Daughter Bird Bone Song 10 and 11 —micro-fiction by Michele Harman

10.  

  I go to clear up the books and other items that have fallen into the sand pit. Tiny ones for jewelry and makeup. The gold control panel in our entryway brings up any menu in town. Floating down the hall on a gurney. The elevator tilts and lands softly on its glass front. I go to an asylum with friends as a social outing; when a woman there smiles at me, her mouth is an O and her teeth, completely black. After a lifeless investigation, he allows them to leave. Somewhere, I breathe too deeply and his hot air balloon pops. In order to fly in Iowa, I must relearn the horizon. Wanting to learn a children's counting song in English, his new Krishna neighbor sits horrified in black listening to the recorder. Red lipstick. Pollen and buds all over the floor. A whale stares up at me, suffocated in cellophane wrap. Please refer back to The January Book.  

11.  

  Once, I watch him drown in a water-wave machine. After the girl in the formal blue dress, men hoot. The poisonous kitten squirms around in her hands, and I end up with toast and the last fruit drink in the milk case. Wearing the letter-carrier uniform that got me into this buffet. While playing a card game in which the ace of spades is lower than the "411" card, he admires the Medusa cigars. They plan the party's theme, The Dead. Black lines radiate out from the bullet in her thigh. They were so avant-garde when they came here, the art teacher complains, as she flips through notebook after notebook of Snoopy drawings. The suicide bar is placed in the car's back seat so that, if it is pulled, only that part of the car will come to a screeching halt.   

Also see:

Daughter Bird Bone Song 1 

2 and 3

4 and 5

6 and 7

8 and 9

___

The Writer: With undergraduate and graduate degrees in English literature and creative writing, poetry, from UCLA and UF, Gainesville, Michele Pizarro Harman has published poems in such literary journals and online venues as Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, Mississippi Mud, Midwest Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review, Berry Blue Haiku, Shepherd’s Check, a handful of stones, and Miriam’s Well. She currently lives with her husband and two of their four children in the small town in Central California where she and her husband grew up; beyond the cows, crows and cranes, she teaches reading, writing, and math to K-6 special-needs students in a public elementary school. She may be found at: www.michelepizarroharman.com.

___

The Artist: Luka Fisher is a Los Angeles based painter known for his frequent collaborations, mixed media projects, and work with musicians. He has designed forthcoming releases for LA based bands Feral Kizzy and Death Hymn Number 9. His work was also featured in Feral Kizzy's latest music "22 A Month" which you can view here. He has also collaborated with a wide range of artists, writers and photographers including---Dash Hobbeheydar, Brian Pulido, Brenda Carsey, and Tate Hemlock. His work has been shown in Los Angeles, Detroit, Phoenix and is held in private collections in the United States and Russia.

Daughter Bird Bone Song, 8 and 9 | by Michele Harman

8.

A plastic nativity scene lights up in three concentric circles, electric cords stretched in every direction. On the card's front, a foot-high, laminated clown, meant to cheer me up. I go to the rec center to practice craps, then photocopy the good rolls. Who murdered the 24-year-old grandmother? And why in a closet? At this amusement park, I become caught in Adventure River, my legs wrapped entirely with rope before I fall into the rushing water; though it's all preplanned, one wrong move leads to disaster: notice the vacuum cleaners tilting toward us on a high glass ledge. When the Butter Eatery truck passes, everyone claps. They go flying in a round ball that hovers just over rooftops. Yes! The woman in the purple dress did it! Though it pours rain into my glass, I wait at the outdoor bar by the side of the road. He puts one of his sons into a dolls' house living room, and the other into a bird cage to keep him occupied with my same-sized finch which plays dead at first, feet up, then recovers.

 

      

9.

In a maze, expressionless people pair up in matching costumes, then leave. He becomes a plant. Everyone knows exactly what to do except me. I spend the next hour/minute searching for him. Their train, de-railing. An alien creature flies around looking to possess or kill me. The breathing space is insubstantial. We lower it into a vat of honey and tear it apart limb by limb. They skate on minuscule patches of ice. Over there! The miniaturized people. I hide. I put on the wedding dress in order to cross town. And, a piece of clothing with memory and feathers.

You can also read
 Daughter Bird Bone Song 1, 
 2 and 3
 4 and 5
6 and 7

___

The Writer: With undergraduate and graduate degrees in English literature and creative writing, poetry, from UCLA and UF, Gainesville, Michele Pizarro Harman has published poems in such literary journals and online venues as Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, Mississippi Mud, Midwest Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review, Berry Blue Haiku, Shepherd’s Check, a handful of stones, The Commonline Journal, and Miriam’s Well. She currently lives with her husband and two of their four children in the small town in Central California where she and her husband grew up; beyond the cows, crows and cranes, she teaches reading, writing, and math to K-6 special-needs students in a public elementary school. She also may be found at: www.michelepizarroharman.com.

The Photographer: Brett Stout is a 33-year-old artist and writer. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and Paramedic. He creates art while mainly hung-over from a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC..

