urightsmagazine · sweden, italy, bangladesh, india, france, mauritius and canada. writes also...
TRANSCRIPT
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urightsmagazine.com
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EDITORIAL TEAM
ADRIAN SLONAKER Canada
AJANG PRECIOUS ERERITEM Nigeria
PATARH-EBERE EREMIKE Nigeria
LUKPATA LOMBA JOSEPH Nigeria
WANDA MORROW CLEVENGER United States
Special thanks to Adrian Slonaker, Wanda Morrow Clevenger and Patarh-Ebere Eremika for reading this issue.
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Contents Editorial Team .......................................................................................... i
Contributors ............................................................................................ iv
Editors’ Note ........................................................................................... vi
Conspiring with Entropy ........................................................................ 1
William Doreski
Transience ................................................................................................ 3
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
The Vengeance of Time ........................................................................... 4
Shimbo William
Return to Revelations .............................................................................. 6
Kathrine Yets
A Fight ...................................................................................................... 8
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
Images ..................................................................................................... 10
Milly Brown
Moving on from the Accident ............................................................... 12
John Grey
Siberia ..................................................................................................... 13
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
Wandawoowoo’s Cup ........................................................................... 14
Kenneth Pobo
Save Yourself ......................................................................................... 15
Jennifer Johnson
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A Face for the Faceless .......................................................................... 16
Bembe Ashibel
At Play .................................................................................................... 17
Gary Beck
Road of Bones ........................................................................................ 18
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
Chaotic Kaleidoscope ............................................................................ 20
Amit Parmessur
A Man of Sixes ....................................................................................... 22
Thomas M. McDade
My Girlfriend Says She would Die in a Street Lamp ........................ 29
Nnadi Samuel
About U-Rights ...................................................................................... 30
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CONTRIBUTORS
Amit Parmessur, 37, is a poet and tutor from Mauritius. His writing has appeared in around 160
magazines namely, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review
and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences, turn them over in the light and
lie about them.
Bembe Ashibel is a freelance writer who writes for fun and self-engagement. Her writing
mirrors her love for service and humanity. She writes about self-awareness and preservation and
personal development. Her philosophy is hinged on the principle of community and collectivism.
When she’s not writing, she enjoys long walks in nature, traveling, reading and photography. She
hopes to provide succor and mental support through her writing.
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is a translator and writer of poetry, haibun, haiku and short stories.
He writes in four languages: English, French, Spanish and German and holds workshops on
Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose.
Member of four writer groups in Ireland and lives in County Kerry, Ireland, for more than 25
years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany.
Published in 76 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in USA, UK, Ireland, Japan,
Sweden, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius and Canada.
Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when
he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage
diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been
produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary
magazines and his published books include 26 poetry collections, 9 novels, 3 short story
collections, 1 collection of essays and 1 collection of plays. Gary lives in New York City.
Jennifer Johnson is a business owner, blogger, motivational speaker, and writer. She resides in
Suffolk, Virginia with her husband and 4 children (2 boys and 2 girls). She is passionate about
creating content that inspires others while sharing her personal journey.
Jennifer believes that everyone's journey is not the same, but each journey offers personal and
spiritual growth which is needed to achieve one's fullest potential. She believes there is value in
sharing personal experiences because they can help others. Like most women, she's experienced
hard times in her life. Her mission is to empower a community of supportive women who are
learning and growing through this journey called life.
When not writing or sharing, you will find her spending quality time with her family, cooking a
new dish or watching a good movie.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard
and Maple and Clade Song.
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Kathrine Yets lives in St. Francis, WI with her lovely husband Brad. She instructs English at
various universities. Her chapbook So I Can Write is freshly published by Cyberwit. The Animal
Within is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press.
Kenneth Pobo has a new book out from www.cyberwit.com in India called Wingbuds.
Forthcoming is his chapbook called Book of Micah from Moonstone Arts Press. His work has
appeared in: Amsterdam Review, Hawaii Review, The Fiddlehead, and elsewhere.
Milly Brown studied under Josephine Miles at U. C. Berkeley. Many of her poems have been
printed in various publications over the years, most notably: Bangalore Review (2019);
California Quarterly (2019); Desert Wood (UNR, 1991); Eclectic (1970); Hiram Poetry Review
(1971); The Green Flag (City Lights Books, 1969). She took a long break from submitting, but
she is revived.
Nnadi Samuel is a 20-year-old graduate of English & literature from the University of Benin.
