Brenda Mantz

Would YOU Read This Book?

Nate had to set things right. If he’d still had a body he would have paced the floor as the news anchor detailed his sins. Of course, he wasn’t entirely responsible. He, like Harry, was just an instrument of Charlie Bell’s revenge, but he was culpable none the less.

Desperate men do desperate things and dying men make rash decisions. Charlie had pegged them both. Harry had been desperate and Nate had been dying. Charlie’s plan had been simple – if you believed in the paranormal and the supernatural.

Oct 05, 2011 | 0 comments View Post

Hello Again

I have been wondering what, if anything, would make me blog again. Depression? Vacation? A broken television? A new computer? Well two of the four happened and here I am. Just pinning a “while I was out” note to the blog-o-sphere. I will be back when I actually have something to say – or maybe sooner.

Sep 19, 2011 | 0 comments View Post

Whale!

I have never been the Beinecke Rare Book Library

Except for the time when I was swallowed by that ugly whale.

Inside her belly I became Jonah suspended in a cavern of light.

Marveled at the glass cube that was her spine.

Swam up bathed in golden light, exploring my new home.

With each breath the beast and I became more unified.

Separate beings no more I would be the storehouse of her treasures.

But then she spewed me out, transformed, onto the blistering pavement.

I was all I had seen.

All I had touched and tasted.

Knowing the light streaming through the belly of the whale was as much a part of me as the lentil soup I’d swallowed at lunch.

Jul 26, 2011 | 0 comments View Post

The Day I Took 2nd Place in a Dog Show

I submitted this old piece to my dog club’s website. The reply: “I love it but am afraid it would cause at least three members of the board to pop a vessel — especially the one named “Carol.

I put on two pair of socks and three pair of sweat pants and took Arlo for his pre-dawn walk. It was 3 degrees. Arlo is built for that kind of weather. My lips froze. When we got back I filled my backpack with the things I thought I would need at the dog show and dressed like the handlers I had seen on TV – dark colors to show off the white dog, sensible shoes, hair tied back so it didn’t fly around and distract the judges or the dog. I loaded the jeep with dog, crate and backpack and headed to Point of Rocks.

When I arrived there were dogs everywhere. All of the handlers looked the same. They had big hair – like my Aunt Gladys – they wore spandex pants and pullovers with pictures of Samoyeds embroidered on them. They were all named Carol or Judy. With the help of two volunteers I managed to get Arlo registered for the show. They gave me an armband with a number 12 on it.

“Put this around your left arm. You can take your dog into the judging area so he can get used to it. Have fun!”

For the next two hours Arlo and I walked, trotted, and stacked our little hearts out. Once I tried to leave the ring and Marge (Arlo’s breeder) screamed at me “Get back in there. You can’t leave until you are dismissed.” I obeyed. Marge is quite a commanding presence. That day she was wearing white, fluffy earmuffs that looked like they had been made from a badly behaved Samoyed.

Marge had thirty minutes to puff and fluff Arlo before the judging began – combing and brushing – talking a mile a minute. Arlo took it all much better than I did.

“Number 12 to the ring. Number 12 to the ring.”

“Oh my God. We’re number 12, Arlo.”

Marge lifted Arlo from the table and I made my way awkwardly to the ring, fumbling to secure my armband with a rubber band while guiding Arlo through an obstacle course of dogs and bitches.

“Here we go, Arlo. Just do whatever that dog in front of you does.”

Jun 20, 2011 | 1 comment View Post

Then and Then

Where were you the first time you looked at me

and saw yourself in my face?

You told me you were living your life over through me.

You told me I would be the death of you

I stand beside your bed waiting, waiting

for you to draw your last breath

Knowing I have come home too late. I am dead to you already.

We share consecrated Sundays

fishing in our secret spot near Toppins pier

No one found us there. No one looked.

I baited hooks. You smoked.

I force myself to bring my face to your mouth and inhale your breath

I watch you sleep.

Your flesh is the color of creek scum

Finally I speak the unsaid words.

I’m home, Mama. I’m sorry.

I wanted more from life than croakers and soft shelled crabs

I wasn’t your shadow or your savior

Mama, I ran away from you long before I left

What more can I say about Frankie Mae Foreman?

Was I the death of her?

She crawled into that bottle when I ran away and there she stayed

until her dying day

Jun 02, 2011 | 0 comments View Post

Apology

Among wishes, I am your candle.
Among journeys, I am your road map.
Among losses, I am your lesson.
Among anger, I am your fist.
Among heartbreak, I am your clown.
Among deep forests, I am your breadcrumb.
Among the dying, I hold the ashes.
Among the hungry, I hold the bread.
Among Time, I count the minutes.
Among danger, I am your comfort.
Among delight, I am your mirror.
Among cold nights, I am your blanket.
Among eternity, I share your emptiness.
Among memories, we’ll be forgotten.
Among regrets, I am your biggest regret.
Among regrets, I am the reason you have no sons.
Among barrenness, I am your wife.