Black Fox Literary Magazine Issue #6 by Black Fox

Editorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Note

Without further ado, we present to you the Fall Issue, number six! We must first apologize for the slight delay in the release. Like so many of you, we are also writers who work day jobs, in addition to all of life's other happenings. We're also doing National Novel Writing Month, so to say we're swamped is an understatement. We would like to thank or readers and our contributors for their patience and understanding.

Thank you to our cover artist for one of the most thought provoking covers we have ever had, and of course to Natalie Henry who puts our covers together in a very short space of time. Thank you to our guest author, Marsha Mooreâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;we are certain that everyone will enjoy this interview as we chose to bring attention to a genre that is quite unique. Of course none of this would be possible without or contributors who stick with us through our

lengthy decision process. Finally, we have to thank Helen Dring for providing fresh content on the BFLM Blog to help writers succeed.

As we begin to wrap up the year and move into a new one, we hope to keep moving the magazine forward by providing outstanding content and quality advice for writers. Be on the lookout for our second annual contest announcement. We appreciate all of the support we've received and if you're a writer, keep writing, keep believing and keep dreaming.

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 and women’s fiction in hopes to have a novel 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 PhD degree. Her stories have appeared in The Scarlet Sound, Blink-Ink and The Rusty Nail. 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.

Fiction Glissando by John Abbott……………………………….7 Fort Pierce by John Clark……………………………….15 No. 7 by David Frentrop………………………………...19 A Glutton for Punishment……………………………….33 When They Came for Frank Azalea by Andrew Sullivan 42 Rabbit Cage by Justin Bond……………………………...49 Kitchen Magic…………………………………………....65

Poetry Angel Years by Meghan Jusczak……………………….12 Surprise by D.M Aderibigbe …………………………....18 A Flower She Picked by Danny P. Barbare……………..31 Selected Poems from Mark Mitchell…………………….39 Guardian Angel by Stephanie Walter…………………....48 The Furniture by Chris Fox……………………………....64 Short Affairs by Lauren Sartor…………………………..74

Contributor Corner An Interview with David Howard………………………75

Author Interview A Conversation with Marsha A. Moore, author of Enchanted Bookstore Legends………………..85

Glissando By John Abbott

A true glissando, my piano teacher explains, is very difficult to distinguish from a portamento, especially depending on the instrument one is playing. â&#x20AC;&#x153;The distinction becomes even more problematic when one factors in the discrete glissando.â&#x20AC;? Wes pronounces glissando without really resting on any syllable. I know that if I ask him a question, like say what is the origin of the word? then I can probably get through the entire lesson without actually touching the piano, which gives me a great feeling of satisfaction knowing my dad is paying for me to hear some hotshot college student ramble on. But today I say nothing. Wes motions for me to move over on the piano bench. He clasps his hands together in his lap for about two seconds before setting them on the keys. In my six months

of taking lessons, he has never failed to complete this gesture. “I’ll demonstrate the techniques,” he says. “And then you tell me which one I am playing.” I nod and take a large breath that is filled with his scent: cologne that smells like hickory and French cigarettes. The smell is intensely masculine, almost too much to take in at once. My friend Lisa, who is right now waiting for her lesson, has told me the smell of his body is enough to make her wet. I have never told her I like it, too, or what it does to me. As Wes plays, I hardly listen to the sound. Instead, I watch his long, manicured fingers sweep across each key, applying the same light pressure to each one. I remember being surprised at the strength of those hands the couple times he rested his hand on my shoulder at the end of a lesson and told me, “Good lesson, Allen.” He tells me this

regardless of whether I have actually played anything or not, but he doesn’t always put his hand on my shoulder. When he is finished his right hand returns to middle C in a motion that seems thoughtless and automatic. “Well,” he says. “What do you think?” I bite down on my lower lip like I am really giving this some serious thought. “Was the first one the glissando?” He smiles, shakes his head, and stands up from the piano bench. He presses his hands down the front of his hounds-tooth patterned vest. “Let’s try something else,” he says. “How about you try them yourself?” I nod, place my fingers on the piano, and sweep them across the keys, fumbling to play notes quickly and evenly. I am too embarrassed to look at his face as he tells me I did fine. Wes has manners, a sense of decorum, which for him means he will never tell me I am probably not

meant to be a pianist. It also means that he respects boundaries and will probably wait to fuck Lisa until we finish senior year and she turns eighteen. I hear Wes move away from the bookshelf and turn to look at him. “Well, I think that’s all our time for today.” Even though he looks at me while speaking, it is like I’m not really there. Some remote corner of my mind suddenly comes alive, telling me to do or say something. Something impulsive like kissing him or telling him that he’d look even better if he let just a little stubble grow in. Instead I nod and look down at my hands, studying them, giving them a reproachful look; I am ashamed of these hands, and I’m sure if my hands were capable of independent thought, they would be ashamed of me. On my way out of the room I hear Wes asking me if I can send Lisa in.

“Sure,” I say, with my back to him and both hands pulled to my chest, middle fingers raised high. Lisa is waiting for her lesson in the makeshift waiting area composed of a chair placed near the door to Wes’s apartment. She is sitting with her legs crossed underneath her and one hand absently sweeping back the hair above her ear. “How was your lesson?” I say nothing and keep walking, trying not to think of the time I stayed around Wes’s to watch Lisa’s lesson. It doesn’t work, though. The image of his hands on her shoulder and their mouths together stays with me. Later that night, as I sit in front of the Casio my parents bought me for my birthday, I will practice every technique Wes has taught me except for how to let my hands guide me to where I really need to be.

Angel Years By Meghan Jusczak It was the summer of the rattling screen door, The dawn of my pubescence, When my baby hairs would curl ever so slightly at the nape of neck, And the neighborhood boys taught me to stop believing in gravity. Back then, it was like time didn’t exist, or matter— All of us had almost synchronized internal clocks, Knowing to meet at the stop sign at the end of the street At some precise moment, one older than time. And then, we would proceed. What did we do during those days? Oh, God, anything—we picked flowers and mutilated butterflies and Drank lemonade that we would pretend was a cross between pee and the sun, We wrote stories and we lived them. Each sunset, I would arrive at the back screen door, jig open its faulty lock and emerge In my kitchen like I was from a different world, Furry knees dirty and armpits smelling like overripe fruit. It was a summer of small moments That added up into one big one; It was a gauzy, hazy, sweaty dream. I remember lying on my back in the sprawling field behind a friend’s house, The crabgrass itching our backs with a hurry we ignored. I remember how The gnats formed halos around our hairlines like we were little angels.

Fort Pierce By John Clark Last night’s storm has littered the beach with driftwood and dead fish. My brothers and I run to the water’s edge, drop our Davy Crockett towels in a pile, and plunge into the surf. Screaming and splashing, we dive into one wave after another, moving farther and farther from the shore. Gulls cry above us, suspended between sea and sky by the offshore breeze. The sun watches over its domain. “Here comes one. It’s really big!” I call out. The sand is pulling away, sucking at my feet under the water. Kerry, Kevin and I are spread out across the breakers. When the wave swells and crests over my head I dive deep into the green. I stroke twice, expecting to break through to the other side as I have so many times this morning. Under water it grows dark. The surge pushes my body down hard, twisting me over in the shadows. My back

scrapes against shells broken on the ocean floor. I try to stroke upward but the undertow is too strong; the rip current drags me sideways. I don’t panic. I can stay under for a long time, almost a minute. I practiced doing that at camp last summer. Uncle Gordon taught me then not to struggle, so I relax, turning face-up. Green water is above; it’s peaceful down here. But when is the sea going to stop pulling me out? Dad told us a story once about the magician Houdini. Trapped under the ice in the Detroit River, he heard his mother’s voice calling him to a safe place. Is Dad calling to me? It’s darker again…too dark…air is squeezing from my chest. Kicking and pulling upward again I fight to the surface and— “There he is, Dad! There’s Alex!” Kevin is jumping up and down in the sand pointing to me. Sunlight blazes in my eyes and the sea air floods my lungs. My brothers and father are running along the shore. I

