Edify Fiction - V1, Iss. 1

Edify Fiction Volume 1, Issue 1

April 2017

"The Day Long"

by Louis Staeble

Editor Angela Meek

Assistant Editors Craig Mardis Michelle McMillan­Holifield

Submissions: First and foremost, we love a good story in prose, poetry, flash, or photography/digital artwork form. Secondly, we welcome all writers and photographers, whether you have been

Edify Fiction Magazine

published worldwide or this is your first story.

We do not subscribe to a specific genre, as we enjoy reading all kinds of things ourselves ­ including mysteries, fantasy, sci­fi, romance, historical, comedy, and YA among others. What unifies Edify Fiction's content is its ability to be positive, inspirational, and motivating.

Submissions are accepted on a rolling basis online. Full guidelines and the submission link are found online on the Submissions page of our website.

Cover Art: The Day Long Photographer: Louis Staeble Louis Staeble, fine arts photographer and poet, lives in Bowling Green, Ohio. His photographs have appeared in Agave, Blinders Journal, Blue Hour, Conclave Journal, Elsewhere Magazine, GFT Magazine, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Four Ties Literary Review, Inklette Magazine, Microfiction Monday, Paper Tape Magazine, Qwerty, Revolution John, Rose Red Review, Sonder Review, Timber Journal, Tishman Review and Your Impossible Voice.

His web pages can be viewed at http://staeblestudioa.weebly.com.

Best of the Best: Published contributors are automatically entered into the annual Best of the Best contest. This contest provides cash prizes for the pieces that were audience favorites. Contest is held annually each Spring.

Careers: Volunteer graphic artist needed. Do you love computers, magazines, and design? Would you like to contribute your design talent to encourage and uplift others? This position requires evaluation of submitted work, communicating with designers, designing work for the website and magazine, and finalizing pieces for publication. Also has the option of working on layout of magazine. If interested, please email contact@edifyfiction.com.

Follow Us Facebook https://www.facebook.com/edifyfictionmagazine/ Twitter https://twitter.com/EdifyFiction Website http://www.edifyfiction.com

© Edify Publications, LLC 2017. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

Copyrights revert back to individual authors and artists after publication.

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Edify Fiction

April 2017

From the Editor Welcome to the inaugural issue of Edify Fiction Magazine! Inside this edition, you may be prompted to consider a lost love, find freedom in spite of pain, and hanker after the open road.

Some of you will reflect on missed opportunities and how you’ve grown in spite of it – because you can learn just as much (if not more) knowing the anguish of loss in lieu of the joy of having. There are stories here that hit that strange place in our souls where wistful happiness and thankful regret collide.

The authors and artists here are as varied as the stories and images they share. We have a first­time author and some that have been published hundreds of times. They come from a variety of backgrounds and boast a wide range of skills – from teaching to nursing to dancing to beekeeping. What they all have in common, however, is the ability to motivate us to go a little bit deeper. They’ve provided pieces that purpose to edify.

Edify: to instruct or provide information to improve spiritually or intellectually And that’s what this magazine is about... to provide fiction that is entertaining and edifying at the same time. Every piece here was carefully selected because it did that for us. Hopefully, you will find one, maybe many more, that do the same for you. When you do, we encourage you to come back to our website and share your commentary and dialogue on your favorites.

We hope you enjoy reading this first edition as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

Contributors 1 The Day Long by Louis Staeble 3 The Tinder of our Wishes by Monet Lessner 7 Des Lettres by Precious Arinze 10 Through the Lens by Troy Varvel 11 The Gift by Jenny Sturgill 15 Big Feet by Kyle Hemmings 17 To Connecticut by John Grey 19 Bodhisattva Mama by Gerard Sarnat 21 Luck by Denise Mostacci­Sklar 23 Ahma by Ashley Tan 25 The Garden by Jennifer Jones 28 Back Alley Car Wash by Adam Rose 29 The Rose by Lauren Kelly 36 Taylor Ruth by Madison Rahner 37 Rolling In by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz 39 Three Bags Empty by Charles Trevino 41 Lauds by Thomas Johnson 44 The Boy and the Orchard by James Piatt 45 Rabbit by Gilmore Tamny 47 Sitting by Kathie Giorgio

Best regards,

Angela Meek Editor, Edify Fiction

The photos found on the following pages are from StockSnap.io and fall under the Creative Commons CC0 license: pages 3, 10, 11, 17, 21, 23, 25, 28, 29, 36, 39, 41, 44, and 47. The buddha photo on page 19 is from goodfreephotos.com.

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The Tinder of our Wishes

By Monet Lessner I ran into him walking out of a popular chain store that I won’t name. It suspiciously features whirling circles wherever you look, which is probably to blame for the unnecessary and attractive trash can I bought when I went in for five minutes to get laundry detergent and deodorant.

I was still dressed for work ­ faded lipstick, pencil skirt; a top knot ­ because I can’t wash my hair every day and simultaneously get the kids to school on time.

I hadn’t seen him in years probably. He gave me a side­hug and a rhetorical question.

“You do realize it’s cloudy, right?”

He referred to my oversized sunglasses, and the dusk­falling, patchy clouds that had gathered since my commute home.

I think I smiled or something. Maybe I gave a tired laugh. I generously assumed he was trying to be funny. We stood awkwardly on the sidewalk with the backdrop of sad, convenient chain stores and coffee shops. I suddenly felt old. Through the luck of genetics, birth place, and twenty years of yoga, I'd gently landed in middle age, retaining a good deal of my youth. But lately I'd become hyper­aware of my seven passenger SUV; the suburban store front where I shopped; the lines deepening across my forehead. I had a kid going to college in three years. It was as if I'd been initiated into some secret society without realizing it; without my full consent.

He took a sip of his drink and I shifted some weight off my heels and onto the shopping cart 3

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April 2017 holding my impulse purchases.

“Did you grow up into one of those people who wear sunglasses all the time whether you need them or not?”

Yes, I thought, I grew up to be a fill­in­the­blank person. Insert whatever generic category you'd like to make yourself feel better at my expense. I was losing my sense of humor. Or, after years of working in publishing and being married to a man whose cleverness had been part of his downfall, I had reached my capacity for arrogant banter.

We chatted. He was in town visiting family. I politely enquired; I guess he felt obligated to as well.

“Anna started high school and my youngest is in second grade…”

I trailed off. Neither of us was good at small talk. How could he ­ a single, middle­aged man with no children ­ care at all about the mundane details of my life? There were other things I could talk about. I’d just reviewed a series of books by women authors who were revolutionizing Christian literature and breaking into the secular world with actual good news that included feeding the hungry and clothing the poor. But that might have bored him too. Or sardonically amused him, given his opinion of organized religion and the existence of God in general. What I didn’t mention was the recent end of my seventeen­year marriage. Despite the distance of time and geography, I knew him too well. I didn’t want to add to the cliché I was sure he perceived in me.

Besides, the reality of divorce was so much easier if I didn’t have to talk about it. I suddenly understood every repressed character I’d ever read and thought, Why don’t you just say something?

What is wrong with you? You’re going to implode!

But I wasn’t going to implode. I was just fed up with everyone’s reactions. At church, it was judgement in the form of encouragement to reconcile. There was a complete lack of empathy, understanding, or anything that actually would have helped us stay together. At work, it was non­ reaction: nobody cared that I was late for the meeting because I was now in charge of everything.

“What’s your husband’s name again?”

Crap.

“We’re divorced.”

He was divorced too, years before. But I was a Christian woman bred in the Southern­Evangelical church, though I arrived late. Nobody divorced and I certainly never thought I would. Scratch that. People divorced. Then they found another church and a new set of friends.

Divorce in my mind was a last resort. I’d prolonged our marriage until our eldest suddenly developed eyes and ears everywhere. I had to choose one, tremendous guilt: leave my husband or subject my children to all the hidden tragedies in our life, which might follow them into adulthood. I don’t know what I worried about most­ my boys growing up to make choices like their father, or my girls ending up with someone who would. They needed to know there were other options.

“I’m sorry.”

His tone changed. In the first few minutes of our conversation, he hardly seemed different than his twenty­year­old self. Same slightly off­kilter social skills, same insolent, interesting confidence. I had felt like a foreign creature, a hundred­billion versions away from the make­up­less friend of his youth who referred to dead authors as if they were living, breathing companions.

It's an unfortunate phenomenon, but even at middle age, I wasn't exempt from adolescent reasoning. Shadows of our youth played in my peripheral vision and after his sunglasses comment, I felt

Yes, I thought, I grew up to be a fill­in­the­blank person.

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that he saw me as a caricature of the culture I belonged to. I imagined he viewed me (wrongly) as a narrow­minded, right­wing, ultra conservative, us­against­them, I’m­right­you’re­wrong, white woman who had forsaken her previous, kinder, softer, more intelligent identity.

Now we had something in common. Grief, one of the great equalizers. Who cared what he thought of me and I of him? Life was too short and hard to spend finding specks in our eyes, even if they wore sunglasses in cloudy weather.

“Do you miss him?”

The question stunned me. What kind of question was that for a parking lot conversation? I could recall moments like this in our history. He used to ask me all kinds of questions, some he had no business knowing. I, in my awkwardness, always felt some sort of obligation to answer them.

How do you keep missing someone, I thought, that no longer exists, but didn’t die?

“No,” I said. I was still awkward, despite the mascara and tailored clothing. We stood, silent, for about three, long seconds before I burst out laughing.

At first he ­ he who probably thrived on shocking people like me ­ looked terribly uncomfortable.

But I couldn’t stop.

“I don’t! It’s actually a tremendous relief!”

I could barely speak. Tears started to run down my face, but I only laughed harder. He started to laugh too.

“You’re kind of weird,” he said, “You always were, you know.”

“I know!” I choked out.

“I’m glad.”

I stopped laughing and pushed my sunglasses up to wipe my smeared make­up.

“I bet your kids are weird,” he said.

We started laughing again.

“They are!” I said, “Thank God they are so weird!”

“Can you still quote the Brontes like a boss?” he asked.

“But smiles and tears are so alike with me,” I said, “They are neither of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.”

“Impressive. And apropos. Which one?”

“Anne.”

“Ahh…the least read.”

I thought of Helen at Wildfell Hall and, like before, said exactly what came into my mind.

“She was the most instructive.”

We talked for a few more minutes and then he and his coffee and I and my trash can parted ways. As I drove home I saw my reflection in the rear­view mirror. There was an unmistakable “hollowness about the cheeks… the lips… something about them that betokened… no very soft or amiable temper.” A vision of myself as Mrs. Graham terrified me. It was happening already. In the evenings, with my children, all my natural joy and energy came effortlessly, but something changed after the smallest one disappeared into the double doors of our neighborhood school and I entered the world without them. Something froze up, an austere layer in my outer being. I couldn’t seem to help it.

