Black Fox Literary Magazine- Issue #4

Editors’ Note Issue number four is finally here! It would not have been possible without all of you. Black Fox is an everevolving publication. We are happy to report that we received nearly double the amount of submissions that we did for issue number three. You’ll notice that this issue is one of our thicker ones. It is such a privilege to have so much quality work come our way. Our writers and readers have kept us busy. And to that we say: “Keep the submissions coming!”

We are constantly looking for ways to improve Black Fox and help writers succeed. Since our last issue we have officially launched the Black Fox Blog and added two new members to our team. Helen Dring is responsible for the weekly posts on writing experiences and tips to help you become better writers while Claire Rudy Foster, our new reviewer, tells you what books you should be reading.

In this issue we bring you the best fiction, poetry, non-

fiction, and art we received this period. Thank you to our Cover artist, Daniel Dysson, who contributed artwork that was unlike any other piece we’ve put on the cover and to Natalie Henry for always making sure the elements of our cover come together.

To our readers and writers: keep doing what you’re doing. Keep writing, keep getting better, keep submitting and keep reading.

The Editors Racquel, Pam and Marquita

Meet the Editors

Racquel Henry is first and foremost a writer. In order to pay the bills, she is also a part time Administrative Assistant at a law firm in Tampa, FL., where she currently resides. Much to her own surprise, she actually enjoys the job that helps put food on the table. Racquel writes literary fiction in hopes of being published sometime in the near future. She also enjoys reading a variety of genres, and is currently obsessed with flash fiction. Some of her favorite authors include, Lorrie Moore, Joyce Carol Oates, John Updike, Sophie Kinsella, and Toni Morrison. She recently completed coursework for her MFA from Fairleigh Dickinson University. At the moment, she is searching for a new school to call home, and to pursue a Ph.D. degree.

Her stories have appeared in The Scarlet Sound and BlinkInk. You can follow her writing journey on her very own blog titled, “Racquel Writes.� She is looking forward to the growth of Black Fox Literary Magazine.

Pam Harris lives in Chesapeake, VA and works as a middle school counselor. When she isn't wiping tears and helping kids study for tests, she's writing contemporary YA fiction. Some of her favorite authors are Ellen Hopkins, Courtney Summers, Jodi Picoult, and Stephen King. You can also find her at the movie theaters every weekend or pretending to enjoy exercising. She received her MFA in

creative writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2012, and plans to use this degree to help edit this magazine as well as possibly teach others the joys of make believe.

Marquita "Quita" Hockaday also lives in Chesapeake, Virginia. She is a high school history teacher who has never been able to shake her love of writing and reading.

There is always, always a book near her. Marquita is currently enjoying writing young adult (historical and contemporary). Some of her favorite authors are Laurie Halse Anderson, Blake Nelson, Cormac McCarthy and Joyce Carol Oates. Marquita also graduated with an MFA in creative writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2012, and she can't wait to use that knowledge to teach writing and co-edit this magazine.

Contents: Fiction Home for Boys by Scott William Woods………………..07 Happily by Diane Gillette……………………………….12 Cheap Beer by Sarah Goncalves………………………..15 A Midnight Swim by Carol Hornak……………………..54 Kill Me with Chocolate by Frank Scozzari……………..64 Scary Monster by Sean Walsh………………………….103 We, The Survivors by Jason Lea………………………..120 Inertia by Alejandra Taylor…………………………….131

Poetry Survivor’s Guilt by Sagirah Shahid…………………….09 Europa’s Lament by Sanchari Sur……………………...10 Unhappy Hour by Mary Lee……………………………14 The Grandmother by Grace Woodard………………….28 Selected Poems by Jennifer Lenhardt………………….49 Selected Poems by Trina Gaynon……………………...60

Selected Poems by Devon Sova………………………..94 Selected Poems by Ray Succre………………………..116

Non-Fiction The Accident by Michael McConnell………………….29

Photography Dirty Laundry by Sanchari Sur…………………………130

Author Interview A Conversation with Jaime Reed, author of Living Violet…………………………………146

Home for Boys

by Scott William Woods

"What've you got there, Lucifer?"

Lucian Spesser whirled around and whipped his hand behind his back. "I don't know what you're talking about. And don't call me that, or I'll tell Miss Alice." He raised his voice, but he didn't expect the other wards of the Nashua Home for Boys to rush into the lavatory. They were too afraid of Billy.

Lucian was small for twelve, and Billy pinned him to the floor easily. The tiles were damp and smelled of ammonia.

"I said give it to me. Give it to me now!"

Billy's knees were crushing his arm muscles, and Billy's free hands pried back one of his fingers until it hurt too much. The green pellets spilled out.

"What are these? Are they‌food?"

"They're mine! Give 'em back!"

Billy's fist squashed down on Lucian's nose. "You haven't forgotten Mr. Chuckles, have you?"

"OK, OK! Don't hit me! They're—they're snacks."

"Where'd you get them?"

"From the kitchen, when Miss Carol wasn't looking."

Billy popped a pellet into his mouth, chewed, and then crammed the rest in. "You'd better get me some more of these, Lucifer, if you don't want me to tell Miss Alice you've been stealing."

That night Lucian lay awake, smiling as he replayed what the book at the library said would happen. If Billy continued to eat the rat poison, in a few days his blood wouldn't be able to clot. Blood would start oozing everywhere. From his gums, into his urine, and at lots of tiny spots inside his body. The blood loss would make Billy very weak and very thirsty. Lucian smiled even wider at the thought of Billy gone all weak and thirsty, and helpless.

He felt safe for the first time since they took his brother away.

Survivor’s Guilt

by Sagirah Shahid A can of sliced skinless mandarins dragged in the thought of young persimmon flowers, after the fruit had been plucked.

It was there, in the preserved fruits aisle that the memory ferried in through my whole being, as if it were an intestine roping around; swallowing, from the ceiling.

Europa’s Lament

by Sanchari Sur (Based on the myth of Europa’s rape by Jupiter, in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.)

Promises, you didn’t make, and didn’t take the time to lure me into your warm embrace.

You didn’t wait for my consent.

An arbitrary night bolt, you crept; a silent bandit, sneaking past the deceased city.

You came in through my vulnerable windows, stifled my agitated heart, and carried me off to your Lanka.

Like Leda’s beauty, my stolen visage was no match; You were not a gentleman like Raavana.

But your love, a hurricane to douse my jejune assumptions, a tempest of delirium to silence my naïve compunctions, a feral thunderstorm to disrupt my ennui.

Your love, my Jupiter, kept my restlessness at bay.

Ovid will never know.

Happily

by Diane D. Gillette He covered a yogurt cup in aluminum foil and offered it as a crown for his queen. Her throne was the old park bench he’d refinished last fall and placed on the balcony overlooking their backyard. An oversized novelty pen one of the kids had won at the state fair was her scepter.

Popcorn served as their weapon, flung downward over the railing at the enemy threatening to storm their castle below.

The children shrieked their delight, no longer bored as they retreated to plan their retaliation. The enemy defeated, he and his queen shrunk down on the on the balcony floor, lit with laughter and love.

It started with a failed pregnancy test, a proposal stretched out on a blanket in the bed of that old pickup that had more years than the two of them combined. An owl screeched in the distance and some might have taken that as a bad omen. But she closed her eyes and felt it flying above them, felt herself soaring behind it into the grand adventure

that would be her life. Everyone bet against them, but she was blinded by that dinky little diamond nestled on its gold band and all that it stood for. He promised she’d be his queen as long as the earth turned and apologized that he didn’t buy her any flowers. A queen deserved flowers. She insisted she deserved only him as her king.

Unhappy Hour

by Mary Lee I am at fault for breaking the cork into the red wine while throwing a passionate tantrum; for tearing the foil with my teeth, for spitting it into the sink like a commoner, for my reckless aim with an elementary corkscrew, for skewing it to an awful and painful angle, for taking both the Lord’s and Mondavi’s names in vain, for pounding and begging the damn thing to release, for causing the murder of my good white shirt, for swigging it all in one sitting without remorse.

Cheap Beer

by Sarah Goncalves Bud threw his apple core at me. Hard.

“Fuck, man. What?”

“There she is,” he hissed. “The one.”

At the front of the room stood a girl, half-smiling, whole-sure of herself. She had one hand in her pocket. The other hung loose at her side, gripping a purse made out of an old pair of jeans.

I yawned. “Go propose to her if you’re that sure.”

Bud began toying with the bottle-opener on his keychain, the one shaped like an open shark mouth. “Don’t want to jump the gun.”

Bud liked to finger Jaws whenever he was nervous.

At least it wasn’t the other one though, the one shaped like a light saber. At Sean Murphy’s twenty-first birthday, Bud had used the Force to open up nine Heinekens, then wound up on the floor with a black-eye for pissing in Mrs.

Murphy’s ficus. Thank God it wasn’t that one, the one usually preceding disaster; Bud might just stand a sober chance.

“Did you catch her name?” This was the first time I think I’ve ever heard Bud lament the fact that he couldn’t hear a teacher.

“Karina? I think that’s what Mr. Engles said.”

Bud tucked Jaws back in his pocket. “Karina. Ah, the name of an angel.”

I shrugged. “Reminds me of Corona, actually.

Congratulations. You’re both named after cheap beer.”

Karina walked to the empty seat in front of me, giving a nervous flip of the hair as she sat down. She smelled like a jar of flowers, probably her shampoo, a nice scent concentrated in one little area.

“Hey,” Bud whispered.

Karina looked over. “You talkin’ to me?”

Bud grinned, hearing his soul mate quote De Niro so inadvertently, so carelessly. She was dangerous.

“Name’s James.” Bud only saved his real name for family reunions, first-day-of-class rosters. This was serious.

The previous night Bud and I had gone to a carnival off Graham Street, the mobile kind where Ferris wheels are hauled off rickety trucks, then fashioned together with the nonchalance of a tinker toy. Also the kind where toothless carnies abound, promising sweat-shop-spawned Tweety Birds if you can just shoot the damn star off the paper.

Bud and I had wandered to a tent smelling like Marlboros and dollar store aisles. That stale smell. Palm Readings With Madame Celeste, the sign said. Inside we found a middle-aged woman in gypsy getup reading Danielle Steel. She took one look at Bud and said in a husky voice, “Romance is in your imminent future.” Then she asked if either of us had a light.

That was it.

Bud hailed from a very superstitious, very sheltered family, baptized within fifteen minutes of being born, forbidden to watch PG-13 movies until he was eighteen.

As a kid, his grandparents used to warn him.

Never cut your hair after a big meal.

Why? You’ll get very, very sick. And then the devil will get you.

Ok. And don’t pet animals when you’re pregnant.

But IDon’t let your wife pet animals when she’s pregnant.

Why? Your baby will be very, very hairy. And then the devil will get you.

Provincial bullshit, the stuff witch hunts were made out of. Bud’s a smart guy, but deep-down traces of his ancestors’ God-fearing ways will always remain.

And Bud was going to marry this girl; Madame Celeste had predicted it.

That night, I got a call.

“She said no.”

“Who did?”

“Karina.”

“To what?”

“To me.”

“Oh. Did she say why?”

“She said she doesn’t date guys who wear flannel.”

“Bad lumberjack experience?”

“Fuck you, man.”

When we were kids, Bud and I formed a secret club in my tree house. The only other member besides us was a girl, Tammy Gordon, who lived a couple of houses down.

Her family loved cats—and brand names, apparently, because that’s what they were usually named after. Osh Kosh. Sony. Granny Smith. Pepsi. On cold nights, the cats used to climb the big, crooked tree that faced Tammy’s kitchen and watch us as we ate the half-congealed pudding in our TV dinners. Fuzzy, mewing ornaments with neon eyes. Next to the gaudy roof Santa, they made for wonderful decorations on Christmas.

Our club had no name. Usually we just sat in the tree house with binoculars, the occasional comic book, our collection of Pez dispensers. Tammy used to bring her cats, a different one each day. Crayola. Nike. Liz Claiborne.

“Password?” Bud was still James at this point.

“Mangoes,” I said, climbing up.

I found James sitting by himself one day, knees pulled up to his chest.

“What’s wrong?”

James hesitated for a moment. “Tammy kissed me.”

I forced a laugh. This was the kind of thing fourthgrade boys talked about, bragged about. But still lied about.

“How was it?”

James shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do with my hands. She stuck her tongue in my mouth and I drooled on her sweater. Then she left.”

“Oh.” James pointed. In another corner of the tree house, the one furthest from him, a cat was sitting, silent, black.

James couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Tammy forgot him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bud,” he said.

Karina was already in her seat, reading the last few pages of Macbeth, hair smelling like a jar of honey this time. Bud approached, then said in a deep voice, “Karina, let’s you and me see a movie this weekend. That new zombie sequel’s out. I hear it’s killer, excuse my pun.” He was wearing a polo.

I couldn’t help myself. “Undead Armada III? I thought you hated those movies. Plus this one’s in 3D, man.”

