A New Ulster issue 90 by Amos Greig

FEATURING THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF URSULA TREANOR, S. NIX, PATRICIA KAMRADT, ALISON BLACK, GAVIN BURKE, GEMMA RAFFERTY, PATRICK SCHORR, ANA SPEHAR, JACK STEWART AND KAREN PETERSEN, AND EDITED BY AMOS GREIG.

A NEW ULSTER ISSUE 90 APRIL 2020

UPATREE PRESS

The artists featured in this publication have reserved their right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work. ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Edited by Amos Greig Cover Design by Upatree Press Prepared for Publication by Upatree Press

CONTRIBUTORS

This edition features work by Ursula Treanor, S. Nix, Patricia Kamradt, Alison Black, Gavin Burke, Gemma Rafferty, Patrick Schorr, Ana Spehar, Jack Stewart and Karen Petersen.

CONTENTS Poetry Ursula Treanor

Page 1

Poetry S. Nix

Page 8

Poetry/Art Patricia Kamradt Page 10 Poetry Alison Black

Page 14

Poetry Gavin Bourke

Page 20

Poetry Gemma Rafferty Page 23 Poetry Patrick Schorr

Page 25

Poetry Ana Spehar

Page 30

Poetry Jack Stewart

Page 33

Prose Karen Petersen Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note

Page 38 Page 49

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: URSULA TREANOR Ursula writes for fun and communication. Retired from teaching, at the time of publishing this edition she is writing her first YA Fantasy series.

SLEEP Long hours, short sleep - discord Long hours - working hard Short sleep â&#x20AC;&#x201C; under-par. Have more regard For sleep - a vital safeguard Balance lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cycle Work, leisure, nutrition, sleep. So many benefits you can reap. Bright eyed, fresh, ready for graft, Use your skills - enjoy your craft. Craft is skill of body & soul, Calm and rested it's in control. Master your every-day, Weaving and flowing through life's array. Sleep deprivation catches all Snatches, scratches, tetchy we fall. We are human far from machine. Sleep the energy that feeds life's stream. Soothes, relaxes, cleanses, redeems. Sleep ensures much needed rest. Time to refuel - time that invests. (Ursula Treanor)

ON BEING A DREAMER Dreaming's exciting - inspirational Dreaming's friendly - companionable Dreaming's imaginative - limitless Dreaming's scary - nightmarish Dreaming's inconclusive - unfinished Dreaming's tiresome- passive/idle Dreaming's wasteful - inactive Dreaming deceives - disappoints. If you're a dreamer & dreams reach the sun, don't let them outdo, overwhelm, outrun. Give them time, give them thought, give them frame Enormity overcome, broken down, made tame. Little by little, a step at a time, Dream to reality, challenge your vitality. Do not dream your life away, for bitter shall it be that day, when you look back - sad words to say "I should have done, gave it a try" - Do it now, dreams made real -- solidify (Ursula Treanor)

ABOUT RUSHING “Stop” – a very little deed, for those who blunder, blast at speed. It’s giving time to tweak, refine - now venture on and lead. Stop is not a sign of doubt and muddle It’s strength and wisdom to foresee trouble. It’s like ‘look before you leap’, what a saying, what an action, Those little halts iron out the faults - what better satisfaction. (Ursula Treanor)

LITTLE ACTS MAKE UP A LIFE A cup of tea, a slice of toast. A friendly word, the sea, the coast. A hug, a book, a song, a smile. Sitting down, stretching high, Work & hobbies that satisfy, dreams and words that let you fly. Getting going, get-on the ball, step by step, there's time for all. Stop a while, from time to time Appreciate each act as mine. Life is lots & lots of little, It's short or long & ever brittle. So, each moment, of your time Whatever is happening, the moment is fine. Stand alone or adding too, those little acts see us through. On their own or as a part, actions grow - complete life's chart. Life is hard at times unkind, overwhelming, ruthless, a tough old grind. But little acts, little things you do make life worth living, worth going through. (Ursula Treanor)

MORNING ROUTINE Life’s not a race, not a chase, be mindful of your living pace. Keep it gradual, keep it soft - a good morning routine to set you off. An easy start – make your bed – no need to think, no need to dread. A little act to start your day – basic, controlled, organized –okay, A stretch – make sure from head to toes - nerves and senses tuned, muscles, limbs and organs wake and gently movement flows Blood eases round - oxygen its load, body and mind made ready, ready for the road. Be mindful of your morning routine, smoothness and calm for the human machine Warm it up and settle it down, with simple acts at breakfast-time . Routine acts won’t clog your head, it’s clear, it’s fresh to cope instead Routine acts and fostered care prepare you for all work and ware If you flounce and flout and fret and fuss, when just out of bed That sets the day for drama, frays – body and mind misled. You’ve programmed it for a contentious you, instead of letting the good traits through. So - no thoughts to weigh you down as you start today no emails, no stress, no racing, no mess before you meet your day Prepping yourself the night before, keeping morning simple and expected Gives sustenance and self-control whatever is projected (Ursula Treanor)