swim toward them and claw myself onto the beach, coughing and spitting saltwater and grit from my mouth. I lie there until they gain me and lift me from the sand. “Are you okay, Alex? Are you okay? You were under for so long we thought you had drowned!” I can’t talk yet. My father wraps me in a towel and pulls me to him. “Let’s go back to the house now, boys. That’s enough excitement for one day.” I shake my head. “I want to sit here a while. I’ll be up in a bit.” Kevin and Kerry look at me, cock their heads in unison, look at each other and start trudging up the beach toward Grandmother’s home. I step away from my father and sink into the sand, facing the ocean. I pull my knees up to my chest and cover my head with the towel. “Don’t stay down here too long, Alex,” my father

says. “Grandma will be worried when she hears what happened. And no more swimming, understand?” I peek up at him, nod and rest my chin on my knees. On the horizon the ocean sparkles with sunlight; a fishing boat is working in the distance. Close in, waves form long running rollers that swell, curl and break with thunderous proclamation into flashing white froth that sprints onto the dark wet sand. I’ve gone swimming in the ocean only a couple of times before, but never has it seemed this cruel to me. I’ve never experienced the ocean the way I did today, as something frightening. Today it has shown no regard for me, tossing me about without a thought to my safety. It doesn’t understand how I love being surrounded by it and doesn’t seem to care. I understand now that the ocean is an impersonal power, far stronger than I am. Even so, the sea has to answer to higher authority. I glance up at the sun. Yes, not only the sun, but also the

moon and together their gravitational pull. And I know who controls the sun and moon. As long as I remain close to that power, as long as I remain in touch with the movement of the sea around me and what is calling the sea to act the way it does—then I don’t have to be afraid. I can respect the sea for what it is: an elemental force far greater than I can ever control, but one that I can be with. That I want, always, to be with. The sun has warmed me through the towel. Gulls are gathering, pacing expectantly in front of me, but I have nothing to feed them. “No food here,” I tell them. I stand, brush the sand-shells from my legs and set off across the beach.

Surprise By D.M Aderibigbe

On the way to your dig that perishing night, your lips Were battered by cold, You said, you didn't know I was a poet, Even though you knew I wrote poems. I won't upbraid you for my faults, I've never drawn your smile, in a Shakespearean sonnet, I haven't sculpted your voluptuous figurine, in my narrative verses, Have I woven your scornful looks in avant-garde stanzas? I have decided to paint this surprise with my poetic pen, for you to know I'm a poetic Picasso

No. 7 By David Frentrop

I open the door and the transition from midday sun to dimly lit tavern has me temporarily blind. I blink and squint to make out Wendy sitting at a bar table. I walk over, take my hat off, and put it on the table. “Good afternoon, sweetheart,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Why did it take you four rings to answer your phone the last time I called?” Her voice rings in my ears with the same bullshit I always hear. “I was driving. Here. To see you.” “Whatever.” There is a group of elderly people sitting next to us talking about what time their grandkids woke them up. “She came running in the room and started jumping on the bed at 4:10 this morning,” says one old man.

“Baby Brandon started wailin’ and cryin’ at 2:30!” The little old woman says trying to top him. “How was your day?” I ask as pleasantly as possible. “I had work. How do you think it was?” “Of course. Stupid me for thinking you might not have been miserable today.” Wendy looks around the room and notices a woman sitting by herself at the bar. She’s wearing business casual clothing and chewing on the tip of a pen while she reads a magazine. She seems enveloped in the pages, as if they hold the answer to every existential question ever wondered. I haven’t seen Wendy look that interested in something since the Friends finale. “That bitch is ugly. She thinks she’s cute but she’s actually really hit,” she says, turning to me for agreement.

“You’re absolutely right, dear. I don’t know what ‘that bitch’ was thinking. Sitting there alone at the bar, minding her own business.” “So, you want to fight tonight? Is that why you came here?” Sitting alone takes a certain strength that Wendy hasn’t had in years. Maybe never. This stranger in solitude has such an allure to her. I’d love to chat her up, but there’s no way for me to get around the battle axe when she’s sitting right here. I approach the bar and order a double shot of whiskey. “What kind of whiskey?” the bartender asks. “No. 7.” I lean over to see what the lone woman is reading. The headline reads “Greenspan’s Secret Plan.” She’s reading The Economist and I know I’m already in love.

I come back the next night and am delighted to see the stranger is here alone again. She looks almost angelic sitting in a dark corner table with a lone light hanging over her, reading her magazine. “I’ll have a scotch and soda,” I tell the bartender and then subtly approach her table. “Good evening.” “Well. Good evening,” she says eyeing me up and down. I lay my signature line on her, “I’m Wolf.” “Hey, Wolf. I’m Lamb,” she says smoothly. “What are you reading?” “The Nation” “Really, you read The Nation?” I ask in slight disbelief. She holds it up for me to see. “Really, really, I do. Is that surprising?” “No. I mean yes! In the best possible way though.”

“Good answer. There’s a great editorial by Jeremy Scahill.” “I’ll have to check it out. What sort of books do you read?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation flowing. “Oh, whatever tickles my fancy,” she says coyly. “How about you? Are you a big reader?” “Absolutely. There’s no greater way to become knowledgeable about the world around us.” “Except to go out and live in it,” she says as if completing my sentence. “Yes. Besides that.” I start uncomfortably rubbing the back of my neck just as the waitress brings my scotch over and I hold my glass up. “To new friends,” I say tilting my glass. “Cheers.” Clink.

“So, what’s on your mind, Wolfy?” she asks, running her finger along the edge of her glass. “Well, honestly, I saw you here last night, sitting in a very similar position, and I felt compelled to come talk to you. So, I came tonight hoping to run into you.” “In the same position…” she repeats. “Yeah, you know, alone. Mysterious.” “Ah, I see. So, why didn’t you approach me last night?” “Well, I was sitting with some friends and I didn’t want to be rude,” I fabricate quickly. “Gotcha.” She gives me a little wink. “Yeah, so, do you always sit in dimly lit dive bars to do your heavy reading?” “Sometimes. Sometimes I go to a dark café. Sometimes I do it in my tub by candlelight.” My eyebrows unintentionally rise.

“I like your style,” I say, dumbfounded. She leans in towards me and asks, “Do you smoke?” I take out my pack of cigarettes and flip the top open, holding the opening toward her. My first offering to the goddess. “No. I meant—never mind.” “Oh! Yeah, I mean, sometimes when I need to relax or whatever,” I say, trying to sound smooth. “Well, baby, I’d say you could use some relaxing right now. Why don‘t you settle our bill while I go powder my nose, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” she says, grabbing her purse. “Yeah, absolutely,” I say attempting to hide my enthusiasm. She stands and I notice just how tightly wrapped in her green skirt she is. If it were any longer she wouldn’t be able to walk, and if it were any shorter I would be in the

middle of a private show. As she walks away I stare at her hips as they sway back and forth in a wonderfully mesmerizing rhythm. My mind flashes images of Cleopatra and Delilah. “This girl will be the death of me,” I mutter and head to the bar to settle up.

It’s 1 a.m. and we’re sitting in her Honda Accord, smoking weed that smells like orange peels and Christmas trees out of a glass pipe. I let the smoke drift out of my mouth and inhale it through my nose. The old French inhale. She starts to giggle, “Look at you! You’re not the weekend warrior you pretend to be.” “Well, I did say I smoke to relax. I just didn’t mention that I like to relax daily.” “I see, I see. And what does your wife think? Does she smoke too?”

“Wife? Who said I was married?” “I saw you sitting with her last night. No woman talks to a man like that unless she’s got him on a string.” I pause. “That is an astute observation. She’s not my wife though. She’s not anything really. I guess if I had to put a label on it I’d call her my girlfriend.” “Well, Wolfy, you know that if you’re that unhappy you can always change the situation.” She passes the bowl to me. “Who said I was unhappy?” “So, you’re seeking out, drinking, and smoking with a woman you don’t even know because you’re happy with your situation?” “Good point.” I turn in my seat to face her. “It’s not that she’s not a good companion or anything. We have the same taste in movies and music. Although she’s not a big reader. It’s just—she never lets me be. She won’t give me

four feet of space. I can‘t go to the movies with my friends without having to call her halfway through it to check in.” “Is she that suspicious of you?” “Even more than that.” “Well, maybe she should be.” She leans in to dump the ash from the finished bowl into her ashtray. I can’t help but notice the top of her red bra peeking out behind the top of her white button-up blouse. “Maybe,” I say, leaning farther towards her. She turns to me and we’re three inches from each other’s noses. A cat shrieks in the distance. A group of drunken college kids walks behind the car and into the bar, stumbling and cursing the whole way in. An old man says his dying words to his only son somewhere in a country I’ll never visit. She kisses me and I am reminded that someday I and everyone I know will die. She buttons up her blouse while I pull my boxers up and light a cigarette.