His works have previously published in libretto magazine, Artifact magazine, Inverse Journal,
Awakening Review, The Collidescope, Jams & Sand magazine & elsewhere. He got shortlisted
in the annual Poet's Choice writing & was the 2nd prize winner of the EOPP 2019 contest. If he
is not writing, you find him reading out memes on Facebook @ Samuel Samba.
Shimbo Pastory William is a writer, an editor, and a poet. He is in the final year of his concurrent
pursuit of B.A. degree in Philosophy and Diploma in Religious Studies at the Spiritan Missionary
Seminary, an Affiliated Institute to the Catholic University of Eastern Africa (CUEA) Nairobi.
Shimbo was previously an editor for the Writers Space Africa (WSA) Monthly Literary Magazine.
He was also poetry editor for the Poetica Poetry Magazine which is published quarterly by the
African Writers Development Trust (AWDT).
Shimbo has been twice (2018-2019) a member of the judging panel of the Daughters Destined for
Purpose (DD4P) nationwide Poetry Competition in Zimbabwe. His works have appeared in The
Leader Catholic Newspaper, a weekly newspaper published by the Catholic Archdiocese of
Owerri, Nigeria, Writers Space Africa Magazine, Poetica Magazine, SpillWords, The Kalahari
Review, U-Rights Magazine, AllPoetry, Hello Poetry, Friends Magazine, The Fountain Magazine,
and Kiongozi and Tumaini Letu Catholic Newspapers published in Tanzania. Shimbo’s first book
‘Teens and Schooling’ was published in 2016.
Thomas M. McDade is a resident of Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI.
He is a graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT.
McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training
Center, Virginia Beach, VA and at sea aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE
/ FF 1091).
William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work
has appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught at Emerson College, Goddard
College, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent books are Water Music
and Train to Providence, a collaboration with photographer Rodger Kingston.
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Editors’ Note
About three months ago, we published our first issue. As a team of committed individuals, we saw
the need for revamping and here we are with a much improved issue, featuring writers from
Nigeria, United States, Australia, Mauritius, Ireland and Tanzania. This issue is no doubt, an
improvement over the first issue.
During the planning stages of this issue, we were torn between announcing a call for submissions
for a themed issue and announcing a call for general submissions. In the vortex of counter opinions
offered by the team members, we were lured by the love for diversity. Diversity, not in terms of
various perspectives to a single subject but in terms of a spatial distribution of pieces, dwelling on
different subjects. This way, we got hold of “raw” quality and it’s a bit unfortunate that we culled
out just few pieces, having to say no to many good pieces because of our policy.
As you read through the eBook version of this issue, you will notice some blank pages running
throughout. These pages are intended to provide silence during transition. The issue has been
arranged, not according to any order of importance. All the pieces here are equally valuable to us.
We wish to express our gratitude to our lovely contributors for making this issue a great one. We
are indeed honoured to read your work.
Lots of thanks to the Canadian writer and copy editor, Adrian Slonaker, the American writer,
Wanda Morrow Clevenger and the Nigerian writer, Patarh-Ebere Eremika for dedicating their time
for the selection process. We are humbled by your commitments.
Finally, we want to thank our German friend, Richard Littauer, for his willingness to answer our
questions at all times.
We must stop now!
Enjoy!
Lukpata Joseph and Ajang Precious,
Founding Editors.
ISSUE TWO 1
Conspiring with Entropy by William Doreski
Forest isn’t synonymous
with wood, since English
forests don’t have to have trees.
Does that offend you? Beware
of Old French, the source not only
of etymologies but rank
or rancorous confusion, not
compatible with contusions.
After two days of snow and ice
the landscape looks too gray and bruised
to answer the simplest questions.
Before the forest—defined as
wild land set aside for hunting—
moves any closer, flexing its boughs,
we must scrape away driveway ice
so we can move about freely
with candor and lack of want.
We can’t let the forestam silvam
hem us in. Too much Latin
can choke an adult or a child
lacking a good dictionary.
Yesterday watching the snow flop
from the roof I thought I detected
irony in simple gravity,
a conspiracy with entropy.
All those y sounds mating without
a sprig of phonetic conscience.
As if reading Muldoon’s poetry
could stopper the oncoming moment
when everything goes blank forever
and you lean over the coffin and sigh
or laugh or look stoic as a sheep.
ISSUE TWO 2
The forest, really woodland
with seasonal hunting allowed,
shrugs off the bone-warping cold
and waves at the creamy sunlight
as if soliciting a bribe.
