Month: April 2025

Eyes For Eyes

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive. –Albert Einstein

Little Ralphie slugged Little Lana in the stomach, and she fell. He punched her in the face and broke her nose. Blood spurted. She curled inward. He kicked and stomped on her leg. She screamed.

Adult responses:

  1. Yank Little Ralphie up and commence beating him.
  2. Drag Little Ralphie to the edge of town and stone him.
  3. Castrate Little Ralphie so he cannot reproduce his own kind.
  4. Let Little Lana do to Ralphie what was done unto her.
  5. Lock Little Ralphie up and while starving him to death, fine his parents, and give the money to Little Lana.

But wait. Little Ralphie had found Little Lana using a cattle prod on his beloved grandfather. Little Lana was howling with laughter as the grandfather twitched in his wheelchair and cried out for help. While torturing him, Little Lana taunted the grandfather. “You’re a worthless, helpless pile of shit. Pathetic. I hate you.”

Adult responses:

  1. Grab the cattle prod and begin shocking Little Lana.
  2. Cage Little Lana up.
  3. Sterilize Little Lana so she cannot produce children like herself.
  4. Roll the grandfather to a safe place and then shake Little Lana to death.
  5. Rape Little Lana to put her in her place.

But wait. Little Lana has already been raped. Repeatedly. By the grandfather, of course. And he’d just tried to pull her onto his lap, calling her his favorite slut, whispering that he was going to sell her to his neighbor. He said he had pictures of her woo-woo and she’d bring a decent price.

Adult responses:

Make a violent, erotic movie about the whole sequence. Wring hands. Donate to a charity. Introduce tariffs on pornography, fentanyl, and wheelchairs. Sell more guns. Fantasize living on another planet. Rape the grandfather.

Bam

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this whacked out,” my Coauthor observes.

“Is extermination the correct adult response to our species?” I snarl.

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Remember, you’re just illusions of organized molecules,” Coauthor smiles.

“And sometimes, you’re just a Bad Idea.” I turn away. “This illusion of molecules is going to distract herself with something beautiful.”

“Excellent!” Bad Idea exclaims. “I’ll come with you.”

We kneel in the garden where a tulip has bloomed blood red and watch molecules shaped like Little Ralphie and Little Lana care for their offspring. I scream the names of the Baby Gods dead in Gaza and dread the adulthood of those who survive.

Methane continues to escape from the warming permafrost. Bullets fly. Bombs drop. Idiots rule. I dissipate into a momentary dream of justice. My Coauthor dissipates with me. Therein lies my only hope.

S’mores with Demons: An Easter Story

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“So, someone said you’re a mystic, huh?” an evil little bastard snarled, red eyes glowing. “There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

I remembered the story of Pilate quizzing Jesus about being King of the Jews and how Jesus turned the question back. Then the sophisticated defense strategies of adolescence came to mind: If I’m a dumb ass you’re a dumb ass.

“No, you’re a mystic,” I said. I pulled my blanket tighter and dozed off. The wind howled its midnight discontent. I was where I wanted to be. Asleep.

But the earth continued turning, dawn arrived, and my sanctuary was greatly diminished.

An ancient walking stick helped me keep my balance as waves of morning hatred rushed in. I fought my way through the putrid sludge to an island where love was freely available with toast and coffee.

“The haters are doomed,” a sweet dog reassured me with the wag of its tail. “With so many self-destructive choices, lies, and pathologies, they’re going to lose.”

“But I don’t want them to lose,” I protested. “I want them to find their way through the Molasses Swamp and arrive at the Candy Castle with the rest of us.”

“Sure, you do,” my red-eyed bastard guffawed from across the table.

“No, seriously, I do,” I said.

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Drop the hopes and prayers. Try introducing legislation.”

 “You can’t legislate forgiveness. Or reason. Or redemption,” I said. “You’re a fool.”

“That I am,” she said. “A fool for reality-based behaviors. That’s why I hate mystics of all stripes and colors.”

“You can hate all you want,” I said. “But we’ll love you back.” I was on my third piece of toast, feeling feisty and fit.

The red-eyed bastard screamed like the witch that Dorothy splashed as she doused the burning Scarecrow with water. I held her tight as she writhed.

“We’re going to love you back.” I repeated. And I meant it.

It’s hard to look down from the places we’ve been nailed and ask forgiveness for the gloating executioners, liars, lynchers, shooters, and those who’ve tied us to the stake. They don’t even want forgiveness. But revenge risks igniting the final blaze–the one that would burn the parched world down. Without absolution from the cooling waters of compassion, we’re lost.

The intense heat of an ongoing resurrection shimmered around my companion.

“Burn, baby, burn,” she yelled, spitting hot coals from her lips into a campfire fed by pruned branches.

