1932 Quarterly // Summer 2017 // Vol. I • No. 3 by 1932 Quarterly

1932 Quarterly

Summer 2017 Vol. I • No. 3 Based in Indianapolis, IN

Table of Contents Poetry David • Mag Gabbert

1 2

retribution for marigolds • Carina Stopenski

Anxiety • Kersten Christianson

Sweet Barcelona • Ashley Nave

Backwoods with Queen Valentina • Shahé Mankerian

Limoncello • Scott Banks

This Slant of Light • Emily Reid Green

after the thunderstorm • Mary Katherine Creel

January • Ali Zimmerman

When it rains, it pours • Kori Margaret

Lacuna • Vivian Wagner Forest House • Taylor Graham

12 13

Turmeric Tea in My Cappuccino Cup • Raquel Gilliland

Dependants • Lisa Stice

No Compensation for Duty • Christopher Stolle

The Pantheon in which You Reside • Julia Alvarez

Prose Mirum • Layla Lenhardt

The Yard Sale Bandit • William Baker

Red Ink • Shannon Adams

Stray • James Tucker

Contributors

Staff

Information

To our darling readers, Summer is here, and hold onto your pants, because it’s heartbreaking and gorgeous. While our contributors for this issue have more diverse backgrounds than ever, they all share in the same beautiful, collective voice.

It’s so wonderful; July marked 1932 Quarterly’s one-year anniversary, and in just twelve short months, it has grown into a lovely and well-known international literary journal. 1932 has now developed its own ambiance, its own voice, and its own feeling; and all the works we select reflect what 1932 really is—triumph and heartbreak, simplicity and gratitude, wonder and pain, happiness and loss, and so much more that I cannot put into words. Gemütlichkeit is my favorite German word because it does not have a direct translation. Gemütlichkeit is more of a feeling—a feeling of pure, true unadulterated happiness and fulfillment—and it speaks a lot more than any English words can directly or accurately. I believe in my heart Gemütlichkeit exemplifies the spirit of 1932 Quarterly and the family behind its greatness, and much like Gemütlichkeit, 1932 is a feeling you just have to experience to understand. This past year my heart has swelled and burst and rebuilt itself many times watching this project flourish. My ever-growing family of editors has become my support system and the best friends for which I could ever ask. 1932 Quarterly has given me this indescribable happiness—this Gemütlichkeit—and I hope you feel it, too. This issue is dedicated to my grandparents, John and Elizabeth, who have just celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary; thank you for being an inspiration and for showing me true love and strength every day. This one is also for my sweet, baby sister. Even though I’m far away, I’m sending you love always.

Please, enjoy this issue; I hope you feel it in your bones like I do. It is truly something special. Thank you for sharing in this journey with us.

Affectionately yours,

Layla Lenhardt Editor-in-Chief

Poetry

1932 Quarterly

after the thunderstorm Mary Katherine Creel a stillbirth in the attic at the end of a late spring storm from a small body still clinging a thin cord extends black with blood and anchored by a pulpy mass of dark fur and fused wings still wet with placenta the mother is unable to leave I lie awake in the bed below moonlight burns my eyes still open we grieve

1932 Quarterly

David

Mag Gabbert After Michelangelo

I was struck by your handsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the right one, in particularâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; so massive against your neat thigh, and your posture, half tense and half slack. Tracing your gaze, I think you must be looking for someone, or dreaming of the impossibly long sinews of your enemies, plucked and strung across the open mouths of your lyres. I am consumed by violent stillnessâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; that you do not reach for me, that you are not that kind of man, but could have been a wide, cool platform to lie down on, an empty plate for me to lick, tracing the veined marble with my tongue.

1932 Quarterly

retribution for marigolds Carina Stopenski

plant my flowers in zen gardens, swirl my sand in your hands with small pink stones, can you feel my grain where the seeds layâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

do these roots seem like

they are grabbing well?

let the grit graze my toes and pick silt dust from my fingernails, pretend that i am a rose that has yet to have been pressed in a dictionary, petals fluttering,

i am too flustered and

too tired to take hold.

put my body in a glass vase right next to the marigolds that you plucked in the summer, when we bit ripe plums and sipped white wine from clay mugs,

intoxicated with the taste

of earth against berry lips.

bathe me in mud and preserve my skin in soil, trim my thorns in hopes

that someday there will be

justice for my dying blooms.

1932 Quarterly

Anxiety

Kersten Christianson Riled by the wind I am the fidgety wind chime made edgy by morningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breeze my strands of chunky glass beads (of sky, sea greens, hot sun) counterbalance my flap of silver cutlery, all sharpangled forks, knives, the soft curve of my spoon. In gale I mosh, my high strung limbs test their cords; my voice a gravel road song of clang and chatter frenzies until I settle again in my disquieted beauty.

1932 Quarterly

Sweet Barcelona Ashley Nave

Close your eyes and imagine hers,

imagine the sun

slipping behind MontjuĂŻcâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hill

where barefoot beaches and ocean mouths speak foreign currents

eyes like soft, turquoise collisions

between rock wall gaps,

you take one step forward and dive under water for the first time, you breathe sea green beneath, you are

the salted pebble

in the Mediterranean

kissing seafloor beds,

and her soft, turquoise lips

are like hollowed hands palming you,

an ocean stone, smiling at eyes embedded between dark, caramel frosted strands

Nave

where she waits, like an ocean flower

waiting to be plucked by a lover

in the city of hand holding,

her eyes are like blue, salt winds

yielding calm tides.

