Maggie Lyons

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Prompt: 500 words, any topic.

“The Letter Unread”
by Margaret Lyons

It was amazing. Sierra looked out over the canyon, secure behind the cold iron railing of the turnout, as the dizziness subsided and left behind this awe tinged curiosity. The bitter taste of adrenaline was leaving her, her pulse slowing—she was alive, and she was so very alive in this moment. She repositioned her hands on the rail. Her warmth had dissolved the chill in the metal and she wanted to feel that cold against her palms again, seeping into the tissue beneath her skin. God, it really was beautiful.

Sierra closed her eyes. She smelled sagebrush and chaparral, she smelled the pacific. She felt a breeze on her face and the warmth of the sun, and she thought these are the things of being alive. She’d driven this canyon countless times, often thoughtlessly. The anxiety that had so nearly killed her not ten minutes ago was fairly new, and she hadn’t anticipated its intrusion into a place she’d loved so comfortably for so long.

Shortly after the baby was born, this fear of heights had crawled in. When her little boy died, she’d wondered if the fear might die too. It had gained in strength, though. She’d never named him, but that hadn’t helped. She’d never seen him but once, and that hadn’t helped either. He was sickly when he was born and everyone promised her there was nothing she could have done. His adoptive parents had written her a letter. She hadn’t read it, but she’d given it to Paul to read, and he’d assured her that they were kind and loving and grateful. He said they sounded like just the right kind of parents for their little boy, but the fear still grew inside her like another child she didn’t hold.

Paul had a name for their son. He’d promised never to tell her.

Paul wasn’t her first, but there hadn’t been many before him. There’d been none since. They had only been together that one cataclysmic night when judgments and insecurities were less at play than beer and the taking of the CIF state football championship, and the baby—gone now—and her presence in this turnout over the canyon were what was left of that night. Paul had surprised and upset her with his response when she’d told him what had happened with her period. He hadn’t pressed her to abort, and he hadn’t pressed her to be with him. He didn’t want her to give their son up to adoption, although he was not unkind to her about her choice to do that. He stood, his face ashen, and he straightened his spine and said to Sierra, “Okay.” He sat beside her as they faced their parents and he paid for half of everything she needed from the money he’d been saving from afterschool jobs.

Sierra could still conjure the feeling of the wheel slipping through her hands, wet with sudden sweat. She would ask Paul, she decided, what he’d named their son.

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I don’t write much poetry. I prefer to leave to leave the writing of poetry to poets, but the killings in the Pennsylvania Amish school, October 2006, left me absent of access to any form of prosaic expression. For better or for worse, this chose to be written two days after the event.

“Ten, 6-13″
by Margaret Lyons

Twenty-six, 6-13, softly beating hearts

within four walls today were placed

on the gunmetal.

Three plus one on the way were told to leave.

And then sixteen, 6-13 were told to leave. And

what they could hear were

ten, 6-13. The girls were left in a row below

a chalkboard, above which the sign read

“visitors brighten people’s days.”

Ten, 6-13 were too soon left lying

on the floor with their lives flowing in pools,

half dead, half half-dead.

One, 32, with a million particles of madness

coursing through him, lay down beside them,

already forgiven.

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These are recipes for which I lose the handy index cards my mother writes out, prompting me to call her for them again, approximately two times per anum (i.e., the frequency at which the cravings have finally become so overwhelming that I independently prepare non-essential food-type items). I am not buying a recipe box for two index cards, however, I’m just not. I have decided to put the recipes here instead–in part because you deserve them too, but mostly because I genuinely believe that it will be 18 months or more before I misplace the address to my own website. Won’t mother be impressed!

∞ My Mother’s Kick Ass French Dressing Recipe ∞

Note: This is a recipe for an actual French dressing, by which I mean that it is a vinegrette and not that strange florescent orange concoction bottled up and sold as French dressing around the U.S. Is this note exposing some measure of elitist European snobbery on my part? No, it is not. The French put ketchup on everything, yet pretend that use of the condiment is garishly American. I simply prefer it when my salad dressing does not glow.

1/4 c. vinegar (wine) *I prefer white wine vinegar for this, but what do I know?

1 c. oil

2 t. dry mustard powder

2 t. salt

4 t. sugar

1 t. worcestershire sauce

pinch of tarragon

several slices of fresh garlic (that’s sliced, not minced)

dash of black pepper

Place ingredients in a glass salad dressing server or jar and shake well.

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∞ My Mother’s Kick Ass Gazpacho Recipe ∞

(as snipped years ago from the LA Times recipe section and gleefully tinkered with)

1 large cucumber, peeled and chopped

1 chili pepper, chopped (I avoid the kiedis if possible-too tart- but have found that a nice tangy flea does quite nicely here)

4 large ripe tomatoes, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, chopped

2 cups tomato juice

Once soaked, add:

1/2 cup wine vinegar (I prefer white- this is a summer soup, damn it!)

1-1/2 T. olive oil

1/2 cup red or white wine (it’s your choice, of course… oh, but do use the white!)

2 t. paprika

2 t. cumin

1 t. salt

1 t. pepper

1 t. MSG (I’ve never added this, myself- this soup is YUM-MY and it just don’t need that kind of help)

dash of worcestershire sauce

dash of hot pepper sauce

Refrigerate in a large bowl for 2 hours.

When fully chilled, blend well in a blender or food processor and strain (it says this on my index card, in my mother’s very own handwriting, but don’t really, actually strain it–disobey my mother!–those chunks are delicious and you’re just wasting precious gazpacho after your hard work and waiting, what with all that chopping, soaking, and chilling? DO NOT WASTE PRECIOUS GAZPACHO!)

Keep chilled until ready to serve. Garnish with sliced avocado and cilantro.