Attic Door Press: Issue No. 2 (Summer 2018)

Attic Door Press Issue No. 2

Summer 2018

Issue No. 2

Summer 2018

Masthead Publisher/Editor-in-Chief: Editor, Fiction: Editor, Fiction:

Michael Guendelsberger Julie Hill Matthew Riffle

Art & Photography: Editor, Poetry: Editor, Poetry:

Cover Art: Amy Thomas

Joe Devine Erin Guendelsberger Zackary Hill

Issue No. 2

Summer 2018

Table of Contents Waiting for Dinner ....................................................................................................................................... 3 Keith Manos The Red Truck Blues .................................................................................................................................. 11 Marie Savord Inside the Outhouse ................................................................................................................................... 12 Zackary Hill Keys ............................................................................................................................................................. 13 Brianne Riffle Boys ............................................................................................................................................................. 14 Steve Klepetar Starry Lashes ............................................................................................................................................... 15 Elizabeth Bruce Tongue ........................................................................................................................................................ 17 Steve Klepetar Donkeyphants! ............................................................................................................................................ 18 Billy Simms Sometimes Your Need is Great .................................................................................................................. 19 Steve Klepetar Dingus ......................................................................................................................................................... 20 R. Keith Catch and Release ...................................................................................................................................... 26 Zackary Hill Untitled....................................................................................................................................................... 27 Billy Simms Local Quidnuncs ........................................................................................................................................ 28 David and Marie Savord Untitled....................................................................................................................................................... 36 Stephanie Marvin Contributors: .............................................................................................................................................. 37

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Issue No. 2

Summer 2018

Waiting for Dinner

The fat nurse was like that. Like at the tavern where his former business partner’s wife bartended and cooked the burgers and claimed they’d make more money with a pool table. “A waste,” Jim had predicted, and he had been right.

Finally, Jim told Ginny to get out because she served her motorcycle friends for free, and he was still pissed they spent $5000 on a new pool table whose felt top got scratched and had to be replaced after two weeks. Ginny whined, “You can’t tell me what to do, my husband owns this place, too.”

So Jim had gone to the office and returned with the lease. He waved the document in her face and yelled, “Whose name is on this?

Whose name?” And when she realized it was Jim’s name on the lease, she grabbed her purse, all the time huffing and puffing, and stomped out the front door, the three bikers at the bar swiveling their heads to watch her go. Ginny’s drunk husband, who was too stupid to put his name on the lease, was dumping garbage out back, spilling the bottles out of the trashcan onto the pavement instead of into the dumpster.

Jim heard glass breaking and knew right away what had happened, but he wasn’t going to help Phil, his partner, because the wife with the witch’s nose was finally gone and Phil was next.

When Phil, the moon-faced partner, returned from dumping trash, he asked where Ginny was, and Jim demanded he leave too. The guy always left early anyway, usually after he did shots of Crown Royal with Ginny.

Phil’s face puckered. “Leave now?”

“Get out, Phil,” Jim commanded, pointing at his face and then at the door.

“You’re done.”

And he really was.

A week after that, Jim gave Phil – sober now on a Monday morning – $10,000 to get rid

Keith Manos “ . . . can you play me a memory? I’m not really sure how it goes, but it’s sad and it’s sweet, and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes” [Billy Joel]

Regarding Sue, his mindless sister-in-law, Jim decided to confront her later.

Of course, when she visited again.

What else could he do?

He’d have to wait at least a week because, according to Sue, she was busy.

“Maybe on Saturday,” she had claimed in that tinny voice of hers, leaning her strained face toward his like she was examining his eyelashes, and then had almost shouted, “Work is crazy.

We’re so busy.”

Busy?

Sue and her husband Rich, Jim’s sixtyyear-old brother, didn’t have kids, they left work every day at four o’clock, they picked up fast food on the way home. Jim remembered the smell of French fries and the deflated McDonald’s wrappers that littered the floor of their van when they moved him from his home six months ago after he had fallen in the garage.

Later, he would tell them they weren’t fooling him. The same way he’d tell the big wig here at Avalon Village about the fat nurse, the one who was supposed to walk or wheel him to the dining room – that she was always late.

Always busy herself.

He opened his palm-sized notebook, poised a pencil on the lined paper, and then wrote the date and a note that the fat nurse was late again, a part of her mean enough to do that to him.

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of him. That was a lot of money back then. Jim wasn’t going to let Phil make the tavern his playground any longer. “Take this money and stay away,” Jim ordered and folded the check and stuffed it into Phil’s shirt pocket. Phil looked first at the check and then longingly at the rows of bottles on the glass shelves behind the bar.

“Get out,” Jim repeated, stepping forward and leaning his broad chest towards Phil’s face.

Phil found out later Ginny ran around on him – something Jim knew already, so good riddance to the both of them. The bar was Jim’s now, though he never dreamed of making it his life’s work; like his marriage and children, it had just happened.

He couldn’t, of course, tell Rich and Sue to get out. They had dumped him here at Avalon Village.

“For your own good.”

Their words.

“It’s like you’re living in a hotel with three free meals a day.”

But some days he didn’t want to eat the lunch in the dining room and didn’t care that Sue urged him to eat what they served. “You’ve already paid for it,” she explained. “It’s inclusive . . . Three meals a day . . . You’re wasting money, Jim. Eat what they give you.”

Inclusive? Jim knew what the word meant; he just never heard it spoken out loud about a place like this. He would cook for himself if they let him.

“I’m not hungry at lunchtime,” he had told Sue, his unshaven face away from her to the window where he could look at only grass and trees and weeds. His eyes blurred against the sunshine.

Today, however, the hunger fatigue felt like a fever. The fat nurse was supposed to come in and walk him down, and he was ready for

her, dressed in his plaid shirt and heavy socks.

All he needed was his pants.

Listening, Jim peered at the open doorway for the rhythmic squeaks of her rubberized shoes, but all he heard was clapping on a television game show coming from a nearby room. Someone was watching “Family Feud.”

Jim kept hearing “Good answer, good answer,” then the buzzer and the audience going “Awwwww.”

Game shows are rigged – Jim knew this – and the audiences are ordered to clap. He’d seen the movie and knew a winner was predetermined, like all those professional wrestling matches.

Jim’s stomach growled, and the fat nurse was late. He began to doubt she was truly a nurse. She didn’t talk like a nurse; her voice was more like a man’s. She had probably eaten his dinner. The menu said lima beans. Boneless pork chops. Applesauce.

Summer heat beat against the windowpane, the glass warm when Jim had touched it earlier even though his room was airconditioned. The sunlight provided evidence of a morning or an afternoon but not which day was outside. Tuesday? Wednesday? Friday? The sunlight gave no clue, and no calendar appeared on the wall. Yesterday, gray clouds filled the sky.

He scribbled again in his notebook what he wanted to tell the big wig, that the fat nurse had refused to tell him her name. The other day she had spilled water on his bed sheet and then trudged out of the room and back in with a new white sheet, all the time breathing hard like she had run a race. She never apologized, however.

She just yanked the sheet off, trading humiliation for convenience by leaving Jim’s bare legs and diaper exposed. The door was open and Jim heard conversations in the hallway: People walking by, laughter.

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“Tell me your name,” he had demanded, angry now. He scanned her shirt for a nametag but couldn’t find any.

“I’m not telling you my name,” she said and snickered at him.

Jim wasn’t joking. “I want to know your name.”

She draped the new sheet over his body and patted his arm. “Just push the button if you need anything else, honey.” Then she left, still snickering.

They served dinner at five, and it was five now. Jim reached to the adjacent nightstand and touched the brim of his navy blue VFW cap. He almost put it on, the last apparel he would wear before departing for dinner. The cap announced he had fought overseas, and he was proud of that. He had fought in Korea, where his colonel ordered his regiment not to cross a yellow line on the map, so Jim rested in his foxhole and pointed his M1 carbine aimlessly across a frozen, pockmarked landscape knowing he couldn’t kill any more North Koreans or Chinese. The crumb bum Truman wouldn’t let MacArthur finish the job. Truman was no better than the peanut farmer President, the one who traveled now, who made speeches no one really listened to, who had screwed it up for us in Iran.

Carter seemed so disorganized and talked a lot in that slow drawl that made him sound stupid. And Clinton was from that hillbilly state of Arkansas, but he didn't talk like that. He just messed around in the White House, spraying himself on that young woman’s dress when she was on her knees under his desk. Plus, he lied about that, and then he apologized, and later his wife wrote a book, but not about her husband.

Her book was about raising a village, but what did she know about that? She didn’t live in a village; she lived in the White House, too, and traveled, making speeches to stockbrokers who

paid her hundreds of thousands of dollars to talk about the stock market. All of it a waste.

Jim listened again for the fat nurse’s shoes, but his throat gurgled, as if it had its own mind, so he focused and cleared his throat and strained his ears.

Nothing.