1932 Quarterly

Backwoods with Queen Valentina Shahé Mankerian

We paddled upstream. She rehearsed lines from a Slavic play:

“The married cosmonaut died near Chernobyl.” I swallowed a fly. “Caviar will cure

your cough,” she adlibbed and lit a cigar

like a Cuban surgeon.

“Sturgeon roe reminds me of lost pupils,”

I mumbled. She curtailed a current and exclaimed, “Akhmatova!” We tied

our kayaks to a branch like cowboy horses.

We used War and Peace as a pillow. The tent’s

plastic windows uncovered the stars. One fell

wayward and disappeared behind a pine. A satellite traveled across

the saturnine sky. Valentina whispered, “A cricket committed suicide,”

and waited for the applause.

1932 Quarterly

Limoncello Scott Banks

A fifth of vodka, zest of five lemons, six tablespoons of sugar, held captive for three months in a Mason jar. Boxed in by Julyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heat we top glasses with ice and tip the jar for a languid pour, the sun held hostage within the liquor wrapped around our tongues.

1932 Quarterly

The Slant of Light Emily Reid Green

Bleached skeleton truths show themselves in this light and all crashing attempts to collect our frames, still gripping the edges of soggy cardboard boxes sagging under attempts to salvage. Some say empty but I claim never vacant: There is a dusting now paste, a coated remembrance of what was hidden. Our fossil bones betray a history and other sins the flesh will not own, only embroider. Our fingernails run the stitch as if to seam silence. We will keep going quiet and call it something else, muttering femur and fibula, a form of conjuring we spell with repetition, we paint in Egyptian blue

not lapis, nothing precious.

After all we are only cave dwellers, even though there is layering and after all isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t density an honor to be stripped away? So I am another beautiful and another, peeling in the sun, never wholly visibleâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; my marrow meaning.

1932 Quarterly

January

Ali Zimmerman I sit hand in hand with a beautiful stranger He and I are from opposite worlds But we share the same demons – Demons that antagonize our inner quietness And threaten our sanity Mine penetrate bone-deep like a shotgun blast of razor blades They’re manifested through hair straightener scars And insidious thoughts that creep into my most innocent daydreams I couldn’t tell you where his demons originate A graduate of prescription pain pills Synthetic numbness is the only way he manages to silence them Occasionally when we are together there’s a quiet ceasefire Our empty eyes appear vibrant once again We are truly alive with each other for a couple hundred seconds But often we fill our noses with poison In an honest attempt to extinct the beasts that ravage our naivety And exist in a warm, dull haze That’s just it, too We only exist

1932 Quarterly

When it rains, it pours Kori Margaret

rain falls beneath pale blue sky

upon my glass house, and every drop is a reminder of my pasts,

my failures,

and the cracks grow larger.

it sounds like

mirrors crashing down on wood flooring.

I can no longer

tell the rain and glass apart,

as drops and shards fall in melody,

for they both

glisten in sunlight. I lie still,

and tell myself,

perhaps I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get wet this time,

and I pray for a miracle. but,

I think,

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve prayed enough for a lifetime already.

1932 Quarterly

Lacuna

Vivian Wagner So many things we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have words for: the banana bread color of half-dead grass, midwinter, the gray metal that encircles the bottom of electric poles, the rays radiating from street lights when you blur your eyes, the mysterious screech you and your dog hear from the woods, the curving space between walnut trees, the unbroken sameness of February clouds, the everything, and the nothing, of a morning.

1932 Quarterly

Forest House Taylor Graham

A voice followed me from home, whispered how to open-sesame the gate. A dirt path led toward edge of forest, the margin where living pines had been, their bodies lined up now, chainsaw’d, heads scalped in the meadow. Bark beetles killed them, and the drought. Man cleaned up afterwards. Silence. Not a raven called. The wrong color sprang from spring grass: sable-ruddy fur on skull and tail-bones – it had been a fox. How could I grieve a life I’d never known? Tiny scavengers – maggots, wasps, beetles, fungi – had been at work, cleaning the forest-house. Something tapped as if fingers on an old acoustic typewriter tangled in vines and leaf-fall. Rhythm without music or words, incense cedar speaking as wind passed through, a song of home.

1932 Quarterly

Turmeric Tea in My Cappuccino Cup Raquel Gilliland Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as if the amber of the evening horizon line let me cup it in porcelain, a sun surrounded with wide-shine moon, for the seed-moon milk-blister on the top of my right nipple, to shrink it rose-brown, to loosen the milk forth, spurting as I massage the ducts and then back to a soft flow, the way evening rolls into my cup,

Gilliland

the way my son releases his latch and the overflow seeks the soft of his cheeks, sticky and sweet like ambery evening sap.

1932 Quarterly

Dependants Lisa Stice

After Randall Jarrell’s “Eighth Air Force”

If, in the night we wake, and think we hear thuds outside the door we hold our breaths silence: is this fear? The dog paces the hall between our two rooms, his sniff and scratch at bedside checks, circles, circles until sleep invades: blink; blink; blink. O sentry…this is your specialization: This is war, too…but we don’t ever say that, like children who wake in morning; big and little, as you like to say, I’m Little-Big Girl— I will have to agree marvel: this paradox! We write to Daddy, send pictures, in emails— our lives; this is how it’s done. Will they reach him? I wash your hands and face after breakfast: toss the crumbs away.