I cheered her on. We sat hip to hip, watching the flames die down. We had everything we needed to make S’mores.

Escape

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Edvard Munch 1893


What makes you happy when you wake up alive?
You only need one, but you can name up to five.
The dog, your shoes, your home, or the sun?
A good cup of coffee? A cinnamon bun?

(The alphabet rotates through my mind as I search for words that rhyme, trying to escape the horror of the current holocausts. I slip into doggerel. Clever ditties. Slanted lines, good times, shallow sips through thin-set lips, the scream rising in the back of my throat.)

We’re a tiny planet floating in space,
killing each other at the usual pace.
A few are too rich, billions, too poor.
What, exactly, are we fighting for?

(I watch my fingers jump around the keyboard, my chest steadily rising and falling. How can I possibly live this day as if I’m entitled to all this good fortune? All this potential? There is Greenness ascending with a name that is on the tip of my tongue.)

Yesterday, the sky was so blue
I lay on my back with the privileged few
and gazed at infinity somewhat at ease
in my long conversation with rivers and trees.

(I’m increasingly able to see the end, but I don’t want to. It’s not a gift I requested. And I grasp the fallacies of simplistic faith with its tragic outcomes and cruel justifications for suffering. Which is what we do. We suffer. More than anything else, we suffer.)

Can I buy you a drink? The Trickster arrives.
Oh, hello, I say, and then break out in hives.
I’m sorry, I say. I don’t know what to do.
Oh stop, grins the Trickster. It’s not about you.

 (I’d like to believe that, but I’m stuck in my bones, and it is about me, at least for now. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be nice if the apparition of skin melted away more gracefully, and the scales fell from our eyes so we could behold our unformed substances mingling?)

What makes you ready to meet your own end?
The kindness of strangers, the love of a friend?
You can answer this once, or twice, or thrice.
But whatever you do, could you try to be nice?

(The Trickster nods. That’s a big ask, honey. It’s easy to crush and kill and lie and hoard. It’s tempting to pound your chest, bully others, and demand the best. But the minutes tick away regardless. I nod. Three crows land on the fence. They caw and nod as well.)

Vocabulary

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

This morning, I’ve been making up words. Having the right word can be helpful in times like these. For instance, Ludiaucracy (loo-dee-awe-cracy): an ill-fated form of government led by the ludicrous. And Vengectomy: a surgical procedure necessary for the evolution of the human species. It involves removing the urge for revenge.

“Interesting,” the Universal Remote says. “What tools will we need to amputate revenge? And where is it located?”

“No idea. It doesn’t show up on X-rays, MRIs, or PET scans. I’ve even done cavity searches.” I grimace.

“What? You searched mouths? The stuff coming out of there can be toxic. I hope you washed your hands.”

“It was revolting. And I didn’t find the origins. Revenge is malignant, but the location is illusive. Maybe it’s untethered, slouching around the corpus at will. Or it might be an allergic response that floods the body with histamines and hate.”

Universal Remote makes a show of sharpening knives. “Good thing you thought of this Ectomy. I’ve always said vengeance was mine. I’ll find where it’s hiding, cut that entitled sucker out, and cauterize the wound. It doesn’t belong in the genome anymore. Probably never did.”

“Well, that should take care of that,” I roll my eyes and shudder, imagining the smell of my own scorched flesh. “And what’ll we do about the Ludiaucracy? Can we amputate that while you’re at it?”

“No. that’s more of a dietary problem,” Universal Remote says. “You’re going to be eating your just desserts for some time to come. There will be massive indigestion. Howling bowels. Ludiaucracies thrive on ignorance and greed—shameful abdications of compassion. They are darkening all the cities on all the hills.”

“Stop it!” I glare. “The voters have spoken. That ship has sailed.”

“Ah, maybe. But it isn’t seaworthy. The voters’ self-interests were not enlightened and are no longer connected to the circulatory system. Gangrene is setting in. I’m sorry. I’ve tried.”

The metaphors are making me dizzy, but I know we’re in very bad trouble. “Try harder,” I beg.

“No, you try harder. I’m Universal. And Remote. Hahahaha.”

“Could you stop that? I don’t like that guise. I’m frightened.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” the Voice of the Mother Ship whispers. It scoops me into Now. “Wow. You’ve gotten heavy!” she adds.

“So have you,” I sigh. “It’s the barnacles of billionaires. We’re listing to the far right.”

The Mother Ship nods. “Must be time for a little scraping. But let’s remember to protect the hull.”

“What’s the hull?” I ask.

“Scar tissue and tears. History and hope. Imperfect resistances standing arm-in-arm, candles lit, singing.”

“Got it,” I nod. “Let’s scrape.”