The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

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yuletide carol

10 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Poetry by RC deWinter

last christmas eve
it was just us
misfits in a jigsaw world

neither of us believe
so we sent words
backandforthandbackandforth
about ourselves
how we’d lived
who we’d loved
what we hoped for

it was so much better
than being alone on a night
we’ve been conditioned
to expect should be
merry and bright

with song and candles
food and drink
the smiling faces
of the families we never had

so we faked it and it worked

eventually an ocean of regret
washed away the lighthouse
i don’t see you shining out there
in the northern night
and i’m thinking
you’re not even looking for me

this christmas eve
i’ll be sitting in that same chair
holding that same phone

listening to nothing but the wind
singing a frigid dirge
down the chimney
rattling windows
rattling bones
remembering you

RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku (NY Times/2017), The Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Anthology (River Bend Bookshop Press, 12/2021) in print: 2River View, the minnesota review, Plainsongs, Prairie Schooner, Southword, Twelve Mile Review, York Literary Review among others and appears in numerous online publications.

top view photo of pine trees
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Spruce

8 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Austin Gilmore

Do you know who cared where it came from? Absolutely no one.

Most thought, and I admit I was one of them, it was a lightning strike that turned a pile of discarded Christmas trees into one gigantic, murderous Spruce. Others believed a more nuanced story, something about it being born from vengeance, going from being the center of every household’s holiday celebration to being tossed out like a piece of trash. I couldn’t track that one, but now I see my explanation wasn’t much better.

I didn’t know what to believe after that mountain of thrown out Christmas trees mysteriously disappeared, leaving only a trail of needles leading deep into the woods of Franklin Park. But there it stood, a gargantuan Spruce that wasn’t there the day before.

And do you know who cared? Absolutely no one.

The town gave a collective shrug and went on with their lives. But it bothered me. I call it The Detective Nag. Trees don’t just appear out of thin air. But that’s a soap box you can’t stand on for very long. When I heard myself saying wild things like “Trees don’t grow on trees!” I knew I had to stop and just accept the anomaly like everyone else.

Winter turned to Spring and life went on as usual. I avoided driving by Franklin Park whenever I could. The rare times I had to, when I saw the tip of the Spruce high above the other trees gashing clouds and sky, it felt like it was watching me, like it was watching everyone. Like it was biding its time.

Halloween and Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas lights were hung, Santa’s face popped up in the windows of businesses, and Braxton Sifers was found in the bullseye of our Target, his ravaged body held up by jagged sticks and pine needles.

That was December 1st.

Amanda Girouxi was discovered in her parked LeSabre, a tree limb the size of a light pole kabobbed both body and car.

That was December 2nd.

Larry Atchity was found bobbing face down in his jacuzzi, with a wreath of dense pine needles wrapped tightly around his neck, both carotid arteries expertly gashed.

That was December 3rd.

I went to my old station for the first time since I was forced into retirement and laid out my theory. “It’s the Spruce. There’s gonna be twenty-two more bodies if we don’t do something about it!”

And do you know who believed my theory? Absolutely no one. They laughed me out of the bullpen. And as the next few days passed without another body, I began to understand why they had. It was ridiculous theory, a murderous Spruce.

But I was right, there were other bodies. It just took a few days to find them.

It was like living in a macabre Advent calendar. Every new December day we’d wake to find another loved one torn apart by tree limbs, gutted by bark. It wasn’t until we started using the Super Food Barn freezer as a make-shift morgue, packed tight with fifteen mutilated bodies, that people started to believe my absurd theory.

Like modern day townspeople with torches and pitchforks, we all met up at Franklin Park and waited for some brave soul to volunteer to go in and cut down the Spruce. It was Shane Schefter who finally spoke up, wearing his letterman’s jacket, only a month removed from bringing home his second State championship. That damn Shane Schefter, if anyone could do it, it would be him. He tugged the cord of a chainsaw and heroically disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

We cheered at the sound of the chainsaw grinding into fresh wood. We high-fived as limbs crashed to the ground. We dove for cover when Shane shot out of the woods crashing like a meteorite into the side of his F150, his chest stabbed with so many tree shards it looked like the top of a pineapple.

Some packed up and moved that very night. The rest of us stayed, hoping to ride out the rest of the holiday season, hiding in our basements like we were stuck in a permanent Tornado Warning. I spent those ensuing days listening to Christmas carols, wrapping presents, and formulating a plan, only catching its movement a handful of times. The sounds though, you couldn’t miss. The shimmering shuffle of the needles in motion, the crack of limbs making its attack, the screams of its daily kill.