Well­meaning friends dragged me to depressing parties because they knew a handsome widow or divorcee. I stared into my coffee cup or wine glass or cheese plate and escaped at the first opening. I didn't laugh at their jokes, I didn't flirt. It felt too ridiculous when grown men couldn't just have a normal conversation and ask for my phone number. We weren't teenagers and for my part, I had no romantic wish to return to that period of life. I did feel a little sorry for them. I knew how hard this all was, but that knowledge didn't change my lack of interest. And now I couldn't even run into an old 5

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April 2017 friend without projecting all sorts of judgements into his mind; holding him accountable for a hundred years ago.

I decided to drive around for a while. I had the whole evening ­ the kids wouldn’t be home until the next afternoon. It was close to Christmas and I didn't feel like returning to the quiet, empty house.

The city was awake and full of wonder, draped in cheerful patterns of twinkling lights. I parked near the market district and walked towards the river. I seemed to be the only solitary being that night, traveling the intricately placed pavers in my three­inch heels amongst families, couples, and large groups of friends. I took them off and walked barefoot past the newly, renovated riverside hotel, the small eateries and mixed­use lofts. Twenty years ago, I had been broke, writing for the city paper and living in a rat­ infested efficiency a few blocks from this part of the city, now deeply lined in disparity. It was so strange; life was so strange. Time etched itself into the surface; alternating injustice and mercy.

The air was crisp, but not cold. I stopped on the pedestrian bridge and looked out over the water, reflecting thousands of bulbs that wound around every tree. It was breathtaking­ the beauty and loneliness and freedom I felt in that view. And heart­wrenching. So often they seemed to go together. I couldn't tell you what was in my heart with the words the world has given. I could only sigh into the magical atmosphere, the depth of humanity around me, the pulse of a city full of lovely brokenness. I felt some relief with every breath I let out.

There was still so much to love; so many moments to recognize. The ice­cold beer in my hand the bartender let me slip out with, a mild night leaning out over the shimmering water, my bare feet on the cool concrete; a touch of necessary glamour in heartbreak. Too much hadn't gone the way I hoped and I missed my children like a vital organ of my being ­ but what else was there to do besides keep going? And why keep going in misery?

I entered a used bookstore just before closing, looking for old favorites to put in the kids' stockings. Judy Garland and Bing Crosby played in the background. Silver bells and gold, shimmery garland hung from the ceiling. A sudden, strong grip of nostalgia made me quickly peruse the shelves until I found a worn copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. The next morning I woke late, having read the entire book before going to sleep. I wrapped it in brown paper and anonymously sent it to my old friend.

It was as much a gift to myself as to him. Something I would have done in the sweetness of youth, before the tinder caught fire; before I knew how much could go wrong. It was a strange message of hope, coming the way it usually does, in between lines of despair. I thought he'd understand. *Quotes are pulled from Anne Bronte’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

About the author Monet Lessner is an educator and mother­of­three who writes when she should be sleeping. She has been short­listed for the Austin Chronicle Short Story Contest and Pen Parentis Fellowship. You can read her work at Literary Mama or watch her 2016 reading in Listen To Your Mother at listentoyourmothershow.com.

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Des Lettres

By Precious Arinze

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April 2017

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About the author

Precious Arinze is a Nigerian Poet, freelance writer, and undergraduate

student of Law at the University of Benin. Her work has appeared in Mikrokosmos journal and is forthcoming in various literary magazines. You can follow her on Twitter @TheAddlepate.

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Edify Fiction

April 2017

Through the Lens

By Troy Varvel I remember taking that photo of her feet, and how the sunset lit the clouds at the edge of the water. Purple waves cascaded from the sky, dripping over us while we stood in the sands and dry weeds of the Galveston dunes. Her toes curled into the sand, grit beneath her toe ring. She had white scars that traced the tops of her feet, the sides of her heels to her big toes. I should have asked her if those were actual miles on her feet, how she collected those scars and calluses, before I took the first picture.

“Do your feet hurt?” I asked her instead.

She looked at me. Her tangled hair clumped at the corners of her eyes, framing her face, drawing my focus from her feet to her nose, to her eyes, to her mouth, and to all of the freckles in between that riddled her face like stars. She skipped around me, her white skirt flaring up her thighs, and I turned with her, keeping the camera to my eye.

She pressed her lips to my lens. I saw the development of other mouths in the three­second darkroom she made for us. “No.” Her kiss fogged my lens, but I still saw her look at my clean, un­ callused fingers as I adjusted my focus again. “Such naiveté,” she said and then flashed a smile and pulled away.

I kept quiet. I kept my photographer’s stance: camera to my eye and my finger on the button.

Through the lens, after a month of posing for me, I watched her walk away and not look back. I did not take that last picture of her. That image I saved for myself: a short white scar on the sand, just a speck of salt eventually.

About the author Troy Varvel holds an MA in English from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, TX. He has taught English as an adjunct instructor and as a high school teacher. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in THAT Literary Review, The Cape Rock, Driftwood Press, and Gravel.

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The Gift

By Jenny Sturgill

Samuel and I sat side by side in the hard waiting room chairs.

"Mr. Samuel Sullivan," the nurse in the green scrubs called out from the doorway.

My anticipation quickened. I closed the Time magazine and placed it on the table next to the rest of the pile, gathered my purse and jacket, and stood up. What did Dr. Brenton want with Samuel that would warrant an urgent visit today? He was supposed to come in next week for his test results.

Samuel's eyes met mine as he staggered and held on to the chair arm for support. I couldn't help notice how thin he was, and he seemed to be getting weaker. I looked away, afraid he'd see the worry in my eyes. The nurse smiled a sweet, professional smile. I summoned a smile back and took Samuel's shaky hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The nurse led us to Dr. Brenton's office at the end of the hall.

"He'll be with you shortly," she said.

A tall doctor, with white hair, thick bushy eyebrows, and a goatee, rushed in. He reached out his hand.

"Please, have a seat."

We took two seats in front of his mahogany desk. The doctor opened Samuel's chart, concern wrinkling his forehead.

"Samuel, I'm afraid I don't have good news." He sighed. "Your tests came back positive for pancreatic cancer." He looked up and gave us an apologetic smile. "We have treatment." The doctor's 11

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April 2017 voice melted into a drone.

My husband of 42 years was gravely ill. Samuel was kind and gentle, a man of faith, with a deep love for mankind and did not deserve this. My temples pounded and I slumped as the doctor's words ripped through my heart and soul. My eyes drifted to look outside the window where a young couple sat on a bench at the bus stop, holding hands. I couldn't allow myself to imagine what my life would be without him.

Samuel inhaled sharply and his voice dropped to a low whisper.

"How long do I have?" he asked.

His voice broke, and I could see his throat move up and down as he swallowed hard.

"Maybe six months, with treatment," the doctor said. "We'll start treatment as soon as possible."

Samuel waved his hand. "No, no, no treatment. None of that!"

"No treatment? Samuel, you can't be serious," my voice came out louder than I intended, as his words cut through my heart like a sharp knife.

Samuel turned and looked at me, his voice low and pained, his eyes pleading and full of sadness.

"Elaine, I just want our time together to be as normal as possible." His voice shook, and it had an edge to it that I recognized.

I knew then that Samuel had made up his mind. I slipped my hand into his. I felt him tremble, and my grip tightened. I paused and weighed my next words.

"Sam, we'll get through this together."

All the time I was refusing to believe this could be happening. * Days passed.

"How did it go today at work?" I asked, pretending to be absorbed in the flowered pattern of the tablecloth. I felt as if I were dropping into a hole. I was already feeling my grief. Wild thoughts shot across my heart and fell in a heap at my feet. I had to keep myself together, knowing his pain and weakness would only worsen.

He practically fell into a chair at the table and covered his face with his hands, his shoulders slumped.

"I fell at work today." His voice broke. "Some young guys helped me back on my feet; I felt like an old man...I'm not going back."

I took his arm and wrapped it around my neck, and together we staggered to the living room. He slumped into his blue recliner. I lifted his feet onto the foot rest and covered him with a blanket, allowing his eyes to close. I studied Samuel's face as he slept. A film of perspiration glazed his forehead and upper lip, each breath possibly his last. * Samuel died two weeks later. It was too great a blow for me to absorb at once.

A large crowd gathered for the funeral: Samuel's boss, with his wife Cheryl, who dabbed at her eyes with a wadded tissue; Albert, the red haired bagger from the Piggly Wiggly down the street where Samuel bought his favorite steak every Friday, cut just the way he liked it; the short puffy­faced neighbor who always hung over the fence until Samuel cut one of his beautiful prize roses from his collection just for her; even the three wild boys from the next neighborhood who were always running their bikes across the yard, making trenches in the green carpet of grass.

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* Months dragged by...

I padded aimlessly from room to room the week of Christmas. The backyard was as empty of life as I was. Winter had tightened a cold band around my body. The roses shimmered with silvery snowflakes, their dead and gnarled branches whipped in the wind. The empty swing swayed in the wind, its chains clanging softly. Across the street, Joe and Amy laughed and waved as they hung strands of Christmas lights on their front porch. Their golden retriever, Stan, playfully nipped at Joe's heels, his tail pounding, bidding for some attention. Joe reached down and rubbed his knobby head. I waved and managed a half­hearted smile. The garland I'd strung along the porch rail now sagged and waved in the breeze. At that moment, without warning, I realized I was totally alone.

Christmas Eve dawned with gray clouds that dumped a blanket of snow, painting the landscape a brilliant white. Brightly colored lights outlined windows and doors, announcing Christmas was here.

The basement was depressingly dim, the concrete stained and cold. Our tree still stood in the basement corner covered with plastic. Lifting the plastic covering, I waded through memories, pieces of other Christmases.

Samuel always made a big deal of putting up the tree on Christmas Eve. He and I used to delight in putting up the tree and decorating the house. The aroma of apple cider would drift through the rooms. We would pop popcorn on the open hearth, string lights all over the house, laugh and giggle and hold each other tight.

I jerked the plastic back down over the tree. I just couldn't make myself put it up alone. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I turned and walked back upstairs.

On Christmas Day, I crawled out of bed just before noon as I always did these days trying to ease the gnawing within me, but unsettling thoughts stayed thick around my heart. I watched Home Alone twice, not even paying attention to the screen. I wasn't sure I even heard the doorbell at first, but it kept ringing. I hoped it wasn't a bunch of carolers bringing good cheer. The fourth ring got me going.

"Hold on I'm coming," I called, as I hurried to the door. A teenager with a broad grin stood there, holding a brown box with a red bow on top.

"For me?"

"You are Mrs. Sullivan, right? We have special instructions to deliver this to you today, no later no earlier. It's dated, umm, five months ago. It's kinda heavy." He stepped inside and stood by the door.

"Just set it on the floor," I gestured to the rug by the table.

He set the box down and hurried out the door.

I kneeled beside the box and with both hands, I tore open the top. Something wonderful sprang to my chest ­ a wiggly, butter­colored ball of fur, with a round face, bright brown eyes, and a fuzzy tail that wasn't just wagging but vibrating. I held him tight and pressed my cheek against his soft baby fur.

