You’re My Friend, John.

You’re my friend, John. You’re my friend.

I remember when I found you, you were skin and bones. And just as pathetic as me. I kicked at you, and yelled “go away!” Instead, you wagged your little tail, so I fed you crumbs. My last crumbs. Then a woman gave me a five dollars, while I was petting you. I bought us more crumbs, and we had ourselves a fair deal.

So many cold nights we hugged each other. I would hold you like a baby, as you whimpered into my chest. I promised we would survive, and I kept my promise. We ate crumbs.

I don’t know where you are now, but I know we’ll be fine.
You’re still my friend John. You’re still my friend.

~~Photo & Story by Ian Russell

Angry Son by Indian Summer

        It was the only thing to calm him down.  Jack could get so angry sometimes.  His mother never understood why.  She only ever wanted him to do his best, so it surprised her that his best was never good enough for Jack.
        When it got bad, Jack would just listen to his music. One song in particular would sooth him, a momentary pause in his tantrum, like a two year old who stops screaming, because after so long they forgot why they were so upset in the first place.  That kind of music worried his mother, but there was no use to reprimanding her baby boy.  She was always so tired from working 12 hour days, and had already punished him for listening to this other band, “I Hate Everything…” or something.  In fact, she yelled at him so much, she almost felt bad, although she knew there was a point to be made.  She loved him so much.

 

~~Story by Ian Russell

Counting Everest in Inches

        There are 150 dead bodies that pepper the bluff sides and crevices of Mt. Everest.  All were intrepid men and women who lost hope, before losing themselves.  Now their corpses serve as road signs for new climbers making the ascent.  One in four climbers will die trying to summit her, and at $40,000 a person, I’d say there are better odds in Vegas to lose a fortune.
        I once had a dream where I casually strolled through the snow of the infamous “Kill Zone,” wearing nothing but shorts and carrying a back pack with snacks.  I remember feeling warm, even sweaty, which at 28,000 feet is impressive.
       I wonder if George Mallory had dreamed about Everest before he found himself lying face first in her rocky banks.  I wonder if he dreamed of dying up there.  I hope to conquer her one day.

~~Story by Ian Russell

Mouches Volantes

        I remember when she told me what it was called – those floaters you see when blinking. Mouches Volantes. Some French term that sounded so beautiful, at least when she spoke.

            I remember reading her a poem I wrote about how I saw her face on each squiggly floater, “A shadow on my retina/ a bright spot on my heart.” The only difference being that the next time I blinked, she was gone. I never liked French anyway.

~~Story by Ian Russell

Smoke on the Horizon

       Molly paces around the custom muscle cars and tricked-out pickup trucks. She hides from the scowling mourners smoking cigarettes on the wide front porch. With a shaking hand, she swipes pale pink lip gloss across her cut lips. Angelic voices sing of love and righteousness. Of course, his mother had hired a choir.

        Molly touches the bruises barely hidden by the makeup. A tomcat leaps onto her brother-in-law’s car, rubbing its butt on the “Chicks, Not Dicks” window decal. Its swishing tail tickles her nose. She scratches its head and watches smoke escape the funeral home’s ugly metal chimney. Her Hindu grandmother believed the funeral pyre’s smoke was the glorious release of a soul. Molly feels her own soul rising, stretching beneath the stiff, black dress. She drops her cheap wedding band in the dirt and follows the old tomcat toward the road.

~~ Story by Kelly Anelons

You can follow her on twitter@kellyanelons