On Christmas Day, I put my plan into action. I went for a walk, hoping by then the
Spruce had claimed its final victim of the holiday season. I stepped over bodies of friends, with thick branches sticking out of their chests and needles in their eyes. Each step emboldened my plan even more.

I was going to burn it down.

I pulled out the engraved lighter the department gave me for thirty years of service, flicked it lit and tossed it into the darkness of Franklin Park. From a park bench I sat alone, watching my town fill with smoke and ash, dramatically humming Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.

As the sun rose on the morning of the 26th, so did the people from their seasonal hiding places, only to find what I had been staring at since the fire died down hours before. The blackened remains of the woods, with the Spruce untouched standing at the charred center.

And do you know who cared? Absolutely no one.

The town gave a collective shrug, and with the holiday season over, they went back to their lives like nothing had happened. “What about the Spruce?” I’d ask anyone who would listen, the Detective Nag taking over.

“Eh, Christmas is a long way off. We’ll figure something out.”

And there it still stands. Watching us. Biding its time for the temperature to drop, for Thanksgiving to pass, and for its reign of terror to begin again.

Austin Gilmore is an Art Director and gallery artist, who co-ran Kevin Costner’s production company for 7 years. He is passionate about donuts.

two pillar candles
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Birthday Presence

6 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Poetry by Mary Kate Bunstine

There is that one day a year that is a little extra special.
It’s the day where a song is played to usher in a brand new start;
Where decorations are hung and heart balloons held.
It’s the day where I am celebrated by family and friends alike.

I blow out burning candles on a cake.
It’s the day where I make a wish or two;
Where all eyes are on me as I do.
It’s the day that is full of surprise.

It flies by.
It’s the day where proud tears trickle from my mother’s eyes;
Where she sees how far her child has come.
It’s the day I wish I could hold onto and never let go.

But when another year arrives and that day returns,
I learn that perhaps it isn’t about how fast it fades.
Nor is it about the amount of presents unwrapped.
It’s about having gratitude each time I get to blow out candles yet again.

Mary Kate Bunstine is an undergraduate student and English major. She enjoys writing pieces of poetry that focus on positivity and living in the present.

photography of green pine tree
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The Christmas Tree Shop

4 December 2022 /
Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Derville Quigley

There is a Christmas Tree Shop where the chemist used to be. I work there. Today an old man and his daughter passed through. The man had a slight American accent and the look of a returned expat. He was dapper, carried a blackthorn stick, wore a long tweed coat and a knitted woollen hat.

“We would like one of your finest trees,” said his daughter.

“At a good price,” he piped up.

She smiled lovingly at him while throwing her eyes to heaven. With that he turned on his heel and walked to the far end, to explore the shop on his own.

“I love the smell. Daddy, don’t you just love the smell?”

He was ignoring her, lifting his stick to poke the trunk of a tree on display. The sign said, Non-shed Trees For Sale and he saw hundreds of pine needles scattered on the ground.

“We normally have an artificial one, but this year I have persuaded Mum and Dad to get a real one,” she told me.

“What do you think of that tree in the corner, Dad?”

“No,” was his adamant reply.

“Tell me about them,” she said.

So I told her how they were all Noble fir grown on the side of a mountain in County Wicklow. Grand, full trees. Sixteen years old. No trimming necessary.

“What do you think Dad?”

“I think you’re wasting your time,” he replied.

Her smile dropped and she walked over to the trees still packed in their netting. Bing Crosby sang of days merry and bright. There was a low fog and the lights glowed red, green and blue on the tree outside the courthouse. Meanwhile the old man was bent over his stick, looking at the pine needles lying everywhere. For a precious moment, the three of us were suspended in silence, in the fog.

“Show me one, which is seven foot and full right up to the top. I don’t want gaps and I want a bushy one,” she said sharply.

“Dad do you want to sit down?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Okay we’ll take this one,” she said pointing to a large tree, wrapped and close at hand.

“Dad I’m going to pay for it and don’t tell Mum how much it cost.”

He took no notice of her. “I’m just going to bring the car back around and go to the bank machine. You stay here.”

She left the shop and he relaxed although looked weary. I faced the chair towards him and he sat down.

“Which one did she pick?” he asked clutching his stomach.

“This one,” I said.

He looked frail and tired and although genuinely interested he seemed to have more energy when despondent.

“I have birds in my chest,” he said. “I can feel them, their beaks pecking through my ribs. Sometimes they sing to me. There are six of them.”

He smiled with a wink.

“I was in hospital, treated for cancer and the damn bastard thing is back. I tell ya, I’m going to drink a lot of whiskey before I go. When a doctor tells a sick man to carry on as normal and don’t change his lifestyle, that’s when he knows he’s had it. Dr. Dutton told me not to listen to my wife…to do whatever I want to do. Not listen to my wife…and now we’re getting a real tree.”