IN DREAMS Long hours, short sleep, discord Long hours work hard. Short sleep under par Have more regard Sleepâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pattern safeguard Balance the cycle Work leisure nutrition sleep Many benefits there to reap Bright eyed fresh ready for action Ready for toil strain enjoy the craft. Craft skill of body and soul Calm and rested itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in control. Master the everyday Weaving flowing with life's array. For sleep deficit catches all It snatches scratches - tetchy we fall. Human not machine. Sleep the energy that feeds life's stream. Soothes relaxes, cleanses, redeems. Sleep the drug for much needed rest. Time to refuel - time to invest. (Ursula Treanor)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: S. NIX S. Nix is drawn to the escapism found in stories. Keenly interested in literature and film, she is a recent animation graduate who spends most of her free time either animating or writing.

THE DAMN OF DAMNATION A fogged-fatigue surrounds us; shroud-vision, As Earth's fading clock tick-tocks, time-ticking. Humans endure as though worker-ants; they follow worn paths, aim-lacking. But; I've heard tales of winged-witch who flies in, fleet, her gaunt back garbed 'neath a cloak of defeat. She jeers our fear luring us 'til ensnared; guilty or guiltless, we're hunted. Thus; Reaching blight-hands', dripping doom, lift our veil, A tinnitus cackle shrills, dimming ears frail. Next lunging, then plunging, with a blade now unsheathed, the old crone will croon cooly as we fade... -And be beat. And then, The fog will be sorely lifted. And hence, As we know it, time won't exist. And so, Life/ will dissolve/ beyond memory... And now?-

(S. Nix)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: PATRICIA KAMRADT

Patricia was born In Chicago Illinois. Adopted along with her brother, she did not discover her Irish heritage until well into her forties. She writes short stories and poetry.

THE SINGLE WHITE DOVE The single white dove sits perched on the wire Cooing its mournful call waiting for a response on deaf ears it falls lost in the wind the solitary dove has lost her mate who have flown together side by side throughout the seasons winter, spring, summer and fall year after year in unison Passing over verdant fields over streams and lakes, rivers and glens making sure their mate was within sight joyfully singing in harmony Resting together on tall pines calling out to one another when lost Lifelong partners on their spiritual quest taking comfort in each other Now the lonesome dove sits perched in solitude The sound of a cooper hawk screeching in the distance breaks the silence.

(Patricia Kamradt)

COTTAGE BY PATRICIA KAMRADT

COTTAGE 2 BY PATRICIA KAMRADT

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ALISON BLACK Alison is from Belfast. She writes poetry and short fiction.

‘WILL YOU WALK WITH ME?’ Walking along the Portrush promenade, With a bright blue sky, Overlooking the East strand beach. Sounds of the seagulls drowning out, The noise of Barry’s amusements, The RNLI boat going into the harbour. The raft race, From Portush west strand beach, Enjoyment for everyone. Seeing the windsurfers, sailing boats People walking along the sea bare foot, Wonderful beauty to see from the promenade. Portrush the Gold Coast, The golden nugget in everyone’s heart, Moorhead is one of the nuggets to see.

(Alison Black)

ALLERGIC Cara met Gloria for coffee, Asked Gloria was she allergic to her, She replied to her saying no. A few weeks later meeting again for coffee, Gloria said to Cara she may be allergic to her, Cara replied back with, you can’t be. Allergic to me I don’t see you everyday, Cara suggested you could be allergic to Belfast Gloria said no she wasn’t, Cara leaves miss allergy off, She then goes green with yellow dots. (Alison Black)

AN INSPIRATION Gloria met Veronica for coffee, Gloria seeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s her as a substitute mother, When it was time to head off home. Veronica told Gloria she was an inspiration to her, Saying she wished she was more like her, Gloria hearing that from Veronica. Filler her with delight & joy, That she was an inspiration to Veronica. (Alison Black)

BOTANIC GARDENS Glorious palm house since the 1800’’s, Housing many exotic plants, shrubs & flowers, Lovely palm & other trees to admire. Outside the palm house, Taking in the luscious green grass, Seeing the gorgeous rose gardens. She sits under a tree in the sunshine, Listening to the birds chirping & singing, The sunshine making the day glow. Wonderful selection of trees & plants to see, She watches the world go by, The garden’s filled with beauty. She smells the wonderful roses & plants, She sees it as a wonderful place to be, Botanic Gardens. (Alison Black)

