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Scintillating Stories: Giska, Anderson, Tomaro and Fox

September 15, 2023 Rosie Beech Season 4 Episode 32
Scintillating Stories: Giska, Anderson, Tomaro and Fox
Yorick Radio Productions
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Yorick Radio Productions
Scintillating Stories: Giska, Anderson, Tomaro and Fox
Sep 15, 2023 Season 4 Episode 32
Rosie Beech

In this episode we read four fantastic poems:

'The Problem with Conservationists' by Grace Giska
'Inheritance' by Corinne Anderson
'As Surely As' and 'Debris That Hurries By' by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox

Support the Show.

Show Notes Transcript

In this episode we read four fantastic poems:

'The Problem with Conservationists' by Grace Giska
'Inheritance' by Corinne Anderson
'As Surely As' and 'Debris That Hurries By' by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox

Support the Show.

Hello and Welcome to ‘Scintillating stories’

in this show we read short stories (and poetry) by a variety of authors.

Today we are reading four poems which range from absurd, to introspective, to hilarious.  

The first poem is by Grace Giska. Grace is a full-time adventurer who spends most of her time on a horse, in a cave, or climbing rocks and trees. She’s also a freelance writer who works in a variety of genres. Her work can be found with Ramifications, Ebook Launch, and Malfunction Magazine.

The Problem with Conservationists

“If you could uninvent any fish, which fish would you choose?

No, you can’t have

all of them. No,

you can’t uninvent the whale.

Why? Because some people

like whales. Pick tuna, or snappers, or lionfish if you feel such a need to be exotic, but stop

talking about whales.”


To whom it may concern,

I thought we finished the whale business,

but I see you’ve bought a boat. You

may keep your boat, but I’ll keep

an eye on you.

You cannot uninvent the whale.


Yours truly,

The ASS (American Sealife Society)


To whom it may concern,


I see you’ve bought a radio. And

I know you’ve been visiting lighthouses

walking by yourself along the coastlines

in the evenings barefoot. Your footprints

have been collected. I know you’re a size

ten and a half. I told the news

about you. Turn on your television tonight,

nine o’clock sharp, there’s a special

about the person (that’s you…)

who’s trying to uninvent the whale.

I’m watching you.

You won’t get away with this.

You cannot uninvent the whale.


Good luck,

The ASS (American Sealife Society)



To the Whale Uninventor,


I had a dream about you last night.

I was collecting seashells

with my six-year-old daughter and she found

one, white and worn-down, a perfect

miniature dwarf sperm whale.

She said, “Daddy,

what is this?”

I said,

“It’s a miniature dwarf sperm whale, darling.”

She asked,

“Daddy, what’s a whale?”


Stay away,

The ASS (American Sealife Society)


To the Whale Uninventor,


I led a tour group

out to our whale watching platforms

behind the aquarium this afternoon. We watched and waited until

the children in the group got

too annoyed with the lack of whales to wait and

watch any longer. We left

without seeing a single whale.

I couldn’t explain whales

to the children, or even myself. You

forced my hand. I’m going

on an expedition.


See you soon,

        The ASS (American Sealife Society)



To the Uninventor,


My expedition is going

well, though I have some curious suspicions

about what you’ve been up to

out here on the rolling blue tides

where there are no corners

for you to hide in. Only ocean. I thought I spied

a plump white dodo bird,

wings like yellow snappers, sitting on a bouncing buoy.

Two tuxedoed auks sat on either side of it,

peering at me

like I was the strange one.

There’s a patch of island ahead of me, rocky and overgrown

with algae.

A building too.

I’ve spotted you, Uninventor.


Meet me at the algae,

        The ASS (American Sealife Society)



Dear Uninventor,


I’ve looked over the terms and agreements

outlined in the contract you left

with me after our meeting. The tea

was quite delicious, and your offer

was most interesting and generous.

I’d like to accept. Enclosed

is my signed copy along with the adoption papers

for the dodo with the spotted beak. I’ve grown

rather fond of her.


Let me know if you require anything else,

        Your new assistant




To my daughter,


It’s been too long.

Six months and I can’t believe

your mother let you dye your hair

aquamarine. I love it. My little

mermaid, I should be home for Christmas

this year, sorry I missed

Thanksgiving. It’s just been so busy

trying to get all the whales

moved in. The Caribbean monk seals

are excited to have new playmates. The Japanese

sea lions are moving in with the minks

and the auks are running amok. Oh dear,

the Labrador ducks got into the lab again, the Uninventor hates

when they get mud on the machines.

I’ll be home soon!