“You know, it doesn’t have to be that way,” she says. “What doesn’t?” “Your situation with your lady. You can change it if you really want to.” “I can’t just make her be more trusting.” “No, nor should she be.” She motions toward her red panties crumpled up on top of my t-shirt on the car floor. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that.” I turn and look out the window. “I’m right about a lot of things. My point is she shouldn’t be with you if she doesn’t trust you, whether her suspicions are justified or not. And you shouldn’t be with someone if they don’t make you happy enough to remain loyal to them.” “It sounds like you have a pretty good handle on this type of thing.”

“I may not know much but, I do know basic happiness and how it relates to the human condition.” “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s up to me to change things.” “Masters of our own destiny. Each and every one of us,” she says and lights a cigarette. “I gotta get home. Can I see you again?” “You know where to find me. Like a sheep in a pen, Wolfy, you got to take me out to pasture.” I begin to walk the long way home. I’ll need the extra time to figure out what to tell my wife.

A Flower She Picked By Danny P. Barbare

In A Glass Of Water Sitting On The Kitchen Windowsill She Drifts To Me In The Sweetness Of A Gardenia When Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Lost In Darkness A White Petal Flower In Waxy Green 33

Leaves.

A Glutton for Punishment By Phil Lane

Shea Stadium looms like a bloated, blue behemoth. Such strange hybridity results when two disparate heritages are mixed. How had the marriage of the old, storied Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants yielded this blueorange monstrosity? I myself am the offspring of a classically trained pianist and a somewhat well-known poet, so I’m living proof that when you mix words and music, you don’t always end up with ballads. But it’s New Year’s Eve and I know I’m supposed to be a new leaf turning in an old tree or something. “Jimmy!” I can hear the voice even before I pick up the spastic cell phone which beeps, rings, and vibrates simultaneously, an alarm bell warning me of an encroaching domestic shit storm. So this is love. It’s like a bloodhound with bionic senses. You can’t cover up your tracks or hide your scent or ever be silent enough to throw

it. I muster every last quarter-inch of restraint I have not to answer it with an abrasive, monosyllabic “WHAT?” I opt instead for “Hey, Baby.” I’ve always hated this particular term of endearment but, then again, she is a big baby so what the hell? Snowflakes fall in my hair and I remember when I was six and had head lice and got to stay home from school for a week: halcyon days. Snow collects on the Unisphere, the 150-foot steel globe that towers over the park. A lifetime ago, on our way to a ballgame, my father had explained that it had been meant to symbolize man’s conquest of space when it was been built back in the sixties for the New York World’s Fair. Forty years later, it seems like it’s here just to mess with me—some strange Orwellian construct meant to remind me that I am nothing, an insect, a cog in a machine, irrelevant.

“Babe, where are you?” she squeals into the phone. “The party’s already started, they have Jell-o shots (my favorite), Mindy’s here and I haven’t seen her in forever, they’re talking about playing a drinking game, everyone’s asking about you, I’m a little drunk already, can you tell? You can’t tell, can you? Be honest.” Just as I’m mercifully hanging up, I notice a woman walking toward me. I watch her advance with prurient interest. She has these long legs that remind me of stilts which seem to transport her across the park. She is pale and with the snow falling around her, she looks like an apparition, a snow ghost. Just once, just once I wish I didn’t have to work for it. How much goddamned good karma does one person have to bank before a gorgeous woman throws herself at him? I swear she’s looking at me but then I’ve always had a vivid imagination, the kind that can cause one’s mother to burst into one’s bedroom at the most inopportune time. I think about my enduring suspicion of

women; surely that indelible moment during my most impressionable years has been a contributing factor. “I’m on my way, baby.” I try to sound oh so nonchalant despite my mounting intrigue concerning the woman heading in my direction. “Just out of the shower and getting ready right now. I’ll see you soon. Tell Joey to keep the beer cold for me.” “Babe, you should wear your black shirt, you know, the one with the pink pinstripes, it looks so good on you. It’s just everyone here’s dressed up really nice for New Year’s so, you know, I just wanna make sure you’re not, well, underdressed.” “Ok, sweetie, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in a bit.” I enthusiastically press the END CALL button. The thing about cell phones is that you can’t slam them down the way you could the old landline phones of my youth. In this case, it was for the best, but sometimes I miss the good old days when you could say everything by the way you

hung up the receiver. You could even do a half-slam to show that you were pissed but not quite enraged. That would have been the proper flourish for this call. Just as I am about to get up and drag myself obligingly to Joey and Jane’s party, I hear a voice beside me on the park bench. “Hi.” It is stony and unsympathetic, the exact opposite of Lauren’s flighty, valley girl intonation. “I’ve been watching you. What’s your name?” Finally, the Karma Gods are paying me back, and after decades of building up credit. It’s about damn time. “Jimmy,” I reply, hearing my voice waver and crack and cursing myself for letting the moment emasculate me. Nevertheless, it is New Year’s Eve and I know I’m supposed to make a resolution. She glares down at me like a Jotun, studying my movements with terrible scrutiny. The Unisphere seems to be spinning wildly on its artificial axis, imploring me to make a wonderfully rash decision.

Accordingly, I toss my phone into the snow. It seems to sizzle as it rushes into its rectangular grave. “So what are you up for tonight?” she asks, her craggy voice oozing smoke and slicing through the park’s clean breeze of tyranny. “What do you mean?” I ask back, my tenor still an octave too high. “I mean I’ll suck your cock for fifty bucks.” From its snowy resting place, the phone begins to ring again. Its muffled tones remind me of my deliberate tapping on the old upright piano as I attempted to play “Auld Lang Syne” on a New Year’s Eve long ago. My father stood over me with a ruler, ready to correct my errant fingers if they misplayed a note. Sometimes I intentionally played it wrong, my own little shot at revenge. I was a glutton for punishment, then as now.

Selected Poems by Mark Mitchell

Trust I trust the sky to remain Active and above. I trust internal combustion To scar that sky. I trust shrines of baseball. I trust this table to remain A table and this chair a chair. I trust them not To devour my meals. I trust in the gospel Of my loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes when they are closed. I trust the weather To betray my trust. I know better than To trust words but sometimes I trick them into trusting me.

Reading Verlaine by Moonlight A language I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite read Rolls across the page like music. The vowels feel like tonics In this cool night, marked with symbols That may indicate rest or fortissimo. It doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter. I sit here, Moonlight leaking through clouds, A dead man playing Schubert teasing The edges of my attention. These poems Are a score that I will never play.

Housecleaning It is futile To keep dusting The mirror: Dust never sleeps And the mirror canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t lie. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best To leave the whole thing Alone.

When They Came for Frank Azalea By Andrew Sullivan

The pain is real because the hand is real and the hand is on the floor. Frank Azalea wants to pick it up, but he only has four fingers and a thumb left. Everything is slick with blood. The TV is still screaming about a food processor and the three men in his motel room have already flipped the bed over. Frank can see his hand, but he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite figure out how it got separated from his body. One of the men swings a machete in his direction and the answer becomes clear. It collides with the TV screen and a burst of static and smoke fills the air. The food processor has disappeared. Frank is beginning to piece the clues together, but it is still dark and the air is sticky. It clings to the insides of his lungs as he crawls across the floor, avoiding heavy boots. He hears a foot smash open the bathroom door and drags himself out into the dim parking lot. The men are yelling at each other

inside the cloud of smoke. They are hacking away at the closet door and firing shots into the mattress. They want his hands. Frank Azalea knows it makes sense on some level. They are his greatest tools. He uses them to forge passports and birth certificates, to age the paper twenty seven years. He uses them to undo history, to rewrite the future and crease the edges of a shipping ticket like they do over in Amsterdam. His beautiful hands make notebooks into shipping manifests and report cards into search warrants. The thin fingers retrace signatures from memory and duplicate the stamps from twelve different ports around the world. They are indispensable and command a heavy fee. Sometimes though, they could slip. Make a mistake or two. Forget to dot an i or misspell the name of a fugitiveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new alias. Land someone in jail. After all, they are only human hands.