Bud shrugged. “Third time’s a charm.”

Karina flipped her hair, though not out of nervousness this time. “I don’t date guys who spend twelve-fifty on terrible movies.”

“We can catch a matinee. Eight-fifty.”

Karina pulled off one of her clip-on earrings and snapped it between the pages of her book. “I don’t date guys who spend anything on terrible movies.”

“Ouch,” I said.

Whenever Bud had bad luck, he attributed it to some supernatural occurrence. If nothing supernatural happened (and I don’t think it ever did), he took an ordinary occurrence and embellished it until it was supernatural.

Three years ago, Bud had his appendix out. The night before it happened, he was sitting on my floor, complaining that his stomach hurt. He’d just eaten five pieces of pizza.

“The pepperoni probably expired,” I said. “Go throw up and you’ll feel better.”

Bud threw up and felt worse. Next thing I knew, I was hauling him to the hospital, his forehead pressed up against the passenger window, fogging it up in his fever.

We sat in the ER behind a grubby, brown curtain for six hours. Once in a while a doctor would come in, ask a question, take a vial of blood, then leave. It was after two in

the morning when we were told it was Bud’s appendix and that he would have to have it removed.

“Appendicitis is a freak thing,” the doctor said.

“Sometimes a bit of food, even something as small as a sesame seed, can get caught in it. Then it becomes infected.

Eventually, it explodes.”

I came back two days later. Bud was propped up in bed, hair tussled, eyes red and droopy. Scattered over the front of his gown were faded splotches of Iodine, looking like Pollock had abandoned art and taken up medicine.

“I’m cursed,” was the first thing he said.

“How so?”

Bud stared up at the TV. “I haven’t eaten anything with sesame seeds in years. No hamburger buns, nothing.”

“You’re high. How would you even know that?”

“Please. I’ve known my entire life how infamous seeds are when it comes to surgery. I’ve made it a point to

avoid them. And also,” he said, softly. “Someone won Millionaire last night. How often does that happen?”

Soon, Bud tried a more direct approach. “Look, Karina. It’s written in the stars that you go out with me. I’m not trying to scare you off with any George-McFly-thiswill-mess-up-the-space-time-continuum shit.” Bud was fingering Jaws in his pocket. “But it’s fate, alright? You can’t resist it.” He was also wearing a cotton T-shirt.

Karina was doodling a headless unicorn in her notebook. “I don’t date guys who believe in Back to the Future pickup lines.”

“Ok, well then how about Star Wars?”

I cringed.

Bud dropped his voice. “Karina, it is your destiny.”

He took out the light saber. Karina walked out of the room, skipping class that day.

“My entire life, man. Singled-out. Cursed.”

“You’re not cursed.”

Bud didn’t say anything else, just used the Force to pop open the next bottle.

“Call her. Right now.” I handed him the phone.

“Demand an explanation. She’s being freakishly adamant.”

A burp. “Wait a few more beers.”

Four later, Bud grabbed the phone with his orange, Dorito-bag fingers, and dialed Karina’s number. This was it, Bud’s date with destiny, the culmination of his sexual and metaphysical well-being.

It rang four times. “Hello?”

“KARINA, WHAT KIND OF GUYS DO YOU DATE?” “I don’t date guys,” was all she said.

“Is it some kind of cultural thing? Parents won’t let you out of the house til’ you’re thirty?”

“No, I mean, I don’t date guys. It was on a fortune cookie. You and your wife will be very happy together.”

Then she hung up.

The Grandmother

by Grace Woodard The flat wooden knock, her stride to the edge then down the slope to the creek.

Willows swinging; nettles and ragweed swaying.

Boxy black shoes on the bridge.

Glorious redwing blackbirds sweeping over And over the grandmother was a furious empty rainbow.

The slap of the screen door.

In her knob-kneed cotton-aproned stoop, hangs a dishpan.

A heave, and hot dirty water leaps from her hand, and a knife, shining at one end.

Her breast dripping red‌ The hush cut the air for fifty years.

The Accident

by Michael McConnell Soon after the high school football season ended, my friend and teammate, Wayne, turned sixteen. He had been held back in first grade, so he was older than the other sophomores and received his driver’s license before the rest of us. Wayne lived in Detroit in a neighborhood near mine.

His dad was a Detroit cop, so his family had to maintain an address within the city limits, a measure enacted by the mayor in the early 1980’s to slow down the rate of residents abandoning the city and fleeing to the suburbs.

Wayne’s parents owned two cars, and they let him drive one or the other to school. Because Wayne and I lived so close to each other, my parents gave me five dollars a week to give to Wayne for gas, and he’d pick me up in the morning on his way to school and drop me off on his way home. Sometimes he would drive the newer, late-eightiesmodel family car—a gas-efficient, four-cylinder Pontiac; other times, he’d drive his dad’s baby, a 1975 Ford

Thunderbird. Whereas the Pontiac was a sensible and practical car, the Thunderbird was a beast of a vehicle, nearly fifteen feet long and with an eight-cylinder engine that could beat most cars in a race and probably had enough horsepower to tow a freight train.

Riding with Wayne gave me a sense of freedom.

With his sixteenth birthday and driver’s license, I transformed from a teenager dependent on some type of guardian figure for rides to school or the mall or the movies to a more independent person with more independent friends. I no longer had to walk to my girlfriend Sharon’s house after school and wait for one of my parents to drive me home. Going to her house, however, wasn’t too bad.

Her parents wouldn’t come home until after six in the evening, which meant that she and I’d be virtually alone except for her grandmother. Sharon’s dad had converted the basement of the house into a large living room with a stereo and a big television for watching football games.

We’d stay downstairs and kiss and rub on each other while her grandma watched an unwavering schedule of daily afternoon soap operas on television. During one of the long commercial breaks between the end of one program and the beginning of another, she’d yell to us from the top of the stairs, saying that she was leaving for a few minutes to buy her lottery tickets and asking us if we wanted a pop or some candy while she was at the store. When her grandmother would leave, as soon as Sharon and I heard the car drive away, we’d take the kissing and the rubbing a few steps further.

Regardless, I got tired of sometimes having to wait until eight or nine o’clock in the evening to get a ride home. I liked the liberty of getting out of school and going home or hanging out with Wayne; we’d cruise around, stopping to get chips and pop, to play video games, to do anything that we wanted to with the extra time that the end of the football season had freed up for us. Wayne would

often drive other people home, and since I lived less than a mile away from him, he’d drop me off last, which I didn’t mind because we’d hang out with the guys he’d drop off.

We’d play basketball or listen to music and play Nintendo or watch movies. If parents weren’t home, we’d watch pornography when we could get our hands on some, and at the ages of fifteen and sixteen, someone always had a secret porn stash.

On December 14, 1988, I rode with Wayne as he gave a ride home to two of our friends and teammates, Nick and Jay. Wayne had his dad’s Thunderbird that day, and after school ended, the four of us loaded into that beast of a car with the intention of watching some porn at Jay’s house because his parents usually didn’t come home until after five o’clock. Before a football practice a few months earlier, I’d told Jay and Wayne about the first porno I ever watched, Big Bad Edna. Jay and I were both sitting in the back seat, and when Wayne started the car and revved the

monstrous eight-cylinder engine, Jay turned to me and yelled over the thunder that he’d acquired a copy of “Big Bad Edna, part 2,” that we could watch when we got to his house.

Wayne drove us around the neighborhoods surrounding St. Christopher Catholic High School. He loved to show off the power of his dad’s Thunderbird, and after every stop sign or red light, Wayne stepped on the gas pedal, pushing it flat against the floor, and the car’s mighty engine roared as the wheels spun in place, filling the neighborhood air with smoke and the squeal of burning tire rubber. Though a few inches of snow had fallen the day before, the streets had since been salted and were dry, but Wayne drove around until he found an empty parking lot covered in snow. He turned into the lot, drove to the middle, and parked the car.

“Check this shit out,” he said. “Hold on tight.” Nick pushed out his arms against the dashboard to brace himself.

Jay and I were sitting in the back seat, and we both grabbed onto the back of the front bench seat and leaned forward to strengthen our grip. Wayne shifted the car into reverse, stepped on the gas pedal, and turned the steering wheel all the way to one side. The tires spun, melting the snow and catching the cement underneath. With a jerk, the car lunged backward and turned. Wayne wrapped his arms around the wheel and held on tightly, and the car spun circles. We tried to keep our grip on the car seats and dashboard, but after a few seconds, the centrifugal force grew too strong, plastering Nick’s face against the passenger-door window, plastering me against the car’s inside backseat wall, and slinging Jay onto my lap. When Wayne couldn’t hold onto the wheel and push the gas pedal anymore, he let go and slid across the bench-seat into Nick while the car continued to spin over snow, gradually slowing to a stop.

After the parking lot, Wayne drove south on Hoover then turned left and proceeded down 9 Mile, passing

Groesbeck and Scheonner. Just before Gratiot, he turned onto the street where Jay lived, about a block south of East Detroit High School and a block west of Mick’s Arcade.

Wayne parked in front of Jay’s house, and we all sighed at the sight of a car parked in the driveway.

“Shit,” Jay said, as his happiness faded. “My mother’s home. Goddamn it.”

“That’s alright, man,” I said. “Just save that shit and we’ll watch it some other day. You guys are gonna trip out when you see Edna’s long, flabby titties.”

“Yeah,” said Jay with his shoulders slouched in defeat. “It’s just kinda a buzzkill ‘cause I wanted to watch it today.”

“We can watch it at my house,” said Nick. He turned around in his seat to look at us. “Even if my dad is home, I got a TV in my bedroom, and he won’t bother us. I don’t think he’d care, anyway.”

“You think he’d watch it with us?” asked Wayne.

“Who knows,” said Nick. “Probably, I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Naw, man,” said Jay. “I think we’re going to my aunt’s house for dinner tonight, so I’ll have to be home in the next hour or two, anyway.”

“C’mon, man,” Wayne pleaded. “Why don’t you just give it to us, and we’ll go watch it at Nick’s.”

“Fuck that,” said Jay. “I want to watch it with you guys; I haven’t watched any of it yet.” He rolled his eyes.

“We can go inside and watch TV and wait. She might leave.”

“I thought you guys were going to dinner in a couple of hours,” I said. “Why would she leave?” Jay sighed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just hoping, I guess.” Jay got out of the car and went inside his house after promising us that we could watch the movie on another day after school when his mom was as work, that he wouldn’t watch

it without us. Wayne drove around the block and turned left onto 9 Mile, heading west. Nick lived further out in the suburbs at 13 Mile and Groesbeck. Whereas streets like Gratiot and Groesbeck and Hoover ran north and south, Scheonner cut across at an angle, intercepting the other three busy streets. Wayne turned right onto Scheonner, taking a shortcut to Groesbeck. When Wayne turned right onto Groesbeck, heading north toward Nick’s house, he gunned the engine and the car accelerated from zero to sixty miles per hour in a matter of seconds. Groesbeck was a major thoroughfare with a speed limit of fifty miles per hour, and Wayne continued to accelerate, passing the other law-abiding drivers like they were going five or ten miles per hour. I pulled my feet off of the floor and rested my legs across the back seat. I leaned back and rested my head against the car’s interior wall, enjoying pure speed and the powerful rumble of the car’s engine.

About half a block ahead of us— maybe sixty or seventy yards—the traffic light at the corner of 10 Mile turned yellow, and while the other cars traveling north slowed down to stop, Wayne pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and we continued to accelerate. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched signs and buildings and cars and concrete blend into a single blurry gray stripe. We were still about twenty yards away from the intersection when the light turned red, but the Thunderbird was going too fast to stop. Wayne stood up with his foot still on the gas pedal.

He braced the steering wheel with both of his hands and straightened his arms, locking his elbows. A car in one of the southbound lanes had already started to turn left, crossing into our path. I stayed calm. Throughout my life, I’d almost been involved in several accidents that somehow never happened; each time, the car I was in or the other car would swerve just enough to barely miss a collision. I was disillusioned to the point that I thought car accidents

happened to other people and were the types of occurrences that would always almost happen to me. I didn’t brace myself. I sat in calm silence, thinking to myself that we’d miss, that we’d always just barely miss, that in two seconds the Thunderbird would still be speeding up Groesbeck on the other side of 10 Mile, and Wayne, Nick, and I would be looking at each other, wide eyed and marveling over what we’d just avoided.

I don’t remember any visual aspects of the collision.

I don’t remember the sensation of my limp, relaxed body slamming into the wide front bench seat and tearing it from the bolts securing it to the floorboards. I don’t remember seeing the Thunderbird’s front windshield that my face crashed through, leaving a head-sized hole in the shattered glass, and I was probably already unconscious as the Thunderbird veered head-on into a telephone pole on the nearby street corner. I only remember the obscene highpitched shriek of metal scraping against metal, a sound that

resembled a fork pushing into the surface of a plate, or a sheet of aluminum foil being torn in half, amplified a million ugly times.

