Umbrella Factory Magazine Issue 52 December 2021

umbrella factory magazine december 2021

Beth Escott Newcomer

art

fiction

Stump Girl

Lorem ipsum

Insects and Landsacapes Nikki

The Ornament

Sanctums and Coffee

Wood Reede

Sasha Hilas

New Kentucky Home

Beautiful Escape

Lisa Leibow

issue

Taylor Glover

It’s

been a sweet return for me to curate Issue 52 of Umbrella Factory Magazine. It’s been a number of issues since I’ve been as involved as I have been for this issue. Although, I was the editor-in-chief for the first ten years, and 40 issues, I have held a more humble roll for the last few years. I love this magazine, and any role I may have, I have enjoyed thoroughly. Admittedly, it is exciting to start a concept, choose the best writing available and craft an issue of Umbrella Factory Magazine. As many of you may know Sharyce Winters has been our editor-in-chief since December 2019. I find her to be an insightful, inspired and kind editor. Under her direction, I believe the magazine has improved over the last couple of years. I all but begged to work issue 52, but I posed it to her this way: “Take December off, you’ve been doing so much.”

And Sharyce agreed.

I’m pleased to offer new fiction from Wood Reede, Lisa Leibow and Beth Escott Newcomer. If Beth’s name seems familiar, she’s an old friend and a past contributor (Issue 36, April 2019). Her most current story, “Stump Girl,” resonated with me because it challenged my perception of home and what, where or possibly who home might be. I found the same questions of home in both Lisa Leibow’s and Wood Reede’s fiction as well. It begs the questions, are we all collectively thinking about home, or is it simply my reader’s lens thinking about the notion of home?

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Susan Sonntag said that “The camera has become the tool of the flaneur.” And whereas I believe that to a degree, I find the act of taking pictures extremely sensual, calming and somehow detached. I tend to prefer film photography especially grainy over-saturated images because it tickles my imagination.

In this issue, we’re showcasing photographic work by Nikki and Sasha Hilas. Each of these small spreads represent the larger body of work I’ve seen from both of these photographers. I also think the energy was flowing from them both in the same direction as our writers this issue with the idea of home. Over the past several months, I have followed Sasha’s work on Tumblr. His pictures are of daily life; presumably his daily life and I love the personal feel of them. I feel like I know him, or at least what he sees. Likewise, with much of Nikki’s work, I feel like I know her too. Nikki takes many pictures of the places she goes, the things she sees. We both live here in Colorado and when I see her pictures, there is something comforting in the familiarity of home for me. Our last spread, “Beautiful Escape,” comes from Taylor Glover. Taylor is not only a friend of mine, but a classmate. I admire her work.

Lastly, a quick shout out to our Pushcart Prize Nominees for 2021: Deborah Prespare and Jacqueline Henry. Deborah Prespare’s short story “Selvage” appeared in issue 49, June 2021; and Jacqueline Henry’s poems “The Bean Pole,” “Hemingway on Toast,” and “Still We Pulse” appeared in issue 51, October 2021 of Umbrella Factory Magazine.

Read. Submit. Tell everyone you know.

Stay Dry. Anthony Editor at large and Co-founder, Umbrella Factory Magazine

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Submissions We respond to all submissions. Please be aware that the turn-around time can take up to three months. We are hardworking people, but we will get back to you.

We consider ourselves at Umbrella Factory Magazine as a cooperative forum to connect readers to the best writing available.

All writers and poets retain all rights to their work.

Fiction Sized between 1,000 and 5,000 words. Any writer wishing to submit fiction in an excess of 5,000 words, please query first.

Please double space. We do not accept multiple submissions, please wait for a reply before submitting your next piece.

In the body of your email please include: a short bio—who you are, what you do, hope to be.

Include any great life revelations, education and your favorite novel.

Your work must be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please withdraw your piece if gets published elsewhere.

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Poetry We accept submissions of three (no more and no less) poems. Please submit only previously unpublished work.

We do not accept multiple submissions; please wait to hear back from us regarding your initial submission before sending another. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but please withdraw your piece immediately if it is accepted elsewhere.

All poetry submissions must be accompanied by a cover letter that includes a two to four sentence bio in the third person. This bio will be used if we accept your work for publication.

Your work must be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please withdraw your piece if gets published elsewhere.

Art Accepting submissions for the next cover of Umbrella Factory Magazine. We would like to incorporate images with the theme of umbrellas, factories and/or workers. Feel free to use one or all of these concepts. Image size should be 980 x 700 pixels, .jpeg or .gif file format. Provide a place for the magazine title at the top and article links.

We also accept small portfolios of photography and digitally rendered artwork. We accept six pieces (no more and no less) along with an artist’s statement and a third person bio.

Your work must be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please withdraw your piece if gets published elsewhere.

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Contents Stump Girl

Beth Escott Newcomer.................................................................................................. 8

Insects and Landsacapes

Nikki................................................................................................................................18

The Ornament

Wood Reede...................................................................................................................28

Sanctums and Coffee

Sasha Hilas.....................................................................................................................32

New Kentucky Home

Lisa Leibow....................................................................................................................40

Beautiful Escape

Taylor Glover.................................................................................................................48

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Beth Escott Newcomer’s story “Tightrope”was

nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014. She has been published in Alembic, Close to the Bone, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Switchback, Bluestem, Paterson Literary Review, The MacGuffin, Sand Hill Review, Sanskrit Literary Arts Magazine, Umbrella Factory Magazine (“No One Is Fat In Taiwan,” Issue 36), The Writer’s Workshop Review, and other journals.

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white wine and the canapés, but mostly for the

STUMP GIRL One summer, some years ago, I was

fountains of gossip.

We were in the attic packing up some things of mine from high school. Mother was

called back to Illinois for a few weeks to help

paging through my senior yearbook, pointing

Mother pack up and move out of the old

at little square black-and-white photos of

house—a rambling, three-story job on a tree-

classmates I barely remember, and giving

lined street near the university. Since I’d moved

me detailed, sometimes lurid updates on the

away, I’d rarely spent more than a long weekend

members of the Class of ’76 who still lived in

in my hometown—at the holidays, a visit for her

town—colorful tales about their children, their

birthday or Mother’s Day. For me, it was a place

divorces, their afflictions, their accidents and

stuck in time. I’d left it long ago and now lived

crimes.

another kind of life out on the West Coast, a life

Then she stopped on the homecoming

that had seduced me as a young man but for

spread and pointed at a large photo of a bunch

some time now had seemed to merely tolerate

of us around the bonfire. “Look at your curls!

my presence.