All of that is gone now though. It is splattered on the floor inside a rented room just outside Detroit and Frank knows he has to stop the bleeding. He is staggering across the parking lot, waiting for someone to fire a shot into his back, waiting for a car to crash into his chest and finish him off quickly. His ex-wife would have called this his deliverance, but he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe she ever read the Bible. She just quoted what she could from the sermons. The trail of blood behind him has already begun to attract gnats and moths. They swoop down to examine the glossy puddles before dive bombing another streetlight, bashing their tiny heads against the glass. A few tumble down to the asphalt, dazed and broken. Maybe he made the mistake on purpose. Maybe he was tired of the same old bullshit, the tired faces propped up on a computer screen, grins repurposed for Indiana driverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s licenses and concealed carry permits from Texas. Frank Azalea stands by the road, trying to wave down a passing

car with his good hand. The stump is tied off with a sock and Frank isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wearing any shoes. They will find him here eventually, standing by the side of the road. They will take his other hand and bring both back to Bernard down on Division Street, Bernard with all his rules and all his obligations. Bernard will recognize the hands. He will pay for them in full. Frank knows this. He just wants the blood to stop dripping down his arm. Frankâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s world is made up of false faces. His past is littered with fake names, names no border guard will question. Names of places and professions with colors for surnames, all accompanied by extensive histories in states no one will ever visitâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Mississippis and South Dakotas. The world sways a bit and so Frank pulls the sock tighter around his wrist. Bits of tendon and bone poke out from the wound. They look like pale twigs in the foggy darkness. A

pair of headlights passes him, ignoring the one good hand shaking wildly from the shoulder. Frank Azalea built a house of mirrors with those hands. He stretched photos to add pounds and pulled years away with quick flick of his wrist. The men who came to see him never left the same. Bernard always gave him a good cut, but the money did not seem real either. It came in plastic envelopes and gathered in the corners of his room. It piled up until Frank had to put it somewhere and that was how he made a mistake. He made a bank account, but forgot to change his name. He used something real. He used something they could trace. And it felt good. Voices echo toward him from the motel, angry voices spitting curses into the wind. Another set of headlights passes him and so Frank steps out into the road. He holds his bloody arm up into the air; watching droplets of blood reverse their course toward his face. He waits for a car to spot him before the three figures from the motel finally

discover him standing out here in the middle of the road. Even the dumbest dog can follow this trail. He can feel his heart pumping blood up to the empty place where his hand was only a few minutes before. It aches with the absence, striving towards the wound, slowly spurting a bit more of his essence into the air. It threatens to empty everything else from his mind. The pain is very real. It makes his whole body shake and spasm. It is something he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t control, something he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fake anymore. It hurts. When the headlights hit his face, before the grill buckles his knees and flings him up across the windshield like another battered moth, Frank Azalea can only smile.

Guardian Angel By Stephanie Walter

I have a new guardian angel now He wears combat boots. I hope I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let him down He has dusty fatigues instead of a suit. He wears combat boots Paired with a set of broken wings. He has dusty fatigues instead of a suit He left me behind with only a ring. Paired with a set of broken wings He dons a crooked halo. He left me behind with only a ring Wondering why he had to go. He dons a crooked halo Because he died to keep us free. Wondering why he had to go I know he waits in heaven for me. Because he died to keep us free I have a new guardian angel now. I know he waits in heaven for meI hope I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let him down.

Rabbit Cage By Justin Bond

Whenever Vince eats meat, which is pretty much all the time, he holds it by the bone between his thumb and index finger, like corn on the cob, and tears at it, without ever putting it down, until the bone is picked clean. He stacks the bare bones at the edge of his plate. Last night it was ribs, cages of them. You know how elephants have graveyards? That’s what it reminds me of. Piles of bones just lying around in a cluster, like dinosaur skeletons nobody has bothered to put back together. It’s not that I don’t like meat—I do, as long as there aren’t any bones to remind me of what it used to be. I just can’t understand whatever would’ve made cavemen or whoever look at a dead thing and think well, obviously, I should just heat this up and eat it. It’s crazy. And gross. I pointed this out to Vince, which I guess was a bad idea, because he narrowed his eyes and looked at me, or rather

down his nose at the bone between his fingers, and said cut it with the faggy talk, Neil. Which he says to me sometimes whenever he thinks I’m trying to sound smart. I don’t know why. I’m perfectly aware of what a fag is, I just don’t see what being gay has to do with the dietary habits of early man, or why the idea scares Vince so much that to be called a fag is like the worst thing in the world. The whole sex thing baffles me, to be honest. I have the internet and I’ve seen some stuff, and let me just say that it’s kind of like the whole eating-dead-things idea—how would anyone ever think of getting their bodies together that way? And while we’re at it: why, when Vince is staring down like that, doesn’t he notice the motor grease still in his fingernails from the shop and do something about it? I don’t mention that last part, about his fingernails. I did once, right after he first moved in, to Mom, and it didn’t go over too well. Mom says I should worry less about stupid shit like Vince’s fingernails and just be

grateful how hard he works for us and how he feeds us and loves us. I don’t really believe Vince loves me anymore than I believe in Santa Claus, but I know he loves Mom and Becky since she was born and he does go to work every day and there’s always food on the table, so I don’t argue and pretend to believe in everything I’m supposed to because it makes Mom happy. I guess it’s just easier than trying to explain what I really think, even if it sounds perfectly reasonable to me, because it always upsets her and then she cries and sends me to my room and for a long time won’t come in and talk to me, although sometimes she stands at the door and watches me for what seems like forever. Like this morning before school, I was sitting on the bed holding Ivan, my cat, just holding him, and you know how sometimes something is so soft and strange and you think about how it just doesn’t seem possible or right that anything this soft and warm could be alive and moving and breathing and you almost want to break it open just to

see how it can possibly be so real and full of living but you don’t because he’s maybe your only friend and you would be sad if you didn’t have him to curl his soft bulk up against your belly at night and make you feel a little better about the world? It was like that, and she just stood there watching for the longest time while I held Ivan against my face and breathed slowly to keep myself from squeezing too hard. I know it’s probably kind of weird. It’s just that sometimes I feel so much that it starts to get fuzzy and a buzzing in my head almost a grinding like a saw blade chewing on a two-by-four but anyway I figured out if I just hold still and close my eyes and breathe slowly it starts to fade out until all the feelings are gone, and I can just stay for a while in the quiet. I do this when Vince calls me names, or when I can tell Mom is getting exasperated between my rambling and Becky’s crying, which exasperates all of us. Sometimes when I’m holding Ivan.

