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NATHAN D DAVIS
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Birds of a Feather

6/4/2020

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Picture
Above a field near a deep royal bay,
A kingdom of birds flew, frolicked, and played.

In this sky kingdom, were birds of a feather,
Blue birds, red birds, some even looked heather.

The blue feathers ruffled the square feathers’ tassels,
Left feathers rumbled with right feather rascals.

Gray feathers warbled of bright feathers’ whistle,
Bright feathers squabbled at green feathers’ bristle.

Though grumbles and sighs and prickles and cries,
All birds held faith in the song of the sky:

That all birds, all birds, have a right to fly. 

Among the birds, there was a special lot,
Long feathers were game from every flock.

Long feathers soared to a song of their own,
To serve and protect flights of the kingdom.

Behold, the long feathers. The hardest job of all.
They are brave. They are noble. They answer the call.

But alarmed word spread with tales and utters,
That wings of red birds were clipped by long feathers.

“How could this be?” Barked the birds of a feather.
“It doesn’t make sense. Long feathers don’t fetter.”

So chose many birds to ignore the sad plight.
“Those red birds don’t get it, don’t put up a fight.”

Yet more birds tumbled, and aloud they cried,
“It’s true. Look! Another red bird can’t fly.”

“No!” Said the square feathers. “Red birds don’t get it.”
Follow their orders, and you won’t regret it.

“Rules and flight orders,” the red birds declared.
 “What good do they do if they are not fair?”

“Stay in your lane!” Privileged feathers retorted. 
“This fury is ugly and makes you revolted.” 

Anger, it deepened, for no one was listening, 
The kingdom divided with all feathers quibbling.

For no one could guard against fear and distrust,
It grew and spread until the kingdom went bust.

Trees were uprooted, and bushes defrocked,
Red birds screamed, “this injustice is a crock.”

We fly and we fall while our tears we must dam,
Enough. Enough! No more timid as a lamb.

Sadness came, but still no understanding,
Just shouts and points and further dividing.

Till one day a long feather flew to the middle,
Removed his long feather with offer to settle.

I am here, will listen, I will not ignore, 
For justice, I make the first step to restore.

A red bird joined him, in the act of accord, 
“This hurt runs deep, and will be hard to explore.”

The red bird, she pointed to ghosts in the sky,
“Can you see? Can you hear? Do you feel their cry?”

“I can’t fly.”
“I can’t fly.”
“I can’t fly.”

“I see. I get it. We’ll make rules to fix this. 
So please, settle down and stop all this protest.” 

“Rules? Yes! But no. It must go far beyond that. 
Empathy. Conversation. Transformational act.”

“Break bread. Walk beside. Listen to our stories,
Breakthrough. March forward. And demand just juries.” 

“Justice is action, a revolution of the heart,
Be still, be uncomfortable, find unity through art.”

“‘Love thy neighbor’ He said, is not a suggestion, 
It’s a command to obey, without apprehension.”

The long feather, he paused, not sure what to say,
The red bird proposed, “fly together this day?”

Up they soared, towards heaven, the wind lifted them high,
A new era was born in that wide open sky.

“You are right. It is ugly and painful to admit.
For so long, for too long, we’ve lain complicit.”

“Frustration today, with heartache and tears,
Come love. Come peace. Come justice all year.”

All birds of a feather watched the two glide,
Together, they flew, with nothing to hide.

Behold, the long feather, the hardest job of all, 
With humility and action, you answered this call. ​
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Oscar’s Mulligan - A Short Story

