Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of African Psycho Review of The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid Film Review of "Judith Butler: Philosophical Encounters of the Third Kind" Writing Contest Results Creative Nonfiction Back Pain...Who Cares? By Michael D. Burg Knit Two Together By Jo L. Gerrard Skin Odyssey By Holly Leigh Jacobson Leaves in the Wind By Molly Molloy Hydroglyphics By Phaedra Greenwood Poetry Indiana Poem By Michael Lee Johnson Inspire Me, Ms. Muse By Tony Zurlo A Poem Forgot By Gabrielle Rabinowitz Yours By Sheila McLaughlin Sikorski Confetti By Alan Girling Correction: Drive Me Home Again By Anne Cammon Fiction Scaffold By Joseph Bathanti For the Taking By Anne Leigh Parrish The Artistic Impulse By Johanna Lipford Justifiable Brew Aside By Barbara Anton Stopping at the DQ By Susan White Cover Art Bright Red By Dee Rimbaud About the Contributors © 2007, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Vacant Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Senior Editor - Neeldhara Misra Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Education Blog Contributing Editor - Jordan Wirfs-Brock Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
Justifiable Brew Aside By Barbara Anton 2nd Place Short Story Constable Twiney, a short man with no more meat on him than a soup bone too long on the boil, hurried down the main street of Burnt Yates. He entered Hermoine’s Coffee Shoppe, one of the few businesses that flourished beside the narrow street in the small Yorkshire town. When his eyes located the corpse slumped at the corner table, he swiped a work-worn hand over sandy hair thinned to a fringe, and asked, “Why didn’t ye notify me that the bloke was done in, Hermoine?” Hermoine shrugged and glanced at the clock over the door to the kitchen. “’T’was ‘most six when I found ‘im. Figured you’d be comin’ in soon enough for your mornin’ cuppa.” “Still, it’s hardly fittin’ for Amory, just passin’ by your window, to be the one to let me know.” He studied her movements as she went about preparing for the morning breakfast trade. She didn’t seem too perturbed that her husband’s corpse was seated at one of several small wooden tables scattered about the dimly lit room. But then Hermoine was not the excitable type. Nice, cool-headed woman she was. A woman any man would be proud to call wife. In the sparse light of the overhead globe, Twiney noted the steak knife that pierced Percy’s heart. “That one o’ your knives, Hermoine?” he asked. “Suppose so.” She set currant and date muffins on a tray beside a jar of marmalade. “How do you figure this came about?” “Like I told you – I found ‘im when I come in after me shoppin’ this mornin’.” She faced him defiantly, one hand firmly anchored on an ample hip, her feet set squarely. “You’re the constable, you figure it out.” Steely blue eyes glinted a challenge under amber brows. She spun around and dusted muffin crumbs from the counter. Twiney stroked the stubble on his lantern jaw; his ruddy forehead creased in concentration. He’d heard of the clashes they’d had over Percy’s gambling, drinking and womanizing and, truth be known, he couldn’t blame her for doin’ the blighter in. Still, for a good, God fearing Christian woman it seemed a bit odd that she’d knife the rummy and go on about her business as if he just fell into one of his drunken slumbers. Hermoine came out from behind the counter and set a cup of steaming coffee on the table next to where he stood. He slid onto the hard, ladder-backed chair, pulled the cup closer, and sipped. The succulent bouquet, hand picked on faraway hillsides, caressed his nostrils; the sheen of oils from beans ripened in the benevolent Chilean sun silvered his cup. The brew spoke silently of comforting early morning kippers and late night puddings at his mother’s table. His musings interrupted by the sound of increased activity on the street, he glanced at the clock. Better get on with it, he thought, half o’ the town will be in here for their mornin’ cuppa before too long. Hermoine took down a large brown bowl and set about cracking eggs into it for breakfast omelets. Constable Twiney thought, her omelets rise so light and fluffy they near lift off the plate. If ‘t weren’t for the golden chips to anchor it all down, they surely would float. He wiped away a bit of saliva that collected on his lips, got up, went to the corner, and circled the corpse. Can’t make it suicide, he thought, not with the bloke sittin’ like a gent with a bit of bangers ‘n’ mash on his fork, ready to gulp it down. Anyway, ‘e wouldn’t commit suicide with Hermoine’s victuals left on his plate. He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. No way around it, it’s murder plain as the hide on a cow. Like it or not, I’ll have to take her in. When he turned to arrest her, their eyes met. Fear now shrouded the defiance in Hermoine’s eyes. Won’t take the local biddies but a half-an-hour to find her guiltier than Jack the Ripper, he thought. They’ll hang ‘er so high ‘er garters will snap. Twiney cleared his throat and prepared to do his duty. Hermoine placed a warm muffin on