Whyever did you cut them off?” she asked, then

Giving up the old house was a melancholy task, but maintaining the place had become for Mother a worse kind of chore. Neither of us was

ran her mother-hand across the short gray hairs on the top of my head.

I looked at my sixteen-year-old self,

looking forward to it, but the time had come to

slouching by the homecoming bonfire, trying to

move her into the smaller, more manageable

look cool, or at least less vulnerable than I felt:

condo she’d picked out for herself in an upscale

hands digging into the side pockets of my Navy

area near the new hospital, an area where many

surplus peacoat, ragged jeans with holes in the

of the university’s emeriti had settled.

knees, scuffed motorcycle boots I’d picked up

Mother has always been well-informed

from Goodwill, a halo of black ringlets framing

about local matters. She reads the paper each

my boyish face. Next to me stood a dark waif

morning from front to back and knows every

of a girl looking shyly down and away from me

small-town scandal. Though retired, she still

toward the fire.

enjoys attending university functions and events at the Unitarian Church—partly for the free

“She still lives in town, you know.”

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Mother pointed at the girl. “Lily Webster, the dec 2021

handicapped girl. Your girlfriend from German

Thinking back, it was me who was utterly

class. You must remember her—she was so

fascinated by her. She was just so different than

besotted with you,” Mother continued, revising

the people I hung around with.

history as she went. “All the girls were.”

A week before homecoming, I was smoking a joint with a bunch of jocks in the

No one called her Lily in high school, and she wasn’t my girlfriend, and she wasn’t

Someone had seen Lily and me talking together

exactly handicapped. She was new that year—a

in the library, and they began teasing me,

sophomore when I was a senior—and everyone

saying, “We know you lo-ove her.” They bullied

I knew thought she was totally weird. It wasn’t

me into inviting her to the homecoming bonfire,

only that she was so quiet and solitary, or that

which I did (strictly in the role of coconspirator,

her skin was ghostly pale. Or that she dressed

I told myself), taking a dare that I would either

in that long, dusty black velvet coat and that

seduce Lily into letting me go all the way or else

soft Renaissance-looking cap every day year-

forever be a fag.

round, looking mostly like a tiny female version

It was different back then. In those

of Galileo as she limped down the halls of

days, to be branded a fag wasn’t just a name,

University High. What really set her apart was

or an insult. It was banishment, or worse. You

that Lily had an above-the-knee amputation and

might find the shit beaten out of you. It seems

a prosthetic right leg, the result of a car accident

so strange now to think back on that incident,

when she was a young child.

but burdened as I was by my sixteen-year-old

Needless to say, Lily Webster was the object of intense scrutiny. The first week, she was christened with the nickname “Stump Girl,”

insecurities, the stakes seemed very high that I prove my manliness.

And so, as arranged, Lily and I met by

and if anybody so far out on the grapevine did

the bonfire after the game, a moment before

not know about her unique physicality before

the yearbook photo was snapped. I was bashful

then, they were well-informed about it by week

when I was supposed to be debonair. I stuttered

two.

when I suggested we skip the dance and take Fate seated us next to each other in

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parking lot between fourth and fifth periods.

a moonlit walk along Sugar Creek instead. She

language lab, and the idea she was “besotted”

pointed out it was a new moon that night but

with me was not in evidence in those days.

quickly added that a moonless night was the

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perfect condition for stargazing.

We made our way out to the middle of the

the earth matched the constellation of Orion, star for star, pyramid for pyramid—a kind of

baseball field, far from the lights, and lay down

landing strip for ancient UFOs. She sat up and

on our backs on the pitcher’s mound, looking up

fished the tattered notebook out of her book bag,

into the night sky. She whispered the names of

tore out the page, and handed it to me. I could

the many constellations she knew. She told me

see her smile in the starlight. “Next time you see

about nebulae and black holes. The plausibility

Orion, remember the pyramids.”

of time travel and past lives. How physics and

She asked me what I wanted to be when

mysticism were meeting up at the outer edge of

I grew up, and I said I didn’t know, but I knew

our understanding. She wanted to study astro-

I had to get out of this little town. I confided in

archeology. She wanted to visit the world’s most

her that I couldn’t care less about sports—I’d

mysterious places—especially Egypt and maybe

tried football and baseball, but I wasn’t very

the place in South America where huge designs

good at either one and that the only reason I

were etched in the earth, recognizable only from

tried out in the first place was because my father

space. She had read a lot of books about the lost

had been such a star athlete in college, and I

civilizations of Atlantis and Lemuria.

wanted to please Mother by doing all the right

How physics and mysticism were meeting up at the outer edge of our understanding.

She spoke freely, roaming confidently

and popular things. “Maybe I’ll write a novel one day,” I said. It must have been mostly to sound smart because it was the first time I’d ever said that to anyone.

Two hours seemed like only a few minutes. I did not even think about her leg. And the idea, nagging at the back of my mind, of

from one esoteric subject to the next. I asked

going all the way—or even to first base—seemed

her about a drawing I’d seen her make during

all wrong, seemed too soon. “I’ve got to get

the boring parts of German class. Elevations and

home,” she said, holding out her hand to me to

top-down views of the pyramids of Giza, star

help her stand. “It must be after ten, and my

maps, and odd symbols. What did they mean?

mom worries so much.”

She explained how if you imagined looking down on them from space, their footprints on

“Would you like me to walk you home?” I

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asked, holding her hand for an extra beat. dec 2021

“That’s okay. You don’t need to,” she said, taking back her hand. Maybe I watched

“I’ll bet she was easy,” continued RJ. I

her limping across the baseball field for too

could not even believe the words as they came

long, because after a few minutes, she turned

out of my mouth.

and waved me off, and shouted, “It’s okay, Nick.

