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UFM 22 UFM
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CO N T EN TS Prose
Poetry
Mark Aufiery “The Ring”
JuanITA REY “A COMEDY” 16 “YES IT PAYS ME” 17 “JESSICA” 18 BRIAN MORRISON “A HISTORY OF GROWTH” 19 “THE LAST OF THE ORANGE PEELS” 20 “A HISTORY OF CIRCULAR MOTION” 21
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Editor’s Note 5 About Us 4 Submission Guidlines 6 Bios and Credits 34
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UFM MARCH 2016, Issue 22
UMBRELLA FACTORY WORKERS ART Editor-In-Chief WILLIAM CRAWFORD PORTFOLIO Artist Statement + Bio, “Parking Garage”, “Crawdaddy Shoots Himself” 23 “City Beat Nocturnal. Winston-Salem, NC” 24 “Ideas require serious thought.” 25 “View from Main Street.” 26 “Marilyn Loves Satellite.” 27 “God’s Highway.” 28 “Waiting for Java. Color.” 29 “Double Exposure.” 30 “Off Brand Gas Station.” 31 “Post Shoot Supper.” 32 “ARTIST COLONY” 35
Anthony ILacqua Copy Editor
Janice Hampton Art Director
Jana Bloomquist
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Umbrella Factory isn’t just a magazine, it’s a community project that includes writers, readers, poets, essayists, filmmakers and anyone doing something especially cool. The scope is rather large but rather simple. We want to establish a community--virtual and actual--where great readers and writers and artists can come together and do their thing, whatever that thing may be. Maybe our Mission Statement says it best: We are a small press determined to connect well-developed readers to intelligent writers and poets through virtual means, printed journals, and books. We believe in making an honest living providing the best writers and poets a forum for their work. We love what we have here and we want you to love it equally as much. That’s why we need your writing, your participation, your involvement and your enthusiasm. We need your voice. Tell everyone you know. Tell everyone who’s interested, everyone who’s not interested, tell your parents and your kids, your students and your teachers. Tell them the Umbrella Factory is open for business. Subscribe. Comment. Submit. Tell everyone you know. Stay dry
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hello there UFM editor’s letter - March 2016 Welcome to Issue 23 Thank you all for your continued support of our humble magazine. If this is your first exposure to Umbrella Factory Magazine, thanks for stopping by, we hope you like what you see, and tell others. We have been doing our best to connect well developed readers to well developed writers. This issue, I hope, is no different. In this issue we have new poetry from Brian Morrison, his poem “History of Circular Motion” is a particular favorite with us. After reading the poems from our second poet, Juanita Rey, I thought about what Charlemagne suggests: To have another language is to possess a second soul. Thematically speaking, her poetry is beautiful, and for those of us who speak Spanish as a first or second language, I find her poems even more profound. Read poetry, I think it’s the highest form of writing. To write poetry is one thing, try writing it in language other than your native tongue. Mr. Mark Aufiery’s short story “The Ring,” rounds out our issue. I am delighted to present William “Crawdaddy” Crawford and his photography to our Umbrella Factory Magazine community. When we began in the fall of 2009, it was out sincerest intention to represent writers of all genres, walks of life and sensibilities in the pages of our magazine. We also had a notion to introduce our readers to artists, filmmakers, musicians. We have had artists, Fabio Sassi namely, who have graciously given us covers for issues, but this is the first time we’ve really focused on an artist. Aside from Crawdaddy’s photography being very cool, it’s his chosen aesthetic, Forensic Foraging, that I find so compelling. This particular photographic genre focuses on composition, and downplays computer enhancements which I find very alluring in this snapchat, selfie stick, Photoshop digital age. It feels like the photographer is more interested in the process of photographic discovery rather than a ‘perfect’ product for the masses. From North Carolina all the way to the deserts of the southwest, Crawdaddy has found art in the mundane, and captured beautiful images. Here’s more information about Forensic Foraging. https:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Draft:Forensic_Foraging_In_Photography. Read. Submit. Comment. Tell everyone you know. Stay Dry. Anthony ILacqua
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submissions
Submission Guidelines:
Yes, we respond to all submissions. The turn-around takes about three to six weeks. Be patient. We are hardworking people who will get back to you. On the first page please include: your name, address, phone number and email. Your work has to be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please notify Umbrella Factory if your piece gets published elsewhere. We accept submissions online at www.umbrellafactorymagazine.com
ART / PHOTOGRAPHY
POETRY
Accepting submissions for the next cover or featured artwork/photography of Umbrella Factory Magazine. For our cover 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.
