Uriel Fox and the Enchanted Spectacles – a story by John Zurn

Uriel Fox and the Enchanted Spectacles

The morning air felt brisk as Uriel ventured off the highway and began hiking through the rather large town called Discovery. Weary and hungry from his long two day hike, he sat on a bench to rest. His feelings of isolation intensified as he watched the people hurrying past him. They all seemed to have places to go.

Uriel wandered all the way to the edge of Discovery before he noticed an elderly woman sitting in an old blue chair. Her ebony eyes seemed to gaze right through him as he approached her. “My name is Mary Light Feather,” the ancient woman exclaimed. “Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee, here on the porch?”

Uriel felt uneasy and surprised that the woman would speak to a stranger on the street, but despite his trepidation, he replied, “Thank you. I would. My name is Uriel Fox.”

Almost before he could sit down, Mary began asking about him in a warm and sincere manner. Uriel felt comfortable around Mary almost immediately, and he began to describe his life experiences. “I stick to myself mostly. I wander through towns by utilizing the shoulder of the highway, so I can connect with various places. However, everywhere I visit, the people are usually unkind, and when I attempt to help them or teach them, they usually reject my assistance.”

Mary listened carefully and replied, “Why do you feel the need to assist everyone?”

“I can’t help it,” Uriel answered.

Mary became more direct, “Do you desire to change things because you feel a genuine need to help, or do you need to control situations instead of letting things play out naturally?”     

Now Uriel felt frustrated, “I just feel it’s important to do the right thing,” Uriel explained. 

“Perhaps you’re not always right,” Mary continued. “Apparently, people don’t seem to appreciate your efforts. You didn’t even mention any friends you might have.”

“Actually, I have none, right now,” Uriel answered. “That’s why I feel alone. I really don’t need friends. However, sometimes my life is difficult.”

Mary thought for a moment then exclaimed, “Well, you have a friend now.”

Light Feather then reached under her chair and retrieved a silver case. She handed it to Uriel, and he quickly grabbed it. Inside was an old pair of horn rimmed spectacles with transparent lenses. Uriel looked puzzled and said, “Mary, I don’t need glasses.”

“These glasses aren’t simply to improve your vision. They’re enchanted,” Mary explained.  

Suddenly, Uriel became more interested in his gift. “Why do you say they’re enchanted?”

Mary replied softly, “These spectacles identify people you actually need to help. When you observe someone who actually needs you, their physical appearance will exhibit a gray fuzzy glaze around it.”

“I don’t believe you,” Uriel replied rudely.

“It’s not a question of belief,” Mary persisted. “It’s a matter of direct experience.”

Uriel, still skeptical, decided that he’d better listen to Mary, since she had no discernible reason for deceiving him. “I’m sorry,” Uriel relented. “Please go on.”

“You seem to be highly invested in helping people, whether they ask you or not,” Mary observed. “These spectacles will help you discover individuals who need help, as well as inform you about people who can truly help you. From our conversation, it seems that you feel completely autonomous, so Uriel, wear these eyeglasses at all times. They should help you find your way.”

As Uriel stepped off the porch, Mary called, “Come see me again. I’m always here.”

Uriel continued down the street, now keenly observant. In a deliberate effort to test the enchanted spectacles, he covered the entire town of Discovery. He eagerly walked every road and alley searching for people who might need help. Nevertheless, he was extremely disappointed when he failed to find a single gray fuzzy vision. Before the day ended, Uriel headed back toward the highway, confused but determined.

Fox shuffled down the highway for several days before he received an opportunity to experience the power of the enchanted glasses. He had just turned off the highway and found himself on a lonely two lane road with a solitary house near a curve in the road.

Uriel hurried up to the front door and knocked, but nobody answered, so he simply pushed past the unlocked entry. He immediately sensed something suspicious was happening. In the bedroom, a young man, covered in a fuzzy gray shadow, appeared to be sitting up in bed motionless. In his hand, he clutched a picture of a woman who appeared to be his wife. Uriel knew he needed to help the seemingly paralyzed man, but he wasn’t sure how to do it.

