Edify Fiction - V1, Iss. 3

Edify Fiction June 2017

Volume 1, Issue 3

"Miles"

by Tara Trolano

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

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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.

Best of the Best: Published contributors are automatically entered into the

Cover Art: Miles Photographer: Tara Trolano Tara Trolano is a poet, photographer, and musician residing in Frisco, Texas.

Her hobbies include hanging out with her dog, Singer, and participating in musical theater.

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.

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© 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

June 2017

Contributors 1 Miles by Tara Trolano 3 Ordinance Man by Katinka Smit 5 Ronnie and Rio by June Calender 1 0 Contact Sport by David Dixon 1 1 Words Carried by the Rain by Dora Lafleur 1 3 Not Ready to Believe in Prayer by D. T. Richards 1 5 Waiting for the Sun by Kyle Hemmings 1 7 My Joe: A Reflection by Phyllis Babrove 20 Sound is Sermonic by Bruce Alford 21 A Father's Love by Duane L. Herrmann 23 A Lonely Cigarette by Carl Wade Thompson 25 Father's Day by Bryan Grafton 28 Not Always Being by D. N. Simmers 29 Absaroka­Beartooth Mountains, MT by Julia Schrade 31 A Hug by D. D. Renforth 37 My Experiment by Richard Kostelanetz 44 Ascento by Patrick Moloney 45 The Feather in Triptych by Maxine Kollar 46 The Best Daddy by Angela Meek The photos found on the following pages are from StockSnap.io, Pexels.com, and Pixabay.com and fall under the Creative Commons CC0 license: pages 3, 5, 10, 11, 13, 15, 17, 20, 21, 23, 25, 28, 29, 31, 37, 44, 45, 46.

From the Editor .

At Edify Fiction, we celebrate. Our celebrations are sometimes spectacular events (as you'll see in our upcoming Christmas in July issue). Other times they are moments of introspection, vignettes, quiet realizations, meaningful worship, or even the giving up of something for the sake of another. Come.

Celebrate with us. This issue of Edify Fiction arrives Father's Day weekend and is, in part, a quiet celebration of men—from the contributors themselves to fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, even strangers. You'll also find within these pages loss and longing and heartbreak. We experience these because God has given us love and compassion and a yearning for something beyond ourselves. So, rustle through this issue with us. Walk with the Ordinance Man as he shoulders a stranger's loss. Sit by the koi pond. Wait for the sun. Gaze into the mountains of Montana. Hear sweet Jesus talking. While you're at it, celebrate these works of photography, fiction, nonfiction, and poetry by commenting on them­­let the artist know how their work moved you.

God bless you, dear reader.

Michelle McMillan­Holifield Assistant Editor 2

Ordinance Man

By Katinka Smit

Ulrich lurched out of the truck and swung the door shut, deciding not to lock it. He glanced up the laneway and checked for the bill in his breast pocket. His other hand found the small stone in his trouser pocket and fingered its comforting smoothness. With long slow steps, his heavy work boots dragged his feet a little more than usual as he entered the lane.

A short way up the alley, he reached the entrance to a tiny yard. Long, sparse grass thrust through patchy herbaceous weeds. A small fibro house nestled between the spearheads of two cypress pines. He stooped in stride along the narrow, overgrown path to pick a few shepherd's purse heads, nodding his thanks as he did so. He made short work of the peppery pockets, pulling the stems out from between his teeth. Their hotness made him salivate, and he chewed a little and swallowed before he knocked on the door.

As he raised his thin hand to announce his arrival, the door suddenly opened. His fist fell soundlessly. A wiry old man stared up at him, then turned swiftly and marched up the hall. Ulrich followed.

It smelt fusty and damp inside, and the floorboards sagged under their feet. Ulrich ducked under a doorframe that led into a bare kitchen with a wooden table in the middle of it.

The old man motioned towards a big hessian sack lumped onto the table and turned away, his back rigid. He stared resolutely out of the window. At his feet, the remains of a dog’s drying dinner crusted in a stainless­steel bowl.

Ulrich hoisted the heavy bag onto his shoulder and waited for the old man to turn. Long seconds passed. The old man took a deep, trembling breath and continued looking out the window. Ulrich stood a little longer, then nodded and turned and ducked back through the doorway. The floorboards squeaked under the extra weight.

When he reached the door, he glanced back down the hall. The old man’s stiff back shook and shivered. Ulrich closed the door softly behind him.

He weaved slowly up the path, his long stride eating up the small distance. Just before the gate he remembered the bill. He turned back to the house and stared at the front door, fumbling with the 3

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June 2017 paper in his breast pocket.

The shepherd’s purse quivered by his feet. Yes, he nodded down to it. He turned around, swaying slightly under the weight of the dog, and walked back towards the gate.

The letterbox squeezed out a rusty groan. Ulrich laid the bill inside. It looked bald and bare against the metal. It should at least have an envelope.

A dandelion shined up at him from the ground. Love’s oracle. Yes, that would do. He crouched down, steadied the body on his shoulder, and picked the efflorescence, breathing the honey warm scent of it. He pushed himself carefully back up.

He sat the flower on top of the bill. It rolled off the folded paper. The arrangement looked random, thoughtless. His right hand stole into his pants pocket and smoothed over his stone. The bill and the blossom stared up at him. He put the dandelion bloom back on to the piece of paper and took the stone from his pocket. He placed the worn rock carefully on the stalk of the flower. His fingers lingered but a moment. As he lowered the letterbox lid the stone glinted softly in the sunlight.

About the author Katinka Smit is an Australian author who writes mostly short fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in both American and Australian publications, with work forthcoming in both countries.

She is currently working on her first novel. You can find her at talesbytink.wordpress.com.

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Ronnie and Rio

By June Calender Big Al pulled into the parking lot at the foot of the mountain. A family got out of a Mercedes; they had been waiting for his 9:30 arrival. As he turned off the motor, he could see that the son in the group was the kind of person who had been called “special” all his life. Maybe he was a teen, maybe older. Often, these special people retain a youthful look into their twenties and thirties. The young man had the short, stocky, softish body, and flat round face that told anyone with a bit of knowledge about what, Al supposed, were still called birth defects. Well, thought Al, this may be an interesting morning.

When he came to pick up customers, he was often surprised what sort of people wanted to ride a horse to the top of a mountain. His first impressions were usually accurate; he had met a great variety of people.

“Hi, I’m Al Carlson. You must be the Jennings.”

They had made the appointment for four people. Big Al immediately extended a hand to the young man.

“I’m Al,” he said.

“Ronnie,” the father said.

Ronnie shook limp­handed. Al was not surprised, but enfolded the stubby, soft hand in his larger rein­calloused hand.

“Glad to meet you, Ronnie. Your mom said you really want to ride a horse.”

“Yeah,” Ronnie said. “I always wanted to ride a horse.”

“He’s really excited.” His mother introduced herself as Nell.

Ed, the father, and the daughter hung back a little. Then Ed, a native Texan by his accent, his Stetson and expensive (but not new) cowboy boots, explained that Amy was afraid of horses. The two of them had decided to hike from the parking lot up to Aspen Lake instead of coming with Al to his horse camp. That was a little bit of a financial setback for Al, but then it was nearly the end of the season and he’d done well this summer.

“It’s a good walk and a nice little lake,” he said. “I think you’ll enjoy it, but it won’t be as fine a sight as Ronnie and Nell and I will see at the top of Wheeler Mountain.”

“You can change your mind,” Nell said to Amy. Amy pursed her mouth and stuck out her lower lip as she shook her head no. Nell shrugged. She had long straight hair and seemed to have on no make­up. She looked too young to be the mother of Ronnie and Amy. Second wife, Al thought.

He knew the family, like all families he’d ever met, had their own story. It was none of his business; nor, to tell the truth, did he care. He worked with all kinds of people. The kind who drove a 5

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June 2017 navy blue Mercedes with Texas plates to the Taos ski resort area knew what they wanted, especially the kids. He was surprised Amy wasn’t fiddling with a cell phone. Nell was the one wearing jeans with holes in the knees, not Amy. Amy wore a gold chain with a delicate heart­shaped pendant; Nell wore the kind of ear­rings sold by artisan jewelers on Canyon Road in Santa Fe. Those little clues told him enough about the family.

When Al opened the passenger side front door, Nell said, “You go, Ronnie.”

She got into the shallow passenger seat behind Ronnie. Al drove slowly up the two miles of winding, hair­pinning mountain road, through the national forest area, well away from all the ski­ lodges on the other side of the mountain. He always used these drives to talk about himself. He liked to talk about himself. He believed it instilled confidence in his customers and hoped to impress them enough to tell friends who might become customers. And, of course, with his final handshake saying goodbye, he would hand them his business card and suggest they might like him on Facebook.

Al explained that he had known he wanted to work with horses since he was fourteen. He saved up to buy his own horse but then began reading National Geographic Adventure magazines and decided he wanted to sample the rest of the world before he settled down to do some kind of horse wrangling.

He didn’t know what it would be, but now he had a ranch near Trucas and he spent the summer months up here with his best riding horses where it was cool and beautiful.

“In fact,” he said, “I circled the globe twice, once around north of the equator and later south of the equator.”

Nell was impressed.

“I wish I had thought of that,” she said. “I did some traveling but nothing like you did. Mostly I liked the Himalayan foothills. Which did you like better, north or south of the equator?”

“You know, no one ever asked me that before. Most of the famous gotta­see stuff is in the northern part but there’s a lot of wonderful things in South Africa and Australia and South America. I don’t know that I liked one better than the other. I like our mountains; I didn’t really spend much time in other ones.”

Ronnie said nothing during the drive except to ask about a hawk that lifted off from a hillside with something in its talons, “What he got?”

By the time Al saw the hawk, it was so far away he had to say, “I don’t know. Maybe a smaller bird.”

“Does that make them cannibals?” Ronnie asked.

“No, just makes them hawks.”

Al kept ten horses at the rented summer camp, from late May into early October. Josh, Al’s nephew, a sophomore at Arizona State, was helping him this summer. When Al got out of the pick up and went around to open the door for Ronnie and Nell, Josh came across the open area with four horses: Rio, Sally, Badger and Jimeny.

“Two stayed behind,” Al called. “We’ll just use Rio and Sally.”

“A’right. And …?”

Al usually let Josh lead family groups up the trail to the top of the mountain. Families talked too much, especially for the early morning rides when Al liked to listen to the birds. But a slight nod toward Ronnie told Josh the change in plans. Josh had shaped up to the kind of co­worker Al liked; they communicated with few words.

“I’ll ride Badger.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Nell said. “We can pay the full price.”

Al was tempted to said he’d appreciate it because he was sure Ed could afford it and they really should have called.

“That’s okay.”

“I really hoped Amy would be brave enough to ride. She’s going through an awkward stage.”

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said.

Ronnie was staring gape­mouthed at the horses.

“How many you have?” he asked.

“Ten here. I’ve got fifteen more out at my ranch.”