MOTHERING ONESELF With not having good mothers in my life, Which I had two to start off with, One died and the other was bad, I had to learn how to mother myself. When women mother me, who are older, When I was younger I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to like it, Because I have got so used to mothering myself. (Alison Black)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GAVIN BOURKE Gavin grew up in the suburb of Tallaght in West Dublin. Now married, living in County Meath, he holds a B.A. Degree in Humanities from DCU and an M.A. Degree in Modern Drama Studies from UCD. His work covers a broad range of subject matter including nature, time, memory, addiction, mental health, human relationships, politics, contemporary and historical social issues, injustice as well as urban and rural life. He was shortlisted for The Redline Book Festival Poetry Award in 2016 for A Rural Funeral. His poem Unanswered Call is published in the September 2019 issue of Crossways Literary Magazine. His poem Sword Damocles, Falling is published in the October issue of A New Ulster. He was invited to read at the Siarsceál Literary Festival in October 2019. He has worked in library services for over twenty years. His poem Louisburgh, County Memory was highly commended in the Johnathon Swift Creative Writing Awards 2019. His poems ‘Our Tree’ and ‘Getting On’ are published in the current issue of Qutub Minar Review International Literary Magazine. His first book of poetry (sixty pages) was shortlisted for the International Hedgehog Poetry Press (UK) Full Fat Collection Poetry Competition for 2019. His poems ‘The Power in Abuse’, ‘Beyond Bone, While the Jackdaws Watch On’ and ‘Fair Trade’ are published in the current issue of A New Ulster. His poem Ag Iarraidh a Churam Mo Intinn Bhun Os Cionn was shortlisted for The Manchester Irish Language Group International Poetry Competition 2019. His work is being considered by competitions and publications worldwide. His work has been published in the next issue of A New Ulster .

SHIVERED Early on a warm February afternoon, cold feeling, black and grey clouds slowly descending, before thought this time. Familiar faces rotating around a zoetrope. To find a way of reconciling with the makerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work. Loved ones thrown to the elements, freezing in graveyards under six feet of soil. Powerless to protect them from the scavenging. A shiver passed through the entire spinal column, while wind pulled at the trees with the force of gales. A rare feeling you get when someone is gravely ill, not yet passed. Deepest-black ivy crawling over skin, brief interlude of sickness, darkness lasting seconds, indicating someone has gone to their rest. More cars than usual outside a house, cars lining both sides for the first time in two years. Jolted the length of the spine. Lost the sight, young taken young, never lived, indiscriminate, vicious, motor neuron. Slow death knells, rattling silver bells. Descended damp walls like wet blankets 21

that would soak to the bone. Heavy curtains of dark green velvet falling from a rail. Drawn back from the seams of reality, momentarily. Following a funeral, hand on brow, through the town. The theft of the imagined soul. The problem of high-profile suicides, women and men, who will never be again. Some a long time dead before death. To discount mouths of self-serving lies. Inside of a French-polished church for the annunciation, lucky for us, this time, perhaps. (Gavin Bourke)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: GEMMA RAFFERTY Gemma is a first time mum whose recent poetry has explored the themes of motherhood.

LATE NIGHT CUDDLES So lonely at night when there’s no one else at home, There’s two of us here but I’ve never felt more alone. When you read and research to try to do everything right, But nothing works in the dark of the night. When you constantly question your ability to be mum, And you fear this questioning has only just begun - it’s something you’ll be doing for years and years to come! For no one out there really has a clue, And how you parent is completely down to you. People mean no harm but sometimes the words they say, Can shatter your confidence in a million different ways. So I try to remember in the dark of the night, That everyone is winging it and no one really has it right. The nights seem long at this point in time. Soon she will sleep through and not wake up crying. It’ll be when she sleeps through after her good night kiss, Those late night cuddles, will be everything you miss. (Gemma McNally)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: PATRICK SCHORR Patrick lives in Dublin and can be found on a rooftop or along the banks of the Royal Canal. He writes stuff that rhymes at times.

THE FOOL OF CADIZ To this port of riches Many a thief has come, The heaviest price was on my head When I stole from a Borgia's son. I'm the fool, the great fool of Cadiz, I keep my hands from stealing Though my lies they still entreat. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know the longest day, My shows of smoke were all To blow up to a tune And how to mask a fall. I'm the fool, the great fool of Cadiz, My mind has still been bleeding Even since the cannons ceased. Once I had a true love, Yet as paint falls from a clown, I took her hand for mine The day she sailed from town. I'm the fool, the great fool of Cadiz, Sometimes I dream a gleaming Of her ring across the seas. (Patrick Schorr)

HUNDREDTH DINNER OF THE MONTH I'll feel my walk was all in vain When they roll me back from where I came. I've been mashed by the week And hungry for lunch, I blew my nose in the serene of the heath Then went up for the hundredth dinner of the month. There's girls who are keeping it thin And when you aren't looking are slipping it in, They're serving tongue of cheek And pudding of plum, But there's blood in the beef At the hundredth dinner this month. Brazen guts are revealing themselves And my eyes are swollen from the cake on the shelf, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m biting for a bout, I can't eat what it cost, They chewed off their mouths, At the hundredth dinner this month. The night was a choking display, With misused words that found their way. I took it for a warning When the window showed the sun, But I bought some milk for morning Before the hundredth dinner this month. (Patrick Schorr)