Finally, Uriel began calling to the young man while gently shaking him. “Sir, are you all right? Sir, I’m here to help you.”

After several attempts to communicate with the man, Uriel could see him rallying, so he encouraged him to speak. “Sir, what is your name? What happened to you?”

The man spoke slowly and he proved difficult to understand, at first. Before long, however, he seemed to recover. “My name is Jim Shields, and my wife Susan has just been killed in a car accident.”

“Oh my Lord,” Uriel exclaimed. “How long have you been sitting here?” 

“Since the hospital called yesterday,” Jim blankly replied.

“Hasn’t anyone come to help you?” Uriel asked in surprise.

“No, I haven’t told anyone yet. My brothers live about a hundred miles away, and I just haven’t the strength to call them.”

Uriel helped Jim into the shower, and cooked some soup for him. Next he searched for the family telephone address book. When he found the brothers’ numbers, he called them.

As Jim slowly began to comprehend the magnitude of his loss, Uriel patiently comforted him until his brothers arrived. Then, Uriel left the house barely waiting for the brothers to thank him. By the next afternoon, Uriel had traveled to several more towns feeling good about his experience prompted by his mysterious glasses. 

While he trudged down the highway, Uriel eventually spotted another side road, so he left the highway once again and began his custom of investigating the landscape. However, he hiked for hours without finding any obvious places to visit. Finally, he came to a crossroads and feeling frustrated; he sat down on the side of the road.

For once, Uriel Fox felt completely lost which rarely happened to him. He felt like being lost meant he was slipping somehow. 

But before he could continue with his musing, a young man ambled up to him and asked, “Are you lost or just homeless?”  

“No,” Fox protested. “I’m not lost or homeless, but you look like you need help.”

The stranger introduced himself as Billy Bumper, and he exhibited a light fuzzy shadow around him. He also looked so intoxicated; he could barely stand, yet when Uriel asked him again if he needed help, Mr. Bumper still insisted he was fine.

Uriel felt baffled. How could he possibly assist Mr. Bumper if he adamantly refused any help?  “Okay, Mr. Bumper,” Uriel replied attempting to end the encounter. “I’ll see you later.”

Fox concluded that the intoxicated stranger appeared to be somebody he could never help. However, as Uriel attempted to leave, the unsavory Bumper grabbed Fox from behind just when Uriel turned up one of the alternative roads. “You’re going the wrong way!” Bumper screamed. “There’s evil on the road you’re taking!”

Uriel’s patience with the fiendish Bumper was finally spent. He freed himself; grabbed Bumper’s arm and thrust him to the ground. As he returned to the road, he felt justified and more confident of his directions.

Yet, this self-confidence proved to be premature. About nightfall on the road, Uriel distinctly heard the terrifying howls of timber wolves. He instantly remembered Mr. Bumper’s warning and began running as fast as possible back in the direction of the crossroads. When he returned to where he had encountered Bumper, Fox could visibly see the wolves approaching in their tenacious pursuit. Uriel swiftly turned up the alternate road and continued running. As if by some miracle, he spotted a canoe next to a swift flowing river. He jumped into the boat and paddled as fast as possible down the waterway. Since the wolf pack appeared to be skittish about swimming after him, Uriel realized that he had made an astonishing escape.

Needless to say, the gray shadow that covered Bumper’s body meant that Bumper was meant to help Uriel, not the other way around. Fox’s arrogance in assuming Mr. Bumper needed his help provided a valuable lesson.

While Uriel continued to safely paddle down the river, it began to rain, first in sprinkles then in torrents. The rain soon filled the canoe, so Fox had to swim to shore to avoid sinking. On the shore, the ground under his feet was already saturated, making it clear that he might need to find a formidable shelter to escape the downpour.  

The deluge continued for three days and nights with no break in the clouds. As Fox followed the road near the river, the surface felt thick with mud. Fortunately, he finally encountered a small town nestled between two steep mountain slopes. Feeling optimistic and more at ease, Uriel raced down a long steep stretch of road and approached the town.

