I have but one skill

November 02, 2024

My name is not as important as my looks.

I have ulnar dimelia, aka mirror hand syndrome. Both of my hands have eight fingers each. I have no thumbs. I have been this way since birth. Barely seventy people, world-wide, present as I do. There are many reasons for this.

I cannot wear gloves. I will not shake hands. I avoid people who make thumb wrestling jokes. I can flip you four birds. I have trouble grasping objects. I can't tie my shoes. However, I can tie a Double Windsor. I use a straw for most beverages and (some) soups. I have been x-rayed. I have never been fingerprinted. I will not make a movie appearance. I do not wave. Forget playing baseball or the piano. I will pass on bowling and clapping.

Despite all of my obvious shortcomings, I do one thing very well.

I am a master locksmith. So much so, for those who know me and what I can do, I am always in high demand.

Why?

Because I can feel tumblers fall. I can feel a pick travel into a cylinder while I measure the pressure required to raise the individual pin tumblers. I am also just as adept with other locking mechanisms.

How adept?

I work off of touch, not sound. I can measure differences of force and pressure within .0002%. I can do all of this both at the source and as far away as two meters (personal best). If it turns, if metal moves across metal, if any part of the mechanism moves, I will know.

Once opened, then I will know what the lock was protecting.

My few friends wonder how I can remain legit. How can I forgo stealing a stack of money here or a diamond necklace there. It must be tempting.

It is very tempting.

But, so is an accusation against the someone who looks like a freak. So is responding to bogus legal requirements that I register with this agency or that agency in the interest of public safety.

No one sees my face, only my hands. No one listens to me, only the sound of their own voice denying my rights. The ADA people wish to characterize and classify me. The FBI wants to interrogate me for every unsolved crime they have. Insurance companies will deny me coverage. The police think I can shoot a pistol. The DMV thinks I shouldn’t drive. I haven’t tried either.

Yet.

So why am I making this announcement? Because I now have confirmation the worldwide number of people with my condition will soon increase.

I am going to have twins.

So, if you have the penchant for making my life miserable, I might just find a level of reciprocity to make your life miserable. What do you have locked away? Money? Papers? Jewels?

Raising children is expensive.

Do you have a secure system? I will teach two apprentices my craft. From the look of their x-rays, they already come with the tools.

Time is on my side.

See you soon.

And often.

weeds pulled and the dirt fed

i let the clover grow

and the vine it crushes the overlap

where the brush meets things man-made

the end of the green meets the beginning of blue

or brown

or dark of night

so, i let the clover grow

i let the clover grow, and the field does not suffer for it

the grass does not pay a price

and the sun shines down with plenty --

where i let the clover grow

@r2

When you said

“Sometimes I go there

only to look for you”

It surprised me and made me feel

unbelievably good

But perhaps a little skeptical too

That the presence (or absence)

of someone as ordinary as myself

would ever be noted

by someone as extraordinary as you

But as time went on

I learned that

though you are blunt

deceit is not your way

So I want you to know

that because you took the time

to share something so simple

It has made all the difference

in how I view myself

even to this day

Thank you

There was no breast from which to suckle

There was no hand to pat my back

There was no counting during hide-and-seek

Of playdates and parties I did not speak

There was no aisle to walk down

No hand for me to hold

At breakfast and at super

My heart grew hard and cold

In daylight and in darkness

My own breath sounds filled my ears

At twilight and at sunset

At the solitude I cursed

And when the end of life drew near

Reflection my only goal

I looked in the rearview mirror

Dark and Empty met my eyes

Relationships I had not known

I had wasted all my time

When at the pearly gates I stood

I knocked but no one answered

The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

Were nowhere to be found

Through eternity I would venture

Unescorted in the clouds

pied-à-terre

June 26, 2024

I wanted to call this the pied-à-terre, possibly my pied-à-terre, or my foot-on-the-ground, in the big city. I wanted all of this now that I actually own one.

But, I decided against all changes in nomenclature, against all changes in appearance.

Upon reading of her will, my maternal grandmother decided I required her 1 bedroom, 1 bath “quaint” as she referred to it, condo on the 4th floor of a walk up on the lower east side.

She wanted me to have a place in which I could think.

With all taxes, upkeep, and utilities paid in full for the next three years, I now enjoyed the writing splendor of the greats that lounged in Paris, London, or Berlin during the days of yore.

I was in New York, with a view, a front side coffee shop, a variety of businesses close at hand, and other rare amenities available to a young lady of my stature in close vicinity.

Essentially, I was at ground zero in the city that never sleeps, shrunk down to a wonderful 15 minute walk.

I was in Heaven.