“You must like horses a lot.”

“I’ve loved horses more than just about anything in the world all my life,” Al said.

Ronnie obviously hadn’t grasped that from Al’s drive­up spiel.

“And I can ride one.” Ronnie said, not quite a question but a very uncertain statement.

“You can, Ronnie. That’s why we’re here. You and I are going to ride horses and so is Big Al,” Nell

Al left them standing where they were as he went to take the horses’ reins from Josh. On the way up, he had decided to ride Rio, putting Nell on Sally and Ronnie on Badger, the oldest and slowest horse he had.

“Oh, I like that one,” Ronnie said, his voice over­loud to make sure they understood his enthusiasm.

Ronnie was looking at Rio. Rio was looking at Ronnie with a kind of interest and curiosity Al had not seen before. Rio was Al’s largest horse and his favorite. He was a paint, and had intelligence and spirit. Al thought he must be descended from Comanche horses, the very smart ones they rode when they fought barebacked. If any problem came up, Al knew he could count on Rio to help him solve it.

Big Al had seen a wide variety of problems in the dozen years he had been in this business. You could never psyche out just what might happen. You could depend on the horses but never on the people.

“That mahogany horse is beautiful,” Nell said.

“And as good­natured as she is pretty,” Al said.

“You’ll ride her. Her name is Sally.”

“I’m so happy we chose you. It was almost a toss up reading the ads yesterday.”

Usually at this point Al gave the riders the “how­to” talk: how to hold the reins, how to sit up straight, how to give a sharp pull on the rein if the horse decided to nibble some delicious looking weeds beside the trail. Nell had said she did a lot of riding in high school and felt comfortable with horses although she supposed her English riding style wasn’t right for these Western horses. Al liked her self­assured manner. She told him Ronnie fell in love with carousel horses and once had ten consecutive rides at a fair, going from one carousel horse to the next. Al decided she came from money and had been destined to marry money ­ Texas money, obviously. She hadn’t talked about Ed or said what business he was in. She said she imported Tibetan prayer flags and singing bowls for a catalog company and maybe she would open a store someday.

Rio and Ronnie had made eye contact. Rio walked slowly toward Ronnie; Josh pulled back on the rein but Rio paid no attention.

“What…?” Josh said, looking at Big Al. He still had the reins of all four horses in his hands. Al lifted a hand just a little, saying, wait and watch. Ronnie walked slowly, but determinedly toward Rio. Al and Nell watched; they were surprised and fascinated but not alarmed. Nell trusted Al, and if Al wasn’t concerned, then it must be safe. They were astonished when the big horse put his head down just enough to stand nose to nose with Ronnie.

Horse and young man gazed at each other not touching, but their noses were less than three inches apart. The horse and the young man—Nell had said Ronnie was twenty­two—remained unmoving for a couple of minutes.

He was a paint and had intelligence and spirit.

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June 2017 Josh gave Rio’s reins to Al and led Sally and Badger to the mounting area.

“Who rides who?” Josh asked.

“I think Ronnie and Rio want to be together,” Al said. “Is that right, Ronnie?"

“I want to ride him,” he said, reaching out to touch Rio’s jaw as if it were a girl he was going to kiss.

“And the lovely lady wants to ride Sally.”

Josh positioned Sally by the mounting block. Nell was about to mount when she seemed to come to her motherly senses.

“Ronnie, watch how I get on this horse,” she said. “Ronnie! You’re going to ride Rio but it’s not so easy to get on a horse. I want you to watch me. Come over here.”

Ronnie came out of his near­trance at the firm sound of Nell’s voice. She showed Ronnie how to mount as sensibly as Al would have done. She sat confidently and with a look of anticipation as Josh led Sally a short distance away.

Al positioned Rio by the mounting block. It was not easy for Ronnie. First, he put his right foot in the stirrup and then, when he got the left foot in, Nell said “Now you have to jump up like I did.”

Ronnie bent his knees but jumped in place. Al and Josh lifted him up. Josh went around and positioned Ronnie’s right foot in the stirrup.

“Now sit up straight. And this is the way to hold the reins,” Josh said. “Not too tight, but like you’re the boss. And press your knees against Rio’s side. He likes you to hold him that way.”

“I like that,” Ronnie said. He was smiling broadly.

Al winked at Josh as a thank you.

“Are we ready to go?” Ronnie asked “Just a minute.”

Al gave Josh some instructions about the people expected at 11:00 and then he mounted Badger and said, “Okay, Ronnie, I’ll lead and you’ll follow me and you mom will follow you. Okay, you guys?”

“Okay,” Ronnie said.

By now. a grin had invaded his face like a victorious army.

They rode slowly. For Nell, it was a too slow walk up the mountain trail. They rode among pines that smelled resiny in the morning dampness. Sally was often attracted to fresh greenery, but Nell jerked the reins to tell her they were going somewhere, not grazing hors d’oeuvres at a cocktail party. Nell wished they could canter across an open field, but she knew that would not happen with Ronnie.

Actually, there were no open fields until they reached the top of the mountain where they stopped to look across lower mountains partly swaddled in morning pillows of fog. The sun was moving high in a pure blue sky. No longer in the shadows of the trees, they were much warmer.

“We’re up above the clouds, Ronnie,” Nell said. “Just look at that view.”

“Dad and Amy should have come.”

“We’ll tell them all about it when we get back.”

“Like always,” Ronnie said.

“Yeah, we do the fun things, Ronnie. You and me, they don’t know what they’re missing.”

“We’ll tell them. I wish Dad could see Rio.” Rio shook his head at the sound of his name. Ronnie patted his neck.

“You’re the most wonderful horse in the whole world.”

Ronnie leaned forward to get close to Rio’s ears, his compliment was just for Rio. “You sure about that, Ronnie? I think Sally is a beautiful horse,” Nell said.

“Sally’s pretty, like you are. But Rio is the best of the best, I’ll bet. Is that right, Big Al?” “Yes, that’s right,” Al said. “I hope you won’t be bored going back down on the same trail. There’s really only one trail up here.”

Nell unzipped her jacket.

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“We’re on the very top of this mountain. You’ve never been on top of a mountain before, Ronnie.

Wouldn’t it be fun to live on a mountain top?”

Ronnie wasn’t listening. He was patting Rio’s neck, still leaning forward as if to tell Rio secrets.

Nell and Big Al watched the clouds melting below them. Then Ronnie began making a droning sound.

Singing to Rio. Al could barely hear Ronnie. Nell was closer; she recognized a chant from a tape she used sometimes when she did her yoga meditation. She often asked Ronnie to sit quietly with her. She had found the deep bass voices of lamas quieted him when he was anxious and agitated. She had never heard him attempt to chant. Ronnie’s voice grew deeper and louder, as if the sounds came from a well inside him. It was music for men’s voices. Nell felt her arms tingling with goosebumps. Maybe Ronnie was actually chanting the words. She couldn’t be sure because she had never attempted to hear the words. Had he memorized them?

Rio’s ears twitched trying to get closer to the sound and he nodded his head to the slow rhythm of Ronnie’s voice. Al and Nell forgot about the mountaintop scene; and the sound of birds in the trees.

They were fascinated by Ronnie and Rio. But Badger had been up here many times with many riders and he knew it was time to turn around and go back to camp. He started toward the trail. Al whistled to Rio; Rio shook his head like a dog shaking water off his coat after swimming in a river. He followed Badger. Ronnie stopped chanting. His huge grin was now a peaceful smile. He sat up straight as he’d been told to do and held the reins in both hands and pressed his knees against Rio’s sides.

Back at the camp, Josh came to take the horses back to the corral.

Nell dismounted easily and patted Sally saying, “Thanks for a great ride, you darling creature.”

Josh loosened Ronnie’s right foot from the stirrup and helped him slide toward Al who caught him. When he was steady on his feet, Ronnie put his arms around Rio’s neck and said, like a cowboy, “Goodbye, ol' Buddy. You’re the best horse I ever could ride.”

Rio turned and nuzzled the back of Ronnie’s head. Al and Josh caught one another’s eye; they were equally astonished. Then Josh lead all three horses to the corral.

“He’s a horse Buddhasaatva,” Ronnie said to Nell.

“A what?” Al asked.

“I think you might be right, Ronnie. He’s a very special horse.” To Al, she said, “A Buddhasaatva is a soul that has attained enlightenment but has chosen to continue to reincarnate to help others until the whole world is enlightened.”

She reached out to take one of Ronnie’s rather long earlobes, which she massaged between her thumb and index finger. Al saw that this was an endearment familiar to Ronnie.

Nell said to Al, “I think Ronnie may be one too and Rio recognized a kindred spirit.”

Al remembered having been shown the long earlobes on statues of Buddha in Thailand.

“Thanks, Nell. It’s the best morning in my whole life.” Ronnie hugged Nell.

“Thanks for letting Ronnie ride Rio, Al.” Nell’s eyes sparkled with sun or tears.

About the author June Calender retired to Cape Cod after a career in NYC as an off­off­ Broadway playwright. She now teaches writing skills at the Academy for Lifelong Learning and edits their annual anthology. She has published poems, fiction, and non­fiction in literary magazines and is working on a biography of a traveler to Tibet. Follow her blog at http://www.calenderpages.blogspot.com.

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June 2017

Contact Sport

By David Dixon A rich man offered his money if I would pass a camel through the eye of a needle.

So I did.

It’s an old trick.

“Excellent,” he said. “Now, I can enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

It’s just that easy.

Sometimes though, there’s a little blood involved.

About the author David Dixon is a physician and poet who practices both full­time in the foothills of North Carolina.

His poetry has appeared in America magazine and LIGHT Journal.

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Words Carried by the Rain

By Dora LaFleur I can’t tell you what it was that prompted me to start visiting him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to be looking at someone else. At something else. I would visit him only once a week.

Then it became twice. Now it’s three times a week.

We don’t do anything in particular. He sits there, staring out towards the sunny day ahead of us.

I usually read a book or take notes of the things I see. I use them as inspiration for my illustrations.

Sometimes it’s the colors the people wear and other times it’s the way the garden of the facility looks when it’s raining.

He’s well taken care of here but he wouldn’t know it. He can’t remember anything. I doubt he recognizes my face, despite the fact that I visit three times a week. This doesn’t mean that he can’t speak. I think he just refuses to. I know he can remember things from his past. There are times where he’ll just start crying. There are other times when he mumbles or giggles to himself. He’s reliving moments of his life one at a time, as though on some draining merry­go­round. If he could come back to this world, I wonder what he would say and what he would think of himself.

Today’s one of those days where I bring his wheelchair to the front bay windows, which are being pattered by raindrops. The green leaves of the garden beyond quiver and shake alongside the wind. I can see the koi pond beyond the cobblestones and the way the orange and white fish hover towards the surface. This is my favorite place to come when it’s raining. There are days when I’ll sit just outside the window and keep him company from there. There’s nothing like the smell of fresh rain in the summer. It’s the scent of life.