ISSUE TWO 3
Transience by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
Write your name on the stone
and throw it into the sea.
Or take a shell and scoop water
wash away the word
written in the sand.
Dry wood, flotsam,
a dead seagull,
a small wreck, the masts broken,
a dream shattered
the word unspoken.
Eerie silence all around us.
ISSUE TWO 4
The Vengeance of Time by Shimbo William
We travel far in the spaces and we return to time
We read the infinite skies and draw maps over roads
We may touch hearts, or hit, or hurt, or run
Eyes peek atop the left wrist in recurrent bewilderment
The haste is pressing, to pick to the volatile moods of fate
The wrist covers the eyes to liven frightened blinks
Presuming that time’s distressing marathon will soon ease.
Time takes us places and brings us back home
We are never freed from the chains we made
The hurt over the wounds we saw opening scribes live scars
Which mimic our secrets in thick ink over the aged canvases of time
These die not, that we crouch in groans where we first rose with pride.
Time keeps its fair vengeance,
And its vengeance hits very hard.
ISSUE TWO 5
ISSUE TWO 6
Return to Revelations by Kathrine Yets
If you eat a flower
you will return to that place someday,
my mother told me.
Her pink hibiscus took her back to Hawaii.
My wild violets always took me back to my grandparent’s home.
They’re good for your heart,
Grandpa said months after returning from the hospital,
his heart still weak.
I picked unblemished bunches from the side of his garage
to share with him, to strengthen us both.
Purple crunched between our teeth with a subtle sweetness.
Over a decade later, we share asparagus.
steamed, soft, green.
It can cure cancer,
he tells me— proves with an article.
Unnecessary.
He bought me bunches from Pic ‘n Save.
3 tbsp. a day, at least.
While eating, he speaks of Revelations,
Redemption is in your lifetime.
Christ will come to your generation, Katie.
I cling to his every word,
but do not hold it as my own.
In the following hour I learn
there is no hell, no heaven either.
There is only sleep.
We all wait.
Just look in the Bible, it’s all there.
We will all return… heaven’s on earth.
He hands me Tupperware as I leave.
I deny it; try to make him keep his green cure.
ISSUE TWO 7
Try to make him save himself.
Just take it.
I do. My hands suddenly smaller
and filled with wild violets.
ISSUE TWO 8
A Fight by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
winter’s arrival means fight
he does not knock on the door
he smashes it
A line of rocks marks a ridge overgrown with heather which leads down to a sandy bay at the
headland. On an elevation, behind a patch of marram grass, a dilapidated cottage.
The walls are made from natural stone, the roof shingles are covered with moss, the frames of
the small windows are jammed and swollen having been exposed over years to moisture and
rain. In the nearby water bobs an open boat with fishing lines and nets.
Close to the house stands a rusty fish trap and a few lobster pots.
There are remnants of red paint on the door. Next to it leans another door, freshly painted in
blue.
The shed is open and shows shelves, barrels, carpenter equipment and fishing tackle.
Across the forecourt, covered by weeds, lies a broken mast and next to it an anchor.
The fishermen have moved away from this area, left with memories of the rattling and ringing of
the rigging, the whispering wind and the lashing, roaring surf, the rubbing of the oars against the
rowlocks.
The sight of the lonely, ugly and abandoned neighbouring house fills him with melancholy. The
absence of sounds of other people does not bother him.
There is only the clinking of the aeolian harp hanging from a sycamore tree.
He steps outside the door and smokes his pipe.
The sky shows a display of all shades of grey, from light grey, through dark grey to deepest dark
grey.
Gusts blow sand and loose grass over the shore stones.
He pushes the door further open. It jams, the house has settled. He had planed the blue-painted
door and made it fit to be installed when the paint has dried.
ISSUE TWO 9
Inside a table, two chairs, a cupboard, an unmade bed, logs stacked up next to a round iron stove.
On a side table an old-fashioned radio running on batteries, no television, in the corner a heap of
books.
The old radio is only there to hear the news and weather forecast. He is not interested in talk and
sermons.
In the country which he left behind he had hated television. He hated all those newsreaders, all
those and other types of “teachers” with their eyebrows and forefingers raised, who all rebuke
those who think differently, giving marks or awarding points.
The exclusion of TV was part of his fight against the system.
It becomes stormier.
A new fight is waiting for him.
He hastens to pull in the boat and turns it over so that the storm cannot catch and lift it. He
carries the blue door into the house. He is particularly worried about the shed gate. It is exposed
to wind and weather. A hinge is broken.