To his utter astonishment and dismay, every individual he passed exhibited the same fuzzy gray aura surrounding them. No matter where he turned, Fox witnessed the same shadow, and he failed to understand what possible meaning the visions could suggest. After a while, he also remembered a news article he had read years earlier. The article described mountain slopes overloaded by a relentless downpour that created the perfect conditions for a catastrophic landslide.

Fox immediately surmised that the entire town appeared to be in danger. If Uriel proved to be correct, the residents would all be buried alive if he didn’t warn them. He realized the most efficient and effective way to notify the community would involve finding the local radio station in town. He gazed up to the sky and discovered a large radio antenna almost directly above him. He raced inside the building and up the stairs, and then rushed into the station’s front office. 

“Sir,” Fox pleaded. “You must broadcast an emergency message! This town is about to buried by a gigantic landslide!”

Before the young man at the counter could respond, the DJ entered the office. She had overheard Uriel’s desperate comments, and took him seriously. “It is possible we’re in danger,” she stated, glancing at Uriel. “With all the rain we’ve had after such an arid summer, I think we should at least warn the people of the possibility of a disaster. If this man is wrong, it will simply amount to a waste of time. However, if he is correct about the landslide, we could save the entire town!”

Since Sue Ann, the DJ, appeared to be one of the most respected citizens in town, the residents didn’t question her emergency message. Instead, the residents raced from their homes and climbed up the road in a wild scene of organized chaos. Unfortunately, they didn’t need to wait for very long to see the horrible event unfold.

The mud, sticks, and boulders rolled down the slopes in a frenzy of destruction just as the last stragglers reached safety. The landslide proved to be unstoppable, as it steamrolled over the entire village. Although Uriel certainly saved all the residents from perishing, their homes, cars and all their other possessions were ruined.

The responsibility for the spectacles had finally proven too difficult to bear for Uriel. The visions the glasses created almost always involved some sort of danger, and he wanted no part of them. How could he spend the rest of his life anxiously waiting for some shadow to appear that might require him to act in a way he couldn’t predict? Mary Light Feather’s gift had turned out to be a curse, and Uriel wanted an explanation.

After reaching Light Feather’s home, Fox vaulted up the steps and banged on the front door. When Mary appeared, Uriel’s voice sounded explosive and disrespectful. “How could you give me the spectacles when you knew how much trouble they could cause me?”

Mary seemed to expect Uriel’s tirade, and answered, “Uriel, do you still believe that you live in the world alone? You should have understood by now that we are all connected. Everyone has some relationship with everyone else. You can’t help people if you can’t identify who they are.”

Fox shot back. “I’d rather remain alone and take care of my own problems.”

Mary paused a moment and then continued, “Uriel, the enchanted spectacles aren’t actually magical. Your own intuition perceived the fuzzy gray shadows. I simply allowed your potential to surface through your own mind.”

“That’s impossible,” Uriel interrupted. “Here, take the spectacles. I never want to see them again.”

Mary took the glasses but also gave Uriel Fox an important message. “Uriel,” she said, “you’ll find that now the visions will appear without the spectacles. Seeing these images has become your burden to carry; your most important purpose. Your life will be more difficult now. However, you will also be much more helpful than ever before.”

Uriel soon found himself near the edge of town ignoring Mary’s assertions and feeling much better. He felt a great burden had been lifted, and he enjoyed the freedom. But before Uriel could truly savor the experience, a beach ball rolled past him on the sidewalk and into the street. Then a little girl appeared with a fuzzy gray shadow surrounding her. She impulsively began to run for the ball, but Uriel quickly grabbed her. The girl’s mother instantaneously scooped her away from Uriel and hugged, kissed, and scolded the child all at the same time. It was then Uriel Fox apprehended the truth of Mary Light Feather’s prediction. For now, at least, his life would be much more complicated, for better or worse.  

John Zurn has earned an M.A. in English from Western Illinois University and spent much of his career as a school teacher.  In addition, John has worked at several developmental training centers, where he taught employment readiness skills to mentally challenged teenagers and adults.  Now retired, he continues to write and publish poems and stories.  As one of seven children, his experiences growing up continue to help inspire his art and influence his life. Website: https://www.portalstoinnerdimensions.com/

Ripple and Poplar – a poem by Ruth Holzer

Ripple and Poplar

A shining ripple,
lighter than lace,
trickles over the breast
of the great blue heron.