“And so horny!” I said, rolling my eyes

Go home,” and then continued to walk into the

back in mock coital exhaustion. Even now, all

night toward the housing subdivision out by

these decades later, I still cringe just to confess it.

the golf course. Why did it hurt when she said

“Wow. That little slut. I knew it,” said the

it? She probably didn’t mean it like that, but it

guy we called Tex, rubbing his hands together

felt like a rejection. So many things did in those

and saying what everyone else was thinking:

days.

“I’m going next.”

The bonfire was out by the time I

As it happened, our reputations were

returned. I rejoined the guys in the parking lot

changed forever by the lie, boosting mine to a

where they were drinking cans of Pabst Blue

new stratospheric level of bad-boy popularity

Ribbon and smoking Swisher Sweet cigars. As

and driving hers into the gutter. Upperclassmen

soon as they saw me, they rushed me drunkenly,

lined up to take his chance, trying and possibly

handed me a beer, and plied me for details in

succeeding in getting her to let him touch the

the language of boners and conquest. RJ—the

place where she fastened on her false leg.

quarterback, the leader, the alpha—leered at

Actually, I really don’t know what

me knowingly and put his arm around my

happened to Lily after that. In my guilt, I

shoulders. “So-o, did she let you?”

avoided her. In German class, I snubbed her and

All the magic in the stars and the quiet

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just gone home and skipped this next part.

moved my seat to the back of the room. During

of the evening and mystery of Lily was suddenly

study hall, I looked away when pimply lotharios

shredded by these loud cretins I’d called my

who did not care one bit about her trove of

friends. Were they my friends, just because we’d

secret knowledge would come sit too close to

grown up in the same place at the same time?

her in the library and probably try to get her to

Could I even trust them with my hopes and

go with them down to the make-out spots down

wishes without enduring their ridicule? They

by Sugar Creek. I tried to put the whole incident

knew nothing about Orion or the pyramids. To

out of my mind, but in the night I imagined the

this day, I still wish I could do it over, wish I had

leg that was not. Imagined the tender skin down

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there at the tip of her stump. I kept her diagram of Orion’s Belt hidden away in my wallet.

“Lily never made it back to U of I to finish her master’s but was in some useless thing like astronomy or arcotomo… I forget what it was.

Anyway, poor girl. First the leg, then the invalid

Up in the attic, while Mother and I continued to sort through piles of books and

mother. And she was so strange, wasn’t she? I don’t think she ever married.”

boxes full of papers and mementos, she prattled

Then she paused, before pouring us two

on, sharing intimate and mundane details

glasses of tea. “You should call her!” she blurted

about the lives of people I did not know. My

out, suddenly, brightly. “She’s not a strange little

attention drifted lazily in the stifling air. I kept

girl anymore,” Mother continued, catching my

coming back to the old Lily regret: Why had I

eye. “I mean, she’s still one-legged, of course,

lied? I realized I thought of Lily often. That she

but she’s very attractive in her way.”

occupied some antediluvian chamber of my

She went on, “I heard she’s working

memory. And that for more than thirty years, I

for State Farm as a German translator. They

had avoided driving past the baseball field.

are in the midst of a merger with a European

When the heat in the attic finally got to Mother and me, I suggested we take a break

insurance conglomerate or who knows what it is. Business matters bore me.

downstairs, where it was air-conditioned, and enjoy a glass of iced tea.

I carried the yearbook with me into the

“Anyway, she’s probably in the book,” said Mother. “And she’s probably very lonely and would love to have a conversation with an

kitchen and laid it on the table open to the page

old friend,” and then she winked and said, “Call

of homecoming photos. While Mother cut the

her.”

lemon into wedges, I guided her back around

I didn’t call. Instead, I drove by the

to Lily Webster’s tale. “So you say she still lives

Webster’s house on Fell Street the next day,

here in town?”

thinking maybe if Lily was out in the yard I

“Yeah. She had to move back in with her

might stop and say hello. She wasn’t. For some

mother after the stroke,” Mother began. “Julia

reason, I expected the place to be neglected

Webster was a brilliant woman before that blood

and rundown, but instead the house had a

clot paralyzed her and took her mind,” savoring

fresh paint job and well-tended landscaping

the intimate details of a tragedy not her own.

out front. There was a snazzy, late-model Audi

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Then one morning, I was in line at the in the driveway with a vanity plate that read

Cup and Saucer café picking up a couple of

“STMPGRL.” I kept driving.

iced lattes for Mother and me when I heard my

But during the days that followed, I changed the way I ran my errands so I could

face-to-face with the object of my obsession. She

drive by her house, found myself searching for

mistook my forlorn look as a lack of recognition.

her in the aisles of the market—though I realized

“Lily. Lily Webster,” she said, pointing at herself

I was mostly looking for a tiny girl wrapped in a

with an outstretched thumb. “You know, Stump

long black velvet coat, not a middle-aged woman

Girl,” she said with a good-natured chuckle.

with a career.

She was fit, vivacious, and quick, her thick black hair cut in a stylish bob, those same curious eyes peering through a pair of hip, heavy-framed glasses.

Slowly, the work at Mother’s progressed— garbage bags full of old clothing and other junk had been hauled to the Salvation Army; the rest had been divvied up between us, packed in boxes, and labeled—some to ship back to 14

name. “Nick!” I turned to find myself standing

my house on the coast, some to carry over to Mother’s new condo. The 1976 yearbook remained loose in my car.

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I was as tongue-tied and awkward as any teenager might be, except I was a 46-year-old man. “I’ve only got a few minutes left before I have to get to the office, but — my goodness, Nick Redman. I haven’t seen you in years!” she said, taking my hand and squeezing it affectionately. “What have you been doing all this time?”

She was fit, vivacious, and quick, her thick black hair cut in a stylish bob, those same curious eyes peering through a pair of hip, heavy-framed glasses. My mind went blank, and the chasm of the moment yawned as she caught me staring at the soft leather boot covering her prosthetic foot. Then she leaned in a bit and said with a wink, “Well, Nick, you know it’s all fun and games until someone loses a leg.”

As I choked on my hysterical laughter, I lied, “I wasn’t even thinking of that!” and sputtered, “I mean, you look great and, uh, well what are you doing these days? Mom said your

mom passed away. I’m sorry,” I ended with a thud.