1932 Quarterly

No Compensation for Duty Christopher Stolle

One summer long ago the sun’s fists tight around our necks We filled empty cups with soda empty cones with snow empty sticks with cotton candy A whisper caught us a baby cried for the first and last time in a single instant A prayer couldn’t save us We tried on others’ dreams didn’t fit and we returned them And thought about that mother hoping she found peace enough to try again A forgiveness built on pain

1932 Quarterly

The Pantheon in which You Reside Julia Alvarez

You were born in a champagne bottle, let loose with a butcher knife. Plywood smells and citrus blistered fingertips, secret something kissing in the basement office. My hands on your legs felt a lot like a thing I believed in. It all started with your neck in my mouth. How it ended up here, and how you were wearing green, I’m not quite sure. Now we roll out of the market and trade malt balls for hard-tac. In the dark of your parked car, we’re in the shadows, eating chocolate. Washing the windows with milky spit and unspoken forget-me-nots, we mirror the dull buzz of the radiator. I am always leaving parts of myself in parking lots, and some nights the weather is far too temperate, too mild to taste. But it tastes. And so, nightfall’s metallic bolts paint your tongue Some new and glorious rendezvous held just past your lips. Your mouth is a cave I crawl into.

1932 Quarterly

Prose

1932 Quarterly

Mirum

Layla Lenhardt “How did you know?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer. I thought I had been careful. I thought she was still blissfully ignorant like a beautiful, pink baby. Her eyes shifted, casting a doubtful stare at me as she sipped her Passion Tea Lemonade. “Colton told me.” She said staunchly. I shifted in my seat and waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. “When...” I began gathering my thoughts, she was unravelling months of secrets at my feet, like a kitten with yarn, “…when did you talk to Colton?” The side of her mouth quivered ever so slightly, you could tell she was beginning to recognize the implications. “I ran into him at Brother’s, he bought me one of those purple drinks, you know.” I was beginning to get frustrated. That was so typical of Colton. I could see it exactly as it happened. He was probably already drunk when he greeted her with a familiar embrace and it all unfolded from there. We had talked about this. He had promised me he wouldn’t talk to her when he was drinking, because we both know how he is. “Colton…” “He was really nice though. I thought he hated me because he was avoiding me.” She said, more quietly this time. I could hear the song of birds somewhere off in the distance. Trees surrounded the Starbucks and I imagined a harmonious choral of cardinals and sparrows, intertwining their songs together into the most beautiful orchestra. For a brief moment, it took me away. The feeling of the cool, metal chair on my bare legs brought me back though. “Well,” I said. We were both becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” And I meant it. Nothing was supposed to turn out this way. She wasn’t supposed to find out. Not like this. And Colton, I could just wrap my tiny fingers around his tanned throat and shake him, watching his honey hair shake violently as he met his well-deserved demise. There was silence. I was looking at her while she was looking down at her bobbing right foot quizzically, as if her foot and her mind were two separate entities. She was so beautiful, with her olive skin and bourbon brown hair, I just wish she knew how hard I had tried to keep this from her. I wanted the best for her, even if she didn’t recognize that now. “Were you ever going to tell me?” She said suddenly, “You know I didn’t want this. I told you, no I begged you, to not do this. Why would you do this? Were you just going to let me find --.” “--Well,” I interrupted, “That was kind of the plan. Why would we want you to know?” “Because you are my best friend. You knew this would upset me.” “Listen,” I inhaled, “This was not our intention at all. We only wanted what was best for you. There were good intentions here, okay? I promise.” She peered into her bag and jostled some stuff around before triumphantly pulling a pack of Parliaments from its depths. “I thought you quit smoking?” “I did.” A yellow lighter went flick, flick, flick before finally sparking to life, igniting

Lenhardt the tip of her cigarette, “But this is my safety pack, I bring it with me for times of need, and this is one of those times.” “Oh come on.” I rolled my eyes. “Can you please not make a big deal about this?” If I knew one thing, she had a flair for dramatics. She took a long drag in and after a few moments, she exhaled vehemently through her nose. “I just asked you not to, that’s all.” Her voice sounded meeker than I expected. “We all love you, that’s why we did it. Please don’t make a big deal out of this, okay? Just open your mind to the idea. Let’s go.” I stood to leave as she stubbed out her cigarette on the white concrete. We walked to my car and she slid into the passenger’s seat. Her initial hurt had evolved into a childish pouting. We sat in silence as we drove the five blocks to my house. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her absent mindedly twisting her hair around her finger. “Happy birthday to me, I guess.” She scoffed as I put my car in park. I could no longer tell if she was actually angry or was just keeping up the charade. We exited the car and began walking to the door. “Are you ready” I said, and she nodded, “I’m so sorry you found out this way, but you have to pretend you didn’t know, okay?” She nodded again. “You’re lucky I’m good at acting, you know I hate surprise parties.”