MAD DOGS OF DE JANEIRO Your city of yellow ribbons and crimson streams, Of idol heads and beggars belief. At every street, in the corners of your eyes, There's saints upon walls who haven't yet died. You're the purported token heroes, You mad dogs of De Janeiro. The drool of conquest made a mongrel of your lands, Tore the city in two and to the sands. You've toiled the light of the sun, day by day, Decieted the slipstream between it's rays, UnIike those asking where the moon goes, Not you the mad dogs of De Janeiro. (Patrick Schorr)

HOLDS MY HEAD I'm deaf from the cannon's roar, Tired and out of cigarettes. I wanna go back to see my home, Sick of music on my bones, I want that girl to hold my head. One night with the strobe lights raging, When governance was anybody's guess, She kissed with a drip of iron As the night began reclining, Until the morning came she held my head. When the cold, wild winds of war And the screams of death are being sung, I know she won't let me hit the floor, I know she'll hold me so I'm not hung. To be rising up the road With a back seat for my bed. As the distant fields are flashing And my mind is filled with crashing, Of dreams of her who holds my head. (Patrick Schorr)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: ANA SPEHAR Ana is from Croatia, living in Cork for last 4 years. Her work was published in A New Ulster, Solstice sounds, Good Day News and an anthology "A Journey Called Home". She was invited to read at the Cork City Library for the World Book Festival 2018, the Winter Warmer poetry festival and at Many Tongues of Cork. One of her poems was also displayed on the Poetry Wall in Limerick. Her poetry is themed around love and her love of Ireland, her endless inspirations.

FOR ERIN You came as the most beautiful surprise My baby girl You came and you changed My world. Under my heart you lived And you grew It took just one look at you And I knew That for you I will breathe Till my last breath You give me courage You give me strength Strength to fight for you Strength to love for you Strength do die for you. I live for you my baby girl. My child, my love, my world. (Ana Spehar)

I WILL NEVER KNOW You slipped gently across my lips And into my poems As I was holding you tight Too tight Afraid to let go Because if I let you go You will never know That I love you so You glided slowly over my hand And over the pen into a poem As I was grasping the moments Of your hands Your voice Your lips Afraid to let go Because if I let you go I will never know If you love me so (Ana Spehar)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JACK STEWART Jack was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory University. From 1992-95 he was a Brittain Fellow at The Georgia Institute of Technology. Jackâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work has appeared in Poetry, The American Literary Review, The Dark Horse Review, The Southern Humanities Review, and other journals and anthologies, most recently in New Welsh Reader and Image. He lives in Coconut Creek, Florida

LOOKING FROM THE GARDEN WALL OF THE PITTI PALACE DOWN INTO FLORENCE On fine evenings, Catherine de Medici watched The Duomo smolder in the basin of the town, The bells silent, people hurrying in different Directions like beads from a broken rosary. If She looked away, did she notice the sky Was unremarkable, maybe thatched with clouds? She loved the moon faces of Bronzinoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s portraits In the long hallways lit by candles, Their pure broad foreheads and troubled eyes, But here she could stop thinking, not even breathe, As the dark stiffened like brocade. She did not care for mornings, The chipped roof tiles bright in the sun, The beads re-strung at the church door And slipping through fingers of markets and alleys. Three weeks after she was born, both her parents Were dead. Down in the piazza below, The women sweeping ashes that lifted into pigeons Would live forever. (Jack Stewart)

AFTER THE LAST TRIP TO THE HOSPITAL Out of this what Except a different prayer, The first ones broken, The evening cold Under clouds of pine. My shoulders are exhausted From shrugging on my overcoat To rush back to the hospital And remembering To breathe. I understood the future without Tracing a finger Along a constellation’s spine. What else is there To hold onto now but this rosary Of last words—yours and mine— Freshly threaded— And knowing the fingertips Of the coming years Will polish them until they shine? (Jack Stewart)

THE RENAISSANCE ADORATIONS Unlike the Virgin with her model's hair And halo by Versace, Nor the Infant healthy and toddler sized, Nor Joseph unsurprised By strangers on their knees Or colors he has never seen, The stable appears as it would have looked. The scattered hay Looks scratchy and trod upon, And gathered in mounds would provide Some warmth in desperation. The posts barely holding up the roof Are sufficiently insect-riddled, And the patchy roof itself Would whistle in a cold desert wind. This is a place where only Exhaustion could feel secure, Light find its way by accident. Where abandonment takes shelterâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; That central story in the Gospels, Of loneliness that cannot be dispelled, God gaunt at the end, unending Hunger the lesson he repeats. Now one of the oxen is about to Brush up against a vibrant robe, And Joseph has just spread a few More handfuls of hay under the rag He will settle the child upon. The magi, when they are Alone again together, Will certainly Complain about the smell. (Jack Stewart)