For a moment he looked terribly frightened and then he started to laugh. We both laughed and snorted as tears streamed down our faces. “It’s getting dark now,” he said, sobered by the thought. She came back red-nosed with her purse in hand.

She was muttering to herself, “I’m going to be all right with the tree. I think I’ll be able to manage it in the car.” She handed me twenty euro.

“Did you ask the girl for a discount?”

“No, Dad, I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “‘”I can’t give any discounts. They’re not my trees.” He stood up straight and poked another tree.

“I would have preferred that one myself, anyway I thought our plan was to leave by sunset.”

“Dad, I still have to collect the turkey,” she said, and with that pulled the large, awkward, prickly tree out the door.

Derville Quigley is a writer and poet based in the Netherlands. She is co-founder of Strange Birds, a migratory writing collective and a co-organiser of Writers Flock, an international writers’ festival. Visit www.dervillequigley.net for more info.

windowsill with globe and plant
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My Old Air Conditioner

3 December 2022 /
Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Poetry by Briena Sohns

I drove past the house,
Two months after we sold it.

Only glancing up for a second,
I saw they still had my old air conditioner,
Perfectly positioned in the window.

Would they remember to take it out?
When the fall leaves start to christen?

My white curtains still hung,
But I wonder if she shuts the blinds at night.

Glow in the dark stars still glued above the bed,
But I wonder if they sparkle in her eyes.

She would never know the stories behind them.

But maybe it’s better that way.
Simply left behind,

Like my old air conditioner.

Briena Sohns is the author of “Winter Nights” published in The Catskill Review. She attends Palm Beach Atlantic University studying Communication and English. Her most recent accomplishment is being hired as a Resident Assistant in Baxter Hall. Though she now resides in Florida, she was raised in Upstate New York.

photography of red string lights hanging on green trees
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In Deep December

1 December 2022 /
Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Zan Bockes

When Jo got home from the hospital where her husband lay comatose, the house blazed with Christmas decorations he’d put up and connected to a timer just after Thanksgiving. Every evening since, the reindeer and sleigh on the roof lit up automatically. The large plastic Santa loomed above the icy shingles, and a series of inflatable candy canes danced across the snow-covered yard. Cheery elves rocked back and forth and a red-nosed reindeer turned its face slowly side to side. The crèche radiated a soft yellow, the three wise men and animals peacefully gathered in the rough wooden enclosure.

Merrill spent weeks ahead of time positioning ladders and climbing on the roof, hanging looping strands of colored bulbs around the gutters and windows. When it was all done, when the cords connected and electricity surged through every circuit, the three-bedroom split level leaped from darkness like the Big Bang. Neighbors gathered for the event, and their cul-de-sac overflowed with cars driving by in a long line to observe the spectacle.

Jo again resolved to hire the teenaged boy next door to take it all down as soon as possible—the gaiety seemed false and irreverent with Merrill strung with tubes and wires that ironically mirrored the display at their house.

Three days ago, the surgeon removed a blood clot from Merrill’s aorta and replaced it with a stent, a tiny mesh cylinder to keep the artery open and blood flowing. Jo related the details to their son, who would fly in with his wife and three young children the next day. The thought of noise and commotion drained her. She hadn’t had time for baking or shopping for presents, every spare moment taken up by visits with Merrill.

Once inside, Jo took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She heated up a cup of milk in the microwave and turned out the hall light, sinking into an easy chair with her head against the lace doily on the back. The lights in the juniper bush outside flashed in random sequences, casting shadows of branches and needles across the ceiling.

This might be Merrill’s last Christmas, she thought. No more festivities and decorations, laughter and singing. No one to lie next to when the night grew deep and sleep descended.

Perhaps she could ask God politely for a reprieve. It seemed important not to be too demanding or greedy. Just one more year to watch the grandchildren grow, to pay off the house…

She tried to picture the vague deity she hesitantly worshipped. She saw an old man, rigid, gray-bearded, and unlikely to bestow favors, especially to those who otherwise rarely consulted Him. From the clouds above, He orchestrated all that happened on Earth and punished those who questioned His power. But she doubted He would answer her request, or that a prayer could make any difference in the outcome.

Through the frost-feathered glass, the scene in the front yard blazed across the deep snow. The plastic baby Jesus in his bed of fresh straw glowed like an oracle.

The wind was picking up. The tinfoil star on top of the crèche shivered. The colored bulbs winked on their frozen wires, ticking against the windows.