Then silence. White, calm silence. I dreamed a milk sea inseparable from a solid white sky, and I floated sandwiched inside of pure peace. I floated without a care, as if I were letting out a deep breath that I’d been holding in my body for a painfully long time. I continued to float feet-first into the white nothing, and I didn’t care about anything. I felt alone yet fulfilled in white emptiness. Then sounds, birdlike sounds that felt like the memory of a voice I’d already dreamt about while drifting through my white dream. I could barely hear the voice. I could barely recognize syllables or the sound of my name. Mike. I floated. Mike. White. Mike, get up. I floated; the word grew faint. Get out of the car. More faint, more white.

We’ve been in an accident. Drifting. Mike, come on, Mike.

My name. Drifting, letting go. Please, Mike. I reached

toward my name. Get up, man, get out of the car. I reached toward my name, and the white faded. I didn’t. I opened my eyes.

“Mike!”

I looked to my left, and I saw Nick sitting on a pile of twisted debris.

“Get out of the car, Mike,” said the Nick to my left.

I watched his mouth move as the words found my ears. I heard my name again.

“Mike!”

I looked to my right and saw Nick crouched underneath the shattered dashboard in front of where the passenger’s side of the bench seat used to be.

“Get out of the car,” said the Nick to my right, and I watched his mouth as his words found my ears. At first, I didn’t know where I was, who I was, how I was, or when I was, then slowly my senses returned. I saw my arms and legs and knew I was still Mike. I saw half of the massive

eight-cylinder engine jutting out between the halves of the car’s broken dashboard, and I suddenly understood what had happened. I could still hear the shriek of the collision resonate inside of my head. As I crawled out of the car, my arms and legs shook, and my heart pounded. Blood stained the chest and sleeves of my white jacket. I looked into a single remaining wedge of side-door mirror and saw my eyes and forehead. The rest of my face and neck was covered in blood. Someone grabbed my arm.

“Oh, my God, honey,” said the person holding my arm, a young black woman. Tears flowed out of her eyes, over the top of her cheeks, and onto the ground. “Baby, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How are you?”

“Get him to that bench,” somebody else said. I looked in the direction of the voice and saw an elderly white man walking toward me and the black woman. I looked around and saw several people running toward me

and more people getting out of cars that they’d parked in the middle of the street.

“Huh?” I asked and started to feel dizzy.

“Did you see that?”

“Yeah, he’s lucky to be standing.”

“We gotta get him to that bench so he can lie down.”

“Hang in there, baby.”

“Is there anyone else in that car?”

“My God, I’ve never seen anything like that; that car came from out of nowhere.”

“Please, Jesus. Please, please sweet Jesus.”

“I don’t think so. That other fella walked away, I don’t know where he’s run off to.”

The black woman and the old white man held my arms and led me to a bus-stop bench. As I lay down on the bench, I looked at the intersection. The car that we hit was folded into a wedge in the middle of the street. The front of

the mighty Thunderbird wrapped like crab-claws around the telephone pole. Shattered glass and ribbons of twisted metal covered the entire intersection, from corner to corner.

I lay back and looked at the sky. A police officer’s face appeared above me.

“Are you okay, son?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, still dazed. “Where are my friends?”

“They’re alright, all things considered,” he said.

“The driver’s lying down over there, and the other guy started walking down the street. He’s in shock. We’re taking him to the hospital in the squad car. An ambulance will be here in a minute.”

“Why?” I asked. “Are they hurt?”

“Don’t worry about them,” the cop said. “They look like they made it out of this better than you did. You guys are lucky. When we got here and saw the car, I called you guys in as dead on contact.” The cop walked away. I looked at the sky. I heard a distant siren growing louder as

it approached. Though winter clouds covered the cold streets, I felt warm, like it was summertime and I was fully dressed and the sun was beating down on me. I felt something dripping down the back of my neck. I started to sit up.

“Whoah there, son,” said the old man who had helped the crying black woman lead me to the bench so I could lie down. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I gotta take my jacket off. It’s too hot out here,” I said, wiping my face with my hands. “I’m sweating like crazy.”

“You just stay put,” he said, pushing his palm against my chest. “And I don’t think that’s sweat you feel.”

“No,” I said. “I’m alright. I got judo tonight.”

“Baby,” the black woman said, laughing, tears still rolling off of the top of her cheeks. “I think the Judo will be alright without you.” The distant siren got louder, like someone was holding it next to my head. I looked at the

sky. It was white, but different than the calm white I dreamed a few minutes earlier. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, two men in light blue uniforms were standing over me, waving people back.

“Everyone, clear away from the bench,” said one of the men in the light blue uniforms. “We need room.”

“How you doing, there?” asked the other man in the light blue uniform.

“Good,” I said. “How are you?”

“Happy to see you guys alive,” he said, and he pushed his hands firmly against my hips and ribs. “Can you roll over that way a little bit?”

“Yeah,” I said, and I shifted my weight but didn’t have the strength to roll over on my own. The man pushing gently against my hip and ribs rolled me over onto my side while the other one slid a board halfway under my body.

They rolled me back to my original position. I felt the thick

wood of the board under my back, the pressure on my shoulders and legs as they strapped me to the board.

“Keep your head still,” one of the men said, and he put a foam brace over my neck. “It’s important that you stay as still as possible during the ride.”

“Do I get to ride in an ambulance?” I asked.

“Yeah, I think we can work that out for you.”

They lifted the board and as they carried me away from the bench, I felt the sensation of floating but not as peaceful and calm as when I floated in the gentle, soothing white. I could hear and feel commotion, voices, cops telling people to go home, cars driving past. The commotion ceased once the men in light blue uniforms loaded me into the ambulance and shut the door. As the ambulance started to move, I heard the siren start up again. This time it wasn’t distant. This time it stayed with me all the way to the hospital as I looked at the ceiling on the inside of the ambulance. I tried to turn my head and look around.

“Hey,” said a voice next to me, and one of the men in the light blue uniforms leaned over me so that I could see his face. “Remember, don’t move your neck until we get to the hospital.” I started to feel scared, scared like I felt when I was a child, when I was in Detroit Children’s Hospital ten years earlier, when a doctor, before giving me a spinal tap, told me that if I moved while the needle was inside of me, that I may never walk again.

“Am I gonna be alright?” I asked the man.

“Yeah, you’ll be alright,” he said, smiling. “I’ve seen a lot worse.”

Selected Poems by Jennifer Lenhardt In Dreamless Sleep I run too hot, and the fever burns within me and eats me up, in dead of night, where I toss, I turn beneath the ghost of you, that meets me in my longing, in dreamless sleep, where I find I almost feel— your touch, your hands, your kiss upon me, to take my breath in fretful sleep, afraid that I will wake too soon and find, you gone.

Your Marbles I am an unknown sender, in a living room that I discovered when I opened your mouth and let down a ladder; down, down into your esophagus, and from there I went wandering around from room to room, until I found the place where I wanted to set up house, and so, I set up house and I hung the curtains, across your eyeballs, but most of the time I keep them open (except when I’m undressing), and most of the time I talk out loud (whether dressed or naked), but the words here they roll around, like the marbles, my dear, you thought you lost, when you tipped your head, and the couch where I sit almost fell out your eardrum, where I whisper to you sweet nothings.

Ivory Threads Silk spins between the deck chairs and hangs precariously drenched in sun, where the spider’s legs warm and eight eyes watch, from a window, my view, where the blacks and whites of keys stretch out beneath my fingertips that haven’t felt in years; with music almost lost, and melody almost gone, but not quite, as the fingers peck and hunt for the song they knew by heart, and the spider moves.

Falling Stars And the kisses came ruthlessly and the sky peeled back and laid herself bare and told us that she would always love us, and that we would never wither, that we more than just the flowers that groped at our ankles for the attention she would never give, but for us, “we would always be hers,� she said, eternal beings, die cast and poured out into these mortal bodies, and these were the secrets she shared, risking the stars, to peel back all of eternity, as if lifting her skirt, to show us, exposed and unafraid, the truth: that underneath, we are so much more than just this skin that we wear.

Questions for a Creator Why are we trapped in these bodies that I am forced to experience all of life with? as if confined by this floral wallpaper, when all I want to do is reach my hands in and pick the seeds that germinated the thought to grow such a picture that surrounds me; walls, when surely, that’s all that it is.

A Midnight Swim

by Carol Hornak He was forbidden territory. Off limits.

Sal had laid claim to him by marriage.

Laid. The key word. I was left with Charlie, whom I now saw silhouetted at his desk, a prism of yellow light highlighting his face as he bent over to contemplate the construction of his model airplane. A hobby begun in his teens, and exuberantly carried through into adulthood.

I looked over across the yard at Sal’s house. Sal, my best friend all through high school, through college and beyond to now. One light in their house was presently on.

The bedroom light.

It turned off. Sal had won the prize.

I looked out across my deck to my pool. How I loved to swim laps in it during the day. But at night time?

No, I was a daytime swimmer. I hugged myself as a cool

breeze sent a rush of goose bumps marching across my arms.

The pool. My salvation. In it I could dream about Him. And Sal would never know. I looked up at the one lighted window in our home. Charlie was studiously turning his model around, apparently dissecting divergent angles. I had earned the spoils.

I stepped toward the pool. Dare I? The day had been hot. The water might still be warm. I took a step toward the fenced area with the intent to turn on the lights. No, I really didn’t need them. I would be only a moment in the water.

Why bother?

I opened the pool’s gate. Stepping inside, I closed it.

Untying the belt to my robe, I let it fall to the ground. I had been ready for a night of possible hot sex. I looked up at the lighted window; I don’t think so. I would have to swim laps for exercise.

I looked at the darkened house across the yard. I looked up at the darkened sky; the Little Dipper was luminescent against the night’s sky. How many stars must there be? I wondered. Had he laid claim to her heart or to her soul? There again, that word. Laid. Keeps coming up.

At the water’s edge, I dared to dip my toe in.

Christening myself into the water gradually, it enveloped me within a warm cloak, a stark contrast to the chill night’s air. Swimming a few laps, I stopped for only a moment to catch my breath. I hoped Sal had not brushed her teeth.

Maybe she had eaten onions for dinner. I continued to swim.

I spun, and then dove to touch the bottom. Gliding through the water, I felt welcome. Here, I was not lonely.

The water hugged me, caressed me. An intimacy possible, it seemed, only here. I had random thoughts of a lady who had walked into the liquor store behind me once. “I just love the smell of a cigar,” she had said. I guess we all have

our associations that can individually make us feel whole.

Mine, apparently, was the pool. Within the depths of the pool, swirls formed. I swam into them, again touching the bottom and came up to the surface, to be spun. A vortex of moving energy I became, spinning at top speed. I had thought that I was alone. I looked to see the source. It couldn’t be. But it was. Him. His arms upon me, I looked into his eyes. Even with only the moonlight, I was not mistaken, they were his eyes. This must be an illusion. I trailed a finger along his arm. It went through thin air. A pivot sent me spinning away within a crescent of ripples into a backwards spin. Into euphoria. He, the stars and myself. Soul unto soul, I became lighter. Pinching myself, I thought that I must be imagining that I became translucent.

He no longer was. My hand remained fixed upon a rockhard bundle of muscles.

I saw the light flick off in the study where my dear Charlie had sat.

With one last spin and pivot, as He loosened his hold upon me, I managed to pull myself out of the water, knuckles intertwining momentarily with his. My robe was nearby, waiting. I wrapped myself into its folds, the terrycloth a layer of warmth upon my bare skin. Now alone, I was no longer translucent.

The moon highlighted ripples still formed in the water. Waves embarked with energy of their own, twisting and turning upon meeting each other. I hugged myself dry before going inside for the night and thought of him. He certainly had to have been a fantasy. Whatever, I could deal with it. Crazy or not, normalcy would prevail.

As I walked into the kitchen, the phone rang.

“It’s one o’clock in the morning,” rang out Charlie’s voice. I heard the toilet flush.

“I’ll get it, Dear,” I called up.

I noticed it took me five steps to reach the phone. I took a deep breath. “Hello,” I said.

“Hi.” I looked at the caller I.D. It was Him. He continued. “I was wondering if…”

I almost didn’t dare to hear the rest. I was stunned.

Could I possibly taste the forbidden fruit?

Selected Poems by Trina Gaynon Tor House My ghost you needn’t look for; it is probably Here, but a dark one, deep in the granite, not dancing on wind With the mad wings and the day moon.

-- Robinson Jeffers A moment ago, Lee sat at the table just inside the sun flooded French doors, lingered over a cup of coffee and breathed deeply the smoke from the wood fire.

She watched the guests walk carefully along the brick paths of her late father-in- law's garden.

They come hourly on weekends to try to understand a poet who built a tower "just because."

An ill-assorted lot, this noon group, two couples staring at artifacts brought back from New Mexico or Peking and scattered among the primroses.

One woman spouts forth her knowledge of stone; she separates it from poetry, turns it into hard fact.

Her tall and silent companion knows the poetry as a scholar, knows the facts of the poet's life like stone.