Daughter Bird Bone Song, 6 and 7 | by Michele Harman

6.

Leaving a blood trail, I carry the head through the police warehouse as, by flashing lights, people dance on one floor. Hoping to leave this place, I pack all my Christmas dolls and 3-D scenes. His head is now outlined in gold and imprinted with a map of the world. My dead father sends a letter stamped and canceled with foreign postage while one wall pulls entirely away for a view of the swamp. Instead of an armed response, the animal catcher arrives. In this poker game, Marianne Moore plays. In the house-pool's shallow end, a man fishing. I read the latest Plath bio penned by Roger Moore while my pet mouse chases my pet stinging lizard able to jump and sting two feet in the air. In this city, everyone goes toFurs, Girls, Beer. He likes the design hammered into the table by vandals. With rockets on their backs, men in white space suits fly around and throw sulfur flares into the sky to illuminate the comet. She asks me to draw weather. Engaging in Stooge-isms, the man and woman wash their car, but I tell him I never would have bought the tape if I'd realized it was mime music. To him, the Adultery Channel sounds wonderful. Walking into the spindly Victorian, I trip over elves: Welcome to the year-round Christmas apartments. I ask my sister to take the alien creature for a ride in a fancy car. After 10 aftershocks, I evacuate the building: a whale's head breaks through the asphalt as if it were water. I swim away. Getting an x-ray for my car, I'll be late. In the gas station's restroom, an insect threatens me with its fifty leathery arms, all in the shape of holly leaves.

7.

The boy rows to Golf Island. On an airport layover, I buy a six-foot branch with many awkward limbs. A lighter lit in front of the tiny screen produces a film: bats first, then, the filmmaker pulls back in a narrow tunnel as though giving birth, revealing a crowded beach. At Movie Camp, I land in a snow drift up to my neck. She says, you'd think we were raised in a sty, and, where did chivalry go? They don't know how to pack it, so they kill it instead, and it swings from a long, thin rope. The champagne bubbles up and turns colors in front of the wrapping paper and the pink and blue lights. Sapphire, the camel. And now, people come to the peninsula to see the wreck.

___

Want to read Daughter Bird Bone Song 1, as well as 2 and 3? What about 4 and 5?

___

The Writer: With undergraduate and graduate degrees in English literature and creative writing, poetry, from UCLA and UF, Gainesville, Michele Pizarro Harman has published poems in such literary journals and online venues as Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, Mississippi Mud, Midwest Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review, Berry Blue Haiku, Shepherd’s Check, a handful of stones, The Commonline Journal, and Miriam’s Well. She currently lives with her husband and two of their four children in the small town in Central California where she and her husband grew up; beyond the cows, crows and cranes, she teaches reading, writing, and math to K-6 special-needs students in a public elementary school. She also may be found at: www.michelepizarroharman.com.

The Photographer: wishes to remain anonymous.

Daughter Bird Bone Song, 4 and 5 | by Michele Harman

4.

 

The Shakespearean chorus-actor wields a sharp spear. The Princess/Pauper doll can be flipped either way. On the brown, butcher-papered walls, the woman has drawn pictures of herself crying. The thin book of Naomi Campbell's poetry drops four stories down through silver and into the water below. I run back for the eight-cent penny. At the garage sale, a woman takes my pile of nickels and dimes without paying, while rain falls into the living room drenching the piano and television screen. A man at the door who I know to be evil. This gun is so difficult to operate. On the scenic ice floe, some white bears eating red velvet ice lettuce. The girl reading essays for this contest circles my typos and explains that I have misread the directions: right here, she points out, you have the main character laughing.Each of the table's place settings has four knives. I gut a lamp and add dirt and seeds. His dog gets its leg bit off by a large gorilla racing through the house. At this recital, a partner and I play one violin together while an audience member plays a piano tune; angry, I shout, you're composing lyrics while we play! This is a recital, and you're composing lyrics while we play! The displays boast black velvet and diamonds; push your supermarket cart through gingerly. This state of the art restroom utilizes old exposed pipes and broken yellow flickering lights. An explosion at the back of the theater; the director emerges from smoke to ask how we liked it.

5.

I get impatient waiting for him with the reindeer beanbag gift. The trophy sits in the bathroom sink: Barbie holding a gold cup. Around his neck, a black noose mark. He berates them for throwing the less ripe cherries into the yard. The men in white jumpers try to tag me before I reach the sum-total square; for protection, the small person in a wolf suit. Because he uses a cactus to lift himself up, he cries. She plays the videotape of car crashes loudly on the tv. Lying in bed, a woman keeps assigning him music: write songs. The oozie, as large as her body, allows her to wire explosives to each person in this lobby. I place one egg in each of the 16 wooden compartments, then spray them down with a watery substance and put them in blankets to protect them from birds; indoors, dishes around the house fill with jewelry instead of bird or cat food; one leaf-shaped dish holds a fan made of straw, and a rhinestone necklace.

___

Want to read Daughter Bird Bone Song 1, as well as 2 and 3?