I examined the tag that hung from his neck with the inscription,

At that moment, without warning, I realized I was totally alone.

Merry Christmas, Elaine. I love you, Samuel I felt the tears sting my eyes. Something warm and wet ran down the front of my blouse and 13

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April 2017 dripped onto the floor.

"You naughty little boy."

I set the wiggly puppy down, grabbed a dish towel from the table, sank to my knees, and mopped up the puddles. He padded over to my sewing basket and took one of my yarn balls in his mouth and trotted back to me. I leaned back on my heels and threw the ball of yarn into the corner. He scampered after it barking and sliding on the slick kitchen tile. I scooped him up in my arms and felt his tiny heart pounding. I couldn't help but smile.

"Come on little Sammy, let's see if we can find a Christmas tree to decorate."

Epilogue January and February passed in a hurry. Both months were brutally cold and the gray sky dropped a foot of snow that never seemed to melt. I wanted to sleep until noon to make the days shorter but Sammy was having none of that. Each morning, as the sun came up, I would feel a wet little nose press against my cheek. Sammy was ready to go out and start his day. He licked my face and whined and pulled the covers off the bed until I crawled out stretching and yawning. Many mornings it was all I could do to keep my eyes open, and I was sure that if I squeezed them tight and concentrated, I could see Samuel standing beside me. Sammy made sure I didn't hide under the covers and wallow in my grief. The puppy's needs challenged me to get back to living. Outrage would have come at any other time in my life, but I knew that God had the power to do great things ­ even allow me to love this little ball of fur who chases his tail for no good reason than just being there.

This morning, I eased out of bed, parted the drapes, and bathed in the sunlight of a rare warm spring day. The grass was a shade greener in the back yard, and the tulips were just peeping their heads out of the ground. Sucking in a slow breath, I moved over to the mirror. For a long moment, I stood motionless staring at the face and body in the mirror. Remembering the tears that came every day, I suddenly realized that the episodes of weeping now came less often. My eyes seemed calm and peaceful. Somehow, I was filled with a kind of joy I had lost for a long time. I turned and looked into Sammy's dancing brown eyes as he stood at my feet with his leash between his teeth. I was amazed at how much he had grown. I felt myself smile as I squatted and pressed a feathery kiss on the top of his furry head.

"Ready for your walk little man?"

About the author Jenny Sturgill is an RN who lives in Louisville, Kentucky with her husband.

She has had publications in The Storyteller, Page&Spine, The Pink Chameleon, Kentucky Explorer, Friday Fiction, Kentucky Story, and she is the author of Against the WindÍž How I survived my life with Grandma.

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Big Feet

by Kyle Hemmings

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Edify Fiction

April 2017

About the photographer Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Elimae, Smokelong Quarterly, This Zine Will Change Your Life, Blaze Vox, Matchbook, and elsewhere. His latest collections of poetry/prose is Future Wars from Another New Calligraphy and Split Brain on Amazon Kindle. He loves 50s Sci­Fi movies, manga comics, and pre­punk garage bands of the 60s.

Kyle may be reached via blog http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/.

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To Connecticut

By John Grey

On the road from New York to Providence, I was alone with the ninety plus Connecticut exit ramps.

The sky was lined by trees and breakdown lanes, fitted with occasional wispy clouds.

I could see the Submarine building facility in New London, the towers of Stamford, Thames river sailboats.

Various rest stops spiraled outwards.

The green was lush, the malls pristine.

At an almost seventy­five mile per hour clip, it seemed like slowness ­ familiarity will do that for you.

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April 2017 Scenery kept itself to the minimum, the prosaic if you will ­ a baseball field, a postage stamp state forest, and billboards of course ­ everything from coffee and fast food to an upcoming fight on HBO. One foot on the accelerator, the other tapped like it was fingers in time with Van Morrison on the CD I played once the sports talk faded into fuzz.

I saw small towns, houses, everything picture perfect when you don't know the lives.

It could be that if Connecticut didn't stretch between home and the Big Apple of my twice­yearly romps it would only exist for me as one of the very last state names that I ever learned to spell.

I've gradually discovered that it has its charms.

But, more than anything, it's blessed with a stretch of route 95 and those ninety plus exit ramps ­ can Texas boast more?

The familiar "Welcome To Rhode Island" came upon me like the one and only hitchhiker on this stretch.

I didn't stop but I took it on board anyhow.

Here were the people I could walk past on the street and not know it and the cars I might just park beside at the supermarket or multiplex.

They weren't from Connecticut.

For the longest time, no one was from Connecticut.

At least, just the ones scattered along the highway for my benefit.

Or as Van Morrison might say, "It's a marvelous night for a moondance" or the guy on WFAN, "The Mets suck."

An Irish singer and a New York baseball team ­ now that's Connecticut where I come from.

About the author John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.

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Bodhisattva Mama

By Gerard Sarnat

Suffering much of life, at one hundred one Mom’s become enlightened.

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April 2017

About the author Gerard Sarnat's been nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize. He’s authored four collections: HOMELESS CHRONICLES (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014) and Melting The Ice King (2016) which included work published in Gargoyle, Lowestoft, American Journal of Poetry plus was featured in Songs of Eretz, Avocet, LEVELER, tNY, StepAway, Bywords, Floor Plan. Dark Run, Scarlet Leaf, Good Men Project and Anti­Heroin Chic feature sets of new poems. Mount Analogue selected Sarnat’s sequence, KADDISH FOR THE COUNTRY, for distribution as a pamphlet in Seattle on Inauguration Day 2017 as well as the next morning as part of the Washington DC and nationwide Women’s Marches. For Huffington Post/other reviews, readings, publications, interviews; visit GerardSarnat.com. Harvard/Stanford educated, Gerry’s worked in jails, built/staffed clinics for the marginalized, been a CEO of healthcare organizations and Stanford Medical School professor. Married since 1969, he has three children, four grandkids.

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Luck

By Denise Mostacci­Sklar Was I dreaming of or remembering in the early morning, the space between sleep and waking… the chain link fence that separated our Green Street house from Mr. and Mrs. Katrass's back yard that was a garden, large and full of carrots, tomatoes, turnips, more and more vegetables and rows of flowers.

It was the early 1960s and black top was popular then. Hot asphalt was poured directly onto the ground, rolled out soft and steamy until it cooled and then hardened. This made the space around the houses look smooth and neat, so a garden squeezed in the middle of all this seemed misplaced and old fashioned.

Looking through the chain links, I watched the gray­haired couple, strong and sturdy, work the garden while my long arms reached high up on the fence to hang. Mr. Katrass would pull out turnips and carrots, then smile at me as he held them up, shaking the moist brown earth loose to reveal a tangled mass of roots and odd shapes. Mrs. Katrass worked alongside him with her large body bent over, brow sweating in the sun, streaks and smudges of soil on her wide face, and a kerchief always pressed against her forehead.

I remember one day she went inside for a while and returned wearing a clean cotton dress and a flowered apron. Her grey hair was pulled back loosely and her large thick hands held a freshly baked pie. My family and I were often treated to Mrs. Katress’s home baked pies. We tasted the tart sweetness of garden­fresh rhubarb and other home­grown delicacies at a time when our daily vegetables came out of a can ­ small, diced and watery ­ and we ate cakes and cookies overpowered with a white sugary taste that we learned to love. Most of our food was prepared in factories, boxed and packaged and neatly placed on grocery store shelves. But Mrs. Katrass’s pie came from the earth next door, out of the oven, then passed over the fence.

My favorite of all the flowers grown in their garden was the gardenia. It was like no other flower I had ever seen before and to me the most exquisite of all. On the day of my First Holy Communion, Mrs. Katrass presented me with a freshly cut bouquet of them, wrapped in a paper napkin, that was to be placed at the feet of the Virgin Mary statue which stood outside on the grass lot of the Holy Family Church; the one that I would be married in twenty­three years later.

Rich purple lilacs were abundant and fragrant at this time of year, and every girl held them proudly, posing for photos before dropping the traditional flowers at the feet of the Blessed Virgin. I stood in front of the delicate marble beauty with my gardenias held tightly against my chest, squinting 21

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April 2017 in the sun as I smiled for the camera. Then I carefully tossed my white bunch to rest, exotic in a bed of purple. This was the flower that Billie Holiday wore in her hair, my mother had told me. (I would later live in a New York City apartment with my husband, look at her face on the album cover, mouth wide open and singing with that large white gardenia, pressed up against her jet­black hair. Her voice floating up from the phonograph lingered, and reminded me of the shape and aroma of its petals and the first day I held them in my hands, inhaling into their softness.)

We marched together in boy­and–girl pairs, dressed in white, from head to toe, with our hands held in the pointed praying position. Marching away, I could feel the Blessed Virgin’s brown­painted eyes follow me. Afraid to look back, I thought of Mrs. Katrass’s plain, almost homely face as I glanced back to see the Virgin’s blue flowing robe and delicate hands outstretched downward toward that white speck in a purple heap. **** Wandering my backyard, grassy wild with clover, I searched the grass It was August and the sun was shining as I came across a clover, four­leaved and perfect. I remember the quiet buzz in the air and the thrill that I felt as I leaned back on the bulkhead door with the hot sun pressed up against my face. That was the day the tall girl, boyish with bangs and brown hair cut to her chin appeared at the fence­ she was Mrs. Katrass's granddaughter, visiting for the week that summer. I showed her the clover I’d found, a rarity and full of luck. She asked to hold it, and I happily passed it through one of the diamond shaped links that was just large enough to fit our small­girl fists through.

She placed the leaf in the palm of her hand, gently examining it as if her eyes had no choice but to trace its contour. Without looking up, she asked if she could show her grandmother. I nodded, and she disappeared into the house. It was past four o'clock in the afternoon when she left, and I waited for her return until my mother called me in for dinner. I stood at the fence, feeling like the garden with its roots pulled out. I was the earth shaken off, left behind. I went inside.

After dinner, my mother made the call and soon the girl and I met on opposite sides of the fence again. I asked where my clover was. "Inside," she said, "pressed in a book," like her grandmother said to do. She left again but this time returned with the book that she opened to reveal my clover intact, but now spread thin and flat against the page. I took it back and ran up to my bedroom to repeat her ritual.

For a time, I’d take the clover out to show it off or just to gaze at it now and then. Nothing was ever said about why the girl took it, pressed it in a book. I’d stood frozen at the fence, my fingers wrapped tightly around the hard metal wire, waiting for her to come out again, feeling lost, confused, a little ashamed. I had taken back something she’d made her own, some kind of happiness that was hers or maybe her grandmother’s, something I found but she needed. Maybe the luck was in finding it and then sharing it, like the day Mrs. Katrass handed me the white gardenias, smiling. How lucky I was to have them for a short while, then offer them, in turn, to the lilac pile.