Except for more clapping and Steve Harvey’s laughter. All of it a farce because the contestants were told what to say to set up Harvey’s jokes. Jim watched television too – all the drugs coming from Mexico. All the prescription commercials. He was sick of them.

Nothing helped. There was buy this, buy that, buy everything. And those players who kneeled during the National Anthem, who had everything handed to them – they should be dragged out and drafted. They didn’t know they were dying too. Jim turned the page in his little notebook and started a letter to the NFL commissioner.

Maybe he didn’t need the fat nurse. If he could get into his chair he would throw a blanket over his bare legs and wheel himself to the dining room. He needed to arrive at the right time to navigate the best seating. Too early and others might avoid his table, too late and all the good tables could be full. Timing was critical. It was five o’clock. Time to go.

Yesterday he had sat with Gretchen, whose face radiated illness. She cried when the aide asked her what she wanted to drink. Dennis was there – a good man even though he had that ugly blotch on his face. Jim tried to remember – was it on the left or right side? If he ended up sitting with Dennis, who asked Jim to call him Denny, he’d probably have to listen to his police stories again.

Officer Denny?

A foolish name for a man his age, especially if he had served in law enforcement.

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He’d check for the blotch and sit on the opposite side. Yesterday, Denny talked and then chuckled, but Jim couldn’t hear his entire story, so he grinned to be polite. It was a story about stopping a car without a license plate, a fourteenyear-old boy at the steering wheel; he was on his way to get cigarettes for his mother . . . and ice cream. “Vanilla ice cream,” Denny clarified, his fork pushing peas because he couldn’t get them onto the fork until he blocked them with a bony finger.

Gretchen recovered and asked, “Did you ever shoot anyone?”

Denny peered at her briefly and went back to corralling the peas.

Jim definitely did not want to sit with Martha. She always bumped the table legs with her electric wheelchair and rambled on and on about her former house, her husband, the trips they took. She’d traveled to Egypt, heard dogs barking in Morocco, smelled flowers somewhere else. Plus, her son as a kid got this girl pregnant but didn’t marry her. Martha’s husband was dead, that was for sure, because she had revealed this to Jim and Denny over chicken soup one day. Actually, she announced, “I’m not married anymore.”

Jim shook his head. “I got married once, and once was enough.” Twenty-one years, Jim remembered, that he had lived with a pain in the ass. The last ten years they were more like roommates who had either forgotten to say goodnight to each other or who had decided the effort wasn’t worth it. Even worse, she told their two sons Jim was hiding money from them, that the bar was making over two hundred thousand dollars a year, but Jim was keeping it for himself.

“Look at the books,” Jim offered after the accusation. “Go ahead.”

“You’re a liar,” she shouted at him. “Why do you steal from your children?”

Steal from my children? He had just sat down to eat but set aside the cold sandwich on his plate to look at her – at her yellow cigarette teeth, her pudgy face. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Then she stormed out of the room, waving her fleshy arms as if swiping at cobwebs.

Jim left too. A week later. Yeah, he loved her once, but then years passed, and car keys went missing and they argued over late Christmas cards and a trip to New York City got cancelled at the last minute because Phil was sick and couldn’t manage the bar. She didn’t say, “I love you” those times. Neither did Jim. They kept the television on just to have some noise in the house. In the divorce he gave her the house, the furniture, the bar. All he wanted was his truck.

Then he went to work picking up bodies for a funeral home.

The chicken soup reminded him. The fat nurse – where was she? Jim was hungry. He looked at his tray table. His bag of chocolate donuts had disappeared. Probably stolen last night by that bubbly nurse with the corn-colored hair when Jim was sleeping. The donuts Rich had brought yesterday – a whole bag of them – and now they were missing, which, Jim concluded almost immediately, was to be expected. The last guy who had occupied the room on the other side of the hall claimed his clothes had been stolen when he’d been sleeping. Jim remembered seeing him leave days later with paramedics on his way to the hospital, how the bed sheets were wrapped cocoon style around his body – a language promising death.

He never returned.

Jim had watched his dog die. “Put down” was the wording they used, and he walked away, leaving the Labrador with the vet. He had forgotten to ask how the vet would dispose of 6

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Brodie, or maybe he purposely never inquired.

Did they wrap Brodie in a plastic garbage bag and dump him in a bin? Burn him in a furnace? Bury him in a pit with other dead dogs? Jim felt guilty that he never asked, never got the ashes, never even said goodbye. He came home suddenly hungry for ham sandwiches with yellow mustard and chips, all of it tasteless in his mouth as tears pushed against his closed eyelids.

The bubbly nurse, the one with the five kids, had disturbed him last night, waking Jim to give him a pill. Jim opened his eyes and lifted his right arm as if to ward her away. “What are you doing here?”

“Meds, Mr. Simpson. You need to take your pill.”

“Pill?”

“It stops the shaking in your left hand.

Remember?”

“I don’t want it.” Didn’t she know she was dying, too? They all were. How could a pill stop that?

She elevated the bed, set the little pill cup in his right hand, and held the sippy cup with the straw by his lips. “There you go.” She nudged the hand with the pill cup toward his mouth. “That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s it.”

Jim dropped the white pill on his tongue, sipped, and swallowed.

“Okay now, go to sleep,” the bubbly nurse whispered. “Go to sleep, honey.” She took his watch off the nightstand and put it in her shirt pocket.

“What are you doing?” Jim reached weakly for her hand, his eyes blinking, a greenish light coming from outside the window.

She pushed his arm back onto the bed cover. “Go to sleep now, Mr. Simpson. Go to sleep.” She paused, studied his face for a moment, and then gently touched his cheek.

“You know, I’m going to bring some blemish tomorrow and cover that blotch on your cheek

for you. Make you look handsome for the ladies here.” She smiled, but her palm felt so rough on his cheek Jim worried his skin would tear.

Was that last night?

Dinner yesterday was meatloaf and mashed potatoes. They were serving pork chops today. Jim used to grill them in summer months, drinking beers with his two sons who visited him on July 4th but were gone now, living in other states, their lives entangled with wives whose names he had forgotten, their homes off limits to him, unless they needed to borrow money.

Not really borrow, of course. His son Franklin had never paid back the $3500 he needed to put appliances in his Florida home.

Franklin didn’t remember Jim holding him as an infant when Franklin threw up on Jim’s shirt or how Jim got him that full-time job in Tampa working for an old army buddy. Franklin’s wife, a shrew of a woman, demanded Jim park his truck in the street, not in the driveway because, she claimed, a truck in the driveway made them look like hillbillies.

The daughter-in-law, Franklin’s bigbusted, chunky wife, was just like Jim’s ex, especially after she’d been drinking. That’s all they did now – was drink. So what if they didn’t want to talk to him anymore or let Jim see the grandkids? All of them were up to no good.

The ex had moved on to two more husbands: The first one drank with her a lot until his liver gave out and she buried him. The second one quit on her too, Jim had learned from Franklin who had called – maybe four, five years ago. Franklin needed money again – two thousand dollars to get his Chevy van repaired – since the new father-in-law refused to give him the money.

Jim listened again for the squeaking shoes. Maybe this delay in taking him to dinner was about the swallowing – how they thickened 7

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the water because he supposedly had trouble swallowing. The fat nurse had told him this, which made Jim think again she wasn’t a real nurse, even if she did wear a flowered blouse and navy blue pants.

What did she know about who could or couldn’t swallow; she wasn’t a doctor. And where was she? It was dinnertime. They were serving pork chops and applesauce. In fact, they had to be serving the meal by now.

Avalon had a new chef. Jim had seen him – a colored guy who looked like a South American colored – and there were rumors.

Supposedly he’d been fired from his last job at Haverford. Another was that he used to cook for inmates in a correctional facility. The goofy meat loaf yesterday was dry and tasteless.

Jim took his notebook and wrote a reminder note to talk to the big wig about the chef and his bland meat loaf. Jim was paying for this, wasn’t he? The residents were fed up; a week ago, Denny had pushed his plate away in disgust and pulled out his teeth, telling the Chinesey-looking aide when she came over to help him put the teeth back in that he didn’t need his dentures. Why bother if all they were going to eat was soup and pudding?

Maybe that’s where the fat nurse had been. Like the new chef, maybe she’d served time in prison.

Jim eyed the clock on the wall, which told him it was past five o’clock. He strained his ear for noise in the hallway. His shoulder hurt. His stomach growled. His room smelled like stale breath.

He recalled the old guy from across the hall, “They don’t do anything,” Norman had complained. “They don’t come. I push the red button over and over, and they don’t come.”

Jim pushed his call button and waited.

Two minutes felt like two years, but the fat nurse

finally ambled into the room, all smiles and white teeth and plump arms sticking out of her flowery blouse. “I’m here, Mr. Simpson. What do you want, sweetie?”

Jim tore the sheet from his little notebook and waved it at her. “Give this to the big wig.”

She took his notebook paper and studied it. “What is this, Mr. Simpson? A river? . . . Are these like waves? I didn’t know you liked to draw. Do you want me to bring you some sketching paper?”

