Excerpt from “Ordinary Deaths: Stories from Memory” by Samuel LeBaron

The next day, Mom leaves her cleaning and sits down on the floor

where I am playing. She looks into my eyes. “Do you know where your name came from?”

   “No,” I say. I don’t know what she means anyway. If my name came from somewhere that means that I came from somewhere. I thought my name and I have always been here.

She leans toward me so close I feel her look into the inside of me.

“You were named after your grandpa. My papa. But your name also came from the prophet Samuel. It means ‘called of God.’ When the prophet Samuel was a little boy, he woke in the night and thought he heard a voice call him. He tried to go back to sleep but he heard somebody call his name again and again. Finally, he got out of bed  and went into his parents’ bedroom. ‘Did you call me?’ asked Samuel. ‘No,’ his mother told him. ‘You heard the voice of God call you. Next time you hear that voice, listen to it and follow what it tells you.’

  “So, Samuel listened to the voice of God after that, and that’s how he grew up to become a prophet. I want you to always listen to the voice of God. If you hear it call to you, you can follow in the path of the prophet and become a great man like your grandpa.”

I stare into her face. She smiles, then hugs me, so I think I should
agree. I nod and say, “Okay.” Then she gives me another hug. It’s a
long hug. It seems like a pretty good thing. All I have to do is wait for a voice to call.

After that, I realize I often hear something call me. Sometimes it’s the wind in the trees or against the windows; sometimes it’s the cry of a bird far away. It comes through my ears, or my eyes or skin, the way I see colors or feel the sensation of cloth or wood or snow. I’m not always sure.

 Sometimes I sit still in the middle of the kitchen floor while Mom
is busy. Through the window I see leaves and tree limbs and sky.
Branches waving. The sky sometimes gray and cold, or full of rain
or snow. The more I listen, the more I hear whispers and voices.
Sometimes there are whispers inside the walls or the ceiling. Little
whispers in snowflakes that stick to a window.

When that happens, I look up at Mom as she washes dishes or stirs food in a large bowl on the counter. I wonder if she hears any of these voices. But she never turns to ask, “Did you hear that?” so I don’t tell her.

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about a voice or sound only you can hear.

                 Siren Song

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

Reflective writing prompt:

Write about a song that was utterly captivating
or
About an irresistible force

Listen to Jim Mancinelli read “P 10 42 Center”

Reflective writing prompt
Write about a resurrection

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about something you will always remember

Emily Jungmin Yoon

Between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice, Today

I read a Korean poem
with the line “Today you are the youngest
you will ever be.” Today I am the oldest
I have been. Today we drink
buckwheat tea. Today I have heat
in my apartment. Today I think
about the word chada in Korean.
It means cold. It means to be filled with.
It means to kick. To wear. Today we’re worn.
Today you wear the cold. Your chilled skin.
My heart kicks on my skin. Someone said
winter has broken his windows. The heat inside
and the cold outside sent lightning across glass.
Today my heart wears you like curtains. Today.
it fills with you. The window in my room
is full of leaves ready to fall. Chada, you say. It’s tea.
We drink. It is cold outside.

Reflective writing prompt:
Today I am…..

*Sudden fiction – 750 words or less.

Give It Up – Franz Kafka

It was very early in the morning, the streets clean and deserted, I was walking to the station. As I compared the tower clock with my watch I realized that it was already much later than I had thought, I had to hurry; the shock of this discovery made me unsure of the way, I was still something of a stranger in this town; luckily, a policeman was nearby, I ran up to him and breathlessly asked him the way.

He smiled and said: “Do you expect to know the way from me?”

“Yes,” I said, “since I cannot find it myself.”

“Give it up! Give it up,” he said, and turned away with a sudden jerk, like people who want to be alone with their laughter.

Reflective writing prompt:
In 25 words or less, write about giving it up.

Reflective writing prompt

• Title this piece
• Write something related to your title

“Sisyphus”

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about something that weighs heavily on you.

Someone once said we were put on this earth to witness and testify

BY QUAN BARRY

Nowhere    in   the     Halakha’s     five   thousand   years   of   rules

does   it     specifically    state    Thou     shall     not     [                      ]

but     sometimes    tradition    carries    more     weight    than    law

and   so   for    much   of   the    past    year   we    have   not    talked

about     what    will    happen    on     Thursday,    how   the    cervix

will     start     its     slow    yawn,     the     pelvic      floor     straining

as         the           head        crowns,      the      fontanelles     allowing

the       bony        panes       of       the      skull     to      pass    through

until,     over    the   next    24   months,    the   five   cranial   plates

gradually      ossify,     the      head      forming    its     own    helmet

as     structures     harden    over   the    soft    meats   of  the  brain,

nor     do   we    talk   about    the   colostrum  sunny  as egg   yolks

now   collecting  in   your   breasts,   the    thing’s   first   nutrients

already    ready    and    waiting,    the     event    just    days   away

and   still  we  do  not  talk  about it, the mass growing inside you

tucked    up    safe     in   the     leeward   side    under    the   heart

because   sometimes   our   god   is   a  jealous god,   the evil   eye

lidless    and    all-seeing.  Instead  we  will wait  until  it is  done,

until  the  creature  has been  cleaned and wrapped in soft cloth,

the    bloody     cord   that    binds    you    severed.    And   maybe

you       will      name      it      Dolores,      which       means     grief,

or perhaps you will call it Mara, the Hebrew name for bitterness

because       this      is      how     we      protect     what     we    love,

by   hiding   what  it   truly  means  to   us,  the little  bag  of  gold

we    keep   buried   in  the  yard,   the  thing  we will do anything

to      keep      safe,      even    going     so      far    as    to     pretend

it    doesn’t    exist,   that   there’s   nothing  massing in  the  dark

despite  the steady  light  emanating  from  your  face, a radiance

so bright sometimes I can’t look at you, the joy so  overpowering

you     want    to     shout   it     from   the    highest    mountaintop

straight into God’s ear.

Reflective writing prompt:
Shout about an overpowering joy
or
Protecting what we love