10/22/2017

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          The pounding on the door startled Oscar awake. He sat in his bed and rubbed his forehead. The clock on the nightstand flickered 8 AM.  He would need at least four more hours of sleep for his hangover to release its grip.
          The pounding on the door returned with three firm beats. BANG. BANG. BANG.
          “Mr. Wilberstein?” A female voice called.
          “Leave me alone.” Oscar mumbled to himself unwilling to project his voice for fear of aggravating the throbbing in his head.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          “Mr. Wilberstein?”
          Oscar tossed the sheets from his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed. After anchoring his feet on the floor, he rallied himself and rose to his feet.
          “Mr. Wilberstein?” The voice persisted.
          “Go away,” Oscar grumbled as he gripped his cane as best he could and shuffled into the living room.
          The walls of his living room apartment were adorned with dust covered memorabilia and trophies from a once promising golf career. A newspaper clipping of a young Oscar raising a trophy above his head in victory was faintly perceivable behind the frame of dirt.  A set of cobweb covered golf clubs sat neglected in the corner.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          “Mr. Wilberstein? It’s important that I speak to you.”
          Oscar rolled his eyes, then headed to the kitchen. With a flick of the wrist, water flowed from the faucet. Oscar stared at his hands. Anger rumbled in his gut, followed by a burst of self-loathing. He sighed. Though he knew it to be true, each day he looked to see if just maybe… but no. His left and right thumbs were still missing from his hands.
          Oscar palmed a cup and filled it with water. He swished a mouthful and spat it out, then swallowed the rest in a gulp.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          Each knock ignited a throb of pain in Oscar’s forehead.
          “Mr. Wilberstein. Can you please answer the door? I know you’re there.”
          Oscar grimaced as he moved into the living room. A press of the red button on the TV remote filled his apartment with the hushed voices of The Golf Channel. It was a modest attempt to drown out the noise of the bustling cityscape just outside his window.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          Oscar rubbed his temples and shuffled to the door. He peered through the security hole and saw a short, middle-aged woman dressed in hospital scrubs.
Oscar unbolted the door and cracked it open.  
          “What the hell do you want?”
          “You’re Oscar, right? I’m Ms. Haversham’s nurse. Your neighbor up-”
          “I know who she is. Could you tell her to shut up? That blasted woman wakes me up every morning yelling about some blasted cat…”
          “I’m afraid I can’t tell her anything. She died last night. Here, she said she wanted you to have her fish.” The nurse shoved a fishbowl into Oscar’s arms, then abruptly turned and walked away.
          Oscar groaned to himself, “Years of listening to that woman wail, ‘Don’t let the cat out!’ and all I get is this stupid fish! Life isn’t fair.” Oscar ditched the fishbowl on the lampstand in the living room and made his way back to the kitchen.
          He found a bottle of Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet, but struggled to open it. The lack of opposable thumbs made the simple task of opening a bottle a chore. 
          “It’s hard, isn’t it.” Exclaimed a male voice with a slight English accent.
Startled, Oscar dropped the bottle. Tablets of Alka-Seltzer rolled across the kitchen floor.
          “Now look at what you’ve done.”
          Oscar searched the room. “Who’s there?”
          “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a talking fish before?”
          Oscar peered at the fishbowl. A goldfish stared back at him.
          “Actually, no. I have never seen a talking fish before.” He rubbed his head. “What did I drink last night?”
          “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that.” Said the fish.
          “Who are you? What do you want?”
          “I want to help you.”
          “I don’t need your help.”
          “Ms. Haversham told me everything. Such a pity, you are.”
          Oscar shuffled to the fishbowl. He put his nose to the glass. “What did she tell you?”
          “I know that in the 1975 Amateur Golf Championship your drive off the 18th tee went into the water. You lost your temper and blew a 10-stroke lead on the final hole. You got drunk that night and in a shockingly freakish can opener accident lost both of your thumbs, ending your promising golf career.”
          Oscar’s jaw dropped. “Who are you?”
          “Who I am is of no concern, but who you are, that is the question.
          “I know who I am. I am a fool and a failure!” Oscar pulled an iron from his dusty golf bag. He attempted to grip the club with just his palms and eight digits. “It’s useless. I’m a freak! That one hole took everything from me.”
          “Today is your lucky day. Take one swing of that club, and you will have the chance to do it all over. You should be grateful; not everyone has a talking fish to offer a second chance at their biggest mistake.”
          “Now I know I’m hallucinating.”
          “Just one swing.”
          Oscar pressed his palms tightly around the grip. Ever since that fateful day, Oscar longed for a mulligan. He dreamt of it, fantasized about it. He played it over and over in his imagination.
          “This is insane, but what do I have to lose?” Oscar whispered.
          “Your self-pity.” said the fish.
          Oscar lined the clubhead with a stain on the carpet. His palms began to sweat. He closed his eyes. His arms lifted the club back. He paused his swing and whispered to himself, “Please.”
          With every ounce of strength he had, he brought the clubhead speeding toward the floor.
          His follow-through was short.