I bring my notebook out from my tote bag and place it across my lap. The chairs here aren’t so bad. They’re the plastic see­through kind. They don’t hurt my back, which is typically in a lot of pain, so I can’t complain.

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June 2017 Once I’m settled in, I begin to draw and take my notes. The koi fish are so beautiful I can’t help but draw them at least once a week. I follow the foliage of the maple tree hovering above, dripping down that cool summer rain onto the sifting water below. I can make out the outline of flies above the water, which the koi fish are attempting to catch.

I smile as I enjoy the view. It reminds me of a simpler time, though I can’t really be sure of when. Maybe it’s my constant visits that have brought on this nostalgia. I just can’t tell.

About the author Dora Lafleur is a 26 year old Librarian from Toronto, Ontario. Her work has appeared in Hyperion Review and Sudbury E­zine. She spends her days reading and rock­climbing, however, not at the same time.

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Not Ready to Believe in Prayer

By D. T. Richards Mike's race did not start off well.

His bicycle felt sluggish. On the incline out of Innisville, he got caught between gears – 32/17 too tight and 32/23 too loose. Then, as he reached the flats, the tendon behind his right knee started to develop a twinge, a precursor to excruciating pain.

He passed Concession 7 at 8'36". He knew it was Concession 7 because of its diagonal creek. At least 36" late, according to his trials.

He didn't have anything other than his trials – the race had a staggered start. The people he needed to beat could be anywhere ahead or behind.

Yet the small part of his mind that wasn't focused on ensuring constant torque, avoiding that twinge, and minimizing headwind, felt fine. He had a strange prescience he would not have a disastrous race. It would not turn out like the 100K to Amberly, where, taking a corner too tightly, he had skidded and had torn a ligament that left him on crutches.

It was not even going to be like the race a while back where he had started with similar signs of unease, and finished with no points to show for his effort, and no reason he could pinpoint why he had done so poorly.

This race actually had a chance of turning out well.

Somebody from Le Grange Pantoit cut in front of Mike, a clear attempt to break his rhythm. But Mike was no rookie. He slowed down to 83 RPM, and, when the rider also slowed, he nitched his rear derailleur and swept on past. The other rider's cadence had been broken more than Mike's, and he was unable to catch Mike's slipstream.

It worked.

For some reason, Mike's mind returned to the previous Wednesday. He had attended the third meeting of that strange Introduction to Christianity course. The eight of them met in a parlour of the church's old vestry, both homey in a Victorian way, yet still public enough to be anonymous. Valerie had brought some Macedonian vine­leaf concoction­­both sweet and dark­­that Mike had decided was his new favourite food.

Mike shared about the upcoming race, and, in the quiet moment that followed, the others agreed to pray for him.

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June 2017 Mike, who had just reached the Uxbridge Town Line and was leaning deep into the right­hand corner to keep his pace, wasn't ready to believe in prayer. He had trouble making sense of it, what it meant giving up. Instead, what returned to him then, sprinting down the flat smooth macadam, was the respectful interest that filled the quiet moment. It was like the yellow field flowing past: it did not interfere and it did not judge, but it did not turn aside.

Suresh, on his left that night, had been next to share. Suresh always had problems, things he found himself unable to do. That week, he had been trying to get his son to daycare. He had had to transfer three times because he kept getting the wrong bus.

After another quiet moment, they offered to pray for Suresh. Mike didn't join, but he found himself able to feel the same respectful interest. Sure, Suresh wasn't in charge of his life, but he did try.

Mike had already turned up Sideline 24. He hadn't glanced at his timing. He chose not to do it now. Ahead, he could see the dark purple hills of the Oak Ridges Moraine. The real race would soon begin. He was ready.

The twinge behind his knee had disappeared.

About the author DT Richards is the writing name of a Canadian writer currently living and working in Singapore, where he teaches IT and game­design, and writes on the side. He likes to write fiction about cultural issues. His work has been published, under various names, in Joyful Online, Linden Ave Literary Review and LitBreak Magazine. He formerly served as the secretary for the Society of Singapore Writers. His work focuses on the relationship between what we believe and how we act. Follow him online dtrichards.wordpress.com.

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Waiting for the Sun

by Kyle Hemmings

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June 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, Edify Fiction, 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 upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/.

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My Joe: A Reflection

By Phyllis M. Babrove

As I lie in bed listening to the battering of hail on the roof, I wonder how the years passed by so quickly. Here I am, eighty­three years old with the spot next to me empty, as it has been for too long.

I’ve been alone and lonely for such a long time that I’ve lost track of how long Joe has been gone.

Joe and I got married young, like people did back in those days. I was nineteen and he was twenty­two. I may not recall how long he’s been gone, but I can see as clear as day the way Joe looked the first time I saw him.

It was Valentine’s Day in 1946 and our soldiers had returned from the war. The USO was having a dance in Milwaukee for the veterans and I went with my best friend. It was a bitter cold afternoon, with temperatures in the twenties; inside, the hall was warm and cozy, filled with people laughing and talking. Large pink and red hearts, along with carnations, transformed the room into an enormous valentine card. Sitting on the sidelines and watching couples dance, I hadn’t noticed anyone approach.

Turning around to look for my friend, the best­looking man I had ever seen was sitting next to me. Tall and thin with brown hair and twinkling blue eyes, Joe introduced himself and thus began a lifelong relationship. We talked and danced as though the world had stopped with just the two of us in it. Joe took my name and phone number, promising to call me.

I thought about Joe constantly until he called me two days later. We made arrangements to meet at Monument Square in downtown Racine that afternoon. Over hot coffee, Joe and I shared stories about ourselves, feeling as though we’d always known each other. After that, we saw each other every day for the next two months until he proposed. And, of course, I said yes.

Mama and Papa were against me marrying Joe. Oh sure, they said they liked him well enough and that he was a good guy, but insisted he had no future and they wanted better for me. I knew what they really meant. They didn’t like the fact that Joe practiced a different religion. I didn’t care what they said. Joe and I were in love, and we were going to get married whether they liked it or not. So, we eloped. That’s exactly what we did. We went to Milwaukee and a justice of the peace performed the ceremony. After all, it was 1946 and we could darn well do what we wanted.

When we told our parents that we were married, they threw a fit, especially mine. They told me to pack my stuff and get out, that I had disobeyed them and they were done with me. So I did. Joe’s parents did the same thing so he packed his stuff, too. We had a little money and went to the train station, since we didn’t have a car at the time. After all, Joe had just gotten back from the war. We sat on a bench trying to decide where we would go, and finally decided on Chicago. I can’t tell you why, except 17

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June 2017 that it was far enough away from Racine, and our families wouldn’t be able to bother us. And since it was a big city, Joe figured it would be easy to find jobs and a place to live.

I sure don’t recall how much money it cost to take the train, but I do know that we didn’t have very much. Between us, we probably had about $1,500 from my job and the money Joe came home with from the army. It was a lot in those days, but still wouldn’t last for too long. We stayed in a hotel the first night we were in Chicago. The next day we found a cute little furnished apartment for forty­five dollars a month and then figured we’d better find jobs. And we did. I found one in an insurance office as a receptionist (I had typing experience) and Joe found one working in a grocery store.

Joe’s plan was to go to school under the GI Bill, something the government started for servicemen to help them get an education. The government would pay for Joe to go to school, pay our living expenses, and give him unemployment benefits for a year. Joe signed up for classes at the university to become a teacher; I kept working while Joe worked and went to school. We stayed in our little apartment. Life was good—we were in love, doing okay with money, and had everything we needed or wanted. We could even go out to a movie and to dinner on the weekend if we wanted to, but most of the time we stayed home.

I got sick six months before Joe was supposed to graduate. Just as things were going well for us, something hit me. After it lasted about a week, I went to the doctor without telling Joe. He was so busy working and studying that I didn’t want to bother him. Women sure were a lot tougher in those days.

Anyway, the ‘something that hit’ me was the news when the doctor told me I was two months pregnant.

At first, I didn’t believe him because we had been careful. Well, we thought we had been careful. After I got my thoughts together and stopped crying, I remember thinking that maybe it was a good thing. We both had talked about having children but just not quite yet. But it was okay. Things don’t have to go exactly like we plan, do they?

Annie was born a month after Joe got his teaching degree. With his new salary and the GI bill helping veterans get houses, we were able to buy a three­bedroom ranch style house in Elmhurst. Joe got a job teaching in the high school and life was good. Three years later little Jimmy came along, and two years after that came Paula. Our family was complete.

The years went by and all three children were in school before we knew it. Joe’s job was good and he was happy. I was bored and ready to go back to work so I got a job in the local library. The hours were perfect because I worked while the kids were in school. During the summers, we went on camping trips and to national parks. We loved to visit different states and learn about the history of our country. One year we even drove to Canada and spent a month traveling to historic sites.

I remember that the world changed in the early 1960s. The music became loud and wild; there was talk about people smoking marijuana and using drugs that caused hallucinations. Protests were taking place in cities like Milwaukee and Chicago so that people could have equal rights for housing and jobs.

It was on November 22, 1963 that the most shocking thing that could possibly happen did when President John Kennedy was assassinated. The whole country watched his young family in mourning and cried for their loss and ours. We were all shocked that something so tragic could take place in the United States. By the end of the 1960s, it seemed as though everything was out of control all over the place. In April of 1968, a man by the name of Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated in Tennessee. Dr. King, thirty­nine years old, was a leader in The Civil Rights Movement and he also left a wife and young children. Two months later, in June, Robert Kennedy was assassinated in California. A presidential candidate and the brother of John Kennedy, he was only forty­two years old and left behind a family.

The Vietnam War had started in 1955 and was still going strong in 1970. Demonstrations were taking place on college campuses across the country to protest the war. I’ll never forget the day that Jimmy got his draft notice in the mail. Although we had been expecting it since his eighteenth birthday, it was still a shock to actually see it in writing. After all of the anxiety about my child going off to war, it turned out they wouldn’t take him because he had poor vision. The draft ended in 1973 and the war ended in 1975.

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It was in the ‘80s that Joe got sick with cancer. He hadn’t been feeling well but thought it was from stress at work. I kept thinking it was his age because, after all, he was almost sixty years old. But when the doctor came back with the news that it was prostate cancer, I almost passed out. But my Joe was brave, just like he had always been. The doctor said it was in the early stages and he was going to remove the prostate. He didn’t think Joe would even need any treatment, which he didn’t. Joe recovered quickly and was able to dance at Annie’s wedding four months later.

I never regretted marrying Joe or giving up my family because they rejected him. We had a wonderful marriage, raised a good family and taught them not to judge people because of what race they are or where they worship. We taught them to believe in God and practice religion the way they wanted to. The kids had done well. Annie married a doctor and gave us four grandchildren, two boys and two girls. Jimmy became a teacher like his dad, got married and had two beautiful girls; and Paula decided to become a lawyer and not get married. Our children have always been good to us. Like Joe always said, we were lucky to have such a wonderful family.