“Out in LA, near the beach. I’m just in town for a few weeks to help Mother move,”

“Thanks. It’s okay. She was sick a long time,” she said. “And how is your mom doing?”

“She’s okay. She’s moving to a condo from the big house.” I felt my face grow warm as

and then added, “but I’d like to hear more about what you have been up to, you know, since forever. Can I call you?” I asked.

“Anytime,” she said, and handed me a

I blurted out, “I still have that drawing of yours,

business card. Lillian Webster, Translation

of Orion and the pyramids. Did you ever make it

Services. I watched her walk to the car, her

out there to see ’em, or anything?”

limp now barely noticeable. I put the card in the

“I did! It was in college. I spent part of

pocket of my shirt, and later in the dark, in the

a semester on a dig near the Temple of Horus

twin bed in my old room, I revisited my teenage

south of Luxor. And I got to see Giza, and it

lust, imagined the place where her right leg

was everything I hoped. You have to go! It will

ended, imagined caressing the tender skin there.

change your life.

“But I still have so many other places I

The last week of the move, there was a heat wave, and by Friday night neither Mother

want to see. Haven’t gotten to do much traveling

nor I felt like cooking. We decided to head

since then, taking care of Mom and everything,”

out Route 9 toward Danvers to a rundown old

she said. “But I still want to go. I’ve been

supper club near the lake that served serviceable

working a side job, saving up for a big trip to

steaks and icy martinis with sidecars. When I

Peru. Gonna do the whole Erich von Daniken

was a child, it had been the popular hot spot,

tour, you know. How about you? Did you make

with a live band in the bar on the weekends.

your high school dreams come true? Did you

When he was still around, Dad used to take

write your novel? Do you have a family?”

Mother there so they could go dancing. Now, it

“Well, I got the hell out of town, didn’t I?

was stylishly kitsch. Young executives from State

But no family. And no novel. I don’t even know

Farm liked to go slumming there. They brought

how a person writes a novel,” I said, trailing off.

their international associates to the place for a

“But we’re not dead yet, are we? There is still plenty of time for all of those things,” she said in her cheerful way. “Where do you live now?”

real slice of Midwestern Americana, and for the strong, cheap cocktails.

“You know, it’s a pretty good life here,”

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Mother said as we made our way from the dec 2021

car to the front door. Sleek luxury sedans and SUVs were parked among muddy double-cab

eyes, long lashes, and red lips made her creamy

pickup trucks. “You can make a lot of money,

skin glow in the low light of the bar. She wore a

and the cost of living is low. Besides, between

large cocktail ring that sparkled and bangles that

the university and State Farm, it’s an island of

tinkled along with her every gesture. A dark red

sophistication amidst the cornfields.” Though

dress clung to her, exposing a plunging cleavage.

I’d heard this pitch all my life, for the first time I

She took a sip of her drink and suddenly threw

found myself seriously weighing the benefits.

her head back in an unguarded, infectious laugh.

The place was cool, dark, and crowded.

I began to walk toward the booth when

We slid into a cracked red leather booth and

I realized she was not alone. A bald man in a

ordered our customary dirty martinis. While we

business suit, white shirt, and loosened tie sat

were waiting for our drinks, I excused myself

very near her. I stopped in my tracks a few steps

and stepped out onto the patio for a moment

behind them and could overhear her flirting

alone. Fireflies blinked, and crickets sang their

in German, calling the man her frecher junge,

monotonous song. Halfway to Danvers on a

naughty boy. She was tickling his cheek with

moonless night, the jagged white gash of the

the long, cool fingers of her left hand; her other

Milky Way looked like the sky had cracked open

hand was under the table in her lap, or his. His

to let in a cosmic light. I searched for Orion but

face was flushed, and his arm was around her

had forgotten where to look.

shoulders. He giggled, and I heard him say, “Ja,

Maybe Mother was right. Maybe I should move back here. Maybe I should ask Lily out for dinner, propose to her, move into her house,

ich bin ein frecher junge.”

Then he said, “Wie viel su gehen alle der weg, Lily, meine liebling?”

get a job at State Farm, go slumming here on

How much to go all the way?!

Saturday nights. What would be wrong with

“Ein bein kosten mehr als zwei, meine

such a life?

Then I spotted the car with a license

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She was wearing evening makeup: Kohl

shatz…aber ich weiß, sie haben das geld.”

One leg costs more than two?!

plate that read “STMPGRL.” Providence had

Costs more for what?

heard my plan! I hurried inside and saw her

I fled before she saw me. When I got

across the dining room in the lounge, sitting in a

back to the table, our cocktails were there, and

semicircular booth with her back to the bar.

Mother was eager to order. “Don’t let your drink

ufm 52

get warm,” she said, sipping the last of hers and motioning to the waitress for another.

I gulped mine down like a shot and held up two fingers. “Make that two.”

“I’m starved, aren’t you?” said Mother. “I think I will have the ribeye, bloody. Where have you been, sweetie? You missed it. Just a little while ago, I saw Ward Steinhoffer leaving with one of his graduate students—a girl young enough to be his granddaughter! That man is a rascal. Did I tell you he hit on me at a retired professionals luncheon last September? Can you imagine? His wife barely cold in her grave!”

No. Surprisingly enough, she hadn’t told me about the incident at the luncheon. And I didn’t tell her that I had run into Lily at the coffee shop, nor that I had just seen Lily in the bar, or about the man, or the conversation I overheard, or the conclusion I’d drawn about what I had witnessed. Instead, this time, I was a gentleman. I kept the information to myself. Information, if revealed, would have been a crowning jewel in Mother’s trove of gossip. A secret, if betrayed, could have ended Lily’s lucrative “side job,” and maybe her plans to save up for her world travels.

Instead, I said, “I’m thinking of staying in town another week or so, maybe asking Lily Webster out for a coffee or lunch or something…” and though I extended my stay, and made sure Mother was all settled in at the new condo, I went back to Los Angeles without making a date with Lily. She was better off without me. I still have her card in my wallet next to the map of the pyramids, though.

“A date with Lily?!” Mother lifted her empty glass in an air toast. “Now you’re talking!”