          The roar of a cheering crowd forced Oscar’s eyes open. He saw his driver resting in his hands and noticed the movement of his thumbs under his gloves. A banner read, “1975 Amateur Golf Championship” and a wooden sign signaled the hole number 18.
          “I’ll be damned. The fish did it.” Oscar reached into his bag for a tee when he saw his clubhead cover lying on the ground. He froze. He stared at the club cover. It was a knitted Wildcat, the mascot of his alma mater.
           In the distance, he heard the echo of his late neighbor’s voice, “Don’t let the cat out.” A tingling sensation shot up Oscar’s spine. Oscar slid the Wildcat cover over his driver and returned the club to his bag. He grabbed his three wood.
          As Oscar approached the tee, the crowd went silent.
          Oscar squared himself with the ball.  220 yards away hugging the right side of the fairway was the water hazard that ruined his career. Oscar took a deep breath then swung the club. THWAP.
          The crowd erupted as the ball whistled down the middle of the fairway.
 
          Oscar woke suddenly. He sat up in his bed and looked at his hands, four fingers, but no thumbs. He signed.  
          Oscar pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the kitchen.
          “When you sleep, there is no waking you.” Oscar heard the familiar voice coming from the living room.
          Oscar spun around and dropped to his knees. “I thought I was dreaming!”
          “It wasn’t a dream at all.” The fish expounded. “You won the championship that day.
          “But my thumbs, they’re still missing!”
          “After winning the championship, you went out and celebrated with your friends. You got drunk, and in a shockingly freakish can opener accident, lost both of your thumbs.”
          “I’m the same person even though I won?!” Oscar cried.
          “For forty years you’ve wanted to change the past, but the only thing that needed to change was you. Enough! My work here is complete. It is time for you to flush me. There are others who need me.”
          Oscar stared into the fishbowl; the fish had become a common goldfish swimming aimlessly in circles.
          Tears welled in Oscar’s eyes as he carried the bowl into the bathroom. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he poured the fish into the toilet. He flushed the fish away.
          Clean water filled the bowl.
          Oscar pulled a typewriter from the buried and forgotten section of his closet.
          He blew the dust off and inserted a piece of paper.
          He typed the words: SelfPityNoThumbsUp:AMemoirbyOscarWilberstein

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Little Big Love & The Mystery of the Maiden’s Heart

8/19/2017

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Once there was a brave young warrior named Little Big Love, and his heart beat for the beautiful Maiden that gathered berries near the river.
 
Convinced he must have her as his wife he approached her.
 
“Good Morning beautiful Maiden. I am Little Big Love! And I have chosen you to be my wife.” The warrior smiled confidently.
 
The Maiden scoffed. “That’s presumptuous. Why would I marry you?”
 
“Because I am the brave warrior Little Big Love! That is why.”
 
 “A warrior you are, but a lover? Can you be my heart’s desire?”
 
“Of course! I am Little Big Love.”
 
“Ha! You’ll need more than a fetching name to have my heart.” The Maiden snatched her basket of berries and disappeared into the tall grass.
 
Little Big Love was dismayed. He kicked a heavy boulder causing it to tumble into the river. Unsatisfied he pitched every stone he could find into the water, so many that the river, much to its chagrin, was forced to change its course. 
 
His effort continued until his exhaustion overcame his frustration and he collapsed on the riverbank out of breath.
 
Between gasps, Little Big Love heard a rustle in the grass and spotted the face of a fox peering at him.
 
“I’ve been watching you.” The Fox said. “I couldn’t help but notice your sorry state. What troubles you?”
 
The Fox stepped out of the grass.
 
“The beautiful Maiden would not take my hand in marriage. Me! Little Big Love!”
 
“Shocking, isn’t it?” The Fox goaded.
 
“I don’t understand. Why does the Maiden refuse me?”
 
The Fox stretched its front legs then its hind. It lowered its body to ground and licked its paw. “A woman’s heart is a mystery.”
 
“I will not give up. I will do whatever it takes to win her heart?”
 
“And what does her heart desire?” The Fox wondered aloud.
 
Little Big Love looked to the sky as an eagle passed. “I know! I bet the Maiden desires passion. And nothing is more passionate than the eagle. I will become an eagle, and she will give me her heart.”
 