And I got to work.

I wanted to write about my first morning.

I won the lottery

Not a financial win

Not a taxable gain

I won an extension of a life lived well

I am the recipient of all that sustains such a life

Sans a care in the world

Amidst others of a similar ilk

I reach for pen and parchment

To prove my worth

Then, I wanted to see my neighborhood in all of its glory.

A quick shower, nice jeans and a t-shirt, my hair tied in the back, my day began at the corner cafe, sipping an espresso, buttering a small portion of a large baguette. My oversized dark glasses kept those moving past at a distance.

I was on reconnaissance and wasn’t available for an interview.

Until the waitress came with my bill.

She looked as I looked. Same height, same weight. Her slender hands culminated with ivory nail polish giving that exact opal iridescence I enjoyed.

The same I sported.

I paid the bill with a 50% tip and my phone number. She took both in as she gave to me one of those all-knowing smiles rivaling a Cheshire cat and surpassing a Marilyn Monroe, sitting on the staircase, in “All About Eve”, come hither stare.

I tipped my glasses (ala Holly Golightly) and watched her walk away. She knew she was being watched. I knew she knew I was watching.

The remainder of my first day could not rival its onset.

I will call her Heidi

Not that I believe her name to be so

But because, whatever it may actually be, I hope to be wrong

Only on this singular point

She is a coquette. I am intrigued

She holds all of the cards, but I am the dealer

Her night will be spent thinking of me

My night will be spent thinking of her

May such lonely nights, only thinking, be limited in number

I returned the next morning to find her sitting where I previously sat. Today was her day off. She slowly reached for my hand and leaned in to whisper something about taking her away from her mundane existence. She wanted to see how I lived. She wanted what I wanted.

Heidi was aggressive and sincerely forward. I could not offer a reason to contradict her line of reasoning. I warned her I might be a bit too pedestrian for her expectations. She countered that I had already exceeded all of her expectations.

I did not receive a kiss from Heidi until after we finished grocery shopping.

She did not receive a kiss from me until we returned from which I emerged.

By morning, it was time to emerge again.

This time, alone.

The night was magical. The heavens aligned. I discovered why I enjoyed what I enjoyed. But only when she was present to enjoy it with me.

Heidi left a six word letter: I cannot be more to you.

I cried for the duration of the day.

Soft, ever so soft

Vocals of coos

Touches of silk

Gentle arches as if electrified

Gentle moans prior to reciprocation

Everything in whispers

Except for her goodbye

That, she screamed in silence

The day I decided to live,

Caught me in a steel boot panic,

The small of my back,

A wormy spasm

Of mortal Morse code

In hell’s exiled hospital bed.

I am going to live.

Apathy aches

Through crawl space bones,

Her humid bore

Fogging to a damp finish,

While once weathered sighs

Float through grey morgue skies,

Skirting deadweight tides

Of tedium’s laboured arrest,

Lapping and licking my bleached heel

So pathetically.

I am going to live.

The bald scream

Of atrophied helplessness

Staggers me on,

And catches the ears

And eyes of God,

And I refuse to drown

In this landfill avalanche,

Like a perfunctory punk.

I am going to live.

I jumpstart the last nucleus

Of infant flame

That had retired

To a soldered melt

Of sunny sizzle,

As black psalm laments

Crystallise into turncoat hallelujahs,

And mutiny’s inferno

Gives Bloody Mary

An everlasting

Atom bomb kiss.

I am going to live.

Junkyard demon dogs

Drip dross through fanged bluster,

And the devil’s tremulous waters

Are glaucoma eyed bonds

And last gasp glances,

Of stonewalled silence,

Scrambled mirages,

Distorted mirrors

And pilloried ego death.

I am going to live.

I devour the curse

And strike up the band,

As my stop watch pulse

Shivers through my powder keg hand,

And I will unearth the mile high soil

And limp bow legged

Through blood sun boil,

Because you cannot gaol

The uncaged heart

Of one who knows

That beyond death’s saltwater kiss

Waits the sacred miracle

Of reset revolution

And purpled salvation.

I am going to live.

(Poem title: The Day I Decided To Live)

Book title:

Tea Time Before Apocalypse

Genre:

Poetry (Confessional, Narrative)

Age Range:

16-

Word Count-

69 Pages, 31 Poems

Author Name:

LDW

Why My Project Is A Good Fit:

My poetry book is emotive and ragged, with raw beauty beyond its bones.

It weaves both a poignant and compelling tapestry of words that is an unflinching reflection on the human experience.

It is ripe with poems that are haunting, winsome, sobering and triumphant.