We accept submissions of three to five poems for shorter works. If submitting longer pieces, please limit your submission to 10 pages. Please submit only previously unpublished work.
In addition we accept any artwork or photos for consideration in UFM. We archive accepted artwork and may use it with an appropriate story, mood or theme. Our cover is square so please keep that in mind when creating your images. Image size should be a minimum of 700 pixels at 300 dpi, (however, larger is better) jpeg or any common image file format is acceptable.zz Please include your bio to be published in the magazine. Also let us know if we can alter your work in any way.
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. Please include your name and contact information within the cover letter.
SUBMIT YOUR WORK ONLINE AT WWW.UMBRELLAFACTORYMAGAZINE.COM 6/
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NONFICTION Nonfiction can vary so dramatically it’s hard to make a blanket statement about expectations. The nuts-and-bolts of what we expect from memoire, for example, will vary from what we expect from narrative journalism. However, there are a few universal factors that must be present in all good nonfiction. 1. Between 1,000 and 5,000 words 2. Well researched and reported 3. A distinct and clearly developed voice 4. Command of the language, i.e. excellent prose. A compelling subject needs to be complimented with equally compelling language. 5. No major spelling/punctuation errors 6. A clear focus backed with information/instruction that is supported with insight/reflection 7. Like all good writing, nonfiction needs to connect us to something more universal than one person’s experience. 8. Appropriate frame and structure that compliments the subject and keeps the narrative flowing 9. Although interviews will be considered, they need to be timely, informative entertaining an offer a unique perspective on the subject. Please double space. We do not accept multiple submissions, please wait for a reply before submitting your next piece.
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. On your cover page please include: a short bio―who you are, what you do, hope to be. Include any great life revelations, education and your favorite novel.
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THE RING Mark Aufiery
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prose He looked down into the clear whiteness of the diamond and his mind started rambling again with guilty, desperate thoughts; his skin hot, tingling with nervous sensation, crawling with a slime of perspiration. The ring sparkled in the fading daylight of the setting sun that poured in through the windshield and caught his eye just so as he moved it back and forth, studying it, checking for flaws, and not being able to understand, for one minute, her dissatisfaction with it. Or maybe it was her true expression of the un-love she had for him and it had finally spilled out and this was the result. The crystal shine hit his eyes so hard one time when he was looking at the diamond, watching the surrounding traffic, contemplating the stone again - which he thought was near perfect as the diamond salesman had stated, and a perfect one: a flawless one, would have been way out of his budget - that he swerved onto the narrow shoulder of the turnpike and almost drove off the highway, through the old rusted guardrail and down the embankment into the Schuykill River. For sure he would have died, the car tumbling over and over through the brush and rocks and down into the cold, wintry water where ice had been forming along the banks. He could see the ices stark reflection, the brittleness of some, the thickness of some, against the iron water as he managed to right the car back onto the highway in fairly heavy traffic all in the matter of seconds, as if nothing at all had happened. But it was a crazy road and he had seen chunks of wood and pieces of pipe, pink insulation, a dented-up washing machine, rotten mattress, even a sofa bed laying haphazardly across the lanes or half on the shoulder and people either hit the stuff and there was a nasty wreck where someone died and someone else was injured or they were lucky, their karma good that day, and managed to veer around the junk all in the high-speed flow of traffic in and out of the city - of the lemmings all rushing towards the cliff of life. He laughed at the local name: The Sure-kill Expressway. He felt awful for what he had done, another blaze of sweat overtaking his body, rumbling and chilling through his bones. He knew
she wouldn’t die from something like that. He had done his due diligence; researched the matter. In the modern age infection was easily stopped or prevented. So it was a little bloody, that’s all. Besides, she was drunk out her mind, passed out, didn’t feel a thing. What the hell did I buy this for in the first place? he thought, angrily. To silence her? Or was it just the thing to do? What a lemming would do? Just give in to her wants. But the buying and giving of an engagement ring meant something. More people did that sort of thing back in the old days, too. Marriage was next; the end of a man’s freedom soon followed. Now that the sun had dropped a little lower behind the trees he could study the ring in more detail. She said there was a flaw in the stone somewhere. A crack of some sort. He wondered: I bet she took the ring to a jeweler and had it looked at. Appraised. But he couldn’t find it for the life of him and he was getting sick of looking for