And at school, where the boys say things like Vince would say, faggot and homo and words that I don’t recognize but I know must be much worse because they say them with gusto and never when a teacher is nearby. At least Vince has never hit me, where the boys at school sometimes will knock the books out of my hands or my glasses off my face, and once in the bathroom a bigger boy pulled down my pants and kicked me in the rear and I fell into the toilet and chipped my tooth, but I told the teacher I slipped because the boy said if I told it would be worse the next time and I believed him. I know the teachers do their best too, but they only have two eyes apiece and there are a lot us and terrible things can happen when they aren’t looking even for a moment; ask anyone. No, at home it’s only Vince, a noseward glance and a cut-it-with-the-faggy-talk, Neil. And I’m okay with that. At recess today I try to lie low. To be honest, that whole bathroom incident wasn’t very long ago, and the last

thing I want to do is make myself conspicuous and remind that boy that my fear of him is the only thing standing between recess and lunchroom duty. I’ve tucked myself under a small slide at the edge of the playground, the one we call the baby slide because we’ve all outgrown it, even though it was only a year or two ago that its height was legendary and terrifying, but now it’s for babies and I am tucked under it curled up in a ball like the armadillo Vince had to dig out from under Becky’s rabbits’ cage last summer before the rabbits who lived in it disappeared, one by one, until all that was left was a water bottle hanging from the side and the gnawed edges of the house Vince had built them to sleep in. But then Loretta finds me, and there isn’t any chance of going unnoticed anymore. Loretta is probably my only friend at school, and probably we’re friends because on any given day it’s a tossup who has got it worse, me because I’m scrawny and quiet and I hate gym because I have to use an inhaler and sometimes we play

shirts and skins and I’m so pale and my concave chest and anyway I say weird things and my mom waits tables at the truck stop out on the highway. Loretta because she’s black and there aren’t many black girls at our school, and while the other few black girls are tall for their age have the long, lean bodies of wild horses and hair soft as a colt’s spring coat, Loretta is short and heavy with juvenile diabetes that means shots in the dark folds of her stomach every afternoon and her hair is wiry and kinky as crab grass and always smells like Crisco. Neil, she says, only it sounds more like a bellow, like how you imagine Paul Bunyan would sound, because Loretta doesn’t seem to have a quiet voice, which drives the teachers crazy. Neil, what in the world you doing down there like that? I don’t say anything and try to make myself even smaller, because I don’t want to be found, but I also don’t want to hurt Loretta’s feelings. So after a few minutes, she sits down next to me. You playing a game?

But when I look over the top of my arm at her, real slowly, I am also looking past her to where the other boys have been playing football, except now a few have stopped and one is pointing at us, and she says Neil, you just plain crazy. By this time, the bigger boy I’m afraid of us has noticed us too, huddled together under the slide, with Loretta’s bright pink jumper clear and deadly as the beam from the site on a hunting rifle. She catches my gaze as the boys start to move toward us and, seeing the boy from the bathroom, realizes too late her mistake. Sorry, Neil, she says, but then the bell rings and recess is over. Saved by the bell! I almost laugh. I wonder if that means just scary moments like this, or if later I’ll find out life is just a series of situations where certain doom is precluded by the ringing of a bell. It doesn’t seem likely, but it likewise doesn’t seem particularly sensible to develop a catchphrase based entirely on the near-misses experienced by awkward children on playgrounds. As we all funnel into the building,

the larger boy catches my eye and shouts I’m watching you, faggot, and does this move with two fingers where he points first to his eyes, then to mine, which must be something he learned from his older brother because I’ve never seen anyone do it before and it looks completely ridiculous coming from somebody our age, only I don’t laugh because I know he means it. When I get back to my classroom it’s a few minutes before Loretta squeezes into her desk next to me because she always has to go get her shots from the nurse after lunch recess. She is panting a little wetly and loudly and I can tell she’s been crying because she hates needles and probably it hurts to have shots in your stomach over and over, but today it’s irritating me because the teacher is explaining our assignment which is to write a story about something you’ve only ever dreamed about but never actually done. Luckily, she repeats the instructions for Loretta’s benefit, so I kind of calm down and I begin

thinking of what to write about. I know most of the kids will write about playing organized sports on broomsticks, or launching into outer space to boldly go etc, or maybe about going to Disney World because not many people from this school take a vacation except for maybe to the lake and ever since Gemma Fisher’s grandparents took her there when they visited family in Florida it’s been a topic of heated discussion and conjecture at the lunch table. But I don’t want to write about anything of these things partly because I don’t want to sound like everybody else since we’re being graded on originality and have to read them in front of the class at the end of English period, but mostly none of those things really interests me all that much and I certainly don’t dream about them. It’s not that I don’t dream, because I do, but you know how in dreams sometimes everything is the same as when you’re awake, only you can do and say things that you would never really do in your woken-up life because in the dreams there is no

good and bad and nothing is permanent and everything gets done and undone almost easy as breathing? I start thinking about that, and I think about Ivan, and how I have to stop myself from squeezing until his bones crack or he pops like a bubble or something, and I start writing. I’m writing furiously and purposefully and for once I feel like maybe I’m onto something when Loretta whispers over to me asking what I’m writing about, because she hasn’t even started. When I tell her she sits there sucking her teeth and staring hard at her blank page and after a while she says I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Neil. But I just ignore her and keep writing because for once I feel in control and like I really know what I’m doing, like I’m the one willing the pencil to move across the page instead of the other way around. Before I know it the teacher has started calling kids to the front of the room, one by one, to read what they’ve written, and I’m only half listening because I’m still trying

to finish, but the snippets I hear are clumsy as June bugs and pretty much what I expected, a mix of SciFi and fantasy with a healthy dollop of Disney. When it’s my turn and I move to the front of the room I’m a little jittery, because normally I do whatever I can to avoid this many people staring at me at one time. Before I begin, I take a deep breath and steal a glance around the room. Loretta looks worried, her mouth in a thin dark line, and she shakes her head just once, No, but I look back down at my paper and begin to read. I talk about Ivan, and how I hold him sometimes and all that warmth and comfort makes me just want to squeeze, but I don’t because he’s my friend, but I dream about it sometimes, just squeezing until there isn’t anything left resembling a cat, or a friend, or love, just fur and the wet from everything on the inside finding its way out. I talk about the time Mom was making breakfast, and Vince had already gone to work and Becky was in her highchair rubbing cream of wheat into her hair, and Mom

had her back to me so all I could see were the thready patches in her blue terrycloth robe stretching across her narrow shoulders, and I looked at the butter knife next to my plate and my palm started itching as if my hand had a mind of its own, as if it and the knife had had a conversation and agreed that the knife should be buried deep in that blue terrycloth, because just imagine how it would feel, and of course I didn’t do it, but I dreamed about it after, and in my dream it felt like sliding the knife into a tub of cold butter, but in real life when I tried that it felt different, and the closest thing I had found to that feeling was when I shove pushpins through a rubber band, which I do sometimes when I’m angry. I leave out the part about the rabbits, because what would be the point? I’m not even sure why I wrote it down. When I’m done no one is talking, and most of the kids aren’t even looking up anymore, and neither is the teacher, and Loretta’s face is scrunched up like she’s thinking about crying but trying to hold it in.

The bigger boy I’m afraid of snarks a halfhearted Freak, but for once this only gets a minimal reaction from the other boys as the teacher hushes him up and sends me back to my desk, and all I really feel at this point is confused. Still, I don’t really think too much about it until the end of the day bell rings and suddenly, when I’m getting my backpack from the hook, Mom and Vince are standing in the doorway, him wearing his coveralls from the shop and her in her apron, and he looks pissed, probably for having to leave work, but she looks worried, and I wonder who’s watching Becky, since Mom usually takes her with her to the diner, and how much more trouble I’m going to be in since they both had to leave work and probably use money we didn’t have to pay somebody to watch Becky. We all sit down and the teacher is speaking in low tones to the both of them, but I’m not really listening because she’s passing them papers that from the looped L’s I can tell are the pages to my story from earlier. Mom

makes a catching sound her throat, like a small animal when you take it by surprise, and she says What’s wrong with you, Neil? and then louder WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? And the teacher is telling her to stay calm, but by this point she’s already hysterical, sobbing, her breathing like the rusted hinge of an empty cage swinging in the rain, tears not really flowing because there isn’t enough liquid in the body for anything to truly flow, but they look like it anyway, and Vince has gotten very pale, and he’s staring down his nose at his fingernails and from his expression I think maybe, for the first time, he’s really seeing them, how filthy they are, and maybe it means he’ll finally do something about them, and that makes me feel a little bit better about things.

The Furniture By Chris Fox The furniture remembers that day your friends hid behind it to surprise you. That was a few years ago. Hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t happened since, or at least not since that other person who often shared the couch and the chairs and the bed with you stopped coming over.

Another birthday. Between the cushions of the couch you find an impossible thirty-two-cent coin. A game token lost years before? No--spare change from various places around the apartment congealed into a single gift. All the furniture chipped in. Surprise.

