Contributor: Wayne Scheer

- -
I'm a bad father,
passing on my addiction
to my son.

He's been steadfast
in his desire
not to be like me

Not to fall in the clutches
of the demon,
but alas

He's begun spending
his money and time,
neither of which he has in abundance,

On an addiction
he's picked up from me.
Even asked

If I can help him make a connection
and supply him
from my personal stash.

He's getting interested in gardening,
just a hosta here, some irises there,
and so it begins.

I introduced him
to my personal gardening guru
who works at a local nursery

And he spent
an absurd amount of money
on plants to adorn his front yard.

O the horror of a father
passing on his sins
to his son.


- - -
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He's published numerous stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, https://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments a collection of flash stories. His short story, “Zen and the Art of House Painting” has been made into a short film. https://vimeo.com/18491827

Contributor: Wayne Scheer

- -
Twenty Years

Twenty years have gone by,
two failed marriages,
two sons who barely know me,
yet I recognize you,
entering this restaurant, happy,
part of a small group.

I, alone, at the bar.

I see the the space between your front teeth
as you smile,
not at me.
Memories gather,
like birds searching for crumbs.

I squint to see if there's a ring on your finger.
Is there a man nearby
who loves you more than I ever could,
who vows to never disappoint you,
who possesses the strength
to keep his word?

I could blame my failings on youth,
on the seductive powers of another,
but that would be a lie
and I'm sick of lies,
sick of lying.

You look my way,
see me without recognition,
without a trace of curiosity.
You turn and offer a gap-toothed smile
to a man grayer than I, rounder,
a comfortable man.

I turn towards a redhead
half my age
and ask if she'd like a drink.

*

Twenty years, a lifetime lost.
Has so much life and love transpired
for you that I've been reduced
to a shadow, a vague memory,
a stranger across the room
you don't even recognize?

Or is this a game of cat and mouse?
Am I expected to make the first move?
Do I extend my hand and risk a blank,
“Sorry? Do I know you?”

I deserve the humiliation
after the way we ended,
me in the arms of another
and you in tears.
You deserve your revenge.
I owe you that much.

*

I small talk the redhead
who smiles and nods,
while her eyes tell me
she wonders how long she has to be polite
to this old man
before she can excuse herself.

*

I catch you glancing my way again.
You narrow your eyes and tighten your lips,
a look of contempt
all too familiar.

Is it general scorn for a man with a graying beard
trying to impress a babe
or a long suppressed memory
of a stupid boy you once knew?

To my surprise,
I say goodnight
to Ms. Redhead.
I turn to leave
and offer you a slight nod.

I think you nod back.


- - -
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He's published numerous stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories. (http://issuu.com/noir/docs/revealing_momentspear). His short story, “Zen and the Art of House Painting” has been made into a short film (https://vimeo.com/27132239). Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife.

Contributor: Wayne Scheer

- -
He didn't know she cleaned homes
and cared for old people since she was twelve;

He didn't know she raised two children as a single mother
after her husband abandoned the family;

He didn't know she raised her granddaughter
after her son followed in his father's footsteps;

He didn't know she completed a GED at forty-five
and went to a community college in her fifties;

He didn't know she worked overtime to pay for tutors
to help her pass her math classes;

He didn't know she graduated with a two-year degree
as her granddaughter cheered;

He didn't know she was rejected from the nursing program
because of her age and health issues;

He didn't know she developed adult diabetes and heart trouble
due to a lifetime of poor nutrition;

He didn't know she drove from Atlanta to Auburn
when her mother had a stroke;

He didn't know she and her mother pooled their disability checks
so she could buy a reliable car;

He didn't know shit. Still, he felt qualified to comment on
“the poor black woman who drives a $30,000 car.”


- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories. (http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments). He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net.