Edify Fiction - V1, Iss. 6

Edify Fiction Volume 1, Issue 6

September 2017

"Afternoon Shadows"

by Lester Majkowicz

Editor Angela Meek

Assistant Editors Craig Mardis Michelle McMillan­Holifield

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

Edify Fiction Magazine

published worldwide or this is your first story.

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

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

Best of the Best: Cover Art: Afternoon Shadows Artist: Lester Majkowicz

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

Lester Majkowicz is a New Jersey native and writes the blog Around The World Cheese which can be found at aroundtheworldcheese.blogspot.com.

His interests are jam bands, photography, and 60's science fiction.

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

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

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

Copyrights revert back to individual authors and artists after publication.

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Edify Fiction

September 2017

Contributors 1 Afternoon Shadows by Lester Majkowicz 5 Very Very Very Very Very by Sylvia Schwartz 1 0 At the End of a Nightly Walk by James Piatt 1 1 Pinion by Rebecca Mix 1 5 I Removed the Bullet by PJ Stephenson 1 7 Morning Comfort Zone by Louis Staeble 1 9 The Odeon by Michael Archambault 23 The Second Ascent by Benjamin Sonnek 25 Shoebox by Kassandra Bird 26 Seeing by Jessica Mehta 27 Table for Two by Brandon Hartman 34 Primary Things by Arthur Plotnik 35 Helpers by Mark Myavec 37 Jug by Paul Smith 41 Spirit by Joseph Reich 43 To Err is Human ~ a Confession Story by Ana Gardner 46 Love by Gideon Tay Yee Chuen

Special Features 3 4 47 48

From the Editor Best of the Net 2017 Nominations Best of the Best & Comments, Upcoming Features, Advertising Call for Submissions

Other Photo / Art Credits 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, 4, 5, 10, 11, 15, 19, 23, 26, 27, 35, 37, 41, 43, 46.

The photo on page 25 is by photographer Kayli Meek and is used with permission. The photo on page 34 is by writer and photographer Arthur Plotnik and is used with permission.

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From the Editor Greetings Wonderful Readers!

Well, it's Fall! My favorite season. (Who's with me?)

I don't know what Autumn feels like for our readers up north, but down south, we relish the time of year when more pleasant (note I didn't say cool) temperatures slowly replace the sticky, stifling summer. The leaves turn and create color canopies and then begin to break way. I love serendipitous moments when leaves roil over my windshield like a downy rainstorm. Every time it happens, my husband looks over and smiles at me because he knows on the inside I'm squealing like a pigtailed little girl. There's just something both exciting and relaxing about Fall, isn't there?

With relaxation in mind, we invite you to grab a cup of coffee (or chai tea, hot cocoa, whatever warms your spirit), kick your feet up and linger a while on each of the pieces in our September issue. At the heart of the issue is the human condition: relationships, memories, knowing who someone really is deep down. You'll also find fantastical stories by Rebecca Mix and Benjamin Sonnek. And what fall issue would be complete without nightly walks and the absolute miracles in nature?

So we invite you, like Jessica Mehta, to see "past all the nonsense, the don't matters and the things we're supposed to notice" and get "to the core, where the sweetness grows." Ponder with Joseph Reich, "what the thunder & rain can do to a wild batch of blackberries."

If you're new to Edify Fiction, we're excited you're with us and invite you to peruse this and previous issues. If you've been with us over the last few months, we thank you for your loyal readership. And, to borrow a phrase from current contributor Sylvia Schwartz, we hope you will stay with us a "very very very very very" long time.

Don't forget to comment on your favorite pieces. Let the authors and artists know how their pieces affected you.

God bless you, dear readers, Michelle Holifield Assistant Editor, Edify Fiction

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September 2017

Best of the Net Nominations Annually, Sundress Publications holds a Best of the Net contest, recognizing original work published online. For this year's 12th anniversary edition, works had to be published online between July 1, 2016 and June 30, 2017 to be eligible for nomination. Edify Fiction is proud to announce the nomination of the following works: Category: Poetry Title: Des Lettres Author: Precious Arinze Edify Fiction issue: April 2017 Category: Poetry Title: Grandmother and Al Author: Roshanda Johnson Edify Fiction issue: May 2017 Category: Short Story Title: The Ordinance Man Author: Katinka Smit Edify Fiction issue: June 2017 Category: Short Story Title: The Tinder of our Wishes Author: Monet Lessner Edify Fiction issue: April 2017 Finalists will be announced on the Sundress Publications' website and winners will be published in their online anthology. Congratulations to our nominees!

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Very Very Very Very Very

By Sylvia Schwartz “Dear Linda, I am very very very very very sorry,” James scribbled in a greeting card—and not just any variety of greeting card, but a Hallmark one, whose messages he normally would have thought overly sentimental, but now thought wholly appropriate given that the circumstance warranted flowers.

James also believed the repetitive use of the word “very” five times was such an original idea that, by the time he had finished looping the giant letter J on the bottom of the card, his choice of a card became vastly superior to the ordinariness of mere flowers. Would her ex­ boyfriend, Paul, in Chicago, have ever thought of this? No, he would have resorted to roses, and red ones at that, as if women weren’t completely tired of that cliché. The card James found had been crammed in a dollar bin, calling out to him with its shiny black bird gliding against a cloudless blue sky, symbolism for their relationship. Well, not for how their relationship was now, exactly; things weren’t exactly soaring, upward that is, but she could see this was where he wanted it to go, couldn’t she? The fact, however, that the bird was a hawk, and that it was swooping down as if to capture prey, may not have been the perfect choice. For hawks have been known to eat small cats, and it was Linda’s whining indoor cat, Muffet, that James had let outside. Muffet had yet to come back. *** “I’m busy," Linda said into her cell phone, her legs flopped over the arm of her chair so that her calico dress draped over her cowboy boots, her favorite book on herbal gardening on her lap.

“Still?” James asked, sitting alone in his apartment. It had been almost a week and he couldn’t remember Linda ever missing their Friday night movie night. He’d buy caramel popcorn. She’d get a kernel stuck between a back tooth. He’d give her a stick of gum to dislodge it. They’d go out for Chinese. James was a junior engineer who valued their rituals. Rituals, even after two years, he believed, were still enough to satisfy them both.

“But you got my card, right?”

“Uh huh.”

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“Then what? Was it wet? Soggy? Because if the rain dampened the card that would have dampened its message.”

“No, James, the card was not damp,” she said, sitting up straight. “What if we had kids —” “— kids?! What are you talking about? You want to have kids?”

“No, I mean, maybe. Let me finish. What if you let one of them out?

“Huh? Aren’t kids supposed to play outside?”

“Not without supervision.”

“But cats aren’t like kids. They don’t want supervision.”

“I’m not talking about cats.”

“Then what are we talking about?”

“Responsibility.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly!”

Then she hung up.

She doesn’t think I’m responsible? he thought. In line for a promotion at Dresden & Waller. Diligently saving money, knowing Linda’s teaching salary didn’t bring home much.

They were young. No need to rush things. What did she want?

He called her again.

“Linda, don’t be like this. I said I was sorry.”

“James, I need time off.”

“You’ve got the whole summer off.”

“I mean with us. I need to think. I’m going to Chicago to see my mom next week.”

“You can’t think here?”

“I’m sorry, James.”

“Hey, only one of us is supposed to be sorry. Or just one of us at a time. Then the other is supposed to forgive. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. So, don’t be sorry. I don’t want you to be sorry about anything or do anything to be sorry about. You won’t, right? Let’s not talk any more about being sorry—” “—James, can you stop talking? Stop going on and on for just a moment.”

Linda put her book on the end table, walked to her window, and looked at the Colorado sunset, her cellphone against her ear. James sat on his couch without moving.

“You used to like that about me,” James began. “Told me after talking all day as a teacher that it was kinda funny how I could go on and on without interruption. I do it less and less. Now only when I’m nervous.”

“I know, James. But I gotta go. Love you.”

Then she hung up. *** After two nights of restless sleep, James came to the realization that what Linda really wanted was another cat. He walked into the shelter proud of his decision, but not prepared for the shelter’s zoo­like smell. It was one thing to have a girlfriend with one cat, quite another to enter a world aromatized by hundreds of them along with dogs, parakeets, hamsters, rabbits, and even mice (which made no sense to him, since he always got rid of them; though, to be fair, his were neither cute nor white.)

For a moment, he pondered whether Linda would like a mouse, after all, isn’t this what 6

cats bring home to show their affection? Mice don’t shed. They don’t eat much. He watched one mouse going round and round in its cage, seemingly content. It was almost meditative. The more he thought about this white mouse, the more he thought it was the perfect make­up gift, making him envision make­up sex, which after a few blissful moments left him guilty, since it was his wanting uninterrupted “non­cat­scratching and mewing outside the bedroom door” sex that had gotten him into this predicament.

No, a cat was better. A cat and a mouse? He couldn’t think. The cacophony of animal noises, each species communicating from their row of cages in their native tongue, was almost deafening and contrasted oddly with the humans who shushed, ooo’d, and awe’d while speaking in a pseudo baby­talk language of their own. The place reminded him of a giant horse barn, even though he had never been to one, with its mixture of straw and cat litter that fell from rows of cages and scattered across the plank wood floors. James had never owned a pet, too big a commitment, although he hadn’t expressed this to Linda; he wasn’t a complete fool.

Across the room, a door with a sign read: “Playpens for the Young at Heart.” He ventured into this room staged with two large playpens at opposite ends: one filled with puppies, one with kittens. Two young girls in oversized white lab coats handed kittens or puppies to prospective owners.

He addressed one lab­coated girl near the kittens and with arms stretched wide said, “Do you have anything bigger? Something big enough to fend for himself.”

“Oh, you mean a cat?”

Then she escorted him to a giant cage where cats were sleeping or perched on a multi­ tiered carpeted dwelling. One cat eyed him from a corner. What if a new cat doesn’t bond with Linda? Linda’s cat certainly hadn’t bonded with him. No, a kitten was better, but wouldn’t it grow up to become a cat and get out again?

“Uh, what about a puppy instead?” he said, as he walked over to the puppy pen. Having never owned a cat or a dog, James could not fathom that a person might be a dog or a cat person. After all, vets didn’t care for only dogs or cats. They treated both. Besides a dog could protect Linda. The more he thought about it, the better that choice became. A dog would run up to greet him versus a cat scurrying under the couch to hide. A dog would lick his face and make him smile versus a cat scratching his hands until they bled. A dog would curl up at his feet to show affection versus a cat running under his to trip him. With the idea of a dog planted firmly in his mind, he couldn’t help but go one step further. What’s better than one puppy?