The Hook:

Our world is hungry for powerful expressions of shared experiences.

Consequently, my book’s 31 poems are a cathartic companion for readers who universally share the nuanced notes of life’s imperfectly perfect symphony.

Synopsis:

My poetry collection has a narrative arc from the perspectives of the dreamy eyed wonders of childhood, the teenage wastelands of frayed youth, and the ultimate bittersweet reckoning of mortality.

Target Audience:

“Tea Time Before Apocalypse” is a book geared towards readers who cherish both confessional and emotionally charged poetry.

Young adults to middle age might be a fitting key demographic, but this book skirts the polar fringes of age, as these poems intrinsically cater to whomever will find empathy and solace in them.

Bio:

I hail from upstate New York, yet have lived and traveled throughout the world and my global adventures have indelibly inspired and seasoned my writing.

I’m a classically trained pianist and busied my earlier self with soundtrack scoring and ear piercing rock music in my first band(s).

My life has been molded through an unyielding thirst for purpose, meaning and understanding.

Poetry remains my most focused and important creative passion.

Platform:

Prose has been my literary hotspot for sharing my work.

I adore the community and Prose is uniquely tailored for “no limits” literary art.

Education:

I’ve been to both secular and religious institutions and learned more in the school of hard knocks, though I believe academia and seminary was a healthy footnote for helping me find myself, and their fruits have a rightful place in my heart.

Experience:

A number of my poems have graciously been spotlighted on theprose.com, and it has been a thrill to hear my work read on their YouTube channel, alongside truly heavyweight talents.

Personality/Writing Style:

I‘m conversational, affable, and hold dear the values of compassion and knowledge.

My writing style is almost cinematic in its descriptive metaphors, but it also engages the heart beyond the senses.

It is flavored with social observation, philosophical musings and sometimes savagely blunt thoughts, sourced from my life’s battles and victories in an upside down world.

Likes/Hobbies:

I’m an avid photographer and aviation enthusiast.

Hometown:

Born in Elmira, New York and currently living near Exeter, Devon, England.

Age:

I’m a spry 43.

Thank you for the courtesy of your time,

LDW

by

Wilkinson Riling

Every game felt like a symphony to eighteen-year-old Kelvin White. The chirp of athletic shoes braking on the parquet floor. The rhythmic drumming of a dribbled basketball pounding on wood, building tension as he planned his approach to the hoop. All the while surrounded by a cacophony of whistles and whoops and thunderous applause inside the Lower Merion High School Gymnasium just outside Philadelphia where, in this orchestration, Kelvin was the conductor, leading the players down the court, directing the drive with a pass here, a pick there, finishing off with a cymbal-like crash on the basket.

The young black man's concert hall this evening was the Kobe Bryant Gymnasium named after the famous alumni. Bryant’s high school jersey banner, number thirty-three, hung from the very rafters under which Kelvin performed. Kelvin White had dreams of living to see his own number sixty-four hanging right next to it. This night’s quarter final game against Chester would see that dream realized sooner than expected, not because of his Bryant-breaking record with 2,897 points, but of something totally unforeseen.

This playoff game against Chester High School was as dramatic as any Beethoven opus. The rivalry between the two teams went back years and many passions stirred. The gym was packed to spill over with fans from both schools. In the stands things got heated as the game clock wound down on a tight score. A fight broke out in the bleachers between a group of students and a rowdy bunch of Chester supporters who had no affiliation to either school. In the melee, one of the fans, a gang banger from across town pulled a gun from his waist band. How he got past the metal detectors was a question for later; no acceptable answer was ever given.

Shots rang out followed by bedlam. A tsunami of fear caused a stampede for the exits. More people were injured by falls and being trampled than from gun fire. Still, three bullets found targets before the gun was wrestled away and the perpetrator beaten to within an inch of his life. A middle-aged woman near the top of the bleachers on the far side of the gym was struck in the arm. On the floor, a referee caught a slug in his hip. Only by the grace of God, it was said, no one died. Yet, what were the odds that in the middle of a possible game winning lay-up, the final round fired from the .45 caliber weapon would strike a young team captain down?

Kelvin White lay wounded beneath the basket unable to move, surrounded by teammates forming a protective barrier. An opposing player removed his jersey trying to stop the blood loss from the gunshot wound in Kelvin’s spine. For his part, Kelvin felt no pain. His face lay sideways on the parquet floor with Kelvin paralyzed, trying to look back at what was happening behind him, trying to remain calm. His eye locked onto the single jersey banner hanging from the rafter above. A tear slipped down his cheek onto the floor.

