All music and memory it becomes. by Stacy Allen

Music is my longing. The language I dream, but cannot write. I lose it, consequentially. What if life were like that? What if I could not pause to write and remember? Would it all disappear into forgottenness? Or would I learn to sing it, epically, becoming Gilgamesh or Odysseus as the tale stretched and flourished with each singing? So now I long for where that might take me. I bring my voice, put down my pen.

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Was that really me? by Stacy Allen

Once upon a time there was a bad haircut. She wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t lie flat, wouldn’t curl. Her head said, “Why must you behave so poorly?” Her head punished her with hot wind, a hot iron, and with chemicals, but still the bad haircut wouldn’t mind. In time, the head learned to be patient. The bad haircut matured, and the head stopped the meaningless punishment routine. As she grew older, the bad haircut learned to lie flat. For this the head was happy. She never did learn to curl, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. The head and the haircut lived happily together (for the most part). Every now and then, they pull out the old photos and laugh ……….and laugh …………………..and laugh.

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Everywhere People by Stacy Allen

everywhere people before me in queue red face brown hair white man muttering about this goddamn system waste of his time frantically jabbing at his (no reception in this building) Blackberry i wish i needed a different line don’t want to be here to watch his tantrum of self-importance snap and swear at the weary clerk her feet ache bank account empty til Friday she closes her eyes rubs at the lidded tiredness, wills the miserable blotchy toddler man away

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Final Notice by Stacy Allen

Dear Ms. Reller: This is the last time you will receive a written notice from us. Your animals must be removed from the premises immediately. Failure to honor this request will result in another call to Animal Control. Enclosed please find another copy of complaints filed with the Avenue Association, in order of receipt: 1. Mrs. Hornsby has stepped in your dog’s poop 14 times. In her own yard. 2. Mrs. Gabriel reports that her two young children have been traumatized by the guinea pig incidents. (involving your free roaming guinea pigs and our neighborhood bald eagle, who is a very messy eater, apparently.) 3. Ms. Baker is unable to retrieve the cantaloupe rinds and corn cobs your goddamned squirrel pulls out of your garden compost and deposits on the roof of her shed. 4. Mr. Wilkins is tired of moving your dog’s poop from his yard in to Mrs. Hornsby’s, even if it is funny to watch her step in it. 5. Mrs. Gabriel would like you to remove the decapitated body of Mr. Snuffles that the eagle left atop her mailbox. It is starting to smell. 6. You have a squirrel? For real? 7. Mrs. Gabriel reports that her mailbox is covered with maggots, and other unappetizing things. She believes the maggots may be your pets as well. 8. Our community bylaws specifically prohibit camels. Even camels that are called “llamas.” 9. Your camel spit on Mrs. Gabriel again today. While eating maggots. Sincerely, The Avenue Association Board

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44 by Stacy Allen

I should have seen it coming when she put the dish soap in my coffee. Or on my 38th birthday. She fixed a cake loaded with coconut. (Disgusting! I shiver when I think about it.) I’m not allergic or anything; not saying she was trying to kill me. She’d known me 38 years but she didn’t remember about the coconut. Mom doesn’t remember much anymore.

So how did it come to this? To me hiding every night in the bathroom for a few minutes privacy? My mother huddled, waiting, right outside the door.

My wife is gone. She brings the kids to visit, and we all pretend that everything’s okay. Ha! Not even sure what it would take to make me okay again. Maybe I can’t take care of Mom much longer, but I can sure as hell try. Imagine – what if time alone was all I ever had?

Maybe it will all turn around. I’ll get a little money, move to a nice place on the north side of town. A place with a balcony off the bedroom and a clear view of the moon. And Karen will come back, get out of her mom’s place and come back home. She’ll like it there – she always loved the moon.

Tomorrow is my birthday again. I’ll buy a lottery ticket in the morning. Never had a lucky number in my life. But goddamn. Let it be 44. Let this year be my year. Please let it be 44.

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