“Hey, Mom,” I said, taking a sip of my martini. “Did you know that some people say we traveled to earth as astronauts from outer space, back in ancient times?”

“Oh, Nick, you are so funny. Why would we do that?”

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Nikki is a 22 year old Colorado based photographer with a

passion for taking photos since childhood. She loves to travel and capture the moment.” https://leavinghere.tumblr.com/

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Wood Reede’s work has been featured in (mac)ro(mic),

Cobalt Review, Puerto del Sol, Quiet Lightning, Freshwater Literary Journal, Waving Hands Review and Penmen Review. His YA novel, Remy, was a semifinalist for the Allegra Johnson Prize in Novel Writing.

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and Instagram likes and the newest tanning beds. The

THE ORNAMENT

ornament actually looked forward to being packed in the storage box when she was through.

As the years went by, newer, more glittery decorations were acquired, and the ornament was

Everyone agreed that he was a spectacular ornament—a felt bear dressed in lederhosen with a walking stick and hiking hat adorned with a real feather. Position on the tree was tantamount, and for the first few years, he was placed front and center. It didn’t get much better than that. The children fought over which branch he would rest on, and who got to put him there. The ornament loved his human family, loved his lederhosen, loved his walking stick and hiking hat with the real feather. Every year he looked forward to hanging with the other ornaments.

When the lights were dimmed, they took turns telling stories and fantastic tales to pass the long winter nights.

The red dancing shoes spoke of opera houses and ballets and orchestras. The silver-and-black penguin regaled the tree with stories of snow-covered mountains and glaciers and salmon swimming upstream. The exotic Cossack told romantic tales of Russia and dancing bears and something called caviar. The ornament loved the Cossack and the penguin and the red slippers. His least favorite was a pink pig perched on a swing. The pig cared nothing for the outside world, and as such had nothing interesting to say. She only talked of beauty regimens

placed at the back of the tree. At first, he was sad and not just a little hurt by his demotion, but later he decided that the back wasn’t so bad for the simple fact that he could look out the window. He watched birds and trees and cars and people pass by. It was fascinating and exciting and wildly fantastic. He longed to be part of that world for all the weeks of the year and not just the two in which he was on the tree.

To add to his delight, a wooden sculpture of a mermaid perched on a half shell faced him on the other side of the glass. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The elements had bleached her surface to a luminous gold with striations of mahogany brown. Her carved hair flowed; her cheeks were round; her lips were like small, perfect raindrops. He watched the mermaid and she watched him. That pig on a swing can’t hold a candle to the garden mermaid, he thought.

When it came time to pack up the tree, the ornament realized it would be an entire year before he would see the mermaid again. He didn’t know if his heart could take it. He bravely waited to be removed and placed in the storage box, but that never

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happened. The lights were taken down and the tinsel dec 2021

packed up, and still he hung, deep in the branches at

swimming upstream and dancing bears and the most

the back of the tree. The following day, he felt the

useful beauty treatments (as described by the pig on

tree move; it heaved and groaned and was carried

the swing).

outside. The ornament dropped from his branch and rolled into the garden. He lay on the soft earth

all his life. The mermaid was the most beautiful,

looking up into the sky and was delighted to find

interesting, gentle friend he had ever had. His heart

that he had rolled next to the mermaid’s shell. The

was so full he was sure it would burst.

ornament could not believe his luck. He stared up at her beautiful, curving tail; her long, wavy hair, her upturned lips.

A large beetle crawled onto his chest and looked down into his glass eyes.

“You don’t belong in the garden,” he said.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here to live in the world,” the ornament replied.

“Hmm,” the beetle said. “It’s not a safe place, if you know what I mean.”

“I have never been so happy,” the ornament said one day. “I never want this to end.”

“Never is a long time,” the mermaid said.

“Nothing lasts forever.”

The years went by and still the ornament and the mermaid remained together. The garden grew up around them, the mermaid’s surface weathered and softened with time; her features and hair became faint. The ornament had rested on the ground for so long, his edges blurred. Small leaves of grass sprouted up around him, some growing through his

The ornament did not know what the insect

hat and lederhosen. His walking stick was almost

meant, and so he ignored him. The beetle heaved a

completely decomposed and the feather in his cap

sigh and eventually left.

long gone. Still, the two talked and shared stories

“That beetle is a bore,” the mermaid said.

and ideas just as they had when they first met. The

The ornament was inclined to agree.

ornament loved the mermaid with all his heart. The

As the days passed, the mermaid explained

thought of life without her filled him with a sadness

all there was to know of the sea. She described vast

so profound that the mermaid was compelled to ask

underwater worlds filled with mammals the size

him what was the matter?

of city blocks and creatures as small as the tiniest comma on a page. She talked of brilliant coral and 30

The ornament had never been so happy in

swimming horses and star-shaped fish. The ornament told tales of snowy mountaintops and salmon

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“I am so happy,” he said. “I never want to be without you.”

“When I am gone, look up into the night sky,” the mermaid said. “You will see me in the

constellation, Delphinus. You will be there with me; your constellation is Ursa the bear. As long as there are stars in the sky, we will never be apart.”

Eventually the mermaid became so softened by time and the elements that she quietly disappeared. The ornament could do nothing but lay in the spot he had occupied for all his days in the garden. His glass eyes shone with a sadness so deep, he was sure he would burst.

The bird perched next to him, cocked her head, and asked, “What is the matter? Why are you so sad?”

“I have lost my mermaid,” he replied. “The leaves and grass are too dense. I will never see her in the night sky.”

The bird thought for a minute and then said, “I have an idea.”

And with her beak, she gently lifted what was left of the ornament from his resting place. She flew him to the top of the tallest tree and placed him in the center of her nest. The ornament lay on a bed lined with soft feathers and fluff and bits of yarn. From his position in the nest, he had a perfect view of the sky. When the sun set, and the stars came out, he could see his mermaid in the brilliant pattern of stars— and from his place in the nest in the top of the tree, he once again told her stories of snowy mountaintops and glaciers and dancing bears and salmon swimming upstream.