Two, of course, so they can play together. Now that’s thinking responsibly. *** James wasn’t prepared for the amount of work that caring for two puppies entailed.

They didn’t seem to understand that they were supposed to pee on the newspaper in their cage.

At night, they whined until his heart broke, sending him out to purchase an alarm clock, which one chat thread said would calm them by simulating a mother’s heartbeat. It didn’t work. He dragged the cage next to his sofa where he slept with one eye open.

Every day, he’d dash home at lunchtime and leave work early to feed, walk, and play with his puppies. He enjoyed how the soft, furry puppies jumped and ran around before tiring out and nuzzling against each of his thighs when he sat down to watch TV. He set the game on mute, not wanting cheering crowds to agitate them. He called them Puppy One and Puppy Two, imagining that he and Linda would name them together. He smiled at the idea of surprising her. Women love surprises. He could hardly wait.

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*** “Another week?”

“There’s some things I need to help Mom with while I’m here.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” he said, suddenly realizing Paul was closer in proximity to her than he was.

“What do you mean?

“Did you go to Chicago to see Paul?” James blurted out, wondering if he should fly out right now to confront Paul to tell him it was over between him and Linda. How could that guy not know this? Of course, with Linda there and not here, James could understand how Paul might get confused. After all, James was confused. Why was she there and not here?

“James, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Did she tell Paul about the missing cat? Is he planning on getting her a new cat, because that wouldn’t be a good idea with two new dogs. She would have to return that cat, because she was with him now, not Paul. Well, of course, not at this very moment.

“And this is something you have to tell me from Chicago? You know I’m not good with bad news over the phone. Are you okay? Is your mom okay? I don’t care if Paul is okay.”

“Everyone’s fine.”

“Then what? Tell me. I can take it. I mean, I think I can take it.”

“Muffet came back.”

“What?”

“I should have told you before I left,” Linda said, sipping matcha tea. “But I didn’t think you’d understand. Muffet could have been eaten by a coyote. I needed to take her someplace safer. That’s why I gave her to my mom."

“Whew, not Paul then?”

“Paul? Why would I give my cat to Paul? Paul is a fish person,” Linda said.

Puppy One jumped onto James’s lap and licked his cheek.

“Now, Linda, you don’t actually believe people are strictly fish, cat, or dog people, right?

I mean people can change or they don’t have to change, because maybe they were always both a cat and dog person—or even a dog, cat, and mice person.

“A mouse person? Who would ever want be a mouse person?”

“Someone might. They come with their own wheel.” *** The night Linda flew back to Denver, James drove over to Linda’s rented house more nervous than excited, determined to be the man she wanted him to be. Someone she could count on to always understand. He brought a simple gift. One he had thought long and hard about. It was so perfect, he wondered why he’d never considered it before. James gently carried it from his car to her back kitchen door, the same door he had let the cat out, which fueled dread. What if she doesn’t like it? What if she doesn’t realize how much he loves her? After knocking rat­a­tat­tat lighter than usual, kitchen lights came on, footsteps approached, cafe curtains parted, and the door opened.

Before Linda had a chance to say anything, he thrust his arms out with his gift and said, “Welcome home.”

“It’s a cactus,” Linda said.

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“Oh, Linda, I knew you’d like it. It hardly needs any water, so if you had to go somewhere and forgot to water it, it would probably be okay. Except of course, I could always come over and water it for you — if you wanted — if you wanted to give me a key to your place that is, not that you have to; I mean it’s a plant, not a dog—I mean, a dog needs constant attention; but, then again, a dog can also be the right kind of attention. Have you ever thought of yourself as a dog person, Linda?”

“What?”

“I mean, I know you’re a cat person and all, but dogs are nice, too, don’t you think?

Would you like a dog, Linda, because I got two and I couldn’t bring myself to take them back?

They’re in my apartment. I can run and get them, so you can see — so you can see how much someone can love a dog even though a dog is a really big commitment. You can see that, Linda.

Can’t you?”

Linda smiled. He knew he had chosen the perfect gift and was very very very very very happy.

About the author Sylvia Schwartz's short stories and poetry have been published in the online literary magazines The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, The Vignette Review, and The Airgonaut. She has studied literary fiction at the Writers Studio and One Story in New York as well as with Tom Jenks. She is an assistant editor at Narrative Magazine and currently lives in Hoboken, NJ. You can reach her via Twitter @Aivlys99.

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At the End of a Nightly Walk

By James Piatt As the summer sun escapes into the scarlet horizon, the narrow atmosphere holds the dimming blueness of sky. The earth spins into recollections; a muted pealing of bronze bells in the church far down in the valley suppresses sad thoughts.

Evening sneaks in as stars, like tiny kerosene lanterns, light the sky. Brahms’ softly played black and white notes cover the silence; in the sudden stillness: I sense a blessed alliance.

Old memories flit softly across the frailties of my mind. Stars sparkling in the sky, light up a tree­barked path leading to an old farmhouse on a grassy knoll. The perfumed aroma of freshly baked apple pie awakens my senses.

In a lighted window, a shadow: A beautiful elderly lady quietly sitting, waiting for me to finish my evening walk.

Nimble hands move busily over the keys of a piano. The joy of all the days, months and years echo in happy memories!

About the author James Piatt, a retired professor, has published 3 collections of poetry, The Silent Pond, (2012), Ancient Rhythms, (2014), and Light (2016), over 1,040 poems, 4 novels, and 35 short stories. His poems have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of Web awards, and many were published in the 100 Best Poems of 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2017 Anthologies. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU. 10

Pinion

By Rebecca Mix Elias had caught seventeen mice, two birds, one large rat, lots of bugs, and a toad.

The traps had started when he’d discovered a mouse in his Cheerios. After panicking, he’d bought a few of those cruelty free mouse traps for 12.99 at the Target up the road. He wondered what hippie invented them. Every night he added different little goodies—a capful of lemon juice, a saucer of honey, a chocolate bar, a cup of birdseed, or even a stray oatmeal cookie (mice, the internet informed him, loved oatmeal). Once he threw in half of a Snickers bar, but all he got were ants.

When Mom came to ask for money and noticed the trap under the porch, she sneered.

But Mom swore it was that dirty Wisconsin air that made her cough, not the Camels that she burned through faster than the help he gave her.

He went on for a few weeks, trapping things he hadn’t intended to catch but still enjoying the surprise of catching them. He worked the night shift at the local gas station and coming home in the early hours gave him something to look forward to. It became a kind of ritual. And then it ended because one morning, Elias stumbled outside in crinkled green boxers and a coffee­stained robe, pulled the trap from under the porch, and found, huddled against one of the far walls and watching him with eyes that rolled with fear,a tiny person with wings.

It was so small — no taller than the span of his hand — with reedy tan limbs that bent in the wrong places like pieces of straw. It watched him with wide, dark eyes. Its entire face was pointed and pitched, as if the creature’s maker had pulled all of the skin from its face and stretched it all towards the tip of its nose.

Elias held the trap up to the sun, letting light bleed over the pixie, turning the membranes of its wings into a watercolor of blue and green and pink.

“Oh my God,” he blurted.

The pixie looked at him and spat. It threw itself against the wall of the trap and pressed its little hands so hard against the plastic that they went white. Instead of hair, tiny wispy feathers like the down of new ducklings, sprouted from its head and the back of its neck. It had dragonfly wings, thin and twitching with what Elias assumed was anxiety, the multicolored veins of its wings twisting through the membrane like dozens of tiny rivers.

“Are you real?” he asked the pixie, a laugh bubbling out of him. “Is this a joke?”

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Elias had fallen into such a habit of catching things and letting them go, it’d never occurred to him what might happen if he caught something worth keeping.

He could sell it, he thought, and it could make him famous. He’d never have to work again. No more cleaning gas station bathrooms, no more budgeting and living on ramen. As if reading his thoughts, the pixie flashed tiny teeth like the barbs on a thistle flower, its beady black eyes gleaming with a too­human anger. It snarled against the glass.

“Well,” Elias mumbled, squinting down at the pixie.

Despite himself, he felt giddy. Borrowed confidence bloomed through him. He smiled.

“You are about to make me a very rich man.”

The problem with pixies is that they’re absolutely unagreeable.

Elias did everything he could to make his new pet­turned­business­venture comfortable.

He fashioned the pixie a home in the form of a large mason jar, poking holes through the thin metal lid with a screwdriver, big enough to push through sunflower seeds but small enough that the pixie wouldn’t be able to get out. Inside the jar, he did his best to create what he thought a pixie terrarium should look like. He layered stones, then dirt, then moss, and threw in some twigs and even some cotton balls so that the pixie could have a nice little bed.

For the first few days, everything was okay. The pixie definitely hated him. Every time he walked by, it threw itself against the jar and gnashed its teeth and drooled against the glass. But it didn’t escape the jar. It clattered around, and hissed at him when he tried to feed it, but Elias didn’t mind. He picked up the jar a few times a day, thinking about the money that could be made from being the first person to discover a living fairy tale, but something made him set it back down.

Then the pixie stopped eating.

After the fifth day, Elias realized that the seeds he was dropping in were beginning to pile up. Not only that, but the pixie was picking them up and then stacking them against the wall of the jar like tiny bricks. Instead of snapping and hissing at Elias when he walked by, the pixie sat listlessly. But he was alive, and Elias figured that was enough.

He set the jar on the kitchen table and picked up his gas bill. He didn’t need to open it to know what it would say—something about late fee charges, a shut off notice, and bland warnings that he didn’t have the energy to worry about.

Again, his eyes drifted to the pixie. He thought about how wonderful it would be to never work. Elias picked up the phone, and he called the local news. He spoke to a woman named Monica, whose voice jumped and bucked in all kind of nasally whines, and got her to finally agree to bring a cameraman out to the house the next day. He called Mom immediately.

“Hello?” his mother’s voice, scratchy from the cigarettes and hoarse from the decade old pain of losing her husband trickled through the line. “What do you want this time?”

“Ma, you won’t believe it,” Elias said, holding the jar open.

The pixie snarled and kicked at the glass.

“I’m going to be famous. Rich. Turn on the news tomorrow.”

“What’d you do, kill someone?”

Elias sucked in a breath.

“Ma, just turn on the news tomorrow, okay?”

“Quit calling me for nothing,” she said, and she hung up.