Jo stared absently at the doll’s swaddled body. A curious shadow drifted back and forth across its face, and as she tried to identify its source, the scene suddenly went black. Jo blinked against the darkness. Maybe a fuse had blown. She thought of opening the fuse box, but she knew nothing about what was inside. That had always been Merrill’s territory.

Or perhaps a transformer in the neighborhood had lost power. But the Reynolds’ Christmas tree across the way still reflected its colored lights in the ice rutted street.

Maybe the wind was responsible—a power line was down, lying like a snake in the back yard, electrocuting any live animal that ventured near. She thought of stepping out into the electric snow, her charred body sizzling under the bulbous yellow moon.

Next door, the streetlight still shone, snowflakes circling through its illuminated cone. The cuckoo clock on the piano whistled twelve times.

Jo tried to resist the idea that God’s hand descended from the heavens, compelling her to repent or submit. She didn’t believe in omens, really. But she whispered a clumsy prayer nevertheless. “Please, God. Help me…”

Wind buffeted the house, driving snowflakes against the windows. Jo’s hands trembled as she felt for the lamp beside her chair. As she turned the switch, she recalled the timer Merrill had set to extinguish all the Christmas lights at midnight.

Oh, she thought.

Zan Bockes (pronounced “Bacchus”) earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Montana. Her work appears in numerous publications, and she has had four Pushcart Prize nominations. Her first poetry collection, Caught in Passing, was released in 2013. Another collection, Alibi for Stolen Light, appeared in 2018.

red and black corn
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Feed

29 November 2022 /

Nonfiction by Natalli Amato

It’s the good summer. Connor and I are out on the dock, beholding the St. Lawrence. There are more lily pads right here, right now, than there are lily pads I have stumbled upon in my lifetime before this point. Some of them flower. Some of them are just green. There are geese milling about on the lawn near the shoreline. We talk out loud about how much we love them.

We also talk about the seaweed we see, how Maxine wants to get rid of it all; it clogs up the boat. She thinks she can get the fish to do the excavation work for us. Connor explains her methods: the fish will uproot the seaweed, even eat the seaweed, if we lure them there by tossing scoops of corn feed into the river. This is why there is a stout metal tin at the end of the dock, full of pounds and pounds of corn feed. Connor opens the tin, scoops a good scoop, and throws the kernels. Repeat the process. Offers me a turn.

I look into the corn feed tin. The fish are not the only ones being directed towards something they would otherwise not pay a visit. There is also me, a human girl, following kernels to a different place: burlap sacks in the log garage, the cabin house, Plank Road. Nowhere near this river. Forest.

I can see the line where our property met the forest. I can see where I spread the corn feed down on the pine needled ground before the forest’s feet. I can see, too, how small I am. Four-year-old hands. So who carried the burlap bag? Who opened the burlap bag and showed me how to scoop and where to pour? I know I am here for a purpose – I am here to feed the deer. But who has taught me this? Who has told me we are people for whom the deer matter? I open my eyes as wide as I can in this vision. Someone else must be here. I see only, though, myself.

My buck shooting father. He is this someone, here but not.

I know this because of a card I found cleaning out my mother’s desk – a card he sent her from such and such recovery center, the post script note reading, Ask Natalli what a deer says.

Connor is scooping corn feed into the St. Lawrence. I am walking the forest line on Plank Road. He does not see me leave.

One fish swims to the weeds and its cousin is not far behind. One deer lowers its head to eat and its cousin is not far behind. Memories are like this, too.

Connor and I are in 113 Brady. Our apartment. I am not sure the time of day. I am fairly sure of the season, fall, because Connor is studying for exams and the good summer has already happened but the murderous spring has not.

I’ve returned from the grocery store. I’m sitting on the couch reading a magazine, Cosmo. I took the long way from the grocery store back to 113 Brady so that I could speak out loud to my father. I do that when I am alone in my car. I am alone in my car less often now that I love Connor and Connor loves me.

My conversation goes something like this:

I’m sorry I told mom to tell you I didn’t want to read the letter you’d written me that one year you were probably in AA or something because why else would you write me a letter but now I want to take it back now I want to have the chance to forgive you and have you know it now I want to know if you like country music now I want to thank you for my life now I wish I could have a beer with you even though its all those beers that killed you and I wish it could have been different and when I see the blood moon hanging low over black ontario and it is so mystifying that my heart aches instead of smiles which seems to be the more logical response to beauty – I think that has something to do with you or at least I inherited it from you or maybe I didn’t and I’m just checking in because maybe you can hear me.