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Sasha Hilas is a gender fluid analog photographer from

Argentina. He enjoys taking pictures of daily life, he finds beauty in the simple emotions of every day. He makes a photo diary, his own way of doing it and recreates his memory, and he keeps the memories of himself and others over time. https://s-hilas.tumblr.com/ https://www.instagram.com/palido.fuego/

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Lisa L. Leibow’s work has been published or is forthcoming in Coe

Review, CommuterLit, Courtship of Winds, Crack the Spine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Eleven Eleven, Entropy Magazine, Evening Street Review, Five on the Fifth, Folly, Griffin, Mulberry Fork, NoVA Bards, Pisgah Review, Red Rose, Rougarou, Sand Hill Review, Sandpiper, and Sanskrit. Her work has also been nominated for a 2022 Pushcart Prize. She earned her master’s in writing with a concentration in fiction from Johns Hopkins University, and she currently teaches writing at several schools, including George Washington University and Northern Virginia Community College. She recently launched and co-founded an activism through storytelling arts movement with Julia Alvarez called The Scheherazade Project. She is a Faulkner-Wisdom Award novel finalist, a two-time merit-based grant recipient and resident at the Vermont Studio Center, and the winner of Pitchapalooza D.C. She has attended numerous conferences, including AWP, Algonkian Workshop, and the Writer’s Digest New York Conference, among others. In addition, she was a member of the planning committee for the Washington Writers Conference from 2017-2019, and she holds leadership positions with both ShutUp&Write and the Johns Hopkins Writing Program Alumni Association.

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NEW KENTUCKY HOME I kept on sunglasses to mask a bruised left eye. Mr. Beadle, a square-jawed lawyer in a brown suit with a stack of papers piled under one arm, lumbered into the Beadle and Rheault reception area, extending his free hand. “Mrs. Allen, it’s nice to meet you. Come on back to the conference room. We’ll chat.”

Other than taking hair salon clients one at a time in the shop, this was my first in-person meeting since the pandemic shutdown. Following at a six-foot distance down the hall felt like being sucked through a portal to another planet. I whizzed by identical beige and red book spines in a blur. I suddenly landed in the glass-walled conference room.

“You won’t find too many better views than that. This is one of the tallest buildings in DC,” Beadle told me. “Only the Capitol and the Washington Monument are taller.”

I smiled out of politeness. Frankly, the gash under my left eye stung too much to care about the DC skyline. “Mr. Beadle?” My hand shook as I removed the glasses. For the first time in my life, I wanted someone to see that my husband beat me.

Tears gushed. Instinctively, my attorney pushed a box of Kleenex across the conference table. I snatched a few tissues from the box. New ones appeared like scarves from a scary clown’s sleeve.

Beadle’s sharp jaw softened as he tilted his

head. “Is this the first time he’s done this to you?”

Unable to speak, I shook my head.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale, inhale, inhale. Close to hyperventilating.

He folded his hands and leaned forward.

“Take your time.”

Something in his eyes—a sureness—helped me go on. I told him about the bruises, the battered back, and cowering behind barricaded bedroom doors—my darkest shame and secrets. I worried about the kids too. Not just their physical safety, but the emotional impact. Lately, my oldest son Derek has been a bully to his sister and brother—calling them names and locking them out of his room.

Perhaps it’s normal big brother stuff, but I’m not so sure. I’m scared that he thinks this is how men are, that he’s an inch away from twisting his sister’s arm until it breaks.

Beadle leaned forward, hands clasped on the table as I blubbered through my tale, mopping my eyes and nose with tissue after tissue. The mass of dirty ones grew too large to ball up in my fist.

He kept listening, while pulling over a wastebasket from the corner. Something about those eyes exuded sympathy—the drooping outside corners and unwavering gaze helped me unload. “…That’s when I looked you up.” My neck tendons released the heavy anchor grounding me with Keith.

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He nodded once—a definitive nod. “In dec 2021

Virginia, a couple must separate for a year before

if at all possible. In situations like this, I work with a

finalizing a divorce. I’ll prepare papers to begin that

national women’s shelter. Just talked to them. They

clock ticking. But that’s just one small part of it.”

can set up you and the kids with a new job, school,

My shoulder blades tightened, bracing to take back the anchor keeping me in dangerous waters.

“A year? Can’t I just go to Nevada and get a quickie divorce?” Even as I said these words, there was no

“Kentucky?” My hands shook so hard, the page rattled.

“I know it’s far. But it’s safer that way. Take

way I was flying anywhere until the CDC gave the

the kids and get on the road. Turn off the GPS and

all-clear.

Location Services on your phone. Navigate old-

He patted the stack of papers as if trying

school. Here’s a map. That page has the address,

to soothe them. “To be honest, a divorce decree is

instructions, driving directions, and everything else

just a piece of paper. It can’t stop him from chasing

you’ll need.”

you, beating you, or continuing to put you and the children in danger.”

The lump in my throat plummeted to my stomach, leaving me queasy.

He met my eye. “My advice? Leave the area.

Tears blurred the printed words on the paper.

“Do I have to?”

“The next blow might kill you. Or your sons and daughter. First priority, let’s keep you safe.”

The words against my husband pierced

Take the kids. Don’t tell him where you’re going.

like an arrow. A vision of Keith bursting into the

Any family or friends you could stay with?”

salon with a huge bouquet of flowers, declaring,

A melding of my past and future stared at me

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” clouded my

from a wall-mounted television left of Beadle’s chair.

conscience. Excuses percolated in my gut, and my

The screen showed explosions—mushroom clouds. I

throat choked in anticipation of defending my love. A

gasped but felt an odd relief that this could be the end

strange combination of shooting pains and pressures

of it all. Forgive me, but a wave of disappointment

randomly shifted throughout my scalp and neck.

swept over me upon reading the caption. This footage

Wiping another tear reacquainted me with the tender

came from decades-old Chinese tests on some remote

bruises on my face.

island.

Beadle’s sloped eyes assured me. “Here’s Beadle stepped away for a minute and

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and house in Kentucky.”

returned, ripping a sheet of paper off a pad and handing it to me. “Let’s get you out of here—today

ufm 52

my card too. Call me to let me know you’ve arrived safely.”

I tucked the instructions and his card into my

purse and left his office.

order would include support, sent care of his legal ***

The sun reflected the caramel-colored

office to protect my hidden location.

