January 2010

See the world through the eyes of

A COURTROOM
and more...
 2

About Perspectives Magazine Meet some of the contributors

ISSN: 1715-9148 S. V. WOLFLAND

Frequency: Biyearly The Things, p9

Founding Editor: Monique Berry
Design and layout: Monique Berry
Contact: perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com
Site: http://1perspectives.webs.com
——–——-
Photo credits: All photos courtesy of Brian
Cobbledick
In this issue...
Eye Glasses
Glassy or Classy ~ Pervin Chhapkhanawala
Candle
Waxing and Waning ~ Rach Loveday
Courtroom
Turnabout ~ Sean Young
Credit Card
Reaching Limits ~ Andrea Zappone
Knick-Knacks
The Things ~ S. V. Wolfland
Hairbrush
A Brush with Time ~ Peggy Fletcher
Pumpkin
A Pumpkin’s Life ~ C.D. Reimer
Park Bench
In Loving Memory ~ Heather Miller
Guitar
Fretting ~ Rhonda Melanso
Army Uniform
Army Uniform ~ Newborn by Norma West Linder
Tattoo
We Are Tattoos ~ Lynn Tait
Wishing Well
Life of a Wishing Well ~ Rebecca R. Taylor
Umbrella
The Umbrella ~ Debbie Okun Hill
Womb
A Womb’s Love Song ~ Monique Berry
S.V. Wolfland has been published in magazines
such as The Argotist Online, Spokes, The
Bathyspheric Review, etc., in an anthology called
North Yorkshire One Nine Nine, and has a novel
and three poetry chapbooks out - Porlock the
Warlock and The Books of...Trilogy respectively.
She works as editor of a live and written word e-
newsletter, has appeared at many festivals
including the Glastonbury Festival, and is a
member of artist's network The Cartwheels
p4 Collective. [www.cartwheels-collective.co.uk]
p6 C.D. REIMER
The Pumpkin, p11
p7
C.D. Reimer lives and works in Silicon
p8 Valley. His interests are ceramics,
painting, tropical fish, and web programming.
p9 These keep him out of trouble when he’s not fixing
broken users and consoling hurt computers. He is
p10
currently working on his first novel, a short story
p11 collect ion, and various short stories.
[chris@cdreimer.com]
p12
LYNN TAIT
We are Tattoos, p15
p14
Lynn Tait is an award-winning poet/
p15
photographer living in Sarnia, ON.
p15 Her work has appeared in The
Windsor Review, lichen, Contemporary Verse 2,
p16 and in over 50 North American anthologies. She
has also published a chapbook titled Breaking
p18
Away. Her photos have adorned the cover of three
p19 poetry books and one literary magazine.
[lyta@sympatico.ca]

PM—Jan 2010
 3

Dr. Michael Cain

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A Message from the Founder

Dear Readers

I thought is was important to acknowledge some important people:

To Dr. Michael Cain and Penny Greenberg, my first two advertisers, your support means
more to me than you will ever know.
To Brian Cobbledick, your creativity helps make this magazine a success. If you could
photograph my heart, you’d need a panoramic lens to capture the length of its smile.
To Jennifer L. Foster, my friend, thank you for your honest input.
Finally, a big thanks to my contributors; I wouldn’t have a magazine if it weren’t for
you!