1932 Quarterly

The Yard Sale Bandit William Baker

Blaine Washington cleaned the remainder of the makeup from under his eyes with a baby wipe before sitting down in front of the television in the small theatre dressing room. He tossed the plastic grocery bag of cash on the worn out sofa next to him, the costumes and props already put away. His presence here would never allow suspicion, he was the stage manager after all and it was not unusual for him to be in and out of the theatre several times a week. More so now that he was unemployed. There was no danger of interruption this time of year as there were no upcoming performances in the works. He could sit here and count his haul in peace and see if the news was covering him yet. He figured that his score today was a good one, maybe a thousand. The news anchor went on about a number of issues. At the start of the next hour the news started over again and Blaine was pleased to see that he was top billing. He smiled as the reporters gave him an excellent review. “Our top story tonight, four more unbelievable robberies at small town Indiana yard sales. State and local Police seem stumped at this summer’s rash of yard sale hold ups in the state. All of whom seem to be committed by different men. Rhonda Lytle is in the field in Jefferson Indiana, 30 miles south of Indianapolis. Rhonda?” Rhonda detailed the four hold ups in south central Indiana and gave descriptions of the four robbers. Then brought on the State Police spokesman who talked a moment before Rhonda asked a question. “All of these robberies, is this the work of a gang?” “It would be an awful big gang.” The spokesman explained. “A dozen hold ups by a dozen different men. There is not enough money in this for an organized crime effort. This is individuals.” “So, it is coincidence then that these crimes are taking place in a different area of the state almost every weekend. Always towns close together, and by different men.” Rhonda pushed. “All of that is under investigation and I can’t comment. But we are telling people to please be aware and take precautions. These men are always armed and dangerous. They will be caught.” The spokesman insisted to end the interview. Blaine smiled, turned off the television and started counting the money. It started with him flat out of money and ideas. He was depressed and more than a little desperate with his unemployment coming to an end. Fast food, retail, and warehouse work seemed to be the only jobs available and none of them paid enough to live. He was bumming around a monster yard sale on the south side of Indy. Looking for anything the theatre might be able to use. Maybe he could get the producers to spring for something he couldn’t pass up. This was one of those massive multi-family sales that filled the front and back yard of the residence. Blaine found nothing for the theatre but did locate a Shakespeare coffee mug for a quarter that he couldn’t pass up for himself. He heard the two ratty dressed forty something women talking at the cash box while he browsed with mug in hand. One of the women with stringy black hair and a large gap in her front teeth was talking. “Donnie done took six hundred to the bank. He’s gonna have to make another trip soon as they get back. I’ve taken in at least that much since he left.”

Baker “Course you sold the riding mower since then. That’s most of it.” The other woman added. Her hair was much more kept and her teeth lacked gaps but she was dressed in clothes that needed thrown away. Blaine couldn’t help thinking that she needed to shop her own garage sale. He paid for the mug and went home. At home he thought about the yard sale and the $1200 in cash. He found himself thinking of it often as he applied for jobs online at the library or used his food stamp/ EBT card at the WalMart or as he sorted through the props and costumes at the theatre. The thinking turned into what if. And the what if turned into planning. And the planning turned into a walk through. And the walk through turned into a full costume trial run. For him it was like Tech week in a production. He wore sideburns, a brown wavy hair piece, and a small scar on his cheek and a deformed ear on the same side. He dressed in a sport coat used in the last production of Arsenic and Old Lace. None of the clothes were his own and he looked much older than his thirty-two years. He parked on the next street then walked to the sale. He browsed and kept his eyes and ears open. No one seemed to think him the least bit strange or unnatural. He saw the cash box opened one time and judged it has a few hundred in it. He saw a half dozen opportunities to make his move with the prop gun in his pocket. Then he went home satisfied that his thinking was right. Blaine planned more and with one week left on his unemployment he made the move. This time he was in the town of Monrovia and wore a blond wig pulled back in a pony tail, sun glasses, and orange to green reversible jacket, and an LA Dodgers ball cap. His makeup was light but he sported a new nose. He figured that the orange jacket and ball cap would be remembered and that was what he was going for. His take was over $250 and he reversed the jacket, stuck the cap, sunglasses, prop gun and wig in the plastic grocery bag with the cash. Then combed his hair straight back all while walking through the adjoining yards to the next street and his car. He heard no commotion so he figured that the woman gave him the five minutes as he instructed. She had considered others and he was encouraged by her thoughtfulness. Blaine told her when he started to leave that he might shoot an innocent person, maybe a child if she didn’t give him five minutes before sounding an alarm. Two hundred fifty dollars tax free was good but it wasn’t enough. Blaine did his due diligence and scouted local online newspapers for yard sale ads. Two weeks following the first time, he went in the middle of the afternoon to Tipton, then Atlanta, Arcadia and at last Cicero. The news remarked that the robberies were in a straight line and was no doubt the work of a gang. It went perfectly as he removed the distinctive parts of his disguise, stopped after each job and switched costumes in the car then drove to the next target. That night after returning all of the costuming and props to the theatre he counted out $1167 in cash. He paid the landlord and filled the car with gas and stopped at Starbucks, then started planning for the following Saturday. The next time it was two sales in the far north of the state with a haul of over $1200 and he didn’t hit the other two targets as he didn’t want to push his luck. Two weeks later it was far west, around the Terre Haute area. Four stops and a big load of over $2000 cash. Then the jobs in the central part of the state. All five news stations in Indianapolis were buzzing and The Yard Sale Bandits were a hot topic. He laid low for four weeks, even taking on a part time job. But his research remained constant as planned. He went to Jefferson, Whiteland and Greenwood, Indiana and came home with a disappointing $900. He knew that he needed to roll the dice and go out again soon. He planned the hits for the east central part of the state. It was farm country and small towns but there were sales advertised, big sales. Knightstown was to be first but Blaine made the decision to back out of the job once he looked around. Too many redneck men hanging around and one of them had given him the eye. He purchased