Elias’ excitement turned to ash in his mouth. He shook his head. He tried not hate her for what grief had made her. It wasn’t her fault, he reminded himself. Maybe tomorrow would be different. He’d have money. He could get her the help she needed. Maybe tomorrow could change things. He looked at the pixie and told himself it would.

Then that night the pixie stopped moving.

When Elias picked the jar up on the morning he was destined for fame, the pixie did not look to him. Instead, it slumped forward in the jar, chin against chest. A rank smell floated up.

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It had soiled itself.

“Oh no,” Elias murmured. “Come on, wake up, I need you for one more day.”

He held the jar up to the light and turned it this way and that, squinting at the inside, listing to seeds slide around the glass bottom. He looked at the clock. He had an hour before whiny Monica and the cameraman would be there to see his dead pixie. An hour before Mom turned on the news.

A cold sweat broke out over Elias’ forehead as he brought the jar so close to his face that his nose was nearly touching it. This close, he could see that the pixie’s skin had taken on a grey pallor. A tiny bit of blood touched its lips, crusting there like mud.

“Maybe you just need sun,” Elias told the pixie.

He toed on his slippers and shuffled outside, squinting against the morning sun. The cold air picked at the back of his neck and slid fingers under his robe. His hands had started to shake. Elias unscrewed the top of the lid, fanning his fingers over the opening of the jar so the pixie still couldn’t fly out and Elias watched.

For a moment, the pixie remained still. Elias shivered, and somewhere in the trees above him, a cardinal began to sing. He looked up, finding the male — a spot of blood huddled against the green of the oak tree — but couldn’t find the female. They were always so much better at hiding. It was what made spotting both members of the pair that much more satisfying.

The cardinal continued singing. Elias forgot the weight of the jar in his hand as memories trickled through him. He pursed his lips, and began to whistle.

It had been his dad that had taught him how to sing back at the birds. They spent hours practicing. They would walk through the woods, spot a bird, and try to sing it closer.

“It’s a dance, Elias, and a conversation,” his father would tell him, his eyes gleaming.

His father used to stand in the middle of the yard and sing to the birds. They would land at his feet, unafraid of the towering man who watched them through smudged glasses.

Sometimes they landed on his shoulders. Once, a dove landed on his father’s head, and folded its wings against its sides and settled down as if to sleep in the mop of his father’s dark curls.

His mother laughed at her ridiculous bird­singing husband from the porch. She laughed until she spilled the coffee from her mug down the front of her robe, and then she laughed at that, and kept laughing. Elias didn’t remember if she’d laughed in joy or disbelief at first, but he remembered her laughing, and that was enough.

Elias pushed the memory away.

Something stirred in the trees above his head. He heard a soft cheep, and then a small brown bird with a bright red beak and a blush of red across her back and her tail feathers hopped out onto the end of a branch. She cocked to her head to the side. Elias held his breath, and something uncurled in his chest as the female cardinal began to sing, her voice much higher than the male cardinals. Elias whistled to the birds, and the birds sang back.

The jar shifted in his hand.

Still whistling, Elias lowered his eyes from the birds to the pixie. It picked its head up, blinking at him with wide eyes, its ears twitching in time with the bird calls. The feathers that made up its hair fluffed out a little and then stood on end. The pixie came to its feet and walked to the wall of the jar, pressed its hands against the glass, and watched the birds. The pixie opened its mouth, and began to sing.

The whistle died on Elias’ lips.

Instead of the cheap imitation that came from Elias, what poured from the pixie was pure birdsong. The cardinals responded immediately, hopping closer, the male fluffing out his features in challenge. The pixie was so loud for something so small. Elias wondered if it had learned to sing from the birds, or if it were pixies that hosted lessons in birdsong for the rest of the woods. The pixie’s eyes were half­lidded and it swayed where it stood, singing. It switched from the cardinal’s song to the deep, mellow opera of a grosbeak, and then jumped into the 13

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high­pitched chattering of a chickadee. It switched every few minutes, jumping from finch to dove to blue jay to raven.

Monica and the man from the news would be there any moment.

He wondered what would happen to the pixie once he turned it in. He wondered what his father would say about the tiny marvel in his hand.

The pixie kept singing, either unaware of Elias or simply not caring, and Elias’ throat began to close up. He watched it sing and thought of how much money he could make if he were the first man to prove a myth to be real. He imagined what it would feel like to never have to clock in at that gas station again, to pay all of his bills on time.

The cardinals that had been watching fluttered from the tree to the porch, landing a few inches in front of Elias’ slipper. The female cocked her head to the side, chirping at the pixie, and it chirped back. The male fluffed up further.

Above them, a dove had landed in the branches of the oak tree. Two chickadees and a red­breasted grosbeak had come to join, looking for all the world like a tiny bird dressed for a formal dinner.

Elias looked back at the pixie. He shook the pixie out of the jar, into his palm, and gently closed his fingers over it. The birds stopped singing.

He felt it squirm against his skin, so small and fragile, feeling more like an insect that anything. He’d like to have thought that had dad been there, he and the pixie would have sung at each other until the sun slinked over the horizon, rivaling at whose call was the purest.

Maybe Mom would have laughed from the porch again. The pixie squirmed against his palm.

Elias paused, and he loosened his grip on the pixie. He brought his hand to his lips and he whistled.

The pixie stopped struggling. Music trickled from between his fingers. The birdsong stretched its hands out in the air and wrapped around him. Elias dropped his shoulders as something in his chest uncurled.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed her number without having to look at the screen. His shaking thumb had memorized it by now.

“What?” his mother’s voice, always a snap, always angry.

“Remember how dad and I used to sing to the birds?”

His mother inhaled sharply but said nothing. Elias wondered if she was holding her breath.

“Ma?” “I’m here,” she said, her voice softer, breaking at the edges. “I’m here.”

He whistled to the pixie. The birds started singing again, and the pixie whistled back, curled beneath his clammy fingers.

Elias put the phone on speaker, and he let the pixie go.

About the author Rebecca Mix is a fantasy writer, book lover, and hoarder of houseplants. She lives in Michigan with her boyfriend and two cats that might be possessed by friendly but troublesome demons. For more stories, visit her at rebeccamix.com, or send her a neat pun on Twitter at @rebeccarmix.

14

I Removed the Bullet

By PJ Stephenson “How’s my Spitfire pilot this morning?”

A tall, barrel­chested man in a lab coat strode down the ward towards my bed.

“I’m fine, doctor, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it.” He scanned a clipboard while a nurse in starched uniform and white hat stood to attention at his side. “No more fevers, I see. And a healthy appetite.”

“I’m well looked after.” The nurse met my compliment with a stony­faced scowl.

“Good. Let’s look at your dressing.” He lifted the sheets to inspect my thigh. I winced when he tightened the bandage. “You’ve healed well since I removed the bullet.”

“Wizard!”

“That’s one of your RAF slang words?” He peered at me quizzically over his horn­ rimmed glasses. “Well, you can thank the penicillin. The new antibiotic has significantly reduced the cases of gangrene.”

“I’m grateful to you for sparing some.”

“Yes, well.” He muttered to the nurse who hurried away. Looking up at me over his spectacles, his pale blue eyes shone in the bright lights. His fair, close­cropped hair and angular chin made him look more like a soldier than a surgeon.

“I have a soft spot for fighter boys.” A smile cracked his face. “My brother flew over the trenches in the Great War, and my nephew is a fighter pilot today. You are chivalrous; true gentlemen. There are many soldiers I can’t describe this way.”

“I’m not sure we always remember that in a dogfight.”

“My brother told me of enemy pilots saluting each other in the air.”

“I am sure it happens still,” I said. “A pilot in my squadron once invited captured Luftwaffe aircrew to tea.”

“Anyway,” he said, “I think you are fit enough to be discharged. I can’t clear you for active service, of course.” He chuckled. “Instead I will keep you another two weeks to fatten you up.”

“I wish I could repay your kindness.”

“The best thing you can do for me is stay out of your Spitfire. Then you can’t shoot down my nephew’s Messerschmitt.”

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“Herr Doktor Dressler,” I said with a smile. “I promise not to fly anytime soon.”

“You’ll eat well enough in the POW camp,” he said. “But we’ll wait a bit longer before we hand you over.” He scribbled on the clipboard.

“You said you learnt English at medical school?”

“Yes, at one of your fine old teaching hospitals. St Mary's, London.”

“You must visit again after the war. I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Perhaps.” The nurse shuffled up with a metal tray containing a small bottle. “Danke, Fräulein.”

The doctor turned back to me. “I am being transferred to the Russian Front. We shall not talk again. I wish you well.”

He shook my hand with a firm, dry grip, bowed slightly and clicked his heels. I nodded in acknowledgement of his Prussian etiquette and said, “Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Doktor.”

“Auf Wiedersehen.”

With a flurry of white coat tails, and the nurse trailing in his wake, the surgeon moved off to inspect his German patients.

About the author PJ Stephenson is a British writer and environmentalist living near Geneva in Switzerland with his wife and Parson Russell Terrier. He sees the Alps every day but misses the Cairngorms. Much of his work is inspired by history, nature and travel. He has had several short stories published in print and online, more recent work appearing in Writing Magazine, Writers' Forum Magazine, The Fiction Pool, Dream Catcher Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, Short­Story.me, STORGY and several anthologies.

16

Morning Comfort Zone

by Louis Staeble

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About the photographer Louis Staeble, fine arts photographer and poet, lives in Bowling Green, Ohio. His photographs have appeared in Agave, Blinders Journal, Blue Hour, Conclave Journal, Elsewhere Magazine, GFT Magazine, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Four Ties Literary Review, Inklette Magazine, Microfiction Monday, Paper Tape Magazine, Qwerty, Revolution John, Rose Red Review, Sonder Review, Timber Journal, Tishman Review and Your Impossible Voice. His web page can be viewed at staeblestudioa.weebly.com.

18

The Odeon

By Michael Archambault Emily leaned forward and pressed her hips into the cool iron rail. The carnival sounds faded away behind her, and suddenly she was alone. Beneath her feet, the waves crashed and rolled below the boards, the beach having been swallowed whole by the evening’s high tide.

She looked out at the water, up on her tiptoes now, her eyes locked on the thin line where they grey ocean met the purple sky. She felt the warm, salty breeze lightly tousle her hair. She was flying. No, not flying. Floating. Flying took effort, but floating…floating was free. She was floating.

Sarah cringed as her words hung in the air. Somehow, she had left her bookmark on the wrong page and hadn’t realized she was reading the wrong chapter until she was already three paragraphs in, and by then it had been too late to go back. It wasn’t a major concern; she knew the entire novel was well written and chapter three was every bit as important as chapter four.