The cheeseburger tasted like freedom, like

dashboard onto the bottom half of the windshield

hope, like a fresh new start. I savored each morsel

as we traveled on the open road. Twice along the

of sesame seed bun, gooey cheese, and sweet

way, I encountered a convoy of eighteen-wheelers.

pickle mingled with spicy mustard. It seemed

The light green and red buds of early springtime

simultaneously my last nourishment ever and my first

blurring passed me on the highway. However, a hawk

in a very long time.

circled above as a warning of a dead opossum on the shoulder, up ahead.

My children sat on the bench in the back seat.

I imagined a suburban house with a swimming pool in the yard and other children next door for my daughter and sons to play with. I saw

“Where are we going?” “Where’s Dad?” and “Why

Mindy skipping rope with two happy girlfriends in

are we leaving?” I had answers to these questions.

the front yard. I saw Derek and Jake shooting hoops

How quickly the children accepted them.

in the driveway with a few nice boys from up the

I smelled skunk and opened the window a

street. I saw a new salon, owned by me, with every

crack to let in some fresh air. The children pinched

barber chair full and the appointment book penciled

their noses. “Pew! Pew!” When the stink finally

in for ten hours per day, six days per week. I even

cleared, I noticed that Keith’s cologne lingered on the

dared to imagine Mother and my sisters trimming

silk scarf around my neck.

hair and answering telephones right alongside

I swear, I broke out in hives all over. I

me. The daydream made me smile. As my little

resisted the urge to scratch, but when I finally gave

family got back on the road after the pit stop, it

in, I accidentally poked a thumbnail through my

kept replaying in my mind. Each time it played, the

pantyhose.

sky seemed bluer and the front lawn, greener. The

My stomach growled with hunger. I expected

colors finally became as bright as the Andy Warhol

the children needed something to eat too. I stopped at

fluorescent cow wallpaper Keith insisted on buying

a rest area, paraded the children in, made them each

for Mindy’s bedroom.

visit the bathroom, and bought them each a burger.

The children slept in the back seat. Derek

As I counted the change from my purse, I worried

sat in the middle and leaned his head straight back,

about supporting my kids without Keith’s assistance.

mouth wide open. Jake and Mindy sat on either side,

Beadle had assured me that part of the separation

leaning on his shoulders. They looked peaceful. I

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glanced at the map. My foot firmly on the gas for miles.

I ushered the children into the flatbed of A sudden rattle in the engine woke the kids.

Derek woke with a start. “What. Did. You. Do?” The hair on the back of my neck stood on

Bob’s rusty pickup truck. As I did, I noticed Derek and Jake exchange a little snigger as they saw the rear mud flaps were decorated with the full-bodied

end. I was about to tell him nothing in the same

silhouettes of a buxom woman. I let it pass without

singsongy voice I used to calm Keith’s anger.

comment and climbed into the cab with Bob. The

However, steam escaping from under the hood meant

Chevrolet pickup, painted mostly a dingy old red,

it was something. Luckily, I made it to a service

had several spots on the hood that were rusted clear

station.

through. The passenger door, however, had obviously As I waited for the mechanic to help me, a

been replaced with a dark blue spare part from some

black Lincoln Continental pulled up to the gas pump.

other truck. It felt like my head hit a broomstick

When I rose from the car, my lower back spasmed so

propped between the back of the seat and the rear

hard that I fell to the seat. My heartbeat like machine

window of the truck. I turned to find a rifle between

gun fire in my ears. He couldn’t have found me

my children and me.

already. I stared at the hood ornament, afraid to see the driver. Tennessee plates. Not my husband, after all. Maybe he wasn’t looking for us yet. Perhaps he

Trying not to act alarmed. “Are you a hunter?”

“Why yes, ma’am. This time of year, I

passed out in front of a hockey game on television.

concentrate on rabbits and other small varmints, but

Maybe his fare schedule kept him so busy, he hadn’t

when the deer population gets out of hand, we stock

noticed we left. Had my attorney served papers yet?

up on venison for the winter months.”

“Ma’am, I’ll have this car fixed by morning.

He turned the key in the ignition with grease-

Can Bob, here, give you a lift over to Econo Lodge?

covered hands and fingernails so black they might

You can get a meal and a place to stay for the night.

have belonged to a rotting corpse. He smiled right

I’ll have you back on the road in the morning,

at me, showing off his two front teeth, which also

promise.”

looked grease stained.

Mindy, Derek, and Jake clung to me like

44

Thank you very much.”

In an attempt not to react to his filth, I averted

blossoms to a branch. I forced my eyes open and

my eyes. The kids sat with their backs to the cabin

smoothed my brow. I smiled sweetly and pretended

window. I stretched to see better. Derek sat between

my back spasms had calmed. “That would be lovely.

his brother and sister, arms around them in headlocks

ufm 52

or as protector—hard to tell. Mindy squealed and clung to Derek’s shirt when the truck bounced over a pothole.

his fingertips.

Worried about fears and expectations occupying their thoughts, I resisted the urge to

When Bob rode up a hill, Jake raised hands above head, preparing for the downhill like a rollercoaster daredevil. Keith had started the roller-coaster game on a long car ride, once. I clutched at a stitch in my neck. What if the kids resented me for leaving, keeping them away from their father—the way Keith alienated me from mine.

mention Keith. I wanted to reassure them that everything was going to be okay now.

I snuck another glance through my rearview mirror. “Love you lots.”

Without turning back to look at me, Mindy said, “You too.”

Jake leaned his head on the window and

Bob pulled up in front of the Econo Lodge, promising to return in the morning with the repaired car. The beat-up pickup truck pulled away, leaving me and the kids holding hands, strung together like teeth in braces.

closed his eyes, looking content to hear he was loved.

Derek mumbled, “Love ya,” as if he were worried someone else might hear him.

I navigated the winding country road.

Neighbors could hike for miles before running into

***

one another. Each property looked like a palace.

The closer I got to the address Beadle marked

The sun beat down on the roadway, making it

on the map, the more I focused on the landscape. The

glitter as if it were paved with silver dollars. I drifted

meadows and farms of Kentucky sprawled. Every so

miles away—lost in the dream of opening a new

often, I passed a huge plantation house set on wide-

salon and providing for the kids on my own.

open, rolling greens.