it. As if it was a defect in him and the ring was an expensive metaphor. A hard lesson. Well, he had definitely put that notion to rest. So to say. He laughed again. A deep, high-pitched sort of squeal came from him and it frightened him. He had never heard a sound like that before. From him or anyone else. Now his hands were trembling again and he put the object of his hatred, the ring, into the ashtray of his vintage Oldsmobile, burying it in the cigarette ashes. So… he contemplated, he was on the run, taking the back roads west. He always wanted to see the west and followed passed little towns that time had forgot. It was another world out here. Desolate. Even inspiring despair. He could see why someone would hang themselves in one of the dilapidated barns or ruined houses. Or shoot themselves down in a farm gully or ditch. He was using a phony name whenever he checked into a motel - places so far removed from the modern world that they didn’t even flinch when he wrote out Thomas Jefferson in the register. Then he envisioned her father’s fat fingers tightening around his neck as he lie asleep in a strange bed, waking to find himself already a mangled ghost.
Last week, at 9:15 a.m., Jake took all his money out of the bank. He neatly hid it in a slender new briefcase he had purchased the week before. He told the bank teller that his company was relocating him to another state down south. That he wasn’t looking forward to having to learn a new place, different ways and saying, customs, habits. The week before that Jake had methodically packed some clothes - nothing to obvious for her to see, spacing his pants and shirts in the closet so it didn’t look like any were missing. He did things once a week. Wednesday’s. He was deliberate and thought every step through, replaying the events, any number of potential scenarios in his head before acting on the deed, making certain nothing appeared out of the ordinary; he never felt his pulse rise or felt uneasy or uncertain as he proceeded steadily with his plan; his facial expression remained constant as did the tone of his voice and body language. That summer was the hottest on record. The day’s steamed, one after the other, heat rising from the city streets in a quivering mist that made Jake dizzy; even the nights were muggy and airless and noisy beyond what he could recall. People carrying boomboxes screaming with music, loud cars with their radios blaring, big trucks with their black diesel exhaust filtering right into the apartment. Buses stopped and started, more black exhaust billowing upward; the trolley creaked, grinding in its shrill voice as it turned from 36th street and headed on its downtown run. The howling of police sirens, ambulances and fire trucks never seemed to cease. It was all taking its toll on Jake and his sensitive nerves, which were already in a state of shock from his boss giving him until the end of the month to pick up some sales or else he might as well find another career. His neighbor was a crazy lady with too many cats and still wore her winter robe even on the hottest evenings as she sat out on her front step and smoked thin cigars. The humid, 100 degree weather just wouldn’t break. Jake was able to hold together for the previous month, telling himself things could only get better. They had too; but his nerves finally caved in. He felt it happen like a
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prose great snap in the back of his neck, as if he had broken something or pulled a giant muscle and he knew he was in for a slide, a tough spell was coming. The last sales call he made was awful. The potential client actually called his boss later and told him that Jake was the absolute worst person he had ever spoken to, regardless of having had detailed communication with about a casket. And then there was his girlfriend, Rita. He had raised his voice at her, just a little mind you, and she curled up and shrank down like a little rabbit, turning away from him, hiding in the bathroom, pretending she was washing her makeup off. He knew she was completely irritated because of her endless humming. The last thing he saw was her hand hold onto the door frame, the hand with the engagement ring on it he had given her six weeks ago, and then slide off into the bathroom. There was, he still hopped, to be a small wedding in the fall and he begged her to forgive him but there was nothing but silence, random humming, and the permanent sound of running water. It drove him mad. He wanted to break the door down and tell her a thing or two. Like he wasn’t ready to get married. Or he didn’t want to. Not yet. He wanted to keep his options open. What if something else better came along? Anyway, what was the point these days in having a brutal contract like that? Marriage was for the fourteen century, he thought. She wore the ring proudly, holding her arm out, her hand extended, as she inspected it. Then she would sometimes suggest, or even point out, that it was a bit smaller than what she had been expecting. That was like shooting Jake through the heart with an arrow. She might as well keep firing at him because he was quickly wounded. Kill him off would be best. He bought what he could afford. Besides, the diamond salesman had told him that was the right way to go; he’d seen too many people buy more than they could afford and it didn’t wind up well. So, Jake had to convince Rita that it was a good ring. It was a ring that he could afford. And there wasn’t a day it seemed anymore that they didn’t discuss the ring.
