Breadcrumb #518

RAINY HORVATH

It was just a tiny island somewhere in the South Pacific, insignificant enough not to appear on maps and small enough to never have interested the explorers. Sugar-white sand heaped itself along the jagged coastline that framed an azure sea. Nature had graced this lovely atoll with three kinds of swaying palm trees and nearly every type of tropical flower, bird, lizard and fruit. Save the most desperate pirates who occasionally floundered through the surf during a full moon night dragging heavy chests of silver to bury in one of the caves that dotted windward side of the island, except for them no human footprint had ever marred this paradise cove.

But circumstances have a way of changing, and one dark night in late October a Spanish galleon bound for the new world lost sight of the North Star and, blown off course by fog and a fierce windstorm, ran aground on the hidden lava reefs that ringed the cove. The ship went down quickly, all hands 90 hands were lost screaming and thrashing about in an angry sea, calling out to gods that did not hear them. Their precious cargo of Indigo, Saffron, teas and spices sank straight to the bottom. All was lost save one thing -- a string of nine young donkeys being taken their native homeland in Bratislava, Austria to their new owners in America. These prize donkeys had been trained for the circus by a family of Romanian Gypsies famous for animal training. They brought a handsome price, payable on their delivery in Florida to the Greatest Show on Earth.

Now, these donkeys were yearlings, still just colts. Weaned early and trained rigorously to the tune of a sharp whip, each donkey in the string was selected for form, intelligence and temperament. But now, nervous from the unfamiliar sounds and smells, they stood looking anything but majestic. Heads down, shaking legs braced against the rolling of the ship, their eyes rolled white and they tossed their shaggy heads pulling as hard as they could against the leather restraints that tied them to the large metal reeve ring that tied them to the main beam. Beating against the boards with their hooves was useless until the listing ship began to break apart. As it listed left the great mizzen mast snapped ripping the ship’s floorboard open and snapping the reeve ring that held the donkey’s tie leads. The braying donkeys brought their sharp little hooves down on the leather straps again and again until they broke free. metal hook again and again until it shattered, and they were free. 

Terrified, the animals used their muscular legs to kick through the side of the ship and one by one, nine little gray donkeys plunged into a vast and churning ocean. Swimming frantically away from the wreckage, the tide helped pull them in to shore. As lightening crashed around them and the terrible sound of screaming men filled the air, the donkeys dragged themselves out of the surf and collapsed on the sugar soft sand. There they fell into an exhausted sleep until the morning sun woke them.

One by one the bedraggled animals woke, tentatively nuzzling each other and sniffing the air for reassurance. One by one, they found their feet and with no humans or ships in sight, they turned their attention to the palm trees on the edge of the forest. Scenting no danger, they stepped into its cool glade of green and feasted on tender Sugar Cane and Cacao leaves, Dewberries and tender Papaya fallen from the trees. Thirsty now, the glade beckoned them deeper and they followed the pink muzzles down to clear lagoon where they splashed and frolicked in the cold spring water bubbling up from through the lava in the side of the old volcano. 

Blissful days turned into weeks. Rotted through by saltwater and sun the last of their old leather halters fell away and they rubbed their heads against the trunks of young palm trees. Being young spirited donkeys that had, after all, been trained in the circus arts by a band of clever Gypsies, they grew bored with their idle time. The youngest donkey kicked a fallen coconut onto the sand and instantly the rolling motion of the orb reverted them all to their training. A spontaneous game of Coconut Polo broke out that lasted for hours. Inspired by this, other donkeys retrieved a barrel that drifted on shore from the shipwreck and began a game of the Barrel Toss. A few female donkeys broke away to perform high-stepping routines while marching in circles around the giant Tortoises that roamed the island. 

“The youngest donkey kicked a fallen coconut onto the sand and instantly the rolling motion of the orb reverted them all to their training.”

Weeks turned into months and months into peaceful years. The donkeys grew sleek and strong, and one day reached their adolescents. The large dark one emerged as the leader, but this small herd loved one another and there was no competition among them. One day, however, a new challenge arose. The unmistakable scent females in estrus wafted through the steamy lagoon. At first the male donkeys did not know what to make of this, but after a time they got the idea and drifted away from the grazing grounds in search of female affection. Bleats and cries of donkeys mating now filled the cornflower sky, and sometimes the sharp cries of clashes between males when one or another put his ears back and fought. A year later the island welcomed a bounteous crop of new-born donkey foals. Chasing their tails and bucking through the ferns, the herd’s numbers increased exponentially. Each generation passed on the tricks and circus secrets to the young ones, which embellished the routines with tricks of their own.  

One night, when the original nine donkeys were old jacks huddled in their grass beds, another storm blew up. Seas raged and churned green, lightening flashed, palm trees bowed down to touch the ground until they snapped, just as the old donkeys had told the young ones it had been when they came to this place. Out in the surf a Chinese junk bound for Germany was floundering in the tempest. On board sat 26,000 pounds of heavy scientific equipment and a load of rare golden monkeys unfortunate enough to have been captured outside Sichuan, China and destined for a medical research laboratory somewhere in Argentina. 