Jim ignored her question – designed, he speculated, to distract him – and set the call button on his bed. “I want to go to dinner. I don’t want to miss dinner.”

She smiled again, even laughed a little. “It isn’t dinner-time yet, Mr. Simpson. It’s only two o’clock, but when it’s time, I’ll come get you.”

The fat nurse started for the door.

Jim’s throat gurgled again. He looked away and sighed. “Why are they paying you?”

The fat nurse turned and put her hands on her hips. “Why are they paying me? I work here of course.”

“Hardly.”

“Oh, Mr. Simpson, behave yourself.” She checked his oxygen and smoothed out his bed cover. “So, can I get you anything?”

“I want my watch back.”

She went to the nightstand drawer and pulled it out. “Do you want me to put this on your wrist?” She held it toward his face. “See? It shows a little after two o’clock.”

Jim recognized the watch in her hand. “I don’t want it stolen.”

“Nobody is going to steal your watch” She slipped it onto his wrist. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“A glass of water,” he told her, trying not to sound like he was ordering her around.

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She looked bored. “You know, Mr. Simpson, you could get that yourself. Here’s your cup, and the jug is right here.” She pointed to his tray table.

“Take me down to dinner.”

“At five o’clock. I promise. But do you want a snack now?”

A snack? Like he was a dog who needed a treat. Jim smirked at her, certain now he could catch her in her crime. “Yes . . . a chocolate donut.”

She glanced at his nightstand. “Those ones you had yesterday?”

His smirk turned to a broad grin. “Yes.” He saw her nametag. “Sheila.”

Sheila nodded at a memory and gestured at the nightstand. “Oh, Mr. Simpson. Did your grandkids eat them all yesterday? Your son should have stopped them. I’m sorry . . . Do you want me to check if they have some cookies in the kitchen?”

Jim thought of the convict chef and pulled his blanket toward his chin. “No.” Sheila paused. “You sure?” She set his note for the big wig on the tray table.

“Yes.” Jim didn’t look at her.

“Okay, I’ll come get you at five o’clock.”

Sheila finished tucking the blanket and left.

Jim picked up off the tray table his notebook page for the big wig. He noticed the wavy, horizontal lines and wondered how Sheila had replaced his words, how she had smiled while tricking him like that.

Yesterday, a smiling woman in sweat pants had brought her dog for Jim to pet. Not just Jim, of course, but everyone up and down the hallway. Jim petted the dog and thought of Brodie as the woman talked about Issue 2. She told Jim to vote yes, and Jim probably would vote yes because he didn't get the newspaper anymore. Did it really matter anyway?

The election emerged for Jim as an event happening way outside Avalon Village, featuring body-less names, none of whom could be trusted. Like his former neighbor, Joe, the guy who put up a chain link fence between their two properties although he never asked Jim for permission. When Jim confronted him, Joe complained, “I don’t want your stupid dog shitting on my lawn anymore.”

Jim settled again into his bed. The view of blue sky and green grass outside the window brought no comfort. A view that got boring after ten minutes, but he kept looking anyway to see if something – anything – different would happen. Jim peered at his watch and saw it was only three o’clock.

He started crying.

Tears that burned the corners of his eyes as polka music came from the recreation room down the hall. A guy was singing. Were they dancing?

Jim squeezed his eyelids shut to block the leftover tears and crumpled the notebook paper, his notes, in his right hand, the same way he did last week with the squishy rubber ball given to him at physical therapy by the twenty-something kid in the warm up outfit with the clipboard.

The kid had put him on this pedaling thing, which was just a 1970 garage sale stool with handlebars.

“Give it to the stupid salesman who made you buy this pile of junk,” Jim told the therapist.

“C’mon, Mr. Simpson. Don’t be like that.

You need to exercise. Doctor’s orders.”

“My head still hurts,” Jim grumbled, gingerly touching the back of his head which had hit the garage floor six months earlier.

The kid set his clipboard on a table and studied Jim’s scalp. “Do you need a nurse?”

Jim shook his head and tried to pedal.

What did he know? What did any of them know? All 9

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his years had piled up to yesterday and to last week and to last month and to six months ago when he had fallen in the garage. He had told the doctor that his head still hurt, but the guy didn’t care.

When Jim could open his eyes, he peered at the crumpled paper in his palm and wondered who had given it to him. He dropped it on his tray table next to the tissue box and realized he needed his pants. Dinner was at five o’clock. Timing was everything, but the fat nurse was late.

He pushed the call button.w

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The Red Truck Blues

Oh, the red truck blues hang over me I’ve got the blues so bad The red truck blues, can’t you see They make me feel so sad, oh They make me feel so sad

Marie Savord When life was young I yearned so bad For a woman, a dog, and a truck They’d all be my friends, one way or another, and charm all my days with good luck Well, I found me a woman, she turned out okay She did what I thought she should do At least for awhile, that is, till one day, She took off and found someone new When I’m missing my lover, I drink me some booze I drink me some booze till I lose That feeling I get, that I want to forget, When I’m feeling the red truck blues Then I got me a canine, it learned to obey It did what I thought dogs should do At least for awhile, that is, till one day, The bugger left out of the blue When I’m missing my canine, I take me a snooze I take me a snooze till I lose That feeling I get, that I want to forget, When I’m feeling the red truck blues So, I bought me a pick-up and named it Big Red It did what I thought trucks should do At least for awhile, that is, till one day, My wheels run off on me too When I’m missing my lover I drink me some booze When I’m missing my canine I take me a snooze But when I’m missing my pick-up Oh, how I get me the red truck blues 11

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Inside the Outhouse Zackary Hill Lime outlines the floor with dead flies and spiders in a powdered decay.

The shit drips or, rather, splatters below dropped drawers to a darkness ripe, over-ripe with fetid fecal matter.

Don’t linger – Flies buzz and spider webs swing as the door opens in the morning; light fearless in its approach and everything dark scatters to the corners. Take the broom and sweep under the seat and along the floor, sweep away the memory of death.

Don’t stay too long inside the outhouse, you don’t see out the small window, you don’t belong, the light outside reminds you.

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Keys Brianne Riffle

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Boys Steve Klepetar Because we were boys, we always thought of caves, and we wound down slippery rocks toward the bottom, where a stream ran past dripping walls, then tumbled over a ledge into blackness.

Long after the water disappeared you could hear it splashing and gurgling, you could smell the wetness, feel the bitter lime on the inside of your tongue. Our voices echoed, but after awhile, it was hard to breathe and we sat with our heads bent forward. We sucked air and I’ll admit it now, we all felt a little sick, even with our helmets and the little lights we followed like a trail cut into rock.

We weren’t brave, just stupid like our fathers said, our hands gouged and bloody from the climb, our foreheads marked or streaked to show where we belonged— out beyond the line of cabins in the woods, half sunk in mud, listening to the chiding frogs.

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Summer 2018 unashamed, the child wearing her childness in the roundedness of her cheeks, in her look of pure delight, in the starry clusters of her sea wet lashes.

Something from behind the picture, some warm, invisible hand seemed just then to reach out and touch the flat bone of Grace’s chest as if to massage her weary heart beneath, pumping away moment after moment for the whole of one’s life. The whole of one’s life. The revelation passed through Grace like a soft coastal breeze over the damp, summer skin of childhood.

She felt a moment of pure aliveness plucked from moments of lesser joy. These-these pristine moments--are the whole of one’s life, she thought, for the rest of the body, these bits of greater joy captured and recorded on the surface of things—on pieces of photographic paper, certificates of birth, cool plaster poured into a pie tin and pressed against the ridges of one’s baby fingers, pressed as these moments are pressed into the wetness of memory.

The picture of herself as a child had this effect on Grace, and she wondered why her sister Rose had sent it to her, what had possessed her to send Grace this small piece of herself. Grace felt a sudden and deep sadness, mourning life itself, ticking away into the past as it was, evaporating into ever more distant memories shared by fewer and fewer people.

Oh God, she thought, don’t let Mama die.

And then Grace was lost to it, lost to the tears that came when she envisioned her mother, poised and proper still, lying in serene surrender upon her pillow, her thinning hair spread out gently around her head as Grace brushed it. She’d speak softly to her mother then of trifling things, moments they had shared, a peach cobbler, a burst of music, a look they’d both remembered in the eye of a stranger on some bygone street. It was a pilgrimage always for Grace, going to her mother’s side, and always she found a solace there she found nowhere else.

And suddenly it was there again, that solace, wrapping itself around her as their mother

Starry Lashes Elizabeth Bruce

One dollar’s worth of stamps spread across the front of the envelope like a portrait gallery of early American icons.

Grace’s sister Rose was like that, always scattering random bits of history into everyday life. History was something of a hobby for Rose, had been since they were girls sneaking into their father’s study late at night and pouring over the war books there.

Smiling, Grace opened the envelope and pulled out a grey folded piece of cardboard with the word “Remember!” scrawled in Rose’s flamboyant hand.