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“Look at the sparkle,” Jake would say over breakfast, or when he was pouring the evening wine. “See how clear the stone is: only a high quality diamond is that white and that clear. I know it’s only half a carat; but it’s truly flawless. I could’ve gotten you a bigger one for the same money but the quality wouldn’t be there. It just wouldn’t.” “Ah… I don’t want to hear that,” Rita would say. “It’s exactly the size and shape you asked for. It’s the diamond you said would look best on your finger. You have thin fingers you know. You’ve said it yourself. You even pointed out a similar one last year when we were window shopping along Jewelers Row. It was two days before Christmas and you said: ‘Perfect’. Your words are pressed into my brain; and the glowing expression you had on your face, how you stared dreamily into the glass, your forehead pressed tight. Who could forget! Then we went to the Greek diner for the dinner special. Remember?” She paused, turning her head a little from him. “It’s not that I don’t like it. You got it for me and I will always cherish it. I’ll never take it off; only when I clean it,” she said, managed a smiled, then looked downward, completely away from him. “It’s… just… well,” she blurted, “I like the ring very much but my mother has a bigger one. It’s that simple. And I keep thinking, or wondering, why you didn’t get me a larger one. It hurts me a little. You’ve seen my mother’s ring. I’ve always made a point of telling you how beautiful it is. I thought you’d take the hint.” Now she stared directly up at him. “Is it because you don’t really love me?” “No… you know I love you. I searched everywhere for that ring: jewelry shops, malls, pawn shops, even over to New Jersey.” “I know. I know. It’s very lovely,” she stressed. “It’s just that’s it’s so small.” “It’s half a carat! It’s not that small!” Jake argued, his voice rising passed her comfort level and this always made her glance away from him and peer downward; turn on the I’m hurt routine and pick at her fingernails which were already in wretched shape from her stressful job of filing
paperwork and doing technical reports, most of which were of a rote nature and which she continually made the same editorial mistakes and then had to drag home and talk about. “Well… my mother’s is a full carat. Didn’t you have the money to buy a full-size diamond like my mother’s?” Rita questioned, her voice a demanding and digging monotone that sent him. “Hey. I got what you wanted! Anyway…” he stuttered, “the salesman said I could always move up to another stone in a few years.” “So, you could’ve spent more?” Rita jabbed. “I spent what I was able. What I could afford,” he said, meekly, feeling badly. “Hum… I guess that means we won’t be living up to the standards of my family,” she added, moodily, not looking at him. “You know, my father bought my mother her ring when they were younger than us. I should have a ring at least as good as hers!” “Want me to take the ring back?” Jake raised his voice again, louder, so the back of his throat hurt.” “Of course not!” Rita snapped, suddenly submissive again. “It’s cute. You went out and shopped around for it so I’ll wear it,” she said, her lips and cheeks now set in a beaming smile, her face looking so unlike the real, contemplative, accessing Rita. “I only wish it was as big as my mother’s. Do you recall Memorial Day? I pointed her ring out to you; how everyone in my family has always commented how it’s the perfect ring. My sister especially. I look at my ring and I feel short-changed.” “What’s the problem!” Jake yelled. “You told me what you wanted. You distinctly expressed that you did not want a big ring…” Jake shook his head, baffled, angry, wanting to leave her right then and there. “Remember… you said they look gaudy. Unsophisticated. Remember?” “ I know I said that. I did. But now I see it on my finger and I realize that I would prefer a much bigger one. I’m sure of it,” she stated, her face that same twisting arrogant sneer it was a moment ago as she cast her eyes down on the ring.