About the author Denise Mostacci­Sklar has had a career as a dancer and now has had the good fortune to discover writing as another way to move through life. She has been published in numerous journals, some of which include the Aurorean, On the Rusk, The Stray Branch, Ibbetson Street Press, Gravel and Glassworks Magazine. Denise is from Hamilton, MA where she is a personal trainer in the GYROTONIC method of bodywork and lives with her husband and two incredible sons.

22

Ahma*

By Ashley Tan You are; A maze of the universe’s deepest ambiguities contained within the blues of your windows, with piercing inner onyxes that mirrored the bleakest shells of humanity raining from perdition overturned You are; A perfectly marred canvas of the ages an adroit architect who’s carefully crafted, an intrinsic labyrinth of peregrinations on your palms which hold a century’s worth of the wars of our past You are; A voluminous library yearning to divulge the world’s secrets yet inaccessibly barred by the barriers bred by my tongue, failed by memory and hardened by circumstance now a forgotten dialect left bereft and unsung You were; An unorthodox tree of life birthed dimly before the blizzards borne by winter irremeable by the first blush of spring, the very essence of history and heritage But in old age You will remain; A warrior hound braving the fleeting seasons, straddling the fragile line between impermanence and Eternity.

*”Ahma” is Hokkien for “grandmother”.

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April 2017

About the author

Ashley Tan has recently been accepted as a First Reader for Polyphony H.S. Aside from clinching

the Gold Award for The Queen's Commonwealth Essay Competition, Ashley's work has also appeared or is forthcoming in The Straits Times, MTV Founders, AsiaOne, Creative Kids Magazine, and Moledro Magazine amongst others. Ashley hails from a small sunny island proudly known as the Little Red Dot and holds an uncanny penchant for all­things pink. One day, she hopes to dominate the world in a princess dress and sparkly tiara, because who ever forbade warriors from dressing in style too? Follow her on Twitter @sparklypinksnow.

24

The Garden

By Jennifer Jones In the old, grey chair— the one next to the window holding distant mountains and nearby trees encased within its arms of glass and wood— the Sandman sprinkled his glitter dust upon my head, and I gave in willingly to the unexpected pleasure of midday slumber.

Glasses tipped askew upon my face, my chest rose up and down with a gentle heave.

A cherished tome accompanied my peaceful breaths in their undulations.

But my overactive mind wandered, as it was often prone to do.

Out of my body's confines and through the glass I floated, past trees and mountains, ever onward until my spirit came to hover above a field of flowers.

From sky's height the field was blanketed fully— natural conformity— a living, thriving Cézanne canvas framed by yellow rye.

Only when my mind's eye hovered a bit closer did I notice the quilt squares of blooms… patches of blossoms filled with rows of variant shapes and hues.

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April 2017

It was ordered chaos, that garden, adjacent squares stretching to infinity.

Some small, others quite immense, many obviously finished, still others in various stages of completion. each unique.

As I glanced to the left, and again, to the right bare plots of rich, black soil blended seamlessly amongst the blossomed squares— tilled fertility alive and brimming with potential.

A lone man tended this grand design.

He paid no heed to my wanderings, intent as he was upon one particular plot.

He troweled the earth with his bare hands, seeming to delight in the feel of it.

Upon completing a singular row of greenery, he sat back upon his haunches, tipped his time­worn straw hat, and smiled at his accomplishment.

Curious, I loitered even closer.

He finally acknowledged my presence. a musical baritone as rich as the soil and as alive as the garden itself met my ears.

"Do you recognize what we've planted?"

He laughed when my confusion was evident and spoke again in that warm voice, "Perhaps you need reminding..."

"In the first rows, there are daisies, for innocence.

Shy, shrinking violets next, then sunflowers—such show offs..."

He pointed out the wildflowers that followed, haphazard in their beauty, with bleeding hearts scattered here and there amongst them.

When I queried about the weeds interspersed throughout the patch, he replied, "Leave them be...they serve purpose and blossom with time..."

The wildflowers bordered rows of patient daylilies.

They extended fingers of recklessness into the edges of the lilies' verdance.

"Ahhh, I do love lilies, " he voiced, "they neither toil nor do they spin, but they spread if they are well­tended..."

The plot carried on with the row that the gardener had just planted.

"Sage—for wisdom...I hope that we can plant more of this," he mused.

I still questioned his use of the plural, and he patiently responded, "Dear heart, have you not yet recognized?

This is your own life that I am tending, in this plot."

Knowledge bloomed within me.

His eyes twinkled as he whispered, "Time to plant more sage."

26

Alas, with this revelation, I floated upward— back toward consciousness and easy chairs.

I chose not to focus the remainder of my time with him on the breadth of the tilled, fertile soil in my frame.

Instead, my vision rested upon the gardener's face.

His laugh lines and sparkling eyes soon blurred, as did the garden itself, until I was uncertain whether I had stared into the face of God or that of my own earthly father.

I awakened—not hazy and unfocused, as from most dream states, but determined to fill the space left unplanted with a balanced mix of encouraging goldenrod, cheerful chrysanthemums, sincere ferns, affectionate morning glories, graceful rue, and much, much more sage.

About the author

Jennifer Jones is an author, reader, and accidental coffee snob who

currently resides with her husband, teenage daughter, and Napoleon­ esque dog in the New River Valley of Virginia. Her works have been published in The Best of Poetry Project 2014 from Fray’d Tag Publishing, the anthology Silver Lining from Baer Books Press, the poetry compilation Crashing Waves from Swyers Publishing, the literary journal From The Depths: Outsiders from Haunted Waters Press, and will be featured in the 2017 Ram Boutique Volume 2 from River Ram Press as well as Vine Leaves Literary Journal Issue #19 from Vine Leaves Press. For more information, as well as links to her various social media platforms, please visit Jennifer’s website: www.wowjenwrites.net.

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April 2017

Back Alley Car Wash

By Adam Rose The Alley Way Car Wash was busy. Weathered tarps stretched and fluttered in the welcomed breeze. Soap bubbles popped by a nearby drain. Bert’s plastic chair creaked as his butt filled every crevice. Bert’s a tubby guy with pasty legs in cargo shorts built for a younger man. His gray short sleeve Polo made his arms look like sausages at rest. He looked back up at Pedro’s friendly smile and continued to express his marvel.

“You’re an artist. I appreciate what you do. People don’t get it, but I see the work you put in and that is a skill that cannot be trained into a person. The guys on my lot don’t know squat. Listen, you ever get tired of this place, you should consider coming over. Here.” Bert fumbled in his pocket but couldn’t squeeze his hand in. He grunted when he stood up and fished out a business card and continued, “Take this and show Joanne at the reception desk. She’ll send you right to me.”

Pedro took the card. The card was black with red lettering that said, “Porsche Por Favor, Pre­ owned Porsche dealer of Glendale.” Pedro gave the Spanglish a quick wince, but he pretended to be impressed. He gave a vigorous nod of enthusiasm.

Bert’s shirt was partially tucked in and out of his shorts like rolling waves on his sea belly. He patted Pedro on the back when a sharp whistle came up. Bert’s Porsche coupe was finished. Pedro had done the bulk of the work but left the tire treatment to Phillip.

Bert shuffled over to Phillip and palmed him a twenty. Pedro watched as Phillip slipped the money into his back pocket. The upside down water jug with the big “Tips” sign duct taped to its side wasn’t going to feel the weight of that twenty. The guys were supposed to pool their tips.

Phillip’s neck was covered with tattoos. A solider dressed in a World War Two officer’s uniform went down his right forearm. Pedro guessed at that being his grandfather. The tattoo of a teardrop by Phillip’s right eye warned Pedro not to bring up the twenty. The teardrop was half full of black ink, which typically meant he’d tried to kill someone.

Bert adjusted the driver’s seat to accept his girth. He was about to release the emergency brake when Pedro opened the passenger seat door and sat down. Without looking at Bert, he said, “I’m ready now.”

The redness expanded up Bert’s neck like the back hairs of a pissed off cat. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel and then adjusted the rearview mirror to look for answers.

About the author

Adam Rose writes and teaches in Los Angeles. You can find some recent work of his in The Milo Review, The Casserole, Reimagine and Tell Us a Story. Adam has an all ages comic book (4 issue mini series) set to come out Spring 2018 through Action Lab Entertainment. Follow him on twitter @adamrose74.

28

The Rose

By Lauren Kelly

1994 Sherry thumbed through the binder, scanning the colorful images. Alexandra sat beside her on the worn faux leather couch watching her flip the pages.

"What about this one?" Sherry asked. She pointed to a drawing of a butterfly. Its wings were outspread and colored in different shades of blues and purples.

"I don't know." Alexandra wiped her sweaty palms across her thighs and shook her head. "What else is there?"

Sherry turned her eyes back to the book and resumed the repetitious flipping. With one of the zealous flips, a page flew from its plastic protector and slid across the wood floor. She went to retrieve it and returned with a knowing grin.

"This one. Let's get this one." She held the page up in front of her chest, her forefinger pointing to a black and grey shaded rose, its petals half open, resting on two veiny leaves.

"You think so?" Alexandra took the page from her older sister's outstretched hand and took a closer look. "It's pretty."

"It's perfect!" Sherry threw her arms around her in an enthusiastic embrace and rested her head on her shoulder. "You don't like it?"

"I do. Tattoos are just so permanent. How do you know it's the right one?"

"It flew right out of the book for us. If you don't want to we don't have to do it."

Alexandra looked to her sister, whose smile faded as she sank back into the couch.

"I got one on my eighteenth birthday. I just thought it would be a fun thing we could do together. Something we could always remember."

"No, I want to. It’s perfect."

"Come on then." Sherry linked her arm through Alexandra's and led her back up toward the counter. "It's just like choosing a lover. You see one and it just feels right, so you do it. I've waited five years to get another – I waited for you so we could do this together."

Alexandra agreed and hoped her sister wouldn't notice her cheeks flush with nervousness as they handed their driver's licenses to the receptionist. The pen shook as she stared at the long consent form and signed her name at the bottom.

29

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April 2017 Sherry went first and Alexandra watched as the artist used the buzzing machine to ink the image into the skin on the back of her neck.

"It's not that bad," Sherry said.

But as she watched her older sister wince from time to time, Alexandra knew it was a lie, a protective one for her benefit, the same as when she said it was easy to ride a bike without training wheels or parallel park their mother's Buick. Maybe pain takes practice, Alexandra thought. When it was her turn, Sherry held her hand as they both watched the artist place the purple stencil on the outside of her left ankle. The artist asked if she was ready and turned on his machine.

Alexandra looked to her sister and tried to ignore the buzzing sound as he drew the first line.

She knew the pain was worth the memory. *

*

*

2009 Alexandra looked at her sister's rose as she brushed back Sherry’s shoulder length black hair and fashioned it into a short braid before wrapping a black stretchy tie around the end. The rose was lighter, faded with fifteen years of age, its edges less defined and fine lines almost invisible.

"There you go," Alexandra said. She looked up to meet her sister’s eyes in the mirror. "You look beautiful for your big day."

Sherry sat with her folded arms against her chest, her brow tense and her lips pressed together into a straight line.

"It's too long," she said.