Keep the ink flowing,

Monique Berry
PM—Jan 2010
 4
Eyeglasses

GLASSY OR CLASSY
By Pervin Chhapkhanawala
PM—Jan 2010
T ransparency, I believe, is an
important virtue in both life
and work. Especially when the lat-
ter involves balancing yourself deli-
cately on your boss’s nose, taking
care to always be present and yet not
interfere.
My boss has never given me the
credit I deserve; in fact, on my first
day at work, all I got from her was a
repulsive and disgruntled stare.
True, I don’t have much of what
people call ‘looks’. My frame is
dark and lanky, my limbs are ex-
tremely long, and my middle is a bit
too round and bulging. But so
what? Isn’t there any room for the
hardworking and faithful in this
world? Like females all over the
globe, my boss is appearance-
conscious, and I suspect that she re-
sents me simply because the word
‘good-looking’ could never be asso-
ciated with me.
The other day, she took me with
her to a place that is often described
as ‘happening’. She seemed very
excited about it and a tad bit scared,
too. She had almost hidden her
charming face behind make-up and
jewelry, but had taken care to ex-
pose as much of her limbs as her
hawk-eyed father permitted. I, too,
went through an extra scrubbing. So
much so that I emerged sparkling
and glassy–the best I could get.
The place was swarming with peo-
ple just like her: half-dressed,
largely-drunk, and on the verge of
deafness (if the volume of the music
was any indicator). I went where my
boss went, I saw what my boss saw.
Or rather, she saw what I saw.
 5
All around the room, I caught people looking at me
keenly and pointing at me. How I enjoyed those few
moments of attention! I finally felt important. I
finally felt imperative. I beamed with pride, my hard
work was being applauded, my sincerity was being
appreciated. I assumed that my boss would now
realize that she would never be able to do without
me. But my happiness was short-lived.
That evening, I overheard her talking to her father
about me.
“Dad! This is disgraceful. I was so embarrassed!
People were staring at me as if I had just landed from
Mars.”
“Dear, you must realize how helpful--”
“I don’t care! I am a progressive-minded person
who believes that all her needs must be catered to
using the most advanced and sophisticated tech-
niques possible. You would be extremely reprehen-
sible if you allowed your daughter’s humiliation to
continue due to your conservative mindset.”
I was too shocked to comprehend what was said
further. They should have had the decency to hold
their talk until I was out of earshot. The last thing I
remember her saying is, “That’s it, daddy! I need a
change.”
Thus, my employment span came to an end–for the
time-being at least. I lay in my box-home all day,
wondering whether it was criminal to be ugly. I
knew my replacement well–those who do the job that
I do, correction, the job that I used to do--are in
constant fear of those modern types. My replace-
ment was just as transparent as I was, but the simi-
larities ended there. Where on one hand, I had long
limbs, it was as though he lacked them completely;
in contrast to my thin frame, he was rotund, almost
spherical.
I had always had a soft corner for my boss, and in
spite of her insolence, I was glad that she had what
she thought was good for her. I would often see her
from my box-house, scurrying about her work.
Then Wednesday morning came. I had woken up
as soon as the first rays of the sun had reached me.
You see, I cannot sleep when I am exposed to light.
As soon as light reaches me, I become aware and
PM—Jan 2010
alert–I start seeing. I had gone about my newly
acquired routine of simply lying inside my box-
home, with nothing much to do, when around mid-
afternoon the bomb fell.
Tears! Red eyes! She was crying! I peered more
closely at her. Strange. There was a smile on her
face and she was merrily chatting with a friend.
Even stranger. Only one of her eyes was red. Occa-
sionally, she would rub her eyes and sniff a little.
Was that moron causing her any kind of trouble or
inconvenience? In all my few months of employ-
ment by her, I had never seen her cry, let alone be
the cause. So what if he was debonair and suave, he
dare not make my mistress--oops, ex-mistress--cry. I
always knew the poor thing was naive and a poor
judge of character. She needed someone like me,
who truly cared about her comfort and went about
his job well. I silently prayed that she would realize
this before it was too late…
The next few days saw me in a pathetic state of
despair. It is awful when someone you love is in
pain because then you are in pain, too; but it is worse
when she is aware of neither your love, nor your
pain. I watched mutely, as my malicious replace-
ment bothered her whenever he was with her. In
between reading, she would suddenly rub her eyes
while she was talking; sometimes, a tear would
saunter across her cheek.
Just when I thought that I could take it no longer,
the goddess of fate favored me. On Saturday, her
father rapped at the door of my house-box, and then
opened it. He then lifted me up gently and bestowed
upon me my previous office, never again to vacate.
So now, I am perched on my mistress’s nose,
content, and happy. My mistress regrets the menac-
ing mistake she had made and is thrilled at having
me back.
I am of course, glinting with pride. It is not often,
after all, that a pair of repellent spectacles triumphs
over contact lenses.
Pervin Chhapkhanawala is an English Language Teaching
(ELT) Consultant and a freelance writer and editor. She has
written a book of poetry, ‘A Tinge of Turmeric’, published
by Writers Workshop in June 2009. Her work has also been
showcased by Platform and Page Forty Seven. She is now
working on her first novel. [pervin0607@gmail.com]
 6
Candle

the cheek, pulls out her chair, she sits down and he
tucks her chair back in, waiting for her to get
comfortable—he’s a gentleman. The conversation
starts flowing straight away. They have a glass or
two of wine and take their time eating the stir-fry,
which he compliments her on. She laughs and
smiles, showing her beautiful white teeth, which I
also haven’t seen her show in a while as he makes
jokes and tells her entertaining stories about his life
as a travel agent. She didn’t even smile at her last
romantic dinner.
She runs her right hand over her ring finger,
which reminded her that she no longer wears her
WAXING AND WANING wedding ring. Mary smiles slightly as she realizes
By Rach Loveday that it is okay to move on with her life after an
emotionally draining divorce.
Strawberry and I haven’t got long to live as our

I t’s been awhile but Mary’s finally taken my

long-time companion, the Strawberry scented
candle, and me out of the cupboard; we’re ready to
be used.
Strawberry and I clash as Mary holds us
together in her left hand, the unique rose-gold
wedding band that she once wore with pride no
longer occupies her ring finger, and a bottle of red
wine in her right hand.
As she turns—I turn, too—I see an oriental stir-
fry simmering on the stove and a table perfectly set
bodies are already half-melted. We didn’t work
much at the last dinner. I always knew this day
would come and that I was made to die. But I
would die for Mary, especially for this occasion.
They look happy and my dying wish is that they
will stay this way. After all, every woman
deserves a man who truly loves her.
Rachel lives in Wagga Wagga, Australia. She is published in Dolly, an
Australian teen magazine, and in Perspectives. Rachel finished high school
last year and has applied for university study in journalism and creative
writing for 2010.

for two. She’s planned a romantic dinner. It’s

been a while since Mary has had one of those, too.
She places us in colored-glass candle holders.
Thank God! The last time we were out for a
romantic dinner, we were placed on too small and
tarnished silver candlesticks. The glass candle
holders are roomy, comfy and fire-safe, which is
great for a long working night.
After a couple of hours, dinner is cooked. Mary
has changed into her little black dress; she’s all set.
Strawberry and I are finally brought to life with
one lit match gently stroking our faces.
We hear the doorbell ring. He comes in. He’s
about 6 foot tall, in his thirties, good looking and
he’s brought her chocolates and flowers. That’ll
earn him some brownie points. He kisses her on
PM—Jan 2010
 7
Courtroom

TURNABOUT
By Sean Young

As gavels pound my face

I taste the secreted sweat
of guilty men.