“Give it to me. Give it to me now and I’ll take it back. Come on! Now! I’ve got a ninety day return policy.” “No. I want it. I love you and I want to keep it because you got it for me,” Rita cried out, and she sprung at Jake and kissed him on the lips so hard their teeth clashed. “Besides, it’s got a home now,” she remarked, her elbow crooked a bit as she held her hand just so, admiring the gift. “That’s better. It is a beautiful ring, isn’t it? And it looks good on your hand.” “It does, doesn’t it?” She frowned, still a glint of embarrassment and anger and the sense that she had been cheated remaining in her eye. “I don’t want to move up. This is my first ring and I want to keep it forever,” she said, now almost crying. Jake had wondered about his nerves when he first started searching for the engagement ring. He noticed something in him was disintegrating or going awry. In his daily living, he thought, something was wrong because he kept getting sudden headaches, and he imagined he had a giant tumor up there fouling his ability to reason, or see clearly; how he couldn’t manage to plan his day without writing out a list. He kept forgetting the simplest of things: unplugging the coffee pot, leaving his keys in the car, or the headlights on in the middle of the day. And why was he turning them on in the bright sunlight? When he failed to make the bed one morning, because he slept in longer than Rita, she lost it, telling him she couldn’t take coming home to an unmade bed. The stress lines in her face and the way she stood there with her legs aggressively planted, hands on her hips, waiting for an apology, caused a further advancement in the fact that he knew he was becoming unhinged. To make matters worse, he had never thought about money so much as when he began seeing the absorbent prices, the sheer cost, of some of these engagement rings. He had to subtly ask the salesperson to show him the less expensive stuff. He’d usually wait until the shop emptied out or for a large area of counter space to open up before he’d ask to see a particular ring and the salesperson would usually give him an
uncomfortable grimace, or a standoffish string of unfavorable body postures: As if you’re going to waste my time on such a small purchase. What about my commission? At half a carat the stone was still expensive for him. The gold band was a step up at 24 carats from the regular 14 or 18 carats that the salesman was proud to point out and that made him feel a little better. It was an arguing point, he figured, if need be. As he was making the transaction the credit card company called the jewelry store right then and there and asked him - to make sure; the salesman bringing the phone over to him - that he could afford the ring. That he was going to be able to pay it off as it was a card that had to be paid off in full every month. No problem. He recalled his exact words. But after he made the buy he was in a transitory state of shock. He went across the street to the diner and had a cup of black coffee and sat for half an hour until his nerves stopped banging around inside his gut. He wanted to throw-up, but he had such a headache he couldn’t do anything but focus on the unstoppable pounding, his ears echoing, his eyes watering. He wasn’t so convinced he had done the right thing. A ring meant nothing to him. It was the love that counted. Things are just things. Possessions. He repeated those words again and again as he drove onward. West. Of course, at that moment in time, like a framed stage production, as he had stepped out of the jewelry store, he began to doubt his actions and his confidence seemed very low. And him a very confident soul, or so he had thought. The quick step he had was gone. He’d lallygag around instead of full advancement out the door in the morning. He wasn’t certain about Rita anymore, either. He wondered, asking himself out loud, if he had ever loved her? She was constantly pushing at him for gifts, little favors he should be doing, that he should be telling her how much he really loved her. And what hurt Jake most was when she’d tell him he was lucky to have her. He didn’t like pushy people. Like Saturday evenings: Rita would lay out a few dollars for Sunday danish, tell him what kind to buy, how many, and to make positive to get the dan-
ish from the back because it was the freshest. And don’t go down 10th street. It’s easier to go up 9th street and just park. Then she’d add, Ever notice how quick they are to give you the stuff from the front. He hated having to ask the clerk to please take from the rear of the tray. Sometimes he said, as if practicing for when he was married: It’s my wife’s idea; I could care less. But he never felt better after he said something along those lines, even when it was the same clerk they never showed the least bit of sympathy for him. Then he would feel worse, like sticking his foot in his mouth. Jake cleaned the apartment; did the wash; usually made dinner and did the dishes. She thought that since she had to work late that he should be willing to handle the responsibility. And dinner was ready for her when she came home each evening. He was on the treadmill; or a trained monkey. Or a lemming. That’s what he was. A damn lemming! He was proud of his cooking and his meals were often towards the gourmet with fancy sauces or proper searing and tenderness to the point of perfection. Cooking pasta and rice he had nailed down to a science. But she wasn’t often hungry and went straight for the red wine and he’d end up eating most of the dinner and finally complaining about his weight. Rita was pleased to express herself after the second glass, letting Jake know how she watched her weight; and he knew he was fortunate with her - that many a man would want her lovely shape next to them at night. They’d split the bills right down the middle, except for groceries. That got Jake’s blood pressure up but he didn’t say much. He couldn’t. Her position was simply: he ate most, if not all the food, so why should she have to buy it. But that wasn’t always true he’d tell her. Then she’d call him and want to know what was for dinner and he’d get all excited and make something special and then she wouldn’t eat it. It seemed she wouldn’t eat for a week and there was nothing he could do but take it. Or it would lead to an argument that he would never win or even come close to finding some sort of hallowed middle ground.