"I know." Alexandra smoothed her hands over the braid one more time then rested them on her sister's shoulders. She watched Sherry's eyes in the mirror, staring; not at her, rather just straight ahead, as if focused somewhere past the reflection. "But you don't like it short anymore. Remember?"

Alexandra knew it was a stupid question. Nine out of ten times her sister wouldn't remember.

She couldn't recall how, years ago, she cried every morning at the sight of the thick, pink craniectomy scar just behind her hairline arcing across the left side of her head. They decided to let her hair grow longer to cover it up. Yet sometimes, when Sherry ran her fingers through her hair, Alexandra could see her trace the scar and wondered how much of her former self her sister remembered; if she understood she was different at all.

While she could piece together other things here and there, the accident was one thing Sherry never remembered. There were a few times over the last seven years when Alexandra tried to talk to her about it, to see if she understood why she was the way she was. When Alexandra realized she wanted to discuss it for her own benefit rather than her sister's, she gave up trying. It was one of the single­most influential events in her life and not talking it through with Sherry was at times even more difficult than watching her older sister struggle to remember how to tie her shoes. They'd only been able to speak about it once, in the trauma center in the weeks following the car crash.

When Sherry first woke up, she was still Sherry. Her head was shaved and held together with a bloody string of stitches. Her face was distorted with bruises and swelling and several of her front teeth were missing, but she was still there. She asked about the accident and her surgery, and when Alexandra told her the crash was caused by a truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel, Sherry laughed and responded with an in­character, "Poor tired bastard."

A few days later, after a series of seizures and an infection, Sherry woke up a second time, but she was no longer there. Then there were months of bedside vigils and countless nights where family slept in waiting room chairs, waiting for more news. But after all the waiting and praying, they could 30

only keep waiting and watch the prognosis unfold for Sherry and the rest of their lives.

"Let's finish packing," Alexandra said. She took a seat crossed legged on Sherry's bed. When she looked down, her legs were half obscured by her growing belly. She leaned backward into the pile of pillows, placed a blouse from the pile across her stomach and used it as a folding table. Sherry gathered the clothes from the closet, pulling each item from its hanger and throwing it into a pile next to Alexandra.

"Why don't you leave a few things here for when you come to visit?"

“Good idea,” Sherry said. She smiled and made a humming sound that turned into a familiar tune Alexandra recognized but could not remember its name. “I’ll play when I come over.” Sherry leaned over to place a pair of jeans into the suitcase.

Alexandra held up a dark pink linen blouse and Sherry snatched it from her hand.

"I want this one," Sherry said. She sat on the opposite side of the bed, held the shirt by the neckline and bottom hem and brought the two ends together. She tried again, this time placing the blouse in her lap. After a few other tries, she folded it in half length wise, rolled it into an oblong shape, and placed it into the suitcase.

Alexandra watched as she struggled, but managed the task. She could do many things with the right instructions; others, such as folding the shirt, she could figure out on her own. It wasn't the right way to do it but it worked. It was the Sherry way. *

*

*

2005 "The brain is very complex," Doctor Coleman said. "As you all know, Sherry has made great progress the last three years, but change can be difficult on anyone."

Alexandra sat with her parents and her husband, Simon, in the wooden arm chairs on the opposite side of the desk. Her weight shifted when she reached for Simon’s hand and the legs of her chair creaked against the tile floor. She watched as the doctor spoke, leaning toward them on his folded hands with her sister’s voluminous file sitting beside him. She knew it was filled with notes and reports from the last three years, some of them more promising than others.

"She’s still healing, " he continued.

Alexandra let out a long slow breath as her stomach fluttered with a familiar wave of frustration, just as it did every time she heard those words. At first, the phrase held hope, but now she dreaded the false hope the words carried. She looked to her parents whose forced smiles and sad eyes focused on the doctor. Her father reached for her mother’s hand and gave it a squeeze. They’d cared for Sherry as long as they could, but with her mother’s upcoming hip surgery they could no longer handle the responsibility.

"But since she's been spending the weekends at Alexandra and Simon's, there no reason to expect she won't accept the change of living there. There will, of course, be a period of adjustment, but I think we're all prepared as best we can be. Do any of you have any other questions?"

Alexandra had many questions, but she knew they were pointless and would only upset her parents. They were already under enough stress from Sherry’s move. Her full­time care was too much for them to handle between all of her appointments, medications, and mood swings. She wanted to ask

She wanted to ask how they could expect anything at all.

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April 2017 how they could expect anything at all.

It had been a regular Thursday afternoon until Alexandra received the call from her mother about Sherry's accident. From then on out, their expectations were dashed and exceeded hundreds of times. Now, with her sister officially moving in with her the next day, the only thing she expected – the only thing she hoped for – was to get through tomorrow.

"I know we've asked this before," her mother said, "but do you think this change will help her?"

"We'll have to wait and see once she gets into her new routine. Coming in for rehabilitation and therapy every day will help manage her anxiety and depression and help teach her ways to help herself and become more independent again. Our inpatient community is always another, more intensive treatment option, but I know you want to have her at home with you. Being with family has been an important part of her recovery. She's doing well so far. We just need to see how she adjusts from here."

Alexandra was thankful when her mother had no more questions. *

*

*

That night they all sat down to dinner, and afterward, Alexandra and Sherry cleared the dishes while their mother went to pack Sherry’s things. Sherry swiped remnants of food into the trash and handed the plates to Alexandra who rinsed them in the sink. It was their first routine chore, learned years ago as little girls, when they stood on chairs completing the same motions. Sherry handed the last plate to her sister and turned to help load the dishwasher.

“Sher, don’t put that bowl on the bottom,” Alexandra said.

“Oh.” Sherry removed the bowl and placed it on the top rack. “I know, silly.”

After loading two more plates to the bottom rack, Sherry grabbed another bowl and placed it beside them, slid in the racks, and shut the door.

2008 The alarm sounded as Alexandra dressed for bed. She yelled to Simon who rushed to turn off the water in the shower, but she flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time as the high pitched buzzing sounded up the stairwell. When she reached the landing, she turned toward the open front door and saw Sherry. She was already down the walkway, almost near the street, and Alexandra burst into a run.

“Sherry!” As Alexandra caught her sister by the arm, Sherry spun around and yelled back in surprise.

“Where are you going? Come back inside.”

“What? I need to go!” Sherry yelled back and pulled away. The motion sensor lights on the garage illuminated the yard and the neighbor’s dog started barking next door.

By then, Simon caught up to where they stood on the front lawn. “It’s all right, let’s go inside,” he said. He tightened the belt on his robe and placed one hand on either of their shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Alexandra tried to catch her breath.

“Out!” Sherry pushed away from them both and turned back toward the street.

Simon managed to usher them both inside, locked the door behind them, and reset the alarm.

Sherry stomped up the stairs and her bedroom door behind her with a thud.

“You know she gets upset when you yell at her like that.” Simon ran his hands along his reddened face as he paced across the foyer.

“She scared—I don’t know why—” “You know why.” He held his finger to his lips then pointed upward.

“I know.” Alexandra sat down on the couch and he paced behind her before heading back 32

upstairs. When she heard another door click shut, she curled up on the sofa, wrapping her arms around one of the pillows. She slept in the living room that night and told Simon it was because she feared Sherry would try and leave again in the middle of the night. *

*

*

Alexandra sat at the bathroom vanity smoothing lotion along her arms. In the mirror, she could see Simon sitting on the bed. "I don’t ovulate until next week," she said.

"Thank God," he replied. "I’m exhausted." He swung his legs up into the bed under the covers and grabbed a book from the nightstand. She caught his eye in the mirror and he placed the book open on his lap. "No offense, honey."

She got up from the vanity and walked to her side of the bed. "I know it’s tiring." Alexandra inched closer and rested her head on his shoulder. "We’ve only been trying a few months, but I think it will happen soon. I can feel it."

Simon took the book from his lap and placed it back in the nightstand.

"We need to talk about what happens when it does."

Alexandra buried her face against his chest and murmured in acknowledgment.

"Alex, we really do need to discuss it. I know you want Sherry here with us – I do too – but you also know you can’t take care of her and a baby. Her doctors even said it could be too difficult for her to adjust to having a baby in the house."

"I know. I just don’t want to think about it."

She sat up and turned out the light. They sat in silence in the dark room until Alexandra relaxed back into the space beneath his waiting arm.

"I know we can’t care for Sherry and a baby, but she sat and played the piano today. I left the sheet music for Für Elise out on the piano. She was helping me make lunch, and then she went to the piano and played. How can she do that but not understand so many other things."

"You know –" “I know –" “You know she can play the piano one day then run out in the middle of the night the next.”

"I know, I know. But she looks so normal. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that she’s no longer the same." Simon smoothed his hand down her hair, his fingers brushing the side of her cheek.

"Moving into an apartment at Westwood will be best for her." *

*

*

After her twenty­week appointment, Alexandra went shopping for the baby’s room. Sherry strolled around the store, glancing at the items, and Alexandra watched her out of the corner of her eye as she spoke with the sales associate. She lost sight of her for a moment, excused herself, and hurried toward the back of the store. Just when she thought of calling security to help her search, she spotted her in one of the aisles. She paused and wrung her hands together before approaching.

“Anything good back here?”

“No.” Sherry scanned the shelves and reached for one of the plush animals. Two others tumbled to the floor, and she bent down to pick them up. She grabbed the stuffed giraffe and elephant then stared at Alexandra’s leg and pointed to the rose on her bare ankle. “When’s that from?”

“My eighteenth birthday.” Alexandra waited as she stood and placed the animals back upon the shelf. “A present.”

Sherry nodded and continued down the aisle.

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April 2017 “It’s pretty, right? Perfect.”

“It’s nice. Can we go yet?”

“Not yet. Can you help me look for a few things first?” Alexandra took a few quick steps to catch up to her sister.

“For what?”

2009 After they finished packing, Alexandra drove Sherry to the Westwood rehabilitation campus.

The residences were located adjacent to the main treatment facility, and Alexandra parked in the roundabout where she dropped Sherry off every weekday morning. Once inside the large round lobby, Sherry walked over to the patient board that listed the day’s activities. She stood a few feet from the board with her finger on her name and traced it to the first item.

"I have occupational therapy first," she said.

"I’ll meet you here afterwards," Alexandra answered.

Sherry nodded and walked off down the hallway.

During the hour Sherry was in therapy, Alexandra sat in the office filling out paperwork. She re­ read the terms of her new assisted­living situation until the words blurred together. She already knew all the details, so Alexandra gave up reading and flipped through the pages, initialing here and signing there. Her sister was classified as high functioning so she would have her own room and access to a shared kitchen along with all of the other community amenities.

When she flipped to the final page, Alexandra stared at the release form. With one signature, she would sign over her sister’s care. She tapped the pen on the paper, leaving several round blue divots in the page before slowly signing her name, carefully forming each looped letter.

Afterwards, she returned to the lobby and waited for Sherry, who appeared a few minutes later along with a group of her friends.