Inside was a single snapshot, a grainy black and white picture Grace instantly recognized from their mother’s photo album. They were at the beach, the girls sitting in the shallow water letting the sea foam around them. Rose had plopped a clump of seaweed on Grace’s head and they’d screamed with laughter just as their mother had snapped the shot.

In the photo Grace’s wet eyelashes clumped together into starry points that gave her face a harlequin look, daughter of jest, Grace thought, Lear’s Fool in the making. Grace held the photo in her hand, remembering the frothy saltiness that elated them as children, the days at the beach, the sea-bulb bonnets she and Rose used to make—ugly droopy things filled with plankton and marine life they couldn’t see or even imagine.

Perched with the seaweed on her head, Grace looked sweet and lightly pretty, the way children do. She looked again at the picture and there it was--the elasticity of a child’s skin, clear and rosy even in black and white.

A remarkable quality, Grace thought, this childness, unaware of itself though so obvious to others. The species perfected, unabashed and 15

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had a thousand times. Grace looked down again at the grainy photo sent to her by her one and only sister. The whole of her life tucked inside a dollar’s worth of postage stamps. And that, she realized is what Rose must have meant.w

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Tongue Steve Klepetar It begins with tongue, which tastes salt, which tastes the passing of summer, a thickness gone from air. Here is a tongue that can only speak in strange accents, that always gives itself away. It’s a rough tongue, a dog’s tongue lolling, some days a wolf’s tongue with its secrets and dreams.

Here is a tongue which owns nothing, a tongue rolled in a mouth full of brittle teeth. It tastes wind, and granite-flavored rocks, and an ocean at the bottom of the world.

Can tongue hear music in notes of bitterness or spice? Can tongue lead you through mind-clouds, down to the beach, empty on a gray day, where waves claw at clumps of seaweed clinging to the shore?

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Donkeyphants!

Billy Simms

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Sometimes Your Need is Great Steve Klepetar Berries in a bowl, sugar and cream.

Sometimes in this life, you must have it all. Sometimes your need is great. You leave your suspicions dangling from a tree branch as the season’s last snow pummels early April ground.

Sometimes you let your breath come easy, feel the hot blood draining from your hands.

Surely your body knows its way into spring, how green halos surround the bird-heavy trees.

Your eyes pull you toward the light, over mountains where wild goats roam.

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Dingus

maybe. She doesn’t have a restraining order on you, her mom does. You’re in luck since it’s 3pm when you get there. You see her come out the front doors of her school. You ask how she’s been and she looks excited to see you after, how long has it been? Six weeks? Two months?

You tell Sarah you have something for her to give to her mom and you’ll drive her to Giorgio’s ristorante instead of her taking the bus after school like she always does. In your car Sarah asks what it is. You’ve already forgotten you told her that you had something for her mom. Idiot.

In the parking lot of Giorgio’s there she is. You see her with some guy you don’t recognize. There’s yelling. She gets in the passenger of a strange car and it drives off him.

So, it’s going down now. It’s all out of your hands. Nothing you can do. You know that Sarah saw her mom get in that car. You tell Sarah you’re gonna call her mom, but you’re phone is back at your apartment.

In your apartment you grab your phone.

And the envelope of those bills. Sarah is waiting down stairs in the car. You tell her that your phone is dead. You fucking liar. You just shut it off. You say let’s get ice cream and we’ll meet your mom later and you start driving. On the highway. Not thinking of any direction. Just driving. There is no destination. You drive for the sake of driving. Driving. You don’t know where you’re going.

Thirty minutes of driving. Sarah asks where you’re taking her for ice cream and you say The city. Why are you driving to the city, dingus? You think about getting a hotel. You look at the pile of bills in that yellow envelope.

You can't tell how much is there. JC never gave you a number when you talked and made plans

R. Keith

Get up, dingus. Someone’s pounding at the door. You hear a thud on the hardwood floor outside the door. Footsteps. Something’s pounding in your head. You’re hungover as fuck, you lush. By the time you stagger to open the door they’re long gone. You pick up the yellow envelope off the floor. Inside there’s a huge wad of bills. You start to remember. Hey stupid, you should probably shut the door. Lock it.

Look who’s suddenly awake now. Still, you’re not thinking too clearly. Like you ever do.

Go find your phone. You think it’s in your pants. But you slept in your clothes last night.

Try your jacket pocket. I’m just fucking with you, it’s on the floor in the living room. You missed the coffee table when you came home from the bar last night and don’t remember how you landed in bed. You’re shoes are still on.

You start to dial her digits then remember it’s a bad idea and hang up. That’ll cause you more shit than you’re already in. Call her at work, you can still call there. You dad owns the place. What are you even gonna say? The hostess will recognize your voice and just hang up on you. Who else is there to dial and prevent everything from happening?

In your pants pocket you find the coaster with JC’s number on it. Now you’re thinking, dingus. Good job. The number you have reached is no longer in service. Oh, fuck. Maybe you misdialed, try again. The number you have rea…

Are you ok to drive? In your car you feel motion sickness and roll down your window to try to puke when you’re stopped at a red.

Nothing comes up. You’re disgusting. Is it really a good idea to drive to Sarah’s school? Well, 20

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last night. Or if he did you don’t remember since you came home totally sloshed.

You think a cheap motel is the first place anyone will look for you. And an expensive one will have more security cameras. Damn, dingus.

What a dilemma. You go for a cheap one since they’ll probably take cash and you won’t need to use your debit card and leave a paper trail. Good thinking, moron.

You check in and tell Sarah she can have the huge bed all to herself. You can sleep on the small couch. What a gentlemen you are.

Dumbass. Where’s the ice cream? You promised Sarah ice cream. The hotel is attached to a greasy little diner. There’s probably a jukebox. With music that was popular fifteen years ago. Or some Patsy Cline records. Your brain has fallen to pieces. You and Sarah eat a Club House and a Monte Cristo, and share fries with turkey gravy.

The waitress calls both of you Hun, and says they don’t have ice cream. Only rice pudding and Jello.

Sarah falls asleep on the bed in the hotel room cuz she ate too much. You can’t sleep.

Your brain is on fire. You’ve pretty much kidnapped your ex-girlfriend’s kid, and she has a restraining order on you. And you have this chunk of cash from JC and it was supposed to go to someone else. You spent a bit of it on this room and dinner already. You’re probably low on gas too. You should just jump in your car and get the fuck out already, before you get in to bigger shit. Just leave Sarah there. A housekeeper will find her. They’ll figure out what to do. Just go.

Of course you didn’t go. Shit for brains.

It’s the next day and you’re still in the hotel.

You woke up to Sarah flushing the toilet. You know she’s going to ask you what’s going on and a billion other questions that you don’t know the answer to.

Time for you to make up some bullshit, there …champ. What are you gonna tell her?

You say that you called her mom while she was sleeping last night. And remember she got into a car with some guy and they drove off? They went …camping. For a week. …And. There’s a week off school. So…you have no homework for a week. And we can …spend some time in the city together. How gullible do you think she is?

She’s only eight years old, but she’s probably smarter than you’ll ever be. Fuckwit.

You tell Sarah that she’s gonna need some clothes, and maybe you can go to the toy store after, if she’s good. You tell her to wait in the room and you’ll check out and then you guys can go to the mall. They’ll probably have ice cream in the mall. You can have ice cream for breakfast.

In the hotel parking lot you unscrew your license plate with a quarter. There’s a Mustang parked beside the piece of shit you drive, so you swap plates. That’s using your noodle, numbskull. Go grab Sarah and off to the mall you go to spend money that isn’t yours on a child you’ve abducted from the chick that has a restraining order on your pathetic ass. What a beautiful start of the day.

In the car of course Sarah has to tinkle.

You ask why she didn’t go in the hotel before you guys left. You don’t understand, you were never eight years old yourself. Dipshit. She can’t hold it and you have to pull into the back alley and you tell her to go behind the dumpster. Just like you do when you stagger your way home from the bar, right dingus? But now’s your chance. Just run to your car and drive off. Go. She’ll start crying and someone will find her and take care of everything. Why ya stalling?

Back in the car. Smells like pee for some reason. Crack the window, dumb-dumb. You find a parking stall at the mall and hold Sarah’s 21

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hand as you two walk inside. In the clothing store girls are looking at you. Scoping you out.

Kids are a chick-magnet. Maybe you could get laid if you weren’t a fucking kidnapper. You tell Sarah to pick out a few sets of pants and shirts and underwear, and you grab a 10 pack of socks and ask if she thinks they’ll fit her. You need some clothes too, sunshine. Since it’s on someone else’s dime why don’t you treat yourself to something decent instead of those rags you usually get at Salvation Army? You tell Sarah to go to the change room and try everything on.

Except the underwear. And you’re gonna find some clothes for yourself and you’ll meet her right back at the change room. Won’t be ten minutes.

