Many thanks to the editors of Wordpeace: a literary journal to promote peace and justice for publishing my lyric essay "Lousia, Elizabeth and Consuelo Sing," an homage to Louisa May Alcott, Elizabeth Gaskell, Consuelo Velázquez, and blueberries.
I wrote this piece during a heat wave a few years ago. Since then, I have, in fact, planted blueberries in my parking strip.
You can click here to read the essay.
Modern Crime and Punishment – from The Idler’s
Sketchbook
by Ron Smith
Against counsel, the convict, N. O'day,
insists on taking the stand in his defense. He is called to testify in a box beside the judge. Except for the soft clearing of throats
and titter of paper, the courtroom is quiet, all eyes fixed on the accused as
he moves slowly toward the bench in leg-irons, an armed policeman at his side.
O' day is a large,
clumsily made man. His feet misaligned, in attire from the charity bin,
when, with many grunts and much shuffling, he is finally seated beside and
slightly below the judge, The Hon. Bob Ostrow. State and National flags
drooping above like flaccid wind-socks, the bailiff performs his brief, solemn
interrogation:
"Do you swear to
tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you,
God?" he asks, his open right hand raised.
"I do," O' day
answers, his stubby, cupped hand raised also.
"Prosecutor, please
begin," says the judge, initiating this phase of the trial.
The prosecuting attorney,
Jeremy Scott, sleek and well-dressed with close-cropped, salt and pepper hair,
faces the convict, folds his arms, pivots slightly on his heels and, for
effect, says nothing, believing himself to be not just a lawyer but a
performer.
The accused faces him but
fixes his glassy stare above the prosecutor, above the spectators, toward a
clock high on the far wall, above the courtroom entrance, seeing nothing.
Tension nearly unbearable,
the attorney unfolds his arms and raises his outstretched hands as in worship
or unctuous greeting.
"Mr. O' day, you have
sworn your innocence many times," the skilled counselor begins, "and
say you were nowhere near Tina Bachman's apartment at the time she was strangled
and, like discarded flowers, abandoned, lifeless, on the sofa. Is this
so?"
"Trampoline,"
says the convict, so softly and huskily that only the prosecutor hears.
Not missing a beat, but
unsure where this loose cannon ball might lead, Jeremy Scott, hungry for
limelight and oratory, pretends he has not heard.
"And when you were
certain she was dead, took her keys and drove away. DID YOU TAKE A HUMAN
LIFE FOR A CHEVY BLAZER? Answer me, answer the court." Jeremy
pounds his fist decisively into his palm and waits.
This time O' day comes
alive and says "trampoline" with such force that all hear, that the
plaster on the wall quivers. The sign-language interpreter is thrown off
rhythm and takes a sip of water. Even the sketch artist is flummoxed.
Unwilling to act as though
anything is amiss, the prosecutor resumes:
"Trampoline you
say?" says the lawyer, now a comrade, a fellow-conspirator, eager to hear
a good story. "Trampoline, my dear Mr.O'day. Just
trampoline? Not merry-go-round? Monkey bars? No pinatas or
colorfully painted beach umbrellas? Just 'trampoline'?"
He presses his palms with
good humor, like they are sharing a joke. "Really?"
"Trampoline!"
repeats O' day, loud and guttural as a caged bear.
In a cheap tan suit, the
court-appointed defense, Smith or Brown I think, sprints to his feet.
"I object," he
begins testily. "This is absurd. It's incompetent, irrelevant
and immaterial! Where is the 'esteemed' Jeremy Scott taking us
today?"
Perhaps the judge is not
paying attention or worse, is drowsy and sees nothing extraordinary about O'
day's present testimony. Regardless, to demonstrate he is engaged and in
charge, declares, "Objection sustained! Prosecutor, please get to the
point," and taps his gavel. "Silence in the courtroom."
"Do you have anything
further to say in your defense?" Scott asks O' day, no longer friendly, a district attorney again.
"Trampoline, I
say," says O' day, "trampoline, damn you."
Soon it is time for Smith or Brown, the defender, to cross-examine and wage a rebuttal. "Now Mr. O' day," he begins, "recall the evening Mr. Scott just spoke of. Were you anywhere near Tina Bachman's apartment?"
"Trampoline,"
says the unfortunate man. "Trampoline."
O' day is escorted back to the prisoner's dock. Trousers flapping at his ankles, Mr. Smith or Brown returns to his desk. Across the aisle sits the dapper prosecutor, arms folded, beaming with confidence. Judge Ostrow instructs the jury, sends them into isolation and declares a break.
Soon after the break the
bailiff informs the judge that the jury has a verdict. A brief
confinement is rarely good news for the defendant.
"Jury, have you
reached a verdict?" the judge asks gravely when they have returned.
"Yes, Your Honor, we
have," the jury foreman answers. "We find The Defendant,
N. O' day, guilty of murder in the first degree and guilty of grand theft,
auto."
"Order! Order in
the court. Be seated. Please remand the defendant back to his cell to
await sentencing," the judge orders.
Two uniformed police
accost O' day.
"Back to jail for
you," one whispers as they handcuff him, refit his leg restraints and lead
him clumsily toward a door at the rear of the courtroom. As they reach the
exit, O' day turns abruptly back toward the gallery and shouts: "Trampoline,
you motherfuckers!" One of the cops swats him and he is guided roughly out
of the room.