Baker a table lamp then left. He decided to go to the next place near Rushville, and then jog over to Connersville, then up to the Cambridge City site before jumping on the interstate and back to Indy. He saw the Big Yard Sale Ahead sign at the side of US 40 and he slowed down. He saw another sign pointing down a side road. It was unplanned but he missed out on Knightstown and wanted to make up for it. It was a big sale and he drove past then turned around on the next street and circled behind. It was a good setup: few houses, not far to walk and he could cut through a home construction site to the next street. He checked his disguise, it was flawless, and he looked like an orange haired character from the Revenge of the Nerds movie. His costuming was complete right down to the pocket protector and tape on the glasses. The prop gun was inside his jacket. The sale looked picked through and he was the only customer. There were two women in their sixties sitting in lawn chairs in the garage watching a television. He browsed close to them and feigned interest in an electronic dart board. It was worse for wear and looked like junk to Blaine. “I’ll go ten on that.” One of the women called over to him. “Still works, only has two darts to it.” Blaine nodded to her and saw the cash box on the garage floor between them. The other woman said something to her and they started a conversation during the commercial break for Family Feud. Blaine decided to go for it. It was a big sale that was picked over so there must be some cash. He sidled closer while looking at the men’s shoes lined up in the garage, then stepped up to them and pulled the prop pistol, obscured with the sleeve of the jacket. “Give me the box.” He said. The women looked at him. The woman on the left sported bluing hair and terrible false teeth. She snorted in amusement. “You’re one of them Yard Sale thieves, huh?” Blaine stared in reply and pushed the prop pistol out further. Neither woman reached for the box between them. The brassy haired woman on the right grabbed her purse off the table and put it in her lap. “You don’t want my pocketbook too, do you?” She asked. “No, the box. Put it on the table now.” He insisted in a low voice. “I don’t think he would use that thing.” The blue haired one said. Blaine looked at her in disbelief, no one ever argued with him before, and then he turned back to the other woman. The brassy haired one now held the smallest pistol Blaine had ever seen pointed at his head. The look of disbelief was still on his face as he lay arms spread wide on the concrete driveway. The glasses, flown off and somewhere behind him. The prop gun slipped from his fingers and he stared at the summer sky. The small hole in the center of his forehead trickled a thin line of crimson onto the orange wig.

1932 Quarterly

Red Ink

Shannon Adams

At a loss for words I pick up my pen from among the mess of papers and opened books covering my desk. I stare down the ink chamber looking for the words that were hiding, refusing to come out. I couldn’t find them. Go figure. They always evade me when I need them, but assault my mind when I don’t, like when I’m trying to sleep. A bubble forms in my chest. Slowly it walks up my esophagus, taking its good sweet time. I wait. I know it’s coming. When the bubble takes its final step into my mouth I welcome it like an old friend. The bubble bursts on my tongue. It’s bitter, the taste of my own hilarity. The vile laughter spills out and fills my room with its stench. It flows down the pen into the ink chamber and mixes with the words that will not form. Punishing them one last time. Reminding them that if they do not come out they will be trapped inside the damned pen forever. No one will care about them as I have cared for them over the years. Those stupid, comforting words. I put the pen to paper one last time, allowing the ink one last chance to make words, one last chance to show themselves. My pen glides across the milk white page, but nothing sticks. Not a single fucking word shows itself. I pick up my pen to inspect it, maybe scare some words out of-- I never clicked the top to allow the pen tip to come out. Another small sob of bubbling laughter. Carefully I click the silver button and watch the tip emerge, silver and gleaming in the lamp light. I test the pen on the softest part of my wrist, pushing down enough to watch it draw a line of red ink. I unclick the pen and sit back in my chair my desire to form words forgotten. I watch the red spread across my milk white flesh. There is a place between my skin and the ink that becomes pink. I can no longer see where my skin begins and the ink ends. Red and white, ink and skin, blood and light mix until I am drowning. Drowning like I always am, grasping for land, air, words. Words! I breathe again, returning back to my and my task at hand. I promised myself I would finish it tonight. I lift my pen to my face, eye level, and stare down into the chamber again only this time it looks different. I can’t seem to find the ink and the words that can’t be written. They have gone from me forever. “I couldn’t find the right words, but I hope the ones I did find will be enough”, I whisper softly to myself.

I push the silver button again, but this time no pen tip emerges. Time slows down around me as I watch the bullet rocket down the chamber and cross the inches between the tip of the gun and my pale face. I know when it makes contact, but I cannot feel it. I silently thank all the bottles that litter my desk and around my feet for

Adams taking away my feeling. I don’t need it, not anymore. I really hope that bullet enjoys living in my brain. God knows I sure didn’t. It’s like a dream, hovering above myself, but I guess death is just kind of like that. I wouldn’t know, I’m new at this whole thing. As I begin to float away I think: I really shouldn’t have used a red pen. Mom will never be able to read it now with the mess I made.