A DRIVING RAIN The wind driving the rain sideways, and the ducks Have sunk so far into their shoulders, they look like feathered turtles. The orchid tree outside our porch is having a seizure. Even the pond is trying to get away, The ripples racing along the bank And not looking backâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Like the cold rain driving Adam And Eve out of Paradise, The wet wind that soaked them cold To the bone and denied any cover, And their knowledge that when it stopped All they had tended would straighten And the green deepen and shine. They would outrun the rain Into the desert, To the earth baked hard, a sterile earth He would have to break into the barest life To survive. They would remember The sun in the cedars, The poplars aflame, The cherry trees thick with blossoms, The lionsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; manes burning along the underbrush. Gradually the wind slows, and the rain Bends to the softness of a willow. Another hour and the ducks Are coasting the bank. Everything breathes deeply In the returning warmth. The prayer in the bones has ended. The pond is as calm as black marble, The grass silver with light. (Jack Stewart)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: KAREN PETERSEN Karen is an adventurer, photojournalist and writer. She has traveled extensively, publishing both nationally and internationally in a variety of publications, including The Malpais Review in the USA and Antiphon in the UK. At the time of publication, she is developing a collection of her poems from overseas. She holds a B.A. in Philosophy and Classics from Vassar College and an M.S. from Columbia University's Graduate School of Journalism.

NANA IN A CAN What does a happy ending look like? I wasn’t sure I knew, since most of my life has not left me happy but rather somewhat morose. When my 44 year old father died I was 12. He made chile one night in November and it nearly tore his guts out. By December he’d been told he had stage 4 pancreatic cancer and by March he was dead. That nightmare of helpless decrepitude put me on my guard, an attitude that never quite disappeared with age. After all, how could life be so unfair? Then my father’s mother, my beloved Nana, died when I was 18. I had just finished a disastrous freshman year at college and was drifting through the summer disillusioned and confused when one morning there was a call from the hospital. They told me that my 75 year old grandmother had been going down the stairs of her rather run-down apartment complex to get her mail when she had been pushed by a neighbor, a Puerto Rican prostitute who often serviced a number of the local cops. My Nana had openly disapproved of this young woman and voiced her disgust frequently and loudly. So the woman had repaid her that day with an act of violence which left my Nana with a broken hip. The hospital was to do surgery that afternoon. I called my mother at work but she didn’t think it merited her returning home. So I had no one to take me to the hospital. This decision was no surprise, since my mother’s relationship with my grandmother was uneven at best. Nana had lived with them in the first few years of their marriage and had often been critical of my shy, inexperienced mother, who’d come to America from the wheat fields of Saskatchewan during WW2. My grandmother was from a wealthy Alsatian family and had sophistication and flair, living much of her life as a bohemian painter propped up financially by her sisters who had all married well. Her own husband, a proper Dane, had left her very early on in their marriage unable to stand the lifestyle. We would often spend Sundays drawing still lifes together using pencil, and sometimes charcoal, and those times taught me focus and concentration, two skills that would come in handy for the rest of my life. Often we would pick flowers from the garden and use them for various studies, and the room was filled with their fragrance. So now I sat in the house and fretted about anxiously, waiting for the call from the hospital to tell me she was okay. It came early in the evening, just as my mother was coming in the door from work. I picked up the phone. “Hello,” I said nervously. The stranger’s voice was a woman’s. “I’m a recovery room nurse. Your grandmother is 39

doing very well. She got through the surgery fine and is sitting up and talking to us.” “Oh that’s wonderful. Please tell her I love her.” I was so relieved. I went into the living room and sat back on the couch, watching the wind rustle the leaves of the maple tree outside the picture window. I could hear my mother clanging the pots and pans about in the kitchen. The phone rang again. “Hello?” I said. It was the same nurse. She sounded odd. “I’m so sorry to tell you that your grandmother has died.” I stood there in shock, frozen. “What?” I didn’t think I’d heard her properly. “But you just called and told me she was fine...I don’t understand.” “She must have had a clot. One moment they are fine and the next they are gone. It happens a lot. I’m so very sorry for your loss.” “What do we do now?” I asked in a small voice, barely able to breathe. “Someone from your family will have to come to the hospital to do an ID and sign some papers.” she said. “There will be an autopsy because of the circumstances of her fall.” I put down the phone stunned and turned to my mother who had begun making dinner. “Nana is dead.” “Really?” she said. She had this strange, blank look on her face, as if I’d just said something incomprehensible. “We have to go there and sign some papers.” I continued. “Well we will eat first and then go over,” she almost had a smile now. I just stood there. I think she was relieved Nana was gone. “What happened?” she asked. “I thought you just said she was fine.” “She was!” I said. “The nurse said it was a clot from the surgery. She died instantly.” My mother just nodded and we ate dinner in silence. At the hospital they had my mother ID my grandmother’s body, which I think shocked her more than the death itself. She came out of a room with steel doors, her face white as a sheet, and said nothing. It was clear a crime had been commited and I wanted to file a police report against the prostitute but did not know how to do it. My mother, not one for crusades, just let the matter drift. Outraged, a few days later, I called the hospital and was told that the autopsy report had mysteriously vanished, along with all the paperwork. It was incredible but back 40