Kitchen Magic By David Howard Making quicksand was not easy. Even in small test batches. He found oatmeal worked best—the cinnamon kind, Quaker Oats mixed with a bit of heavy cream and a dollop of chocolate syrup, mostly for color. The kitchen smelled like it used to at Christmas time when his mother made cookies. He wiped the counter clean and set the large filled bowl next to his stirring spoons. The Martha Stewart clock on the wall facing the stove ticked softly. He liked Martha, had bought the clock as a personal tribute when she was sent to prison. He stirred the mixture a bit, hoping this batch was an improvement. Asking at Shop Rite and Toys ‘R Us about the viscosity of oatmeal and the actual weight of small action figures was out of the question—especially

considering a recent small disturbance at the mall a few months ago. He liberated a camouflage-clad G.I. Joe figure from his plastic barracks and eased him into the bowl of thick mixture, near the slightly oatmeal-splattered notes on quantities and stirring procedures. Clicking his stop watch as Joe sank quickly, he wrote the speed on an index card. In real quicksand, Joe would have struggled, arms reaching for some purchase, descending slowly, like a department store elevator stopping at each floor. He knew heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d have to include some variables in future tests on larger subjects. The hamster, Eddie, in a cage at the end of the counter, stopped his wheel in mid-spin, twitching his nose at the oatmeal smell. He knew the cereal was much better than using a Wendyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Frosty mixed with some granola, and certainly more economical, considering the amount he would eventually need when be brought Ella home. An eight inch

tall Scooby Doo, a Cheerio inexplicably stuck to his head, had floated like a leaf in a pond in the Frosty test. He stirred his new mixture a bit more, counting the strokes, as he imagined where he’d put the large tub on order. The basement seemed best, plenty of room to mix his recipe and still have Ella, restrained of course, watching and wondering. She would not be laughing at him then. He rolled up his sleeve and reached into the bowl to retrieve GI Joe, rinsing off the figure under the cold water faucet. “Sorry Joe, I know that’s a bit chilly,” he said. “Back to the barracks for now, soldier.” Looking at his notes, he decided on two more cups of oatmeal, and more of the heavy cream, at least a quarter cup. Color really didn’t matter, especially for Ella. The next test went better, increasing Joe’s time by two seconds before his head disappeared beneath the surface. Still, there was the struggling factor to consider. Ella was no GI Joe,

he thought, laughing, nor even a GI Jane and she outweighed Joe by at least one hundred and ten pounds, maybe more, as he hadn’t seen her in at least four months. Her voice sounded the same, though. Would it change with weight fluctuations? He didn’t know and wrote a note to remind himself to look it up. Still, how much could he really tell when all she said was hello, then hung up when she heard his voice? At least she didn’t laugh. He visualized walking with Ella through a swamp, watching her step in the quicksand, grasp at him, missing. Her look turned to fear as she sunk slowly, kicking for solid ground, screaming, but not loud enough to overcome the sucking sounds all around her, like a huge straw drawing air in an empty glass. In his mind, the tree branches were too distant to grab, the shrubs floating on the grainy mud, fragile and offering only false support. He knew Ella would reach for them in hopes of tying them together in a rope to stop her descent, only to see them crumble and float away,

while the mud continued to pull her into the darkness. She would scream louder and struggle more. How many times had that scene played in his mind? “Remember the Phantom?” he’d yell to her. Her dark brown hair, now soaked and splotched with mud, was all he could see. He was gripped with sadness, not because Ella was gone in his fantasy, but that she hadn’t heard his suggestion. Not for the first time either. When they were dating, though she never called it that, he would knock on her door to show her something in one of his comic books. “Those are for kids,” she would say to him, showing no interest. He’d ask her to go with him to the movies, or just to walk in the park. Sometimes she would, though she never let him hold her hand. Twice he had tried, and each time she would laugh, and brush her hand, with his still attached, off her coat or slacks, as if ridding herself

of some offending piece of lint. The laughter bothered him the most. Once, when they were in the park, he told her of his fear of quicksand. “Not much of that here in the city to worry about,” she’d said, laughing again. “You can never be sure,” he replied, pointing to a thick copse of trees. Ella just laughed again and changed the subject to somebody at her place of work. She was wearing a bright yellow sweater and jeans, a nice contrast with her dark hair. Perhaps now, he thought, as he again pulled GI Joe from the oatmeal quicksand, she’ll believe there could be quicksand around. He hoped she’d be wearing that sweater again; it would stand out against the grayish brown oatmeal when she sank. He looked at his notes, made some adjustments for the change in the formula, and estimated how many

containers of Quaker Oats and gallons of heavy cream he’d need to fill the large tub. “I shouldn’t forget the chocolate,” he said aloud, smiling. “Ella loves chocolate; at least she always wanted some at the movies.” Feeding Eddie a Rice Krispie dipped in the mixture, he decided to add some mineral oil to the crusting oatmeal and run another test. He remembered sitting in a movie theatre when he was ten or eleven watching a film where men struggled in the quicksand as the shifting black Hollywood oatmeal made them disappear. He’d hid his eyes the first time he saw the film, sinking lower in his seat as if the cloth and cushion were filled with their own foul smelling, sucking, wet dirt. Soon quicksand was everywhere in his life of comic books and radio programs, providing images for his dreams. The Phantom, up to his cowl in mud, related in a balloon-shrouded voice, “The more you struggle, the quicker you sink.”

He had brought the issue of the comic with that story line to show Ella one afternoon, but she wouldn’t invite him in. “I have company,” she said, closing the door on his and the Phantom’s faces. He took Eddie from his cage and carried him to the bowl, the hamster trying to squirm away. With his stop watch in one hand, he placed Eddie on top of the quicksand and pressed the button on the watch. The hamster tried to run, but sunk quickly to his midsection, emitting little squeaks as his tiny legs kicked away at the shifting mud. “Remember the Phantom,” he admonished Eddie, but the little creature slid beneath a tiny wave of oatmeal created by his struggles. He clicked the stopwatch again, writing down the time next to Eddie’s name and weight. The hamster weighed seven ounces and took 3.5 seconds to sink, so if Ella weighs 115 pounds, she would take

approximately 15.3 minutes, depending, of course, on the all-important struggle factor. He reached into the bowl and retrieved Eddie, taking a tissue to wipe the hamster clean. He leaned closer to listen for breathing, but Eddie was still. He made a note to find larger test subjects, to see if adding more mineral oil to the quicksand would make the process last longer. The tub for his quicksand would arrive in two weeks, plenty of time to work things out, he thought, neatly arranging his papers and finding a small box for Eddieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s remains.

Short Affairs By Lauren Sartor

Leaves impatient of life shake as robins take flight. The scent of dirt and memories flows through the crack of my car window: wine, the Beatles on vinyl, your gentle shushing. Last summer was sweet like an apricot. I want a red tongue; yours, once more, or a taste in season.

Contributor Corner An Interview with David Howard

BF: One of the reasons why we LOVED “Kitchen Magic” was due to the story’s suspenseful nature. Do you consider yourself a suspense writer? What are some tips you would offer writers to make their stories more suspenseful?

DH: I’m all over the lot on the types of stories I write, though most of them deal with marginal characters. I do like my stories to have edginess so the reader doesn’t get too comfortable, and try to add that through both character and plot, sometimes even place. Kitchen Magic evolved basically through that first line which just kept running through my head in various forms. With such a weird narrator, I had to be careful he didn’t run too amok. For me adding tension is often a matter of when you do it. As a writer you still have to always ask: What If? But don’t

forget to also ask when? Or why now? I revised the story about seven or eight times, but it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t until Eddie was dropped in the mixture (around revision five) -- and how I hated to do that â&#x20AC;&#x201C; that I felt the story was nearly done.

BF: When did you know you wanted to be a writer? Who or what persuaded you to write your very first story?

DH: That was a long time ago. At an early age I loved to read and to hear stories. My mother, who never finished high school, gave me a real love for books and writing. In fifth grade I helped start a school newspaper (partly because I had such a big crush on my teacher) and it was fun writing for it. The first short story I wrote was as a college freshman for a school literary mag. I re-read it recently and it was pretty bad, but I enjoyed the experience and wrote a couple more. I ended up editing the college newspaper and that began a long career in journalism,

mostly with community newspapers. After being out of college for about 20 years, I took a class in American Lit., discovered poetry, especially Whitman and Dickenson and read Baldwin’s short story “Sonny’s Blues” and loved it so much that I read more of his work and that of his contemporaries. I began to think about my writing much more seriously. I started by writing poems and turning them into stories.