1932 Quarterly

Stray

James Tucker The power flickered off and on and they got dressed for work before they decided to stay home. He turned on the news to check for closings. “Sounds bad,” said Diane. She put on her dark-gray parka, half turtle neck and tapped her fingers on the island countertop as the coffee brewed. Naven stared at her aqua fingernails. Last week they were purple, and she had taken out her nose ring. Thank god, he thought. She was not a twentysomething anymore. “I’m going to try and go in,” she said. “You?” “No.” He opened the garage door and watched Diane pull her car out. He kissed her on the cheek, one of those quick ones that had become automatic, less sincere; and he had no idea that it would be the last time any feeling between them would seem universal. He waved bye, and for some reason, he thought he would never see her again. He grinded more coffee beans, the emerald digits glowing on the microwave clock caught his eye. The feeling of getting the electricity back on relieved him. He opened the front door to let in natural light, but the gray clouds hid the sun. The town of Springfield resembled Antarctica. Stupid Punxsutawney saw his shadow and retreated. At this point, it would be May until it felt like spring. Naven and Diane had discussed moving to another state but they’d just bought the house. They liked being close to Diane’s parents, only thirty minutes away, who were in their seventies and not in the best of health. He cooked two microwave pancakes and stood by the French doors, eating, watching the snow pull to the earth and marveled how it created a certain kind of stillness. It was clear and beautiful, but at the same time, it caused us humans so much trouble. He felt their marriage adrift, like tectonic plates inching apart. When they had driven back from the Chicago Bear’s game a few months ago, before the swath of winter storms hit, Diane did not touch him; she reminded him of how busy and important work was and that was all she could think about. As an auditor for a CPA firm, she travelled. Naven suggested that she take a new position or transfer to a desk job, but Diane quickly shot that down and said it would be a huge pay cut. They could not afford that. Naven’s phone buzzed and saw that it was his boss, Stan. “How about this unbelievable weather,” said Stan. “Thanks for the voice message earlier. Indeed, please stay home. We don’t want you getting killed coming in. Ha!” Stan’s laugh had a certain kind of pause, and then he would chuckle and clear his throat. “Thanks. Glad to know that,” said Naven. He didn’t like Stan that much. Fakeness could only take a person so far, and then the true self emerges. “But, you know,” Stan continued. “I have you down that you burned your last snow

Tucker day. Today will eat any you have accrued. That’s after today’s burn.” Burn? Stan’s tone sounded like Naven was wasting it, like a teenager who “burns” through their allowance. “I mean if you need to take off, you can always do so without pay. Obviously, your safety is number one.” “Yes. Of course,” said Naven. “Always.” There was a little silence, as if maybe Naven was being too arrogant. He felt less empathy for people as he got older. People had a smooth way that made you feel like you were back in high school, and at forty-one, Naven didn’t need that. He knew the company that he worked for was hiring proverbial Millennials, who had a different way of thinking, their brains wired to handle three or four monitor screens at once, watch YouTube on their phones while entering data, playing games. They were being rewired as task managers and that was the future of office production. Naven knew that people were becoming stilted robots at open-spaced tables, nestled a few feet away, soaking in the grunts of deadlines and constant noise. The snow piled on the back deck. To be able to fire up the grill in February would be nice. He finished spreadsheets and noticed the laundry in the basket and it reminded him of their squabble a few days ago. Diane had told him that he needed to use Downy and when he got to the kitchen sink, said to run the garbage disposal with cold water for thirty seconds. Diane’s voice tinged with anger and it made him leery and fearful, as if he were a child. When his brother Randall sent him a text, Naven knew it would be about their impending doom: “Climate change in full-effect. Our Savior’s return is imminent. Are you ready?” “What?” Naven texted back. “Why does everything have to be about that?” He stared at Diane’s exercise ball, the maroon ball where she did her crunches. He remembered her the other morning in her turquoise sweat bottoms, her bare feet flipping up as she got her balance. The bone of the inside of her ankle rubbed against her other leg. She mentioned another audit after Tampa, maybe South Carolina. It was as if she wanted to be away. He wanted to bring in kindling for the fireplace. Naven missed their dog, Spence, a Boston Terrier who had developed a weird bone formation on its hind legs and it left him hobbling and stumbling around. He and Diane put Spence to sleep last September, and when the house got quiet, Naven thought he would hear a dog collar rattle or a paw at the back door. He put on his favorite jeans with the hole at the knee. They felt loose, almost like sweat pants. He plopped to the floor and did push-ups. He pulled forward doing forty crunches on the exercise ball. Naven was not obese or overweight, but a belly had emerged over the years because of his insatiable desire for pale ale and meaty-layered pizza. He smelled the first flames eat away the kindling and pieces of wood in the fireplace. He finished last week’s ad revenue for Oklahoma City and St. Louis, but needed to adjust a column. He got distracted by Internet crap and he kept thinking about the horrible panda bear at a Hawaiian zoo; it had broken through a gate and grabbed hold of a child. Naven closed out the Internet tab and didn’t want to read anymore. He did more crunches on the exercise ball and twenty minutes later craved a drink. He poured himself a rum and cola and looked out through the French doors. The eerie quietness of the house made him think something might jump out and scare

