Kyle from the Midwest starts talking to him with an Indian accent and offers him a copy of the Gita. Oh and by the way, could he make an offering?
The seats in the church loft were boarded beds filled with human cages with makeshift heads. The cages clasped their hands, whisked lint from their ties, eyed their neighbor’s wives. It was 1975. The forms made a rhythm of triangles standing, kneeling, then sitting. And … Continue reading A View From a Pew
You are an entertainer. The crowd thinks they are looking at you but you are looking at them. It is it, the crowd, that is in the cage. And as any animal tends to act when packed together… We are not a unique species in … Continue reading The Crowd in the Cage