The next day Little Big Love soared through the sky. He climbed to heights of the blue expanse, then banked low to the ground and swooped around the Maiden.
 
“Fair Maiden, it is I, Little Big Love! And I am passionate, just as you desire. Will you give me your heart and marry me?”
 
“I can see you are very passionate.” Said the Maiden. “But you have made yourself an eagle. I cannot give you my heart. An eagle lives in the sky. I live on the ground. I will not marry you.
 
Little Big Love flew away dejected and returned to the riverbank where he found the Fox quenching its thirst.
 
“I was mistaken." Little Big Love sulked. "It is not passion the Maiden seeks.”
 
The Fox lifted its head from the river. “No? Hmm... A woman’s heart is a mystery. I wonder, what else could her heart desire?” The Fox took another drink from the river.
 
Little Big Love looked down and saw the paw print of a bear. “I bet it is strength she desires. Yes! That’s it. I will become a bear. She will see my strength and give me her heart.”
 
The next day Little Big Love found the Maiden gathering wood. He roared as he barreled past her. He toppled trees with the swipe of his paw and removed stumps with the pull of his jaw.
 
“Beautiful Maiden. It is I, Little Big Love. I am strength, just as you desire. Will you give me your heart and marry me?”
 
The Maiden jeered. “Your strength is impressive, but you are a bear. I cannot have a husband as large as you. You will not fit in our home, and your teeth will scare the children. No, I cannot give you my heart. I will not marry you.” 
 
Little Big Love crawled back to the riverbank where he found the Fox lying on its back soaking in the warmth of the sun.
 
“What a fool am I?! It is not strength the Maiden desires.”
 
The Fox rolled onto its stomach. “No? Hmm...A woman’s heart is a mystery.”
 
“If she does not want passion and is not impressed by strength, what could she possibly want? Little Big Love pondered.
 
The Fox rolled onto its back, licked its lips, and let the sun warm its belly. “I’ve heard a woman loves a man who can fill her belly with laughter.”
 
“That’s it! Oh, Fox, you are so smart. Delight is her desire. And there is nothing more delightful than a peacock. I will become a peacock, and she will give me her heart.
 
The next day Little Big Love found the Maiden dancing near a wheat field.
 
“Beautiful Maiden. It is I, Little Big Love, and I have become a peacock so that I might delight you, just as you desire.”
 
Little Big Love fanned his colorful tail feathers and danced a circle around the maiden. He strutted and trotted with all his heart and soul.
 
The Maiden was delighted and laughed with great amusement.
 
Little Big Love was encouraged. “Dear Maiden, I have filled your belly with laughter, now will you give me your heart?”
 
The Maiden’s laughter subsided. “You have delighted me, but I cannot give you my heart. You have made yourself peacock. A peacock cannot keep me warm during winter snows or keep me safe from the predator that haunts the woods.”
 
Little Big Love was incensed. “I offer you passion. I offer you strength. I offer you delight. But you tell me that is not what you want.” Little Big Love pleaded, “What does your heart desire?”
 
The Maiden thought for a moment.
 
“I desire the Sun to warm me.
The Mountain to call me;
The River to restore me;
And the Wind to move me.
 
I desire the Earth, my foundation;
The Fire, my mystery;
The Tree, my cover;
The Stars, my guiding light.
 
I desire the Winter that blankets me;
The Spring that renews me;
The Summer that nurtures me;
The Autumn that transforms me.
 
I desire –"
 
Little Big Love interrupted. “Stop. You speak nonsense. The sun, the earth, the winter? No man can be all these things!”
 
The Maiden shrugged her shoulders. “It is what my heart desires.”
 
Little Big Love departed. His heart cried and cried and cried. For his one desire was to be the desire of the Maiden’s heart. 
 
Little Big Love returned to his life as a warrior, though he never fought as bravely as he once had.
 
Seasons passed.
 
The Maiden picked berries, gathered wood, and danced near the wheat field. And each day she would peek over her shoulder, to the horizon, to see if the young warrior was coming. But she did not find him.
 
With each day the Maiden’s heart desired the warrior more and more, for even though the warrior could not be her heart’s desire, her heart loved him for trying. 
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    A WRITER KEEPING THE FAITH IN LOS ANGELES

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