Terrified by the storm, the little golden monkeys clung to their cage bars and screamed out their horror, but fortune smiled on them when a doomed but merciful cabin boy unlocked their cages as his last act saying, “Damned this storm and damned this ship, the sea may get me but it won’t get you,” just before a giant wave of water rushed in, drowning him with the key still in his hand but freeing the monkeys. Monkeys are not by nature strong swimmers, but they were so afraid that they leapt onto broken boards floating by and dog paddled for the shore, dragging themselves through the pounding surf with their powerful monkey arms. Fate deposited them all on the same beach where the donkeys slept. 

In the morning, twelve golden monkeys awoke dripping and shivering surrounded by a circle of curious pink donkey muzzles sniffing at them and nervously pawing the sand. Monkeys and donkeys are not natural enemies. In fact, under natural circumstances they would probably just ignore each other and go about their day. But these were not normal circumstances, and these were not just any golden monkeys. Selected for high intelligence and the beautiful gold of their fur they had been locked together for so long that they had developed the uncanny ability to communicate with each other and with other species. 

And as unlikely as it seems, over time the monkeys taught the donkeys to communicate. Using a series of stomps and shrieks, neighs and gestures they began to exchange ideas. The donkeys taught the monkeys their games, and the monkeys taught the donkeys to climb trees. As far as anyone knows they are still there today, living in harmony with the island and themselves, swimming around the lagoon and playing Coconut Soccer. Of course, this is only a tale I heard from an old pirate I met named Bilge. He swears it is all true, and if you bring him a nautical map, he says he’ll chart you a course that will take you straight to the island. He saw this with his own disbelieving eyes, he says, when he and his fellow pirates went back to Paradise Cove to retrieve their silver by the light of a full moon night. But then, you know how pirates are.

• • •

Breadcrumb #517

GABRIELLA EVERGREEN

It was the summer we took the RV to a campground in Florida
(or maybe it was Vermont)

We sat in the back, me and my two brothers
where Andrew had once dropped a McDonald’s cheeseburger between the seats
I remember the sound of your shouts
and your fists coming down on his head
but anyway,
We were watching a VHS tape of Disney’s Robin Hood when the crash happened
We didn’t notice until the car was spinning and flipping
(at least we remember it flipping)
and landed off the side of the highway
the overhead compartments spilled out
a butter cookie tin full of crayons
rained down on us
a container of milk shattered on Nick’s head (he still has the scar)
Your miniature motorcycle fell against mom’s leg
marking it black and blue
she always hated that bike it was black and yellow and heavy
We don’t know what caused the crash (your anger?)
or what happened after (your anger)
I just remember the campground once we got there
the way the light from the lanterns and campfires of scattered tents
half-illuminated the woods
as we walked through the thick trees
shining flashlights on roots and stumps
looking for the source of the bullfrog’s croaks
but only finding a spot where some kid
had spilled a bowl of Froot Loops
which glowed in a puddle of graying milk
and the sound of a man playing guitar
singing Puff the Magic Dragon

We didn’t know that mom never wanted you to get the rental car or to finish the trip
how unhappy she must have been the whole time
We can’t really be sure
what the bruises
were ever from

• • •

Breadcrumb #516

MICHAEL TAGER

He might as well be 
a poor

None of his reruns play on any station
He knows because this time share
Always has power
And the waves outside the floor-to-ceiling windows
Never cease their chatter
So he plays the TV endlessly
Swipes left on phantom phone
Skip-skip-skipping
Swipe-swipe-swiping
Skip-skip-skipping channels
It’s endless being dead
And the mirror is only empty space
He just wants to see the apple face
that minted his fortune
one last time
on his way out
whenever that is

Please. Come and knock.
Please. Come and knock. 

• • •

Breadcrumb #515

NANCY HIGHTOWER

There’s a school with clocks 
that tell yesterday's time, 

traps girls with perfectly drawn 
eyebrows in the dusk of their iPhones.

In a bank five women kneel as if
in prayer while a gunman counts 

backwards to tomorrow’s news 
when he’ll be seen as a prophet, 

bold as Moses, who understood that forty years 
is nothing when milking the desert for honey, 

like the rock star who fucked 
kids and called it love,

like the politician who painted 
his china bone face black for a party, 

argued that it’s zero sum game 
once you’ve made it to the promised land

where every sunrise is a lie,
every sunset, a hemorrhaged memory

of caged children, their skin 
stretched thin as soap.

• • •

Breadcrumb #514

MARJORIE TESSER

Up on deck there’s a saline breeze and milky stars and endless ocean, shiny and black and moving like synchronized seals under the moon.