A declining ray of sun
illuminates a ragged 
tulip poplar leaf,
picking out

its map of veins:
another tree, slowly
emerging to stand
before the opened eye.

Ruth Holzer’s poems have appeared in Southern Poetry Review, Connecticut River Review, Slant, Blue Unicorn and THEMA, and in other journals and anthologies the U.S. and abroad. A multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of five chapbooks, most recently A Face in the Crowd (Kelsay Books, 2019) and Why We’re Here (Presa Press, 2019).

The Staircase to Heaven is a Spiral

THE STAIRCASE TO HEAVEN IS A SPIRAL
Double Golden Shovel after Dylan Thomas
 
Night falls, and I wonder what good it is to do
good, to serve soup to the other, to do not
that, but this. Do ladles of soup allow one to go
into heaven? I tread the stone steps, gentle,
gentle, and approach the beckoning light. I go into,
go into, go into the echo of heaven. Is it that,
not this, that will matter? What does good
do in the great celestial ascent, now that it is night?

Before moving to the Washington DC area, Raima Larter was a chemistry professor in Indiana who secretly wrote fiction and tucked it away in drawers. Her work has appeared in GargoyleChantwood MagazineCleaver, BULL, Linden Avenue, Another Chicago Magazine and others. Her first two novels, “Fearless,” and “Belle o’ the Waters,” were published in 2019. Read more about her work at raimalarter.com.

Soren Kierkegaard was Dead by Age Forty Two – a poem by Mark J. Mitchell

SOREN KIERKEGAARD WAS DEAD BY AGE FORTY TWO
 
                        As a tragic hero it is impossible for him to remain silent.
                                                                                    --Soren Kierkegaard
 
                        Prompt as a northern clock and just as stiff,
                        he appears at midnight. The glass is laid out—
                        your fantasy ritual will play out
                        as it has for decades. Life must be lived
                        forward, he always said. He had a gift
                        for the pithy. You’re surprised he looks so young—
                        now you’re years past him. He hadn’t begun
                        to go gray when he died. Just play your game:
                        Welcome his smoky ghost, pretend he’s tame
                        as the cool wine. If he speaks, you’ll be stunned.
 
                        He sits still, considers himself unknown,
                         coughing his throat clear. “Has it been a year?
                        You look the same. My father—his old bones
                        so long gone even my heart’s bleached out fear
                        of him.” You want to warn him not to say
                        what you know he will say. “Come Easter day”
                        he goes on (sparing you the tender wound
                        you’re ready for) “Something has to rise—
                        but not me. Close your pilgrim weary eyes.
                        Let my love affair with God light your room.”
 

Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu Fu  was recently published by Encircle Publications. A new collection is due out in December from Cherry Grove.He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, like everyone else, he’s unemployed. He has published 2 novels and three chapbooks and two full length collections so far. 

Refinishing – a poem by Diane Elayne Dees

Refinishing
 
Less than half an hour after I tossed it 
to the curb, my table found a new owner. 
A man stepped out of his truck,
carefully lifted it into the cargo bed,
and drove away. The table was old,
its parquet finish worn, its top marred
by an unknown substance,
and it no longer suited my needs.
I wondered, as he drove away,
where the man would take my table.
I guessed that he would strip, scrape,
clean, and sand it, then apply stain
and give it new life. I imagined 
it would find its place in someone’s hall
or entryway, or behind someone’s sofa.
And now I wonder: Is there a curb 
onto which I can toss myself,
for I, too, am in need of having years
of trauma, bad decisions, worries,
and regrets stripped away. 
Is there a curb where God picks up souls,
removes layers of psychic toxins,
and applies a stain of pure beauty,
sealed forever with a clear coat of love?
I ask because I am in need of refinishing,
and I seek new life.

