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New Words and Pictures by Wayne H. W Wolfson

Cecilia & Emily

"Do you Remember that time in Vienna?"
"Of course.."
"Is it a good memory, that was the first time that...."
The pause to see if I would change the subject or walk into the other room and start puttering about as we talked.
"It is..."
"Do you think it is for her too? "
"Wouldn't I play the part of the bad guy in the whole thing were it not a fond memory?"
"No, not at all, you had come into the bar after meeting with that collector, the one whose wife had the crazy eyes. We had already been sitting there talking for an hour or so, drinking that heavy wine. I think initially I did lead her to believe there would not be any men, a man, you, involved..."

With the passage of time more and more of the story I had not been there to witness came out. And why not, we three now had so much dirt on each other now, drunken jests aside, there could no longer be any judging. 

"I think her recollection, the flavor of it depends largely upon her mood but that is how it is for her anyways."

We stood there, her cheeks flushed and I could tell a mobious strip of tangled limbs was replaying in her mind's eye. She used up her allotted silence in reverie. I put some Lester Young on letting his soft clouds float across the room to be melted by her heat.

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2014

www.waynewolfson.com

New Poetry by Donal Mahoney

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday I saw Quinn again,

first time in years, sailing the streets,

weaving through people,

collar up, head cocked,

arms like telephone poles sunk

in the pockets of his overcoat,

 

the brilliant pennants of his long red hair

waving over the stadium

where years ago he took my handoff,

bucked off guard, found the free field,

and heaved like a bison 

into the end zone.

 

Tonight, when Quinn wove by me muttering,

I should have handed him the ball.

I should have screamed, “Go, Quinn, go!”

He would have stiff-armed the lamppost,

found the free field again,

left all in his wake to gawk

 

as he hit the end zone

and circled the goal posts,

whooping and laughing,

flinging the ball like a spear

over the cross-bar,

back to Iraq.

- Donal Mahoney 2014

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.  Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.