The cancer was more serious when Joe got sick the second time. The doctor said that it was in his pancreas and even I knew that there was no cure. Joe had retired ten years or so before, so I guess he was about seventy­five when he got sick. All we could do was support his decision to not undergo treatments, and to make him comfortable for the time that he had left. I never left Joe’s side while he was sick. We didn’t need nurses or anyone else to help. Joe and I had always taken care of each other and had promised that we would until the end. And we did.

Now I remember. It’s been about ten or eleven years since Joe was taken from me. It was a day just like this one, in the middle of winter, with hail hammering the roof. Joe opened his eyes, looked at me and told me he would always love me. And then he was gone; my Joe was gone.

I’m looking out of the window now, from my bed. The hail has stopped and snow is falling gently from the gray sky. The tree outside of my window is bare but soon the snow will cover it. I’m still in the house that Joe bought with the VA loan; the one our babies came home to from the hospital; the one where Joe and I laughed and loved; and the one in which Joe died in my arms. I’ve had plenty of arguments from Annie and Jimmy about living with them, but Paula has stayed here with me. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t gotten married; who knows.

I keep wondering when Joe and I will be together again. It probably won’t be long now. I must have dozed off for a few minutes because the sun is shining and I feel warmth that I haven’t felt in ten or eleven years. But now I see why. Joe is standing at the foot of our bed smiling at me. I call his name but he doesn’t answer. It’s been so long since I have seen him or we have talked. Holding his hand out to me, I sit up and put my hand in his. Holding me closely, he whispers that it’s time for us to be together. I whisper back that we have never been apart.

About the author Phyllis Babrove, a semi­retired clinical social worker, has resided in Florida since moving there as a newlywed from Wisconsin forty­six years ago. She likes to travel with her husband and has fallen in love with New England, with much of her writing set in Vermont. Having completed her first novelette and novel, she is currently working on the second in the series. To contact Phyllis and follow her on her website, mirikalblog.com.

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June 2017

Sound is Sermonic

By Bruce Alford

When I was a boy, I used to look out my window.

Awakening, scarcely aware, I lived in the imaginary relationship between myself and what lay beyond.

The window would catch a tumult and I would sit up in bed and crack the curtain.

Boys would race ponies down Cedar Street, up the middle of Grace Quarters, without saddles, and the Shetland ponies would neigh when the boys pulled their bridles, and my windowpanes would pick up the sounds of the riders.

And from my window, early on Sunday mornings, I might see a man on the corner (We called him The Preacher) of a long stature and wearing an old grey suit, even in summer.

He was an angel, as were the boys upon their ponies. from the Greek angelos

, God’s messenger

About the author Bruce Alford has published fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry in journals such as the African American Review, Comstock Review and Imagination & Place Press. He is the author of Terminal Switching, a poetry collection (Elk River Review Press 2007), and was Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at the University of South Alabama from from 2007­2011. Before working in academia, he was an inner­city missionary and journalist. He currently lives in Hammond, Louisiana. Follow on Twitter @bruceealford.

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A Father's Love

By Duane L. Herrmann The love was strong stronger than a rock stronger than, larger than, a mountain wider than the seas despite his dissatisfaction, frustration to take it out on Dad. “I hate you,” he said at six, unafraid my love would waver or crack, confident my love would hold us both.

At ten he was so obnoxious I finally said, “You don’t have to live with us, we can find some place else, if you want.”

“No,” he mumbled low.

The known he didn’t like was better than unknown.

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June 2017 At thirteen he turned into a creature, hormones, I didn’t know, but understood so well.

Young bull pushing boundaries, limits of permission and life.

Love held.

In high school and college we were, he said, “best friends.”

Now he’s grown and on his own, not speaking to me; confident, despite his efforts: Dad’s love will hold us together.

About the author Duane L. Herrmann was born in Topeka, a fifth generation Kansan who was farming on a tractor by age 13. His continued connection to the land is reflected in his stories and poems. He is also a historian of the Baha’i Faith in Kansas whose work has been published in a dozen countries in four languages and has been quoted and cited as an authority on various aspects of the religion. His books can be found in Libraries through the US, Europe and the Middle East.

He is an educator who has been adjunct faculty for Allen College and a guest lecturer at universities. His work has received the Robert Hayden Poetry Fellowship, the Ferguson Kansas History Book Award and is included in the Kansas Poet’s Trail, the Map of Kansas Literature and American Poets of the 1990s. All this despite a traumatic childhood embellished by dyslexia, ADD and PTSD. Visit his website, dlherrmann.wix.com/home.

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A Lonely Cigarette

By Carl Wade Thompson Awakening with the sluggishness that can only come from the dense summer heat, Andrew felt the sweaty sheets on his half­naked body and paused for a moment. It was still dark out – a ways yet till the shine of morning – but he knew that there was to be no more sleep this night. Looking over across the room he shared with his twin brother, Jackson, he saw that he was still asleep; his breathing quiet, barely even snoring. Laying back in his bed, Andrew put his hands behind his head and tried to relax. He hoped he could be quiet till morning, when the sound of his mother at work in the kitchen cooking breakfast and the pronounced crippled walk of his father awoke the rest of the household. But after fifteen minutes of laying still, he knew that he could not wait any longer. Quietly, so as to not awaken his brother, Andrew got up and put on his overalls that lay draped over the end of his bed.

Taking his boots and socks with him, he crept barefoot to the back door of their room and silently went outside.

The darkness was thick, almost like an inky fog. No light filtered in through the leaves of the overhanging trees of the long cast out stars above. Sitting on the porch stoop, Andrew went through his morning ritual he performed every time he got up earlier than the rest of the house. It’s a lucky thing, he thought, that our room has a door to the outside, otherwise I wouldn’t get out here without being noticed. He liked it like that – being up before everyone else. There was just something about it; something that made him feel more grown­up, more like an adult. Sitting there in the stretching darkness, he felt more of a man than his seventeen years suggested.

Taking out a tin of tobacco and some rolling papers, Andrew started to roll himself a smoke. It was his one secret habit that he kept away from the rest of his family, including his twin sibling. He had started smoking at the age of fourteen, when he had been able to steal away some tobacco from the store. It was when his father was out and when his mother wasn’t hovering around. Though not sure at first why he decided to try it, and, in fact, had hated it at first, he had grown to like it. The whole preparation process fascinated him: the tapping of tobacco on the paper, the careful rolling, the perceptible lick along the edge to keep it all together. Lighting up was the most exciting part; the striking of a kitchen match against a rough surface, the heat of the small flame flickering between his fingers. But perhaps what he most liked about smoking was that it was his and his alone. He did not have to share it, show it, reveal that he liked to smoke – which would ultimately bring about the wrath of his parents as swiftly as a lightning bolt from heaven. There were few things that his family did not 23

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June 2017 know about him, and those few things, those pieces of his identity that made him, if not whole, at least making him and no one else.

Ever since he was young, he always felt different, that something was at odds within himself. As a twin, as a son, as a person who was defined by his roots, it sometimes seemed that the roots were threatening to strangle him altogether. And that frightened him. He had to be the one who was the individual, who was thought of, who was known outside the limits of the house and store. Andrew had to be the one that lead the way to something different from the world he knew, and with that burden he sometimes felt tired – so tired in fact that he would often go off into the woods by himself just to wonder, to be alone with his thoughts and God and the whispering trees.

As he took his last drag on his cigarette, he saw what he had been looking for. Dawn was peaking above the mountains. Stamping out his cigarette with his Brogans, he threw it underneath the house where it settled with the pile of burnt ends of others. Time for day, time for action, for the long summer to envelop them all in its glory. Standing, he opened the door and went inside to wake his brother before breakfast.

About the author Carl Wade Thompson is a writer and graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University. His work has appeared in The Mayo Review, The Concho River Review, The Eunoia Review, The Blue Collar Review, Sheepshead Review, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, Cenizo, Work Literary Magazine, and Labor: Studies in Working­Class History of the Americas.

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Father's Day

By Bryan Grafton Not a call. Not from either of them. Too busy to call their father this Father’s Day. Well, that’s the way kids were today. Actually, they weren’t really kids anymore. They were both grown with families of their own and way too busy with themselves and their kids to have time for anyone else. But still, maybe they would call. After all, there was a two­hour time zone difference.

Ward R. McGuinty, sixty­eight, looked out the window of his inherited hundred­plus­year­old farm house; the house he grew up in, raised his family in, and stared into the cloudless heavens, waiting for a call and trying to remember if he called his father on Father’s Day each year. But he couldn’t remember. His mind was as blank as the sky and this frightened him.

But he did remember certain things about his father though – dumb things, funny things, meaningful things, happy things, good times things. Things that no one else in the whole world would ever know but him, and he thought maybe he should tell his kids about them now before his mind went or he died and they were lost forever.

His father had been a farmer, a second­generation farmer. Ward was the third generation on this farm. His grandparents settled and died here and were buried in the cemetery down the road.

Their gravestones proudly proclaimed their heritage. “Born in County Down, Ireland. Died in Western Illinois.” His parents were buried there, too, but with just their names and dates, no mention of their place of birth or death. Ward knew that his time soon would be coming, and he, too, would be buried there, the last McGuinty to be buried there. No telling where his children would be buried. They hadn’t lived here for years. The farm wasn’t their home anymore. They had no ties to the land.

So, realizing his days were numbered, Ward tried to recall all he could about his father to tell to his kids when they called. If they called. He first remembered when he was just a little boy and had called his father Daddy, then Dad when he was a teenager, but now as an adult he simply thought of his father by his name, Bob. It was Bob now that jogged his memory.

Bob was loquacious, loved to talk. Chatty was the word for him. His mother called their 25

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June 2017 barnyard Grand Central Station, as all the local farmers would gather there to talk to Bob. Leaning against their pickup trucks, they would talk for the longest time about things like the price of beans and corn, what hogs and cattle were going for, politics, and the weather, of course. Farmers always talked about the weather. Back then weather was just that, weather. It wasn’t climate change or global warming yet. It wasn’t political. Thank God for that, thought Ward, since ‘political correctness’ would surely have driven Bob up the wall. Actually, anything political got him worked up.

Ward remembered Bill Bowens, one of their old neighbors, who liked to get Bob going on politics. The two of them had this little routine that they would always go through whenever discussing the same. Bill would always start it with, “Well, you know. That’s what they say,” and then wait for Bob to bite. Which, he always did, of course.

“No, Bill, I don’t know what ‘they’ say. What do ‘they’ say?”

“Well, you know. They say,” answered Bill shrugging his shoulders.

“No, I don’t know, Bill. Who are these ‘they’ that you’re talking about? ‘They’ got any names?

‘They’ got any phone numbers that I can call and find out what ‘they’ say?”

Bill would just chuckle in response, shrug his shoulders a second time and run his fingers through his mop of long, black, thick hair. That was the signal that the ‘Bill and Bob comedy routine’ was over for now, but it would be repeated the next time these two talked politics.

