Category Archives: Matthew A. Hamilton

Matthew Hamilton’s Flash

Border Town by Matthew A. Hamilton

The box was full of balloons the color of synthetic gloves, each one packed with cocaine. Maria picked one up, then realized they were all tied together, like a string of sausage. Someone cut one off for her. She inspected it, said she couldn’t swallow it, that it was too big. She was slapped in the face and told it was easy, that girls smaller than her have done it. She was told that by doing this, she would keep her mother and brother alive, that she would make lots of money. This gave her courage. She slid one into her mouth. Surprisingly, the balloon was easy to swallow, like a snake swallowing a mouse.

Maria was loaded into a van with ten other girls. They were driven across the border into Arizona. The girls all held hands and prayed. Suddenly, nausea set in and Maria’s chest tightened. She turned cold and began to perspire heavily. She squeezed the hand of the girl beside her and closed her eyes, thinking of her mother and little brother

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White Room by Matthew A. Hamilton

Freedom inside the white room
is liberation from nothing.
I have nothing. I once had an opinion,
but even that was taken away from me.
A Manipulative shadow in a white coat
breathes crimson fire
black smoke
blue mist
a deceptive light
in the unpredictable
darkness.
I was diagnosed as deranged.
I have been transformed from
society man to asylum master. I have gray
pajamas and swollen eyes.
I try to sleep, but my mind is ablaze with
greedy fire. The man in the next room is dead. I know
because I can no longer hear him talking to his dead sister
in the hallway. You can kill yourself with anything in here.
I am in the center of a doctrinaire universe, where
those who fear me scavenge my mind for a sickness that I do not have.
I am pushed into the solitary cold water room.
I submerge myself in the darkness. I search for cracks of light.
I feel my frozen muscles tighten. How long will it take me to die?

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Dubai On Ice by Matthew A. Hamilton

When I see the ice hotel in
the middle of the desert
my eyes melt into nothing.

Oil money. Men die for it
so that other men can
showcase their plastic wives.

Men in black suits and white robes
tell me where to lay the pipe. They
point at charts and demand more profit.

Money is spent foolishly.
But what can I do? I’m a man
with no power or money.

My wealth lies within a loving wife
and two shoeless sons.

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Homeless by Matthew A. Hamilton

His cheeks crack
in the razorblade wind.
His mind, full of craters,

jumps

into a bottle
of bourbon.
His shark eyes
roll over white.

He takes his last breath.
His body nestles inside the
stairs of a subway entrance—
a corner of dancing nightmares
he calls home.

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Protest by Matthew A. Hamilton



He walks to the middle of the street and sits down, crosses his legs. The war is three years old. He is calm and patient. Soldiers watch him closely. They are afraid. His robe intimidates them. A crowd gathers. The man pulls out a book, opens it. His lips move in silence. Then he places the book on the street and raises his hands. He snaps his fingers. Calico flames, like tamed cats, crawl up his arms. He returns to the earth in peace. By his death, he teaches others how to live.

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Erzurum by Matthew A. Hamilton

i dig up the sands of my soul
because I am adopted
i climb into a dusty attic
my hands twist into ferns
I flip through photo albums
a silent war speaks to me
frozen bodies
a baby glued to his mother’s breast
pomegranate juice stains the sand violet
my legs turn to salt

i am a descendent of
an inglorious history
a history known but forgotten
swept away like a mother’s tears
my throat is clogged with mohair
i feel shame because i am a survivor
i cover my face in mud

i am worth twenty silver coins
a Mesopotamian handmaid
my buyer is kind but his wives beat me
they are jealous because
i am beautiful

they fear my power
i am the granddaughter of noah
the treasure of the ark
borne from the sea
my veins smell like
the red wine of Ararat

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Christmas Miracle by Matthew A. Hamilton

It happened on December 23. Crowds battled the cold and each other for last minute gifts.

I noticed a woman on the sidewalk. She wore a greasy Notre Dame sweatshirt. She was holding an empty can. However, she remained happy, smiled at everyone who walked past.

“Sir,” she said, “please help me.”

“Don’t have,” I said. I held out my hands.

I began to walk away. As I did she said: “Why is that?”

“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I was recently laid off. Philip Morris. I was an accountant there.”

“Sorry to hear. “Interview today?”

“Yes, how did you guess?”

“You’re dressed nice. And don’t worry about the job.”

“I really don’t have any money, you know.”

“I know.”

I was fascinated with this woman, but I also pitied her. Being homeless, how come she wasn’t depressed?

“What is your name?” I said.

“Mable.”

“Matthew. So I was thinking…”

I stopped myself. What am I doing?

I finally got the words out: “Do you want to spend Christmas at my house?” I think my wife and two girls would enjoy meeting you.”

During Christmas dinner, Mable grabbed my wife’s hand and mine. “Your goodness has saved you,” she said.

“My wife and I both went to bed wondering what Mable meant by that.

The next morning Mable was gone. A few days after that, the Capitals hockey team hired me as an account executive.

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