a plate, added a dollop of clotted cream and a spoon of elder jelly. “A bit of sustenance to brace ye for what ye must do,” she said as she set it before him. He grasped the hand that had prepared the sacrifice for her demise. Warm and soft her hand was. He imagined the rest o’ her pressed against him in the damp English night. Twiney thought, I’m so hungry I could eat me kidney pie through a squash racquet, but I’ll not bite into that muffin, I won’t, or I’ll be forgettin’ me duty. “Not no,” he said as he pushed it back. “I’ve got me duty to do.” Hermoine nodded, wiped her hands on a towel, took off her apron, folded it neatly, and laid it aside. “Do what you must,” she said. She reached for the key that hung over the cash register. “I’ll just be lockin’ up before we go.” Twiney glanced at the deceased. What had once been a handsome enough lad, back when she’d married him, had turned himself into the bloated, boozy, bounder that lay slumped at the corner table. Brought this on ‘is self, ‘e did, Twiney thought, what with chasin’ after every tart that would give ‘im a glance or a titter. But that can’t justify what she did to ‘im. I’ve got to run her in, no two ways about it. The bell on the door tinkled and Deacon James stepped in for his morning cuppa. “Good day, Hermoine.” he said, rubbing hands together briskly. “Bit o’ a chill in the mornin’ air. Ye might lay out a currant muffin with my cupp…” His voice trailed off when he noticed Percy slumped at the corner table. He was about to turn away in embarrassment when he saw the knife stuck in Percy’s chest. “Wha…?” Constable Twiney stepped forward, took the cleric’s elbow and steered him to the door. “I’ll take care of this, Deacon,” he said, as he propelled him out. Twiney returned to the counter, mounted a stool, and reached for the steaming coffee Hermoine had set there for him. Distracted by the tantalizing aroma of beans roasted to perfection and steeped in water from local springs, the enticing bouquet as the cup neared his lips, the hot essence on his tongue, the bracing sensation as he swallowed, he thought, ‘er coffee surpasses any nectar sipped by bug or bee. He forgot the corpse in the corner for the moment and concentrated on the well-endowed brewmeister. A sly glance at her fleshy bosom when she bent to retrieve a coffee filter caused his hand to quiver, spilling coffee in the saucer. Hermoine’s breasts undulated provocatively as she tucked the filter into the pot. He thought, a woman like ‘er would know how to take care of a man, she would. The corpse in the corner bore silent witness. Twiney thought, she’s a good solid woman to wrap me arms around when the cold winter creeps in – and the bloke deserved every bit of what ‘e got, ‘e did. ‘T would be sacrilege to blame a good woman for what the bloke done to his self. After all, it wasn’t a bad way for ‘im to go, what with it bein’ so swift and all. Here one minute and gone the next, and with a bellyful o’ bangers and mash, and the taste o’ Hermoine’s coffee on his blasphemous lips. No, I’ll not get me knickers in a twist, he decided. I’ll not be the man to deprive the citizens of Burnt Yates of the woman who nurtures ‘em with the finest cup of coffee in all of England. All evidence to the contrary, it happened just as she said it did. I’ll leave it at that. Moving quickly and surely, like a peahen in search of a mate, Constable Twiney went to the deceased and pulled the knife from his chest. Percy slumped forward, his face coming to rest in what was left of the bangers and mash. “Pour me another cuppa,” Twiney said. “I’ll send for the coroner and have the body removed.” “Whatever you say, Constable.” Hermoine refreshed his cup. He rolled the robust brew over an appreciative tongue, set his cup down and announced, “A self-inflicted wound, it was. Poor bloke fell on his knife and died.” Hermoine’s smile bared overlapping front teeth and dimpled the corners of a gnerous mouth. “Leave it to you, Constable, to figure it out,” she said, her breasts swaying as she wiped the counter in front of his steaming cup. She watched as he drank, thinking, the Constable’s one solid bloke, ‘e is. The kind o’ man I would be takin’ up with now that I’ve got some sense. Twiney set his cup on the saucer and glanced at her shyly. “I’ll come by tonight, if ya like – help you plan a decent burial for the – for the dear departed.” “You do that,” Hermoine said. The soft pink of an English rose petaled her cheek. “Maybe after the services I’d be about helpin’ you straighten out your affairs – the will, the insurance, and the like o’ that.” He smiled tenuously. “A smart man like yourself would surely be of great assistance to a newly-widowed woman like meself, I’m sure.” Hermoine lifted the pot and poured. The tantalizing aroma of nectar of Pagan gods bathed his nostrils. His thoughts returned to those long, sold, winter nights. He smiled and covered her soft hand with his. “I’ll take good care of you, Hermoine, I will.” She tossed hair the red of rust with the sun upon it, and responded with an ill-chosen cliché, I’ll take good care of you, too, Constable, I’ll be hanged if I won’t.” |