Funny how one thinks about nonsensical things like this about one’s father on Father’s Day when one should be thinking of the good times with him instead, reflected Ward. So, he shifted his mind to the good times, the county fair times.

Months before the fair each year, his father would buy him a 4­H club calf to raise and show. He would feed and take care of it and his father would help him train it to be led around the show ring come fair time. He never won anything; none of his calves were ever in contention, and his father stunk at buying winning show calves. Nevertheless, the fair times were happy times for the both of them: preparing the animal, getting their hopes up, and the excitement of the fair each year. But it was his father, more than him, who enjoyed it all. His father would spend the whole day, every day, at the fair during fair week, and did so for a number of years – even after Ward had outgrown 4­H. This was because his father had the contract to dispose of all the cattle, hog, sheep and other farm animal manure at the fair each year. The exhibitors would clean their stalls and pile it up outside each building and his father would scoop it up on the end loader, load it into the manure spreader, then drive it down the road and spread it over a field of some farmer who wanted free fertilizer. Every morning he would leave for the fair in the dark and come home in the dark each night. But it wasn’t an all day job. He could have gotten it done in either the morning or afternoon if he had wanted to. Rather, it was an excuse for him to spend all week at the fair talking to everybody and their brother, about any and everything, having a high old time.

Just then, Ward thought he heard the phone ring. It didn’t. It was only his imagination, wishful thinking. But the phone prompted Ward to think of something else about his father. How much his father loved to talk on the phone. How he would make or take all his calls at meal times. Cell phones didn’t exist back then. Sitting there eating, his father would yammer away, business calls at noon, personal calls at supper time.

One time at supper, when his father answered the phone, it was a wrong number. Rather than tell the guy and politely hang up, his father pleaded with the caller to stay on the line and talk to him.

His father even told him his name hoping to start a conversation. Yet no matter how hard he tried to coax the caller to reveal his name and talk, the caller refused to do so.

“You got a name don’t you? Well what is it? I told you mine,” his father pleaded to no avail.

Finally, the caller got tired of all that nonsense and hung up on him. His father was offended.

Another stupid story he should tell his kids about, thought Ward. Oh, well. He knew it was silly 26

and that his father hadn’t accomplished anything great in his life to brag about, but so what. Silly things still counted for something, too, and his kids never really knew their grandfather as they were quite young when he died.

Right then and there, Ward resolved to write down everything that he could think of about his father to pass on to his children. Like the time his father tipped over the combine on a hillside, rode it down, and jumped off at the last moment unhurt. Like the time his father gave away some of his mother’s chickens to a neighbor without her permission. He caught hell and she made him go get them and bring them back. Like the goldfish he kept in the cattle watering tank. Like the way he always said ‘ponsetty’ at Christmas time each year. Things like these.

Just then, his thoughts were interrupted. The phone rang and this time he heard it for sure. His wife came in and handed it to him.

“It’s our daughter,” she mouthed.

Father and daughter talked for over half an hour. The daughter hogged the conversation the whole time, talking about how wonderful they all were doing now that they had relocated to California.

Occasionally, Ward would get in an “Oh I see,” or “Oh that's nice” or “Uh­huh,” but hardly ever more than a sentence or two. Finally, she announced that she had to run and ended with “Happy Father’s Day. Love Ya Dad.” To which he replied, “Love you too Sweetie.”

“Well what’s the news?” asked his wife, desperate to know what they talked about for over half an hour.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied.

She gave him a dirty look but thankfully, before she could verbalize her discontent, the phone rang a second time. This time it was their son. And again, Ward sat there and mostly listened. Listened to everything about his son’s family, the boys and all their ball games, and school and church, and their neighbors, as if he cared about people he didn’t even know, and so on. Much the same palavering as his daughter’s call had been and again, he never contributed a full paragraph to the conversation.

“Just called to wish you a happy Father’s Day, Dad,” said his son. “Love ya man.”

“Love you too, son,” he said as he hung up.

Ward chuckled to himself, realizing that the loquacious gene had skipped a generation. He didn’t have it but his kids sure did. That’s for sure.

“Well, what’s the news from our son?” his wife asked impatiently.

“Oh, nothing,” came back the same answer again.

His wife shook her head in disgust and growled at him.

He paid her no attention as he sat there wondering what his kids would remember about him when they were old and he was gone. What stupid or clever or loving things that he had done would they recall. Probably dumb things like he had done just now. He closed his eyes to hide the tears forming.

Then he shook his head side to side as if to shake away his thoughts. His whole body shuddered and trembled all over.

“What’s that all about?” asked his wife, observing this strange behavior.

“Oh, nothing dear. Nothing at all.”

About the author Bryan Grafton's most recent publication is his short story, Misconceptions, which appears in The Prison Compendium, a book of 33 short stories. (Please read the reviews on Amazon.) His stories appear regularly in Scarlet Leaf Review.

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June 2017

Not Always Being After Lawrence Ferlinghetti

By D. N. Simmers

Not awake early today and the cob webs stay as the sun is melting the late night snow and slush.

It is spring outside between the snow that is disappearing between the flowers coming up like green hands in prayer.

All along the shadow line of trees whispers of buds are showing themselves.

If only the mind would quicken but the will is weak and the eyes want to go back to sleep.

Birds sit in the high trees.

A few eagles and some other crows.

They are waiting for the melt so they can feed some more.

About the author D. N. Simmers is an online special editor with Fine Lines. He is currently in riverbabble and Fredericksburg Literary & Arts Review. He was in Common Ground Review and Poetry Salzburg Review. He was also in the international anthology, Van Gogh's Ear, Paris, France.

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Absaroka­Beartooth Mountains, Montana

by Julia Schrade

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June 2017

About the photographer Julia Schrade is a traveling free spirit who was born and raised in Texas.

View her website, mindbodyspiritclinic.weebly.com.

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A Hug

By D. D. Renforth

In Dwayne Shorter’s senior year, two events occurred that brought a couple of rays of light to his dark high school years: He met Elsa Johnson and he played in a dodgeball tournament. Up till then, ever since Foster Dulles arrived in his sophomore year, he’d had to endure the neglect of his peers and the bullying of Foster.

Foster bullied Dwayne because he reminded Foster of what happened to his younger brother Jed. Every day after school Foster would bring his crippled brother Jed home from the institute where Jed was learning to manage his disabilities. To reach home, Foster would take a short cut across the railroad tracks. At approximately the same time each day, they would wait for the train to pass—it was a favorite moment for Jed—and then continue home.

One day Jed lost his balance. Foster was not close enough to catch him and the train killed Jed. It was an accident, but because Foster was frequently complaining about always being the one to care for Jed, Foster believed his parents thought he was negligent and blamed him. He also imagined that his school buddies suspected him; he had, after all, told them that he was sick of caring for Jed. In the end, Foster’s paranoia about what others believed drove him to transfer to Dwayne’s school, but the transfer did not stop his guilt that somehow, he was responsible for Jed’s death.

“What the heck happened to you?” were Foster’s words to Dwayne on Foster’s first day at the new school.

Dwayne had several physical deformities caused by his mother’s drug habit during pregnancy.

Though his internal organs and brain functioned normally, his spine was curved. The placement of his eyes and nose was out of balance, his neck was almost unseen, and one of his legs was shorter than the other, forcing him to limp or, if he was tired, use a crutch.

“I was born this way,” Dwayne answered.

Because of his severely bent posture and his eyes always staring at the ground, he had difficulty looking others in the eye. Dwayne tried to twist his head as much as possible, but, despite the pain, he still was looking at them from the corner of his eyes. The effect made him seem ominous and odd when he spoke.

“Do you have any questions about the school?” Dwayne asked.

Foster turned away and walked into the classroom without answering.

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June 2017 Dwayne followed, hobbling into the room with his crutch and sat in the front, near the teacher’s desk.

He would have preferred to be elsewhere in the room, in the back if possible, but he found that students taunted him less when he was up front.

“We’ve a new student today,” the teacher announced.

“Foster Dulles, welcome. I’m sure we’d all be glad to help if you have any questions. I’ve asked Dwayne to spend some time helping you catch up, ” she said and pointed at Dwayne.

“I appreciate it,” Foster said standing, “but I’ll be fine.”

A few students chuckled at that comment.

“Of course. But if you change your mind, Dwayne would make an excellent study buddy.”

The guy next to Foster whispered to him, “I should tell you: stay away from him in the john. He goes all over the place because he can’t see the urinal or bowl. When he’s in there, we always separate ourselves from him by at least one urinal.”

They both laughed.

That first day, when the teacher tried to pair up Dwayne with Foster and Foster refused Dwayne’s help, a pattern began that increasingly annoyed Foster. At a basketball game, with assigned seats, Foster would receive the seat next to Dwayne. The gym teacher would sometimes combine them in a duo in dodgeball, Dwayne’s favorite and only sport. At the sophomore dance, Dwayne and Foster were forced to work together at choosing the music. In their turns at hallway monitoring, they were on the same shift. The parent/teacher committee sent Foster and Dwayne on a field trip to help in the soup kitchen together. On a trip to New York City, the teachers assigned neighboring seats to Foster and Dwayne on the bus and at two shows. They were on the discipline committee together, which many found especially ironic since no one demeaned Dwayne more than Foster. Another irritating moment for Foster was when the office asked him to carry Dwayne’s books because his arm was hurt. Dwayne did not tell the office that it was Foster who had injured his arm.

“I hope they don’t place me again next to the cripple.”

Foster would raise his voice in the cafeteria so a lot of students could hear.

Often Foster would trip Dwayne and then loudly say, “Stop asking the teachers to assign us together,” when he knew that Dwayne had nothing to do with these assignments.

Or he would say openly in class, in front of Dwayne and the teacher, “Please don’t put me with Dwayne.”

“I want you to tell the teachers you don’t want to be placed with me!” Foster said after he and his gang pulled Dwayne aside, punched him in the stomach, and pushed him to the ground. “Do you get it?

Tell them! I’m sick of being around you, you freak!”

The explanation for their pairing was obvious to staff. None of the students liked being partnered with Dwayne. Some young people did pity him and would not be unfriendly, but he had no friendships. The girls were less inclined to refuse study groups and projects with him, but the boys found it demeaning to sit beside or looked at him and would intentionally fake being sick when assigned to work with him.

“It’s embarrassing to be near him,” they would say in explanation to the teachers.

“He smells. And the way he looks! Sometimes I don’t know what he’s saying, it’s so muffled,” they said.

Unlike Dwayne’s ongoing segregation, Foster had little difficulty making friends of both sexes.

His tough and confident demeanor seemed to be attractive to his peers and soon he had a gang of followers and imitators, some of whom wrote and published The Twitch, a satirical student alternative annual that, like the yearbook, came out at graduation time. It mocked the students, certain events, and the teachers. By the end of his first year, Foster had maneuvered his way into becoming the editor of The Twitch.