She just preferred reading the fourth chapter, as the third ended with the only paragraph in the book she hadn’t written herself.

She stepped back from the podium as the small audience applauded politely. The bookstore’s manager took the microphone and announced the signing would begin in a few minutes. Immediately the crowd rose, and Sarah watched as the two dozen, middle­aged women jockeyed and battled for a spot at the head of the line.

Toward the back, a little removed from the rest of the group, an elderly woman slowly came to her feet and pulled a shawl around her narrow shoulders. She was significantly older than her typical reader and at first Sarah wondered if she had simply taken a seat to rest; but after collecting her things, the woman began to shuffle slowly across the room, her purse strap hanging from the crook of her elbow and her folded arms clutching Sarah’s new book tightly to her chest.

With a deep breath, Sarah turned to the table. A chair was set between two modest stacks of her latest book; to the left, an easel held a poster­sized picture of the cover, while on the right, another easel held the sign announcing her appearance. She stepped around the 19

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table, uncapped a pen, and smiled at the first woman in line.

“I’ve loved every one of your novels,” the woman said, stepping forward and thrusting her copy of the new book at Sarah so excitedly it nearly hit her in the face. “I just don’t know how you do what you do. Where do you get your ideas?”

“That’s the magic of it,” Sarah answered as she wrote her name quickly across the title page. “You never know where an idea might come from, so I try to always keep my mind open, and hope I’m paying attention when a good one comes along.”

She smiled again and handed back the book, thanking the woman for coming and sending her on her way. It was easily the most asked question she heard. After fourteen novels and countless readings and discussions, she’d developed the quick, almost robotic response.

She always managed to do so cheerily, never letting on that she absolutely abhorred that question. Who was she to say where an idea came from? Ideas just happened. Usually. * The first time she’d ever used another person’s work to jumpstart her own had been in college, in a creative writing class during her sophomore year. She was blocked, the deadline was approaching, and she was becoming desperate. She’d spent hours at the library, tucked away at a small desk in a hidden corner, trying to will a story from her blank slate of an imagination. Eventually, with her notebook as white and untouched as the moment she’d bought it, she began to wander the rows of forgotten books, hoping for inspiration. Dust and mold hung heavily in the air, and the cool dampness gave the shadowy stacks an eerie, mystical feeling.

After a few minutes, for no reason she could ever explain, Sarah stopped and pulled a book from the shelf. She held it gently in her hands, like an artifact plucked from a museum display, and blew years of dust from the top of the crisp pages. The dust jacket was long lost and the leather binding was cracked and peeling. The title was almost illegible, as the dark purple lettering seemed to dissolve into the dark green of the cover. The Odeon, it was called,

by Marion MacIntyre. She loved the title the moment she saw it. And a name like Marion MacIntyre? Too perfect.

Knowing she held the answer in her hands, she carried the delicate book back to her desk. With a quick glance around the ever­empty fifth floor, she turned to a page near the back and copied the first paragraph her eyes came upon. Once she was finished, she flipped the cover with such force the book flew from her desk and landed on the floor with a fwap, a soft cloud of dust billowing upwards.

She’d replaced the book, returned to her desk, and stared at the paragraph scrawled in her notebook. Then, she wrote. Ninety minutes later she tucked seven pages into her bag – seven pages of the first ‘A’ she’d get in creative writing; seven pages of the first story she would ever publish.

She’d never thought of it as stealing, not even that first time. When she was completely blocked – it had only happened a handful of times in her life – she would go to the darkest, dustiest corner of the library, pull an ancient tome off the shelf, and pick a random paragraph.

She then took that paragraph and created her own completely original story around it. She thought of the borrowed piece as a diving board and her imagination as a pool; sometimes she got into the pool just fine on her own, but on occasion she used the diving board to launch herself in. Some artists had beautiful women as their muse, some had nature; Sarah used literature, and felt completely justified in doing so.

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She did have rules she followed, when she found herself in need of a little help. The book had to be by an author she’d never heard of, and had to be literally covered with dust when she found it in the library. And she never borrowed from the same story more than once.

With one exception. * Sarah sat at the table, signing copies of her fourteenth novel. She had borrowed from unknown authors on four of them and had used The Odeon to launch four others. Those four paragraphs were all she knew of The Odeon; she’d never read the book, though a part of her felt she should. She figured she owed it to Marion MacIntyre to read her work since she owed most of her career to the woman. But she knew that if she read the book she wouldn’t be able use it anymore, and the four paragraphs she had read had resulted in the four best novels she’d written. She couldn’t give that up.

Whenever she found herself in a library or bookstore, she always checked to see if a copy of The Odeon was in stock; libraries always had it, bookstores never did. She’d tried to research Marion MacIntyre but could find nothing. She’d written The Odeon in 1951. Then it seemed she had never published again. Sarah could find no reviews of the book, no biographies of the author, nothing but the occasional entry in a card catalog or online literary database to prove that the book wasn’t just a figment of her imagination. And this, in her opinion, made it the perfect diving board.

Around her, the bookstore employees had begun taking down their display and were carrying the few unsold copies of the book to the shelf. Sarah signed another copy and wished her reader a nice day, then with a tired smile, turned to the next person in line. She was happy to see that at last the old woman from the back of the room had made it to the front, and while she waited for her last visitor to reach the table, Sarah took a moment to admire how nicely the woman was made up.

Her white hair was cut short, curled slightly in the back and firmly set, as if she had just come from having it done. Her white blouse was buttoned all the way to the neck, and her light green shawl was wrapped snugly around her shoulders. Beneath the wrap, Sarah caught sight of a brooch in the shape of a book that sparkled red and white in the light of the store’s overhead fluorescents. She got the sense that coming today was a special event for the woman, maybe something she had been looking forward to for some time.

“I like your book,” Sarah said, nodding at the pin.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” the woman answered. Her voice was soft and scratchy, and she beamed at the compliment. “I like yours as well.”

Sarah admired the pin a moment longer, then looked up and heard herself gasp. While the woman’s body seemed frail and weak, her bright green eyes were fierce. Sarah felt the woman wasn’t looking at her so much as glaring, and she shifted slightly in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable under the woman’s gaze.

“I enjoyed the chapter you read today,” the old woman continued. There was a sweetness to her tone that Sarah found a sharp contrast to the power of the woman’s eyes. “I especially loved the paragraph at the end, with the girl on the railing. Such a beautiful image.

That is probably my favorite piece in the entire book.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, surprised at the timidity of her own voice. “I get a lot of compliments on that passage, actually.”

Her interest in meeting the woman had quickly turned into a desire to be done with the 21

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signing and out of the store as soon as possible. She extended her hand, but the old woman made no sign of handing over her book.

“I’m sure you do,” the woman said, her arms still folded in an X, the book still held securely to her chest. Sarah could see thin bones and thick blue veins beneath the very pale skin of her hands. She noticed the woman’s hands were trembling slightly, but her eyes remained firm.

“I’ve been following your career from the very beginning,” she said. “I’ve read everything you’ve written, and have wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

“Well, thank you,” Sarah said again. She raised her hand a little higher. “Would you like me to sign your book?”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” the woman said. She stepped to the edge of the table and set her book down gently, then slowly turned to the title page. “And I’d love it if you made it out to me.”

“Happy to,” Sarah said, forcing an awkward smile. Her pen was already uncapped and ready to write. “And your name?”

The woman leaned in, so close Sarah could smell mint tea on her breath. She reached out a grey, crooked finger, a thick, painted nail curling from it like a talon, and tapped the open book.

“My name,” she said, barely above a whisper, “is Marion MacIntyre.”

About the author Michael Archambault studied English at Ohio State, and works as an editor in Boston. His work has previously been featured in Sanitarium Magazine and New Realm.

22

The Second Ascent

By Benjamin Sonnek This climb had been much easier in his youth.

Pulling himself onto the summit of the final stair, the king paused for breath, allowing the pain in his side to ebb. He’d made it. Placing one hand on the ancient metal doorknob, he used his other hand to smooth out his snowy beard—as though someone of importance still waited beyond the threshold.

The king barely heard the rumble of the hinges. The tower chamber was exactly as he and the princess had left it, albeit older, dirtier, and sporting a collection of cobwebs. Lazy dust clouds, like ancient and tired wraiths, rose up behind the monarch as he paced towards the stained glass window. A myriad of colors united into one as he lifted the latch and pulled the twin panes aside.

The view of the outside world had changed quite a bit, that much was certain. He’d first seen these lands nigh threescore years ago, at the end of his quest for the fabled beauty. Back then, it had all lain in the midst of the perpetual storm cloud, all smells of reptilian heat and fresh brimstone. The central tower could hardly be seen through the encompassing hedge of thorns. Today, though, there was no storm or dragon; even the hedge with its spear­length thorns, having withered and died, had been mostly carted away for firewood. The grounds, formerly tamped down by dragon pads, were now tilled fields for the surrounding farms. And, of course, a broad road had been paved right up to the base of the tower.

The old king couldn’t see the road for the travelers, though—his vast retinue from the castle was still riding in behind him. There was his eldest son, upright on the largest steed, his circlet glinting as he looked upwards at the tower. His younger brother rode at his side, undoubtedly reading a book he’d forgotten to return to the royal library. The three princesses were more easily spotted, riding sidesaddle with their obsidian­hued skirts spread out wide.

Hundreds of servants, heralds, and attendants surrounded the royal heirs and the other nobles of prominence, forming a river of glittering black, gold, and silver.

A black river, bearing a boat. In the center of the train, seven dark horses drew along the funeral carriage. The casket of the queen lay inside. His queen; the former princess, the former occupant of this tower. Far above, the old king closed the window and lowered his eyes.

He turned back to the chamber. Yes, was exactly as they had left it. See there, the table still had its maps spread out upon it, weighed down by the bone­dry inkwell and dusty feather pen. A dartboard was still suspended upon the wall—the queen had always remarked that she 23

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would have hit the bullseye had “some young prince not barged in.” Then she’d laugh.

The king smiled, moving over to the bookshelf. That was empty. Those tomes were the only things that she had insisted on taking from the tower, hence the need for that road to be built. Those books were now a significant section of the royal library. He almost chuckled to himself.

Then, finally, there was the bed. Still set immovably in the center of the room, gauzy silk hanging off its four posts, faded to match the shrouds of dust. How similar it looked to the funeral carriage outside.

