And then there were de Leon and Mason, Turner, Ikins and Thompson...ready and waiting
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| Kathryn de Leon (photo provided) |
Kathryn de Leon’s work nuanced with captivating and lasting images. Here is a teaser from her poem, “ACROSS THE BORDER (My uncle lived on a ranch in Northern Mexico)
We called it simply...
"across the border.”
Another world,
No plumbing
Just a large porcelain bowl,
A bar of Ivory soap
Floating in warm water
That clouded to thick white,
My sister and I new princesses
Bathing in milk.
No electricity
Just oil lanterns
That made us evil,
Painted us huge and black
On the walls
Of the cold bedroom.
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| Janet Mason (photo provided) |
Janet Mason found her way to aaduna's pathway by weaving words and cascading them into an endearing story. Here is the opening from her story, "The Mother" as a snippet to tease you:
(sometime early in the first century)
In the beginning was the Mother.
In the womb, Tamar took mental notes. The heavens trembled -- at least it felt like the heavens. Maybe it was just gas. The Mother shifted. At first, it was too dark to see. But Tamar could feel. At first it felt like chaos -- like everything was unconnected. But then she felt something holding her. A curved wall. She was leaning into it. It was soft and warm. She felt her backbone curve behind her. She was half of a circle. Was she floating? There was a chord attached to her belly. She relaxed once she realized that she wouldn't float away.
There were appendages coming out from her shoulders. She looked down below the chord. On the lower part of her body there was a small bump and on either side of that were two more appendages. There was liquid all around her. She felt warm and safe. She didn't have to worry yet about breathing.
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| Raymond Nat Turner (photo credit: Debra St John) |
Raymond Nat Turner “spits” words the way a be-bop musician produces staccato, interweaving notes and musical phrases that prompts audience excitement. From his poem “Fire From My Mother,” here is a tease:
Fire heart…
Fire breath…
Breathing in,
Nostrils flared,
Out, lips pursed,
Hearing echoes of you
I am never alone
You are here when
I’m breathing fire,
From this world,
Never alone, breathing
Fire from my belly
Infused with embers
Of your eyes, hearth of
Your heart, umbilical cord
Connecting us once like deep
Sea diver to oxygen tank,
Sunlight to life, vitamin D
 |
| Rachael Z. Ikins (photo provided) |
Rachael Z. Ikins brings a caring spirit to things that she does in life and that sensitivity is manifested in her creative work. Here is a glimpse from her story, “Cellphone:”
I was
hungry, had a headache, but my girlfriend ordered only a pitcher of vodka
lemonade. She joked with the bartender
and whipped out her wad of cash to tip him lavishly. “Thank you, sweetie!” he trilled. She slammed the pitcher onto the table.
Warm
evening air vibrated with competing bass beats of bands, car stereos, and an
occasional boom-box balanced on a skateboarder’s shoulders. I could pick out at least three lyrics of
current Madonna songs. I snapped some
pictures with my cell phone camera. It
was Columbus Day weekend. Darkness fell
early. Crowds of mostly guys flowed up
and down the streets, feet sporting every kind of foot gear from black leather
biker boots to Nikes and purple Reeboks, to stiletto heels crunching in drifts
of autumn leaves. Skaters wove in and
out of pedestrians. We had arrived in
the famous  |
| Michael Thompson (photo provided) |
Michael Thompson places you in an ambiance of experience that is enriching and telling. Here is the opening to his short story, “YOM KIPPUR:”
When Khalid al-Mahound is finished speaking, Will Adamson stands with the rest of the congregation, swept up by their waves of applause. The Prophet’s speech ends with them shouting to a deep roll from the organ and the rattle of tambourines; his vow of wrath and days of rage brings down the house. Behind him, the First Zion Baptist Choir launches into an old worship hymn of praise. Their pastor, eyes shining, rises from her velvet seat and falls into his embrace. Other preachers and politicians press forward to shake his hand. Adamson can’t help but wonder at the moment, when the community’s chief priests all hail the lord and savior of the New World Nation of Islam. They gather round his bully pulpit, men of Caesar and men of God, the men of the proverbial cloth.
The rally’s over, and the people stream out of the church, and into the afternoon air. An exhalation of high mid-September heat greets them as they leave. Adamson, already marinated in sweat, now roasts miserably in his skin. A low wind blows like the bellows from a furnace, but the believers pay no mind. They float light as lambs into the dragon’s consuming breath. The Prophet’s fiery tongue has touched their souls. “He said some things that needed to be said,” exclaims a thin grim woman in a glittering gold dress. A man in a T-shirt marked with a scarlet X swears that the truth he’s heard this day was “righteous.”
“You see,” says D’Angelo Shaitan, as he walks along with Adamson. “The Messenger lifted up his voice, and the people heard.”
Want
more?
The next issue of aaduna is being prepared as we move through this year's “Indian Summer.” The issue is on its way.
We
are currently communicating with our contributors; making sure what we do is what they
want; dotting "i's" and looping "e's;" proofing, coding, uploading…trying to make Keith Leonard smile as his
spirit wanders wherever he sees fit to travel to….He is trying his best to get on our last nerve with his "out of this world" humor and quips; trying to make us not take our task too serioulsy because he says that life has too many options to explore and discover. We are trying to get him to continue on his journey so we can buckle down to the task at hand, which is to get our readership the next powerful issue of aaduna. Some of our folks say, "let's kick this pig." And no offense is intended to animal rights folks or hog farmers or anyone else.
rest assured, we do plan to "kick it!"
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