Earlier, Lee watched the other couple from her bedroom; seated together in a car, windows down, an hour early.

They huddled over a book, read to each other.

The young woman walked away, the joy of the sun in her eyes.

He read on, undisturbed by the birds, unaware of Lee. They are the kind who will sneak away fromthe docent to sit in the poet's chair a moment and hear stone breathe.

The Tower Robert climbs the secret stairs of the tower last, his eyes the only light, as left shoulder first, he follows the curve of the stones all around him.

A little fearful the passage will be too narrow, I look down and see his belly just skim the rocks.

Robinson Jeffers collected native stone on his land to build this Rapunzel tower for his runaway bride, a place for her to sit and look down across the lawn at her ex-husband's house and his newer wives, a place to sew the household's poetic clothes, a place to watch sea reflect sky and listen to her twin sons play in the cool stone room below that served no other purpose than to buttress the rest of the tower against its own heavy strength and winds that do not confine their power to surf.

Robert wants to shout at the seagulls and our guide, to ask a dozen questions about the poet and the pulley that lifted the rocks into place from a wheelbarrow to salute Irish tors, private places, and love.

Robert is bewildered by quiet reverence.

Bright home where no sorrow comes Can I sing Mass for the possum-his eyes open, blood still wet on the road, bowels empty, Or for leaves drifting subject to the wind?

Vinca.

Thistle.

Ragweed.

The Sweet Gum pod in my hand holds these words as I walk.

Goldfinches rise.

Kill Me with Chocolate

by Frank Scozzari “How do I know you really love me?” she asked, standing tall on the hotel bed with both hands on her hips.

Nick stopped unbuttoning his shirt and looked up at her.

The way she stood there, barely dressed in French lingerie with the ceiling light shining down on her, she resembled a burlesque stripper on the Rue Lepic.

“You know I love you,” he said.

“Do I?” “Yes.” “I am not positive of it.”

“Come on…”

“Like I said… how do I know?”

Nick paused. “Well…”

“You must prove your love for me,” she said, interrupting. And raising her arm she pointed at the door in a commanding fashion: “Bring me chocolate!”

Nick turned and looked back at the door. It remained dead-bolted. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign he left hanging on the outside knob was beginning to seem like a distant memory of a romantic night that was not to be.

It is some kind of Lover’s game, he thought.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, CHOCOLATE! If you really love me, you will go now and find me chocolate. And I don’t mean any kind of chocolate. I mean fine chocolate. Something like Barettini or Lindt.”

Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. “I think everything’s closed.”

The woman’s posture began to contort.

“Can we sleep on it? I’ll get you all the chocolate you want in the morning.”

Her body twisted into sharper angles, and Nick remained wisely silent.

“I need chocolate, and I need it now! If you truly love me, and truly care, you will go now and will not return until you have some.”

Nick took a deep breath. It was one of those moments, he knew. It happens in every relationship; what you say or do determines your immediate fate. You can be right and be alone, or you can be warm in bed with the one you love.

“Okay,” he said.

He buttoned up his shirt, tucked his wallet in his pants, and took his coat from the armoire.

Sensing victory, the woman smiled and dropped her hands to her side. “Bring me chocolate and you’ll be my hero…. you’ll be my prince.”

Nick opened the door. “Chocolate it will be.”

“Don’t come back until you have some.”

“I won’t.”

“Ganache would be okay too,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll see if I can find some.”

Nick exited, leaving the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the outside knob.

The night clerk was startled at the sound of the elevator bell. The hour was late, the hotel was nearly empty, and he had already settled in for the night. Nick strode out confidently from the elevator cage into the lobby, greeting the clerk with a “Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir, how can I help you?” the clerk said.

“I need chocolate,” Nick said bluntly.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, some high quality stuff: Swiss, French or Belgium.”

The clerk frowned. “It is late, Monsieur.”

“I know. It is not for me. It is for my fiancée.”

“Is it possible to wait until the morning?”

“She wants it now.”

“Well Monsieur, it may be hopeless this time of night and all....”

“I must find chocolate,” Nick replied, “…or another hotel room. She will not let me back in unless I bring her chocolate.”

The clerk glared at the elevator door, disbelieving.

He pictured a woman up in her hotel room with hands firmly on her hips. “The Mademoiselle desires chocolate and will not let you back in the room without it?”

“Yes.” “She cannot wait until morning?”

“No.” “It is a desperate situation! C’est vraiment des conneries!” The clerk glanced at the elevator door again.

“It is Cannes. It is October. It is midnight. It is impossible…”

“I tried to explain to her…”

“We do not have Seven-Elevens here. Everything is closed now.”

“Nevertheless I must try.” Nick paused. “…unless you have another room available?”

“It is a big problem for you.”

“Yes—Qui.” The clerk tapped his fingers on the counter and glanced skyward. “There are some fine shops along the Boulevard Croisette.”

“Okay.”

“You can also try the large hotels along the Croisette…but Monsieur, I’m sorry to say, I know this town very well and I don’t think you will find gourmet chocolate at this hour.”

“It’s not negotiable. She wants chocolate and wants it now,” Nick said.

The clerk’s eyebrows furled.

“Thanks for the help,” Nick said. He put his jacket on.

“Bonne nuit,” the clerk replied.

Nick left, heading down the alleyways to the waterfront where the major hotels lined the Boulevard del la Croisette. Along the way he saw the lights were out in the many boutiques and restaurants that had been open and filled with people earlier in the evening. He was glad to see the palm-lined Boulevard Croisette was still lit by street lamps. Down the coastline were several large luxury hotels.

Among them the Cannes Intercontinental Carlton, considered one of the finest hotels on the Cote A’zur. Nick headed directly for it.

He climbed the steps to the entrance corridor where he was immediately greeted by a young door-guard dressed in a colorful renaissance suit.

“Can I help you, Monsieur,” the young man asked.

“I am looking for chocolate,” Nick replied.

“Perhaps we can help.”

Nick hesitated. “I am just looking for a chocolate shop. Do you have one?”

“Yes, perhaps we can help you with that.”

The door-guard motioned with his hand into the entrance lobby. From within came a handsome young bellhop in a black tuxedo and top hat.

“He needs chocolate,” the door-guard announced, confidently.

“Excellent,” the bellhop replied in perfect English.

“This way, Monsieur.”

Nick paused but followed reluctantly.

He was led across marble floors through the spacious entrance lobby to the concierge desk, there to be greeted by another young man dressed in a vintage, white tuxedo.

“Yes Monsieur, how can I help you?”

“He needs chocolate,” the bellhop informed.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, do you have a chocolate shop here in the hotel?”

“No Monsieur, we haven’t a shop in our hotel but I think we can help you with this.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

The Concierge’s eyes lit up. “Monsieur, it is not an inconvenience. It is my pleasure!”

Nick looked over at the Bellhop who seemed equally gleeful. He then realized they believed he was a guest there at the Carlton “It must be gourmet chocolates,” Nick said.

“Of course.”

The Concierge pulled out a thick phone book and paged through to the French word ‘chocolat.’ Listed there were several shops on the Rue d’Antibes. He pulled the countertop telephone close to his chest, placed a ruler beneath the first number, and began dialing. But each time

he dialed, waiting patiently, he eventually depressed the receiver and dialed again, and the ruler slowly made its way down the list of chocolate shops.

“C'est pas grave. No worries Monsieur,” the Concierge assured. “It is not a problem.”

“It is my fiancée,” Nick explained. “She will not let me back into the room unless I bring her chocolate.”

The Concierge looked up quickly.

“Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous.” Nick said.

“But it’s true. She won’t let me back in the hotel room without chocolates.”

“Mon Dieu! It can’t be true!” the Concierge said.

“Really. She will not let me back in.”

“Not to worry, Monsieur. We will find you something.”

With fingers dialing more frantically now, but still without success, the Concierge’s gleeful expression began to fade.

“All will be fine,” he said, but his tone was not as confident.

After five minutes, two additional men were summoned, each likewise dressed in vintage, white tuxedos, the eldest wore a gilded captain’s hat.

“My name is Pierre,” he said. “I am Chief Concierge.”

“He needs chocolate,” the bellhop informed promptly.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, chocolate.”

“His fiancée will not let him back in their room without chocolate,” the first Concierge explained.

“It must be gourmet chocolate,” the bellhop clarified.

“Gourmet?”

“Oui.” “For his fiancée?”

“Qui.” “Quel désastre!”the third Concierge cried.

Pierre turned to Nick. “I assure you, Monsieur, it may not be easy at this hour of the night but we will find you chocolate.”

Nick smiled.

The information desk quickly became a buzz of activity. It was impressive to watch, Nick thought, three men, all dressed in vintage, white tuxedos, plus the boyish bellhop with his black top hat, working in unison. Two made phone calls, another checked a handheld GPS device, and Pierre flashed through screens on a laptop computer.

“Did you try Antibes?” Pierre asked the first Concierge.

“Qui,” the first Concierge answered.

“Try Villeneuve-Loubet,” Pierre said.

“And Nice?”

Nice? Pierre thought. It was the city furthest east, a good thirty minutes away. It would mean sending a staff away from the hotel for an hour drive.

“Qui, let’s try Nice as well,” Pierre said brightly.

Turning to Nick, Pierre asked: “Would you like a private limousine? Or would you prefer we send a runner?”

“An address will do,” Nick replied.

With time, the well-practiced team began to breakdown. There were no phone numbers left in the phone book and the laptop yielded no new addresses. Pierre shook his head.

“It is a difficult task, Monsieur,” he said.

“What is it with these women, anyway?” the first Concierge said. “We climb mountains and cross oceans for them…”

“Buy flowers and order the proper bottle of wine,” the third Concierge said.

“Remember the day we met,” Pierre chimed in.

“And try to find chocolate in the middle of the night,” Nick added.

“Oui!” the first Concierge exclaimed. “And we are kept waiting, constantly!”

The young bellhop who stood silent until now, shrugged his shoulders and said: “It is what we must do,” he said, his words bringing a collective sigh to the group.

Another ten minutes passed before the reality of their situation sank in. They had scoured the entire Cote A’zur and found no chocolate in the south of France. It was Two O’clock in the morning.

Pierre looked beat. It is done, he acquiesced. He offered a consolatory shrug.

“Surely she will let you back in,” Pierre said.

“She must! She can’t expect you to sleep on the streets!” the first Concierge said.

“Il est injuste. It is not fair!” the bellhop cried, shaking his head.

Pierre took a pen and notepad. “If you provide your room number we can have chocolate delivered to your room first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Nick said, nervously. “A list of the shops will do.”

Pierre scribbled down the names and addresses of the best three shops and handed it to Nick. The bellhop removed some flowers from a vase in the lobby.

“Maybe these will help?”

Nick kindly waved him away. “It’s chocolate tonight or nothing, friends.” He tucked the list of chocolate shops into his shirt pocket, gave his thanks again, and bid them all a farewell.

Feeling exhausted and beaten, he returned to the streets, walking for several blocks with his head down.

Ironically, as he walked, he passed a chocolate shop, shut for the night, all dark inside. He pressed his face to the window and peered in. There was a small interior nightlight

revealing several glass display cases. Within were rows of chocolates and truffles. The sign above the door read: ‘Chocolatier Cupid.’

It is torture, Nick thought, for past sins.

Hanging inside the door was a small sign listing the shop’s hours: 10:00 to 18:00. It was only half past two.

Nick marched on, not lifting his eyes for several minutes. When he did, he saw the red neon light of a Tobac shop half a mile down. It was still illuminated inside. He headed straight for it.

He stepped inside to find two men conversing in French. The shopkeeper, who stood behind the counter, was a tall thirty-something man with dark hair. The other man, middle-aged and gruff-looking, sat on a stool smoking a cigar. He flicked ashes on the floor as Nick stepped in.

“Excuse me. Do you have chocolate?” Nick asked.

The shopkeeper looked a little annoyed that Nick had interrupted their conversation. He motioned downward

with his head to the counter beneath the cash register.

There Nick saw the usual assortment of commercial candy bars: Three Musketeers, Mars, Snickers, and Almond Joy. “I’m looking for gourmet chocolate,” Nick said.

“Pardon, our chocolate is not good enough?”

“I need fine chocolates.”

“It’s American…” the man on the stool said, harshly.

“It’s not for me,” Nick explained. “It is for my fiancée. She desires something European.”

The two Frenchmen exchanged glances.

“Your fiancée sent you to find chocolate?” the shopkeeper asked, disbelieving.

“At 2:00 a.m.?” the other one added.

“Yes.” “Why doesn’t she get her own chocolate?” the shopkeeper said.

“Is it for sex?” the man on the stool asked.

“No! No! It’s one of those woman things, you know what I mean. She just wants to know I appreciate her.”

The shopkeeper’s face contorted. “Merde! It is the problem with you Americans, you don’t understand woman.”

“Elle tourne du chapeau!” the man on the stool grunted out.

“Only an American would be fool enough to wonder through the night in search of chocolate for a woman,” the shopkeeper said. “You are slaves to women.