The cruise had been booked by my husband, though I’d barely gotten used to thinking of him as that. We’d gone from our first meeting at the conference to messaging to weekends to wedding, and from wedding to ship, friends and family seeing us off with bubbles instead of rice, which is said to harm the birds. How had I agreed to this?

The ship is our home away from home, our haven, our womb, our first-world vehicle for an arms-length tour of the third. Several days out of port, several more till the next, and then again to be herded down the gangplank to lie, flaccid and pinking, on gravelly beaches, or drift mindlessly in and out of overpriced shops to dicker over tourist trinkets. On board we are scheduled like children; steered, managed, and cajoled to participate in games, lessons, sports, and amateur theatrics. There are plenty of nap times—around the pool, on deck, where the ever-present thrum of engine lulls me to a drowsy stupor.

Everywhere, at all times, there are people. And, of course, my new husband ever at my side. The cabin is tight quarters. If I say I’ll take a walk or go work out or sit on deck and read, he jumps up and comes with. I book a massage; he says great and changes it to a couples one. I’d thought I’d known it would be different but hadn’t counted on this constant togetherness. Yet worse, he keeps trying to draw others into our ambit—at dinner, full of bonhomie, he invites all and sundry to sit with us, at the pool, he hectors me off my solitary float to join in a game of water volleyball, in the lounge, he badgers me to join in the singing, while he plays old show tunes on the piano for a jolly throng. After much too much alcohol and rich, heavy, yet somehow unsatisfying foods that leave me logy and overly full, I find myself again in our small cabin, enclosed in his embrace. He’s currently crashed out in the stateroom, satiated after yet another round of our marital intimacies. I slither from under the heavy arm, dress, slip out.

Outside there’s a night breeze that’s cool but hints of heat, like the breaths you sneak when you’re close to a person you crave, but can’t show it; little sips. I wander until I find the one uninhabited area of the ship, just deck, stars, and a lifeboat hulking under its tarp. A corner of the tarp is loose. “Not a bad place to hide,” I think, and then hear approaching steps. My husband? Not that awful woman from the lounge? I quickly climb, rubber soles gaining purchase on its side. I lift the loosened tarp and lower myself into the lifeboat. Like Alice going down the rabbit hole, or the children in books who, by fluke, luck, or happenstance, enter a mysterious portal to a magic world of novelty, adventure, and danger, without a look back I jump into the lifeboat. The same way Jack climbed the miraculous beanstalk, quickly, without much thought, mainly because it has appeared.

“ On board we are scheduled like children; steered, managed, and cajoled to participate in games, lessons, sports, and amateur theatrics.”

Inside is dark, with just the lifted corner of the tarp admitting a pale haze, the clouded solution of night and deck lights, moon and stars. I sink to the floor of the boat, lean back and slowly let out breath. There’s a spark the second before I hear a striking match and then an orange glow of cigarette end, the sharp tang of smoke.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and make for the opening in the tarp.

“Don’t leave,” a voice. Another match flickers; he holds it before his face—a young man. The flame burns down, nearly to his pale fingertips. I lean and blow it out, conscious of my breath on his skin.

I don’t like cigarette smoke, but his is somehow nostalgic of high school, shared illicit smokes in the bathroom, in the dark corners of the playground. He was pale as a rabbit with hair black as crow. Hiding or holing up, here in the dark alone.

I am polite. “I’ll go if you hoped to be alone.”

“I wasn’t.” He drags; exhales. “Hoping.”

Something of the unworldly about him. Pale and slender, but strong underneath, sinewy. Luminous. Hair black as the night ocean. Faint violet sleepless half-circles under deep-set eyes. His voice a light tenor, hypnotic.

“Then why...”

“This is the safest place. From the bores, the authorities. From pirates, Ninjas, aliens, love. Disaster.”

“Have you been...imbibing?” I ask delicately.

He barks a quick laugh. “Did you know where the Coast Guard has its Lifeboat Training School? It’s called Cape Disappointment.” I think I understand.

Glints of moonlight spark the centers of his eyes with little flames. The lifeboat is a satellite, suspended, its own world.

There’s a dankness in the air and I shiver. I remember the warm, bright lounge, my husband’s cozy bed. “Maybe I should go.” Footsteps outside, close.

A moment—freeze frame, a still second.

The ocean is a chameleon—pearl grey in the morning, bottle green when frosted with foam in the afternoon, shiny black at night. The ocean is a dissembler. It seems as if solely water but underneath teems with creatures bizarre, alien, dangerous, like the seemingly kind neighbor who turns out to have a secret life. There are some who find the ocean peaceful, but others accuse it of being deceptive, passive aggressive. The ocean connects home with the places we go. It is answerable to only the moon.

Once activated, the mechanism begins to lift the tarp and to lower the lifeboat, which after a few moments dips, then buoys in the inky sea, bobbing gently in the wake of the big ship gliding steadily on, lights moving on its tiers of increasingly distant decks.

• • •