Inside the shed he pushes a heavy chopping block against one wing of the gate.
Outside the storm blows up its cheeks. A gust runs against the shed. Light falls into the shed for
a moment because the gate gives way. He braces himself against it.
The storm begins, it roars and rages.
He battles against the wind force, holds the gate with one hand and fetches a lumber to prop it
up. He nails a batten right across the two wings to the frame on both sides thus strengthening the
gate.
It works, the gate is not moving an inch.
The fight against the element, this old battle of mankind against wind and severe weather
conditions is won, for the moment.
The house gives shelter, the storm’s voice is less audible. He lights the stove to make hot water
for a tea, which he will thin down with some whiskey, and to boil a few mussels.
He lights a candle in a lantern. The cottage is not connected to the mains, that means no bills and
no visits by the meter reader, who would disturb his seclusion.
Making frugality the purpose of life.
For re-collection. Re-flection. To spell nature, to give nature its meaning back.
ISSUE TWO 10
Images by Milly Brown
Warm blue candle on a shelf
Round stone
Incense burner Buddha
Slightly blackened
Shell wind chimes tinkle slowly
In the doorway.
Music stands open on the piano.
On the table – a bowl of peppermints
A box of pretzels
An avocado telephone.
Brown cat on the ironing board
Closes his eyes.
ISSUE TWO 11
ISSUE TWO 12
Moving on from the Accident by John Grey
In the seat beside him.
flesh was metal
and metal, flesh.
The collision was all on his wife's side.
A trickle of blood
headed his left cheek.
It could have been hers.
He wasn't sure.
Rescue somehow
extracted her from that steel bric-a-brac
while police lights
called out to nosy strangers.
A firm hand guided him into the ambulance
in the stretcher's wake.
A tactful tow truck kept its distance.
For street after street,
the night's noise
was with them all the way.
as one voice talked him down from shock
and another coaxed her out of death.
That he survived was a given.
That she pulled through was a miracle.
They sit on the porch of their new home,
sip wine and twilight with tongue and eyes.
Only her scars discuss the accident.
Not a conversation exactly.
More of a mild collision with the setting sun.
ISSUE TWO 13
Siberia by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
Star-sprinkled, star-speckled
sky dome over icy cold ground.
Snow dust, snow powder covered.
Frozen rain days cling to fir branches.
There is not a light or a sound
only green veils of the northern lights.
Snow flurry over grey mountains
without paths and passes.
Yaks graze on sediment pastures,
scrape sparse food with their hooves
to the surface.
Yaks give fat milk, patient, frugal.
Butter is beaten by tribal women.
Fat mutton lump of meat boil.
Soon the sun will lure the green.
Torrential currents transform
and create new images
re-paint the landscape
on a grey canvas, in a steel frame.
Eternal change.
ISSUE TWO 14
Wandawoowoo’s Cup by Kenneth Pobo
Maybe if I drink another cup
of coffee, the news will be better.
In this darkness it’s hard to see up
the street to a startling buttercup.
A slanting rain makes me feel wetter.
Maybe if I drink another cup
of May, my life will have a shake up.
Should I hope? I only feel fetter.
In this darkness it’s hard to see up
beyond rusted cars of the corrupt.
I could write God an angry letter.
Maybe if I drink another cup
of poison, I won’t need a check up.
I’ll die alone, another debtor.
In this darkness it’s hard to see up
where I can be free, no more lockup,
to invent a yes out of never.
Maybe if I drink another cup
in this darkness… it’s hard to see up.
ISSUE TWO 15
Save Yourself by Jennifer Johnson
I’m standing in the middle of a circle surrounded by people reaching for me. They all want or
need something from me. Something I can no longer give. I’m running on fumes, too weak to
help anyone, including myself. My mind and body can no longer function the way it used to. I
am beyond overwhelmed and trying not to let anxiety take over. This emotional pain can’t be
seen like a scrape or bruise because I hide it, keep it locked up until no one is around. Then the
endless tears spill down my face.
I realize that I’ve been so quick to want to save everyone else, I forgot to save myself. Lost,
confused and frustrated I wonder if it’s too late to be saved? Every day I keep trying to find the
strength to keep going. I’m getting tired of trying only to be let down and disappointed. Am I
surprised? I shouldn’t be because disappointment is all I’ve known.
No matter how hard I try to make things better for myself, nothing changes. I keep questioning
why I can’t stop the stress, anxiety, and depression. With each day that passes I get no answer.