Of course you’re not gonna get while the getting’s good. You grab some jeans and a couple button up shirts instead of the cheap tshirts you normally wear. Yes, change your appearance. Good thinking, numbnuts. But you had a chance to take off while she was in the change room. Chicken shit.

You get startled when someone behind you says Excuse me. You turn around and see it’s a woman who works there at the clothing store.

Do you have a daughter? And like an imbecile you say No. …uh, yes. Umm …Sarah. The woman says Sarah came out of the change room looking for you. The woman takes you to where Sarah is.

She asks if you’re looking for anything in particular. You ask if they have electric razors.

In the toy store. You’ll ditch Sarah in the toy store. She’ll be distracted with everything in the toy store and you can make your get away. Here we are in the toy store. Just wait for your chance to skedaddle in the toy store. And sure enough it doesn’t happen. You held tight on to Sarah’s hand as she looked at all the pink frilly girly shit and you promised to buy all of it like a chump.

You come out of the store with all the shopping bags. You ask Sarah if she needs the biffy before you head to the car. What a quick learner. Of course she says she’s fine. And you ask Are you sure? Cuz you actually believe that you can muster up the cojones to bolt when she’s on the toilet. And she says she’s ok, but she’s hungry.

There’s hotdogs in the food court. Still waiting on that ice cream, jerkface. You tell her to eat quickly cuz you gotta find another hotel so you have somewhere to sleep tonight. Sarah asks why you can’t just go to the one you were at last night. You tell her it’s too far from the movie theatre, and you guys’re gonna see a movie tomorrow. You say …if you’re good.

None of the hotels look that cheap since you’re near the centre of the city. Splurge a little.

Being a child abductor is hard work. You deserve it. You see a monitor at the front desk when you check in. It films the parking lot. You were smart enough to park your shitbox car a few blocks away. In the room you run the water for Sarah to have a bath. You tell her to not pee in the tub cuz you want to take a bath afterwards. You leave the bathroom open a crack as she has a bath and you flip through channels on the tv.

And you stop channel surfing when you see Kay’s face. Might wanna put the tv on mute, genius. There’s her face. On tv. Crying.

Her face into her hands. Wiping tears away with a snot rag. Someone beside her, holding her. It’s the guy you saw in the parking lot at Giorgio’s.

She got in his car. It’s probably some new boyfriend. Is this good news? How did the plan not go through? Sarah comes out in a towel and you flick the channel.

You say Uh…I’m uh, looking for the cartoon channel for you. Uh. Ya. Here it is. You take the remote into the bathroom with you. The water in the tub smells like pee. You use the electric 22

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razor you just bought to shave your head and face. Then you have a long hot shower so you can try to think of what the fuck you’re going to do next. It’s a big wad of cash you have in that envelope but it won’t last forever.

Hello dumb-dumb. More thumping like before. It’s the chambermaid. The clock on the night stand says it’s just past noon. You tell the chambermaid you guys are just about to leave.

The chambermaid goes to start cleaning the bathroom. You stuff the envelope in your jacket.

You grab Sarah who is still asleep, along with the shopping bags from yesterday and shut the room’s door as you leave. You could have just left by yourself. The chambermaid didn’t get a good look at you. You weren’t thinking. It’s too early to think.

Two days before all this you were at work, in the middle of your shift at Burger Baron. You heard What the fuck are you doing here?! And saw a face you haven’t seen in not long enough. It’s JC. He’s dressed better than you remember ever seeing him when you worked at Giorgio’s together. JC orders a Chicken Ranch burger to go and says What are you doing tonight, we should catch up. And you reply with Catch up on what?

That you just didn’t show up for your shift? That was like two years ago anyway. He tells you let’s just go for a drink when you’re off and it’s on him. You have nothing better to do anyway and maybe you can convince JC to buy you a few drinks.

He’s dressed like he has money now. For some reason.

JC is already at the bar. He was there waiting for you. A few empty glasses on the table already. He asks what the shit happened, why aren’t you at your dad’s restaurant and working at fucking Burger Baron? You ask if he remembers Kay and he says Of course, who could forget an ass like that? She still around? She was the

hottest waitress at your dad’s. You tell him, Uh.. ya.

Still around. Uh…well, we dated for a bit and… JC coughs on his tequila sunrise and says How’d a ugly motherfucker like you get down her pants? And you listen to JC tell you on his first day at Giorgio’s when Kay introduced herself to him, she shook his hand, then JC went to the staff washroom and jerked off. And you pretend he didn’t hear any of that. You go on to say that you lived together for almost a year and Kay was picking your ass for a week straight about paying late bills and that you drink too much and you come home late and don’t do anything around the apartment and blah blah blah. And you told Kay to shut the fuck up already and pulled your fist back like you were gonna crank her one. You watch JC’s eyes bug out and you say you never hit her or anything. You were just sick of hearing it. Kay told you to get out and you slept in your jalopy that night.

At work the next day the police were waiting for you. Kay had put a restraining order on your stupid ass. So now you can’t work at the restaurant that your dad owns. You been working at Burger Baron for some months now cuz everyone heard about what happened and that’s the only place that’ll hire you. But you’re saving some money while you live at your dad’s house. You’re gonna move to the city and take a culinary course, get your red seal. Maybe a year.

Maybe two.

JC said to you Shit, man. You’re dad back to work after that kid put a knife in his ass? I left just after that happened. I heard that kid ended up in the hospital. Your dad lay him out?? You tell JC you aren’t sure what happened to that kid that stabbed your dad. Never saw him again.

More tequila sunrises. You and JC drink a few more tequila sunrises. You drink tequila almost until the sun rises. You slur to JC that 23

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the father of Kay’s kid beat the shit out of you the day after you got slapped with a restraining order. You just left him do it. You didn’t fight back. You tell JC you’d pay good money for someone to pound the shit out of Kay. You didn’t hit her. All you did was yell. You treated Sarah like she was your own kid. Kay fucked your life. Someone should fuck hers. More tequila sunrises.

JC looks around and asks you How bad you want it done. You get quiet for a moment.

You say Uh…well. I uh… you know I work at Burger Baron. Even I was serious I couldn’t afford anything like that. The bars speakers play the song Tequila. You and JC put back a few more. You ask JC You even know anyone who’d do that, champ?

JC puts down his drink and looks at you. You talking about missing a few days of work, some broken bones, you want the whole shebang, what? You look at him and know he’s talking serious. No shit.

You dunno what to say to him. JC tells you that after he left Giorgio’s he went to the city. His life changed. He’s making more money now than he ever imagined. He tells you he came back just to lend his mother a few dollars and see how the old hag was keeping up. He asks about your sister and you tell him that Lucy went to Thailand after moving in with one of her friends. Not sure when she’s coming back. You ask what kinda job JC has now. He just says that he’s making some decent cheddar now. Doesn’t say what. He writes down a number on the back of a drink coaster and says Let me know what’s up.

I can loan you the funds to get whatever you decide, plus something for you to get out of here and get your life back in order. I won’t be there when everything happens, so …I can’t promise nothing will happen to her kid if they’re around. It’s just business.

You have little bits of memories of you stumbling home and in the living room you kinda sorta remember dialing up JC and and

saying The whole package. Then passing out with your clothes still on. Stupid lush.

Here you are at the movie theatre. Sarah picks My Little Pony. And you sit in the dark next to her. You watch parents with kids come into the theatre. All the fathers ask Where do you wanna sit, hunny? And the wives always say I dunno, where ever. And their kids end up choosing where everyone sits since neither parent can make up their mind. The movie is about to start and you ask Sarah if she wants popcorn or something to drink. Of course she wants both. You can use this to escape. Go for it. Vamoose! And you don’t. You end up getting an extra large popcorn and coming back to sit beside her and watch My Little Pony. What a great choice. You sit there in the dark while other little brats and their parents talk through the movie and you try to think of some grand scheme to get yourself out of this mess. You got nothing. Dingus.

What the fuck are you doing in the parking lot? You’re by yourself. How’d you get here? You worked up the nerve to actually ditch Sarah? Damn. You told her half way through My Little Pony you were just going to the bathroom.

And here you are now in the parking lot. So, you getting in the car or what?

You drive around the city in circles. You bastard. You shanghaied a little kid and then abandoned her. Didn’t even get that ice cream.

For two days you sleep in the backseat of that hunk of junk you drive in. Parking in residential neighbourhoods. Drive to gas stations and eating out of vending machines. How long you gonna keep this up? You can’t think of anything to do, but you have more than enough money to do it in that envelope.

At a gas station you see a payphone. What a rare artifact. You call your dad up collect. You 24

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dad asks where you are and says that people are looking for you and asks where Sarah is. You tell your dad you got a scholarship for culinary school and said fuck Burger Baron and just hopped in your car and left. Sorry for not saying bye. You ask your dad how he’s been. He says he’s fine. He asks if you remember that little shit Juan Carlos. That lippy shit head that used to wash dishes and was a no-show. Your dad says cops caught him in a house with a bunch of hookers a couple nights ago. That kid that stabbed me in the ass was running a brothel. Can you believe it? I guess he’s going away from awhile. You hang up the phone. You’re a dick, ya know. Just hanging up on your old man like that.