I feel their fidgeting fingers

whilst I watch their forlorn faces.

Wigged liars spin their

webs of half-truths to
ensnare impressionable minds.

At my right hand a dejected

Jury sits. Ready to determine
fate on the flip of a coin.

At my left guilty
mothers weep.

The thick silence as a

verdict is prepared.
The clearing of a throat
The chaotic choir of outrage.

The riot simmers and

order returns.

The room drains of life

and naught is left but a
memory and the scent
of disinfectant.

Sean Young is a bachelor of writing based in Liverpool, UK. He is a contract writer for several video game websites, but provides
articles of varying subject matter to other publications on a freelance basis. [malfesto@hotmail.co.uk]
PM—Jan 2010
 8
Credit card

I look quite a bit older than I did before black

Friday. I can see my reflection in that shiny new
driver’s license snuggled behind the plastic frame.
windshield being used for an ice scraper! I’m
getting pushed up and down and sideways and
everywhere else and little splinters of frost are
That’s the king of the wallet right there—the melting down around my logo just like tears, and
driver’s license. We all envy his view. Anyway, a just when I think there must be a full millimeter of
couple of years has added quite a few age lines to me rubbed away, I suffer a discourteous swipe
my magstripe and I can feel ink loss all over. My across coarse denim and get shoved back into the
embossed black lettering crests into naked white wallet. They rub me the wrong way all the time,
peaks and the signature so eagerly scrawled across but nothing like this before. Not ever!
my back is rubbed to a bluish smudge. I’m trying The old fogey, he laughed, which was all I could
not to be self-conscious about it, but vanity is an take and I did it—did what was the most insensitive
intimate part of my very being, you understand… thing I could do and I says to him, “What are you
Christmas is in large laughing at? Your life is
part to blame for my over the end of next
condition. I’ve had a few REACHING LIMITS month!”
seasons of it now, so I’ve “It isn’t,” he said
got it all down pat—things numbly.
get abrasive, one machine I should know when to
to another. The old fogey stop, but I kept going
in the wallet says I ought to anyway, “February 2010,”
shut up and count my I say. “It’s a short month,
blessing cause they used to too. Only 28 days. What
use these old metal sliders you got to say about that
that went “clunk clunk” old timer?”
and they pressed down real He said nothing to that
hard sometimes. He says at all and suddenly I
they were a whole lot wished I hadn’t said
worse than magnetic nothin’. It was kind of
scanners. I think he’s cruel; no, really cruel. I
making it up. He’s bitter know just as well as he
from having been in the does what it’s like to live
wallet underneath the By Andrea Zappone with an execution date
Supermarket Saver card for embossed right there
a good many months…reached his limit, you know. across the front of you and know all the time you’re
Anyway, I don’t mind about Christmas so much headed for a heavy-duty shredder… It makes you
anymore, ‘cause afterwards, there’s always a nice want to bury yourself between the “10th Coffee Free
long break coming. It was a thirty-degree night and Card” and the cat food coupon—scrawny little
that nasty ol’ gold card that ruined my holiday scraps of paper who sometimes get lucky enough to
spirit... be forgotten.
We were all snug in our pockets—barely aware Andrea Lea Zappone resides in Northern Maine
of that familiar chatter of the small change and with her husband, Charles, and her two sons,
breath mints who occupied other parts of the Joshua and Daniel. She works part time as a
handbag—when we were lifted from our residence writing tutor at the University of Maine at
quite abruptly. The light hit us and I got hauled out Presque Isle where is she is a senior in the
into the cold. Next thing I’m up on end against the English program. [a.zappone@yahoo.com]
PM—Jan 2010