So I grow wearier and convinced that this is how my life is meant to be.
My brain is desperately scrambling to make sense of it all. And then it hits me-I am the problem
and the solution. Time to stop questioning whether or not things will change and focus on me,
myself, and I. Learn how to embrace the changes in my life instead of allowing them to
overwhelm me. I no longer want to waste energy on things I can’t control.
When I look in the mirror I want to see a reflection that smiles back at me. No longer smiling
through the hurt, confusion, and pain. Smiling because I am truly happy in my soul and love
what I see and what I’m doing.
ISSUE TWO 16
A Face for the Faceless by Bembe Ashibel
Come with me child of my mother
To the sand-grained school yard
Where seats the isolated swing.
Feet high in the air,
Giggling to the whoosh of the harmattan breeze
I summon you to let go of the fears that fetter your mind.
Swing back into the aura of your roots
And embrace the delicate weavings that is your umbilical cord.
Gaze into the welcoming eyes of she who held you at birth,
And know that you have been conceived of love.
Swing forth then toward the sun’s glory
And let your doubts with spade, be buried.
Daughter of my mother,
Pride of the Iroko tree that flourished on arid ground,
Ballad sung in praise of the tapper’s palm wine.
Dig your heels in and with purpose and strength,
Plant today that you may harvest tomorrow.
May your sons humour you with nostalgic melodies from their flutes at dusk
And when the long night comes,
Set you sail with songs befitting of a sage.
Child of my mother your soul is imbued
With vestiges of the peace you seek.
ISSUE TWO 17
At Play by Gary Beck
We spend more on recreation
than on education,
so we'll have a lot of fun
until we're too dumb
to repair our toys.
ISSUE TWO 18
Road of Bones by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
Endless Kolyma highway.
The changing height
of the fir trees
is the diversion that
delays the driver’s fatigue
and the sudden sleep.
The crunch of the gravel,
melody of a monotonous song.
Grey-brown band through
black-green-white scenery
of firs, pines, hillsides, taiga.
The chessboard of winter.
Gulags hidden far in the woods,
exuding suffering and the past,
but the spirits of the dead
and souls of the oppressed,
they are present, untired,
the thousands without names.
Day and night, silent calls;
moaning and sobbing,
region of unspeakable grief
burdened by black energy.
Scattered remnants, rusty dishes,
a rotten fur jacket, a single boot.
Birch crosses as signposts.
Hands from the ground,
bone hands, pointing up
to where eagles fly their circles,
to the clouds they never reached,
the sun they will never see again.
ISSUE TWO 19
Wolves snatch the prey
from a bear, which runs away,
a dead reindeer
looking with dead eyes,
some crows gather
for a last supper.
ISSUE TWO 20
Chaotic Kaleidoscope Upon holding the Mauritian flag
by Amit Parmessur
She venerates the four bands that flap high
in the sky of her mind though it’s hard to
tell them from the crisscross of shooting stars.
They make such soft, elegant waves, each day—
and they’re much better than the Union Jack.
But since the white man’s gone, every night, she
gropes for sense within whirlwinds of colours.
She’s not been to school to understand their
possible ramifications. And in
their infinite nuances, she can’t rule,
so she holds loose dreams inside her tight fist.
She thinks of the green not as verdure, but
butterflies that perished on their first flight.
Green is the man on whom she wants to cheat.
It’s how jealous she is of her parents;
she’ll never have a child as good as theirs.
She thinks of the yellow as her young heart—
one where the tongues of five towns tango loud.
Yellow is the rural inferno in
which she burns religiously every noon.
It’s the sun that cascades over the fools
trying hard to outwit her ignorance.
The blue is a rare, powerful bullet—
the missing part of her dream suicide.
It’s also her unborn baby, because
of whom she is called barren, a churel.
It’s the dry hole she’s in, and keeps digging.
ISSUE TWO 21
The red is the bloody charlatan she’s
crossed, the passion she’s had to mortgage—it’s
the keyword that became disillusioned
and dropped out of the sentence of her life.
It’s not the struggle for independence!
As a girl, bewilderingly sincere;
as a woman, sincerely bewildered—
everything’s kaleidoscopic chaos,
a tight thought loosening—pining for Light.
.
ISSUE TWO 22
A Man of Sixes by Thomas M. Mcdade
The shit hit more than an oscillating fan, more like a misplaced windmill atop Mount
Washington when I opened a registered letter from a woman named Cecelia Meeks
announcing that I was the father of her six-year-old daughter. Her husband was in jail for
twenty plus on a drug charge. She was in, dire, dire, straits. Two lines from the group’s song
popped to mind.