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With the staff forcing Foster on Dwayne and the students avoiding Dwayne as much as possible, Foster had been the low point of years of rejection and isolation for Dwayne. He certainly saw no Hollywood potential for his story. Neither a superhero nor a genius, he had never won against the bullies or learned how to do some version of martial arts and impress some gorgeous cheerleader enough to win her over. In the view of girls in the school, he was ugly, or, as one of them said on the Internet, “a creature from some weird planet here to gobble up the human race.” No one wanted even to walk down the hall near him, let alone be a girl dating him. Plastic surgery might have helped his face, but no wealthy donor came forward.

With respect to loved ones or family, Dwayne was a foster child who lost his mother to a drug overdose a few weeks after his birth and no one ever established the identity of his father. He ended up in foster care and now shared a room with another foster child. There were no tough guys who wanted to protect him. While the teachers were sympathetic, they could not watch him twenty­four hours a day.

The group home in which he lived, though supervised, was no warmer than his school. Not only did Dwayne take a trip each day from school torture to home torture, but even the walk in between was torture. People stared at him as some pathetic being and wondered how he survived.

Still, Dwayne did not change schools or have a breakdown. He struggled on, ignored relationships, and focused on his school work, clubs, and dodgeball until finally, at the beginning of his senior year, the universe cleared some of the darkness away. Dwayne met Elsa Johnson, a new girl at Livingston House, his group home. Elsa was rescued by Children Services because of an abusive father, placed in foster homes and, like Dwayne, eventually ended up at the Livingston House. Like most of the residents at Livingston, for the sake of stability, she stayed at her old high school until she graduated.

Each day the bus picked up most of the Livingston students and took them to their schools.

Elsa sat near Dwayne eating her breakfast on that first day of school in September. Elsa was of Swedish heritage and had the common Scandinavian features of light hair, light skin, blue eyes, and high cheek bones. Like many of the residents, she said nothing to Dwayne, and did not acknowledge him. But Dwayne always tried with the new residents and spoke first.

“Hello, I’m Dwayne.”

Elsa looked over at him, said nothing, but nodded.

“What school are you going to?” Dwayne asked.

“Fairfield.”

“Wow, that’s in the next district.”

“Children’s Aid wanted me to stay there. You know how they think.”

“I’m at Allen High. Fairfield’s our rival,” Dwayne said.

She nodded again and said, “I’m Elsa.”

“Hi,” Dwayne said.

She got up and took her plate over to the counter. She waved. He waved back.

For Dwayne, that exchange with Elsa was a momentous occasion. A young person of his age looked at and reacted to him as if he was no different from anyone else; just a guy. Her words and tone were not cruel, dismissive or showed a desire to escape. She talked to him as if he had meaning.

After she left, Dwayne walked several times in a circle around the cafeteria and said under his breath, ‘Yes! Yes!’ She did not have to speak to him again. He was going to treasure that event. She validated his existence. Though Dwayne and she continued to have brief talks throughout the coming school year, their first talk was all he needed. He was going to be happy for a long time.

Another key situation happened at the end of his senior year when the gym teacher teamed up Foster and Dwayne for the annual city­wide dodgeball tournament.

Foster immediately complained to the coach but the coach said: “Do it or you’re out.”

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June 2017 For Foster, no excuse could allow him to quit the tournament. If he quit, he would seem afraid to face others. This tournament was also not just another regular tournament. This was a huge affair for Allen High. Rarely had the school reached the finals in any sport. The galleries would be filled with his peers and others from rival schools around the city, including Elsa from Fairfield High.

Foster might lose but he had to make an attempt. His ego was at stake. But why, he screamed to the skies, must it be with “the freak?”

“Why must I be with him in front of everyone, out on that court?”

The gym teacher knew what he was doing. Foster was athletic and could whip a dodgeball as fast and hard as anyone, and he was quick at avoiding throws. Dwayne may not have been athletic, but he had superior instincts in dodgeball and could catch any dodgeball thrown at him, no matter how hard.

He could avoid being hit because of his bent­over, skinny form, which was far less of a target than others. Also, no one could guess from which direction he would throw the ball due to the unpredictable way he had of spinning then throwing the ball, like those who throw the discus or shotput.

In the final moments, Foster was out and only Dwayne and the opponent were on the court.

Dwayne had fallen on to his back. As he raised himself up, the opponent was preparing to throw the ball and was targeting Dwayne’s crippled left leg. That leg always dragged behind the good leg. The opponent threw it as hard as he could at the leg, but Dwayne anticipated the strategy and caught it. The force was so powerful that he fell back again on his back. But he held on to the ball and they won.

Allen High school students burst into applause, pounding their seats and feet on the gallery floor, and screaming as loud as they could. The sound was so thunderous and continued for so long in the cavernous gym that people were blocking their ears. The school was clearly proud and Dwayne and Foster faced them all with giant smiles. Dwayne could not stop that smile for days, but Foster, immediately after the ceremony, was disgusted once he realized the consequences of this win. Forever, in Foster’s mind, people would connect him with that cripple, that deformed monster, that freak, and that ugly thing; words he had used often throughout the years he had known Dwayne.

A week later, Foster stood in front of the display of school awards and stared at the trophy of a giant silver dodgeball sitting on a pedestal. On it, the names of Foster and Dwayne were forever engraved. Even more embarrassing for Foster was the photo of them smiling on the gym floor, their arms around each other posed for the official photo. They seemed the best of friends.

Foster’s first thought was to break the case, steal the trophy and photo, and throw them both in the river. Two problems arose with that plan. The school would certainly replace and re­engrave it, but, more troublesome, a camera that no one could reach and that never slept was focused on the case. The authorities would know who did it.

Foster strategized for a couple of weeks on how he must offset this image of himself with Dwayne. After an entire night of worry, he figured out what he would do. He would fix this travesty using The Twitch. When Foster became editor of The Twitch, he changed its content from harmless mockery to revenge and humiliation against his chosen targets. This year, Foster used it to clarify his feelings forever about Dwayne. People would look at it for the rest of their lives and remember it, not the trophy.

Dwayne poured milk on a bowl of cereal and sat in his usual chair. He was looking through the new editions of both the regular yearbook and The Twitch. Both were spread out before him.

He had been crying before Elsa came into the room and he wiped his eyes when he saw her.

But why, he screamed to the skies, must it be with the freak?

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Elsa and he had had conversations throughout the year at breakfast, but very rarely at other times. The talks were never long and about trivial subjects, but they were long enough and gentle enough to keep Dwayne’s spirits high. In his eyes, Elsa liked him enough to acknowledge him.

In the regular yearbook, Dwayne was voted “best dodgeball player,” and “the guy we wish we knew better.” He was in the photos of the dodgeball team, the drama club, the prom committee, the Go club, the newspaper, and the Sci­Fi club. He had made the honor roll enough times to also appear in that group.

The Twitch voted Dwayne “school’s best ever cripple,” “least likely to succeed,” “least likely to find a wife,” “destined for the streets,” “most likely career: drug dealer,” “most likely place of death: in a lonely hotel in the worst part of town of an overdose like his Mom,” “most unemployable,” “most odorous human,” “the man with the least friends,” and “messiest urinator.”

“City dodgeball champion!” Elsa said, taking him out of his mood. “Think you’re pretty great, huh? Beating my school.”

Dwayne smiled and shrugged. She had been teasing him ever since he won.

“I play dodgeball, you know,” Elsa added, sitting down next to him.

“I know,” Dwayne said. “You keep telling me.”

“We—the girls’ team—we’re going to destroy Allen High next week.”

“We’ll see,” Dwayne said quietly.

“Want to come and watch me play?” Elsa asked.

Dwayne did not answer.

Elsa noticed him concentrating on the two books, frozen in thought and not moving. She was curious.

“Whatcha reading there?” Elsa asked.

She quietly moved over to him and read the items on the full page devoted to him in The Twitch.

“Some champion, huh?” Dwayne said, shaking his head.

Dwayne looked over at her.

“OK, OK, I’ll admit it,” Elsa added after reading The Twitch and trying to ignore it.

“I want you to come to show everybody I know you. I’ll look cool, right? The City Champion there, watching me?” she asked.

Still Dwayne did not respond.

“I look really good in shorts too,” Elsa added, giggling, and then punching him in the arm.

After he continued to stare at The Twitch, Elsa did not talk for a long minute until her face suddenly turned sad and she sat down next to him.

“We’re not like other people, Dwayne,” she spoke softly, a pain in her voice.

“Inside, we have hurt, deep hurt. You know that. Others don’t see it,” she said.

“Yeah,” Dwayne said.

“Take me. I don’t like guys touching me. I can’t have a boyfriend. And I don’t think it’s going to go away, ever.”

“I’m sorry, Elsa.”

“No one talks like this about me,” Elsa said, pointing at The Twitch, “but I talk about myself that way, all the time.”

Dwayne twisted his neck and his head farther than he ever had before so he could see her face to face through his still­red eyes. His neck hurt to do it, but he wanted his eyes to meet her eyes and he wanted to show sympathy for her with those eyes. A tear ran down his cheek, not for him, but for her,

The Twitch voted Dwayne "school's best ever cripple"...

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June 2017 and she knew it.

Then she did what no one had ever done.

She gave him a long hug.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed that innocent moment of warmth and placed it in a special space in his mind; that space where he could go and find comfort for the rest of his life. That hug was now the most amazing event of his life, enough to keep him whole until his days were over.

“That’s for being a champion,” she said.

“OK, OK, I’ll come see you!” Dwayne said, breaking the mood.

“Wouldn’t it be cool,” Elsa said, “if I won and we were both were champions?”

“Yes, it would be cool,” Dwayne said, but not for him and not because of his own victory in dodgeball.

How could his partnership with Foster ever be thought a championship? Her hug was his championship. What would be wonderful, if Elsa won, would be if Elsa allowed him to hug her, he thought. Now that would be so wonderful. It would be the first time a girl wanted him to hug her.

Then, as if she read his thoughts, Elsa said the impossible.

“And if I win, would you give me a hug?”

Dwayne nodded.

Life, he thought, was good.

About the author D. D. Renforth has published many short stories in the last year as well as a long poem (153

lines). Renforth has degrees from Duke, Syracuse, and the University of Toronto (Ph.D.).

Both the Masters and the Doctoral theses of Renforth were published by commercial presses as well as several articles. Renforth is an American residing in Toronto, Canada.

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My Experiment

By Richard Kostelanetz It was late at night, and a fine rain was swirling softly down, causing the pavements to glisten with hue of steel and blue and yellow in the rays of the innumerable lights. Emerging from Wall Street, in the early 1950s, I found myself trudging slowly uptown, without enthusiasm, with my hands buried deep in my trousers' pockets, toward the Bowery where beds could then be hired for dollar bills. Clothed in an aged and tattered jumpsuit, I wore a baseball cap with a dust­covered visor and a torn rim. I was going uptown to eat as a wanderer may eat and sleep as the homeless sleep.