You do not understand them. You have everything in reverse.”

“Ce me fait chier!” the man on the stool said. “You must deny them to receive their devotion.”

“Qui, it is true!” the shopkeeper said. “The less you give, the more you’ll take!”

“Otherwise, she will leave you for another man,” the man on the stool said.

“Really, she should be out looking for chocolat for you,” the shopkeeper said fiercely.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Nick said.

“Sure it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

The man on the stool mumbled out the word, “Salope!”

“Call it want you want,” Nick replied.

“There is no need to cower to your woman,” the shopkeeper counseled. “If she doesn’t like it, there are plenty of other women out there.”

Nick paused. “Where are your women?” he asked.

“Oh! Monsieur! I have plenty of women! I am on holiday from women!”

“You are worn out, Jacque? Not enough to go around?”

“Qui! Qui! Even I have my limits. Twenty, thirty women a month… it’s too much for any man!”

The men laughed.

“You guys are very funny,” Nick said.

“Better to be comedians than a fool!”

The laughter roared again. “Okay guys,” Nick said.

“Thanks for the wisdom.”

The two men continued to laugh.

“I am glad I was able to provide you with some comic relief,” Nick said. “You guys have a nice night.”

Nick stepped out of the shop, disgusted. As he walked away he could hear the laugher continue for quite a distance down the Croisette. It was a mocking testament, he thought, to this strange request that he had been strapped with by the woman he loved.

Maybe they’re right, he thought. Am I the prince or the fool? He looked up into the glistening stars but found no answer.

He continued west, strolling along with his head down. The streets were desolate. It was 3:00 a.m. The only

sounds were the waves lapping against the seawall and the distant bark of a dog.

Then came a female voice, “Bonjour!”

On the side street was an old Peugeot with the window down. Inside was a forty-something-looking blonde.

Nick walked over. “Hello.”

The woman had on heavy blue mascara and thick sangria lipstick and her blouse was unbuttoned to midchest, revealing perfectly-shaped, half-moon breasts.

“You are English?” she asked.

“No, American.”

“I like Americans,” the woman said quickly. “Are you looking for company?”

“I’m looking for chocolate.”

“Chocolat?” The woman’s large, doe-like eyes flashed.

“Yes, chocolate.”

“You want a black woman?”

Nick stepped back. “No, I need chocolate… candy.

Barettini, Lindt. It’s not for me. It’s for my fiancée…”

“Your fiancée?”

“Yes.” “Que voe?”

“It’s a long story and I’m really tired…”

“Please tell me.”

“It’s complicated…”

“Come on. I must know. It must be romantic, no?”

“Something like that.”

The woman turned and glanced out of her front windshield. “Really? It is early morning and you are searching for chocolate for your fiancée?”

“It’s the truth.”

The woman’s large eyes flashed again. “Really, it is romantic.”

“Becoming less so by the minute.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

She paused. “Well, I require no chocolate.”

I imagine not, Nick thought. “Thanks, but I really must go.”

“There is a room nearby,” the woman said.

“It’s a nice offer,” Nick said, nervously.

“We can go there now.”

“No Thanks.”

“Come on.”

“I must go.”

“It is right there,” she said, pointing to a light on the second floor of a building down the alleyway. “No need to walk the streets alone.”

“Goodnight and good luck,” Nick said with finality and quickly walked away.

“She is a lucky girl,” the woman yelled from her window as Nick ducked around the corner.

Nick marched rapidly east, back to the ‘Chocolatier Cupid.’ There was nothing more to do, he thought, but to go back there and wait. When he reached the chocolate shop, he stepped into the little alcove and pressed his face against the window once more. Seemingly now, with more detail than before, he could see deep into the display cases, to the hundreds, maybe thousands, of mouth-watering chocolates; varieties of all kinds, white and dark, some with colorful toppings, others plain, some beautifully wrapped.

They were all calling him, haunting him. He could feel himself salivating. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it but it was locked. He checked the windows too, locked also. He considered breaking in, but quickly dismissed the idea.

The “closed” sign hanging inside the door reminded him of his situation. The shop would not re-open until 10:00 am, and now it was only 4:00 am. The insignia on the sign was that of a little cupid with an arrow.

“Thanks Dude,” Nick said.

Nick shrank to the floor with his back against the door. He rested his head back against the glass and closed his eyes. He could smell the sweet aroma of chocolate coming through the door jam. He is evil, he thought, referring to the cupid. He is torturing me! *** Time stood still. His eyelids grew heavy. There was that semi-state of peaceful unconsciousness, then slumber.

Then there was a noise, and a foot kicking him.

Nick looked up and saw an old man with a sparse, grey goatee and long grey lochs standing over him, yelling at him in French.

“Congé ! Leave!”

The man kicked Nick again and Nick tried to scoot away.

“Laissez-vous l'homme fithy. Sortez! Trouvez un autre endroit pour dormer!” the old man cried as he

pursued Nick with his foot. “Get out you filthy one! Find another place to sleep!”

But the foot was fast and it came against Nick’s thigh again. Nick raised his arm in self-defense, simultaneously trying to explain himself. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to buy some chocolate. I feel asleep.”

The old man was agile for his age and pursued relentlessly with his foot as Nick scrambled away.

“I’m sorry,” Nick repeated. “I just needed to buy chocolate.”

The old man stopped abruptly.

“You are English?” he said with a heavy accent.

“American.”

Nick remained curled up in a ball with his knees at his chest and his arms up protecting his face.

The old man looked down thoughtfully. “You want to buy chocolate?”

“I cannot leave without chocolate,” Nick said.

“Then you must return at Ten O’clock.”

“It’s my fiancée,” Nick explained.

The old man remained silent.

She will not let me back in our hotel room until I bring her chocolate.”

“Ce qui?” Your fiancée requires chocolate?”

“Oui—yes. She requires only the best chocolate.”

The old man’s posture eased and his blue eyes lit up like the Cote A’zur. He reached into his pocket and brought out the shop keys.

“Come, follow me,” he said. “I have the best chocolate in the South of France.”

He unlocked the door and Nick followed him inside.

“You are a lucky man,” the old man said. “I came in early today to do bookkeeping. Only today. Normally I would not arrive for three more hours.”

The old man handed Nick a bag and in a short time, with Nick holding the bag and the shopkeeper filling it with his best recommendations, Nick soon possessed a hefty assortment of to-die-for chocolates. Nick paid the man, thanked him, apologized again for sleeping on his steps, and was on his way. *** Nick staggered back to his hotel in the morning sunlight and was greeted there by the day reception clerk.

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour,” Nick replied.

He stumbled into the elevator cage, pressed the button, rode the elevator back up the two floors, and wobbled down the hallway. The Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the door. He quietly stepped inside.

There she lay, as she had been now for several hours, quietly asleep on the bed. Her arm was outstretched to the empty space beside her and there was a note in her

hand. Nick hung his jacket in the armoire, set the bag of chocolates on the nightstand, and quietly reached across the bed for the note. It was simple, composed of only four words: “Never leave me again.”

Nick stared at the note, not knowing what to make of it. Never leave me again? It was she who had asked him to leave.

It is strange how one remembers things long after an event, even after everything else has faded from memory and turned to dust. It is the subtle and inconsequential that often remains etched in one’s mind. It was these words that stuck with Nick and followed him on through his life.

Nick peeled off his shirt and pants and climbed in the bed next to her. He set the bag of chocolates at the end of her extended hand where the note had been. Then he propped a pillow under his head, turned, and gazed at her.

Her face was calm and forgiving.

“I will never leave again,” he said, in a whisper.

Then he closed his eyes and slept.

Selected Poems by Devon Sova Ironing What a funny day for napkins to insist upon perfection.

Yesterday it was my underwear, but I don’t mind...the numbing sweep and swish of the iron helps fill the void that sometimes suddenly, unexpectedly, sucks my breath like a vacuum.

It connects me in a way, to my mother and all mothers who didn’t live to see their daughters grow.

I know she did this I say to myself, but I don’t know what she thought or felt or saw.

I unplug the iron, struggling to remember something I must have felt and at one time known.

I wrap the cord around my neck, thinking how this could all end in some pathetic and failed attempt.

Instead, I unwrap the cord slowly and cradle the still cooling iron to my chest, imagining human warmth.

Crave Thirty is far too old and young to call oneself an orphan, but I do.

But I do, and I have for twenty years, and I long for strong arms to lift me, for all I never had.

Time has healed nothing for me, growing ever more un-beloved as I age. Looking not for surrogates, stand-ins, or shadows, but for the thing that should have been.

I certainly am a sour girl searching for the sunny lemon sweetness of certain safety.

Bring me back to you, bless me with your kiss,

I whisper As I curl into a ball cradling the thing—elusive, gnawing with its soft teeth, forever expired.

Hoping and Longing (For the End of Duplicity) The worn out creature moves like a mouse, all fits and starts and darting eyes. Her body shakes as she sits perched on the edge of the hotel bed, stained with filth from a thousand guests.

“You better have what I need,” she tells her steely companion, “and you really better not be a cop,” she adds with a nervous laugh.

A woman sits perched on the edge of a chair, overstuffed, and stained with sugary sludge from a lonely life.

Her hand shakes as she rakes her fingers through mousy hair.

“You better have what I need,” she whispers to the photo of a man with a steely gaze, “and you really better be a cop ;)” she types speculatively, excitedly, elbow overturning her tea, still warm.

Honey Caramel Baby My honey caramel baby Is what I call him When I tuck him in at night I tell him How I’ve loved him Since he was the size of a grain of rice When he is older He will understand what this means That mommy made a choice To embrace flesh and fate Fearing not and saying I can do this!

To my friends who looked doubtful And to my reflection in the glass One hand smoothing the school uniform Already tight across the waist Grain of rice is now a sturdy seven His dark lashes curl on honey caramel skin When he laughs I tell him You are my miracle!

And I mean it.

Happy Poem I think I could have been happy had reality been even more subjective and introspection been banned.

Kicking Concrete Hurts Things so sweet in my mind turn to a grey ash slap in the light of day.

I’ve never settled into structure, or life as far as the reality of it.

It’s always black and white, And I’m always kneading it, wanting it to be malleable, to turn it in my hands like putty.

Some Feelings Never Go Away It’s that kind of hysteria like when you’re sitting in church at your father’s funeral, and someone leans in and whispers “Hey, do you want a chocolate Velamint?” and you laugh and laugh and can’t stop laughing, even though your dad has been cast in marble, laid out as cold as a pint of mint chocolate chip.

Cleaning House I stand Windex in fist in front of the mirror, studying the picture I make—all blurs, slouch, and imprecise lines.

I shoot three squirts in a vertical row, thinking how they look like puffs on a clown costume, and laugh at my image.

For the rest of the afternoon cleaning, I think of ways to improve my life.

Scary Monster

by Sean Walsh They send a letter to the grocery store saying that all the bread in the bakery has been poisoned. The bluish glow from the computer is the only light in the room as Thackery cuts out the letters from a stack of old magazines. In the living room, Thackery’s mom is watching an episode of a doctor show, the volume turned up so loud that every word of the dialog is audible from down the hall. Peter wears latex gloves as he pastes the letters onto a sheet of green construction paper. “Can they get your DNA from your breath?” he asks.

“No. Don’t be stupid,” Thackery says. Their feet are touching as they lie on the floor and Thackery leans over, breathing in Peter’s ear. It feels like a paintbrush on his ear and makes him shiver. They sign the letter Love, The Scary Monster.

In the morning, Peter’s brother is making scrambled eggs on the stove, the sleeves of his football jersey rolled up over his biceps. “Shit,” he says, poking it with a spatula.

Their mom rushes around, late for work. “Keys, keys, keys,” she says, rummaging through her purse. Peter is staring at the wood on the basement door, looking at the faces that form in the swirling grain, his Fruit Loops getting fat and soggy from the milk in his bowl. His brother waves his palm in front of Peter’s face and whistles. Peter blinks and his brother laughs as he pulls out his chair to sit down.

In geometry class, his seat is in the back corner, next to the sole window in the classroom. There is a tree right outside and its branches and leaves brush against the glass as a breeze blows. Ashley, the girl who sits in front of him turns occasionally turns around in her seat to look outside. “How does freedom look?” she asks. “Is the real world still out there?”

“It looks pretty nice,” he says. Sometimes he is not so sure about the answer to the second question. One day last week, he started to see time bend in front of him, the wisps of it like smoke, shifting into shapes other than the straight line that time was supposed to run in. The teacher’s voice became a hum of mashed syllables. He started sweating and panicking at his desk, certain that the bell to end class would never ring, that time would never reach 11:50, and that he would be stuck in that classroom forever.

He began to think that he was having a dream. “Wake up, wake up,” he said silently to himself, mouthing the words, but it didn’t work. When the bell rang at 11:50, he had to tell himself that it was real and that he needed to move his muscles and get up.

After school he walks to the gas station where Thackery is waiting in his car. Thackery got kicked out of

school last April, this should have been his senior year. “It was in the paper,” he says.

