Jen Schneider
rocky took a swig & a swing :: hooked at the base of the museum steps
the steps drew regulars, no matter the weather. many came for the pics. selfies and stand-ups in front of the oversized bronze beast. she came for flicks. a photographer for hire. impromptu photo shoots. five for a dollar. quick. hurry. say cheese. pause. one more, please. in between gigs, she’d pause and ponder. individuals seek inspiration in the form of inner vendettas. take the stairs by two. souls with soles. a right jab. a left hook. hurry. look. all eyes lock. yo-yo ma would agree. it’s as easy as plucking new notes in a whimsical key. the curb drew regulars, no matter the weather. the mister softee truck an icon like the bronze beast. tired soles and souls always ready for a culinary feast. she’d count her quarters, her eyes on a sweet treat. soft-serve flavors would vary, but never the guy behind the dairy. he’d watch and then wait, for her long-anticipated gait. she’d trade coins for a cone. he’d trade awkward jokes and a kind tone. as seasons turned, the shy fella grew. ultimately ready to take a swing for a love that is true. he prepared and he readied. took a swig of a special brew. then found within himself courage to ask something new.
“can i treat you to dinner?” he sputtered with a smile.
she smiled and exhaled, “that sure took a while.”
with hands to the sky, the young lad experienced true joy. neither the lad nor the girl any longer coy. in short time they were hooked on life and each other. from a balboa barb, swig, and swing to a bride and groom like none other.
The purple boombox spent years at the center of attention. All dials on. Both cassettes well-oiled and well-toiled. Antennae always alert. As Disney turned dated, the boombox’s speakers remained solid. Strong enough for R.E.M., Rush, and Springsteen. The box ensured deep REM sleep and salves for when she’d weep. Tunes and minds closely linked. Also, a wave (radio & hand) to the boy next store. Mostly, a lifeline. When the girl’s family unexpectedly left the nest, the boombox remained on her shelf. Dust its only dance partner. Distance a dangerous duo, the boy next door wrote to her nightly. All envelopes lacking a postal address. Return to sender on repeat. The boombox also awaited her return. Love and lyrics infinitely layered. The girl’s laughter lingered in the soft shadows of the room’s lemonade-yellow walls. A few weeks later, the home sold “as is” – all contents on view for the curious. The new owners called in 1-800-JUNK, while the boy next store watched and waited. Both boy and boombox eager to reunite and play – tunes of the times and from the day. As the mover idled and the movers remained stuck on level one, the boy snuck back inside. Followed the same steps he and girl would set. He grabbed the purple box, blew wishes and kisses in its dust, then fled. A mixtape of tunes from and of the times trailed behind.
Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility and On Crossroads and Fill in the Blank Puzzles (Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.
rocky took a swig & a swing :: hooked at the base of the museum steps
the steps drew regulars, no matter the weather. many came for the pics. selfies and stand-ups in front of the oversized bronze beast. she came for flicks. a photographer for hire. impromptu photo shoots. five for a dollar. quick. hurry. say cheese. pause. one more, please. in between gigs, she’d pause and ponder. individuals seek inspiration in the form of inner vendettas. take the stairs by two. souls with soles. a right jab. a left hook. hurry. look. all eyes lock. yo-yo ma would agree. it’s as easy as plucking new notes in a whimsical key. the curb drew regulars, no matter the weather. the mister softee truck an icon like the bronze beast. tired soles and souls always ready for a culinary feast. she’d count her quarters, her eyes on a sweet treat. soft-serve flavors would vary, but never the guy behind the dairy. he’d watch and then wait, for her long-anticipated gait. she’d trade coins for a cone. he’d trade awkward jokes and a kind tone. as seasons turned, the shy fella grew. ultimately ready to take a swing for a love that is true. he prepared and he readied. took a swig of a special brew. then found within himself courage to ask something new.
“can i treat you to dinner?” he sputtered with a smile.
she smiled and exhaled, “that sure took a while.”
with hands to the sky, the young lad experienced true joy. neither the lad nor the girl any longer coy. in short time they were hooked on life and each other. from a balboa barb, swig, and swing to a bride and groom like none other.
On Pigeons, Pests, and Unexpected Library Guests No one knew how the pigeon gained entry to the library. All stacks stocked. All keys locked. Paperback pockets posed prime nesting material. All corners blanketed of heat. Safe and secure. Just off the main beat. As the pigeon postured, patrons swung. Voices fluttered. The library in a serious state of clutter. The pigeon remained oblivious. All feathers tucked. Beaks clucked. Fully ensconced in a fairytale of both homes & happy endings. The bird pecked and pestered pages from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Pleased with an afternoon foray and time away — from the nest A Few Minutes Before Eight :: It’s a Date / On Birds, Beaks, and Sun-Baked Suet Treats The square of suet is sealed. Its cover boasts a red rose with a twist. Inked a bold black font. Our feet tap to a hummingbird’s beat. We crave neither candlelit dinners nor white-glove service. Not nights on the town. Not gourmet brunches. No eggs benedict or smoked salmon dip. Instead, we sit on the porch in his and her rockers that creak. A flea market treat. We brew a pot of tea with a swig of honey from local bees. We watch the birds peck at their suet. A delicate dance of dates and figs. Life sure is sweet.On Mixtapes: Tunes, Times, & Trails
The purple boombox spent years at the center of attention. All dials on. Both cassettes well-oiled and well-toiled. Antennae always alert. As Disney turned dated, the boombox’s speakers remained solid. Strong enough for R.E.M., Rush, and Springsteen. The box ensured deep REM sleep and salves for when she’d weep. Tunes and minds closely linked. Also, a wave (radio & hand) to the boy next store. Mostly, a lifeline. When the girl’s family unexpectedly left the nest, the boombox remained on her shelf. Dust its only dance partner. Distance a dangerous duo, the boy next door wrote to her nightly. All envelopes lacking a postal address. Return to sender on repeat. The boombox also awaited her return. Love and lyrics infinitely layered. The girl’s laughter lingered in the soft shadows of the room’s lemonade-yellow walls. A few weeks later, the home sold “as is” – all contents on view for the curious. The new owners called in 1-800-JUNK, while the boy next store watched and waited. Both boy and boombox eager to reunite and play – tunes of the times and from the day. As the mover idled and the movers remained stuck on level one, the boy snuck back inside. Followed the same steps he and girl would set. He grabbed the purple box, blew wishes and kisses in its dust, then fled. A mixtape of tunes from and of the times trailed behind.
Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility and On Crossroads and Fill in the Blank Puzzles (Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.
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