___

The Writer: With undergraduate and graduate degrees in English literature and creative writing, poetry, from UCLA and UF, Gainesville, Michele Pizarro Harman has published poems in such literary journals and online venues as Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, Mississippi Mud, Midwest Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review, Berry Blue Haiku, Shepherd’s Check, a handful of stones, The Commonline Journal, and Miriam’s Well. She currently lives with her husband and two of their four children in the small town in Central California where she and her husband grew up; beyond the cows, crows and cranes, she teaches reading, writing, and math to K-6 special-needs students in a public elementary school. She also may be found at: www.michelepizarroharman.com.

The Artist: Faun Scurlock is a digital artist/photographer born and raised in Vancouver, WA. The constant weather changes of the Pacific Northwest bring her plenty of opportunity to capture landscapes, action shots, and abstract photographs. Faun's been published in multiple journals - The Phoenix and Salmon Creek Journal - and included in a student art show at Clark College.

Daughter Bird Bone Song 2. and 3. | by Michele Pizarro Harman

2.

 

The calendar photo reveals green grass, blue sky, and many pieces of floating white bread in the foreground. Now that he's inside an aerosol can, he can easily be packed. They call their keno machine shark face, because inside the ball are two arms shaped like fins. The sidewalks are looping and thin and cut through the air like freeways; my father is king here. I taste test from the pitcher of anise and later run down the halls crying help. One weapon is a large metal arm painted into a suit sleeve. It will follow him home, since it didn't yet get his money, and I go to the wedding held in a doughnut shop wondering why the groom's in full drag. The mother offers a plate of confections: one is large and smooth like a goose egg; one is covered in noodles and long like a tube; one is rolled in powdered sugar; all the sweets breathe deeply as in sleep; I pull a noodle off one, and it flinches and rolls over: the joy of free coastal waters, she says from the other room. He lays the baby into Tupperware, closing it over with four different lids; I fear he's suffocated it, but its eyes are wide when we reopen the dish.

 

3.

Rushed and awkward and not at all like Christmas. The fighting takes such a long time. Blot up this blood's pool. Genes. Five demons inside! One of the girls in white gloves, and my character's lines have all been translated into playing cards and dice. I throw a handful of salt into the ocean. People incessantly climb ladders behind me. Suitcases filled with dust and a black high-backed chair as for tarot. Two boys begin their drowning. Cobwebs drop in sheets. I must go now. I ascend too quickly, while my stomach opens like a soft purse, and piles and piles of makeup tubes roll out in plastic, zippered bags. Killed by baby dolphin bites. A force throws me against the room's walls, though I remain uninjured by turning myself half into ghost. Grandma bounces up and down in a short, frilly dress. The electricity which runs Christmas, he explains. Black smoke clouds fill the room.

 

 

___

You can find CLJ's publication of Daughter Bird Bone Song 1 here.

___

With undergraduate and graduate degrees in English literature and creative writing, poetry, from UCLA and UF, Gainesville, Michele Pizarro Harman has published poems in such literary journals and online venues as Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, Mississippi Mud, Midwest Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review, Berry Blue Haiku, Shepherd’s Check, a handful of stones, The Commonline Journal, and Miriam’s Well. She currently lives with her husband and two of their four children in the small town in Central California where she and her husband grew up; beyond the cows, crows and cranes, she teaches reading, writing, and math to K-6 special-needs students in a public elementary school. She also may be found at: www.michelepizarroharman.com.

Daughter Bird Bone Song 1.—a poem by Michele Pizarro Harman

My ribcage x-ray shows demi-flags of fluttery muscle clinging to the bones. The bees come at me stinging my entire body, stuck burrs as they die. One woman leaves through a window, and when she comes back, light in the shape of smoke rings rises from the mouth of my ghost. A person fits perfectly into this to-go bag. And now, I've picked up the skirt of my ball gown, carefully avoiding puddles on the sandy floor, while in cages I see gerbils which also appear on the menu. I rock him as though he's a boat, then, asks him to steer. Old iron beds with gorgeous quilts. While they admire the fish-backed chair, I finish the essay on angioplasty. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. In this class, I'm unable to identify the mythical flower on the tarot-like card. Choose a uniform: velvet or sheer. He/I let go and fall down the mountain's steepest slope, while into a miniature boat I lay my sister, puffy in chiffon. But, the detectives use my closest friend as bait. Inside the 3-D boxes, the scene is cozy except for the man running from fire.



___
With undergraduate and graduate degrees in English literature and creative writing, poetry, from UCLA and UF, Gainesville, Michele Pizarro Harman has published poems in such literary journals and online venues as Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, Mississippi Mud, Midwest Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review, Berry Blue Haiku, Shepherd’s Check, a handful of stones, and Miriam’s Well. She currently lives with her husband and two of their four children in the small town in Central California where she and her husband grew up; beyond the cows, crows and cranes, she teaches reading, writing, and math to K-6 special-needs students in a public elementary school. She may be found at: www.michelepizarroharman.com.