“I ain’t going! You can’t make me!” Kelvin shouted. Nine months had passed since the Lower Merion Mass Shooting as it was called in the media. Kelvin White, the once promising athlete with scholarships and endorsement contracts in his future, found himself a paraplegic living with his uncle in a West Philly row home. Thanks to an incredibly successful GoFundMe page they were able to remodel the house for handicapped access with an access ramp, safety bars in the bathroom and throughout, plus a pulley system to assist in transferring from bed to wheelchair. The living room was now converted into Kelvin’s bedroom. The wheelchair, too, was purchased from the donated funds. That’s not to say maneuvering within the home was easy. The two-story structure was narrow as was its entrance. That fact made it easier for Kelvin to brace himself and keep his wheelchair from moving forward as his Uncle Nate futilely pushed from behind.

“Please, Kelvin, this is your night.” Nate Gorman, his maternal uncle cajoled. Nate stepped into a parental role after his sister Rhonda, Kelvin’s mother, was incarcerated for larceny. She had written bad checks on her employer’s account to the tune of a five-figure amount. She was sentenced to five years at a Lehigh Valley Woman’s Prison. That happened two years before the tragedy. Part of Kelvin’s drive to succeed was to make sure his mother never had to steal again. Kelvin never knew his father. Nate never tried to fill that role, but a more dedicated uncle and brother you couldn’t find. “The school is honoring you.” Nate reminded him.

“You mean they’re pitying me.” Kelvin shot back. “I don’t need their pity.”

“Yes you do! You need their pity! And you need their charity! We’re barely staying afloat now with all the medical bills and lawyer fees!” Nate pulled Kelvin back into the house and spoke into his ear. “How long do you think I’d keep this house if I missed a mortgage payment? My postal salary alone won’t cut this. We need that GoFundMe money to provide you with care until the lawsuit is final. Now I’ll clean your ass everyday until hell freezes over without bitching. The least you can do is help see we both don’t end up homeless.”

Kelvin let go of the doorway lowering his head with a sigh.

N offered a simple, “Thank you.” He pushed Kelvin out toward the awaiting van and chair lift.

The crowd at the gymnasium couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. Kelvin and Nate entered from a side door. “All I Do is Win” by DJ Khaled blasted from the speakers. Applause rolled like a wave through the gym as people recognized Kelvin. Reporters from three local channels with camera crews were present. Nate had already vetoed any interviews. Principal Harold Stark guided the pair to center court where two dozen folding chairs set on a black carpet were aligned in rows. They contained Kelvin’s coaches, teammates and teachers from last season. A rectangular black drape about three feet wide hung inches off the floor lit by a single spot. A video they were to show of Kelvin’s basketball play had been nixed at the last minute and replaced with a sole high school photo, Kelvin, waist up with an ear-to-ear grin wearing his letterman jacket.

Coach Martin Devers stood at the podium to speak on the occasion. He spoke of meeting Kelvin as a freshman recruited from Our Mother of Sorrows Catholic Grade School where Kelvin was a star athlete in several sports and about how he was blown away by Kelvin’s determination and drive. He told how Kelvin’s mother explained that she named him after the temperature measuring Kelvin scale because of his inner fire—his ability to go from absolute zero bringing energy and intensity to whatever he does. The coach spent the next several minutes highlighting Kelvin’s statistical accomplishments, ending with, “…Kelvin White, number sixty-four is only the second number here at Lower Merion to be retired, thank you for honoring our school with that privilege.”

With that, the black drape was pulled aside revealing a large maroon and white banner with the block numbers “sixty-four” five feet high and crowned with the name “WHITE.” The DJ set up by the bleachers played Boys to Men’s slow torch song “The End of the Road.” The crowd listened solemnly. Kelvin watched his jersey, followed by a spotlight, ascend like a ghost. Tears began to fill his eyes. His teammate, assistant captain Earnest Stitt, could see the vibe was all wrong. He jumped from his chair toward the DJ, accidentally tilting the folding chair which smacked the floor with a crack as loud as a gunshot. Kelvin’s head shook at the sudden noise. Stitt admonished the DJ. The song quickly changed to “Motown Philly” and the crowd began to applaud as Kelvin’s number took its spot next to Kobe Bryant’s jersey banner. Still startled by the noise, Kelvin’s mind was somewhere else, he reached over to Nate. “Take me home.”

Nate leaned in. “What’s wrong?”

Kelvin shielded his face with a hand to his brow. “Get me out of here. Take me home, now. Don’t you ever bring me back here.” For Kelvin it was a bitter reminder of what he once was and believed he would never be again, a champion.