Weeks pass and N. O' day
is sentenced to a minimum of thirty years in the penitentiary. When the
'gag order' on the jury is lifted, jurors are besieged for interviews. "How
DID they reach such a hasty verdict?"
In a televised interview
by Fatenews Service, the former juror's sentiments are best articulated by
juror Martha Rose, a commercial property manager.
"We could tell O' day
had an uneasy conscience," she begins, "his fixation on a single
idea, monomania, really. I'm no expert but I have read psychology. For
example, his obsessive repetition of the word 'tambourine' was a
strong indication of guilt for me.
"I think the word was
‘trampoline,’" the Fatenews reporter interjects politely.
"My point remains
unaltered," says Martha.
On the
morning of the 18th of May
by Hariana Chilstrom
I awoke looking out at the night rain’s residue, tenuous drops hanging from the balcony outside my bedroom. A longing for an old lover--or a hope for a new one--was all I could think of. I put out a little spiritual SOS:
Come
walk with me
In the
rain
That
falls
Into
each of our lives.
Forty Years Ago Today, May 18, 1980
by Hariana Chilstrom
I was opening the heavy doors of the Insect Zoo on that Sunday morning, hoping the new ant colony we’d installed was still in it’s enclosure—the previous colony had escaped and invaded the tiny building, much to the distress of most of the other six and eight-legged animals. The doors creaked and wobbled ominously, reminding me the tiny building was wearing out.
A rumbling, like a distant sonic boom, made me turn around to face the lion exhibit to the north, across the pathway from my little shack.
Then the sky blew up.
A racing gray denseness, a dark cumulous expansion, like Jiffy Pop on steroids, was puffing into the sky beyond Portland’s West Hills. In minutes it spread across the spring sky like a million years of dust being shaken from a giant’s sheepskin.
I stood there, stunned. This was like nothing I’d
experienced in my 33 years. Not even news reports of seismic activity over the
past week had prepared me for this. Later, I’d remember a lithograph of
Krakatoa in an old National Geographic.
I ran into the Insect Zoo, grabbed the wall phone and called my boss. “Can you see the sky?”
“Slow down. What’s happening? No, I can’t see much from my
office.”
“Come down. I think there’s a big fire or something. I can
see a huge cloud of dark smoke.”
“What! Alright, I’m coming down,” he snorted. Ever the
skeptic, he knew I rarely overreacted, even by his Spartan standards. He came
running down the hill like an agitated preying mantis, flapping his long arms
like he was going to take flight.
“Wow! You weren’t kidding! That’s incredible! It must be the
mountain.” His tall frame bent over, hands on thighs, as he caught his breath.
Then he glanced up at the sky, his mouth hanging open. He turned, and we looked
at each other, two unprepared primates, watching the morning sky invaded by the
Earth’s rage.
In that frozen moment, eye-to-eye, it seemed we jumped back
into time, a time of many active volcanoes and Earth changes bewildering to the
developing humans of 400,000 years ago. There was no clock time. There was only
the moment of now.
It was a time when:
The Earth spoke to us
And we understood.
Senses merged—
Scents vibrating and
Colors ringing with sounds,
Everything sang.
Everything spoke.
Everything was alive.
We knew all the languages
Of air, water, rocks, plants and animals,
We shared life with everything.
We could smell changes,
Read the signs,
Respect the messages.
We knew that a smile cracking on
Mother’s dry, creased face,
Meant rain, and
Her breath, when it sang of wind and green,
Meant seeds and insects would
Fly into our hungry path.
We listened when
Plants warned, cajoled, and beckoned,
Murmuring scents of pine and sprouting herbs
Directing us to buried bulbs full of water, and
Whispering of dreams and poisons.
We were warned when
Dry grasses bowed down,
Singing scents of a big cat’s journey,
All yellow and hot—
Furred hunger stalking—us.
We watched ants dancing warnings
Of sand storms and listened to
Beetles standing on rocks,
Reciting stories of their tender young,
Asking us to leave a few
To take only what we needed.
We learned that even shadows,
Whispering low and soft,
Could tell us when to hunt for burrowing animals
And where to find water in dry holes.
We trembled when
Mother’s rumblings warned us to
Ask for guidance, to prepare,
Perhaps to leave her familiar lands
Of fire and thunder.
It was a time
When we could not imagine
Forgetting our connection
With all that was.
And, as suddenly as it had come, the memory disappeared. A gritty gray dust began to drift onto the asphalt of the zoo, breaking our locked gazes. My boss shook his head, laughed too brightly. I turned away to spare him my still-entranced look. He called later to announce the closure of the nearly vacant zoo; volcanic dust was a danger to lungs and to even to creatures without them.
Postscript: We wore masks then for days, as the glassy ash coated everything, drifting into buildings and scratching windshields. The University of Oregon began a study of the health effects of the inescapable ash. Four years later ash was still trapped in the veins of rhododendron and other hard-leaved perennials.
About the author: Hariana Chilstrom is a science educator and visual artist who is passionate about pollinators and other (mostly spineless) creatures. She has written for the Pacific Horticulture Journal, several natural history associations, and the Seattle Aquarium. Many of her current creative non-fiction pieces have been spawned by experiences on city buses.