"We’re going outside," Sherry said. "Would you like to come with us?"

"In a little bit," Alexandra said. "We need to go to your room first."

Sherry stood there for a moment as the group dispersed around her then nodded.

“Of course. That’s right.”

Alexandra led her down the opposite hallway.

The suitcase and few boxes were waiting for them in the room. They unpacked Sherry's things and put them away in her new bedroom. When they were finished, Alexandra rolled the empty suitcase into the bottom of the closet.

"We’ll leave this here for when you want to bring some things when you visit on weekends."

"Thank you," Sherry said. She stood closer, the backs of their hands touching, as they both stared into the now full closet. Alexandra knew she could tell she was sad, even if she didn't fully understand why.

"I have a few more things for you." Alexandra took her sister's hand and led her to the love seat in the adjoining living area. There was a canvas bag on the coffee table, and from it she pulled a stack of picture frames.

..she could tell she was sad, even if she didn't fully understand why.

34

"This is a nice room, but I thought you could use some photos to brighten it up."

Sherry looked at the stack of framed photos in Alexandra's lap. After a long moment, she took the frame from the top, placed it on the table and looked to the next.

"I taped notes to the back, so we remember who they're of and when they were taken."

"Thank you." Sherry reached for the final frame and picked it up gently, one hand holding either side, her fingertips not touching the glass. "This is my favorite. That was a fun day."

"It was, wasn't it?" Alexandra leaned closer and looked down at the photo of them as young girls, sitting in the damp sand at the water's edge, making sandcastles on the beach for the waves to knock over and destroy. Alexandra remembered watching Sherry search for bubbles in the sand when the waves receded so she could dig up little sand crabs who she said would live in their castle under the sea.

"I loved those vacations."

"You didn't always," Sherry said.

Alexandra watched Sherry as she studied the picture. The ends of Sherry’s lips curled up into a smile.

"You used to be so scared of the water. It was so funny. I'd splash it toward you and you'd scream," Sherry said.

"I don't remember that."

"You don't remember?" Sherry chuckled to herself, looking closer at the detail of the image.

"You used to cling to Daddy's leg as he tried to bring you closer to the water then run screaming back to Mom and hide on the blanket with her for at least an hour every time."

"I just remember running behind you in the whitewater and playing in the sand. I don't remember ever being scared."

"Your baby will do the same." Sherry placed one hand on Alexandra's belly. "We'll take him to the beach and he'll scream and cry, but we'll get one picture of him smiling. Then he'll see it years later and think he always loved the beach."

"Yeah, we will." Alexandra's eyes burned with a thin film of moisture. Remembering the doctor's advice, about not being upset because of how it could upset Sherry, she hugged her sister, wiping her eyes where she couldn't see. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

About the author Lauren Kelly relocated to the Washington D.C. area from New Jersey in 2006. She completed her MFA in Creative Writing at Arcadia University and her undergraduate degree at the University of Virginia.

Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Number Eleven Journal, Barely South Review, Calliope Literary Journal, and Cynic Magazine. Follow on her website http://www.LaurenKellyWrites.com or on Twitter @Lauren_A_Kelly.

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April 2017

Taylor Ruth

By Madison Rahner She had a smile like a lottery winner everyday of her life and a summer job scooping ice cream on the pier.

After the last red tourist had been served, in the earliest of morning hours we sat in the sand beneath the dunes.

She had skinny arms with long fingers, all of which were sticky and smelled like the dairy drying in her arm hairs.

She reached down my throat, ice cream scoop in hand and wiggled me around like she was playing tug­o­war with my larynx.

Taylor Ruth kissed me and said, “Don’t you see how much easier it is when you warm the spoon?”

She was right and she was gentle when she pried my jaw open.

She pulled out round scoops of capillaries and alveoli, like strawberry sorbet or cherry Italian ice.

I loved the pulse of her wrist, inside my throat like a second heartbeat.

Even when she got fired and the only thing left inside of me was my own ribcage, I was so grateful to have met Taylor Ruth.

About the author Madison Rahner is an English Major at Coastal Carolina University. She enjoys beekeeping and sunbathing. This is her first published work. Catch up with her on Twitter @rahnernotrainer.

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Rolling In

by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz

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April 2017

About the photographer Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a writer and photographer. Her work has appeared in various journals and anthologies. She is the author of two fiction chapbooks, Mother Love and Where I'll Be If I'm Not There.

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Three Bags Empty

By Charles Trevino Old man McCormick has a gift. He lives all year like a hermit back in the piney woods, yet when the County Fair comes to town, he’s in town busy as a squirrel in October. We all have plenty of pecan trees, but it’s McCormick who sells out of his pralines every year. He’s got the knack. I need that knack now, ‘cause I plan to visit Dad this Christmas. Dad’s two­hundred miles away in Centerville Prison, and bus tickets are expensive.

One problem – McCormick’s picky about taking on workers. For years, Becky Sue has been the only one he trusted to sell his tasty treats. She moved away last month, and now the word’s out he won’t be hiring any replacement. So I’d given up on learning from the best – that is, until I applied at Howard’s Hardware. My friend Eddie was there and told me old man McCormick was hiring for the County Fair by testing kids with odd jobs. He said, a week ago, McCormick paid him nine dollars for raking three bags of leaves, and that yesterday, Marcus, his cousin, got twelve dollars for four bags. He said other kids tried out too, but none were hired. I’ve got to figure what old man McCormick wants, so I can snag that job.

The next morning, I walk near four miles to his place rehearsing what I will say, but when I see him, my mouth sticks shut. He’s hunched over hammering barbed wire onto a side fence. I want to bolt, but I remember Dad. The old man glances up at me through bushy eyebrows but keeps working. I swallow hard, and walk toward him.

“Got any jobs I can do Mr. McCormick?” I yell, since he’s hard of hearing.

After a long pause, he mutters, “Maybe.”

“I’ll work real hard,” I say looking him in his eyes and then at the ground, forgetting everything I planned to say.

“Come back tomorrow...”

I cringe. Tomorrow? “…I got some leaves in the backyard that need raking. Three dollars a bag. You think you can do it to my liking?”

“I’ll do my best.”

He replies, “Humph,” and returns to repairing the fence.

I walk home mulling over his words and thinking of all the gossip about him: McCormick is unkind, unfair, and unreasonable. He’s a stubborn, stingy, senile stickler. But I don’t give it much 39

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April 2017 credence since there’s plenty of talk about Dad, too... which makes getting a job around here impossible.

If I want to be invited back, I’ll have to do everything to his liking. Every leaf will have to be picked up and his yard left immaculate. Three dollars a bag – I pray for wind tonight and none tomorrow.

The next day, I arrive as the sun comes up. No wind, but a definite chill. McCormick is loading wood into his shed. Expressionless, he points to the gate. I walk to the backyard and find a sea of scattered leaves.

“Where’s your rake?” he grumbles behind me.

I sting from sheer stupidity. All my rehearsing and prayers didn’t help me from being a fool. He had sent me home yesterday to get a rake!

My hands spring up. “I thought I could use yours.”

“You thought?” he mimics.

“Yep,” I whisper. Then louder, “I don’t own a rake. Can’t I borrow yours?”

“Borrow? Nonsense. I’ll rent you one for a dollar.”

Unbelievable. “Okay, deal… but… I don’t have a dollar.”

“Boy, you ain’t equipped for this job, are you?”

“Maybe not…” I force a smile, “…but I’m a fast learner.”

“Rake the leaves, and I’ll deduct my dollar.”

“Great. Thank you, sir.”

He points to an overflowing compost pile. “I have plenty of leaves for mulch. Bag the rest of the yard.”

I try to sound businesslike. “Yes sir, I’ll do it.”

“Yonder by the well, you’ll find a rake and five plastic contractor bags. Come fetch me if you need more.”

“Yes sir, I’ll do it.” Now I sound like a parrot.

He shakes his head and walks away.

I pick up the rake and one bag. The bag is huge and stretched out. I start in. The rake’s claw keeps falling off. I manage to gather the brittle leaves into four large piles. I stick my feet onto the lip of the bag to make a wide opening and shovel leaves in with both hands. “TO MY LIKING” keeps stomping around in my head. I attack each pile, not leaving even one partial leaf or twig on the ground. When done, I go get Mr. McCormick.

First he looks at the compost pile, then at my work, and finally at me. “Well sonny, I guess I won’t have to be emptying out those same old leaves anymore.”

“Yes sir…no sir…I mean…okay sir.” I’m not sure what he means or what to say.

He counts out my five dollars.

I thank him.

Then he raises those thick eyebrows and smiles. “You interested in working the County Fair selling my pralines?”

I know exactly what to say. “Yes sir – that is, if it’s to your liking.”

About the author

Charles Trevino works as an Interpreting professor (ASL/English) and as a community interpreter. He has published several short stories and poems previously.

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Lauds

By Thomas Johnson

I Night herons squawk, whistle, and tweet, and fill their callings with melodies; they lull us awake and soothe us to sleep as they gather and scatter and fly between trees.

For the squawking and drumming that’s done in winter by crows and doves and two­legged beasts a bounty of blessings ought surely be spoken and daily our lives be thanksgiving feasts.

II A butterfly so big you can hear its flutter so piquant in yellow it sparkles the eye can philosophize or say how to worship.

And so can the trees and the stars on high­­ no psalms or words of consecration, their holy lives their only prayers: like last rites given a dying bird cradled in the hands of a boy who cares.

III By listing and whirling and turning in sync the Spheres and Winds sing out their tunes, and humans will dance whether they hear them or not ­­as abandoned cats will wail for the wounds they feel from the sting of death unseen.

What else explains the music of the Spheres if not the song of a homeless heart; if not the grief piled on by years?

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April 2017 IV No unctuous proselyte can sway an earthen being as the moon when it is ripening to its full.

The holy crest of Love at noon does not appease its midnight ebb­­ no more than noble companion stars assuage the sharpest prickles of Love.

Alone we fight in Love’s grave wars.

V A nail in the foot could lead to lockjaw, one in a tire can cause a slow leak, for want of a nail a nation could fail­­ what else may occur in the span of a week?

Each day the journey is made to pray oh give thanks to the Lord for He is good!

Each day a prayer for all our days, each day the good more understood.

VI The delicious music of the hovering stars will charm the most distracted mind from the dangerous wadis where it struggles.

Whatever the twists the Fates unwind the heron chirps throughout the night; alone the moon pursues the mate who, naked, offers up the kiss a Lunatick demands of Fate.

VII “May I get a hug from you?” you ask a friend, and he lays himself in your arms like an Innocent­­easy and resting still.

A lifetime of pain and fearful alarms and obsequies performed for love are all forgotten in his embrace.

This is the silent sacrament, the lover’s dearest means of grace.

VIII Our living sacrifice includes the sacred book which is our dreams, where we record what we’ve forgot, or can’t forget; where all the screams of childhood terrorize the old; where all that’s lost along the way is found again; where the battered soul, like nestled bird, is pleased to stay.