Tucker him shitless. He imagined Spence running in the backyard with his happy eyes that absorbed the spit of snow. Where are you? The afternoon had turned dark and Diane should have been home by now. He knew that voice: “Leave a message and I will return your call. Have a great day. Diane.” That was like her, always doing the reverse. The rum cleared any brain fog. The weather person reiterated that the snowstorm—an offshoot from its bigger brother that piled two feet of snow in the Rocky Mountains, would make its way through Illinois in the next few hours. Naven glanced at the calendar on the side of the fridge: This year was Leap Year. He stepped outside on the back deck and spotted the white moon between the trees, wondering if a lone coyote was still stalking the area. Two were spotted last week by the neighbors. They made it seem like the coyotes were endangered wolves, or something carved out of a horror flick. Naven tipped his glass to his mouth. His pulse quickened. He would not hear her barge in, rattling the kitchen cabinets, clanging silverware in the sink. Diane could be the noisiest person, even if she didn’t mean to be. He fell asleep on the sofa. It was one of those loud-freaking knocks in the early morning; he hated to think it was his paranoid brother, or Diane getting up to go for a walk and forgetting that she had left her key inside. The doorbell then blared like a battle cry. “What the hell, man. Hold on!” Naven yelled. He looked around. “Diane?” He rubbed his eyes and grabbed a pair of jeans. He could hear the chatter on the porch, or what sounded like panting and yelps, taps of paw feet crunching in the snow. How much rum and cola, he thought. Jesus. He opened the front door to find a Springfield police officer. Even the gloom of gray snow across the yard and street sent a bright painful glare across Naven’s face. He placed his hand over his eyes. “Hi. What’s going on?” “Mr. Harlow?” “Yeah?” “This dog belong to you?” “No.” “Well, sir, it’s the craziest thing. I found it wandering over on Cherry Street and it ran to your front door. I tried to get it to come with me, maybe take it to the humane society, but he acted like this was his home.” “Hey pup,” said Naven, reaching his hand out for the dog to sniff. He thought about Spence and how much he missed that damn dog. He didn’t know what it meant, and he never believed in angels or fate, or if someone was looking out for him or that things in life happen for inexplicable reasons. “I guess I can leave him with you,” said the officer. “That okay?”

Tucker “Yeah, that’s fine,” said Naven. “I’ll take him, officer. Thank you.” “You have a good day.” “You too.” Naven grabbed a towel and dried the snow off the hound. It looked to be a beaglepug mix, and he had seen them before. For the next ten minutes, he was entwined in playing with the dog and letting him run out by the fence, gave it water and a piece of bread. He called Diane’s phone and she answered, her live voice drained, as if she’d stayed up all night, her throat raw from the burn of alcohol. “Diane? What the—?” “I just pulled in. We need to talk?” He called for his dog and dried off his tail and paws. “You look like a George. I’m calling you George.” The utility room door creaked open and then closed. Naven stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking ahead and finding a worn-looking Diane. She had been crying. She made eye contact with him and then at the dog. “Yeah,” said Naven. “A police officer found him. Said he went straight to our house. Wouldn’t leave. I don’t know, what do you think? I could take him to the vet when the snow clears up. No collar on him.” Diane crouched down, her knees making that crack that Naven had become accustomed to hearing. “Cute,” she said. “You should keep him.” “What?” “Naven, I can’t be with you anymore. I stayed at my mother’s. I thought about it all night. I’m moving out. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to pretend it is all right and it will get better.” He didn’t know why but he thought this moment was coming. He let out a breath and rubbed his fingers through George’s fur and along his neck. A subtle click snapped over the microwave, and the power went out, and then—a few seconds later, the emerald glow of the clock caught Naven’s eye, and he was glad that the power would not be out long. Whatever propelled him forward, he leaned in and gave Diane a hug, and it would be the last time they would touch each other.

Contributors Shannon Adams

is a college graduate simply floating through the real world looking for a place to call home. She enjoys writing, cats, and books. That’s about it.

Julia Alvarez

is from Monongahela, Pennsylvania, and spends her days studying English at Washington & Jefferson College. She enjoys reading and writing, playing big instruments in small rooms, and playing small instruments in big rooms.

William Baker

has had his short fiction published in Southern Cross Review, Hufﬁngton Post/Fiction 50, Literally Stories, Indiana Voice Journal, MidAmerica Fiction and Photography, and Short Fiction Break. He resides in Central Indiana.

Scott Banks

writes from Anchorage, Alaska. His poetry has been published in Cirque and Stoneboat literary magazines and on the 49 Writers blog. His poem I Wore Cowboy Boots to Work Today was runner up in the Harold McCracken Endowment Poetry Contest. Scott’s nonfiction has been published in Gray’s Sporting Journal, The Drake, American Heritage magazine, Alaska magazine and many others. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Literary Arts from the University of Alaska Anchorage.

Kersten Christianson

is a raven-watching, moon-gazing Alaskan. When not exploring the summer lands and dark winter of the Yukon Territory, she lives in Sitka. Her book of poetry Something Yet to Be Named published by Aldrich Press is forthcoming (2017).

Mary Katherine Creel

lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where she has worked as a journalist, family counselor and copywriter. Her poems have been published in Paper Rabbit, Tar River Poetry, Pittsburgh Poetry Review and Avocet.

Mag Gabbert

is a PhD candidate in creative writing at Texas Tech University, and she previously received an MFA from The University of California at Riverside. Her essays and poems have been published or are forthcoming in journals including 32 Poems, The Rattling Wall, The Rumpus, The Nervous Breakdown, LIT Magazine, Sugar House Review, and Sonora Review, among other venues. Mag also serves as an associate editor for Iron Horse Literary Review. For more information, please visit maggabbert.com.