“Yeah? That’s cool.”

“It didn’t say anything about the note though. Just that there was a threat.” Peter can tell that he is disappointed. “We have to do something else soon.”

“Like what?”

“I’m working on it.”

In the dim light of Thackery’s bedroom, they lie on his bed next to one another, Peter on his back and Thackery on his stomach. Thackery’s mom is still at work. Thackery is talking about a dream he had the night before where he strangled his mom’s cat. “It bit me and I had it on the floor with my hands around its neck, but then it looked at me and it had these big cartoon eyes. They were huge. And I felt bad so I let it go.” He sounds angry when he says the last part, like it annoys him that he felt bad.

“What kind of dreams do you have?” he asks Peter.

“I don’t know,” Peter says. “I can never remember them.”

“You have to remember something. Really, not at all?”

“No.” “Oh.” Thackery nods like he knows Peter is lying.

Peter remembers a dream he used to have repeatedly as a kid, where he was stuck in a field with tall trees all around.

It was dark out, and the leaves on the trees glowed a dark green like something nuclear. He would walk around—he could never get his legs to run—and the trees would change size as he walked so he could never be sure how far away they were, but he never reached them.

Peter first saw Thackery at a cookout the summer before, one he had gone to with his brother. It was hot out,

one of the days where the road looked blurry in the distance. Thackery had been sitting in a lawn chair with a blonde girl on his lap. Her arm was around his narrow shoulders and he was resting a beer on her bare thigh. At first glance, Peter assumed that Thackery must be his age, fifteen, or even younger. It wasn’t until a week later, when Thackery told him, that Peter found out he was eighteen.

Even sitting down Peter could tell he was short, about five foot four.

Later in the evening he came up to Peter and offered him a beer from the cooler. “Aren’t you going to have one?

It’ll cool you down.” Peter took the beer and said thanks, even though he didn’t want it. His brother had glanced over at them with a look of mild interest.

A few days later Peter had been riding his bike on the shoulder of the road when Thackery had pulled up next to him in his car, the window down. “Get in,” he said.

“What for?” Peter asked.

“Just get in,” Thackery said.

No one ever told Peter what to do like that. He got in.

Peter didn’t know whose car it was. It didn’t matter.

He brings the baseball bat down and the glass smashes. The pattern is like a spider web glistening in the sun. He knocks off the mirror and small shards of glass fall onto the pavement, the negative space around them spells out a word. Numbered. What’s numbered? What does he need to look for? Thackery slides a construction paper note under the windshield wiper. There is a bomb in this car. It will explode if turned on. Love, The Scary Monster.

They are running. The burn in Peter’s chest feels good, like a fire clearing away dead weeds. In Thackery’s car his body is shaking. Even his organs are vibrating, inside of his body, encased in their liquid. It is an entirely new sensation for him. “That was awesome,” he says,

punching Thackery on the arm. He rolls down the window and screams into the night as they drive.

“Holy shit. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

Thackery is laughing.

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me.”

He likes it when Thackery gets rough. In the backseat he knocks his head against the windows while Thackery is kissing him, his teeth on his lower lip and his fingers in the space between his skin and the waistband of his pants. Tomorrow he’ll have bruises the color of a plum.

Walking into school, he passes by a bus numbered ninety-five. In history class they are starting chapter five, which begins on page sixty-five of the textbook. Five is a very slippery number, starting out as straight lines and corners before turning into a curve. Peter wonders what five would feel like in his hand. Imagining it makes him

shudder and feel like something bad is coming, a flood of water to fill his lungs. Ashley comes up behind him in the hallway and zips an open compartment on his backpack closed. “Thanks,” he says. “I always forget.” She smiles at him. “No problem.”

At night he cannot sleep. He tosses and turns, pulling the sheets out from where they are tucked under the mattress. Even the blue light from his lava lamp doesn't help. He thinks about the number five, two ends like hooks that can dig into your skin. The green numbers of his alarm clock say 3:34 and he closes his eyes and counts the seconds, holding his breath until it is 3:36.

They are outside of the house, a log cabin in the woods. Peter has been past here before and always thought it looked like something in a storybook. With a rock, Thackery breaks the window over the front door. He reaches inside and unlocks it. The shards of glass are on the

porch but Peter doesn’t have time to see if they are saying anything because Thackery pulls him inside. Peter has a note in his pocket. This house is mine now, it says, Get out before noon. Love, the Scary Monster. Thackery knows the people who live here, they are related to him somehow, and he is looking for something, a key, but Peter doesn’t really care why and doesn’t ask about it. It doesn’t matter to him; it is all so far away. Thackery is searching through a wooden box on the counter, the rock still in his hand.

“This is stupid, hurry up,” Peter says, but he is not sure if the words have actually come out of his mouth, or whether they have gotten stuck in a web of air molecules because Thackery does not respond.

Thackery walks into the living room and kicks the TV. It falls onto the wooden floor with a crash. The noise makes Peter jump and he hears footsteps. There is an old man standing in the doorway to the hall wearing pajamas and a t-shirt. He says something, but his voice is so low and

coated with sleep that Peter cannot hear. Thackery takes the rock and hits the old man in the head, the sound of it like a baseball bat connecting with a ball.

Peter is not sure whether he sees blood or imagines it. They are running through the trees, a branch scratching his cheek. “Why did you do that?” he asks in the car.

“Just shut up,” Thackery says. “I didn’t know he was going to be there.”

“We forgot the note.”

“Who gives a shit about the note?” Thackery says.

Peter is shaking again, but this time it is like a sickness.

In the bathroom he holds the note over the sink and burns it the best he can with a lighter. He balls the rest of it up and throws it in a trashcan on his way to school. After

school he does not meet Thackery. Thackery calls him at his house that night, which has never happened before.

Where were you?” he asks.

“I went home.”

“Why didn’t you meet me? If you’re mad at me, okay, but don’t be an asshole. Don’t hate me.” Peter doesn’t say anything. “Peter?” Thackery says.

“I don’t know you,” he says. “Don’t call me anymore.” He can still hear Thackery’s voice as he pulls the phone away from his ear, tinny and distant.

In the hallway at school Ashley says hello to him, but he doesn't answer. He thinks that if he speaks no one would be able to hear him. In class he cannot sit still. It is pointless for him to be there. He gets up and walks out, heading for the exit. If the teacher says anything to him he does not hear. The halls are usually familiar but seem to have changed overnight, and he cannot find his way to the

door that leads outside. All he wants is to breathe fresh air and be blinded by the sunlight. He feels like he is at the edge of everything, a waterfall below, the sound of it crashing down is a deafening static. He wishes that he could go back to that dream, the one with the nuclear trees, and walk through that field again. Then he would know that he was not afraid anymore.

Selected Poems by Ray Succre To Stir the Blood The folks come out, but altered, into the gray again, a gunmetal sky by which the folks are so changeable in scope, any-shapes chipped from grim slate; down; thin. After another day, the sky’s entirety holds but one contusion, driven slow, and all the buzzes come out for the pollen, and again the folks come out, stand underneath, now in sunlight, as the bay laps at rock in vivid rounds and the looking begins, as the storefronts front, as commerce again reaches third date.

The sunlight. Most recent. The display.

The reach of town expands, and soon enough, has increased to every distant edge.

Silent Ferocious Past midnight I was drawn out into a road’s division and stood beneath the red of an implacable stoplight.

Alone, I was displaced, and errant, and enormous.

All ended at my feet there, so I stayed.

Soon, however, when I became a creature beneath volt-blooded green, and the critical shadows at my block-ends were a kingdom of emerald phantoms, all began elsewhere, so I left.

Either color, no one came; without recognition, power seemed a child’s thought.

I went home between night and day.

Neither would claim me.

They offered lights that would only serve me when I was not with myself.

Poppies The golden poppy that infiltrates and destroys natives.

The blue poppy that makes for the trouble-trade.

The red poppy stealing from concrete in the bible-belt.

The hot poppy that grows in the brainpan.

There are decent indecencies to fret over, expanses of gorse to trudge through, an entire upper stratosphere to hear out, and the please-like-thank-you, and the unhappy-get-leave-life, and the clean-god-millennial-staff, of one another.

In time, after sweetness, hearts ripped open like cabbages, we will find every conclave of our ingenuity, and tumble ourselves into a never-ending flinch.

But first there are these poppies.

A Play for the Ear One is written in the ear, the other, the mouth, only a difference of north or south, only flame and filament, sewn in the chance of well-bloused markets, a sidelong glance.

In eager jumps, varied strums, this business of sending out words, is a beast and a play for the ear, is a mess all tongues and drums.

We, The Survivors

by Jason Lea I Ownerhaven’t cried since my parents separated.

This story isn’t about my parents. It’s about a meeting. I duck my head to avoid a low-hanging rafter and enter the room. It usually serves as a Sunday School classroom for the Portsmouth United Methodist Church. It has been decorated for Christmas. Parishioners have set up three rows of folding tables and covered them in red, white and green plastic tablecloths. Somebody thoughtful left tissues on each of the tables.

I arrive early. My friend, Ricky, does not. Without Ricky, I have no reason to be here. A portly woman with a subtle limp approaches. She doesn’t know me, but she hugs me anyhow.

“First meeting?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m here for a friend.”

I want to explain quickly, so she doesn’t expend any unearned sympathy on me.

She smiles and replies, “That’s good of you. Sit wherever you like.”

I choose an empty corner. I think people will be more likely to leave me alone if I separate myself. They do not. Seemingly, every person who comes into the room makes a point of introducing themselves. They ask my name but don’t push for details.

“Just here for a friend” becomes my refrain. “Not for me, just here for a friend.”

Almost everyone smiles. One old man with a Yosemite Sam mustache sneers. His expression says, “You haven’t felt our pain. You don’t belong here. You’re just a voyeur.” Then, he realizes what his face is doing and replaces it with an insincere smile. I prefer the sneer. If I were in his situation, I wouldn’t like me either.

The minute hand approaches the 12 and still no Ricky. He’s going to stand me up, I think. He’s really going to stand me up. He asks me to be here and, then, blows me

off. I missed an office Christmas party for this. Not that I wanted to go to the party. But, still, it’s the principle.

I look at the program and recognize some of the names. They were kids I had read about in the newspaper— car crashes, overdoses and one soldier who had died in Afghanistan when a helicopter malfunctioned. I try to feel bad when I see three kids in the program with the same last name. It’s an unusual surname, Benitez, so they probably came from the same family.

A woman in a red sweater carries a clipboard and asks everyone to write the name of their child.

“Just here for a friend,” I say when she comes to me.

“We’re all here for our friends,” she says, smiling.

The portly woman approaches a lectern with a red ribbon tied in front. She taps on the microphone a couple of times to get everyone’s attention.

“We’re going to start a few minutes early,” she says, still smiling, but her eyes are wet.

They begin with the credo.

“We have suffered a grief that most people will never know,” she starts.

“We are not alone. We are among friends,” everyone replies.

I was there in the hospital—offered to hold the camcorder but Angelica decided that she didn’t want me to see her vagina. I would have been in the room. Instead, I waited in the lobby and was the first person they told. I would have been the godfather. I wanted them to name her Aphrodite, but Ricky and Angelica settled for Sarah. I booed them when they told me that.

“You’ve doomed her to a life of mediocrity,” I warned them.

Ricky came out of the delivery room. In hindsight, I’m surprised it wasn’t the doctor. I figured Ricky would have needed to stay with Angelica. I knew it would be bad news, but I didn’t think it would be that. I figured Sarah would need a couple of weeks in the neonatal ICU and, then, a long, happy life.

Ricky didn’t say anything. He just grabbed me and started crying. I felt his tears on my neck and shoulder. I was embarrassed, not that Ricky was crying, but that I couldn’t join him. My goddaughter had just died. My best friend’s firstborn never took a breath outside of her mother, and I couldn’t muster a single drop of empathy.

We go to another room, the nave, where they play a video. It’s a slideshow of all the kids—a lot of yearbook shots, some senior pictures, at least one sonogram. A song plays in the background. I never heard it before. It talks about butterflies.

That’s when the crying begins in earnest. Some let a tear trickle down the cheek. Some bury their heads in their hands. I can’t hear them but I see their shoulders convulsing. One lady bawls—just straight up bawls—and I love her for it. She’s crying like Leo slipped off the Titanic.

She’s crying like Juliet just found the happy dagger.

She’s crying like she’s alone in the room. I try it. See if I can force a few tears.

I think about Sarah—not the actual Sarah— and I can’t get sad thinking about the tiny, lifeless body that never was. I think about Sarah if she had lived.

I picture a tow-headed tomgirl on the softball team.

She spits when she knows her mother isn’t watching and complains when she has to dress up. Then, she sees herself in the mirror wearing her nice clothes and likes the way they look.

I picture her telling a boy she loves him. She doesn’t believe it. She just wants to taste the words in her

mouth. The boy gets nervous and says he loves her too. She stifles a laugh at his expense.