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IX True devotion starts with penance­­ evil in the heart as heavy as an anvil; like envy of the sexual beauty of a friend who gets as much as he can handle; like envy of tomorrow’s promise that for you will never be.

Penance needful of some art so good it hurts someone to see.

X To see contempt in no one’s eyes, no more tormented by fear and doubt; to hear herons and stars and the heavenly hosts singing their praises and raising a shout; to be impelled by Love to virtue, to make our laments the prelude to peace­­ this is the consummation of Hope and the worship Creation will never cease.

About the author

Thomas Penn Johnson was born on August 22nd, 1943 in Greensboro, North Carolina. In 1992, he published a collection of poems entitled If Rainbows Promise Not in Vain. In 2009, he retired from then­Edison State College in Fort Myers, Florida after serving for 26 years as an instructor of English and humanities.

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April 2017

The Boy and the Orchard

By James Piatt In the Licterine colored mist in an ancient orchard, the saccharine scent of fallen fruit wafted into the air by the afternoon breeze.

Honeybees crazed by the aroma warmed the atmosphere with the humming of their beating wings.

Mindless ants, drawn to the sugary fragrance of the apples’ sweetness, formed long lines of steadiness as they marched like tiny soldiers through the soft loam searching for pieces of juicy apples.

In another area of the orchard sat a small boy with his back leaning on a fruit tree dreaming of invisible things and cutting the air with an imaginary sword. High above the orchard’s world flowered with wild berries and roses, he spied soaring hawks in the sky. His dreaming mind painted the air with serenity as the hawks circled high above the orchard’s Trees. When they finally vanished into obscurity, he felt the heat of the sun, then sunk his teeth into a succulent Red Apple, and sighed.

About the author

James G. Piatt, a retired professor and octogenarian, is a Pushcart and

Best of Web nominee, and his poems were selected for inclusion in The 100 Best Poems of 2016, 2015 & 2014 Anthologies, and the 2017 Poet's Showcase and Yearbook. He has published 3 collections of poetry, The Silent Pond (2012), Ancient Rhythms, (2014), and LIGHT, (2016), and over 990 poems, in over 135 magazines, anthologies and books. His fourth collection of poetry will be released this year. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU. 44

Rabbit

by Gilmore Tamny

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April 2017

About the artist Gilmore Tamny lives in Somerville, MA, where she likes to write proverbs, melodramas, novels, poems and songs (the latter for the band Weather Weapon) and also has been busy with a series of drawings using both the left and right hand as well as painting watercolors. She listens to an inordinate amount of audiobooks.

Twitter: @GildedyTableaux Instagram: @gildedy Online novel: http://ohioedit.com/category/columns/my­days­with­millicent­by­gilmore­tamny/ Weather Weapon: http://weatherweapon.bandcamp.com or Weather Weapon on Facebook Artwork: http://linesdotscircles.tumblr.com (right hand), http://lefthandlinesdotscircles.tumblr.com (left hand)

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Sitting

By Kathie Giorgio Abigail was tired of being called a hamster. She’d been thrown onto those squeaky metal wheels ever since she was a child and in the gifted and talented program. The school specialists told her parents that while it took most people at least thirty­three repetitions to learn something new, it took Abigail only twice, and so she needed greater volume and pace to her education. Her mind was thrown into the Habitrail then and onto the wheel and she’d been rolling ever since.

“I can see the gears turning,” people at work said.

“Turn that brain off, turn it off!” friends said when they landed on opposing teams in Trivial Pursuit or Risk or sat opposite her in chess.

“When do you even sleep?” everyone said when she spoke of happily attending seminars, workshops, taking classes in the arts, going to lectures and readings. Recently, she went to one of those new paint­while­you­drink­wine places, because then she could learn something new and be a social drinker at the same time. Learning never went down on the value curve for Abigail. She, and her hamster, were always on the hunt. Always on the wheel.

But everyone was right, too; she and the hamster didn’t sleep. Now, at fifty­two years old, it was beginning to bother Abigail. A part of her was starting to circle, looking for rest. Permanent? She didn’t think so. Just some quiet time. She looked at blank walls and felt envious.

“Maybe you should try meditation,” her best friend Sarah said. Sarah, whose mind was active too, but more in a bloodhound sort of way, followed at a slower pace in Abigail’s wake since they were both twenty­four years old. On vacations, Abigail and her hamster went on tours and lecture series; Sarah parked the bloodhound in a kennel and took herself to resorts and spas. Abigail envied her too, though not so much her bloodhound, and so she truly considered her friend’s suggestion. Meditation, she thought. The act of not thinking.

Quiet time.

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April 2017 And so she tried. When she sat cross­legged in front of the French doors to her deck and closed her eyes, to take advantage of the spring sun warming her skin, her eyes cracked right back open and she noticed the windows were dirty and so she stood and washed them. When she moved out in the yard and sat in the garden, her eyes betrayed her again and she noticed an anomaly in the pattern of colors in the flowers and so she got up, went to the garden store, and bought purples and blues to balance everything out. The next day, she upped her meditation strategy and tried thwarting her eyes by sitting in a dark room, shades drawn, lights out, and a sleep mask tugged over her face. But then her other senses revolted on the side of vision. She felt the grime of the carpet beneath her and she smelled that the garbage can needed emptying and so she vacuumed and emptied and then rearranged the room in a more aesthetically pleasing and balanced way.

There seemed to be no shutting down. When Abigail tried to shut down, she opened up, along with her eyes, and this brought in more tasks and problems that would itch until she overcame them.

In hamster­style, in Abigail­style, and in frustration, Abigail decided to take a class. Meditation 101. It seemed ridiculous to her, really, that anyone would have to take a class in how to sit quietly and let her mind hold still. Why would that be so difficult? But for Abigail, and for her hamster, it was.

The class was held in a “mindfulness studio” which felt a bit intimidating. It was set back from a main highway outside of town. While it was surrounded by trees and there was a large green field out back, the sound of traffic and urban life was still right there in the parking lot. Abigail hesitated beside her car, her back to the road, her face toward the building, and she debated going in. If she went inside, she thought, she would sit in silence with others, the reverberation of a starting gong telling them to sink into a void of thought, and if anything entered her mind, it should be about the homework she assumed she’d have to do. As a result, in a roundabout way, she would meditate.

If she went home, if she gave in to the intimidation, it would be just another meditation failure.

Before she even sat. Before she even closed her eyes.

Abigail went inside.

She was impressed with the room. It was long, narrow and well­balanced with one full wall of windows facing the green field. The other walls were painted a restful sky blue. There were chairs for those who weren’t comfortable sitting on the floor, and cushions for those who were. Abigail was going to choose a cushion until she saw a man in yoga pants sit down and tuck his legs easily into the lotus position. He began rolling his shoulders in such a loose sway that Abigail just knew he could tilt himself forward and press his nose to the floor between those two lotused knees. Quickly, Abigail chose a chair in the back corner where her middle­aged comfortable body could do whatever it was capable of without being noticed. And without being compared, she hoped.

There was tea, she saw, being served in cups without handles. Everyone spoke softly and wore soft clothes and Abigail intuited that they were speaking about deep things, slow things, contemplative things that her hamster mind, in its rush to know it all, would vault over and leave behind. When the class started, it was led by a man who lowered himself easily onto the cushions. He wore a mic so his soft voice reached every corner without coming across as loud at all. He elongated and concaved his Os in such a way that reminded Abigail of poets in coffee shops, reciting from heart while gazing earnestly at the rafters.

Those Os always made Abigail want to laugh. She wondered if the teacher wrote poetry. She bet he did, and that it had rainbows with concave Os. Butterflies too. Then she quickly shoved that thought out of her head with the teacher’s admonition that it was time to close their eyes. They were going to experiment, he said. First try without any instruction at all.

“If a thought bubbles up,” he said, “just notice it. Then let it float away.” Then he hit the glass bowl in front of him with a little glass hammer. The chime resonated in the room, just the way Abigail imagined it would.

Okay, Abigail thought. Bubbles. Float.

Which made her think of the Os again which made her smile and snort a little. Quickly, she covered it with a throat­clearing as if she was trying to get comfortable.

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Which she was.

Mr. Lotus, she noticed, already had a straight spine. His eyes were closed. His palms were open on his knees. She wondered why anyone who could so easily take to the lotus position would be in a beginning class. He clearly wasn’t a beginner.

Show­off, Abigail thought, then realized the class was silent and still. Everyone had their eyes closed, including the instructor. So Abigail closed hers too and tried not to move, to shift, to sway, to scratch, tried not to think, but if she did think, she thought of her thought as a bubble and tried to make it float away.

Sitting, she thought. Bubble.

Sitting…shiva.

What? Abigail noticed that bubble and wondered why it was there. She wasn’t Jewish. Yes, she was sitting, but why would she think of sitting shiva?

And then the bubbles spewed out behind the hamster in the wheel like flatulence gone rogue rodent. Soapsuds everywhere, nearly tripping the little hamster feet which turned the metal wheel into a fan. Sitting shiva. Jewish people sitting shiva in the lotus position. Jewish people sitting shiva in the lotus position in a room where the mirrors were covered and they couldn’t see themselves sitting shiva. Then, in her head, Abigail heard, “Shalom,” with that elongated concave O and she lost it. Her laughter insulted into the room like the farts of bubbles going on in her head. Eyes opened and Abigail slapped her hand over her mouth, even though she wasn’t supposed to move. But the laughter forced itself around her fingers and she wasn’t supposed to laugh either. It was nervous laughter, she knew that, but it was clear it wasn’t going to stop. So she kept her eyes open, put both hands over her mouth, and quickly fled the room.

She howled in the hallway and all the way down the steps. Then she promptly felt bad and went home. Another meditation failure. The hamster, trotting steadily in his wheel, hung his head. *** But the meditation bug just wouldn’t let her go.

Intellectually, meditation made sense. Abigail wanted her hamster mind to have quiet time and meditation provided that quiet. She just had to learn how. She began to approach meditation with an athlete’s focus and obsession. She read books on it. She watched videos. She listened to Oprah and Deepak wield deep thoughts and stock phrases. Her mantra as she sat on the floor, or her recliner, reclined, or her recliner, straight up, or her deck, her bed, her favorite spot on the bank of the Fox River, became, “Meditate, gosh darn it! Meditate, gosh darn it!”

At lunch, her best friend Sarah said, after hearing all of these paroxysms, “What are you doing?”

Abigail took a sip of her coffee and wondered if she should switch to tea. If she should find out what they were all drinking at Meditation 101 in those little handleless cups. “Trying to learn how to meditate.”

“Okay.” Sarah was having a triple shot extra hot latte. Her bloodhound was tired that day.

“Why?” “Well.” Abigail looked at her fingers, twisted and twined around her coffee cup. “To relax. To find inner peace?” She thought of Deepak and Oprah. “To slow down,” she said honestly. “My head’s too full. You know. Hamster wheel. To just –“ she shrugged, “—feel better.”

