The before, during and after stories, poems and photos of a homeless child.
Inside my silken cocoon, I cozy in a fetal position.
I feel the suns rays probe my gossamer coverlet in attempt to kiss me deeply.
I am still in childhood and do not understand this attraction, so I giggle in response.
The sun persists, and I will grow big and burst forth despite the comfort of this womb.
In my escape, I will become the tasty scape, a tasty morsel for another.
© Zora Zebic 2016
I’d been dating him for a few months and was getting used to canoe trips, camping and reuniting with Mother Nature. I say reuniting, and that is a curious way to put it when I didn’t know then how much of a connection I had with her!
We were on the way to Point Pelee National Park with our big, banana yellow canoe on the roof of the old, white Chevy Astro Van when a highway cop stopped us. The policeman asked, “Do you know what speed you were going?” Barry answered, “Yes, I was 10 over.”
Peering in the window at me, the cop asked me, “What should I do? Should I give him the lowest fine or hit him as hard as I can?” I asked, “Is there a third option, none of the above?”
The cop laughed at that and said, “You are one lucky man to have a wife like that. The guy I stopped before you is not too happy. His wife told me to hit him as hard as I could. I buried him in tickets.” Laughing heartily the cop started to walk away, then stopped to throw over his shoulder, “The sky is great today for canoeing. You folks have a great day!”
© Zora Zebic 2016
“Is there a reason your desk is always so cluttered?” This question has been asked so many times I have developed a standard answer, “This way I know where everything is with the bonus that nobody else can find anything.”
I don’t enjoy the clutter. It is agitating to see the piles grow into seemingly never-ending mini mountains of sacrificial tree remains. Still, I wouldn’t trade my existence for anyone else’s.
17 years ago I founded a homeless day shelter. At least 5 days a week you will find me cooking, serving meals or washing pots, pans and dishes alongside a group of very dedicated souls who also love to help the homeless. I am also the primary mediator when the need calls. At random times moments, like now, you may find me sitting at my desk.
More importantly than an organized desk, I am blessed to have a purpose in life.
© Zora Zebic 2016
Huddled around his feet, we sat in awe of the spectacle of his uniform. He was the oldest boy of the family. His parents had taken my brother and me in as foster children, and we were meeting the legendary ‘almost adult’ brother for the first time.
His uniform looked the same as the ones the Canadian soldiers wore on television, so the reality of the rank of Cadet was lost on us. To us, we were sitting at the feet of a real live soldier!
He said, “I want to teach all of you kids one important lesson I have learned.” Eager to absorb this treasured gift we had all pressed in closer lest any single word would slip past us. “If anyone ever does anything to upset you or hurt you,” he continued, “don’t get angry, get even!”
I used his sage advice not long after. The younger boys, my brother in tow, convinced me to crawl up the ladder onto the roof of the house and tear off roofing tiles. They wanted to make a rooftop for their tree-house, and if I were to do this task, they would allow me into their boys-only structure.
I’d been caught by the foster father, and all of the boys had denied any part of it. I took the punishment, recalling the advice of the Cadet, all the while plotting my revenge.
The next day I snuck a canning jar from the basement out to the field to gather some of the many harmless garden snakes. My filled jar in hand I stole back into the house and made my way silently to the bedroom closet of the foster mother. Placing the Mason jar far back into the shadows, I removed the lid and quietly left the house!
© Zora Zebic 2016
The elephants came to town, and the nuns gathered up the lot of us. A generous donor had paid for tickets for the “orphans” to attend.
We really weren’t orphans as most of us had been seized from our families for whatever reasons, but that was a mere technicality. We were going to the circus!
One entire aisle was held as “reserved” and we felt rather proud to be so close to the action. I’ll admit it was lots of fun to see the stunned faces of many folks observing our parade. One nun led the pack as she walked the entire length of the row to sit as a bookend on the right.
Child after child filled one seat after another until the other nun was able to take her place as the bookend on the left.
Sitting nearest to the nun on the left I was first to be handed a frozen ice cream bar in exchange for passing the box down the row. I was audacious and asked the vendor who had purchased for us the treats. He pointed to a man way up in the seats behind us. I, along with other children and spectators surrounding us who’d heard my question turned to look at the man.