then the Suffolk County cops had the run of the county and were accountable to no one. They did as they pleased. It didn’t even occur to me to ask where the body was. When I told my mother she got upset. “Just leave the matter alone!” she said angrily. “We don’t want the police to target us. Let it go. This weekend we will clean out her apartment and that will be that. I’ve already taken her dogs to the shelter.” They were two old fussy dachshunds and that meant they were going to be euthanized. No one would adopt them. It was a death sentence. “We must bring them home!” I shouted, and began to cry. I could see my mother was glad the dogs were going to die--she’d always hated them--and I was impotent with rage and grief. “I’m sorry but that’s not going to happen.” she said firmly. I went into the bathroom and threw up, then stormed up to my room and slammed the door. I lay on the bed in the fetal position and wept. I missed my grandmother so much already. That weekend we cleaned out her apartment and as we were going back and forth loading her things someone stole her little Sony tv set. It was just that kind of place. Even the Puerto Rican prostitute had the nerve to come out of her apartment as we were driving off and shout “I’m glad she’s dead!” I wanted so badly to drive the car straight over her fat ass then and there but instead shouted out the car window “Besame culo, puta!” a phrase I’d learned from a Puerto Rican friend in college. The astonished look on her face was worth it. Many years went by, and the matter seemed closed, and I’m sorry to say, forgotten by all. Life rushed in and it was all I could do to get through school and try and have a career and pay my rent on time. I had a few of her paintings on my wall and the rest in storage, and had kept some things from her apartment, but I’d totally blotted out my memory of those terrible few days around her death. My mother never mentioned her at all. Four decades later, when I was in my 50s and out on Long Island visiting my mother who was now in her 80s I had a dream. Nana and I were in a sunlit room, and it was a Sunday and we were drawing a vase of flowers together like old times. Shubert was on the radio, and I felt a great sense of contentment and happiness. The wind was blowing through the curtains and suddenly I heard her dogs barking and I woke up in a state of great clarity. “Where the hell is Nana buried?” I thought. “What happened to her??” I suddenly realized that I’d never visited her grave, if there was one, and my mother had never mentioned cremation. I began to fear that she’d just abandoned her body at the hospital, which would have been horrible. And where was I, mentally, all these years? How could I overlook such 41

an important thing?? I could remember nothing. I rushed downstairs to the kitchen where my mother was making breakfast and repeated the question out loud. My mother turned and looked at me, with that same blank, disconnected look on her face that she’d had so many years ago. “What?” she replied vaguely, as if not understanding the question. I asked her again. “I, I don’t know,” she said. “What?” I could feel my blood pressure rising. “What do you mean you don’t know?? What happened to Nana???” “I don’t know...” she looked at me, defeated and lost. “What? Where is her body, Mom?? Didn’t you claim it???” I felt the room spinning. “I, I must have but I don’t remember,” she said. “Well, wouldn’t she have a grave somewhere? But you never said anything about a grave all these years. She must have been cremated, right–so where are her ashes?? What the hell happened to her??? I asked, almost shouting now. My mother looked embarrassed, and sad. “Honestly, I really don’t remember. But I don’t think I paid for anything. I didn’t have the money.” I frantically opened the phone book and starting calling the various funeral homes around the area. One by one they all said no, they didn’t know my grandmother or recognize the name. This was outrageous! How could we have just forgotten all about her ALL THESE YEARS?!!! I was down to one last funeral home, a few towns over, that had been around forever Many people held funeral services there but it was now located in a new building that had been built long after my grandmother had died. What were the odds? With my heart sinking I dialed their number. “Hello,” I said hesitantly. “I have a rather strange request.” “Yes?” the young woman said, curious. 42

“Well, my grandmother died in 1976, many decades ago, and believe it or not, we are just getting around to trying to figure out what happened to her. I don’t know how we forgot, but we just did.” “Oh...” the woman said. “She died at the hospital and we can’t find her. We know she wasn’t buried so she must have been cremated. However no one remembers doing that and I’ve called everywhere else and no one knows her.” I felt like I was going to cry. No dead person deserved this kind of indignity. “You are our last hope,” I continued. “Is there any possibility that you might still have her ashes stored somewhere?” “Well actually,” the woman said, “when we moved from the old place there were several cans containing cremated remains that no one had ever come to claim. The owner insisted we take them with us to the new building.” “Really?” I was astonished. “Could you possibly check?” I gave her Nana’s full name. She put the phone down and was gone for a very long time. Suddenly the phone was picked up again. “We found her,” she said. “She was one of the few we brought with us, and she was way back in the corner.” “Oh my God! Oh my God!!” I cried. “This is just so amazing!! It’s been almost 40 years!!! Can I come over now?” “Of course, “ she said. So I raced over there in the car and there was Nana, sitting on the reception desk in an old dusty can, with a faded label. “Do you know who paid for the cremation by any chance?” I asked. But the woman just nodded no. “Please, please thank the owner for me,” I said. “What he did was just wonderful...I really don’t know how this could have happened.” When I got home I took the can to the back yard to where an old rose, the exceptionally fragrant thornless Zephrine Drouhin, was planted. Nana, who had drawn flowers so beautifully, would be happy there. So I dug a hole near the bush and opened the can. Her ashes poured out as she came to rest by this lovely rose. She had come back to us at last. My old mother stood by the back door looking ashamed. I walked up to her and gave her a 43