Knick-knacks
W e sit about, watching, sometimes waiting.
Many of us are borrowed for evenings or days
and nights and returned unscathed—but only after
adventures. To show us off, we are carefully lit and
positioned. Some of us were gifts but most of us were
carefully chosen, thought about, ordered. Or we were
rescued from second-hand shops, junk shops or at the
dump. Some of us are regularly dusted—for instance,
the delicate or transparent ones. But not all of us. It’s
a dusty old place and Elizabeth is busy but she does
her best. What needs a good shaking is shaken
outside.
We do not speak ill of her or answer her unkindly.
We do not give her queer looks or disappear when she
needs us. We are loyal to her and stay close by.
The glass things shine
and sparkle when she
holds them to the light.
The jars, vases, and
wineglasses split the light
into rainbows, which
makes her smile and
sometimes laugh. The
cards are an endless
source of fascination as
she tries to remember
where we came from.
The candlesticks are one
of Elizabeth’s comforts.
She loves light—light in
the darkness—and rarely
spills wax, making sure
that they’re always
cleaned after.
We mas ks she
sometimes talks to, though rarely aloud. Our eyeless
faces, half-faces and fantastical faces look at her and at
the others as we are strategically placed around the
space. Looking out over everything. Watching who
comes and who goes. Few are permitted to enter the
inner room now.
If only Elizabeth could listen in on our
conversations. She’d know that: the blue-green moon
and the star are pleased that they’re well placed; that
the star is happy to be have been rescued and be seen
as a beautiful coveted thing; that the cherub dreams of
flying through the heart and jumping over the moon,
skimming the large faceted star; and that the moon
PM—Jan 2010
9
hanging over a basket of silver branches smiles as it
remembers its handsome maker—a young man at a
craft market.
We hear her singing sometimes—singing more
often than sighing now. But she still sings the same
song. Even with all her new friends, the ones who
move of their own accord, the animate ones who give
her many things—mainly things to wear and make into
other things. She is grateful and happy but she sings us
the same song. ‘People come and people go, but the
things they always remain…’
She owns huge paintings given by people with
whom she spilt up long ago. Much music is recorded
from friends, none of whom she now sees. One by one
things went wrong. Different paths chosen, arguments
or geography. Old presents
decay in corners from one who
THE THINGS still owes her money, one no
By S. V. Wolfland longer alive. One who was
angry about a phone call she
made, one who was habitually
negative. And others; still
others. Clothes hang from ones
who left them behind instead of
themselves.
But we, we always remain.
We are here for her; endless
sources of delight and solace—
boxes full of beautiful treasure
if ever she is bored. Books full
of wonderful tales and colourful
pictures. Images on the walls
full of windows onto other
worlds. Things hanging from
the ceiling like stalactites.
Together, we are like the inside of a colourful lantern.
She talks to us sometimes as if we were as she is
(which we of course are not). Sometimes addressing
one thing and sometimes everything. Whenever
anyone disappoints her, says something she’d rather
they hadn’t, doesn’t get in touch when they say they
…Because
will, acts strange or distant, we hear her sing…
people they come and people they go, but the things
they always remain…’ and then she picks me up—me,
the jacquard bolster—and hugs me. I represent all of
us so there is no jealousy where she chooses one of us
over another. I am just more like a doll, it seems.
Soft, if without warmth. And here. Always here.
 10
Hairbrush

A BRUSH WITH TIME

By Peggy Fletcher

Tossed from her life I am useless now

I lie on my lacquered back
stiff bristles upright on fake mahogany surface.

Fine hairs still cling to me in sad disarray

my aging owner bedridden
unable to tolerate my brisker touch
skin tingling massage.

Now I watch as a soft baby brush passes over

her thin pink scalp covered with silver grey strands
gentle, but ineffective
its small curved handle held in the firm hand
of a pleasant support worker
allocating her ten minute clump of care
without complaint.

I am lonely now, soon destined for a yard sale

a fifty cent insult will be taped
to my Mother of Pearl face
a relic of the past they will say
ignoring my proven capabilities
my former dedication to her well being.

Once her hands were beautiful and strong.

They lovingly grasped my slender arm
pulled me with exciting vigor
through a lustrous crown of golden hair
readying herself for love
and I was the queen of her dressing table
serving her with devotion.

The room is silent now. Her breathing shallow.

If I had tears I would shed them for the both of us
lying forgotten in a throwaway world.

Peggy Fletcher is a retired teacher and journalist. Her

work has appeared in international journals and her poetry
books across Canada and the United States.
[p_fletcher@live.com]
PM—Jan 2010
 11
Pumpkin

Dear Old Jack was cut young

from the vine, smaller than most
with a smooth orange face
and a craggy gray bottom.

Dear Old Jack was laid down

to rest on the cut straw,
waiting until the last day
to be taken home by someone.

Dear Old Jack was very happy

when a youngster picked him up
A PUMPKIN’S LIFE to carry him -- one-step, two-step
By C. D. Reimer to an adoring Mom and Dad.

Dear Old Jack was faint hearted

Catch more sales when the sharp knife sliced him
open to pop his top,
young hands pulling out his seeds.

Dear Old Jack was whacked hard

Advertise in from the wooden spoon that scoured
Perspectives Magazine his insides all around until
he was clean as a whistle.

Dear Old Jack was looking good

with two round eyes to see,
a triangle nose to smell,
and a toothy mouth to smile.

Dear Old Jack was on fire

with a brightly-lit candle that night,
greeting the trick or treaters
who came knocking at the door.