He do the walk, do the walk of life
Yeah, he do the walk of life
Me too, buddy.
Do a DNA if you doubt me. They are expensive. Send me $150 and your test result and I’ll
have it compared to Siobhan at a LabCorp; “Siobhan,” one of those Irish names that sounds
different from how it looks. Christ, this could land me in jail. I was up sewage creek with a
toothpick for a paddle. I had about $20 to my name and a crazy feeling. The kid was six,
round off the coupling at six years, six days no work due to weather. A devil of a
predicament so I played the so-called Satan number 666, 6 times. When I was working at
Seekonk Lace, I’d heard a know-all claim the digits were actually 616. I covered that trio too.
I met Cecelia at that gig. I ran a pressing machine. She was a spinner. God Almighty, six
years of child support. What an investment I was: A Tom Wales Savings Bond. As if I’d sold
my soul, the first numbers hit and like a perfect gentleman, I mailed a money order to
Cecelia. I worked for Robinson Roofing shingling mostly three-decker tenements in Central
Falls. The closest I’d ever be to heaven I guessed. I sometimes splashed around as a
ISSUE TWO 23
housepainter. I’d grown to hate textile mills. I called myself a casual laborer but the truth
was I drank too much. Some lecturers used “bum.” Maybe the kid news was a wake-up call
that would put me on a sober path. I might find a lawyer who could get my driver’s license
reinstated. For the time being, I stuck to my frivolous ways by granting myself a vacation
splurge. On the sensible side, I poured my last bottle of rotgut wine down the toilet. The
Celtics were in Atlanta. I’d catch a train to Atlanta in Manhattan. I visited Collette Travel to
get some info on the Amtrak Crescent that stopped in Atlanta on the way to New Orleans.
The only luggage I owned was a backpack and that would do. I made a much-needed trip to
a laundromat before packing. I took a Greyhound to the Big Apple in memory of when I
rode buses my Navy days. After acting like a sailor in Manhattan, I’d ride one back to my
ship in Norfolk, pick up a Village Voice at a newsstand before boarding and imagine a
Bohemian life but I wasn’t a poet, writer, folk singer, or artist. Well, I did finish second in a
short story contest run by the USO in Naples. My entry was about a sixteen-year-old kid
who worked at a Shell Gas Station. He loved Fords and wanted to labor someday at a
Detroit factory. A jerk in his mother’s parade of boyfriends pushed him over the line.
Disappointing as it was, the only car he succeeded in hotwiring was a Buick. The single Navy
mention was that the kid wore his dead father’s pea coat. The winning entry was about
boot goddam camp and it didn’t sound fiction to me, about how wonderful this
douchebag’s company had been, won all kinds of achievement flags. Fiction would have
been me using my company 454, claiming multiple flags when we won zilch. Maybe I could
modify my tale to fit six-year-old girl ears. Many drunken barroom nights I’d recited
Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29, “When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes.” Would she like
that? Am I losing my mind? Did she have a nickname? Vonny would be a good one. A
missing photo in Cecilia’s letter should have made me suspicious, such a trusting soul or
sap.
I walked the half-mile or so from the Port Authority to Penn Station. Along the way, I saw a
woman I thought might be Ernest Hemingway’s granddaughter Mariel who’d been in
ISSUE TWO 24
Woody Allen’s Manhattan film. At a stoplight, a cabdriver acted up. He was involved in a
fiery argument with a FedEx van jockey. They flipped the bird so many times I suspected
they might be members of some profane branch of the Audubon Society. Next block, I
encountered a most unusual panhandler sitting on a blanket, a red and white cane across
his lap, a well-worn fedora tilted left on his head; a Veteran’s Day fake poppy in its band. I
dropped a fiver in his bucket, compliments of the Beelzebub I mouthed. The Temptations
serenaded from a boom box. His company was half dozen kittens in a cardboard box, proxy
vision I witlessly imagined. The tiniest one, a smudged nosed black and white, had eyes the
blue of odes and arias that even the likes of Monet would have a tough time capturing, on
his or her best palette day. If I lost the Vonny sweepstakes, would Cecelia introduce her to
me or was this just a money deal? Maybe the kid wouldn’t like me. If she did, visitation
weekends might follow. How in the hell would I know how to act? Maybe I’d find book at
the library that would help. First, I’d have to move to a better neighborhood, rent a decent
apartment, buy new furniture, and abstain from booze when she was around. Maybe drift
back to AA. I’d never teach the kid how to play the numbers. Maybe she’s a Celtics fan,
Robert Parish her favorite too. We could take buses to Brown and Providence College
women’s games. I’d be hoping she’d dream of being a player and not a cheerleader. I was a
tick under 6-feet; Cecelia was no shrimp. If I won the wager, I might help Cecilia despite the
“mistake.”