The king began his own slow procession towards the bed, his feet never leaving the wooden timbers beneath him. That quest of his younger days had started off as just a lark, really. Part of him had never expected to actually succeed. The tales from the distant towns, proclaiming the princess’s wisdom and beauty, were never really supposed to move his heart.

Her messages, windblown pages caught in the thorned hedge, were never supposed to break that heart. The hedge itself was never supposed to break either. And the dragon, devourer of so many previous heroes, was never supposed to be beatable. It was never supposed to happen, but it all happened anyway. A miracle.

Kneeling beside the headboard, the king could still see her in his mind’s eye. She sat there with her back to the door, a little off­guard, perhaps about to throw that perfect dart like she’d always said she would. A tear fell on the ancient pillow as he remembered her yes, her agreement to escape the tower with him. He, the only man who had ever breached it.

The day grew darker outside. One more memory remained, but it was not of this tower.

Sixscore years ago, at his father’s castle—now his castle—not long after the defeat of the dragon.

The marriage had taken place. Like the river of subjects outside the tower right now, the whole kingdom had come to see the prince wed his princess. Then the wedding night had arrived. It was there that she had told him, and him alone, the prince, the future king, her only secret.

I built the tower, my love.

I built it for you. I raised its walls, furnished its chamber, planted its hedge, and laid the iron egg in a nest of fire. The tower and its defenses all grew as I did. Soon even my beloved parents lost sight of me, and while I could see the world, I was no longer a part of it. I was waiting, my love, I was waiting for you. I wanted to be ready for you, ready to be wholly yours when the time came. The defenses I made were there to snare the cunning and disarm the mighty, so none could approach me but a heart like yours. Every letter I threw from my tower was sent to you. I wanted to be yours, and I wanted you to be mine. And now, my love, we are one. Know that this is not the end. Wherever I am, if I am ever not with you, know that I am waiting for you. I will, always.

The window cast one more kaleidoscope of colored light on the wall, and then faded away forever. The sun had set. Still kneeling by the side of the bed, the old king lay down his head and closed his eyes.

About the author Benjamin Sonnek is currently a senior in college where he has won their fiction writing award twice, has been published multiple times in their annual arts magazine and other publications (including a standing humor column), and has led a creative writers group. Off­campus, he has appeared in the sci­fi publications Aphelion, Perihelion, and Daily Science Fiction.

When not reading or writing, his hobbies include piano, martial arts, running, hat collecting, and messing with his computer. Visit him online at benjaminsonnek.blogspot.com.

24

Shoebox

By Kassandra Bird I’ve decided my life should fit inside a shoebox.

The little pieces of my history that matter, tucked safely between cardboard walls.

Life will, of course, spill out beyond the edges of a shoebox.

There will be books on shelves shorts on hangers frames on walls.

But the little things I can’t bear to lose or live without, I’ll keep inside a shoebox.

Safe beneath my bed just an arm’s length away.

Memories resting below dreams.

About the author Kassandra Bird lives in a beautiful town by the ocean in Delaware. The second of eight children, her experiences at the dinner table have always been interesting and the adventures of the Bird kids are pretty great writing material. She wants to see and take part in the goings­on of the world, and writing is a huge part of that. Writing might not be her air, but she wouldn't be able to make sense of this life without it. All she's ever wanted to be is an author, and nineteen years later, she's working on making her dream a reality. Wish her luck.

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Seeing

By Jessica Mehta

When you stopped seeing me as American, stopped noticing the snowiness of my skin, the lack of oil in my hair, that’s when the last walls gave way— crumbled like fish pebbles at our feet, powerless and fading to dust. There are still times I see your Indian, your Other, the way you look skirted in gold next to my raw milky self. It’s in photos, chanced by mirrors, and when waiters halt at the accent. But mostly, our blinders are strapped on tight and I see straight to your depths. Past all the nonsense, the don’t matters and the things we’re supposed to notice. I see you to the core, where the sweetness grows, and forever­always pacts are made.

About the author Jessica (Tyner) Mehta is a Cherokee poet, novelist, and storyteller. She's the author of five collections of poetry including the forthcoming Constellations of My Body, Secret­Telling Bones, Orygun, What Makes an Always, and The Last Exotic Petting Zoo as well as the novel The Wrong Kind of Indian. She's been awarded the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund Prize in Poetry, and numerous poet­in­residencies posts including positions at Hosking Houses Trust and Shakespeare Birthplace Trust in Stratford­Upon­Avon, England, Paris Lit Up in France, and the Acequia Madre House in Santa Fe, NM. Visit Jessica's author site at jessicamehta.com.

26

Table for Two

By Brandon Hartman Simon rapped a table leaf with the heel of his palm. It jostled out of place. He removed three of the rectangular planks and compacted the table. The guests had left this morning and he only needed enough space for the two of them. The leaves clattered into the space between the refrigerator and the wall.

He opened the utensil drawer and selected two forks and two knives. No spoons were necessary. The dishes slid out from the cabinet and into his hands still flecked with old scars.

Simon folded a napkin next to each place setting. He poured cold water in the crystal glasses and savored the sound of the ice cubes splintering.

He sighed and went to the sink to wash his hands.

“Long day?” Grandma asked.

“Long life,” he said.

The blinds were drawn and the room was in twilight. Dust motes filtered through the room illuminated in joists of laddered light climbing the floral wallpaper. A flower arrangement imbibed the last minutes of day. The kitchen at rest.

“You have plenty of life left,” she answered. “And you ought to know better than to make generalizations like that. You've come such a long way.”

“You tell me that all the time.”

Simon turned off the tap and toweled his hands dry. He draped his jacket over the back of the chair and loosened his tie.

“When I was in grammar school, one of the nuns told us: if something in the Bible is said twice, it is not a mistake. It is repeated because God is saying it’s important and you would do well to pay attention. I say that you have plenty of life left all the time because it’s true and because it's important.” Grandma emphatically tapped the table with her index finger. “And you would do well to pay attention.”

“Yeah.”

“Am I going to have to remind you again where you were a decade ago?”

“Do I have a choice?” Simon sat down.

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His fist supported his chin.

“Lay it on me.”

Grandma folded her hands. Under the table she crossed her ankles.

“Remind me what your life goals were after dropping out of high school?” she smiled.

Simon groaned.

“Why are we doing this?”

“I’ve just told you. It's important to remember where you've come from so that you can take joy in knowing where you are—and furthermore, where you are going.”

“Why do I have to repeat it? I know what they were.”

Simon’s eyes found the ceiling fan, the pass­through window, the framed picture of her and Grandpa over her shoulder. A second vase of white sat on the mantle. A third was in the living room. He played with the corner of his napkin.

“And you know what they were too.”

“I'm more stubborn than you ever wish you were,” she said, “and I want to hear it again.”

“I guess I'm thankful for your stubbornness. If it wasn't for you, well.” He shrugged. “I don't know.”

He went to the oven intending to reroute the conversation.

“Did you want anything?”

She didn't answer.

“What?” he said, observing her silence.

“I’m still waiting.”

“Fine,” Simon looked at her. “My three goals were—” “And at what age was this? In my senility, these details escape me.”

“Seventeen.”

“That's right,” she said, satisfied.

Simon fought with his tongue, urged the words out.

“Go to Vegas. Sleep with a hooker. Shoot someone.”

The sentence felt foreign and cumbersome. Like a curse in the mouth of the Pope. He avoided her eyes.

“Ah yes, now it's all coming back to me.” She tapped her finger. “I’ve decided that this will be the story you share with me tonight. Begin whenever you like.”

“Tired of my what­happened­today­at­work or who the newest member at my meeting is? Do I have a choice?”

“You do not.”

Simon flicked on the oven light. Peered in.

“The chicken still needs another five minutes. Am I waiting until we’re eating or starting now?”

“You can start now and finish while we eat.”

“Okay. I was a stupid teenager. I fought with Dad, moved out. Got a job, got fired. Was pretty much ruining my life. Was strung out and sleeping at the Terminal, about three inches from ODing when you were divinely driving by and saved me. Now I'm here. Enough?”

“I do hope your dinner is more thorough than that, Pea.” Even as Simon abbreviated his past, the unabridged flecks flashed through his memories.

He could see the darkened basketball court and cement ledge where the group of them 28

sat. There was a ruby ember at the end of a cigarette. ‘You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to,’ he was told. ‘No pressure.’ But it was pressure. It was a dare. He sucked in deep and from then on, every encounter was chasing after that first high. Nothing could match the euphoria until it was boiling in a spoon.

His class ring was the first to go. When he got arrested for shoplifting, his mom’s purse became the target. After his dad’s wristwatch went missing, Simon was disowned, homeless, and daily deceiving commuters to buy him a bus ticket that he could pawn off for the day’s rush.

A dilated thread of awareness snaked through his consciousness: the acrid smell of urine.

The pungent ammonia saturated on the flesh of all the other fiends. All day it smelled like piss. Then, one time before Grandma showed up, he was coming off the nod and perceived that the awful smell was his own crotch.

He remembered her voice. 'Simon!' His head wouldn't obey to turn. 'Simon!'

His eyes were swollen slits. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, chin on his chest, arms loose between his legs. Somewhere a door slammed. 'I won't stand to watch my eldest grandson throw his life away. Come with me.' Thin, strong arms dragged him to salvation. ‘Do you want to change?’ the pastor had asked him later. He nodded. ‘You can lie to me, but don’t lie to your Grandmother and to God Almighty. Do you want to change?’ ‘I want it!’ he had shrieked. ‘I’m tired of this, I want to get clean,’ he begged. Cold sweat dripped off his body in clumps.

Grandma obeyed. She locked him in the windowless bathroom for three days. He cursed her, threw up his meals, sweat until the floor was slick, and threatened to kill himself. At the end of three days, the door was broken and the worst of his withdrawal had passed.

She locked him in the windowless bathroom for three days.

Simon turned the oven off. He lifted the tray of baked chicken with mitted hands. The aroma of garlic, rosemary, and parsley permeated the room, purged stray thoughts from his mind.

Simon filled their plates and took a seat. “Bon appetite,” he said.

Grandma placed her hand to the center of the table. Simon took hold of her fragile hand and bowed his head.

“Father, thank you for your provision. Please bless this meal which we are about to receive. Thank you for giving us another day. In Jesus name, amen.”

Simon folded his roll, cut a swath of butter.

“I love hearing you pray,” Grandma said.

“Why?” “Because the man of the house should bless the meal. It’s the way God intended.

Everything in decency and order. It's proper.”

“If you say so,” Simon said.