You think it’s a good idea to get a bottle of something and calm your nerves down. You drive past a post office, and stop on a red beside a bank. On the red light you shake your head when someone offers to squeegee your windshield. You park and walk to the liquor store. On the glass door there’s a sticker: We ID Under 30.

Back in the car. You didn’t buy anything.

You didn’t even open the door to go into the liquor store. What’s wrong with you? Dumbass.

No, you’re right. Stay sober, keep your head clear. You drive toward the street you just passed and drive around the block until you see the one who offered to wash your windshield. You honk and tell him to get in. Of course he just stands there and looks confused. You tell him you’ll buy him something to eat. He hesitates but gets in the backseat. You ask what his name is as you drive around, but he asks you What’s up with the bag of girls toys and clothes? You ask if he has I.D. on him. He says You ain’t no cop, what the fuck.

You park your shitbox car. You take a wad a bills out of the envelope. This can be yours if you sell me

your I.D., but you gotta do a few other things for me too. He tells you I ain’t doing nothing queer.

You point to the post office and tell him to open up a P.O. Box. Then come back and give me the key. You sit twenty minutes with the engine running. He flashes the key as he walks back to the car. And you hand him a few of those bills. You say Now, go to that bank. Open whatever account they’ll let you open. Use that P.O. box as your address. You shut the car off this time.

It took him forever to return to the car. He hands you all the bank pamphlets and says This is the temporary card. They said the real card will be mailed in a week or so. You hand him the rest of the bills. You ask him for all the I.D. he has on him. You say A week or more, huh? You hand him the car keys and say This is yours too. Thanks.

The I.D. card says Sean O’Grady. You do not look like a Sean O’Grady. Where are you going? You have nowhere to go. You have anywhere to go. Dingus. w

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Catch and Release Zackary Hill My feet met the water at the corner of April second and six in the morning, an intersection my sunburnt shoulders wedged between, waiting for the rooster tail to splash; wet lines led back in time, reeled in memories of his effortless cast: flicked ash floating, we walked against the current, he sent smoke signals talking to the wind, I listened with eyes swimming for the shore.

Fingers numb in the mouth of a Rainbow Trout, needlenose pliers out in the morning, an introduction my breath held as he found the swallowed hook and – exhaled.

A cloud born in the water marked his final cast, I asked my father when would he let go, he shook his head and sighed, but never said.

He rolled another cigarette instead.

Head down considering the knot, the last of his line, he said goodbye to the morning.

I watched as all the fish disappeared.

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Untitled Billy Simms

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Local Quidnuncs

her nickname from Beth to Elsie so she could sound younger, too.

“Boy that was some storm that came through here last night,” offered Elsie.

“It sure was. It wreaked havoc on my dahlias,” lamented Trudy. What’s a person to do?”

“Come on over and join me for a cup of coffee,” suggested Elsie.

Trudy took off her gardening gloves and ambled around the fence dividing their properties. She stepped onto Elsie’s back porch and plopped herself into a deck chair.

“The storm put me in a mind of some of the bad things that have happened up on Wilshire’s farm.”

“How many years has it been since that poor old man died when the tree fell on him?”

Elsie placed some cups of coffee on the table between them before sitting down.

“Oh my, must be going on four years now. Seems like something good or something bad happens by that pond every summer.

Uhmm, this smells good.” Trudy took a long sniff before taking a sip.

“Remember the year that little Peter Knightly found all those four leaf clovers in a cluster by the pond?”

“Yes and the crowds of townspeople that went out there hoping to find their own good luck charms? They sure made Clarence Wilshire mad with all the trampling over his property.”

“It’s a shame,” said Elsie “it ended up that Peter had just glued an extra leaf on each clover.”

“Pretty clever when you think about it,” added Trudy. “I just wish we had found out about the glue before we told everybody at the post office.”

David and Marie Savord

Sometimes, – not very often, just occasionally, Elsie felt like silently slipping away from the place she lived.

A place where everyone knew each other.

A place where you picked up your mail at the market.

And a place where every summer something happened by the pond near the big, red barn at the back of old man Wilshire’s property. Sometimes it was good and sometimes it wasn’t. This summer it just happened to be something that wasn’t.

“Yoo hoo, Trudy, are you there?” shouted Elsie.

Elisabeth Garlock and Gertrude Truman had known each other since childhood. Their friendship cemented in second grade after making up the outrageous rumor that a mad dog had invaded the playground. This threw the entire school into a state of panic. The girls prided themselves in their powers of persuasion until their parents soundly reinforced the notion that spreading false information was wrong. No amount of describing a canine possibly foaming at the mouth could convince the elders that the girls believed the rumor they spread.

“Over here by the lilacs,” responded Trudy.

Gertrude had married her childhood sweetheart Bertrand Truman and by coincidence ended up moving next door to her best friend, Elisabeth. After a few weeks of answering to ‘Gert and Bert’ or ‘Bert and Gert’ she changed her childhood nickname from Gert to Trudy.

Finding it amazing how the new moniker made her friend sound youthful, Elisabeth changed 28

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“Uh hum, it’s not the first time we’ve gotten egg on our face.” Elsie giggled.

Trudy pulled her gray hair into a tighter bun and took another slurp of coffee. “I guess that’s why he put the fence up.”

“But that didn’t stop my nephew, Mikey, proposing to the prettiest girl in town the next summer right on the edge of Elephant Pond.”

“That’s one of the good things that happened. He and Charlotte have a lovely marriage.” Trudy tugged at her bun again.

The women sat quietly until the silence was broken by Elsie’s mantel clock chiming ten.

“Well, would you like to walk to Eriksson’s with me to get the mail?”

“Sure, it is such a lovely day for a stroll.”

The post office was known in the community as Eriksson’s due to the sign that hung over the brick façade of the largest building on the town square.

Eriksson’s hardware was on the left and Eriksson’s market on the right. The entrances may as well have been labeled ‘Men’ and ‘Women’ for the traffic that entered and exited each portal.

Earl Eriksson managed the hardware store/post office and his wife, Maribelle oversaw the market/post office. The actual post office was a shared room in the back. However, the two stores were separated by a masonry wall with a wide arch between them. This opening allowed either side to hear what was happening on the other. In a town this size, it became the source of news and hearsay. Unfortunately, the hearsay bouncing back and forth was not always reliable.

Although the walk to Eriksson’s was only a few blocks it was evident the storm had created considerable damage.

“My, oh my, I hope this isn’t an omen for a bad summer.” Elsie gingerly stepped around a fallen branch on the sidewalk.

“Have you noticed that Leonard Wilshire is never around with his wife anymore?” wondered Trudy.

“That is strange. Do you suppose they’ve divorced?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me the way those two go at each other.”

“The next thing you know you’ll be reading about her murder in the paper.”

“And you know it’ll happen by Elephant Pond.”

The women smiled knowingly as they entered Eriksson’s, on the right side, of course.

On the left side, Rodney Erhardt was on a rant with Earl Eriksson.

“I don’t understand how they can come and take a fellow’s business and then just leave town.”

Earl discreetly stroked his mustache and replied, “Well now, it’s not the first time we’ve had this happen and it won’t be the last. You can’t blame two fellas down on their luck looking for odd jobs.”

“It ain’t right,” muttered Rodney. “I’ve been painting this town near thirty years now.

It’s hard to believe these fly-by-nights show up, take all the work, and then skedaddle.”

“You have to admit they did a nice job on Mrs. O’Rourk’s house.”

“What I don’t understand is why’d you go and sell them the paint? You and me’ve been doing business a long time.”

“It’s okay, they’re gone now. Probably moved on to the next town.”

“Good riddance if you’re asking me.”

Rodney kicked the toe of his boot against a barrel of bolts. “Those two guys were murder on my business.”

The bell tinkling above the door interrupted their conversation.

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“Morning fellas,” Bert’s cheery voice boomed as he entered the store.

“Mornin’ Bert,” responded Earl. “How was your trip to the big city?”

“Not bad, it was alright. Glad to be back, though. Got any mail for me and the missus?”

“I’ll go and check. Be right back.” Earl tapped the counter.

“Quite a storm we had here while you were gone.” Rodney directed Bert’s attention to the debris in the town square.

“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t get back last night. High wind warnings and all.”

Earl returned with a shrug. “Looks like Trudy beat you to it, nothing in the box.”

“Okay, see you then.” Bert headed for the door then swung around. “Hey, almost forgot, have either of you been by Wilshire’s? What’s with the pond?”

“What do you mean?” queried Rodney.

“Elephant Pond?” added Earl.

“Yeah. Looking down from the highway I could swear the pond was blood red.”

“Seriously? You sure it wasn’t a reflection of some sort?” Earl reasoned.

“Naw, it looked red coming down the highway and around the curve.”

“Beats me,” shrugged Rodney.

