* nurturing well-being through self-expression*



Of what shall I write?  Of hot white sands and a baby girl in my arms, wondrous, me fighting for breath, the terror of uncertain, capricious waves that barricade the unwary swimmer from reaching the shore; the pounding of black-suited rescue teams, cutting through waves, punctuated by cries of frightened onlookers; my husband, tall in stature, blocking the sun, Scorpionic, aloof, silent, watchful. 

Red-headed stranded swimmer in the distance, weak arm signaling distress --  only just. My breath choking me and the baby squirming under my tightened grip, her tentative smile trying to lull me into bliss, where she can usually take me.  I look at the evening’s ominous grey clouds lowering over a strip of bright horizon being slowly eclipsed.  Time is running out, I know.

Blond son, lanky, drifts through thick sand to stand at my right hand where he belongs, his green eyes in opaque profile and I see his agony trained on the distant red hair, the arrogant one growing weaker, all can see, as the troop of black-muscled figures charge through wave crests throwing up pure white spray defiantly, nearing the prone figure drifting in the becalmed holding sea.

No sharks to be seen, but night is falling and my heart plummeting, the baby’s fist twisting my hair, yearning for attention.  The black swarm throws out a line triumphantly—once, twice.  One torpedoes, surfaces, black gloved hand grips the redhead’s delicate white shoulder – the looping, the pulling.  Thank God, it’s over, all will be well, little girl, blond trustworthy son, cautious in walk, towering stature, as he turns and coughs, smiles a half smile down at me, his mother, the one he loves the most.

Lauren Pelletier
September 9th 2007


I am a zebra and the days are long and I metamorphasized like Kafka’s cockroach.  These are hard days in Vienna, San Rafael and John of Gaunt where town is too many.  Though I wonder as a zebra under the blue or indigo African skies if my stripes are too long or not full enough.  But in that fullness of stripe I ever encounter the starry maps of the universe.  Maps of zebra wonder beyond telling if there are other zebras in other places or planets.  Imagine a zebra planet where there are only zebras coying by great terrestrial oceans where planetary oceans roll on forever beneath the skies of nebula mystery.

But how as a zebra would I plant my hoof on the sand of oceanic ledge or the great river of doomsom drunkenness that rolls down to it into its delta of silt without looking up at the navies or buttrificious of planets peopled by our sad zebra race of drunks and protestants. 

Imagine a zebra race of familial elegance where our great mentor and sensei, chief abbot; guardian protector of realms a zebra Christendom wields his crossy sword over the host of Zebradom.

A Zebradom of melodious wonder in the chantries sworded where even the fair zebra trader gets a fair shake of the golden horn of plenty.  But being a hot hoofed zebra on the far shores of a wondrous planet is the hope of all zebras.

Kurt Brahm
May 6th 2007

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