hug. What was the point now in holding grudges, especially since she would soon be gone herself? â&#x20AC;&#x153;I love you Mom,â&#x20AC;? I said, and we went in to dinner. Even at 85 she was still one of the best cooks around and we sat down and slowly drank a toast to all those who had gone before us.

(Karen Petersen)

WINDOW I have a small mid-town apartment in New York City which is quiet but has almost no light. It's at the back of the building, so I have to keep my curtains open all the time or else live in a shadow world. One of the disadvantages about facing the back of an office building on another street is that its inhabitants aren't aware that people are actually living in the neighborhood and they often leave at the end of the day without turning their lights out. This makes it impossible for me to sleep, even with my curtains drawn, because their florescent lights are so bright. So I've slowly over the years made friendly overtures to all those offices and they have turned their lights off at the end of the day as a result. They also keep their curtains drawn so I have more privacy. It's all very civilized. For months now no office space has changed hands so I've been going to sleep and waking up like I have for most of the seventeen years I've lived here. I put wind chimes up on the fire escape and they tend to tinkle at random like a kind of musical deus ex machina just outside my window. It makes me feel as if there's a caress out there, somewhere in this hard city. Then this man moves into an empty office directly across from my apartment and it all goes downhill fast. Seven days a week, twenty four hours a day, his lights blaze. I finally have to call the front desk of his building one weary night at 3 a.m. and ask the guard if he could please go turn the lights off. "I can't, someone's up there," he says. "The guy's a weirdo. He's always working." He is there Thanksgiving when I leave and when I come back. He is there Christmas. New Year's Eve. New Year's Day. Every holiday. Except for about four or five hours a day, he is there all the time. He has absolutely NO OTHER LIFE. He does nothing else but eat, sleep and work. He'll look out his window occasionally, which irritates me intensely because that means the end to my privacy. I begin to play a sort of Russian Roulette "hide and seek" since my curtains have to be drawn almost continuously. (I lose as soon as I notice him by the window. Then I have to shut the curtains or put a robe on.) But this constant watchfulness, plus the endless light at night finally becomes too much to bear. It wasn't any one thing; it just added up to a point in time when something inside me said, "Enough." So one weekend I decided to slip a polite explanatory note under his door to see if I could convince whoever it is to at least draw their damn curtains at night. When I returned to my apartment, there was a message on my answering machine. He called himself Gamal, and politely invited me over for coffee to discuss the problem that I'm having with his lights. That seemed promising so I went back and knocked on his door. 45

A tall Middle Eastern man opened it. I wouldn't call him handsome--his hair was unkempt and he had a mouth like crepe paper, somewhat flabby and puckered, really rather ugly-but there was something undeniably attractive in his manner and eyes. A cigarette hung from his mouth as if he thinks he's Jean Paul Belmondo, and I had to suppress a giggle. I think he might be Egyptian, judging by the photos on the wall. â&#x20AC;&#x153;So it's you," he said. "Please come in." I can tell he's attracted to me by the way his gaze sweeps over my body. What a drag--he's an interesting looking man but that's not what I came over for. As I sit down I notice an ashtray on his desk filled with cigarette stubs and the room smells of stale smoke. "I see that you like to smoke, even in these days..." I said, laughing. "I've smoked since I was 12 years old in Cairo," he said. "I enjoy it and it hasn't killed me yet...But tell me about yourself. What a nice surprise to meet such an attractive neighbor," he leaned back in his chair and lit his cigarette. "This pleasure I do not get every day." "Frankly, if I told you my story we'd be here all night, " I said, smiling, trying to dodge him. Why do we have to get personal, I think, when all I want is for him to shut his goddamn shades. "I travel a lot for my work, so my sleep is very important and that's why I, and my other neighbors, have this problem with your lights. Your lights shine into their apartments, too." I try to make him smile but he looks at me in this hooded way that tells me he's not taking me seriously--he's only thinking about getting laid. "My beautiful lady," he said, "let me explain that this is MY office and I do what I like in it. At night I like to open the window and give myself some air, and it's easier to do with the shades pulled open. Sorry. Perhaps you and your neighbors should get thicker curtains?" I can feel my face flushing with anger and he sees an opportunity. "Well, my dear," he said, leaning forward invitingly. "Why don't I call you next week and we can talk about it more over dinner?" I should have taken my cue then and there and told him to "Piss off!" but I made the mistake of thinking that if I got to know him better maybe I'd have more leverage. So I said yes. He called me the night I happened to be going to a party so I brought him along. I introduced him to my friend, Susan, a writer. Susan: "So, what do you do?" He (taking a deep drag on his cigarette for effect): "I'm a writer." Susan: "Oh yeah, so am I. Who do you write for?" He: "Well, actually I'm directing a movie." Susan: "What's the movie's name?" He: "It doesn't have a name yet. I'm trying to raise money for it. Now I'm distributing American movies overseas." 46