When I speak out loud to my father I also cry. Not too hard but enough. Enough that Connor notices my eyes look off when he emerges from the study to give me a squeeze and remind ourselves that we are here, together. Connor asks me what’s wrong and I do the degrading thing –

I say, what are you talking about?

I say what are you talking about to the person who loves me and I love best. I say what are you talking about when he notices my suffering. I exclude him – this man I will one day break my own world over, so bereft I will be when he leaves me. I turn away and assume I will always have this option.

How far have I traveled from this? Far, far, far. And also not at all. I exist as a girl and I exist as a hungry ghost with unfinished business. It is for this reason I return here.

What’s wrong?

The corn feed, say it, the corn feed, the corn feed, my own dried kernel heart.

Natalli Amato is a poet, fiction writer, and journalist. Read her work at www.natalliamato.com

grass during sunset
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Dusk

27 November 2022 /

Poetry by Carol Barrett

Translucent colors of sky loll in the stream,
such reverie, this dusk in the high desert,
a pour of beauty into my humble cup.

I relish the taste, sipping that place where blue
and dawn pink merge, flick a gnat from my sleeve.
Just then something stings the wits out of me,

the nose of a bear bigger than a hornet, sniffing
my favorite bench, no doubt where a dog had lifted
nimble leg. I raise my knees and slowly stand

on the plank, the bear paying little heed, ambling
down the bank to plunge his snout and drink.
I consider running, but we’re just yards apart,

fleeting distance daunting. I stand my ground,
writing tablet clutched, futile weapon, await
his next move. Strange how you can

count the clumps of grass in such a scene,
hoping not to bloody them. Five. I hear
far-away doves, watch a spider descend

from a black twig. She makes it to a leaf.
The bear has had enough, climbs the bank,
leaves the path for needled footing,

disappears over a small rise. I come down
from my perch, thank the gods, head home,
remembering family camp at Spirit Lake,

how my uncle crept up behind my father,
snoozing in a hammock, and let out a blood-
curdling growl. My father sat bolt upright,

then brought his breathing back from the cliff
while my uncle laughed. Fear can knock a soul
to dust. Here, the shimmering red of sunset

is winding down. You, dear reader, must decide
if I made this racket up, or told the truth
to put the beast to rest. I alone know how

it all played out. And the bear, of course.

Carol Barrett directs the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University. She has two volumes of poetry and one of creative nonfiction. A former NEA Fellow in Poetry, Carol has published poems in such diverse venues as JAMA, The Women’s Review of Books, Poetry International, and Oregon Birds.

Photo by Andréas BRUN on Unsplash

Cut and Carry

25 November 2022 /

Poetry by Colleen Wells

A few tiny ants milling about the circle of trust, a round tapestry on the floor,
   set with candles, crystals, sage and yellow daffodils.
It’s a focal point for the writing circle whose facilitators
   I overheard plotting the insects’ demise.
The ants are here through no fault of their own,
   innocent stowaways who were just
enjoying a taste of spring
   in a bunch of plucked daffodils
brought here through no fault of whoever brought in the flowers.
   An accident, soon to be a deadly mistake.

How are we different from the tiny ant
   when it comes to fate?
How are we different from a speck of pollen
   that moves through the wind to parts unknown,
creating flowers for you and I to cut down and carry in?

Colleen Wells writes poetry and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Gyroscope Review, Ravensperch, and The Potomac Review among other publications. Her chapbook Animal Magnetism was published in May 2022. She works in mental health and is also a consumer of mental health services.

Photo by Faith Crabtree on Unsplash

Farewell Season

23 November 2022 /

Poetry by Sharon Whitehill

Poinciana, Your branches speak to me of love.

Buddy Bernier

The mellow close of a Florida day,
seats reserved on the wraparound porch
of a renovated Victorian manse:
a celebrative meal with my sister and Rick
before they head north for the season.

Alone on my side of the table,
I mirror their mutual delight
at the flamboyant tree across the road.
All of us awed by its scarlet-orange blossoms
ablaze in the pre-sunset light.

Snapping a series of photos,
I yield to the impulse
to sling my arm over Rick’s shoulder—
this brother-in-law, for so long a vexation,
gentled now as the soft evening air.

I lift my wine in a toast to the evening,
the bright-burning tree,
and our season together.

Now here comes Linda, our friend,
flashing a ring: I got married!
Though her exuberance fades
on hearing my news.

I was afraid of that, she sighs,
when I only saw three of you here.

A comment that crystallizes our mood.
The Portuguese call it saudade:
the sweet wistfulness of reluctant goodbyes,
honed to an edge by our silent awareness
of one empty chair at the table.

Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems published in various literary magazines, her publications include two biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a full collection of poems.

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