David Cameron Writes

The Dreaded Goathead         I loved living in Abuquerque, NM for seven years. The high desert of the southwest had a stark beauty very different from the lush greenery and banks of forsythia and hedges of azaleas of my native North Carolina. There were devilish goatheads in New Mexico, but at least we didn't have kudzu. These are two poems I've written about New Mexico. "Back in New Mexico" was published by the February, 2024 (Eighth) Issue of Abandoned Mine.  https://www.abandonedmine.org/eighth-issue-february-2024 Back in New Mexico David Cameron I step on a goathead tricorn devil lacerating my heel injecting desert sizzle and chile fire until I hop hop hop hop and fall on a cholla that hugs me with outstretched arms lighting me up like tequila shots burning my eyes with salty tears heaving piñon sighs still high from the way the mountains pink like melon and now I think I’m back. Back in New Mexico.   Shades of Brown High desert seems sepia, a mono...

  Loren was a member of the Navaho nation, otherwise called Diné by those who are members. He was a frequent visitor to the church I served in Albuquerque. I think he was unhoused, though he may have had minimal shelter somewhere. He would usually have a piece of cardboard on which he had drawn stylized symbols combining Native American symbols like an eagle feather with Hallmark card art like a valentine heart. He sometimes wanted to talk, but he usually just wanted to sell his art for $5 and leave.  One Sunday he came by the church five minutes before worship started. I was already robed and at the door greeting arriving church members and guests. He came and wanted to talk. I apologized that I couldn't at the moment, but I invited him to either join us for worship or go back to the reception area and have a cup of coffee and a cookie. He grew angry that I couldn't talk right then, so he started yelling, "Fuck Jesus! Fuck Jesus!" I couldn't reflect on the conten...

 This is my love letter to New Mexico. The chile harvest in Hatch, NM was always a statewide celebration as chiles were distributed through the state and roasted in large rotating metal baskets over gas flames in gas station parking lots and other sites throughout town. The fragrance of roasting chiles has recently been approved as the state aroma of NM.  Chlle Heaven was published in Rural Fiction Magazine. https://RuralFictionMagazine.com It was the farthest north she had ever been, but it was nowhere near as far north as Clementina wanted to go. She had learned from maps that north was up. She had learned from lying on her back looking at clouds that the sky was up. She had learned in science class that the moon was in the sky up beyond the Earth’s atmosphere. She had learned in church that heaven was up somewhere beyond the moon—even beyond the stars. Clementina wanted to go north to heaven and see her abuela; stand beside her again at the cracked Formica-...

  On September 11, 2001, members of the terrorist group al-Qaeda, crashed airplanes into the towers of the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania, the third one heroically diverted by passengers. Twenty-two years later, I think of the families who were affected by this tragedy and know they still grieve. In no way do I mean to infer they should be over their grief, but I do wish for them rest. This short fiction was written in response to a prompt inviting me to use " As soon as Harriet entered the building, she headed to the seventh floor" as the opening sentence.                                                                                                     ...

  In late August, 2023, a white racist male murdered three black citizens at a Dollar General store in Jacksonville, FL. The shooting claimed the lives of Angela Michelle Carr, 52, Anolt Joseph “AJ” Laguerre Jr., 19, and Jerrald Gallion, 29. CNN: The first 911 call went out at 1:09 p.m., seconds before the third victim, Gallion, walked into the store with his girlfriend.    Last Words Imagine the curtain is falling on your last day and you are down to the closing second of your life.   Imagine your last breath, the final pulsing zing firing the neural pathways of your desire and longing.   Imagine your last impression, the ultimate glance, the concluding image projected on your optic screen.   What words would you crave? What would be the crowning sounds you long to hear as ending comes?   A distinctly articulated declaration of love?   A soft, gentle whisper of peace and farewell?   A brave assurance your fa...

                  “I’m tired,” Lester said as he pulled his old heap to the grassy verge of the flat, two-lane country road. “You drive.” He slipped the manual gearshift on the steering column into neutral, left the car running, opened his door, and slowly unfolded to stand outside the car. He walked around to the passenger side, jerked open my door, and stood there as I looked up at him like a ‘possum caught in the headlights. I was 12 and had never driven anything but my Dad’s old tractor and a homemade go-cart. You’d think I’d be thrilled that my grandfather had just offered me the holy grail of adolescence. I was terrified.   Granddaddy was my mother’s father. He’d been in the battle of Meuse-Argonne in World War I, the largest and deadliest military offensive in U.S. history lasting from mid-September to Armistice Day on November 11, 1918. By the time I was 12, however, Granddaddy lived about seven ...