Nate could see Kelvin’s urine bag on the side of the wheelchair beginning to fill. He leapt up, pulled a 360 with Kelvin’s chair while at the same time apologizing to Principal Stark and Coach Devers for their hasty exit. The crowd watched in confusion wondering if the ceremony was over. Nate and Kelvin made for the exit. The gym doors closed behind them to a smattering of perplexed applause.

Another three months had passed. Nate, when not at work, had a neighbor check in on Kelvin. He was concerned Kelvin was showing the signs of an agoraphobic. He refused to leave the house, had to be coerced to bathe and spent his days watching television shows from the 70’s, reruns of reruns, which is how his days were beginning to feel. But the house was beginning to smell like a nursing home, and Nate was going to change that on this Saturday.

“Wake up, your going out today.” His uncle opened the living room blinds letting the sun in for the first time in months.

Kelvin shielded his eyes with both arms. “I ain’t going nowhere. There’s a Sanford and Son marathon today.”

“Either you’re going outside, or the TV is going out in the trash and Lamont can come and get it. You don’t want to test me on this.”

Kelvin peeked out from under his arms to see his uncle’s angry face. Kelvin shook his head in surrender.

An hour and a half later Uncle Nate pulled the van into a handicap space at Clark Park in West Philly. After parking, he lowered Kelvin and his wheelchair down on the lift. They entered the park and stopped. “Now what?” Kelvin grumbled.

“Now you can get yourself some exercise. I’m gonna go play some bocce ball with my friends over there.” A group of men Nate’s age were rolling colored balls across the grass in a game of bocce. Kelvin watched the group greet Nate with smiles, hugs and laughter.

“Looks like fun, why don’t you play?” The voice came from behind Kelvin. It sounded like Morgan Freeman had just eaten a stick of butter; it was deep and smooth and gentle. Kelvin spun around in his wheelchair. A black man, in his seventies, thin and lanky wearing a fedora was sitting on a green checkered folding chair by a table-high block of stone. Kelvin saw several other stone blocks with men seated apart, all playing chess. “Unless you prefer a bigger challenge.” His large hand gestured to chess pieces lined up ready for battle. “My opponent quit. He tired of losing. You ever get tired of losing?”

“No.” Kelvin spun his back to the man.

“I guess it’s hard to tire of losing if you’re too scared to get in the game in the first place.” The velvet voice mocked.

Kelvin retorted. “I never played chess before. Make it checkers and I’ll whip your skinny ass.”

“I can teach you in no time.” The man replied with confidence.

Kelvin turned and wheeled over; the man removed a chair to make space. “Samuel Simutowe. Pleased to meet you…?”

“White. Kelvin White.”

“Okay, Mr. White. Let’s start you off with the white pieces then, shall we? White gets first move.” He turned the board placing the white pieces in front of Kelvin. “Now the first thing you need to know is there are sixty-four squares on the chessboard. Thirty-two light, Thirty-two dark.”

“Sixty-four?”

“Yes, why do you have a problem with that?” Sam asked.

Kelvin thought it odd it matched his jersey number. “No.”

“Good. Now, we each have sixteen chessmen lined up for battle. Your goal is to capture my King while preventing me from capturing yours. Think you can do that?”

Kelvin pointed to the chess pieces. “Just tell me how these things move, Grady.”

Sam leaned back. “Grady? Who’s Grady?”

The man reminded Kelvin of the character in Sanford and Son. “I meant, Sam. Now show me.”

In under an hour, Kelvin had learned the rudimentary aspects of the game enough to put a smile on his face when he moved a bishop into place and firmly said, “Check.”

Sam looked at the board, indeed he was in check, and he was in trouble. His hand went to his chin as he surveyed the battle field.

Kelvin pushed. “C’mon, move.”

Sam lowered his hand to his king holding a finger on it deciding where to move.

Kelvin grew impatient. “C’mon.”

Sam took his finger off the king and pinched his black knight. He lifted it and toppled Kelvin’s white bishop. He took the piece. “Checkmate.”

With a swing of his arm Kelvin cleared the table scattering the pieces to the ground.

“Son, you’ve got to learn to lose better than that.”

“Don’t tell me about losing. I lost everything, old man.”

Sam pointed to his own head. “You didn’t lose this. I can see you lost use of your legs, for that I’m sorry.”

Kelvin snapped. “I don’t need your pity, Grady.”

“But if you lost this.” Sam pointed to his own heart. “That’s completely on you.” There was silence. “So, what do you say? Rematch?”

Kelvin tilted his head with a look of disdain. “Fine.”

Sam stood up. “Okay, then. You sit there, leave me to pick up the pieces.”

