Santa, Undone by Travis Flatt

Photo of Santa walking from behind
 

He taps on my door. You’ve got to hand it to a seven-year-old for knocking. That lesson he learned even before reading. “Please knock,” his mother would yell whenever he barged in on us in the act, and he’d step back out into the hall and tap a little drum beat on the door. Today, I’m sprawled out on the bed with an IPA (just one), watching Robocop (the original), when the kid walks in and hands me a list. Before his mother left for work, she asked him to write Santa a list. I’m … Continue reading Santa, Undone by Travis Flatt

It is Coming to Get Us by Fred Wilbur

Photo of brownish stains on gray rock
 

Several months ago, a fellow Streetlight editor wrote a Street Talk blog about her frustration with pestering and inappropriate advertising e-mails which show up on her screen by the zillions. Though I don’t have the same level of harassment, her words provoked me to contemplate the pervasiveness of advertising. One can hardly play a mind-exercising game on the iPad without constant interruption. Most intrusions try to persuade you to purchase more game downloads, but other products are promoted as well. Every online video is ‘sponsored’ by some advertiser. Thankfully, after a few seconds countdown, you … Continue reading It is Coming to Get Us by Fred Wilbur

There’s a Beer that Tastes Like June 1981 by Harry Lee James

Photo of fully pint of beer
 

Once upon a time I was a soldier living in a small town on the eastern most edge of what was known at the time as West Germany. To the East, a little over a mile away, lay a continuous line of fences, mines, walls, watch towers and enemy soldiers that stretched north and south as far as the eye could see. All of that vast array of potential violence marked the end of an old war that waited to be resumed if enough reasons and grievances could be sounded to wake it up from … Continue reading There’s a Beer that Tastes Like June 1981 by Harry Lee James

Le Francais et Moi by Miles Fowler

Photo of french flags on masts
 

The other day, I was watching a TV program set during World War II. An American bomber group was about to drop leaflets over Nazi-occupied territory. The French text of the leaflet appeared briefly on screen, and I hit the pause button. I got the gist of the leaflet. Maybe eighty-percent. It was something like, “It has become necessary to bomb this town. Leave immediately.” This would be terrific except that I have studied French on and off for more than sixty years. I grew up with a father who spoke French. One of his … Continue reading Le Francais et Moi by Miles Fowler

Moonburst and Shortcuts, 2 poems by J. R. Solonche

Photo of moon with clouds passing by
 

MOONBURST It was wan. It was white. It was sickly white. It was filled to full with white. It was white as a sheet. It saw a ghost. It saw me. I was the ghost it saw. I was at the window and it saw me. I wasn’t dead but I was a ghost. I was the ghost of the me I was this morning. The sun saw me then. It burst through the window. It laughed in my face. SHORTCUTS “Remember, there are no shortcuts,” he used to say. He was my father, and … Continue reading Moonburst and Shortcuts, 2 poems by J. R. Solonche

A Winter’s Tale by Trudy Hale

Photo of open wood stove, fire inside
 

4:30 a.m. A barely audible humming wakes me from a deep sleep. It’s a faint yet unfamiliar sound. I am used to the quiet, to the ordinary sounds, so this new sound disturbs me. I am trying not to be worried, but I am and lie wide awake, listening. Yes, now I’m sure it’s not a sound I’ve heard before. My house is old, an 1854 farm house and wood may swell or shrink, a floorboard creak, a piece of furniture, a door. I know these sounds. The daytime sounds are recognizable—a tractor ploughing feed-corn … Continue reading A Winter’s Tale by Trudy Hale

Some Stories by Claire Scott

a furled brown leaf against a pale gray background
 

Some stories last long past their appointed hour, like light from expired stars. Like leftover houseguests or five day fish. We walk toward remnants of the past like refugees, pulled by the gravity of guilt, the pulse of regret. Is it too late to unspool the alphabet of cruelty, the bludgeon, the blindness, the heated blade of anger? Words cutting like winter-raw wind. Some stories stick like late fall leaves, wrinkled and ready, but clinging to the apple tree like a drowning man to a raft. the drumbeat of regret stranded in the long syllables … Continue reading Some Stories by Claire Scott

All’s Fair in Love and Teacher Gifts by Ellen Weeren

Photo of wrapped present with pink bow
 

Even though it was early June, Elena wore an oversized, off-white cable-knit cardigan to the grocery store. The gift cards were displayed near the beer coolers, an area which was always too cold for summer clothes. Her list of teacher gifts contained six names, eight if she counted the music and art instructors, who her son Brian only briefly saw every other week—not enough time to warrant the same Panera card his more engaged teachers should get, especially since he was such an easy kid. She toyed with the idea of only treating them to … Continue reading All’s Fair in Love and Teacher Gifts by Ellen Weeren

Frankie Slaughter Shows at Quirk Gallery


 

  Streetlight: When and how were you introduced to art? Frankie Slaughter: When I was growing up, my mother, a modern dancer, art historian and arts enthusiast, and my father, a criminal trial lawyer and amateur magician, exposed my sisters and me to the arts in every form, practically on a daily basis—dance, art, magic, theatre. I engaged in many of these activities, such as painting, drawing, ceramics, tap, ballet, jazz, puppet making and set design. Streetlight: How did your work evolve? Slaughter: I started out with ceramics. I’ve always been interested in the materiality … Continue reading Frankie Slaughter Shows at Quirk Gallery

Old News by Joseph Kleponis

Elder man in fedora and pink tie crossing a brick street
 

It was late afternoon in fall or spring Because we were not wearing heavy coats. The pale sun was just starting to squinch down. As we left the library for home We lingered on the steps saying good-byes. A man in a brown suit with matching brown shoes, Wearing a shabby sort of fedora, With a full paper grocery bag Crooked in his left arm, a folded newspaper In his right hand stood at the curb, Looking left then right before stepping Into the street. I could not see his face, So I do not … Continue reading Old News by Joseph Kleponis

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