“Me too,” agreed Earl.

“Just thought I’d mention it. Later guys.”

“See ya around.”

In the meantime, on the market side Trudy was sorting through her mail when Elsie whispered, “Listen!”

Through the arch in the brick wall the words murder and business trickled to the women’s ears. Unfortunately, Maribelle’s prattle drowned out the rest of the men’s conversation.

“Did you hear that?” continued Elsie with alarm. “Somebody’s in the murder business.”

“You don’t say?” responded Trudy.

They directed their attention to the conversation with particular focus on the words pond and blood.

“You don’t suppose,” stammered Trudy, “murder, business, pond, blood.”

“His wife?” they said simultaneously.

“Oh dear, looks like this is going to be a bad pond summer,” added Elsie.

The two friends wandered back to their houses determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of the red pond.

“After lunch we should walk to Wilshire’s place and take a look at the pond ourselves,” Elsie suggested.

Trudy picked up on the thread. “How are we going to get close enough with that fence?”

“Remember the path we used to take through the woods when we were kids? That should get us close enough.”

“My, I haven’t been down that path in ages. We’d better wear something rugged.”

“That we don’t mind getting dirty.” Elsie scrutinized her print cotton skirt.

The ladies retired to their individual houses for lunch but agreed to rendezvous at one o’clock.

At the appointed time, the two female sleuths, overly dressed, tramped the three quarter miles to the woods behind the Wilshire property.

Once in the woods, Trudy spoke up.

“Bert and I discussed Elephant Pond and he said all he knows is that it’s red. I asked him if he’d heard about any murders. He said ‘no, why do you ask?’ and I told him Mrs. Wilshire has gone missing.”

“I wonder if anyone else has heard anything?” Elsie pushed stray branches to the side.

“We’ll have to go back to the market and check when we’re done here,” offered Trudy.

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“I sure don’t remember it being quite this far,” wheezed Elsie.

“Well it’s been a few years. Maybe the path got longer somehow.” Trudy wiped the sweat from her face.

The two ladies approached the fence, which had partially collapsed, thus allowing them to step over the rails, and approach the pond.

“Would you look at that,” exclaimed Elsie.

Elephant Pond lay before them, a deep blood red, just as Bert had described it.

“Now what do we do?” queried Trudy.

“It’s obvious,” Elsie surmised. “There’s been a murder and we need to find out who would do such a ghastly thing.”

“It’s on the Wilshire farm so it’s more than likely that Mrs. Wilshire is the victim and her husband must be the one responsible for her demise,” posited Trudy.

On the way back, deeply satisfied with their progress, the two women went over the evidence they had accumulated. Blood in the pond, a missing woman, a motivated husband, an unknown person in the business of murder, and of course something happening by the pond every year, not always good.

“Why do you suppose everyone calls it Elephant Pond?” Trudy raised an eyebrow.

“I haven’t a clue but that’s what my parents called it.” Elsie distractedly swatted a fly.

“Do you suppose the word ‘elephant’ plays a part in the yearly occurrences at the pond?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should look into it,” suggested Elsie.

On the way home, they passed Eriksson’s and ducked into the coolness of the market.

Again, they overheard a conversation from the hardware side of the building.

“Bert tells me there was a murder here this past week,” Earl informed Rodney.

“Who?” inquired Rodney skeptically.

“Maybe Mrs. Wilshire.”

“I hadn’t heard that but I’ll bet it was those two guys who painted Mrs. O’Rourk’s house. They sure got out of town fast enough.”

“Why would they do that?” asked Earl.

“Probably a murder for hire, I would guess,” responded Rodney.

Back on the market side of the building, the two friends gathered snatches of the conversation interrupted by Maribelle’s musical chatter with other customers. To their ears the conversation went something like this “Murder here. . . Two guys. . . Murder for hire. . .”

“We were right,” exclaimed Elsie. “There was a murder.”

The two women excitedly addressed Maribelle. “Did you hear about the murder?”

“No, what murder?”

“Here in town. Mr. Wilshire’s wife.”

“At the pond.”

“Elephant Pond. It’s blood red now.”

“We saw it for ourselves.”

“The actual murder?” Maribelle looked incredulous.

“No, the pond.”

“The blood.”

“Who did it?” Maribelle’s curiosity peaked.

“We heard that her husband hired two guys.”

“Hit men.”

“Why would he do that?” Maribelle looked concerned.

“Why, to get rid of her, of course.”

“But isn’t that a little extreme?” Maribelle began nervously wiping the counter.

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“I suppose when you hire hit men they decide how they will dispose of the body.”

“Do you know who the hit men are?”

“Us? No, but Rodney apparently does.”

“Seems like every few years something terrible happens at that pond,” said Maribelle.

“By the way, do you know why it’s called Elephant Pond?” asked Trudy.

“No,” Maribelle replied. “That’s all I’ve ever heard it called.”

“I guess that’s something we’ll have to find out,” said Elsie. “It may have something to do with the yearly events that occur there.”

“Let’s go to the library and see if we can scrounge up any information on Elephant Pond,” suggested Trudy.

Elsie and Trudy went down the block and stepped into the two-room library. The librarian greeted them with a friendly “hello”.

“How can I help you two this afternoon?” she asked cheerfully.

“Is there a way to find out any information about Elephant Pond?”

“You mean the pond on the Wilshire farm?”

“That’s the one. How did it get its name?” asked Trudy.

“Why don’t we start with some back issues of the Weekly Gazette on microfilm? Let’s see, the pond must have been put in by one of the Wilshire’s. If I’m correct, the deeds would give us an idea when the Wilshire’s purchased the property. We can find that out by accessing the auditor’s website.”

The ladies moved over to the library’s only computer where the librarian did a quick search of property transactions and discovered that the Wilshire family had purchased the parcel in 1910.

“Now I suppose we should start with the Weekly Gazette from that point and work our

way forward. I’ll set up the microfilm reader and let you ladies scroll through the decades.”

Elsie and Trudy thanked the librarian for her assistance and got busy scanning headlines in the Weekly Gazette. After about an hour and a half with many digressions Trudy exclaimed,“Would you look at this. I didn’t know there was a circus on that farm in 1924.”

“Let me see,” said Elsie.

They leaned in and eagerly took turns reading out loud.

Circus coming to town! The Boswell Brothers Circus will be setting up on the Wilshire farm August 5th for an afternoon and evening performance featuring their menagerie including Lucy, the world famous performing elephant. Such excitement we’ve not seen in many a year as most folks here have never seen a real elephant, let alone one that performs. We are told that children will have an opportunity to feed Lucy peanuts and the real brave of heart can ride her before the afternoon performance.

“Imagine that, a circus here in our town.”

“And with an elephant.”

“Scroll down to the first week in August and see if they have a story about the circus.”

The Weekly Gazette did indeed have a story about the circus which proved to be even more interesting.

Community disappointed when circus fails to produce Lucy the world famous performing elephant.

Apparently, the show went on without the elephant attraction and a great show it was.

“Hmm, so the elephant disappeared.”

“Do you suppose it died?”

“And was buried on the farm?”

“And that’s why there’s a depression in back of the barn?”

“That settled and created a pond?”

“Elephant Pond!” they exclaimed in unison.

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Their excitement built at the myriad possibilities that may have led to the existence of the pond and its mysterious events.

“And its restless spirit has stayed with the pond till this day!”

“But why restless?”

“Because it had an unhappy ending?”

Trudy mused.

“Because it was. . .murdered? After all, it was on the Wilshire property.”

“And we’re pretty sure the Wilshire’s are violent people.”

“Well then that settles that,” stated Elsie.

They took the microfilm back to the librarian.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Oh yes. Apparently, an elephant was murdered and was buried behind the barn,” volunteered Elsie.

“The grave sunk due to the weight of the elephant which created the pond,” added Trudy.

“Well I guess you learn something every day,” quipped the librarian.

After the two friends left, the librarian headed to Eriksson’s to post the library’s outgoing mail.

“Hi, Maribelle. It’s just me and my daily drop-off.”

“So what’s the latest with you?” asked Maribelle.

“You’ll never guess what I learned today.”

“What’s that?”

“Apparently, back in the twenties, there was an elephant murdered and buried behind the barn at the Wilshire place. Then the ground caved and created the pond. Did you know that’s why it’s called Elephant Pond?”

“No! But I did hear there was a murder up there just this past week,” added Maribelle.

“You don’t say.”

“The pond is completely red with Mrs. Wilshire’s blood.

You did hear she disappeared?”

“How did I miss all of this?”

“You must have had your head in a book.

Anyway, my husband said they think it’s the two guys who came through town posing as painters.

I guess they were hired by Mr. Wilshire to knock off his wife,” said Maribelle.

“How dreadful. That only happens in stories!”

“There’s no mail for you today but come by tomorrow because the library’s copy of the Weekly Gazette should be here. Maybe they’ll have the story.”

“I can’t wait.”