Diane Elayne Dees‘s poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, is the author of the chapbook Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), and has another chapbook forthcoming. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

Hibiscus – a poem by Kiriti Sengupta

Hibiscus
 
I’ve to leave.
As long as I’m alive, 
I’ll clean the muck off the earth. 
My pledge to the newborn: 
I must make the world liveable for you. — Sukanta Bhattacharya*
 
1
 
The vow ceased with his death. 
The world expanded. 
They never missed a chance 
to cram her to misery. 
Can we be of help? 
 
2
 
Feed the earth water 
she flows in abundance. 
Allow the planet to breathe: 
the air is her consort. 
Free her from plastics—
they choke progress.
She endures the mess 
her wards make. 
 
3
 
Can I become a tree?
As I rampart the sinew 
with my root embedded 
in her tissue, I’ll bloom
like a hibiscus: 
the blush will endorse
my bloodline. 
 
4
 
Infestation ushers in
a day of buried majesty.
I wish the flower could turn 
into a coral basking in sunshine. 
Mother awaits the levitating saint.
 
 
 
 
 
*An excerpt from Bhattacharya’s celebrated Bengali poem “Charpatra” (“Certificate of Exemption”), published in 1947. Translation is mine (KS). 

Kiriti Sengupta is a poet, editor, translator, and publisher from Calcutta, India. He has been awarded the 2018 Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize for his contribution to literature. He has published eleven books of poetry and prose and two books of translation and co-edited six anthologies. Sengupta is the chief editor of the Ethos Literary Journal.

If – a poem by Mary Kipps

If
 
If I hadn’t woken up at 2 AM, worried
about my aging mother’s care,
if I hadn’t gotten up and headed
out to the hot tub, coffee in hand,
to weigh the tasks that lay ahead,
if the night hadn’t been so heavy with heat
that a swim in the pool 
seemed in order,
if I hadn’t walked to the pool steps 
but dived in, 
if there hadn’t been a gibbous moon
shining on the shallow end, and
if the air hadn’t been so still, 
I might not have noticed
something moving in the water.
And I wouldn’t have run for the pool net,
dipped it under the wild thing
paddling with the last of its strength,
scooped it up and ferried it
to the corner of the yard
that backs to woods,
laid down the net, and stepped away
so as not to add to the fright
of the black and white creature
who still has some purpose
to fulfill in this world.
 

Mary Kipps is a US writer whose poetry has appeared in literary journals and anthologies around the world since 2005. She is also the author of three Kindle eBooks: All in VeinA Sucker for Heels, and Bitten: A Practical Guide to Dating a Vampire.

Scenes from a Small Town in Winter – a poem by Daniel Bowman Jr

Scenes from a Small Town in Winter

The holidays just over 
and the tree taken down, 
we’re having our first real winter weather—
ten degrees and snow. 

I step out on the porch
just before the eleven o’clock news.
Everyone in the house is asleep.

Wind clangs the street signs on the corner: 
Elm and High, though
most of the old elms are gone, 
and “high” but still on the flood plain,
as I learned last spring
when it poured for two days straight. 

I’d gone to the hardware store 
that dark morning to see about a Shop-Vac 
for puddles in the garage. 
Two men in Carhartt coveralls argued 
over the last sump pump. Each declared 
he had more rain in his basement 
than the other, five feet or more.
Both knew the last pump
lacked the horsepower they needed,
but what choice did they have? 

I look out over the Rose of Sharon, branches
pruned at perfect angles
by my father-in-law back in October.
He can be hard and imprecise with himself
but tender and scrupulous with shrubs.  

The empty bird feeder sways back and forth
from the redbud’s bough 
like a broken bell tolling for nothing.
A faint blue light shines from some point west.

Daniel Bowman Jr is the author of A Plum Tree in Leatherstocking Country and Notes from the Spectrum (Brazos Press, 2021). A native New Yorker, he lives in Indiana, where he is Associate Professor of English at Taylor University and Editor-in-chief of Relief: A Journal of Art & Faith

Secret Prayer 14: Are You Still Sleeping? – a poem by Philip Vassallo

Secret Prayer 14: Are You Still Sleeping?
after Matthew 26:45 and Mark 14:41
 
He was human, like you,
frightened and lonely,
feeling abandoned,
or your mother the moment
you would not move in bed
as she tugged you to awaken, 
fearing He had called you home,
or yourself, when friends
just stood and watched 
as you encountered a savage bully
or, worse, your darkest self
stunned by the spectral sight
that you, only human,
know He is God.