Dear Old Jack was soon retired

to the compost pile, decaying slowly
back into the mother earth
Visit http://1perspectives.webs.com or email perspectives.ads@gmail.com
after pleasing so many children.
PM—Jan 2010
 12
Park bench
IN LOVING MEMORY
By Heather Miller
“Good morning, Mort.”
“Mornin’ Jon.”
“Is Fran up?”
“Course not. When has Fran ever gotten up early on a
weekday, ‘specially in fall?”
Jon mused. “Is it fall already? It seems like last week there
were bikers whizzing past and little ones splashing in the
fountain.”
“It was last week. But that ‘ill be the end of the summer
weather. It’s getting cold and dark faster. The leaves over
you are starting to go.”
“Are they?” Jon wished he could see the tree behind him.
“Any good colors yet?”
“No, bit of red on the edges. Fran’s maple’s got some
orange.”
Jon sighed. “Mort I think it’s unfair you can see the whole
park and all I can see is you.”
“Not my fault.”
A yawn came from behind Jon. “How’s a girl supposed to
get her beauty sleep with you two yammering?”
“Sorry Fran.” Much practice had Mort and Jon replying in
unison.
“Oh never mind, the sun’s too bright to sleep now anyway.”
She yawned again loud and heavy to remind them of the
deprived sleep.
A plump pigeon waddled down the path between Mort and
Jon.
“They’ve got a stop feeding the birds,” Mort mumbled to
Jon.
The pigeon flapped a few feet and landed on Jon. It walked
back and forth along the top rail of Jon’s backrest before
settling in the middle. “Darn birds.”
“Now, now. They are nature’s creatures,” cooed Fran.
Mort snorted. “You wouldn’t say that if you were stuck
under this oak tree and had squirrels making bombing runs
with acorns.”
Jon agreed. “They do seem to have it out for you.”
A man walked past Jon backwards carrying one end of a
bench followed by another man struggling to hold up the
other end. The unexpected procession startled the
overweight pigeon on Jon. It flew off.
PM—Jan 2010
“New bench,” observed Jon.
“Who died?”
“Mort, have a bit more respect for the dead,” Fran scolded.
“We don’t know someone died,” suggested Jon. “Maybe
they’re just putting in some more park benches.”
Jon watched the men closely as they set up the bench. It
was facing toward him on the same side as Mort, but it was
further down the path. It was a newer version of his bench
with wooden rails supported and framed by black metal. The
backrest had a graceful arch, which Jon’s lacked, and so far, it
was unadorned.
“Well? Plaque or no plaque?” Mort was impatient because
he couldn’t see the new bench.
“Nothing yet, but they’re not done,” Jon reported. The
difference between an ordinary bench and a new companion
was nothing more than a scratched rectangular piece of metal.
“What’s that glint?”
Fran caught something Jon had missed. “Screwdriver.”
“So someone did die.”
“Stop jumping to conclusions, Mort. A screwdriver could
be used--” Jon stopped.
The man had taken the screwdriver out of his back pocket.
He pulled out some screws. The other man unwrapped a
small brown paper package. He produced a bronze plaque.
“They’re screwing on a plaque.”
“I knew it. I knew this town was too cheap to buy new
benches,” gloated Mort.
“I wonder who it will be. I hope it’s a girl.”
“What’s wrong, Franny? Don’t like spending time with the
boys?”
“Oh, be quiet Mort, they’re almost done.” Fran’s voice
dropped off as a low grown came from the new bench. “It’s
awake,” whispered Fran.
No one spoke. The workmen packed up their tools and left.
Jon recalled his arrival in the park. It had taken awhile for
him to become aware of his surroundings and even longer
before he could talk.
After a few anxious moments the new bench spoke.
“Whoa, I must ‘ave hit hard. I can’t move.” The new bench
sounded remarkably calm, like this kind of thing happened all
the time.
“He’s just some punk kid.”
“Mort!” Fan’s voice squeaked a bit as the word shot out.
“Oh man, I’m hearing voices too. I must really be out of it.”
“Oh, honey, you’re not hearing voices. I’m Fran and this is
Jon and Mort.”
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Ah, correction imaginary dudes, there’s no one here,”
protested the new bench.
Jon started gently. “You see the park bench to the right of
you and the one behind that?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the one on the right is me, Jon, and Fran is behind
me and Mort is in front of me, but you can’t see him because
he’s even with you.”
 13
“Yeah, and you’re a park bench too. That’s why you can’t
move.” Mort finished off the revolutionary idea.
“Park bench.” The new comer mulled over the suggestion.