He cut his meat into bite­sized pieces as he had been instructed, remembering the first time he had picked up a whole ham steak with his fork and began bulldozing into it. Grandma had about choked on her own forkful and immediately admonished his “Neanderthalian” 29

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habits.

‘The knife and fork were made with a specific design,’ she had told him. ‘Use them.’

Her requirements were expansive and drenched in stern love.

"I have a standard in my home and if you intend to make your residence here you will abide by them.’"

Alcohol was banned, no exceptions. Initially Simon was too young to purchase it himself, but her zeal was not tempered by this information. Every Sunday morning was church, no exceptions. She went to the traditional service at 8:15 and he would join her. The early morning rising would have been a shock to Simon’s system had she not required that he wake no later than seven on all other days.

"Seven o'clock is sleeping in," she would say. "God gave you light so you could use it."

Even when he tried to wake up before her one morning, he found her at the table with steam spreading from her teacup. Her Bible lay open­faced on the table.

"It's four o'clock! Why are you up already?" he said.

"I should ask you the same question," she answered.

He went back to bed.

That evening, when he had come home late and she was rinsing dishes, she informed him: "I have a new rule. When you are not working or at a step meeting, you must make every effort to be home for dinner. I eat at five­thirty each night. You will be here."

"If I'm not?' he questioned. Her hands went to her hips.

"You will starve," she said, "because you will be forced to make your own meals."

He smiled at the recollection. The silverware clinked rhythmically on his plate. Through all her eccentricities and his perseverance to dilute them, the one requirement that Simon cherished most was that over the evening meal it was mandatory that one of them share a story.

Usually they alternated, but he preferred Grandma’s. Hers were seldom made up and included anecdotes of the past tinged with humor and redemption. His were about his sponsor or an irate customer at work. But tonight, he was telling the story and it was a true one.

“This is delicious,” Grandma said observing his contemplative posture. “The green beans are perfectly crunchy.”

“You taught me well.”

“I know,” she chuckled. “I was complimenting myself. You're fortunate I wasn't yet so doddering when you came here. Metal in the microwave! They make it so easy for your generation and you still don't want to follow the rules. I told your father I would never use it, but he insisted. However, you have certainly put some mileage on it.”

“Not today,” Simon said. “This is a Maeve Miller inspired special. No microwaves and no preservatives. At least that I'm aware of. And if I could, I would have taken the chicken out back and plucked it myself.”

“That will be the day!”

They shared a laugh.

“So says the young man who I frequently remind that a bed is to be made up each morning upon rising from it.”

“I'm getting better. One day I might even—” The wall phone rang, vibrating in its receiver. The cream­colored cord coiled to the floor.

Simon ignored it. After two more rings, the phone finished its crescendo.

“Probably Mom, asking how I'm doing with everything,” he said.

30

“She's concerned about you and she has every right to be; she's a mother. You'll call her back later?”

“Yeah, probably.” Simon went back to eating.

“Don’t probably. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Accountability is underrated. We all need somebody else to keep us in line. That's why I have you,” she winked. “There would still be snow in the yard in June if it wasn’t for you. And I must say the lawn looks terrific. The neighbors will want to hire you to mow theirs before long.

I haven’t told them about your work as handyman. These legs couldn’t do it.”

Her long skirt rustled.

“You know what I think would do you well, Pea? You should get yourself a nice girlfriend. Bring her around, let me meet her, approve, and then get yourself married and start a family. Wouldn't that be wonderful?”

“Grandma, you are my girlfriend.” Simon looked into her wizened face and meant it.

He snorted.

“No girl wants to date a guy living in his grandmother's house. And I still have a long way to go before my credit cards are paid off. I can't afford a place. Plus,” he said coming to realize it himself, “I like it here. Honestly.”

Grandma nodded. “I understand that. I don't blame you, but I won't be around forever.

And then what?”

“I don't know,” Simon nibbled his meal. “Something will work out.”

“Well, what if this was your house? Wouldn't that make it more tenable? I think that it would. As you know, I met with my financial advisor this week. She's great. A bit old for you, I think. But she suggested that I ‘get my affairs’ in order as they say.” She sipped her ice water. “I was never one for that kind of thing. Your grandfather took care of that business. So, I took her advice and began to catalogue who would be getting what when I’m gone. It’s unsettling, naturally. Planning for your own death is, well, uncomfortable. But when I sat down and prayed about it last night, God put me at peace and I know who this will be going to,” she motioned around her.

“No Grandma,” Simon said.

“Yes, I have concluded that you will inherit the house.”

“You can’t do that. That’s too much.”

“Are you going to argue with God? If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with him.

Let me tell you something, you've had a lot of garbage in your past. No one is disputing that.

But let me tell it to you just one more time. You are not the same nineteen­year­old addict. You have turned your life around and you have been an invaluable blessing to me for the last nine years. No one else in our family can lay claim to that commitment whether our living arrangement was mutual or otherwise.” She leaned forward in her chair. “I miss your grandfather every day, but I have been kept from loneliness because of you. We had an agreement and you stuck to it. For that, I am grateful. So you will let me show you my gratitude and you will not argue with me about the way in which I choose to express that gratitude. Do we have an agreement?”

Simon did not answer.

“Do we have an agreement? That’s twice.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You most certainly will not. You will accept the gift I entrust to you, and you will do me a great disservice if you get in the way of my blessing. I love you, and when I tell you that I do, 31

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do not tell me, ‘I’ll think about it.’”

Simon stared her down for a moment, but already he knew he had lost the argument.

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

They were silent, and the silence was right. In the company of someone with whom the fickle and transient nature of conversation can water down the significance of a communion, sometimes silence is volumes. The moment came.

Passed.

“Grandma?”

“Yes?” “Can you tell me a story?”

“This would break the rules. It's your job to tell me a story tonight. You know this.”

Her brows angled. Her eyes twinkled.

“But, I think we can bend the rules for one night. Have I ever told you why I call you Pea?” “Sweet pea? No, I didn’t know there was a reason. Isn’t that what grandmothers call everyone?”

“It’s been my own little secret, but I will share it now. Can you bring me my Bible? It should be on my nightstand.”

Simon stepped to her bedroom. Her bed was flawlessly made. It was a work of art. The leather binding on the Bible was cracked. Folded papers and faded bulletins filled its pages. He returned and set the Bible in front of her.

“No,” she said, pushing it back to him. “I want you to begin reading in the fourth chapter of the book of Matthew.”

Simon flipped the translucent pages. They crinkled like rain under the pads of his fingers.

“Where do you want me to start?” he said.

“Verse eighteen until I say stop,” she said.

“And Jesus, walking by the Sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon—” he stopped and looked up.

“Keep reading.”

“—called Peter and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers.

And he saith unto them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.’ And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.”

“Stop,” she said.

“I’ve read this before. So my name’s in it? I still don’t know why you call me Pea.” “Peter,” she threw up her hands. “Pea­ter.”

“Okay?”

“Jesus named him Peter. It means rock. He was a fisherman who lived most of his life on the sea, on anything but a rock and yet Jesus changed his name and called him a rock. Isn’t that fascinating? Tell me what you know about the story of Jesus walking on the water.”

“The disciples were in the boat and Jesus came out walking on the water.”

“What else?”

“It was nighttime.”

“What else?”

“Jesus told Peter to come out.”

“Wrong. Peter told Jesus to call him out. And Jesus did. But the best part about it all is 32

that because Peter encountered Jesus, he changed. Actually, when Simon encountered Jesus, he changed. He had to leave his old life behind. As a fisherman, everything that is logical and of common sense about that situation should have told him that he should under no circumstances step out of that fishing boat. He was guaranteed to sink, drown, and die.

“But Jesus called him the rock. When he stepped out of the boat, his life radically changed. Simon, you’ve changed. It may not have been the way the world wanted it. It may not be the way you or your parents wanted it, but if you ask me, it’s much better. That’s because it’s the way Jesus wanted it.”

Her eyes glittered.

“I have prayed since your mother told me she was pregnant that you would be a man who stepped out of the boat. And when you were going through your rebellious teenage stage, I cried many nights for you. My children are full grown but that does not mean that I have lost my mother’s heart. I was waiting for God to get a hold of you. I did not know that he would use me, but I have learned that you should never pray a prayer that you aren’t willing to be the answer to. To have had the privilege of seeing you grow up, to give your life to Jesus, and watch him transform you into a rock is third to only my own salvation and the joy I will know upon seeing your grandfather again.”

At twelve years old, Simon was already taller than her, but at twenty­eight he still felt small. He blushed.

“I don’t mean to be indecorous, but I hope you aren’t telling me to be a priest.”

“No!” Grandma laughed, her thin shoulders rocked with glee. “No such thing. What I am telling you Simon, is that you have changed already. You have been my rock.”

The silence had returned. But somewhere her faint and somehow stern voice radiated back to him: “You don’t know what echoes in my heart, the longings I have had and now seen fulfilled. Knowing that I have done my very best, and that when I breathe my last, Jesus will be waiting for me with his arms open as wide as they were on that day while he hung on the cross.

And it strums my every heart string to know he will smile and say the same to you: ‘well done, my good and faithful servant.’”

He swallowed tears and blinked. He could hear her laughter and see her pale blue eyes.

The house already felt far too big. The chair was too empty. He could feel the loneliness and his mouth was dry.

“Grandma,” he said. “I miss you already.” The food had cooled, grayed in the paling light. The microwave clock said 6:07. Condensation from the glasses saturated the placemat in a moist ring.

“Tell me another story,” Pea said.

About the author Brandon Hartman, his wife, and their newborn son hail from South Jersey where he drinks too much coffee, but is trying to make the conversion to tea.

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Primary Things

By Arthur Plotnik At a bed­and­breakfast in New Brunswick, along the St. John's River, three Adirondack chairs, one red, one blue, one yellow, crowned a sloping lawn, commanding panoramic views of earth, water, and sky.

Both in and out of those chairs at a summer's end we took respite from our occupations—the moiling, scheming, brooding that numb us to primary things, reveling instead in the mindless comforts of our genial B&B and freedom to meander as we pleased.

To pass one afternoon, we strolled an old rail path through woods and wetland, coming upon a scent so fundamental it might have been the fertile breath of Creation had it not revealed itself as exhalations of a local enterprise — fried spuds, factory­processed for the world.

Later we savored wine and fresh warm loaves and the beloved "thou" across the table; and for most of that evening we dwelt in a canvas of primary daubs and splashes, distracted from the dun sludge that rushes in from the margins relentless as a Fundy tide and then retreats, as one holds firm to what is good, and kind, and true.