Philip Vassallo, an American of Maltese ancestry, is a writing consultant and the author of The Art of On-the-Job WritingThe Art of Email Writing, and How to Write Fast Under Pressure. His poetry, essays, and fiction have appeared in many publications, and his plays have been produced throughout the United States.

Salutations to the Divine Bee – a poem by Sudasi J. Clement

 
Salutations to the Divine Bee
                        (after a Hindu chant: The 108 Names of Devi)
 
Om You whose compass is the sun
Om You of impeccable hexagon 
Om Round-dancer
Om Waggle-dancer
Om Yellow-faced avatar 
Om You of a thousand looping miles 
Om You, loaded, low-flying slow
Om to the One who needs no passport 
Om to the One who departs her hive at sunrise
Om to the One who empties pollen-baskets
Om Glittering tibia
Om Colony
Om Aggregate
Om Division of Labor 
Om Stingerless drone 
Om Nurse-bee
Om Baby 
Om Honey
Om You of bountiful eyes
Om You of striking proboscis
Om You of Yeats’ bee-loud glade
Om You of Beatrix Potter’s Bubbity Bumble
Om You of beckoning petals
Om You asleep in saffron bells
Om You asleep under snow 
Om Tears of Ra
Om Bhramari
Om Ah-Muzen-Cab
 
Om Aristaeus
Om Melissa 
Om Matriarchal clan 
Om You of haploid and diploid
Om Supersister
Om Vulture bee
Om She who enters a carcass through its eye
Om Delicacy of toad and shrike 
Om Tawny miner bee
Om Orchid bee
Om Cellophane bee
Om Forager 
Om Leaf-cutter 
Om Builder
Om Scout
Om Guard
Om Robber bee
Om You breaking into the capped cell
Om You ferrying stolen honey to your hive
Om Gymnast
Om Acrobat
Om You who have solved the problem 
            of the traveling salesman
Om Forewing
Om Hindwing
Om Gold-dusted swarm 
Om Bijou helicopter 
Om Delicate mechanoreceptors 
Om You who carry a comb wherever you go 
Om You carefully grooming your antennae
Om Stubbled fur
Om You who are adapted to both chewing 
            and sucking
Om Cucumber bee
Om Blueberry bee
Om You of thistle and rose
Om You, Supreme Alchemist 
Om to the One who sips Maraschino-factory runoff 
Om Hot-pink honey 
Om Consort of the Queen 
Om Queen 
Om You of countless eggs 
Om Wallace’s giant bee, big as a thumb
Om You of the 37-year disappearance 
Om You of slender waist
Om You of amber-striped abdomen
Om Puddle-drinker
Om Sweat-licker
Om You in our birdbaths
Om You patching cracks in the hive 
Om You on three pair of legs
Om Great banded furrow-bee 
Om You, last of your kind 
Om Bombini
Om Buzz 
Om Fuzzy bum
Om Humblebee 
Om Haphazard bumble
Om Drowsy hum
Om Maze-master
Om Tree-nester
Om Seeker 
Om Stinger
Om You who are free of delusion
Om You who are ever at peace with your devotees
Om Caffeine-lover
Om Tipsy neighbor
Om Picnic Crasher
Om Backyard Flashmob
Om Iridescent surprise 
Om Field Pixie 
Om Jewel of the orchard
Om Bee-heart
Om Bee-breath
Om Ragged-winged elder bee 
Om Slow-wave slumber
Om Sleep-deprived stumbler 
Om You on the rim of my bowl 
Om Bringer of Luck
Om Keeper
Om Kept
 
Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti

Sudasi J. Clement is the author of the chapbook, The Bones We Have in Common, Slipstream Press, 2012, and the former poetry editor of Santa Fe Literary Review, 2006-2016. Sudasi’s poems have appeared in Rewilding: Poems for the Environment (Split Rock Review & Flexible Press), Calyx, Sky Island Journal, Room Magazine and pacificREVIEW, among others. She lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.