Two hours later, Nate approached a small crowd gathered around his nephew who was talking with a stranger and playing chess. Behind the spectators Nate peeked over a shoulder just in time to see Kelvin declare, “Checkmate.” Murmurs of surprised approval ricocheted within the group; money exchanged hands.

Nate stepped in. “Kelvin, what’s going on here?”

“This your son?” Sam asked Nate.

“My nephew.” He extended a hand. “Nate Gorman.”

“Pleased to meet you. I guess you can call me Grady.” He looked at Kelvin. “That was the bet, wasn’t it? You get to call me Grady if you win?”

Kelvin smiled and nodded. Nate double blinked. He hadn’t seen a smile on Kelvin in about a year.

“Nate, your nephew here is a natural born chess player. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could achieve an Elo rating of 2000. He sees the board three moves ahead. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah. He was like that on the basketball cour…” Nate cut his sentence short letting it drift into the ether. But it was too late, it still made Kelvin wince. Wishing he could take it back; Nate cleared his throat, changing the subject. “What do you mean Elo rating?”

Sam began to pack his chess pieces away. “It’s a rating system named after a Hungarian physics professor Arpad Elo, a chess master. A 2000 Elo would qualify Kelvin to join The Philadelphia Chess Club one of the most prestigious in the country. This could open him up to timed tournament play and monetary awards.” On that he folded the board and stood and shook hands with Kelvin. “Mr. White, it was a privilege.”

Kelvin backed up. “Thanks, Mr. Simutowe, but I think we’ll pass on tournaments. Unk, I want to go home now.”

Their familiar silence followed them on the way to the van. Nate spoke first, “Kelvin I didn’t mean to dredge up…”

“It’s okay, Unk. I’m just tired. Let’s come back tomorrow and hear more of what Sam has to say. At best, it’ll give me something to do.”

In the coming weeks, Sam helped Kelvin prepare to qualify for acceptance into the Philadelphia Chess Club. It required him to win club sanctioned tournaments. This included local, regional, national and invitational tourneys with an added wrinkle of needing to learn how to play timed games and how to manage the clock. Kelvin would be pitted against opponents the with highest Elo ratings in order to advance his rank quickly to gain acceptance into the prestigious club.

For the next nine months Kelvin played in seven local tournaments, five regional, traversing three states, against a total of thirty-five high ranking players each with an Elo above 1900 resulting in Kelvin achieving an Elo score of 1800, 200 shy of the required ranking of 2000. His ranking was still good enough to rate him a Class A player and procure a seat at the Invitational Chess Tournament in Atlantic City.

Nate, Kelvin and Sam loaded into the van to make the hour-long ride to the beach side resort. Their first stop was the tournament pairings board. The pairings were chosen randomly from the pool of qualifying players. At the board Sam ran a finger down the list then groaned. “Fuck. Sinclair Beaumont. What are the odds?”

Nate asked. “Who is he?”

“Just a chess master with an Elo rating of 2100.” He turned to Kelvin. “Who happens to be president of The Philadelphia Chess Club.”

“Fine. Let’s kick some ass!” Kelvin smiled but got no reaction from Sam, who understood just how badly the odds were stacked against Kelvin.

Kelvin took his place at the tournament table awaiting his opponent. Heads turned as a man entered the room and crossed the playing floor toward Kelvin. Sinclair Beaumont was a balding thirty-year-old, tall and thin with a hawkish nose tilted as if sniffing the air before him following a noxious scent. He seemed to walk on his heels while his arms had little sway to them. He sat down across from Kelvin like a marionette lowering into a chair. His accent was old money Philadelphian as if Katherine Hepburn’s voice were male. Without looking at him, he addressed Kelvin. “I understand you’re the West Philadelphian wunderkind.”

Kelvin reached a hand out to greet him that was ignored with a wave from Sinclair who had one eyebrow raised in disgust. “Yes, let’s acknowledge we’re both gentleman, but let’s not forget this is more or less a duel to the death, for I am going to kill any chance that a flash in the pan, street bred amateur, and son of a felon, like you, has of joining our prestigious club.”

"Well, fuck you too." Kelvin thought in silence.

Sinclair gestured to the official holding the lots that determine who goes first. “After you, Mr. White.” Kelvin reached into the box and pulled out a black chess piece.

Sinclair removed the white. “Looks like I shoot first.”

The game was a best of five timed match with each player under a clock and their color designation selected after each game. They were at a main table and drew a small crowd around them. Kelvin lost the first match in what seemed to be a blink of an eye. They drew for color again and once more Kelvin selected black. Game two was longer if not closer. Kelvin lasted for a time even after losing his queen. But the clock added a pressure he wasn’t used to. He was now down two games to nothing and was looking like their trip would soon come to an end. In the back of the room a gust of ocean wind pushed open a door slamming it against the wall with a bang. Kelvin shuddered. The noise was the gunshot sound all over again in his mind. Kelvin froze, now mentally paralyzed in fear.