About the author Better known for prose works on expressiveness, including two Book­of­the­ Month Club selections, Arthur Plotnik is a late­emerging poet who has appeared in Brilliant Corners, Rosebud, Harpur Palate, THEMA, Comstock Review, The Cape Rock, Glass, Off the Coast, Kindred, and several other literary publications. Formerly editorial director at the American Library Association, he was a runner up for the William Stafford Award and a finalist in a number of poetry competitions. He lives in Chicago. Check him out on Twitter @artplotnik and his website, arthurplotnik.com.

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Helpers

by Mark Myavec

About the photo The photo was taken at a local town dock on the coast of Maine. Mark said, "As a teacher, the value of helping others resonates deep within me. I got to thinking about these dinghies and the daily role they play in ferrying fishermen to the boats, moored in the harbor. We often take for granted, or entirely overlook, the small things that make the larger goal achievable.

Perhaps it's important to pause and realize that we all need a little help from time to time."

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About the photographer Mark Myavec is a math teacher who has worked at independent prep schools in Michigan, Delaware and Pennsylvania. As a teenager he learned essential photography skills on the Argus C3 passed down to him by his father, and he embraces the art form for its potential to evoke a sense of connectedness to a transient, often solitary, moment. His photographs have appeared in several print and online publications including Midwestern Gothic, Birch Gang Review, and Foliate Oak.

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Jug

By Paul Smith At the Jesuit boys high school I went to north of Chicago, they had a form of punishment for those of us who were disciplinary problems.

It was called jug.

Jug was basically detention but with a twist. Jug was handed out for a variety of reasons — talking in the hallways, talking in the classroom, roughhousing or fighting anywhere, being a smart aleck, being disrespectful, goofing off in the cafeteria lines. I went my whole freshman year without getting sent to jug. I was scared of the Jesuits. In my first year, I didn’t really study hard and was dropped from a high class to a lower one. There was also a conference with my parents that scared me even further. The Jesuits knew how to motivate you. After those incidents, my grades improved. I was a quiet, dutiful, respectful student. I did not want to make trouble. The guys who got sent to jug were usually repeat offenders — some of the jocks and others who had poor self­control and tried to make the rest of us laugh. They knew what jug was like. I didn’t.

I wanted to get sent to jug.

We had an assistant principal, Father Beall, who was legendary. He strolled the corridors before classes started, when there was a tendency towards commotion — everyone arriving all at once with books and packs and the excitement of seeing each other on a new day. The repressed desire to shout and talk and whisper and at least say hello created an atmosphere of muffled chaos that Father Beall thrived upon. He whirled from one corridor to another, a scowl on his big mug, huge shoulders barely contained by a black cassock that swung to and fro as his linebacker body patrolled the lockers where we dumped our books, our lunches, our papers.

His keen ears picked up every sound. At the corridor intersections, we might hear his name whispered from one corridor to another as he approached, a warning we heeded. Father Beall, the one wall would whisper to another and suddenly all got quiet.

Sometime during our sophomore year, our principal, Father Reinke, passed away. We all had to attend a memorial Mass for him in the chapel. After that, there was a variation of the 37

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Father Beall warning as we swarmed in the corridors before class. Father Reinke’s coming, was the admonition we heard occasionally that had a basis in fact derived from the Scriptures: ‘And the Jesuit shall return from the next world back to this one and cast thy flesh into the jug.’

Father Beall had large hands that could grab you by the collar and fling you into the lockers, the sound reverberating louder than original sin.

So, I decided to whistle one morning while I stuffed my locker. I had thought it out, whistling instead of talking, so as not to involve anyone else and get them jugged. Father Beall turned the corner just when I thought he would. He fixed me with a curious stare, unsure it was really me, a docile lad, causing this disruption. After the second it took for him to catalog me as a non­threat to the equilibrium of Loyola Academy, he peered down at me, lowering his head so our eyes were nearly level and said, “Jug. Be still.”

The twist in jug was that it could be more than just detention. Jug usually contained about twenty guys plus a bored priest or scholastic to supervise it. A scholastic was a trainee on his way to being a priest but not there yet. He still had several years of Jesuit seminary training ahead of him. We had lots of scholastics as teachers. They ranged the gamut of strict disciplinarians to apprentices trying to figure things out, just like us. When I got to jug after class one frigid December afternoon, I knew some of the kids there, who gawked at me like I was a total stranger. One of the kids was a jock who sat near me in Latin and History because our last names started with the same letter. Schoeneker was a funny guy whose mouth got the best of him from time to time. He wasn’t a regular here but he knew the ropes.

“They’ll give you something to memorize,” he whispered, “Don’t bother. They always let us out around five.” Schoeneker could have got himself in trouble just by whispering to me.

Pretty decent of him warning me about the wrinkle that jug sometimes had.

We didn’t have a scholastic monitoring jug. We had a full­fledged priest. Father Mulcahy held up a worn­out looking paperback and started tearing out pages and handing them to us.

“Memorize your page,” he said. “When you have it all down, tell me. I’ll test you. If you know it by heart, jug is over for you. If not, maybe the penalties are doubled. Who knows?”

That was the twist, the wrinkle, the gimmick — commit our will and consciousness to absorb some words we didn’t understand, something we’d forget as soon as we got a breath of cold, fresh air. And that was Father Mulcahy to a T. He was a study hall supervisor for us once freshman year. On that afternoon he came up to me and said in a very soft Jesuit whisper, ‘Look over there at Barrett. Doesn’t it look like he is chewing gum?’ Gum chewing was forbidden. I wouldn’t answer. Instead, I stared down at the laminated top of my desk, a plastic surface with authentic­looking wood grain that my eyes and brain got lost in. So today, as Father Mulcahy issued the terms and conditions of jug to me for the first time, I was wary of him and decided to memorize the passage from his paperback in spite of what Schoeneker told me.

I stared at the text he gave me, a yellowed page from an old book nobody wanted to read.

At first, I tried memorizing all the page at once. Then I went to memorizing individual sentences. After getting three of them down on their own, I went back and tried reciting them all together. I couldn’t. I watched the clock. Then I started calculating, thinking about how much time I’d spent and how much time was left and whether I would get the whole page memorized. All the while I glanced at the other guys in jug. Most stared straight ahead. Some rested their heads in their arms and looked like they were napping. I appeared to be the only one here who took jug seriously.

We were taught to take things seriously. And we were taught to give evidence that we took things seriously – Resurrection, Virgin Birth, Transubstantiation. Sometimes I looked at 38

the text from Religion class and asked how these things were possible. I wondered if any of my classmates had the doubts I had, but I never spoke of it. All of us, all the Loyola Academy Ramblers, were getting prepared for life here with a solid foundation our parents paid for. We were not going to let them down. I could not understand how Schoeneker and the others had this blasé attitude towards memorizing a page of like Father Mulcahy had threatened us with. It was a threat that seemed to carry the same weight as sin. Not to comply meant murky repercussions. Murkiness was a good way to scare us. I went back to my page. It was four­ thirty. Outside the wind murmured. I was sweating.

Then, at five o’clock Father Mulcahy spoke. “Just this once, because I’m feeling in a good mood today, I’m letting all of you off. Jug is over. Go home.”

Schoeneker winked at me. We all got up and filed out. My relief was incalculable.

It was an aloof and frosty December afternoon that confronted me as went out into the parking lot. The stiff wind pushed against us as the juniors and seniors piled into their cars and the freshmen and sophomores started walking home. The school bus was long gone. I yelled at a senior I half­knew, asking him for a lift. He said he was going south on the Edens Expressway.

If that worked, I could join him. There was a shopping center about two miles away that I could walk to and catch a bus from or maybe ask him to drive me there.

I didn’t ask him.

It was the same sort of reluctance that would not allow me to question the Jesuits on the syllogisms they taught us about the existence of God. One syllogism was like a link in a chain that went to another and another and on and on. Why ask for something, why challenge someone if you think the deck is stacked against you? So I gladly accepted the ride from the senior, his car slowly warming up as we got on the Edens to where he deposited me near Main Street in Skokie. There was no Main Street exit, just a slippery embankment I climbed up to the Lincoln Avenue overpass and then in the wind to Main Street. It was only another two or three miles. The sidewalks were mostly cleared off.

I tackled the walk home the same way I wrestled with homework, with any obstacle, with a physical determination to slog it out and ask nothing, refusing to pry into any lurking questions. This was just a matter of how many steps there were to get home. I might have asked whether going to jug and learning its sacred mysteries was worth it now that I was left behind without a warm ride home. My mind did not go there. Earlier this year, one of the scholastics asked me to go out for the debate team, where he was the coach. He was our Latin instructor, and I had scored well on a national Latin test. I was actually only one of three students at Loyola who got an honorable mention. I thought about debating and finally told him ‘no.’ My reasoning was ‘why debate something when there can only be one answer?’ I didn’t tell him that, but that is what I thought. All our lives we had been taught to think one way, act one way.

How could there be any other way?

Lincoln merged with Main Street in a few blocks. Now it was straight east, into the wind’s teeth. The wind was steady like a big hand pushing against me without wrath or anger, just a constant presence. This was something I was qualified to take on, a linear challenge where perhaps the only obstacle was pain and the only strategy was stubbornness not to give into it. I marched east, counting off the blocks. My face got hard and almost inflexible in the cold. I felt that if I stretched it too much it might break. It made me feel good inside that I had such a simple thing to overcome. My feet stung. My hands were numb clutching my books, so I switched them every block. At Keeler Avenue I turned south, and was home.

I pushed my way in the house and threw off my parka and wool hat, eager to get up to the bathroom, where there was a mirror. Now I could look at myself, proud that I knew jug and 39

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proud I had walked home in this cold. My face was alternately red and blue. I stretched my mouth to see what shape my face would have. My mouth made a long vowel sound, like the conjugation of the verb oráre – ‘to pray’. By widening my lips as far as I could, I made my mouth an orifice big enough for Noah to steer his yacht through. My forehead bore the line of my wool hat, a string of tiny knots that disappeared at the sides of my head where my hair ended.

I wondered who this person was I was looking at, and I liked the form of the question. It was a formal intellectual inquiry I would look into one day when my face was one color and one color only. We were translating Caesar now, and I anticipated unlocking those lines of Latin, untangling the verbs and nouns and disregarding prepositions, conjunctions, adverbs and anything else I thought was unneeded.