“No way! Look, I took a bad fall off my board and now I’m
out cold in some dream.”
“Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself dear?” urged
Fran.
“Name’s Lexy…well that’s what the boys called me. I’m
Alex.” Lexy paused. “Wow, this is super weird. I’m Lexy
but I’m not. It’s like watching a movie of someone’s life in
your head. Lexy is starting 10th grade. He loves to shred in
the park. Hey, Lexy jumped a bench somewhere around here
to scare the stupid squirrels.”
Mort broke in. “That was you.”
“Well, yeah, so.”
“I was the bench you jumped.”
“Oh, sorry man.”
Jon remembered the boy—long blond hair in dreads, baggy
pants, and inseparable from his skateboard.
“You are a park bench. No question about that, but you
also have some memories of the person whose name is on
your plaque.” Jon tried to explain the situation as best he
could.
“So, who’s this Lexy guy? And why is his name on a
plaque?”
Jon was surprised it was taking this long for Lexy to put
the pieces of the puzzle together; but then Lexy hadn’t
seemed too smart sliding across the pavement time and time
again.
Mort answered. “Lexy’s dead.”
“Serious?”
“Don’t you remember dear?” coaxed Fran.
“Um, well, the last thing I, or I guess Lexy remembers, is
passing his driver’s test. He took a bunch of the guys out to
the skate park in the city. There was crunching sounds,
broken glass, and twisted metal.”
“Car accident.” Mort said what Jon was thinking.
“Over here honey.” It was an unfamiliar male voice. A
moment later, a man in a black suit walked passed Jon. He
supported and guided a woman in a long black dress and
shawl. The women held the hand of a young girl in a short
black dress and shiny black shoes. They stopped in front of
Lexy’s bench.
“It’s Lexy’s mom and dad and his little sister.” Lexy
sounded a bit sad for the grief of Lexy’s family. The woman
was weeping the slow unending tears of a mother who has
lost her son.
“Hi guys,” said Lexy. Then he thought to ask, “Can they
hear me?”
Jon answered. “No, only we can talk to each other.”
“Oh, then I guess it doesn’t matter if I say Lexy loved you,
even if he didn’t like to show it.” Lexy words hit Jon hard.
He hated not being able to tell Jon’s loved ones how Jon had
felt about them.
Lexy’s mother knelt down before the bench and ran her
fingers over the bronze plaque. “In loving memory of our
PM—Jan 2010
darling boy, Alex.” Her voice shuttered as she read the
inscription.
Lexy’s father knelt down next to the little girl and pointed
at the plaque. “That’s for your big brother Alex.”
She smiled up at her father. “Cause we love him, right?”
“You got it kiddo,” cried Lexy’s father as he leaned in to
kiss her cheek.
“Ah, Katie.” Lexy’s voice trembled a bit. “She really was a
pain the butt but Lexy loved her.”
Jon knew what it meant to have visitors stop by. There was
nothing better than seeing Jon’s grand kids on the 4th of July
and nothing worse than outlasting all those who remember
you as Fran had.
Lexy’s father put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “We’ve
got to go hon. Calling hours start soon.”
She nodded and got to her feet with his help. “I just wanted
to see it.”
“Come on Katie, we’ll come back later.”
Katie got up on her tiptoes and leaned over the bench to
touch the plaque. “Bye, bye Alex.”
“Bye little sis,” Lexy said.
Katie ran to catch up with her parents who had already
passed Jon. She stopped short in front of Jon’s bench and
stared up at him.
Mort asked, “Why is the kid gawking at you?”
“I don’t have any idea,” replied Jon.
Katie reached up toward Jon’s plaque. She opened her tiny
red mouth. “Jon.” She smiled.
She ran across the path to Mort and stared at him.
“She likes you both,” Fran said.
“Mort-im-er.” Katie giggled. “That’s a funny name.”
“Hey, watch it kid!” Mort snapped.
Kate raced after her parents yelling, “Daddy, daddy!
Someone loves those benches, too!”
As an Admissions Counselor for the University at Albany I spend an
inordinate amount of time in Dunkin' Donuts in the fall between high
school visits. This story was inspired by a bench outside one such
store in Peabody, MA and is dedicated to Nadine Boyce, the
wonderful mother of a fantastic friend. I will never look at a bench
the same way and I hope you won't either. [HeyMiller@gmail.com]
• Multi-Sensory
Reading Remedy
Program
• Dyslexia Screening Catherine Adams B.A., Director
• Training Penny Greenberg B.A., B.ED., Director
• Workshops
Tel./Fax 905 628-2836
• Lexia Educational 14 Cross St., Unit E., Dundas, ON L8H 2R4
Software
des1@bellnet.ca | www.dyslexiahamilton.ca
• JUMP Math
Guitar 14

