Battle for the Finish Line My friends step up to the starting line I look around We all look like hungry animals, Animals that were ready to get the last piece of meat I close my eyes and take a deep breath My heart is jumping in and out of my chest I open my eyes, the flag goes down My eyes are glued to the finish line I can imagine myself there, Holding the trophy with pride But then someone comes up The butterflies in my stomach wake up I take a deep breath I inhale and crank my arms up The sun’s heat is crushing me like a giant stepping on an ant Drip-drop I can’t feel my legs “I’m almost there!” I feel like I’m going to die 50 yards…40 yards…30 yards…20…

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Editor’s Note: Kathryn Holzman and her husband Lew Holzman have both published here at the Fictional Café in the past, but not together – until now. Kathryn wrote this story, entitled “Amnesia,” and Lew created original digital illustrations to accompany his wife’s words. We all hope you enjoy this psychological thriller!      Amnesia       The C5 transport plane crossed the spring sky descending towards the nearby Air Force base. Low and slow, the plane had a cargo compartment big enough to supply a battalion and capable of carrying six Apache helicopters. We were taking a weekend hike with friends and had almost arrived at the summit of the low, verdant hill they called Mount Blacklock. The block of ice fell dreamily from the plane. There clearly was no intent. We didn’t see…

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When I become incensed at prejudice, I tend to fight back with an edge of cynicism aimed at cutting through to someone’s stupidity. I am always hopeful that I can be an educator rather than a warrior against bigotry. George, a French Jew who had come to America, had told me of the growing anti-Semitism in France and the French collaboration in the deportation of his family from Lyons to the WW II concentration camps. He had grown up with French anti-Semitism, had witnessed the attack on Jo Goldenberg’s Jewish delicatessen, battled to defend Israel at the Sorbonne and finally—fed up and exhausted—convinced his family to move to the US. It was the late 1980s. I was scheduled to meet with the president of a French firm to discuss his acquisition of my client’s company….

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Editor’s Note: John Grey graced our ‘zine with his poetry last year. Here are three new poems from his pen, and in August we shall publish three more, so you can savor each one.   THE WEDDING RING   The rotten end to a wrecked season, footsteps bring no redemption   no resurrection as wet grass on the feet merely adds to the machinery of bitterness   until I come across the river whose undermining poverty is quieted by discovery   of something illicit in the shore-weeds – a dead wedding ring   glistening like bone – it’s been lost or tossed – why not?   everything on earth finds itself in the same situation.   * BRAIN MATTERS   The question arises – do I really need all this?   I can live in…

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