Sinclair Beaumont leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you’d like to resign? A forfeit at this stage is quite understandable.”

Kelvin could only mouth the question. “What?”

Nate could see Kelvin's urine bag filling. He leaned down, “You okay, Kelvin? You want me to take you home?”

Sam leaned down on the other side. “It’s okay, son. There’s no shame in a withdrawal at this point. It happens all the time.”

Kelvin gathered himself, steadied his breathing. He turned to Sam, "Grady, I got this."

He reached over to the lot box. For a third time Kelvin randomly selected the black chess pieces. This gave the advantage of first move, once again, to Beaumont.

The next two games, Kelvin, playing black and despite the disadvantage of moving second, eked out both wins, stunning Beaumont and changing the momentum. Sinclair Beaumont turned to the arbiter and requested a break to use the restroom. An unusual request but not unheard of.

When Sinclair returned Kelvin noticed white flecks of powder in the corner of his flared avian nostril. The next several games were played with Sinclair making his moves in rapid succession while Kelvin tried to slow the clock to control the pace, much like he had done when playing basketball. Each one of the tie breaking games ended in stalemate. Both players were beginning to tire the frustration of tie after tie affecting them both.

After a third stalemate and before the next lot draw Sinclair spoke ominously. “Armageddon Game.”

Sam explained to Kelvin what it was. “In an Armageddon Game the “white” player or player with the white pieces, has the privilege of a full extra minute of time to make his move. In return, should the game end in yet another stalemate, the “black” player is automatically declared the winner.”

Kelvin accepted the terms. He drew the white chess piece. Sinclair smiled still confident, “It appears the privilege is yours.”

If Beaumont was expecting Kelvin to use the extra time allotted to him to slow the game, he was mistaken. Kelvin reversed strategy. Kelvin’s moves were quick, precise and ruthless. It was Sinclair Beaumont who was stumbling trying to keep pace and control his clock at the same time.

Kelvin hadn’t needed the extra time, he attacked with a blitz mentality. Once again, Beaumont took his queen, a crippling blow by all appearances. Only the queen wasn’t so much “lost” as it was sacrificed. The play matched one of the most beautiful and daring moves in chess history known as “The Immortal Game.” In 1851 Adolf Anderssen playing against Lionel Kieseritzky sacrificed his queen to deliver a decisive checkmate a few moves later. Which is just what Kelvin did.

Two moves later Kelvin stated, “Checkmate. Guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.” Backed by a confident smile.

Sinclair’s arm swept his pieces off the table and stood. “Send in your application I’ll get to it when I get to it.” His chair scraped the floor as he turned in a huff and left.

Kelvin smiled at Sam. “Grady, he’s got to learn to lose better than that.”

The ride home took forty-five minutes and was filled with tales of the day’s events and laughter. They dropped Sam off at the park. Kelvin handed him the trophy, “Sam, I want you to have this. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

Sam refused at first until he told Sam it be easier if he brought it to the park to show off. He could use it to recruit more kids into the game of chess. Sam agreed and thanked Kelvin.

Nate and Kelvin headed for home. Nate asked Kelvin why he gave the trophy away.

“I dunno. It was never really the trophy I was chasing, now was it?” With that he leaned his head against the window and let his mind drift as they rolled through the West Philly neighborhoods.

The van made its way along Girard Avenue, the trolley track catching its wheels a few times shaking the van. Kelvin shook from his deep thoughts noticing they were heading out of West Philly. “Hey, where we going?”

“I want to watch a basketball game with my nephew. Is that too much to ask?” The van headed towards Lower Merion. Kelvin protested the whole ride there.

The wheelchair lift lowered; Kelvin felt as if he were descending into a mind shaft. “Stop.” The electric whine halted, Kelvin's whine continued. “I don’t want to do this. Let’s go home.”

Nate held the lift button. “You just won your way into the Philadelphia Chess Club on a move no one had seen in a hundred years. Inside that gymnasium where your name and your number hang from the rafter. Next to Kobe Bryant’s for Chrisesakes!”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it and do the work! You can be great. You can be great at chess, you can be great at…”

Kelvin answered sarcastically, “…at basketball?”

“Within reason, Kelvin. I was going to say, ‘At life’. Now c’mon.” The lift reengaged.