“And are you?”

Her laughter insulted into the room like the farts of bubbles going on in her head.

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April 2017 “No,” Abigail said. Then she put on a concave O and repeated, “No,” which made her smile and her friend laugh. But Abigail’s fingers tightened. “I haven’t figured out how to yet. It’s harder than it looks.”

Sarah hefted her latte. “It almost seems like you’re either trying to earn a PhD in meditation, without practicing anything that you’re learning about, or like you’re in training for an Olympic competition. Like you want to be the best meditator there is and has been ever.”

Meditate, gosh darn it. “I just want to know how.”

“Abigail.” Sarah leaned forward. “Sit. Close your eyes. Don’t think.”

Abigail nodded. But how to do that when the hamster in her mind had a mind of his own? **** So Abigail continued her quest. She listened to guided meditations. But the voices were often laconic and rolling and Abigail found herself falling asleep. Meditation was supposed to be relaxing, but was she supposed to sleep? Was there enlightenment in an afternoon nap? She didn’t think so.

She read about moving meditation and so she google­searched out a labyrinth, located in one of the state parks in a town a few miles away. Set under trees and next to a different leg of her favorite river, it was a beautiful place. Abigail removed her shoes and walked barefoot on the nicely trimmed grass between the rocks lining the labyrinth path. But the hamster didn’t stop, didn’t even slow his pace on the wheel. Instead, the sound of the river poured in and the wildflowers captured every rapturous glance.

Abigail kept stopping to admire the colors around her, to compare and contrast their frequency and intensity, to listen and revel and decipher the sounds and scents. As she sat on the meditation bench, which Abigail determined was in the exact center of the labyrinth, her mind filled with light play and color, percentages and intensity ranges, patterns and skips. She and her hamster went home feeling full, but also a failure again. This wasn’t what meditation was supposed to be about.

Abigail called the mindfulness studio again and arranged for a one on one session with a different instructor. She sat in front of him, face to face, in the room with the wide windows and skyblue wall. He faced the windows, she faced the wall. He instructed her to close her eyes. She did. Then he led her through six deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth, and she did. Then he said they were going to sit in silence for ten minutes and she was to try to hold still the entire time. Hold still and not think.

“If you feel a muscle wanting to move, just notice it, then let it go,” he said. He told her the bubble story too, with a variation. “If a thought comes up, look at it for a moment, and then picture a balloon.

Tie your thought on the string of that balloon and then watch them both float away.”

To her relief, the instructor didn’t use the concave Os. And Abigail liked balloons, especially red ones. So she felt hopeful as she closed her eyes. The instructor hit the glass bowl with the little glass hammer and the sound that rang out was clear and shivered and made Abigail have a thought – that chime was what her hope would sound like. But she wasn’t supposed to be thinking. So she put her hope and the sound on the string of a red balloon and pictured them floating away.

Within a few moments, one eye opened, then the other. She looked at the face of her instructor.

He sat serene, his face smooth, his breathing even. She wondered if he used any anti­wrinkle cream or if his youthful face was the result of years of meditation. Of thoughts floating away in balloons. Maybe as the mind emptied of thoughts, the skin emptied of the capacity to wrinkle. She wondered how he would know when the ten minutes were up. She looked down at the glass bowl and couldn’t discern any timer attached to it. She couldn’t find a clock anywhere in the room.

She began to study the way the sunlight played on the blue of the walls. Abigail wondered and predicted how the color would change as the shadow of sunset fell in, followed by the dark of the night sky. Would the moonlight affect it? Where would the moon be? In what phase and how would the phase affect the light? What about clouds? But then she noticed the light on the wall was like ripples on a stream. Like the river at the labyrinth. Like the river near her home where she liked to walk. Like blue.

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Just blue. Blue and blank. Blue and blue and more blue…

When the time, apparently ten minutes, passed and the instructor opened his eyes to hit the closing gong on the bowl, he found Abigail, her eyes wide open. “Abigail,” he said, his voice soft, but she swore she heard the slightest exasperation, “your eyes are supposed to be closed. Did you have them open the whole time?”

“Almost. I suppose I did,” she admitted.

“You suppose?”

“I don’t really remember. I got sort of lost in the blue. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking.”

As Abigail left that afternoon, she felt like a failure all over again. She’d flunked at the most basic thing – keeping her eyes closed for ten minutes. She’d also gone well past her usual repetition of two times before learning. She wasn’t learning. She wondered if her brain was broken. If she was missing the meditation gene in her DNA. She wondered if in this case, her hamster was running with a limp. **** After parking her car, Abigail just didn’t feel like going into her home. It seemed like everywhere she looked now, there was a reminder of her failure. Her windows. Her garden. Her deck, her bedroom, her living room, all of it. Who knew that not thinking could be so difficult? Who knew that not thinking could be an accomplishment?

Abigail’s mind learns quickly, her teachers said. Abigail needs greater volume and pace to her education.

She thought of a blank wall and sighed.

Tucking her hands in her pockets, Abigail walked down the street and took the turns she knew by heart to her favorite spot. Her city had a Riverwalk, a lovely stroll next to the Fox River. Mostly urban, the Riverwalk had a point where it trailed away from the downtown and into the woods, dousing the walker into the rural in a few short steps.

Before moving into the woods, Abigail glanced at times over the cobblestones and down the bank and into the sun­sparkled river. But mostly, she watched her feet. She thought how it really wasn’t a bad thing to think. Thinking was good. It brought ideas and theories and plans and inventions. She remembered when she was praised for the hamster in her head, when empty­headed was a bad thing to be. But somehow, as she grew older, hamsters and wheels became negative. You were supposed to relax, to not think, to connect with the great mystery of the universe by simply becoming a part of it.

There was nothing simple about it.

Abigail liked to think. She didn’t like being compared to a hamster, but the hamster had been with her for her entire life. He got her where she was. He got her where she was going. He was a pet that ran through the labyrinth of her Habitrail brain.

So who cared if she couldn’t meditate? The hamster didn’t.

But Abigail did. She wanted to circle. She wanted to rest.

Abigail walked and looked at her feet. The cobblestones gave over to gravel and the sounds of the city to softness. The light became diffused and dappled, flitting over the gravel and sending sparks of warmth onto Abigail’s cheeks and scalp.

And then it brightened when Abigail stepped into the spot where the river widened, demanding more space, and where the trees obediently fell back, allowing grass to grow and the full strength of the sun to encompass. Abigail shuddered from pure pleasure at the heat. She stepped toward the river, watched the waltz of sun and current, and then she looked up.

Oh, the blue. The vibrant and cascading soft blues of the sky. Wide. Flat. Lit somehow from within. Abigail opened her eyes wide into the blue and the blank and the entire world fell into her gaze.

She leaned into the sky, slack­jawed, open­eyed, and fell thoughtless into the blue and the blue and the blue.

For untold minutes. Without a gong to start. Without a gong to stop.

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Edify Fiction

April 2017 Though when she got a crick in her neck, Abigail blinked. She also found that she’d sunk to a sit on the banks of the river and her comfortable body had its legs comfortably crossed. As she looked out over the water, her hand massaging the back of her neck, she didn’t have a thought in her head.

Not a one.

Gradually, birdsong began to register and she heard the whisper and occasional declarative of the river. The sun warmed her shoulders and dazzled her view. And she relaxed into a smile. Her hamster yawned and stretched.

I did it, she thought. Bubble. Balloon.

She watched that thought float in a triumph of red over the river.

Then Abigail stood, did her own full body stretch, and walked home. She wondered how many gallons of water were rushing by her, how many fish were there, was there a ratio, did they come out more when there was sun, did fish who swam in the sun taste better than fish who swam in the shade and she wondered. The hamster trotted beside her inside her. And she kept her eyes open wide, looking for the next blank, the next blue, the whole way.

About the author Kathie Giorgio is the critically acclaimed author of three novels, two story collections, and a poetry chapbook. Her fourth novel will be released in fall of 2017. Her first novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks, received the Outstanding Achievement award by the Wisconsin Library Association and was nominated for the Paterson Fiction Award. Learning to Tell (A Life)Time debuted at the 2013 Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, where Kathie was the welcoming Keynote. The story collection, Enlarged Hearts, was selected for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel’s 99 Summer Must­Reads by in 2012. Rise From The River debuted at Carroll University, where Kathie was serving as Visiting Author. River was on several "Must­read" lists during the summer of 2015.Oddities & Endings; The Collected Stories of Kathie Giorgio, was selected for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel’s 100 Must Reads for the Summer list. Giorgio’s short stories and poems have appeared in countless literary magazines and anthologies. She’s been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Write Well Award, the Million Writer Award, and for the Best of the Net Anthology.

Giorgio’s teaching career spans 21 years. She is the director/founder of AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, an international creative writing studio located in Waukesha, Wisconsin.

Visit her website http://www.kathiegiorgio.org , Twitter, and Facebook pages.

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Best of the Best & Comments You may have noticed this icon near each of our contributor's pieces. We've implemented a system that's unique to our magazine that allows readers to be more proactive and interactive with each issue of Edify Fiction.

Clicking an icon (located near a piece's title) will take you to the comment section of Edify Fiction's website.

There, you may discuss your thoughts on the piece, say hello to the contributor, and engage in dialogue with other readers.

Your comments are valuable as they serve to encourage our contributors. They also continue the edification process as you interact with others about what you have gleaned from the pieces and how you hope to apply what you learned to your life.

In addition, Edify Fiction uses the comment activity to gauge popularity of a piece. Why is this important? It could mean cash prizes for the most talked about work. Each year, Edify Fiction will award Best of the Best prizes in each category ­ short story, flash fiction, poetry, and photography / digital art. Your comments are an integral part of the selection and award process. Tell us what moved you; let the authors and artists know when you'd like to see more of their work. Please do your part and help us recognize the Best of the Best!

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Edify Fiction

April 2017

Call for Submissions Do you have an edifying or uniquely positive short story, poem, flash fiction, or digital art piece brewing inside of you? We have a rolling submissions policy so you can submit any time, for free.

For those of you who like a little more feedback than the standard 'accept' or 'decline' letter, we offer a paid critique option when you submit. This paid critique entitles you to a commentary on your piece on what works and what could use improvement. The critiques are provided by Angela Meek or Michelle Holifield. Michelle is a Master of Fine Arts candidate and Angela has an interdisciplinary Master's degree in Writing, English, and Psychology. Both Michelle and Angela have published work, edited for publication, and coached other writers. They are avid readers and enjoy helping others hone their writing skills.

When submitting, please take time to read and adhere to the guidelines posted on our Submissions page. Due to the number of submissions we receive, we generally do not have time to send back every piece that needs editing to meet the guidelines. Sending in a polished piece that follows guidelines and meets the magazine's mission really catches our eye!

Currently, our greatest needs are: • Flash fiction • Digital artwork • Themed pieces for our Christmas in July edition Our needs change as submissions come in so be sure to follow us on Facebook and Twitter to keep up with the latest!

...until next time...

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