BF: Who were some of your writing heroes growing up? Who are some new writers that you think the rest of the world should know about?

DH: At a young age I read lots of sci-fi and fantasy with Ray Bradbury and Robert Heinlein as my favorites. The impact of Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles and Dandelion Wine and Heinlein’s The Puppet Masters still remains for me. Another important work for me was The Gospel Singer

by Harry Crews, which taught me the power of writing and lead me to his other novels. I read a lot of genre novels now, Robert Parker, John Grisham, Lee Child. They all are great at getting the reader to turn the page, which as most writers know, isn’t an easy task. Literary writers like Rick Bass, Charles Baxter, Ron Hanson and Ron Carlson carve out lots of space in my library and continue to amaze me with their work. There are many good young writers out there, but I’m going to single out two I know in Rhode Island and feel are on the cusp of breaking out. Mike Antosia has recently published great short fiction in such places as Gettysburg Review, The Massachusetts Review, Meridian and Blackbird. His stories Kicks and The Goat are top notch. Rebecca Maizel received good reviews on her YA novel, Infinite Days, published by St. Martin’s Griffin, which attracted a wide audience. Her next, Stolen Nights comes out in January. You’ll hear lots more from both of them.

BF: Describe your writing routine (do you write daily? What time of day do you work best? Etc.).

DH: I think I have some bad writing habits. I try to do some work every day, but sometimes I’ll spend more time thinking about the work during a day than actual writing. When I write I usually have background noise, the TV, radio, sometimes music. If I reach a point where I don’t know what comes next, I click over to play a few games of spider solitaire. I keep a journal of notes for future stories, but if I’m working on a piece I can retain ideas long enough to work them into my stories. I try to start my writing work early, around 7 am and spend at least a couple of hours at a time at various times of the day (and sometimes night, especially if I have trouble sleeping.) I spend at least 10 to 12 hours a week on what I call the business of writing, which for me is reading lots of short stories and magazines to see who is publishing what, as

well as checking submission requirements and deadlines to find the best places for my work. Half of my “notes” journal is devoted to a log of where my stories have been sent and the status of the submissions. I also make sure that I read a good part of my day, all types of work, including literary magazines. I read differently now, certainly for enjoyment, but also to see what other writers do, how they do it, and how they deal with my problem areas of POV and dialogue.

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

DH: I love to revise. To me, that’s where the creative process really comes into play as you take your plot, characters and even place, shape them, color them, craft them into directions you never even thought of when you came up with the original story idea. Revision is the most

important part of writing because it allows the writer to look at all the possibilities of the story. It allows you to learn more about your characters by having them say and do different things, even if you know that the change might not fit the story. You have to learn what your characters won’t (or shouldn’t) say, sometimes, to know what they will. Revision allows the writer to add tension, humor, atmosphere, every ingredient the story needs. My least favorite part of all this, as you can probably guess, is that first draft. Writing the opening line and trying to put together the original written and imagined ideas for a particular story is difficult for me. I usually rush through a first draft, getting down as much as I can about everything that impacts the story, so I’ll have more decisions to make when I revise. I don’t worry about spelling, grammar, POV, dialogue, as much as I do plot and character. I want to get as much as I can on paper about the basic story idea so I’ll have plenty to work with in revision. Writing groups are

great to help writers revise. I’m in two of them and they work because you get your work critiqued, and get to critique other’s work.

BF: What are you working on next? Can you give us a sneak peek?

DH: I work on a lot of stuff at a time, but my main project is a collection of short stories linked by setting. I have published six of them, have three more out there looking for a home, and have three more in various drafts. Sometimes, when much of your writing life involves a project like this, you feel like a one-trick pony, wondering if that’s all you can do. So when ideas for a story like Kitchen Magic come along, it goes to the head of the work line. You keep fresh that way, and while writing is never boring for me, it helps me to write different types of stories.

One of the stories in the collection I’m working on now is a third draft, called “Carousel.” Here’s how it starts:

The little girl holding a stuffed bear stared up at her mom. The mom looked like a druggie, and I’d seen enough of them to know. The bear, probably white or beige when new, now was a combination of wear and grime, not that it mattered to the kid. Thursday nights in June were slow at the Pleasure Beach Carousel. The sound of the nearby arcade clashed with the merry go round’s organ music. I could smell the ocean, a block away, the arrival of low tide. It was almost 9, a half hour before closing. There were five people on the ride, two pairs of teens, dating, I guess, and me. The little girl, whom I guessed was around seven, and her mother came in just after the ride started. The mom looked around, a frown on her face, as if someone she had expected to be there wasn’t. She looked at her watch while

the little girl stood quietly next to her, one hand in the pockets of a worn denim jacket with red piping around the collar and down the front. The other clutched the bear close to her chest, protecting it, or maybe herself. The cuffs of her cotton slacks were frayed. The woman pulled the child over to one of the benches that circled the building. They were the newest thing in the place, which dated back to the early 1900â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, when Charles Looff himself had built the merry go round. The child sat, while her mother walked to one of the open doors and looked out, shaking her head when she came back in and paced in front of the bench.

A Conversation with Marsha A. Moore: Author of The Enchanted Bookstore Legends Series BF: Can you describe your journey to publishing your first book?

MM: I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t aim to be a fiction author. My path evolved to this end. While growing up I enjoyed reading, and for that reason I followed an English minor college program, actually just for fun along with a Biology major. Years later, I worked as a rock music reviewer. During that time, I was inspired by some of those experiences and tinkered with fiction. Initially, I wrote fiction based on the world of rock music. Through a lucky happenstance, a man who worked for a major book publishing house read my first attempts at fiction, which were posted on a music forum. He repeatedly encouraged me to submit my creative writing. Over time, I came to believe him and did. After

that, a new world opened up and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a wonderful time.

BF: You recently made the switch from traditional publishing to self-publishing. What made you choose selfpublishing?

MM: My first two books were released with a traditional publisher. Wanting to expand to include other houses, I submitted the first of my Enchanted Bookstore Legends, Seeking a Scribe, to many agents and other publishers. I received very good feedback, but also with concerns that the book was balanced more toward fantasy than romance, which, for them, made it a less marketable work. I was asked to rewrite to correct the balance, but I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t willing to change that much of my story. Several agents and publishers gave me those same comments. Over time, I became less interested in creating a book that industry folks

believed would be trendy. I wanted it to be as I envisioned. Looking back, I’m very glad I chose to go Indie with this series. I love the storyline across the five books (three are released) and am very proud of it.

BF: Would you ever consider going back to the traditional way of publishing?

MM: Not in the near future. I really enjoy the freedom to organize my time. I’m very self-motivated and like to set my own pace, rather than work to a publisher’s schedule. Also, although with self-publishing I do more jobs, I also claim more ownership and responsibility for the quality. I hire a professional editor, but all other tasks in the production are mine. Compared to traditional publishing, I work harder on each book I self-publish, and I’m more satisfied and proud of the result.

BF: You consider your work to be fantasy romance. Can you define that and also give us some examples of key elements that are prevalent in the genre?

MM: Simply, fantasy romance is a blended genre where the fantasy elements are more important than the secondary romance theme.

Expanding on that idea, the protagonists often begin their journeys by escaping abusive or oppressive environments. But because of the romance element, their goals are not to become free from all social ties. Instead, most characters search for a new community or social group where they truly belong, and eventually love blossoms.

Fantasy romance is expected to have more complex magical systems, approximating more closely what we see

in high fantasy than genres of paranormal romance or urban fantasy.

BF: What is your writing routine like?

MM: Through the years, I’ve varied my routine a lot. During my first couple of books, I wrote more methodically as part of my normal day. It was a good technique to develop discipline and keep my mind focused on writing. When I began my fourth book, I changed to writing in concentrated periods, usually making writing my main event for several weeks. My novels are written over 3-4 of those concentrated sessions. I’ve found my writing is best when I submerge in my story and live with my characters. It’s definitely more fun to spend a week playing “Let’s Pretend” in my elaborate imaginary worlds than grinding out a couple of pages per day. I always look forward to my writing “vacations,” and eagerly clear out the household

chores. In fact, my house is about to get cleaned in a quick way since I feel the need to spend a week writing. That writer’s muse can’t be denied!