In the waiting room, I saw a man reading the Koran and a woman lost in a Bible full of
bookmarks made of paper strips bent like fingers worn thin beckoning legions of heathens
and infidels. A teen dozed with a copy of Tristram Shandy. I’d read it my year of junior
college. I’d counted how many times he’d used the term “Hobby-Horse.” I think it might
have been 43, no sixes involved.
I caught the 2:00 P.M. Amtrak Crescent, an overnight to Atlanta. Walking to a roomette, I
was aware of the conductor’s rhythmic clickety-clicks and I wondered if a punch band ever
performed at railway employee outings. My compartment was tidy, very compact. It had a
ISSUE TWO 25
small bathroom that included a shower. There was a couch, a single seat, and a very slim
closet. Water, coffee, and juices were available at the end of the car. Watching the
landscape pass by reminded me of a 24-hour train ride in 1963 from Navy boot camp in
Chicago to Providence, Rhode Island and home. I was eighteen. No antenna dish farms
then—no male pattern baldness either (although Navy barbers did their best). I’d longed for
tailored dress blues instead of my baggy initial issue set. I tried to avoid scuffing my spit-
shined shoes. After two weeks of leave, I reported to the USS Mullinnix docked at Destroyer
/ Submarine Piers in Norfolk where I swabbed, chipped, and painted for seven months
before Supply School in Newport, Rhode Island. I had a slick gabardine uniform for that
train ride. I never resorted to patent leather dress shoes.
I enjoyed reading signs out of the Crescent’s window: the University of Pennsylvania
Medical Center, Bower Field, and Amir’s Sea and Soul Food in Wilmington, Delaware were
some of many before stopping at that depot. Glancing at the tracks in the train yard, I was
amazed at how the simple design of tracks and ties endured over the decades. Woody
landscapes, orchards, occasional wisteria, a razor wired prison, housing project, junkyards,
and more railroad yards with rusty cars flashed before my eyes—then finally Baltimore and
its row house scenery. Some residences well maintained; others dilapidated as in any large
city. Then Washington, D.C.: The Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, Potomac
River, and the Smithsonian were all very visible.
I ate dinner in the dining car, which prompted thoughts of old films, North by Northwest for
one. I found myself mind talking to the kid, asking about her favorite movies—Crazy. The
food wasn’t bad. My vegetable lasagna was tasty but three of the menu entrees weren’t
available. I sat with an Atlanta college professor who specialized in dialects, and her
husband, an expert in Georgia geography. He seemed very proud of Georgia’s square mile
dominance over Pennsylvania. Being a Rhode Islander I didn’t feel I had a say.
Manassas, VA was the next stop after many miles of shipshape farms, large and small, silos
and barns with “Mail Pouch Tobacco” ads painted on them, grazing cattle and an occasional
ISSUE TWO 26
llama. In town, I noticed families waiting in line outside Foster’s Grille. The professor had
mentioned their fabulous charburgers as well as all the Civil War sites. Sure sounded
interesting but a step at a time; The Crescent could be my last trip depending on LabCorp.
The porter arrived a little after nine and set up my bunk. I could hear a blind man I noticed
earlier in the dining car tapping his way by the door, no recollection of two in a day of my
life until now. The rocking of the train felt a bit like shipboard life, however, the “Iron
Horse” with its jerks and jolts, would never provide the deep rest of a smooth sea. While
trying to nod off, the intermittent train whistle got me thinking about people in houses and
hotels within hearing distance. Were they thinking of that old Hank Williams song that was
playing in my mind? "(I Heard That) Lonesome Whistle"
All alone I bear the shame
I'm a number not a name
I heard that lonesome whistle blow
All I do is sit and cry
When the ev'nin' train goes by
I heard that lonesome whistle blow
I could sure identify with “lonesome.” What kind of music would a six-year-old favor?