Raquel Gilliland's

work has been published or is forthcoming in Dark Mountain, Rattle, Alaska Women Speak, and Luna Luna, among others. Her first collection, Dirt and Honey, is scheduled to be released in 2018 by Green Writers Press. She lives in Florida with her educator husband and toddler son.

Taylor Graham

is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada, and serves as El Dorado County’s first poet laureate (2016-2018). She’s included in the anthologies Villainelles (Everyman’s Library) and California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara University). Her latest book is Uplift (Cold River Press, 2016).

Layla Lenhardt

was 5th grade valedictorian and has since gone downhill from there. She has most recently been published in "Door Is A Jar" and "Peeking Cat Poetry"'s yearly anthology. She is an associate editor for "The Wayward Sword" and she is founder and Editor-In-Chief of 1932 Quarterly. She currently resides in Indianapolis with a mythical giant and three children (cats) Beauregaard Percy, Mishka Ezra, and Sylvia Zora. www.Pretzel8byteslite.wordpress.com

Shahé Mankerian's

manuscript, History of Forgetfulness, has been a finalist at four prestigious competitions: the 2013 Crab Orchard Series in Poetry Open Competition, the Bibby First Book Competition, the Quercus Review Press (Fall Poetry Book Award), and the 2014 White Pine Press Poetry Prize.

Kori Margaret

enjoys drinking stouts while discussing politics, hiking through the rolling hills of Pennsylvania, and the smell of bonfires and spice in late September.

Ashley Nave

is a 23-year-old Kutztown University alumna, who graduated with an English/Professional Writing degree and a Spanish minor. She plans to teach English in Spain with the hopes of becoming an English professor, all while writing poetry of course!

Emily Reid Green's

poetry has appeared in Gravel, Khroma Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, The Font, and Common Threads. This spring, she was a sponsored poet with Tiferet Journal. She lives with her family in Ohio.

Lisa Stice

is a poet/mother/military spouse who currently lives in North Carolina with her husband, daughter and dog. She is the author of a poetry collection, Uniform (Aldrich Press, 2016). lisastice.wordpress.com and facebook.com/LisaSticePoet.

Christopher Stolle's

poetry has appeared in many magazines, including the “Tipton Poetry Journal,” “Flying Island,” “Branches,” “Black Elephant,” and “Sheepshead Review.” He works as an acquisitions and development editor for Penguin Random House, and he lives in Richmond, Indiana.

Carina Stopenski

is a BFA Creative Writing student at Chatham University. Her work has been featured in Impossible Archetype and Life in 10 Minutes, among others. She serves as associate editor of The Minor Bird Literary Magazine. 35

James Tucker

resides in Indianapolis and has published several columns in The Journal Gazette (Fort Wayne) and honorable mentioned in the national renowned literary journal GLIMMER TRAIN for his short fiction. He has a bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree in Criminal Justice from Indiana Wesleyan University and Associates in Computer Science. Stray will be featured in an upcoming collection, and he is working on a novella titled The Pool. https://bluezone40.wordpress.com/Twitter: @jwtucker1971 Facebook: jwtucker23

Vivian Wagner

is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the author of a memoir, Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington), and a poetry collection, The Village (Kelsay Books). Visit her website at www.vivianwagner.net.

Ali Zimmerman

lives in south Florida and can be found playing with exotic cats at a wildlife sanctuary where she works. She is addicted to misery, but finds serenity in nature.

Staff Layla Lenhardt • Editor-in-Chief

Benjamin Rozzi • Managing Editor

Alexa Terrell • Poetry Editor Kori Williams • Prose Editor

Julia Nadovich • Managing Editor of Design Nicholas Chiesa • Chief Advisor

Lauryn Halahurich • Website Coordinator & Digital Publications Manager

Lauren Markish • Social Media Coordinator

Design Team Lauryn Halahurich Kristen Lucente Lauren Markish Julia Nadovich

Associate Editors Shannon Adams

Ashley Nave

Julia Alvarez

Christine Nicholson

Zach Benjamin

Lucia Damacela

Samantha Campbell

Ben Priolo

Nicholas Chiesa

Annelise Rice

Brent Herman

Keldon Snyder

Ali Jacobs

Lisa Stice

Jessica Kerr

Carina Stopenski

Christina Kosch

Vivian Wagner

Kayla Marasia

Ke'alohi Worthington

Lauren Markish

Information Interested in submitting to the next issue?

We are accepting any and all creative fiction. The guidelines are as follows: Poetry: 1. You may submit up to 7 pieces of poetry of any length with any type of formatting. 2. Please, attach all poetry submissions in one word processing document (Microsoft Word preferred). Prose: 1. You may submit up to 3 pieces of short prose, no more than 10 pages in length each. 2. Please, attach all prose submissions in one word processing document (Microsoft Word preferred). Be sure to include a short third-person biography of no more than 40 words. Please send your work to submissions@1932Quarterly.com In order for your submission(s) to be considered, you must follow these guidelines. Our team of editors will be going through a lot of pieces, so your assistance in adhering to these three points is greatly appreciated.

Interested in editing for 1932 Quarterly?

If you have an interest in joining this wonderful project as an associate editor, please contact Layla Lenhardt. The position can be used as an internship, as a resume builder, and we hear, Layla writes an amazing letter of recommendation. So if you have any interest in editing, learning about the literary journal process, or just a general love of reading, please contact us at layla.lenhardt@1932quarterly.com! It will be a such a rewarding experience, we promise!