Kelvin disembarked, moving slow, he wheeled himself up the pavement toward the building where he left his dreams. Nate closed up the van and caught up to Kelvin at the gym door. “Let me get that for you.” Nate opened the door and Kelvin started forward, stopping instantly.

Inside on the parquet floor a game was in progress. There was no chirp of sneakers against the smooth floor. This was a different sound. The dull skidding of rubber, the banging of metal, the drum like dribble of a ball and a group of players calling for the ball. A small crowd cheered and clapped.

Kelvin White watched ten men in wheelchairs scrambling like a boardwalk bumper car attraction back and forth, up and down the court at surprising speed, starting and stopping, passing the b-ball back and forth and shooting for the basket. A sign read “Wheelchair Basketball, Saturday Nite.”

Kelvin watched a player around his age loop under the net and toss the ball one handed behind him for a score. Family and friends in the stands cheered. It wasn't the orchestrated elegance of his high school days; now, it looked more like navigating a heavy metal mosh pit. Yet, within its chaotic rhythm, Kelvin found a familiar beat. He looked up to the roof at his jersey banner hanging next to Kobe’s, then back to the game.

Nate stepped up next to Kelvin. “I hear they have a national league, as well.”

Kelvin looked at Nate, then back once more back to the game. He was speechless.

“What is it they say in chess?” Nate paused, pretending to think, then grinned. “Your move.”

it happened

in the raspberry patch

while harvesting the fruit

brilliant red berries

against flat green leaves

that my careless motion

a movement too fast

when a tiny thorn

caught my flesh in its grip

a razor thin cut

just deep enough to bleed

a trickle of blood

on a small jagged line

brilliant red beads

against flat green leaves

the plant taking from me

as i from it

the winding spiral of nicotine tasted remarkable

until the next morning when i swore it off forever

the smell of beer on his lips was intoxicating

though i have never really enjoyed any strong drink

the warmth of the burn felt like all time was standing still

only hours later i would hate the textiles it touched for their coldness

i swam in ponds of water so soft and fertile i felt refreshed by them

only later to not be able to scrub hard enough to remove it from my skin

i loved

and yet i hate that i did

in my youth i preferred walking the dirt roads barefoot

i would break up with this desire the second i slipped into new socks

the relationship continues this way

never a child

forever childlike

i spin in circles of cruel and etherial unsustainable joy

a power source with no energy

i drink from the stone cup of my fathers

honey, that drinks like silk, and poisons me

deep breaths find me in all emotional voids and fill me

and also at summits of the best moments in life- to remind me

i am

and nothing is more powerful than turbulent contradictions

grounded to contrition

anchored in blood

drowning in air when water sets me free

i will die

for

i am

at any opportunity

R1.9-15

when kindness dies- it is never sudden

it may feel like it

when you realize it is absent in a way where you are startled when it comes around

saying goodbye to the dog you've shared your life with for a quarter of your own

that lonely is missing the kindness true agape love brings

kindness dies slowly a bit at a time

as your phone rings less

the mail stops coming

when your children out grow you

each funeral a specific warmth leaves you

and as time goes on the distance between goodbye and cold nostalgia rips apart

youth divides and goes on in a different universe

new experiences become less interesting

with each decade you will lose something about yourself that you once cherished

you will not know it is gone, until it is

the things you saved along the way- those thing that reminded you of kindnesses

go into storage to be someone else's keepsake or trash

if you throw yourself into work, when you slow down

and you will have to

the anxiety of 'still' will become painful

if you throw yourself into religion you'll rebuke fake and false so often you stop interacting

knowing the difference between kind and friendly will separate you

if you bow before God

when kindness dies

you will exist in contrition, and a joy literally based in the promises of death

if you struggle to make your dreams come true

rather than live and be happy along the way

your bitterness in failure will haunt you and you will become somehow feral

escaping domestication is only for youth and should have a time limit

but so long as there is kindness you will push back your time limits and deadlines

and in those cases it catches up to you and kills you faster from within

you will attempt to offer kindness or make it

but the world changes and redefines emotion so often it will be futile

your plans will die

someone will do your life goals better than you

if you are lucky- you will remain void of depression in trade for hope

but if the kindness in your life dies off

hope starves

bitterness gets some people by- but in the times they are without distraction from self

they are the most miserable liars on earth

unable to even recognize kindness

and that is the first death

to survive it

plant seeds, make something better, do- give

even if you have to watch them from afar

or know you have provided an opportunity for something you loved to be rich in kindness

impoverish yourself of anything that could be something somewhere else

when kindness dies out, accept it for sanity

and in an effort to be kind

lie behind smiles

smile around lies

and encourage opportunities

even when you don't care for them not to be your own