I love you,

        The Uninventor’s Assistant

Our second poem is by Corinne Anderson. A slightly feral human, prefers books to people, enjoys almost black coffee, and a purple pen for editing. When she isn’t writing her own works, she is busy looking to help other authors see their words in print. She is the founder of Sunflowers at Midnight magazine, and the owner of Ink Smith Publishing. Her most recent publications can be found in Aberration Labyrinth, BRAVE Voices Magazine, The Dribble Drabble Review, and Poet’s Choice. 


Corinne Anderson

Mom’s mother was in the ground before 40
and yet her hands grace her oldest daughter
thin and long and perfect for playing the piano
but Grandma hated the piano
and so her skills died with her.

Pop is still walking the earth at 90 
and his own eyes watch him from his granddaughter’s face,
he is not alone, 
but loss and loneliness have driven him miles away
to bask in sunshine and grapefruit, and love
while his brood huddle together for warmth in the Garden State.

Uncle’s back aches at almost 60
hunched and angry and too full of regret
his reflection drowning in his could’ve-beens
and he never learned to swim.

That second cousin with the festering need for opulence
burns through the warm welcome of open arms each year—

divorced, abandoned, shunned and hated
by the creatures from her womb 
only for her to twist and morph into the ugliness of greed
squirreling away the precious gifts of those dear-departed

and setting that warm safe-house ablaze.

Aunt carries the weight of steadiness
the constant, the calm, the voice of reason
as chaos unfolds in every household
her shoulders are heavy, 
weighed down by everyone’s traumas
until there is no room for her own. 

Mother holds fast to tradition
no room for errors or breaks in the way of things
and yet these things are too much
they serve no purpose, they are not entirely necessary 
and yet, 
bake the thimble cookies,
host the meal and don’t forget the kugel,
Easter isn’t complete without the Andes,
hold fast to cash at the stroke of midnight
and never serve orange-carrot-jello again.

Grandma forgot, but we didn’t.
We learned the famous cheesecake,
we smiled and told her our names,
we laughed and I didn’t cry when she died.
Would she fault me for that?
I asked for the glass porcupine, from the shelf in the bathroom,
which I didn’t get—we didn’t care about
the jewels or the money, 
but we didn’t get those either.

Father is a quiet man
a loud and boisterous jokester
that found hugs important in the midst of tragedy—
he stays huddled under the physical labors
because emotions are hard and anger is best served at a job site;

I am his shadow. 

Auntie is selfish and cruel
and Mother sees her in me
and I am not entirely sure she is wrong. 
Auntie demands, spends, and demands more
even when there is nothing more to give: 
she is the golden child, the struggling single-parent
that doesn’t cook or clean or take responsibility.

Grandpa is lonely. 
He learned to cook when Grandma forgot
and now I sit and eat with him 
pretending I am not the least favorite
grandchild, disappointment rolling off him in waves
that I don’t wear my cousins’ faces.

Sister is sad, and fierce
her life interrupted by a force beyond control
and yet, she pulls strength from some ancestor
to overcome her hurdles;
I don’t know who she gets it from. 

Our last two poems are by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox. Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her poetry books are available on Amazon and Dancing Girl Press. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer/reviewer. Faker of fake news.

Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland Ohio whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared online and print. Sometimes blunt, often dark but always grounded in reality. He has 4 full-length collections of poetry, most recently, Potholes and Perogies available on Amazon.

As surely as
by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox

Godzilla stomps on Tokyo,

gravity will crush my bones.

My boobs will try to kiss my knees.

My gut will contemplate the floor.

I’ll need some steps to reach the shelves.

Gravity is not my friend.

Gravity makes things move

in most peculiar ways–

like the spare tire

hovering over my belt.

My eyelids will droop

as the world goes dark.

As surely as

The Hulk will SMASH

my unmentionables

shall never be mentioned again.

Gravity, why can't we be friends?

Gravity, I need a lift.

Don’t make me fall

from places high, like planes.

to places low, like graves.

Can’t you give me one more break,

And let me float awhile?

Bits and pieces of me,

things floating haphazardly 

that shouldn't float at all.

Gravity, can you…

Oh never mind,

at this rate, eventually 

I'll be able to kiss my own ass.

Debris that hurries by 
by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox

becomes a melody and why

aren’t we taking cover

instead of videoing

this hurricane

on our phones?

Aluminum siding 

and a trampoline whiz by

so I'll snap a pic

for all the wandering eyes

just to break the monotony 

of cat photos

on my phone

Whoa, there goes the cat

with a bird in its mouth,

still flapping!

I fly close behind

shooting photos

and posting on Facebook. 

‘til the wind grabs

my phone from my hand. 

It's true what they say–

a cat always lands on its feet,

even with a mouthful of bird.

But you'll never know

since the cat, like my camera

is gone with the wind.

Thank you so much for listening. 

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