FRETTING
By Rhonda Melanso

pick me
you gypsy wanna be

scratch light
my cocoa belly
after weeks of
sloppy g-chords

make me a conduit
for your wild flamenco
in a club washed in
cappuccino and neon

or for a moonlight
swim swollen with
acoustic aches and
blue undertows

because water is always

deepest under the bridge.

PM—Jan 2010
 15
Army uniform Tattoo

ARMY UNIFORM TO NEWBORN

By Norma West Linder WE ARE TATTOOS
A scent of lilacs By Lynn Tait
filled the April air
the day I cradled you
in khaki sleeves
the day I took up arms
to shield you from harm
feeling the age-old surge
the treasured urge
of life
new life as fragile
as a robin’s egg
your big blue eyes
appraising me.
A father wants to be
a hero to his young
he wants to have
the courage of a lion
I hope I can provide
protection for this man.
He needs me now
to camouflage the fear
I smell on him. engraved on kinetic temples
My fellow uniforms filled with voices and chants
will comfort him of 8000 years.
for he is not alone.
I pray we may some day
come safely home Like fired pottery
to feel you cling once more they have burned
to manly arms. in mad-made kilns,
swelled unrecognizable
in gaseous states.

With each attempt to erase us

they remain strong

Scattered temples entwined,

resilient network of bone and sinew,
osmosis of color and tongue,
our living testaments carry us
until these tribes of tabernacles
Norma West Linder is the author of 5 novels, 9 collections of poetry, a
memoir of Manitoulin Island, a children’s book, and a biography of Pauline burn as stars
McGibbon. Her short stories have been published internationally and
broadcast on the CBC. [nlinder@cogeco.com] in Abraham’s sky.

PM—Jan 2010
 16
Wishing well

LIFE OF A WISHING WELL

By Rebecca Rose Taylor

I live in the middle of a busy shopping mall and love being in the hub of everything. Sometimes when
people need a break, they’ll stop by and sit on a bench overlooking my calm waters. The artificial trees
surround me to project a virtual getaway in the middle of an often-chaotic world.
I am a wishing well and people throw pennies and other spare change into me, sometimes even hoping that
something amazing will come from this small act. While taking time to be pulled in by the magic which some
believe I possess, it may seem ridiculous to certain people. I don’t really have any special powers but I am
important to the community.
Every year just before Christmas, a net with very small holes glides through my waters. Volunteers from a
local children’s charity gather all the cash that was tossed into me throughout the year. This money is used to
buy gifts for children who would otherwise have none. Sometimes the volunteers are stunned by the amount of
money I have built up over the year. Pennies accumulate slowly, but they definitely add up over time.
Knowing that I hold dreams of the wishers and the children who will receive the gifts of kindness is a
wondrous feeling; it makes me shiver with joy.
The fact that nobody steals my money collected throughout the year is a great relief. It would be very easy
for someone to reach into my cool swirling waters and take money. Maybe like me, they believe that this
would be bad luck—to take from the desires, which people have left behind, and from the donations that help
make children smile during the holiday season.
When I—a simple wishing well—think of all the places I could have been placed on earth, I cannot imagine
living anywhere else. To be able to feel at peace in the middle of such a large commercial enterprise seems
strange in a way. Some people come here because they need something, and others use a trip to the mall as an
outing or sightseeing trip; but no matter what the reason is, many of them visit me. Each individual comes
here for a different reason: some to toss coins in me knowing that they are going to help a worthy cause, others
wishing for anything from wanting their parents to buy them something, to a happy ending from a difficult
situation. I get all kinds of wishes. Sometimes people come back to thank me, but really they should be
thanking a higher power who happens to sit in on the conversations had by my waters.
The money and I often converse about what goes on here. We have grown to respect each other. After
some debate about value, the coins in my waters have come to an understanding. Within me, they all have the
same worth: a penny, nickel, dime, quarter, dollar, and twoonie are equally precious—all were tossed into me
for a reason—and all will assist in making a difference in someone’s life. These coins and I are all blessed to
be able to make differences in the world. I will hopefully forever rest within this shopping mall while the
coins will voyage from me into the hands of shop owners, and then go back to shoppers as change or to the
bank in a deposit. Occasionally, different wishers with a different purpose return some to me. The money
ventures out into the world and people venture to me. We are part of a very specific cycle helping make
beautiful things happen.
Wishing gives people hope, which means I am a well of hope. I like that. It makes me feel special, loved.
As a wishing well, I feel life’s affects on humans every day, each one journeying on earth’s powerful and
emotional rollercoaster. I have learned so many lessons being where I am. So much of what I see and hear
amazes me. Having dreams and faith can make anything happen; I’ve seen it in the faces of the people who
come near me, especially those who come back after having received their wish. I have embraced my destiny;
I am meant to be a wishing well and cannot imagine a better job on earth for me.
Rebecca Rose Taylor lives along the St.Francis River in St.Felix-de-Kingsey,Quebec. She loves crocheting, reading and writing and
someday hopes to be a fulltime writer. Her recent publications have been included in Bread n' Molasses, Grainews and Perspectives
Magazine. [rebecca_taylor2@hotmail.com]

PM—Jan 2010
 17

PM—Jan 2010
 18
Umbrella

THE UMBRELLA
By Debbie Okun Hill

I open my ribs to you You are my rain man

let my voice escape the iridescent droplet
from my lungs your wet weather fingers
rattle against bone bars running down my spine
the skin opening up you are like the mole
my rainbow smile who lives in darkness
like black bowl catching trickle-crawling, falling
your navy clouds through cloud tunnels
my sun shield not noticing when
over your head the sun comes out
a leather hook but disappearing
around your arm. when it does.

Debbie enjoys sharing the inanimate voices she hears. She is the 2007 recipient of the Ted Plantos Memorial Award and her award-winning
poems appear in her first chapbook Swaddled in Comet Dust (Beret Days Press, 2008). Since the fall 2004, over 145 poems have been or will be
published in over 60 different Canadian and US anthologies, including the last four issues of Perspectives Magazine.

If you’re going to be published

It might as well be in

PM—Jan 2010
 19
Womb

A WOMB’S LOVE SONG

By Monique Berry

I watch in awe
the miracle that
clothes your spirit with flesh and bones.

I hold you tight

as you grow in our secret place
secured to me, the cup of roots.

I feel you perform

fetal ballets
emotions dance in the water of life.