I picture a girl getting ready for prom. She’s pretty, way too pretty for me and Ricky’s liking. We wish, silently but in unison, that she was less attractive. That way, she would date a nice boy, one who appreciated her, unlike the meathead who’s taking her to the dance.

I picture a car crash. The meathead had been drinking but insisted he could still drive. He runs into a tree. Sarah is thrown through the windshield, still wearing her prom dress. The meathead is unscratched. She dies before I can make it to the hospital.

It doesn’t work. The tears won’t come.

I hated their doctor. I hated how his sadness seemed genuine, but I knew he would wash his hands, eat lunch and not think about Sarah anymore. I understand that he can’t carry every tragedy with him—that would destroy

him—but I hated that he could witness the death of my goddaughter and not be destroyed. I also hated him because, if I ever saw his face again, he would remind me of Sarah. I hate everything about that day. I hate the song “Don’t Come Around Much Anymore” because it was playing in the waiting room. And I hate hating that song, because I used to love it.

That’s why Angelica hates me. She doesn’t say it.

She doesn’t need to. She used to like me. Now, we never exchange more than pleasantries. I wonder if Ricky and Angelica hate each other, also.

Ricky arrives seconds before the candle-lighting ceremony. He writes his name on the list and sits next to me. I don’t ask him where he’s been. That’s not my business.

His eyes are already red. He probably cried in the car. I envy him, but only for a moment.

The portly woman begins to read from the list. As she says each child’s name, the family stands, lights their candles and joins a circle around the periphery of the room.

With each name, the circle grows bigger and the tables seem emptier. I soon realize that everyone will be standing.

Everybody lost someone, except for me.

The table dwellers dwindle and, with each name, I feel more alone.

Sarah is the final child mentioned, because Ricky was the last to arrive. He stands and looks to see if I will join him. I shake my head. I haven’t earned it.

He takes a candle, lights it and joins the circle.

“Take a moment to reflect,” the portly woman says.

I gaze around the circle and realize many of the people are staring at me. Some have their eyes closed, lost in their thoughts. But just as many are wondering why I’m still sitting. They want to know what I’m doing here. Or maybe it’s all in my head, and only the mustached man is

looking at me. Either way, I feel as if I’m on a stage. I need to offer one grand gesture to justify my presence to these people. They each gave a child to gain admittance. I need to give them something.

I try.

I picture every sad thing I can think of: Sarah, 3legged puppies, African orphans, my parents, every parent in the world who had to bury their child.

But no tears come.

And that makes me want to cry.

Dirty Laundry by Sanchari Sur

Inertia

by Alejandra Taylor Dad threw the chair before Meera packed. It didn’t break like I thought it would—just bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor, made me start crying in a way that scared me: these huge, heaving sobs, my face screwed up so tight, and Meera said, “Let’s just go upstairs for a minute, okay?”

We took them two at a time, her hand wrapped tightly in mine, and then I sat on the edge of her bed gasping for breath, watching her stuff underwear into a duffel bag, determination smeared across her face.

“But you’re just seventeen,” I whispered, and when she stopped to look up at me, her hands were trembling.

“That’s old enough,” she said finally, tucking a paperback into one of the side pockets. “You’ll see in a few years, Pen. It’ll be different for you.” Downstairs, Dad’s voice was crescendoing, and Mom’s was getting shriller. I knew Archer had to be awake by now, but as much as I wanted to

go to him and run a hand across his forehead, convince him in practiced whispers that everything was a bad dream, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even reach a hand out to stop my sister as she hauled the duffle bag over her shoulder, stooped to kiss me on the cheek, and headed for the door.

“Take care of Archer for me,” she said, and I wanted to start crying again, but everything was frozen, paused, static.

Five minutes later, Mom was screaming, her voice stretched and thin, cracking on every other word. She kept trying to hush herself, pausing to listen for Archer or me on the stairs, but I knew Archer was hiding on the landing at this point, peering through the thin wooden bars down to the kitchen. I stayed in Meera’s room and let their voices waft up through the vents.

I breathed it in like cigarette smoke.

It was the fuckingschool, again—Dad spat it out that way, wondering who Meera thought she was, applying to that fuckingschool, getting admitted to that

fuckingschool, finding a scholarship for that fuckingschool.

He always said it the same way, through a clenched jaw, his eyes narrow and mean. It made me shake, Mom cry, Asher yell—but Meera never even seemed to notice. She was stone. Part of me wondered if she was naturally that way, or if living in this house had hardened her, piece by piece.

“And if you think I’m paying for a goddamned plane ticket—” “I don’t want your money, Pop.” Meera’s voice was even. “I don’t need it. I don’t need your blessing. I don’t need you.” A pause. “I’ll write you, Mom. I’ll call you and Penny and Archer every week. It’s going to be fine.”

That’s when Mom started screaming again, and the crash downstairs shuddered the wooden frame of the bed and my heart bottomed out and Archer burst in yelling for me to come now, hurry, please, Daddy’s crazy—and in the next breath, I was in the kitchen swinging the baseball bat

from the hallway closet at my father’s legs, and my mother kept repeating the same word over and over, and my sevenyear-old brother was watching it all from the stairs, and Meera wasn’t opening her eyes, crumpled against an upended chair, a duffle bag dropped somewhere near her feet.

* My sister taught me to smoke because she was bad at setting a good example, but also because she thought it was a life skill everyone needed.

“I know people are paranoid about lung cancer and everything,” she told me one night from her prime position on the roof outside my window, propped against grubby tile and the slant of a tree branch, “but the way I look at it, we’re all going. Some of us faster than others, yeah, but everyone’s got an expiration date. I could do everything right and I’d still find a way to fuck it up eventually, so I

might as well enjoy something along the way. You should, too. People hate girls who don’t have vices.” I suspected people hated girls for plenty of reasons, if my own experience was anything to go by, but Meera knew more about the world beyond the craggy edge of our farm than I did. Sometimes, I snuck into town after school and watched the other kids walk home or get off the bus with their friends or try to scrape up enough cash to buy slushies at the 7-11, and I wished I could be a part of it, melt into their world, evaporate into the normalcy of them.

Meera would always find me, buy a pack of cigarettes, and then walk me home, smoking one after another like she was drowning. The day Dad got lazy and gave me a black eye, she started handing them to me. It tasted better than the lies I’d fed teachers all day about how hard a fastball my brother could throw. It also seemed like if I smoked it as if I knew what I was doing, Meera might think I could handle my fights on my own, might stop throwing herself in front

of me every time I set Dad off. My black eye was an anomaly. He’d been more careful with her: only a broken rib, but still. She had her own problems.

Miraculously, I didn’t so much as cough on the first drag, and Meera raised a brow at me.

“Aren’t you a little young to be a smoker?” she asked.

“Only because my sister is such a bad influence.” I took another drag, imagining that with practice, I could look like I was enjoying it. “This is good.”

Meera snorted. “You’re full of shit. Cigarettes aren’t good.

They taste like hot, acrid death.”

“Then why do you keep smoking?” I said. She paused for a moment, exhaled a thoughtful mouthful up into the darkening sky. We were on the long road back to our farm, only about half a mile away. The evergreens surrounding us were jagged spikes against the haze of clouds, and walking beneath them, I felt infinitely insignificant, as if no matter what happened, I would never

make it to up to the farm, never force myself off the gravel, out from under the pine needles.

“I smoke because it makes me feel vulnerable,” Meera told me. “It makes me feel like one day, I’ll crack apart, just like the rest of them.” She tossed her cigarette to the ground, crunched it under her heel, and took a few long steps in front of me. She tried not to limp the rest of the way, pretending that her rib wasn’t a knife scraping against her insides. My eye was throbbing, pulsing ever so slightly every time I inhaled; my right hand was covered in ash.

Meera threw the pack of cigarettes away into the woods before we got to the house. I found it later that night with a flashlight, crouching along the soft ground so that my feet sank beneath the needles into the dry dirt. I caught sight of the blue label by chance, my light gleaming off of a shiny bit on the logo, and I scrambled to make sure she still had five left. I snuck the pack into the pocket of her flannel sweatshirt at midnight, settling it in next to her favorite

fluorescent green lighter. Just in case she needed to feel like me one more time. * The letters started coming in February, but for a while, it seemed like Meera wasn’t going to answer them.

New York, California, Boston, Michigan, London—I traced a finger over each return address, trying to memorize the weight of it, trying to get a feel for the place that would swallow my sister whole. She made it my job to get the mail each day so it was less suspicious, and told me anytime something came from out of state, I was to hide it under my shirt, give the bills to Daddy, and hand it to her later, after lights out. It was the only way she could be sure he didn’t know about the applications. If he had known, there would have been more broken ribs. Maybe one of Archer’s, or mine, just because it was the only way he could get Meera to scream.

When I read the letters myself, they told me my sister was brilliant. I’d known this, of course: she had read since she was three, Mom said, and even before that, she could spell. Meera also always had thick college textbooks lying around, bought secondhand somewhere, boasting titles like Principles of Quantum Mechanics or, Transport Theory and Statistical Physics. Whenever I glimpsed grades from school, they were A’s. These letters, though— they described a girl who could do anything, a girl with a mind that not just one or two, but five Ivy League universities would pay good money for. It was halfway through her acceptance letter to Oxford that I understood she would never come back to me again.

That night, when Dad was drinking another Coors and Mom was asleep, I snuck into Archer’s room and told him our sister would be leaving. He stared at me solemnly from under the faded Batman sheets, and I instantly wanted to take it back. He was too young to understand, too young

to have it rest upon his bruised and narrow shoulders. Too young to keep his mouth shut.

“I know,” he whispered. “Don’t you wish we were going with her, Penny?”

“Don’t tell Daddy,” I said, and crawled under the covers with him, promising myself I’d take him with me when I followed her. * July fourth meant Daddy was fishing and Mom was asleep, so Meera stole into my room at 8:30 that night with Archer on her back and told me we were going for a drive.

The old pick-up truck Daddy used for navigating the dirt roads that snaked along our property hardly went more than forty-five on its best day, but when Meera drove, it seemed effortless, like we were gliding on silk. Archer and I lay in the bed of the truck, the road rising up smoothly beneath our backs, arms linked under an itchy wool blanket, and watched the fireworks rip the sky open. A shower of gold

scarlet silver blue, and the enormous sound echoing out over the valley, enveloping us along with the steady hum of the rumbling wheels, and the faint scent of gunpowder coming down from somewhere near the creek, and Meera pushing the accelerator as fast as it would go—I closed my eyes and tried to bottle the feeling, the sense that this moment would be snagged in time, somehow, caught forever in the fields past the barn, untouchable and flawless.

Meera braked hard, but we didn’t even notice the truck had stopped, our eyes glued to the lights in the sky.

Archer brought his hands up over his ears and wrinkled his nose, but his smile was so wide, it almost hurt to look at him. Our sister clambered in between us, put an arm around each of us, and held us there long after the show had stopped and the dark seemed to settle in for good.

“I won’t be far away at all,” she told us, voice carrying in the empty space. “Just a plane ride away. It’s a

beautiful city, London. The best one. You guys would love it there.”

“It’s a different country, Meera,” I said. “You’re leaving us for a goddamned different continent, even.”

“Yeah, I am,” she said, and she didn’t sound the tiniest bit sorry. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, you’ll have to work harder than that.”

“I don’t want you to be guilty. I want you to take me with you.”

“Penny.” Her voice was suddenly thousands of years old—cobwebbed, rusty.

“Don’t fight,” Archer whispered, turning his face into the crook of Meera’s arm. She raised her eyebrows at me over the top of his head, her dark hair covering half of her face.

“It’s a plane ride away,” she repeated softly, leaning down to kiss the top of Archer’s head. “They’ll never find us.”

When the two of them fell asleep, I tried to drift off, too, snug between them in the back of the old truck, safe, for a handful of hours. Somewhere in the distance, a series of firecrackers exploded for the last time, the insistent poppop-pops fading into nothingness. * One AM, July fifth: after rifling through my room, trying to figure out where we could have got to for so long, Daddy found the Oxford letter under my mattress. Mom didn’t stop crying for a solid week. * When your sister isn’t moving and your father is howling in pain on the ground and your mother won’t stop saying “no” and you know that somewhere, your little brother is no longer a child, everything becomes incredibly urgent. It’s not even about fear, or bravery, or survival. It’s about love.

The first thing I did was take Archer outside and put him in the truck, buckle him in tightly, fix his jacket, and

tell him to close his eyes and count to one hundred. The next thing I did was bend down towards Meera’s shallow but persistent breath, and then haul her out to the car, her duffle in tow. She moaned as I strapped her in beside Archer, but he instantly stopped counting just shy of eighty-four, reaching out for her.

“You’re okay, you’re just fine.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re okay, Meera, I know it, I know you are.”

Back in the kitchen, I stared down at my father, this monster, this wounded villain of fairy tale proportions, and I wanted to hold him, and I wanted him to cry, and I wanted to tell him he was okay, he was just fine, until the sun started seeping in through the window and the shadow of whoever he’d become melted away. I wanted my mother to put me to bed, and I wanted to be fourteen years old, and not a day, minute, second older.