As the librarian left the market, Bert passed her, tipped his cap, then turned and entered the hardware store.

“Afternoon, Bert” said Earl.

“Afternoon. Those new filters come in yet?”

“No, not yet. But I’ll bet you’ll never guess what I just heard?” Earl stroked his mustache.

“What’s that?” asked Bert curiously.

“There was an elephant murdered on Wilshire’s property back in the twenties. They buried it by the barn where the pond is now.

That’s why it’s called Elephant Pond. Crazy, huh?”

“Wow, that makes two murders in this town at the same location.” Bert scratched his head.

“Pretty serious business, if you ask me.”

“That’s for sure.”

“I’ll let you know when the filters come in,” Earl assured Bert.

“Okay, thanks.”

That night Bert and Trudy discussed the day’s events over supper.

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“By the way, did you know how Elephant Pond got its name?” asked Bert.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” responded Trudy.

“There was an elephant brutally murdered and buried at that very location back in the twenties.”

“I understand they might know the identity of who killed Wilshire’s wife,” added Bert.

“When they find those two strangers that were in town, I think they’ll have their suspects,” said Trudy.

Meanwhile, Elsie had very little appetite such was her excitement. She needed to go for a walk and sort through the events of the day. As twilight settled over the town, Elsie wandered toward the woods. Thinking she’d like one more look at the bloody pond, Elsie snuck through the underbrush tripping over roots in the semi dark. Stumbling up to the broken fence she stopped, frozen in her tracks.

There, standing next to the pond, was a woman staring into the bloody water. This in and of itself was a shock but even more shocking was the fact that the woman was the spitting image of Wilshire’s wife. Elsie turned and ran frantically, retracing her steps, searching out a well lit street, terror in her heart.

Instead of returning home, Elsie hurried to Trudy’s house and banged on the door.

“What’s the matter, Elsie?”

“I just saw a ghost,” squeaked Elsie.

“Are you sure?” Trudy nervously wrung her hands.

“I couldn’t relax so I took a walk to the pond. And there she was. Standing there. The ghost of Wilshire’s wife,” Elsie stammered.

“Are you sure, Elsie?” persisted Trudy.

“As plain as day. You know they come out at night,” Elsie added.

“Come on in and I’ll fix us some tea. You can tell me all about it.” Trudy pushed the door and stepped aside.

The two friends went to the kitchen and joined Bert.

“Some messy business up at the Wilshire place,” Bert offered.

“Elsie’s seen the ghost of Mrs. Wilshire.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts. I think it’s your imagination,” scoffed Bert.

“Well, you can believe what you like but that dead woman was standing there looking at her own blood in that pond sure as I’m sitting here,” Elsie declared indignantly.

“Now, now,” soothed Trudy, “let’s not get excited. A nice cup of tea and a good night’s sleep and we’ll all be clear-headed tomorrow.”

They drank their tea and as Trudy walked Elsie to the door she whispered, “I wish I had been there with you.”

“So do I,” agreed Elsie.

The next morning, after Bert left for work, Trudy dashed over to Elsie’s house. “Did you sleep at all?” she asked breathlessly.

“Not really and I probably won’t until they catch those two guys. How about you?”

“The same. Let’s head to Eriksson’s and see if there’s any more news.”

Trudy and Elsie entered the market under the pretense of grocery shopping. They were surprised to see a crowd had already arrived.

The talk was of nothing but the murder. As they approached the counter Maribelle looked up.

“Oh, Trudy, just who I’m looking for.

Earl told me if I saw you to let you know that Bert’s filters came in this morning. So I’m telling you.”

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“Thanks, Maribelle. I’ll just pop on over and pick them up. Come on, Elsie, let’s see what they’re saying on the other side,” Trudy whispered to Elsie.

The two women crossed through the archway into the hardware store. As they headed toward the counter they were brought up short. Standing there, talking to Earl, was Mr. Wilshire.

Elsie lowered her voice. “See Trudy, he’s without his wife.”

“Maybe you should ask him where she is and see how he reacts,” Trudy suggested.

“I think I will,” responded Elsie with some trepidation.

Elsie set her jaw and approached Mr. Wilshire.

“So how is your wife, Mr. Wilshire?” Elsie asked obsequiously.

Mr. Wilshire turned to Elsie with a puzzled expression. “I’m not married.”

“Well, then who is Mrs. Wilshire?” persisted Elsie.

“Oh that’s my twin brother’s wife,” he laughed. “People confuse us all the time.

Actually, those two love birds are up at the place right now. That’s where you’ll find the bitch if you need to see her.”

Elsie gasped.

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

“Oh, she’s not really a bitch, we just don’t get along. She’s interfering with the disposal of our Uncle Clarence’s property. It gets a little testy between us sometimes. But for the most part I guess she’s okay.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” said Elsie.

“What about Elephant Pond?” interrupted Trudy, not willing to let go of the murder story. It was bloody red after all.

“Oh that watering hole? My granddad made that decades ago. A circus was coming to

town and they needed assurance that the elephant would have enough water. Grandpa dug a ditch and let the spring fill it.

The interesting part is the elephant never showed because the circus train broke down.

The horses and wagons made the trip to town but it was a bit too far for the elephant. So grandpa was stuck with a muddy mess that he sarcastically referred to as Elephant Pond.”

Elsie and Trudy looked at each other not quite sure what to make of this new information. Meanwhile, Mr. Wilshire turned back to Earl.

“Anyway, I need you to find Rodney for me. Those two jokers I hired to paint the barn did it just before that horrific thunderstorm and all the red paint washed off into the pond.”

The two friends looked at each other sheepishly.

“We’d better get out of here quickly.”

“And quietly.”w

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Untitled Stephanie Marvin

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Contributors: Elizabeth Bruce’s debut novel, “And Silent Left the Place,” won Washington Writers’ Publishing House’s Award, ForeWord Magazine’s Bronze Fiction Prize, and was a Texas Institute of Letters’ Best Work of First Fiction Finalist. Prose published in the USA, Scotland, Australia, and New Zealand includes FireWords Quarterly, Pure Slush,takah magazine (upcoming), Spadina Literary Review (upcoming), Inklette, Lines & Stars, ‘Merica Magazine, The Olive Press, The Remembered Arts, Eos: The Creative Context, Human Noise Journal, Degenerate Literature, BareBack Magazine, Washington Post. Anthologies: “Gargoyle 64,” “Gravity Dancers,” Weasel Press’ “How Well You Walk through Madness,” and “Vine Leaves Literary Journal: A Collection of Vignettes from Across the Globe,” “Blue Hour Anthology” (upcoming). Educational Book: CentroNia’s “Theatrical Journey Playbook: Introducing Science to Early Learners through Guided Pretend Play” by Elizabeth Bruce.

Zackary D. Hill holds an MA in English with a focus in poetry from Miami University where he is primarily an academic advisor for the Western Program. He also occasionally teaches screenwriting. Zackary lives in Hamilton, Ohio with his wife and a small herd of rescued shelter and stray pets.

R. Keith is a persona that works with visuals, texts, poetics, fiction, and exophonic writing. He is the author of five collections of poetry, and six chapbooks. His collection of Visual poetry, Chicken Scratch, was published in 2017 (eyeameye books) His visual works have been presented in galleries in Canada, Malta and Russia. Forthcoming is his 1st novella in 2018.

Steve Klepetar has recently relocated to the Berkshires in Massachusetts after 36 years in Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps).

Keith Manos has published ten books to date, including his debut novel, My Last Year of Life (in School), which was published by Black Rose Writing in October 2015. Other books include Writing Smarter (1998, Prentice Hall) and 101 Ways to Motivate Athletes (2006, Coaches Choice). His fiction has appeared in national print and on-line magazines like The Mill, Visions, Hicall, Lutheran Journal, and Wesleyan Advocate. Manos was recognized as one of Ohio’s top writing teachers

by Ohio Teachers Write magazine.

Stephanie Marvin lives in Ohio with her husband and son, with another son due in late summer 2018. She is a semi-professional photographer who lists her biggest photography influences growing up as Life Magazine and National Geographic. She works primarily in photojournalistic and creative portraiture photography, and hopes one day to have her own studio.

Brianne Riffle has been interested in photography for as long as she can remember. Her specific focus is on the natural world and capturing the beauty of the moment. She lives in Harrison, OH with her husband and two children, where every day is filled with many such beautiful moments, just waiting to be captured.

Billy Simms is an artist and educator. He is delighted to be in the inaugural issue of Attic Door Press. He lives in Hamilton, OH with his wife and four cats.

David and Marie Savord reside in Northern Ohio on the shores of Lake Erie. Their first stories were pounded out on mechanical Remington typewriters.

Amy Thomas is a photographer and teacher. In her limited spare time, she enjoys running the roads of Cincinnati, Ohio and its surrounding communities. She lives with in southwestern Ohio with husband and two children.

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Attic Door Press Issue No. 2 Summer 2018

www.atticdoorpress.com

Cincinnati, Ohio

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