The car’s movement lulled the kids. Mindy

Crunching gravel replaced smooth pavement.

I pulled over to consult my map. When the car came

stayed awake, but quiet, kneeling in the middle of

to a stop, Jake awoke, and the others perked up. The

the back seat, facing out the rear window. Jake and

front bumper pointed at an enclosure of thin wire

Derek sat on either side of her, no longer poking

with hot-pink streamers tied onto it and an Electric

at one another like they had done the first hour of

Fence sign.

this leg of the trip. Instead, Derek bit his nails as

A chestnut-colored horse and her baby

he watched the world outside the window. Jake

galloped toward my car, slowed to a trot, and stopped

entertained himself by fogging up the window with

just short of the fence. The mother horse had a white

his breath and drawing wiggly lines and squares with

strip curving around the inside of her right eye and

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dec 2021

straight down her nose like a question mark. The colt

grazing another patch of grass. The question-marked

had a white patch right between the eyes like a jewel.

mare pushed her nose forward in three short jerks,

I exited the car to take a closer look. The

urging me to come closer. I took a step, mindful not

mare with the question mark stared right at me

to touch the electrified wire between us. I placed my

and whinnied. The colt showed no interest in

hand on her velvety muzzle. Her eyes softened with

anything but his mother; he sneezed with a short

my touch. We both had been possessed by another,

“brrr,” then lowered his head to nibble at the grass

scarred. Our children were alike—either too naïve

beneath her feet. Without a care, he wrapped his lips

to know the trauma their mother has suffered or too

around blades of grass. I heard intermittent ripping

egocentric, as children should be, to realize anyone’s

sounds as this beautiful animal tore each section of

problems but their own. It soothed me that my

Kentucky bluegrass from the ground. The mare fixed

children saw happiness and beauty in the world and

her enormous brown eyes on me. I surveyed her

that the colt kicked up his heels and ran in the field

muscular body. Between her front legs, at the chest,

without a care.

I saw a bald patch with a raised black scar carved by

I referred to the map again. Iron Works Road

the lash of a whip. On her left hindquarters, the letter

intersected with Georgetown Pike a few miles ahead.

T burned into her flesh. Her eyes and mine clasped

We would reach our new house about fifteen miles

together in a touchless embrace. She blinked and

from there. We returned to the road, watching fields

nodded as if she acknowledged our connection. My

roll by for another stretch. More horses and ponies

children piled out of the car, excited to be so close to

dotted the landscape. We traveled past a barn here,

the magnificent animals.

a mansion there, a grand farmhouse, and a stable

“Look, there’s another one over there!” Derek pointed to the distance.

“This one’s just a baby. Oh, you’re so

with a riding ring beyond the pasture. After another mile or two, trees replaced meadows and fields.

First, a couple of blue spruce and a few ancient

adorable.” Mindy patted her knees and clucked,

oaks. This transitioned to a forest of densely rooted,

asking for the colt’s attention.

scraggly trees towering over the road. Only dapples

“Mom, do you think I can learn to ride like

of sunlight penetrated the heavy leaf cover overhead.

a cowboy while we live here?” Jake paced along the

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Horse pastures

fence.

and beautiful houses gave way to a rusty old sedan As if to show off for my children, the young

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colt kicked up his heels and shook his head before ufm 52

abandoned in the woods and a shack with peeling paint and boarded windows. Thankfully, the number

on the mailbox did not match the one on the scrap of

lined the perimeter: two across from each other and

paper stapled to the map. I continued deeper into the

one behind a cabinet door at the end of the hall.

woods with no new neighborhood in sight.

Finally, a school crossing sign appeared on

The interior had shag carpet, which looked clean but smelled musty. Once I gave the place a

the side of the road. A few fenced-in properties with

thorough cleaning, it would be good enough until I

well-kept, small ranch-style homes surrounded by

could save money to move someplace like the house

chain-link fences. One even boasted an aboveground

I left—minus the danger.

pool in the side yard. Another featured a metal swing

Derek chased Jake and Mindy around the

set. There, two pale-blond boys rode on a teeter-

mobile home, burning pent-up energy from being

totter. A dog that looked like Lassie from television

cooped in the car for two days and 525 miles. They

circled them, barking. After we passed three small

rattled off plans to befriend the teeter-totter riding

sections of spindly trees and two more old jalopies

boys up the street and to find out who lives in the

up on blocks, we found our new living quarters.

house with the swimming pool in the side yard.

Riveted to the metal siding, a manufacturer’s label read Rolle home. White curtains with blue eyelet trim showed in the two windows next to the entrance.

“Do they have real schools here? Or do we have to go on Zoom?” Jake stopped to take a breath.

Derek punched his little brother in the

Dandelions and clover filled the yard. A four-foot

shoulder. “Of course, you idiot. Didn’t you see the

chain-link fence enclosed a small overgrown garden

school up there?!”

where the brush practically climbed to the top of the fence. I considered how it might look if I pulled those weeds and planted a few petunias.

I walked inside. A small living room sofa

I gave Derek a steely-eyed look that meant he needed to be nice.

Derek mussed Jake’s hair and put an arm around his shoulder. “I bet we’ll be walkers.”

attached to the wall. A tiny stretch of linoleum with an undersized stainless steel sink. Cooking range on one side of the aisle and refrigerator on the other.

Beyond that was a small corner alcove with a dinertype booth built in.

When I opened the bathroom door, it banged into the side of the commode. The narrow hallway

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continued beyond the bathroom, where three beds dec 2021

Taylor Glover’s grew up in the beautiful state of

Colorado. She spent her childhood amongst the natural world and draws a lot of her inspiration from just that. She is a graphic designer out of Longmont Colorado under the business name of Eagle Hill Design. She studied Graphic design and Multimedia at Front Range Community College. Aside from graphic design, Taylor loves making graphic art and sells her prints on Etsy. Her favorite topics are nature and industry. Focusing on bold colors and hard vector lines, her art is loved by many. When she is not making art, she likes to enjoy nature and spend quality time with her husband and many pets at home.

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