I watched Susan's eyes glaze over. "Oh, I see..." she said. He: "You said you're a writer?" Susan: "Yes, I'm a journalist." He (doing his third world number on her): "Don't you think all journalists make things up at one time or another in their careers?" Susan: "No way, where did you get that idea?" He (another deep drag and a shrug): "It's true, just like all rumors have some basis in truth. Don't you think so?" To her great credit she just smiled sweetly and took a sip of her drink. Since he didn't get a rise out of her, he excused himself and walked over to huddle with other smokers that were outcasts by the fire escape. My friends stood there looking at me with puzzled looks on their faces until Susan turned and said, "WHY, may I ask, are you bothering with that moron?" "It's a long story," I said, sheepishly. I went over to the smokey grey haze where Gamal was. "Hey, I'm hungry," I said, "why don't we go get a bite to eat?" "I'd like to but I don't have any money," he said, puffing away. "I get paid tomorrow." "Come, on," I grabbed his arm. This was ridiculous. "Let's go, I'll pay." Outside, it was freezing cold as we waited for a taxi. "All the cabs are taken. Let's get on the subway," I said, since the entrance was right in front of us. "Oh no, I never take public transportation," he said, shaking his head. But after about 20 minutes of waiting in the howling wind freezing his balls off, he agreed to take the subway. But when we got to the restaurant we never even made it inside. "We have to eat in the smoking section," he said. "You're kidding, right?" I was incredulous. "No," he said, adamant. It was incredible how this guy always had to suck on a cigarette no matter what. I've known smokers before, but never anyone as bad as he. He smoked continuously, in cabs, in elevators, in restaurants, anywhere, and he considered it an affront if you made any demands for yourself or your own health. He just didn't give a damn. But it makes me so angry, even now, because if it wasn't for his smoking habit I think I could have put up with him--at least for the short run. Loneliness does that to you. 47

But, since I wasn't a smoker I was not going to eat a dinner I was paying for immersed in a cloud of smoke. I didn't need his company that badly. He refused to back down. "Listen, Gamal," I said, "I think it's better we both go our separate ways, okay?" So he went back to his office and smoked and worked, and I went home and ate dinner by myself, furious. I'd not only had a lousy date, his blinds were still open! I know this because his lights went on in a blaze and he opened his window a crack, something he always does when he's smoking too much. Even he knows it stinks up the room. Every time I look out my window and see those lights on it's a continuous reminder of my loneliness--that I'm HERE, sitting, looking, waiting, instead of OUT THERE, somewhere, having a life. Sometimes I don't leave my apartment for three or four days. I just sit here reading, watching TV and glancing out the window every chance I get. His lights are a kind of a beacon for me, a connection to life, however twisted. For me, those windows are no longer anonymous-I've actually been inside those rooms and know every minute detail down to the giant coffee stain on his carpet. Although his office lights are becoming a bit of an obsession with me because of the sexual promise that lurks behind them, they are also evidence of his unwillingness to compromise. They are, quite literally, in my face. I need to feel like I have some control over my life again. I have to do something. I need to get some sleep. Every night, around 1 a.m., he turns off the light in his office but leaves on the one in the other room. I can see more than a silhouette of him--just enough to make him visible. So I stand by my window in my nightgown pretending to be looking at something in the dim light of my apartment. My gown is backlit by a far off light in my room, just enough to be tantalizing. I do this as he comes to the window, his white shirt unbuttoned in a deep v and the sleeves rolled up. He looks sexy. He shuts the vertical blinds but I know he is still there, behind them, and that he has seen me and is peeking out, thinking he is hidden. But the light from his other room makes a slight shadow of his body and I know he is there, watching, so I bend over low to water a plant and reveal my breasts. Sometimes I turn around, take off my nightgown, and run my hand down the curve of my back as if I'm tired. I stand still for a second; I know I'm driving him wild, all alone in that dark room. Then I move away, out of sight. I don't do this every night but enough to keep his shadow there behind the blinds, any time I feel like it. He never knows when he'll see me, so now he always turns those lights off at 1 a.m., just in case. (Karen Petersen)

EDITORâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S NOTE Well, we managed to get January right up to March out but the April edition has been plagued with difficulties, hence the temporary change in format! Rest assured that now that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finally here, ANU Issue 90 features some amazing work from around the world. Happy reading, good health, and keep creating, Amos Greig (Editor)