By the time I reached City Hall Park, I was so completely disheveled with yells of "bum" and "drunk" that I was in a state of the most profound dejection with various unholy epithets that small boys hurled at me at intervals. The sifting rain saturated the old velvet collar of my overcoat and, as the wet cloth pressed against my neck, I began to feel that no pleasure remained in my life. I looked about me searching for outcasts of a higher degree that they too might share my miseries, but the lights threw a quivering glare over rows and circles of deserted benches that glistened damply, showing patches of wet 37

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June 2017 sod behind them. It seemed that their usual inhabitants had fled on this night to better things. There were only squads of well­dressed Brooklyn people swarming into the subway entrance.

I loitered about for a time and then went shuffling off down Park Row. In the sudden descent in style of the dress of the crowd, I felt relief and as if I were at last in my own country. I began to see rags equal to my own rags. In Chatham Square, aimless men were strewn in front of saloons and lodging­ houses, standing sadly, patiently, reminding me vaguely of chickens in a storm. Identifying with these men, I turned slowly to occupy myself with the flowing life of the great street.

Through the mists of the cold and storming night, cars passed by in a silent procession ­ great affairs shining with red and brass ­ moving with formidable power, calm and irresistible, dangerous and gloomy, breaking silence only by their barking engines. Two rivers of people swarmed along the sidewalks, spattered with black mud, which made each shoe leave a scar­like impression. Overhead, elevated trains, with a shrill grinding of the wheels, stopped at the station, which upon its leglike pillars seemed to resemble some monstrous kind of crab squatting over the street. The quick fat puffings of the engines could be heard. Down an alley, there were somber curtains of purple and black, on which street lamps dully glittered like embroidered flowers.

A saloon stood with a voracious air on a corner. A sign leaning against the front of the doorpost announced: "Free hot soup to­night!" The swinging doors, snapping to and fro like ravenous lips, made gratified smacks as the saloon gorged itself with plump men, eating with astounding and endless appetite, smiling in some indescribable manner as the men came from all directions like sacrifices to a heathenish ritual.

Caught by the delectable sign, I allowed myself to be swallowed. A bartender placed a tall schooner of dark and portentous beer on the bar. Its monumental form arose until the froth atop was above the visor of my baseball cap.

"Soup over there, guys," said the bartender affably.

A little yellow man in rags and myself grasped our schooners and went with speed toward a lunch counter, where a man with oily but imposing whiskers ladled genially from a kettle until he had furnished his two mendicants with a soup that was steaming hot, and in which there were floating suggestions of chicken. Sipping this broth, I felt the cordiality expressed by the warmth of the mixture, and I beamed at the man with oily but imposing whiskers, who was presiding like a priest behind an altar.

"Have some more, guys?" he inquired of the two sorry figures before him.

The little yellow man accepted with a swift gesture, but I shook my head and went out, following another man whose wondrous seediness promised knowledge of cheap lodging­houses.

Out on the sidewalk I accosted the seedy man.

"Say, do you know a cheap place to sleep?"

The other hesitated for a time, gazing sideways. Finally, he nodded in the direction of the street, "I sleep up there," he said, "when I've got the price."

"How much?"

"Ten bucks."

I shook my head dolefully. "That's too rich for me."

At that moment, a reeling man in strange garments approached us. His head was a fuddle of bushy hair and whiskers, from which his eyes peered with a guilty slant. In a close scrutiny, it was possible to distinguish the cruel lines of a mouth that looked as if its lips had just closed with satisfaction over some tender and piteous morsel. He appeared like an assassin steeped in crimes performed awkwardly. But at this time, his voice was tuned to the coaxing key of an affectionate puppy.

Looking at the men with wheedling eyes, he began to sing a little melody for charity.

"Say, guys, can't you give a poor feller a couple of bucks ‘til I get a bed? I got five, and another 38

two gets me a bed. Now, on the square, guys, can't you just give two bucks to get a bed? Now, you know how a respectable gentlemen feels when he's down on his luck, and I­­" The seedy man, staring with imperturbable countenance at the Third Avenue El that clattered overhead, interrupted in an expressionless voice­­"Ah, go to hell­!"

But I spoke to the prayerful assassin in tones of astonishment and inquiry.

"Say, you must be crazy! Why don't you touch somebody who looks as if they had money?"

The assassin, tottering about on his uncertain legs, and at intervals brushing imaginary obstacles from before his dripping nose, entered into a long explanation of the psychology of the situation. So profound to him, it was to me unintelligible.

When he had exhausted the subject, I said to him: "Let's see your five bucks."

The assassin wore an expression of drunken woe at this sentence, filled with suspicion of me.

With a deeply pained air he began to fumble in his clothing, his red hands trembling. Presently he announced in a voice of bitter grief, as if he had been betrayed—“There's only four."

"Four," I replied. "Well, look here, I'm a stranger here, and if you'll steer me to your cheap joint I'll find the other three."

The assassin's countenance became instantly radiant with joy. His whiskers quivered with the wealth of his alleged emotions. He seized my hand in a transport of delight and friendliness.

"By God," he cried, "if you'll do that, by God, I'd say you were a blooming good fellow, I would, and I'd remember you all my life, I would, by God, and if I ever got a chance I'd return the compliment."

He spoke with drunken dignity, "By God, I'd treat you white, I would, and I'd always remember you."

Drawing back, I looked at the assassin coldly.

"Oh, that's all right," he said. "You show me around this joint­­that's all you've got to do."

The assassin, gesticulating gratitude, led me along a dark street. Finally, he stopped before a little dusty door. He raised his hand impressively.

"Look­a­here," he said, and there was a thrill of deep and ancient wisdom upon his face, "I've brought you here, and that's my part, isn't it? If the place doesn't suit you, you needn't get mad at me, need you? There won't be any bad feeling, will there?"

"No," I replied.

The assassin waved his arm tragically, and led the march up the steep stairway. On the way, I furnished the assassin with three bills. At the top, a man with benevolent spectacles looked at them through a hole in a board. He collected our money, wrote some names on a register, and speedily was leading us along a gloom­shrouded corridor.

Shortly after the beginning of this journey, I felt my liver turn white, for from the dark and secret places of the building there suddenly came to my nostrils strange and unspeakable odors that assailed me like malignant diseases with wings. They seemed to be from human bodies closely packed in dens­­the exhalations from a hundred pairs of reeking lips, the fumes from a thousand bygone debauches, and the expression of a thousand present miseries.

A man, naked save for a little snuff­colored undershirt, was parading sleepily along the corridor.

He rubbed his eyes, and, giving vent to a prodigious yawn, demanded to be told the time.

"Half­past one."

The man yawned again. He opened a door, and for a moment his form was outlined against a black, opaque interior. To this door came the three men, and as it was again opened, the unholy odors rushed out like fiends, so that I felt obliged to struggle as against an overpowering wind.

It was some time before my eyes became good in the intense gloom within, but the man with benevolent spectacles led me skillfully, pausing but a moment to deposit the limp assassin upon a cot.

He took me to a cot laid tranquilly by the window, and showing me a tall locker for clothes that stood near the head with the ominous air of a tombstone, left me.

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June 2017 I sat on my cot and peered about me. There was in a distant part of the room, a gas jet that burned a small flickering orange­hued flame. It caused vast masses of tumbled shadows in all parts of the place, save where, immediately about it, there was a little grey haze. As my eyes became used to the darkness, I could see upon the cots that thickly littered the floor the forms of men sprawled out, lying in deathlike silence, or heaving and snoring with tremendous effort, like stabbed fish.

I locked my hat and my shoes in the mummy case near me, and then lay down with an old and familiar coat around my shoulders. A blanket I handled gingerly, drawing it over part of the coat. The cot, covered with leather, was as cold as melting snow. I was obliged to shiver for some time on this slab. Presently, however, his chill gave me peace, and during this period of leisure from it I turned his head to stare at my friend the assassin, whom I could dimly discern where he lay sprawled on a cot with the abandon of a man filled with drink. He was snoring with incredible vigor. His wet hair and beard dimly glistened, and his inflamed nose shone with subdued luster like a red light in a fog.

Within reach of my hand was someone who lay with yellow breast and shoulders bared to the cold drafts. One arm hung over the side of the cot, and his fingers laid full length upon the wet cement floor of the room. Beneath his inky brows could be seen the eyes of the man exposed by his partly opened lids. To me, it seemed that he and this corpse­like being were exchanging a prolonged stare, and that the other threatened with his eyes. He drew back, watching his neighbor from the shadows of his blanket edge. The man did not move once through the night, but lay in this stillness as of death like a body stretched out, expecting a surgeon's knife.

And all through the room could be seen the tawny hues of naked flesh, limbs thrust into the darkness, projecting beyond the cots; raised knees, arms hanging long and thin over the cot edges. For the most part, they were statuesque. With the curious lockers standing all about like tombstones, the room had a strange effect of a graveyard where bodies were merely flung.

Yet occasionally could be seen limbs wildly tossing in fantastic nightmare gestures, accompanied by guttural cries, grunts, and oaths.

And there was one fellow off in a gloomy corner, who in his dreams was oppressed by some frightful calamity, for of a sudden he began to utter long wails that went almost like yells from a hound, echoing weirdly through this chill place of tombstones where men lay like the dead.

The sound from its high piercing beginnings dwindled to final melancholy moans, expressed a red and grim tragedy of the unfathomable possibilities of the man's dreams. But to my ears, these were not merely the shrieks of a vision­pierced man. They uttered the meaning of the room and its occupants. It was to me the protest of the wretch who feels the touch of the imperturbable granite wheels, and who then cries with an impersonal eloquence, with strength not from him, giving voice to the wail of a whole section, a class, a people. This, weaving into my brain, and mingling with my views of the vast and somber shadows that, like mighty black fingers, curled around the naked bodies, made me so that I did not sleep, but lay carving the biographies for these men from my meager experience. At times, the fellow in the corner howled in a writhing agony of his imaginations.

Finally, a long lance­point of grey light shot through the dusty panes of the window. Without, I could see roofs drearily white at dawn. The point of light yellowed and grew brighter, until the golden

...the forms of men sprawled out, lying in deathlike silence, or heaving and snoring with tremendous effort, like stabbed fish.

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rays of the morning sun came in bravely and strong. They touched with radiant color the form of a small fat man, who snored in stuttering fashion. His round and shiny bald head glowed suddenly with the valor of a decoration. He sat up, blinked at the sun, swore fretfully, and pulled his blanket over the ornamental splendors of his head.

Contentedly, I watched this rout of the shadows before the bright spears of the sun, and presently I slumbered. When I awoke I heard the voice of the assassin raised in valiant curses. Raising my head, I perceived my comrade seated on the side of the cot engaged in scratching his neck with long fingernails that rasped like files.

"Holy Jesus, this is a new breed. They've got can­openers on their feet." He continued in a violent tirade.