BF: You wrote a series called The Enchanted Bookstore Legends. What inspired you with this series? How did you come up with the story line?

MM: It’s basically a fantasy lover’s dream, being able to step into a favorite book as a character. I know my initial inspiration came after watching the recent Tim Burton Alice in Wonderland movie. From that, I wanted to work with parallel worlds and have a heroine who must save the fantasy world from danger. I envisioned a series with the magical complexities of the Harry Potter world, but for grown-ups, with characters who faced more complicated life issues. I had strong opinions about choosing my heroine’s age. I wanted her to have

experienced enough hard times to be able to truly appreciate true love, honor, courage, fairness, all that is good. In this way, she can truly commit to whatever obstacles lie in the path to happiness. She knows herself and is determined. As the series progresses, I admire her strength.

BF: How do you feel about social media for writers? Is it essential that writers build a platform prior to publication?

MM: Social media is something todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s authors must use to reach readers. However, mastering each type will drain your time and creative energy. Be proficient in most, but master the ones you enjoy.

Building a platform prior to publication saves time once a writer becomes published. The process of publishing, no matter which route, is incredibly consuming. There is no

time during that process to create and learn how to maintain websites, blogs, and social media connections.

BF: You recently took a trip to Italy. Did you get any writing done while you were there? Did anything in particular inspire any new ideas?

MM: The trip was wonderful and certainly recharged my creativity. I did gain some ideas for fantasy settings at some of our stops. I was captivated by how the narrow maze-like street layout of Venice bustling with people contrasted with the almost eerie silence of the canals while riding in a gondola. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure that and a few others will show up in my next novels.

I did write on the days at sea during our cruise, as well as on the flight home. The trip was so relaxing, my mind cleared and allowed space for new writing ideas.

BF: What are you working on now? What's next for you?

MM: I’m writing the fourth book in the Enchanted Bookstore Legends. There will be five total. I’m still enjoying working with these characters, letting them grow and develop. I’ll miss them when the series ends, but I do have a new series planned that I’m looking forward to. It will be more magical realism than high fantasy.

BF: Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?

MM: Don’t work alone. Use a critique group or beta readers. They keep me motivated, cheer with me for my successes, and support me when any hardships come along. My group is local, though the Florida Writers Association. I think it’s extremely important to find a local crit group rather than working together only online. We benefit so

much from collectively brainstorming how to solve everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s writing problems. Thank you, Racquel, for asking to interview me for Black Fox Lit. It was a lot of funâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;great questions!

Contributors:

Cover Artist: Shaun Taylor Bevins graduated from the University of Delaware with a B.S. in Nutritional Sciences and a Professional Masters in Physical Therapy. Immersed in the health sciences, she did not seriously pursue her writing aspirations until after the birth of her fourth child. Since then, her creative fiction, photography, and fitness articles have appeared in print and online at Danse Macabre, Adventum, LiveStrong, LiveStrong Nutrition, Dr. Bill of Health, Health Hive Media, Touch: The Journal of Healing, and Six Minute Magazine. You can learn more about Shaun by visiting her website at www.broadneckwritersworkshop.com.

Withering was created in Photoshop by combining two separate photos through a layering and manipulation process. As such the digital photos replaced more traditional media like paint, charcoals, or pastels. Several dozen layers went into this particular piece, which took about four hours to compose.

John Abbott is a writer, musician, and English instructor who lives with his wife and daughter in Kalamazoo, Michigan. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Potomac Review, Georgetown Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Arcadia, Midwestern Gothic, Atticus Review, upstreet, Bitter Oleander, and many others. His first chapbook is forthcoming from Wormwood Chapbooks. For more information about his writing, please visit www.johnabbottauthor.com.

D.M Aderibigbe is a 23-year-old Nigerian. An undergraduate of History and Strategic Studies of the University of Lagos, his poetry and short fiction have been published or is forthcoming in 8 countries, and in journals such as Wordriot, The Applicant, Red River Review, Ditch, Kritya, Thickjam, The New Black Magazine and many more. He's a die-hard Inter Milan fc fan. His poetry is greatly influenced by writers such as Octavio Paz, Seamus Heaney, Ilya Kaminsky, Natasha Trethewey, Naomi Shihab Nye, Maya Angelou, Gwendolyn Brooks, Wole Soyinka, Lola Shoneyin and Solmaz Sharif. He is also influenced by singers such as Joe, Bruno Mars, Ne-yo, and Tuface Idibia among others. His Prose owes much to J.K Rowling, Stephenie Meyer, Helen Oyeyemi, Toni Morrison, ZZ Packer and Nick Hornby. He lives and schools in Lagos.

Danny P. Barbare's poetry has recently appeared in Ocean, Calico Tiger, Gold Dust, YARN, and other online and print journals. His poetry has won The Jim Gitting's Award at Greenville Technical College. He has been writing poetry off and on for 31 years. He has three books available at Amazon.com: Nature Poems, Family, and Being a Janitor.

Justin Bond is an alumnus of the Oklahoma Summer Arts Institute at Quartz Mountain. His poetry has appeared most recently in NAP, StepAway Magazine, and Kindling. This is his first short story publication. Justin currently lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

John Clark's goal is to write stories that entertain while exploring the relationships between people; people and animals; and people and nature. A member of the 98

Broadneck Writer’s Workshop (www.broadneckwritersworkshop.com), he participates in writing seminars taught by Laura Oliver and Lynn Schwartz at Saint John’s College and The Writer’s Center. He and his wife live in Annapolis, Maryland, near their grown children. Chris Fox’s poetry has appeared in Rosebud, Blink, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Wavelength, Oysters & Chocolate, and the Blue Collar Review. His poem “You” was a runner-up for the William Stafford Award, and his poem “Scorpions” was nominated for the Rhysling Award in 2006. He currently lives and works in Chapel Hill, NC.

David Wolfgang Frentrop is an author, painter, and rationalist. He was raised in New Jersey and now resides in New Mexico.

David Howard is a former Rhode Island newspaper reporter and editor. He received a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing in 2000 from Vermont College and has recently published fiction in Boston Literary Magazine, Blue Lake Review, Apollo’s Lyre and Crack the Spine. He is currently at work on a collection of linked short stories.

Meghan Jusczak is a high school student from the Philadelphia area. She has previously been a finalist in several local poetry contests and writes a column for the teen “reality” sections of The Intelligencer, The Courier Times, and The Burlington County Times every Thursday. Next fall, she plans to begin studying English in college, though she is not sure where yet. 99

Phil Lane’s poetry and fiction have been appearing in the small presses for the past decade. He lives in New Jersey and works as an English instructor at a private tutoring company. When he is not working, he can be found reading, writing, procrastinating, perfecting his laziness, and hanging out with his handsome Boston Terrier, Tug.

Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as the anthologies Good Poems, American Places, Hunger Enough, and Line Drives. His chapbook, Three Visitors is available from Negative Capability Press, and Fishing in a Knife Drawer can be found at Fowlpox Press. Arifacts and Relics will be published in 2012 by Folded Words Press. His novels, The Magic War and Knight Prisoner will be published in the coming months. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and film maker, Joan Juster.

Lauren Sartor is currently an MFA student at Sarah Lawrence. She recently blacked out and misbehaved at her sister’s bridal shower. Lauren would like to take this space to apologize: “I’m sorry, Jenny. I love you!”

Andrew F. Sullivan was born in Peterborough, Ontario. He received his MA in English in the Field of Creative Writing from the University of Toronto. Sullivan's debut short story collection All We Want is Everything is forthcoming from Arbeiter Ring Publishing in spring 2013. Sullivan's fiction publications include work in Joyland, EVENT, The Good Men Project, Little Fiction, Grain, Dragnet Magazine and a number of other journals, both 100

online and in print. Sullivan no longer works in a warehouse, but is currently the associate fiction editor for The Puritan.

Stephanie Walter is a graduate student at Antioch University Midwest, and is working toward her IMA in Creative Writing.

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