About the author Paul Smith writes fiction and poetry. he lives with his wife, Flavia, near Chicago. He likes Conrad, Hemingway, Marquez and others. He had a great English teacher in high school ­ Father Ryan, who really inspired him.

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Spirit

By Joseph Reich what the thunder & rain can do to a wild batch of blackberries what it can do to that secret narrow chalet wedged in the woods what it can do to the sputtering tavern & cathedral along a wild rambling brook what it can do to the roof of the alchemist & farmhouse of the wild girl with mad spirit what it can do to the mountain & the mission & prison & pagoda of the zen­buddhist hermit what it can do to the lace curtain milky­white firmament rising up in puffs & plumes spilling into the crevices & folds of the foothills leaving just a miraculous rainbow of breathtaking awe what it can do to the family of wild turkey & winnowing minnows seeking shelter what it can do to lovers of the garden of the basement of the crawlspace of the rear set of stairs of the kitchen of the trapdoor of the clandestine hideaway of the haunted & holy truth or dare attic what it can do to the fugitive on­the­run as honest & humble as any posse townsman town idiot board of trustees & selectman what it can do to that gigantic madman escape rowboat made out of cardboard what it can do to the rickety river queen when you're endlessly brooding along the banks of the mississippi & know you’re never ever gonna quite return to that safe & secure place they refer 41

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to as home but to the blissful slums of the beautiful brokedown imagination what it can do to the currents & undertow of the river rambling through town gaining strength & character bulging hurling & throwing itself against the backs of cafes & beauty salons against the backs of chinese & bowling & burntout mills & factories what it can do to the tree frogs of the forgotten swamp & lagoon bringing it back to life again with a symphony of crooning what it can do to the wild roosters wandering on the side of the road roaming aimlessly towards the shakespeare festival what it can do to the waterlogged & wasted dwarf & dope addict ditching the circus eternally deserted when the fading lights naturally drain & disappear somewhere between the dawn & evening beleaguered barker grieving & missing­in­action mermaids returning to the maternal rocking motion of the seesaw sea saltwater taffy & cotton candy & carousel man with a woman & drinking problem what it can do to the mad movie theater & trail of fragile delicate pink cherry blossom scattered down the sidewalk what it can do to the facade of the mirage of the side of a red brick brownstone turning it bright red rose & shade of crimson what it can do to the sacred sputtering sky­ line at twilight & clothes left out on the line what it can do to homesick cobblestone alleys causing blind men & dead dolls to walk again what it can do to the town fair putting a charge into the hog races & morbidly­obese women what it can do to woman cheated on one too many times before & now hollers hysterically on her porch what it can do to the purple piano planted in the garden & now gives the impression of going solo bowing what it can do to the poor rooster who now sings gospel.

About the author Joseph Reich is a social worker who lives with his wife and twelve­year­old son in the high­up mountains of Vermont. He has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals both here and abroad; been nominated six times for The Pushcart Prize; and his books in poetry and cultural studies include, If I Told You To Jump Off The Brooklyn Bridge (Flutter Press); Pain Diary: Working Methadone & The Life & Times Of The Man Sawed In Half (Brick Road Poetry Press); Drugstore Sushi (Thunderclap Press); The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians, The Housing Market: a comfortable place to jump off the end of the world, The Hole That Runs Through Utopia, Connecting The Dots To Shangrila: A Postmodern Cultural Hx Of America (all

by Fomite Press); Taking The Fifth And Running With It: a psychological guide for the hard of hearing and blind (Broadstone Books), Scenes From The Dynamite Stand (Bedlam Press), The Hospitality Business (Valeveil Press), The Rituals Of Mummification and Magritte's Missing Murals: Insomniac Episodes (both by Sagging Meniscus Press); How To Order Chinese During A Hostage Crisis: Dialects, Existential Essays, A Play, And Other Poems (Hog Press).

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To Err is Human

~a confession story~

By Ana Gardner At the age of twelve, Anna gave in to family pressure and went to confession for the first time.

Anna’s family wasn’t religious in the modern sense. They tweaked Lent. They swore. On occasion, the Lord’s name was indeed taken in vain, particularly in the syntax “What in God’s name were you thinking?” which Anna heard often.

Nana had been excommunicated decades before for divorcing her first husband. Mom had anger issues and had once yelled at a priest. Anna’s uncle didn’t get married until fifty so everyone thought he was gay. Pops was an Orthodox.

This is all to say that in their small neighborhood in the big city, Anna’s family wasn’t the epitome of Catholic piousness. For the most part, they could care less. But Y2K was approaching. Doomsday predictions flew rampant, and everyone was suddenly motivated to get chummy with the higher powers. And so it came that Nana decided it was time for Anna to get to know God a little better.

She dragged Anna to their small neighborhood church late on a Thursday morning, shortly before Easter. There was, as always, a long line of old ladies waiting to confess. They were there all the time: always the same ladies, always waiting to confess, every Thursday, every week. Anna wondered what they did that they needed to confess so often.

Their church was too small to have a proper confessional. With the way it worked, the confessing person knelt, the priest lifted his golden apron (Anna had never learned what that was called), and he put it on their heads. Then, they talked. As far as conversation positions went, this was not a good one.

When it was her turn, Anna knelt, as per Nana’s instructions. The golden apron was heavy on her head. It smelled like incense. The priest said something she couldn’t register. Her heart was pounding. She’d been nervous before, but sitting there under the stuffy apron made it worse.

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“I don’t know how to confess,” she blurted. “Ask me questions.”

The priest noted that she should say please, then he began the inquiries.

“Are you a good obedient child?”

Anna thought for a moment.

“More or less.”

“Why less? Do you listen to your parents?”

“Most of the time.”

“Children must listen to their parents,” said the priest.

Anna nodded and didn’t bother to explain that she did listen, but she couldn’t say that she listened all the time, because she wasn’t sure that she listened all the time. It was important to Anna to be precise. Neither Anna nor the priest understood at the time how Anna’s mind worked. Being precise was more than important: she couldn’t not be precise. Her brain didn’t let her just say words that didn’t hold the right exact meaning. But the priest was more concerned with Anna’s soul than her mind.

“Will you listen to your parents from now on?”

“I’ll try.”

“It’s not good to be so obstinate,” said the priest.

Obstinate was just a fancy word for a smart­mouth. Anna’s family said she was that sometimes, with her categorical answers and the way she always said what she meant. Smart­ mouthed and mule­headed. Mom hated it, but Nana and Pops said it lovingly – their quirky, mule­headed girl who was so clever.

The priest resumed questioning.

“Do you do well in school? Do you do your homework?”

“Yes,” said Anna.

“Do you fight with the other children?”

“Sometimes.”

Just the week before Anna had locked one of her classmates in the school shed because he’d laughed at her.

“We must be good to those around us. Children shouldn’t fight. Do you listen to your teachers?”

And so it went on for a while. Anna began to think that it wasn’t going so bad. The apron was awkward, sure, and her knees hurt from the hard floor, but on the whole confession seemed alright.

Then the priest asked, “Did you err?”

Stuffed under the holy golden apron, Anna was in a pious frame of mind. She thought, to err is human. Only God doesn’t err. And things along those lines – and so she said, “Yes.” The priest paused. “No... did you err?”

“Yes,” said Anna with conviction.

We all err, we are all sinners, woeful sons of Adam, et cetera.

The priest cleared his throat.

“I mean, did you…jump the fence?”

There was a patch of mulberry trees behind the school fence. Anna and her friends loved mulberries.

“Yes.” “You stepped off the curb?”

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Stepping off the curb before the traffic light turned green didn’t seem to Anna like some great sin. But the priest knew God’s laws better, she supposed, so she admitted, “Yes,” and she didn’t understand why the priest was starting to huff like a train engine.

It wasn’t his fault. He didn't know that Anna had a hard time with metaphors.

“Did you err with boys?” he asked at last.

And Anna, remembering the classmate she’d locked in the shed, said: “Yes. With boys, with girls…”

The priest choked.

Nana had been watching from a respectful distance. He turned a helpless look in her direction.

“What?” said Nana.

But the priest couldn’t tell, and so he just gave Anna a terrible heap of Our Fathers and Hail Marys and said she couldn’t have communion until the matter was resolved.

Nana laughed so hard she had to stop and hold on to the bannister as Anna related the mystifying incident on their way out. When she was done laughing, she went back to clear things up, and no one was excommunicated in the end – but after saying her Hail Marys, Anna decided confession was tricky business after all, and she stayed away until she was sure she had all her metaphors straight.

About the author Ana Gardner is a recent PhD graduate who has lost most of her marbles chasing elusive research results. She's worked on literacy and access to education efforts and taught writing workshops to inner city high school students, and her opinions and short stories have appeared in Smart Woman, Mused and 121 Words, and are upcoming in Storyland and 600 Seconds Saga.

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Edify Fiction

September 2017

Love

By Gideon Tay Yee Chuen

Love That's upside down. Love, that is unconditional, unthinkable, unfathomable. Love that flips the world the other way round. Like the wide ocean, it drowns us. Uncontainable, it overflows. Filled over the brim, love kept pouring in — into our hearts. Overwhelming us, gushing into the God­shaped void, frothing air, and settled to a calm, contented state. I am left awestruck by your love. We are.

Your great, great Love...

About the author Gideon Tay Yee Chuen is a young Christian poet who finds joy in ministering to fellow christians through his work. He finds poetry an effective and enjoyable way for him to better understand and share the revelations he has had in his walk with God. 46

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 the icon (located near a piece's title and byline) will take you to the comment section of Edify Fiction's website. There, you may discuss your thoughts on the piece, say hello to the contributor, and engage in dialogue with other readers.

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

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

NOTE: All comments are moderated. Crude language, badgering, and spamming will not be tolerated. The editors reserve the right to delete any comments at any time.

Upcoming Features We are excited to share that we will be adding a couple of new features to our media in the next month.

Goulash ­ A section geared toward our contributors, although our readership may find it educational and interesting as well. It takes a look at the craft of creating, covering topics on grammar and mechanics, presentation, what ticks off editors, recommended resources, contests, and more.

Getting Personal ­ a spotlight article that takes a look at the life of one of our contributors ­ their background, what they do, how they got their start, and any tips they have for others in their efforts to become published and successful.

Advertising Would you like to advertise with us? We publish ads of interest to our writers and readers. both in our digital publication and on our accompanying website. Contact us for more information.

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Edify Fiction

September 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, poetry, and digital artwork • Holiday­themed pieces for our Christmas issue • Themed pieces for our "New Beginnings" New Year's issue 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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