Wild Greens

It's Not You... It's Poetry

by Debbie Feit

Dear Untitled Project,

It’s not you, it’s me. 

I didn’t spend any time playing the field. (Well, not since I was with my high school’s literary journal, but, looking back, I realize I was too young to know what I really wanted.) I just dove in blindly and ended up in a long-term relationship that in the end went nowhere. I was hurt. Rejected. Boy, was I rejected. But I knew I needed to put myself back out there. 

Then I met you. 

And I felt that spark once more. You were funny and intelligent and sensitive… everything I was looking for in a creative outlet. You always had a way of surprising me. And as we got to know each other, my feelings only grew stronger. Soon, we were spending all our time together. There was something exhilarating about our rendezvous at my office when we would sneak into an empty conference room on my lunch hour so we could be with each other. Or meeting you at Panera after dropping my kids off at Sunday school. Some days we couldn’t be pried apart. And it wasn’t long before we were completing each other’s sentences. 

I was fully committed to you. To us. I thought we were in it for the long haul… second printing, audiobooks, paperback edition, movie rights, the whole thing. It was so easy to envision our future together.

But then… I don’t know. Something shifted. I found myself looking for excuses for us not to be together. You just required so much attention…more than I could give. I realized I was editing myself around you and it wore on me. I’m ashamed to admit this, but I became attracted to other genres and I started writing around behind your back. It wasn’t with anyone you know…it was with poetry. At first, I thought maybe this was just infatuation and the feelings would pass. But time went on and my feelings only became more intense.

I realized I was falling in love. 

Poetry was so much easier to be with. They weren’t looking for a long-term commitment. They were fun and flexible and open to experimenting. They weren’t afraid to break the rules. You always insisted we follow an outline and were reluctant to veer from it for fear of getting lost. Maybe getting lost once in a while would have been good for us…maybe our story might have taken a different turn.

With poetry, I could finally date and explore my options. Sure, there was some real assonance out there, but I think…no…I know I’ve found the one. They have such an interesting way with words; I don’t always understand what they mean, but I actually think that adds a little mystery to the relationship. It was easy for us to find our rhythm and are now very happy as a couplet.

I know what you’re going to say… you want us to talk with a developmental editor to see if they can help smooth things out between us, but honestly, it feels like we’ve missed that deadline. When I think about the time and energy we would need to put in to make this work…well, I just don’t think we’re meant to be. Please know, you’re a wonderful manuscript and any writer would be thrilled to have their name alongside yours.

I hope you’ll one day find it in your heart to forgive me. I never meant to string you along. I always thought we’d be together until… the end.

Yours,

Debbie

Coup de Poulet

by Evyatar Kanik

Editor's note: For mobile users, turn phone to landscape mode for best viewing.

S-gel sharpie, MS Paint

Inspiration: I've worked on farms as a kosher-butcher and it's hard not to sympathize with the chickens. They are funny, lovely creatures.

after Emily Dickinson

by Venya Gushchin

Dreams

by Irina Tall Novikova

deal with it.

by Elisabeth D. 

The Joke's On Who?

by Janie Brey

In the mid-1970s, in my junior year of high school at a private prep school, I found myself in a pre-calculus class. I am still confused about how I ended up there because I had always struggled with math, often needing assistance. But this confusing placement led to an unforgettable experience.

Sitting at the back of the classroom were a group of sophomore boys who were studious, pocket calculator-toting fellows who were excited by equations and breezed through the assignments.

The teacher for the class, Mr. Lull, had two roles at the school—advanced math teacher and the dean of discipline. He was a kind, somewhat soft-spoken man who was eager to inspire students to better their math skills and took a keen interest in the whole student and their character development. 

Mr. Lull entered the classroom each day wearing pressed slacks, a tweed sports coat with corduroy elbow patches, and a wool fedora. He always placed the fedora on the desk at the front of the room, closest to the window. The class was on the second floor of the building overlooking the girls’ hockey field.

One day, I heard the whisperings of a plot. It had something to do with Mr. Lull. Before I knew what was happening, one of the students grabbed Mr. Lull’s hat while his back was turned and quickly tossed the fedora out the window.

A day or two later, Mr. Lull arrived to find a photograph on his desk. It was a photo of his hat on the seat in a phone booth, wrapped in large chains. Next to the photo was a ransom note that said, “If you want your hat returned to you, you must sing the alma mater acapella at the next all school assembly.”

By now, Mr. Lull knew who the perpetrators of the crime were. Regardless, at the next assembly, he rose, stood before the packed bleachers, and announced he would sing the alma mater so the kidnappers would return his beloved hat. Mr. Lull then proceeded to tell all the students, who were now silent and curious, that those who had planned this kidnapping plot and crime had to solve a problem. He had buried an item on the girls’ hockey field, and, using math, he challenged the kidnappers to locate what he buried. He proclaimed that the kidnappers would have to serve detention if they could not solve the math problem and find the item.

Mr. Lull then sang the alma mater loudly and proudly, and out of the crowded bleachers flew his beloved hat.

While I wasn’t there for the final scene on the field, I did see the kidnappers—the group of sophomore boys who normally breezed through their math assignments—standing in a circle, reading a paper, and pausing to look the field over. The following day, the rumor spread that those ingenious, mischievous boys were serving detention, now assigned a math problem that could keep them on their toes.

Here’s to creative kids and their equally creative teachers!