Hastily, I unlocked my closet and took out my shoes and hat. As I sat on the side of the cot lacing my shoes, I glanced about and saw that daylight had made the room comparatively commonplace and uninteresting. The men, whose faces seemed stolid, serene or absent, were engaged in dressing, while a great crackle of bantering conversation arose.

A few were parading in unconcerned nakedness. Here and there were brawny men whose skins shone clear and ruddy. They took splendid poses, standing massively like chiefs. When they had dressed in their ungainly garments there was an extraordinary change. They then showed bumps and deficiencies of all kinds.

There were others who exhibited many deformities. Shoulders were slanting, humped, pulled this way and pulled that way. And notable among these latter men was the little fat man who had refused to allow his head to be glorified. His pudgy form, built like a pear, bustled to and fro, while he swore in fishwife fashion. It appeared that some article of his apparel had vanished.

I dressed speedily and went to my friend the assassin. At first, the latter looked dazed at the sight of me. This face seemed to be appealing to me through the cloud wastes of his memory. He scratched his neck and reflected. At last he grinned, a broad smile gradually spreading until his countenance was a round illumination.

"Hello, Willie," he cried cheerily.

"Hello," I replied. "Are you ready to fly?"

"Sure."

The assassin tied his shoe carefully with some twine and came ambling.

Reaching the street, I experienced no sudden relief from unholy atmospheres. I had forgotten all about them, and had been breathing naturally, and with no sensation of discomfort or distress. I was thinking of these things as I walked along the street, until I was suddenly startled by feeling the assassin's hand, trembling with excitement, clutching his arm, and when the assassin spoke, his voice went into quavers from a supreme agitation.

"I'll be holy, blooming blowed if there wasn't a feller with a nightshirt on up there in that joint."

Bewildered for a moment, I presently turned to smile indulgently at the assassin's humor.

"Oh, you're a blasted liar," he merely said.

Whereupon the assassin began to gesture extravagantly, and take oath by strange gods. He frantically placed himself at the mercy of remarkable fates if his tale were not true.

There were others who exhibited many deformities.

Shoulders were slanting, humped, pulled this way and pulled that way.

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June 2017 "Yes, he did! I cross my heart thousand times!" he protested, and at the moment his eyes were large with amazement, his mouth wrinkled in unnatural glee.

"Yes, sir! A nightshirt! A holy white nightshirt!"

"You lie!"

"No, sir! I hope to die before I can get another ball if there wasn't a jay with a holy, blooming white nightshirt!"

His face was filled with the infinite wonder of it.

"A holy white nightshirt," he continually repeated.

At the dark entrance to a basement restaurant, I saw a sign that read, No mystery about our hash! There were other age­stained and world­battered legends that told me that the place was within my means. I stopped before it and spoke to the assassin.

"I guess I'll get something to eat."

At this the assassin, for some reason, appeared to be quite embarrassed. He gazed at the seductive front of the eating place for a moment. Then he started slowly up the street.

"Well, good­bye, Willie," he said bravely.

For an instant, I studied the departing figure.

Then he called out, "Hold on a minute."

As we came together, I spoke in a certain fierce way, as if I feared that the other would think me to be charitable.

"Look­a­here, if you want to get some breakfast, I'll lend you three bucks to do it with. But say, look­a­here, you've got to get out and hustle. I’m not going to support you, or I'll go broke before night.

I’m not a millionaire."

"I take my oath, Willie," said the assassin earnestly, "the only thing I really needs is a ball. My throat feels like a frying pan. But as I can't get a ball, why, the next best thing is breakfast, an' if you do that for me, by God, I say you was the whitest lad I’ve ever seen."

We spent a few moments in dexterous exchanges of phrases, in which we each protested that the other was, as the assassin had originally said, "a respectable gentleman." And we concluded with mutual assurances that we were the souls of intelligence and virtue. Then we went into the restaurant.

There was a long counter, dimly lighted from hidden sources. Two or three men in soiled white aprons rushed here and there.

I bought a bowl of coffee for two bucks and a roll for one dollar. The assassin purchased the same. The bowls were webbed with brown seams, and the tin spoons wore an air of having emerged from the first pyramid. Upon them were black moss­like encrustations of age, and they were bent and scarred from the attacks of long­forgotten teeth. But over their repast, we wanderers waxed warm and mellow. The assassin grew affable as the hot mixture went soothingly down his parched throat, and I felt courage flow through my veins.

Memories began to throng in on the assassin, and he brought forth long tales, intricate, incoherent, delivered with a chattering swiftness as from an old woman. "­­great job, out and around.

Boss keeps you hustling though all time. I was there three days, and then I went and ask him to lend me a dollar. 'G­g­go to the devil,' he says, and I lost my job."

"South no good. Blasted Negroes work for twenty­five and thirty bucks a day. Run white man out. Good grub, though. Easy living."

"Yes, I used to work a little in Toledo, rafting logs. Make twenty or thirty dollars a day in the spring. Lived high. Cold as ice, though, in the winter."

"I was raised in northern New York. O­a­ah, you just ought to live there. No beer or whisky, though, way off in the woods. But all the good hot grub you can eat. By God, I hung around there long as I could until my old man fired me. 'Get the hell out of here, you worthless skunk, get the hell out of here, 42

and go die,' he says. 'You're a hell of a father,' I said, 'you are,' and I quit him."

As we were passing from the dim eating place, we encountered an old man who was trying to steal forth with a tiny package of food until a tall man with an indomitable mustache stood dragon fashion, barring the way of escape. We heard the old man raise a plaintive protest.

"Ah, you always want to know what I take out, and you never see that I usually bring a package in here from my place of business."

As the wanderers trudged slowly along Park Row, the assassin began to expand and grow blithe.

"By God, we've been living like kings," he said, smacking appreciative lips.

"Look out, or we'll have to pay for it tonight," I replied with gloomy warning.

But the assassin refused to turn his gaze toward the future. He went with a limping step, into which he injected a suggestion of lamblike gambols. His mouth was wreathed in a red grin.

In the City Hall Park, we two wanderers sat down in the little circle of benches sanctified by traditions of their class. We huddled in our old garments, slumbrously conscious of the march of the hours that for us had no meaning.

The people of the street hurrying hither and thither made a blend of black figures changing yet frieze­like. They walked in their good clothes as upon important missions, giving no gaze to the two wanderers seated upon the benches. They expressed to me my infinite distance from all that I valued.

Social position, comfort, the pleasures of living, were unconquerable kingdoms. I felt a sudden awe.

And in the background, a multitude of buildings of pitiless hues and sternly high, were to him emblematic of a nation forcing its regal head into the clouds, throwing no downward glances; in the sublimity of its aspirations ignoring the wretches who may flounder at its feet. The roar of the city in my ear was to me the confusion of strange tongues, babbling heedlessly; it was the clink of coin, the voice if the city's hopes which were to him no hopes.

Writing in my diary, I confessed myself an outcast, as my eyes from under the lowered rim of my hat began to glance guiltily, wearing the criminal expression that comes with certain experience and convictions.

About the author Individual entries of Richard Kostelanetz’s work appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth­Century Writers, Merriam­Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster's Dictionary of American Writers, Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who's Who in America, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. View more at richardkostelanetz.com/ 43

Edify Fiction

June 2017

Ascento

By Patrick Moloney

Sweet Jesus Talking So clear this morning Dropped off every leaf Along trails just dry from cold night dew All this is deeper than love And I didn’t see it Where life calmly gives out its own secret No, my soul is not asleep I had to walk through the solar systems Since there is no place large enough to contain such happiness I sat, a solitary man From the other world Poetry arrived In search of me

About the author Patrick Moloney is a writer living in Oak Park, IL, with his wife Delia and son Riley. He's held some 12 plus jobs in his life including miner, fireworks choreographer, producer of live shows based on superheroes, and VP of one of the world's largest film and entertainment companies. He has been published in, The Foliate Oak, The Nervous Breakdown, and The Whistling Fire.

Editor's Note: “A cento” (Latin derivative: patchwork) is a poem created completely out of lines from other poems.

Poets in order of lines: Mary Oliver – Maybe; Hafiz – This Talking Rag; Jane Hirshfield – Lake and Maple; Czeslaw Milosz – Eyes; DH Lawrence – Deeper Than Love; Juan Ramon Jimenez – I Unpetaled You; Rainer Maria Rilke – You See I Want A Lot; Antonio Machado – Is My Soul Asleep; Edith Sodergran – I had to Walk Through the Solar System; Naomi Shhib Nye – So Much Happiness; WB Yeats – My Fiftieth Year; James Wright – Milkweed; Pablo Neruda – Poetry.

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The Feather in Triptych

By Maxine Kollar

Float down for a moment; there are works to be done.

She plucks it up, brows knitted tight.

But we can’t hear above her cries, shattering heartbreak.

She longs to run its softness under her nose and above her quivering lip but resists, daring to hope.

‘All can wait.’ He says.

‘This need is greater.’

She was pleading for a sign.

In front of the house, the realtor’s own says Price reduced but My feather tells her she is priceless.

She looks heavenward to find the earthbound flier even while knowing there is no one for her eyes to see but Me ­ a hair’s breadth away catching her tears.

My feather, taped on a box so cold that it holds all the harshness of her soul.

Melt me, she has begged and so He does.

The water spills out onto the floor and down her cheeks.

She runs to the neighbors with fish sticks and beef, laughing through her tears, for she knows His truth.

About the author Maxine Kollar is a wife and a mother of three. Her works have appeared in Mamalode, Route 7 Review, Gambling the Aisle, A Lonely Riot and elsewhere.

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Edify Fiction

June 2017

The Best Daddy

By Angela Meek

If I could, I would be the best daddy you are missing. I would have broad shoulders and hands that never hurt. I would tug at your hair, wrapping it in my fingers, and give you butterfly kisses. I’d scrape the monsters from under the bed frame and buy you princess dresses with sequins and feathers. You would never doubt my staying power.

You would beam at me during our daddy­daughter dance and I would whisper ‘Always’ in your ear. I would be your first date and, across from crystal goblets full of milk, show you honor, love, and worship.

I’d mend scuffed knees, torn homework, broken picture frames, and flat tires. You could count on me to be at the other end of your midnight texts, your game wins, and every loss. Every loss.

You’d feel safe by my side and sleep peacefully in your bed – no consideration to the darkness lurking outside. You’d tramp through the world fiercely, drinking the juices from the day, no thoughts of being less than or not enough. I would prove to you again and again...and again... you are always enough, more than enough.

You would never settle for less than; my solidity would tell you to demand more. You would spread your wings and fly, never fearing the fall. The best daddy always catches you when you fall.

About the author Angela Meek is a writer, editor, and community moderator. She has been published in DM Review Magazine, ParentWise Austin, Junto Magazine, and others; she has work upcoming in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Dime Show Review, and with Meaningful Words Publishing. Follow her on her website, Twitter, and Facebook.

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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.

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Edify Fiction

June 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 • Non­traditional genre pieces: sci­fi, romance, western 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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