PURE FRANCIS

Rearing the Child

by Josh Amidon

     For some reason, I was given the job of teaching the little kid how to take a shit. I’d sit him down on the little plastic potty his mother bought for him, take my own seat across the way on a truly legit porcelain throne for adults, make some grunting noises, and pointing between my legs. I even flushed periodically.
     This charade went on for days – dry runs, all of them – but the brat didn’t seem to be buying it.
     Manned the vehicle after that, so to speak, which made him real serious, a new excited-worried look on his face, him babbling his jibberish and pointing like a monkey. Still blasting through his diaper like the thing was made of lint, unfortunately.
     His mother, my girlfriend, one night she loses her patience with me, she says, “You’re not getting results.” How there she is at work all day, and who am I, Mr. Jobless Wonder? Plus she claims I’m, “having a negative effect on her bottom line.”
     I’m plotting all sorts of dramatic exit speeches when the squeal of laughter erupts from the bathroom. We rush in there to find the midget giggling like a drunken schoolgirl, and pointing into his plastic potty at the cutest little brown turd you’ve ever seen.
     His mother’s overjoyed of course, and apologizing to beat the band.
     I just nod my head: “I get results,” I tell her. “Now what do you want me to teach him next?”


Josh Amidon once watched Darren McGavin stare down Gene Barry for what seemed like a week-and-a-half.

The Pressure

by Joseph Murphy
 
A banging emanates from within a vase; a menu
Froths and snorts; a button seethes.
 
The handle of a pan begins to roar.   
 
At the edge of a curb, a muddy hatch swings open
Exposing a sluice. 
 
I’ve tripped into it!
 
I’m pitching, head long, numb;
Rungs snap; bones
Splinter.
 
Then ─ nothing. Nothing.
 
Then ─ a sigh.
 
I wake, as if in another’s skin; part the curtain,
Turn the tap,
Drop a coin in the meter.
 
Walking swiftly, I draw strength
From evening’s smallest detail;
From the husk and seed
Of memory.
 
The beast, once again, lies trapped within the fabric.
 
Good enough for now.


Joseph Murphy loves seafood, but you should know which fish populations are in good shape and not being seriously depleted!

The Etching Factory

by April Clemens   

     The etching factory exists on the outskirts of boredom. It’s a place nobody thinks about. If you’ve ever received a trophy or a personalized coffee mug it has matriculated through the etching factory first. It is the twilight zone of nothingness and the dullest ring of hell. I worked in packing. I should know.
     I packed the mugs, the trophies, the plaques. I listened to the other ladies, who scoffed at my sloth-slow packing skills, ramble on about, um, I don’t remember. I was asleep. It was probably about tuna sandwiches.
     With repetition I became quicker. Perceiving my possible potential, I was bumped up to stickering. The stickers looked like pink, fruit-roll-up stencils. The trick was to slap them on straight. After items were stickered they went to the etching department. Margarita, a large, gentle Mexican woman who looked upon me with motherly kindness, worked in the etching department. She stuck her hands into long gloves mounted in a clear plastic box and sprayed sand against the stencils until the message was blasted in place. She let me try it once and shook her head sadly when I couldn’t do it right. It was an art, I suppose. Etching was not my forte.
     But the boss thought I was bright and ready for yet another position. I became the person who guided the glass blocks along the moving water trough. I’m not sure what else to call it. I wasn’t really paying attention when it was explained to me. But the boss liked me; I was invited to come to a convention with him and some of his relations.
     Were the ladies in packing ever jealous! Why hadn’t they been invited to the convention? It was their world. They had been born etching, packing, putting the glass blocks on the water trough. God willing, they’ll have their funerals there someday, too; have their tombstones stickered and etched and the other ladies in packing will wrap their bodies up and give them to their relatives. It’s in the retirement plan. Or they can be cremated and their ashes sprinkled in the water trough. If they have been extra good, the boss may do their eulogy. Sniffling, he will read,
     “She was a great worker
     And it is my deepest regret
     I could not take her
     To the convention.”


April Clemens is a writer, musician, single-mother, and rough-shod rider of all life's got.

[Danielle hands me back the hair-dryer, but]

by Eleanor Boudreau

Danielle hands me back the hair-dryer, but she puts it to her head first,
     like a gun.
She rolls her eyes and makes a blowing sound, “Pow.”
[She’s wearing underwear], [she has just gotten out of bed]. They call it
     The Silver Bullet
and it is written on the side.
Kristen is standing outside. She’s cold, she's wearing shorts.  She's cold
[she’s wearing shorts] and you can’t see
her deepest secret, you can’t know.
I thought all bullets were silver.
Goodnight my friends, goodnight. I will leave you
on these [trusty] cement slabs and you won’t fall through.
“Goodnight, my friends, goodnight. I hope to see you all anon.”
Where the bridges piled on the road like bones,
and the things that showed up on the x-ray are silver, but dull
and old.


Eleanor Boudreau studied poetry at Harvard, spent a year dry-cleaning, and is now a radio reporter whose non-poetic voice can be heard via WKNO-FM.