I hear your mother

whisper tender love songs
hearts beat in intimate darkness.

I weep as the umbilical anchor

releases you much too soon.
Farewell, my cherished one.

Before you go
let me embrace you one last time.

(((contraction)))

Monique Berry is the founder of Perspectives and

Christian Perspectives. Her stories and poems are
published in several magazines and anthologies. She is
currently working on a novel and hopes to have it
published this year. [moniqueberry@gmail.com]
PM—Jan 2010
 Interesting facts about the objects represented in this issue
Eyeglasses (p4) Until the eighteenth century, eyeglasses either
balanced precariously on the nose or were held by the rim with one
hand. Finally, an optician in Paris added short arms that extended to
the temples, and an optician in England carried the idea further by
extending the arms to the ears resulting in eyeglass frames.
Candles (p6) While Martin Luther, the 16th-century Protestant
reformer, was walking toward his home one winter evening,
composing a sermon, he was awed by the brilliance of stars twinkling
amidst evergreens. He erected a tree in the main room and wired its
branches with lighted candles to recapture the scene for his family.
The oldest candle manufacturers still in existence are Rathbornes
Candles, founded in Dublin in 1488.
Lawyers (p7) Although the United States has just 5 percent of the
world's population, it has most of the world's lawyers at 70 percent.
The American Bar Association has estimated that by 2000, the U.S.
will have one million lawyers. Twenty-six Presidents were lawyers
before becoming president.
Credit cards (p8) The largest credit card transaction ever was when
Eli Broad of Los Angeles, CA put 2.5 million dollars on his American
Express card in order to buy a painting titled 'I...I'm Sorry' by Roy
Lichtenstein.
Masks (p9) Ancient masks were made from clay, wood or linen with
the attached wig covering the entire head and they had wide open
mouths for easier speaking. The traditional "Comedy Tragedy" masks
are used now as a universal symbol for drama, and also represent the
two sides of Dionysus, as well as the two effects of wine: joyous,
Bacchic revelry, and a dark, sorrowful harvest.
Hairbrush (p10) Camel hair brushes are not made of camel's hair.
They are named after the inventor, Mr. Camel. African American,
Lyda D Newman patented a new and improved brush on November
15, 1898.
Jack O’ lanterns (p11) The practice originated from an Irish myth
about a man nicknamed "Stingy Jack." According to the story, Stingy
Jack invited the Devil to have a drink with him. True to his name,
Stingy Jack didn't want to pay for his drink, so he convinced the Devil
to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks.
Once the Devil did so, Jack decided to keep the money and put it into
his pocket next to a silver cross, which prevented the Devil from
changing back into his original form. See the fascinating history at
www.history.com
Perspectives Magazine
WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS HAVE REAL-LIFE EVENTS
MONIQUE BERRY, FOUNDER
Park benches (p12) The park bench that Tom Hanks sits on for
much of the movie was located in historic Savannah, Georgia, at
Chippewa Square. The bench is currently held in the Savannah
History Museum, Savannah, Georgia.
Tattoos (p14) The most popular design: The tribal design originates
from many different cultures including the Polynesian, Samoans,
Maori, Mesoamerican peoples (Aztecs) and the various tribes in
Borneo, Philippines and Mentawai Islands. The meanings behind the
designs ranges from honoring the gods, social status symbol to
spiritual power to keep the evil spirits away.
Army uniforms (p14) Army soldiers no longer roll up their
sleeves. First, this had a practical reason as it helped reduce sun and
other skin injuries. Second, it was all part of the Army's current
initiative to instill a warrior attitude in the soldiers of always being
prepared for combat at all times. Most infantry units had never
authorized the sleeves to be rolled up. Lastly, the design of the new
ACU's made rolling up the sleeve impractical.
Guitars (p15) Forty years after his death, gypsy-born jazz composer
and guitar player Django Reinhart became the first artist in his
category to be celebrated by the French postal services as some kind
of national hero, though in fact the man had been born in Belgium
near Charleroi.
Wishing wells (p16) One day about 600 BC, the people of the
Greek city of Ephesus gathered around a big pit in the ground.
Someone scattered a group of coins across the bottom of the pit, and
then teams of workmen lowered several enormous stone slabs over
them. These slabs were the central floor stones of what was to
become the Artemision—one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It
seems that wishing wells and coin water offerings to the gods for
good luck dates back to at least the times of the Romans.
Umbrella (p18) Umbrellas were used in the East as early as the
11th century B.C. Members of the political and religious hierarchy
used them not only as a protective measure against the hot sun rays,
but also as a device to ward off any spirits who might do them harm.
Because of the umbrella's sacred relationship to the sun, it is wrong
to open it in the shade.
Womb (p19) The world's first human womb transplant was done on
April 6, 2000 on a 26-year-old woman in an operation. Surgeons
gave the woman a new uterus after her own was removed in an
emergency hysterectomy because of a life-threatening hemorrhage
when she was 20. The transplanted organ survived for 99 days
before it failed and had to be removed. The donor was a 46-year-old
woman who agreed to give up her womb for transplant while having
surgery to remove ovarian cysts.