I stood on my seat and waved a thank you until my left-side-bookend-nun grabbed me and sat me back in my seat scolding, “Have some respect. That man didn’t do this to be part of the circus.”
© Zora Zebic 2016
Sitting on a ragged blanket, a white styrofoam coffee cup at my feet, I took a deep breath to compose myself and shield me from the daily struggle. It wasn’t easy being a panhandler and it sure as hell was not a life for a fifteen-year-old homeless girl.
I shook my head forcing the real thoughts out. They wouldn’t do me any good and would serve only to offset my attempts to reach a state of imperturbability. Once I reached the state of mind-quiet I was reaching for, the growls of the anti-panhandlers would fade away from me. The noises would not become a blight on my soul.
My legs felt as though they were wooden and, as I reached the highest state I could hear only the chirping sounds of birds. I held this sound as I focused on a vision of heaven inside my mind, knowing my eyes had achieved a blank expression.
© Zora Zebic 2016
He said, “Hey there I heard
Your poem. It was absurd.”
“How so man, please tell me?”
“It didn’t rhyme,” said he.
“Dear man it sometimes goes,
Poetry is called in prose.
Without structure, form or line,
And picturing words to define.”
“Well, you ain’t no poet,
Poems rhyme I know it.”
“I gift to you this time
A poem set in rhyme.”
Dedicated to a snarly bass player.
© Zora Zebic 2016
He looked up to look down on me
What put him where he could not see?
What spun his head that he’d believe
In his own lies to self-deceive?
I told his sullied soul truth hurts
One day he’d reap his just desserts
He’d plagiarised words for profit
My words to fill his money pit!
I said his flaw was in his head
A better man would just have read
Another could not get along
Her habit to squeeze toothpaste wrong
Why couldn’t he just bend it back?
What past grief caused his soul to lack?
© Zora Zebic 2016
Peace is the abandonment of memories of pain
As the seed left of the berry ravaged by the bird
Forgets the fate that brought it down to the earth and rain
To root, to sprout, to flower, to bear forth fruit again.
© Zora Zebic 2016
The title tells it. That’s me. I have discovered I am a literary renegade. Initially, this caused me grief until I was able to shake the condemnations out of my system. “Who,” I asked myself, “is this man who reviles my writing style? Do these erudite souls confine themselves into a prison of conformity?”
I came to learn of my lack of writing orthodoxy when I attended a writer’s conference. After the first session, I felt like Edward Scissorhands had had his way with me. I felt shredded to the core of my being.
The reason I attended was to learn how to better my writing skills. I’d seriously believed immersing myself in the company of writers, agents and publishers would provide me with the confidence and instructions I needed to set out on my goal to be read. Unfortunately, that was not to be.
I have since concluded it may be best for me to go on without any further attempts to pay to gain education or accreditation. After all, it is in my best interest to remain faithful to myself.
The agent advised me my writing style was not “acceptable.” Apparently, there are rules to writing, and I dared to present a short story I had written the night before in a style I learned is unique to me!
After listening to me read my story, the agent demanded I tell him if I was writing in the 1st person, 2nd person or 3rd person. I was befuddled by his question having never been taught these concepts.
(I should inject here that I have not fully attended or graduated from either primary or secondary schools, and that is another story for another day!)
I like to tell a tale which exposes the thoughts and emotions of all or some of my characters. I’m told no publisher will ever consider putting my words to print for this breach of writing etiquette!
He further condemned my story because it started out as a typical romance to end suddenly with a shocking ending and he said to me, “People don’t like to get shocked.” “What?” I’d questioned silently, to then ask myself, “Has this guy never ridden a roller coaster?” The condemned story is Emerald Rain.
His final verdict was to tell me my style of writing was “old-fashioned.” Apparently, he doesn’t have the social skills to know a lady a mere few months from turning 60 would probably be offended to be reminded of her elderliness.
I did shake the agent up a bit, I could tell by his expression when on the spot I created the theme for a story during another authors idea-asking-session. The story will be called Memoirs of a Reaper. The novel tells the tale of a renegade reaper who reminisces from the minds of the souls he collects. All of the deceased and the Reaper will speak in the 1st person!
I have concluded the literary rules are made to be broken! I compare it to the world of music. How dull a world we would live in if classical music was the only musical style allowed to be recorded.
I will move forward and embrace my style as a rock and roll writer!
© Zora Zebic 2016
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