“Sleep is finished” was the wakeup call through the cracked open door. I dressed and made
my way to the dining car. An older couple from Park Slope, Brooklyn (obsessed with the
sodium content of food) sat with me. She was retired from 38 years of nursing. He carried
vinegar with him in case of a blood pressure spike and told of an aunt who was never
without peach leaves to make tea to treat her diabetes. He was wearing a jean jacket, logo
from some casino in Atlantic City. “He got it for gambling so damned much,” his wife
said. They argued about which one was the more profligate gambler. As I left, she made a
strange recommendation that I visit Lourdes. Cecilia went to Sacred Heart Academy. Did she
ISSUE TWO 27
raise Vonny Catholic? Would the kid drag me to Mass? What the hell; might do me some
good. I could get her a kitten for a birthday or Christmas, would check with Cecelia about
allergies of course.
There was a delicate rain falling when I got off the train in Atlanta, a fraction above
drizzle. The train station was small and ordinary for such a large city. I hailed a cab, driven
by a chatty man from Eretria. He asked about my rail ride and said it took far too much
time. Then he went on to talk about his 24-hour non-stop drive to Denver for his cousin’s
wedding: hmm.
The fare to the Courtyard was $10. There was a vacancy but the room wasn’t ready, so I
parked myself in a comfortable chair near the dining room. I did the Crossword Puzzle in
The Atlanta Constitution, and the Jumble, none of the words were relevant to my possible
fatherhood. I zipped through the comics and had a vision of laughing with – for the first
time – my daughter.
Half hour later I checked in. I took a nap and then went out to get the lay of the land. The
weather had cleared. Walking up Andrew Young International Blvd, I noticed mosaic-like
images of the seven continents in the intersection surfaces. I imagined kids finding a
hopscotch game or sketching the images at a classroom desk. Yes sir, among them that up-
in-the-air child. I passed a hotel sign welcoming a visually impaired group. I hoped to see
some noble guide dogs.
I peeked into Dailey’s Martini & Cigar Lounge. I could see blue neon that didn’t match what
an alley feline tryst behind an on or off Broadway theatre could create. The door was ajar. I
could catch the trio’s tune, “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.” I hadn’t tasted gin in ages and if I
smoked, it was a pipe. I did enjoy jazz though, attended a Dexter Gordon concert once. It
finally struck me that Cecelia took me to her apartment that was near the defunct Leroy
Theater, once a thriving burlesque, for our tryst. What’s color were Vonny’s eyes?
ISSUE TWO 28
Four men cane tapped their way toward me. That made six on the day. One of them asked
me for directions to Hooters. His “Hobby Horse” I guessed and congratulated myself for
connecting Shandy. I asked a cop walking by; got directions to State Farm Arena also, 2
miles. I’d hike it. I pulled my hand off the Lounge door. I thought of the servers at Hooters
joking about Braille “accidents.” I thought of color blue. I thought of Vonny blue.
ISSUE TWO 29
My Girlfriend Says She would Die in a
Street Lamp
by Nnadi Samuel
when we found her robbing death of its lumens beside a highway.
her eyes were jejune tangerines.
peeled into the barks of our anemic street lamp.
because it held her blood in a lit cell.
there is a disturbing need for more lamps on the streets across my country.
everyday a girl is plucked into the ripe night.
& nobody cares to know from which branch she fell off.
they simply rear her in slices of their curse words, when they refer to her mother.
i lost my girlfriend to a blind date with her guilt.
she was tensely dressed, except for a little flaw in her mascara.
& how it didn’t thicken the cloud she carried beneath her eyelashes.
he proposed, & she fell head over heels, into a bulb that mates an army of dragonflies.
i admired her beautiful looks in the lamp.
she seemed more handsome in death, than she had been in life.
more pleased that a whole city couldn’t do without her now.
a car stopped by, & asked why the other roundabout was not lit.
i smiled.
& told him, each time a street lamp comes erect, a maidenhead goes limp.
he shook his head & zoomed off.
this time, with my regrets boldly seasoned on his plate number.
ISSUE TWO 30
About U-Rights
U-Rights is an online literary magazine based in Cross River State, Nigeria.
Founded in 2019, U-Rights Literary Magazine is geared towards providing a platform for writers
to exhibit their creative talents, making good literature available to both academics and common
readers.
U-Rights opens for submissions three times a year, publishing poetry, fiction/non-fiction and
digital contents. Submissions are accepted from anywhere in the world and guest editors are
usually invited for every issue.
The pieces featured in the second issue of this magazine were selected from a pool of blind
submissions. The selection was done by a team of five readers.
U-Rights Literary Magazine is listed on Duotrope as U-Rights Magazine, you can engage more
with our contents at www.urightsmagazine.com.