But my mother wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t speak to me, and my father was starting to get to his feet,

his voice growing steadier by the second, and my sister had a plane to catch in two days, and my brother deserved whatever frayed remnants of childhood he had left, so I grabbed the keys from the table, and ran to the truck faster than Daddy could limp, shoved the keys into the ignition, and leaned on the gas pedal.

“Do you know how to drive?” Archer asked, his arms wrapped firmly around our sister.

“I’ll learn,” I assured him as we hurtled down the road, the steering wheel vibrating beneath my hands as the needle on the speedometer climbed ever-so-slightly past fifty. Meera coughed.

“Faster, Penny,” she mumbled, reaching towards my hand. “Drive faster.”

The three of us clung to each other, the truck roared along, and somewhere ahead I swore I could see an empty highway, stretching into the unending edge of the horizon.

A Conversation with Jaime Reed: Author of Living Violet

BF: Your first novel, Living Violet (Book 1 in The Cambion Chronicles) released at the end of last year.

How (if at all) has your life changed since being published?

JR: Surprisingly, not much has changed. I still function normally and go to the same places I always do. I don’t know why I thought the second the book hit the shelves I would get mobbed in the grocery store or have paparazzi camped out in front of my house. My imagination was always more exciting than reality.

BF: Living Violet is, at times, a satire of the paranormal romances that are currently on bookshelves. There are quite a bit of laugh-out-loud moments, as well as parts

that are action-packed and scary. How were you able to maintain all of these elements in one story?

JR: Lots of coffee. I’m a strong believer in humor as a buffer for stressful situations. And the main character, Samara, uses sarcasm as a defense mechanism. It’s not always easy to keep the balance between drama, humor, and horror. But the key is to keep the character as real as possible, capture REAL reactions to an unusual circumstance. Every kid has seen at least one monster movie and knows how things can go bad. I’ve noticed that in some paranormal books the character acts as though he/she has never seen a movie in their life and just stares wide-eyed and all common sense flies out the window.

Common sense equals humor when done right.

BF: While there is most definitely a plot in Living Violet, I felt like the protagonist, Samara and her love interest,

Caleb, were personal friends of mine. When drafting a story, do you usually focus on the characters or the plot first?

JR: That’s a tough one. Plot is usually the last thing I focus on. The first thing is the “what if� question. What if a guy at your job is a supernatural chick magnet? What do you do when he wants you? I usually start off with simple questions then let the characters shape the story as it goes and let their personalities and decision steer the story.

Premise, character, and plot are the order, but then eventually fold into each other. A beautiful thing when it happens, full of surprises and the outcome can change at any time. But starting out with a plot list stunts that process for me.

BF: It seems for YA authors especially, social media is a popular way to promote your books. You maintain both

a blog and a Twitter account. How do you balance writing with updating your social media accounts?

JR: It’s not easy. I’m generally a shy person and now I have to drag myself out there for the world to see. Not a fun transition, but I do my best. I try to discipline myself, take a few minutes a day to post things and update a status, but when I get into full writing mode, everything goes on hold.

BF: Every writer that’s serious about being published knows that rejection is part of the process. Can you share your experience with rejection? Was there ever a moment when you felt like giving up? What kept you going?

JR: I’ve mentioned on other posts about my red marker rejection. I got my query letter sent back to me with “Not what I’m looking for” written across the page in marker.

That was a serious burn, but I just shrugged it off and kept writing. That’s all you can do if the ideas won’t let you sleep. I believe the story and the world I created is what kept me sane. Kinda like, “write the next chapter. You can freak out later. Just one more chapter.”

BF: You’re in a small group of African-American YA authors. How important is it for you to portray diversity in your novels?

JR: It’s very important. I can’t stress it enough, but I don’t want to be a nag or the militant black fist in the air, either.

Literature should reflect real life as much as possible. Last time I checked, the real world consisted of all walks of life, from ethnic backgrounds, religious sexual orientation, handicaps, etc. they all need a place and to be represented properly, not as a form of placation or comedy relief. Just having one type of person in books makes for very shallow

and narrow-minded thinking, and we have enough of that in the world.

BF: What is your favorite part of the writing process?

Your least favorite?

JR: I’m not a big fan of the actual writing part. I’m lazy by nature and I suck at typing. I have the ideas in my head, but that means I have to get out of bed, turn on my computer and type all that mess. Like, the whole thing. That interferes with my idleness tremendously, but it’s such a rush when that first draft is complete. The groundwork has been laid and that’s where the fun can begin. I look forward to the editing part. I can moved things around and pay more attention to details. I love it.

BF: When I interviewed you on my blog last year, you mentioned that some of your favorite authors were men

(Cormac McCarthy, Chuck Palahniuk, etc.). Have you had any recent favorites since then?

JR: Not really. I’m sure there are, but none come to mind right this second, though that might change when I do my month-long reading marathon.

BF: Can you give us any hints about what we can expect in Book 2 of The Cambion Chronicles, Burning Emerald?

JR: This installment has a lot more “Oh Snap!” moments and it takes a darker turn as far as Samara’s new responsibility. Sam and Caleb’s relationship grows stronger and they explore the consequences of that. As satire goes, I take an interesting jab at love triangle tropes and twist them around for my own sick amusement, which leads to an ending that no one expects.

BF: Finally, are you working on any other stories outside of The Cambion Chronicles? If so, are they still paranormal YA, or have you written in other genres?

JR: I really don’t know. I’m going to relax for a few weeks and brainstorm. I have a tiny book of cool ideas; I might grab one of those. I want to do a vampire book sooo bad, but that’s an emphatic ‘hell no’ until the craze dies down.

I’m not a fan of contemporary books, but I wouldn’t rule it out completely if the plot is weird enough. I don’t know, I guess I’m just comfortable with the weird. Adult books kinda bore me for the most part, so I’m sticking with YA for a while.

Contributors: Cover Artist: Daniel Dysson is the pen name of a graphic artist recently turned to author of Science Fiction novels.

His graphics and stories are bedded firmly in reality. It is not his problem that people have no idea what reality is.

The purpose of his writing is to write entertaining stories. If these allow new options in awareness to readers, then so much the better. As a visual artist, his goal is to provoke awareness, visual awareness that exceeds the limits of those things that impede visual awareness.

About the cover art: The image of the flying boats in the room through the window is an obvious extension of Rene Magritte's gift to visual awareness. Of all the artists influenced by the new Freudian efforts on awareness of the era, Daniel holds Magritte as a personal treasure. With the others, there seems to be either a darkness or a superficiality that Magritte stands free of.

The image was created in response to a small competition in the UK and was a totally fun task for Daniel’s studio.

Whether he has captured the humor and heart he wished is another matter.

Trina Gaynon volunteers with WriteGirl, an organization in Los Angeles providing workshops and mentors for high school girls interested in writing. She also works with an adult literacy program. Her poems appear in the anthologies Bombshells and Knocking at the Door, as well as numerous journals including Natural Bridge, Reed and the final issue of Runes.

Diane D. Gillette has an MFA from Emerson College, a day job teaching some really great students, and two demanding cats. Her short fiction has appeared in such journals as Hobart, Sniplits, Inch, flashquake, and Press 1.

She is also an Assistant Managing Editor at Chicago Quarterly Review. When she is not busy enjoying Chicago with the love of her life, she is hard at work on her first novel. For more of her work or to contact her, please visit www.digillette.com.

Sarah Goncalves graduated from St. John’s University with a Master's Degree in English. In 2009 she published a personal collection of poems, The Unseen Face, as part of the Young Poets Mentoring Program on Long Island. At St. John’s, she was actively involved in the Chappell Players Theater Group, having written and produced several sketch-comedy and one-act shows in addition to performing on stage. Sarah currently resides in New York where she continues to write fiction, most of which contain at least one good Star Wars reference. You can also follow her on Twitter at @SassyFrassyG. Carol Hornak, a former elementary and preschool teacher, currently writes poetry and stories ranging from flash to novella, and is nearing completion of a novel. She had poems published in The Battered Suitcase and The Ranfurly Review, a short story in Liquid Imagination and has a short story forthcoming on the website of Abandoned Towers.

Jason Lea is the local editor of Mentor Patch, a news web site in Ohio. He spends a lot of time covering cute events at local schools and talking to people on the worst days of

their lives. He prefers the school stuff. In his free time, he also likes to write fiction. He's married to a woman who is too good to him.

Mary F. Lee, poet, is also a professional saxophonist/singer, saxophone/clarinet instructor, mother of four sons and works at an assisted living residence. She writes non-fiction articles for two magazines published in Duluth, MN, The Woman Today and Moms and Dads Today. Her poetry has appeared in Bemidji State University’s Dust and Fire Women’s Anthology; The Minnetonka Review’s inaugural issue; a limerick in the Humor Issue of Poetry; The Reader Weekly; Clean Sheets (online); and one poem is featured on tenor sax great, Ernie Watts’ website. An excerpt of that poem was featured in an ad campaign for Julius Keilworth Saxophones in 2004. In 2007 she was honored to be chosen as one of twelve to study with Ted Kooser at University of Minnesota Duluth's Summer Writing Workshop.

Jennifer Lenhardt currently resides in the North West near Portland, Oregon where she frequents many of the local coffee shops for inspiration. A lover of words, you will often find her on a daily basis with pen in hand, as she believes, with all arts, writing is as much a discipline as it is an inspiration. Her most recent published work Yellow Gold can be found in Alliterati Magazine, Issue Five. For more information about the author and her current works go to jenniferlenhardt.com.

Michael Constantine McConnell's poems, palindromes, and short stories have been published or are forthcoming in such magazines and anthologies as Father Grimm's

Storybook and Electric Velocipede. His personal essay, Alleys, from the anthology Solace in So Many Words, has been nominated for a 2011 Pushcart Prize. A retired furniture mover and former Experimental Word Forms Editor for Farrago’s Wainscot, Michael currently teaches various levels of college writing and sings in raucous Scots/Irish bands after sundown.

Frank Scozzari lives in Nipomo, California, a small town on the central coast. He is an avid traveler, has made several trips to Africa, and once climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro the highest point in Africa. His fiction has previously appeared in various literary journals including The Kenyon Review, South Dakota Review, Roanoke Review, Pacific Review, Reed Magazine, Eureka Literary Magazine, The MacGuffin, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Chrysalis Reader, Reader’s Break Short Story Anthology, and many others. He has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has received various literary awards including winner of the National Writers Association Annual Short Story Contest. His stories have been featured in ‘Speaking of Stories,’ Santa Barbara’s preeminent literary theater.

Sagirah Shahid is a 22-year-old English major with concentrations in American Racial and Multicultural Studies, and Africa and the Americas at St. Olaf College in Northfield MN. She was born and raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota and grew up loving spoken word and classical Arabic poetry. Sagirah was a nominee for the AWP Intro Journal Awards in 2012 for her poem “Dummy”. She has an upcoming publication of her poem “Boy” in the St. Olaf literary magazine, The Quarry and Dummy will also be published in the St. Olaf interdisciplinary journal of

existentialism, The Reed. She turns 23-years-old on May 22nd and will graduate from St. Olaf on May 25th, Devon Sova has had poetry featured in Hazmat Review, The Aurorean, The Evening Street Review, and Shoots and Vines. She lives in Jackson, Michigan, with her amazing teenage son, and is represented by Jennie Goloboy of Red Sofa Literary. Please visit her website at www.devonsova.com.

Ray Succre is an undergraduate currently living on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has had poems published in Aesthetica, Poets and Artists, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008), Amphisbaena (2009), and A Fine Young Day (2012), are widely available in print, and Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press.

Sanchari Sur is a Bengali Canadian who was born in Calcutta, India. Her poetry, photography and short fiction have been published or are forthcoming in Map Literary, Carnival Magazine, Red River Review, Crack the Spine, Urban Shots -- Crossroads (India: Grey Oak/Westland, 2012) and elsewhere. Her short story, Those Sri Lankan Boys, was selected to be a part of Diaspora Dialogues Youth Mentoring Program in Toronto this year. You can find her at http://sursanchari.wordpress.com.

Alejandra Taylor is about to graduate from the University of Colorado at Boulder with a B.A. in English and a concentration in creative writing. Her work has previously appeared in Mad Swirl, The Fringe Magazine, Walkabout, and Bleeding Ink Anthology. She currently lives in Boulder with a twenty-two pound cat named Juno.

Sean Walsh has had fiction published in Avery Anthology, Bluestem, and The Citron Review. He lives in Maryland.

Grace Woodard is 14 years old and attends high school.

She plays volleyball and tennis competitively, and was in choir for 7 years. Grace started writing her poem, The Grandmother in her creative writing class and would like to thank her teacher for pushing her to submit her work.

Scott William Woods writes from the Connecticut shoreline. His short fiction has appeared in The MacGuffin, Blood and Thunder, and elsewhere. Visit his website at http://www.scottwilliamwoods.com.