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prose Two weeks after Jake had given Rita the engagement ring she came home from work at her usual time of 6:50 p.m.. “Oh.. what a day,” she went. “Bad, huh?” “Same old same. But I had a nice chat with my mother on the phone.” “How is she?” “Fine. Very well, actually,” Rita smirked. “What did she have to say?” “Not much. We just talked.” “Everyone fine?” “Oh, yes. Just fine.” “Your brother and father?” Jake asked, feeling sometimes when they spoke it was as if they were in different rooms and had to shout even though they were right there together. They rarely made eye contact anymore and seemed to face each other with their shoulders. “Fine. Mother said she lost some weight and that dad says she looks good; that he lost some weight, too.” “Good for him. He could stand to lose a few.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing. Except he’s too heavy for a man his age.” “Well, he lost some no thanks to you!” She went on without missing a beat. “And my sister has a new boyfriend. Guess she hasn’t met the right guy yet.” “You have to keep looking to find the best person,” Jake said. “Am I the best person for you?” Rita slyly asked. “What kind of question is that?” “I’m asking you if you love me?” “What do you mean…” A vicious tremble snaked along his spine and he stared at her, his voice wavering from its normal placative tone. “Of course I love you. What the hell… We’re planning a wedding, aren’t we? I bought you a ring, didn’t I?” “I just don’t know if you love me or not. My sister told my mother that if you really loved me you would’ve gotten me a bigger diamond. That’s what my mother thinks, too.” His voice regained some of its submis-
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sive pulse. “Are you serious?” “I’m serious!” Her strange eyes, like green-gray marbles, flamed at him. “It’s something you have for the rest of your life.” “What is?” “Jake… what are we talking about?” “You tell me?” “A diamond ring. I get to look at it every day for the rest of my life. It’s a reflection of your thoughts for me.” Jake began to truly hate Rita; her highpitched voice cutting into him like an axe into dry wood. That night his nerves were jumping and buzzing out of control. At one point his left leg locked up frozen and he had to walk like a cripple. And she glared at him but didn’t ask him what was wrong. When he had decided to resolve the problem, bring matters to a close, the pain and tension left him and could move around normally. As he was serving her a nice chicken dinner, the Spanish version of rice and peas he preferred, she stated, gnawing on a drumstick that she pulled from her mouth with her skinny fingers and set on the side of the plate, “We’ll be married soon.” Then he watched her meticulously pick through the food on her plate as if it was something foreign, poking at it with her knife and fork, frowning, not eating another bite, but gulping down her glass of wine. “I want to have a big, happy wedding. On Saturday, mother and I are going shopping for a wedding gown. How exciting!” she said. “Then I have to plan our reception; and of course mother said she would help with that, too. I’ve got the church all picked out, and I want an eleven o’clock wedding.” “Sounds all mapped out,” Jake said, tensely. “I’d prefer a small ceremony in a nice patch of woods somewhere. Forget all that other stuff.” “Stuff… No, no…” She shook her head. “I need to have a big wedding. You hear. Most importantly, I want it for my family. I’m the first daughter and I’m entitled to a full-size wedding and reception.” “Who’s going to pay for all this?” “Me!” Rita shouted.
“Why you? How about your father helping out?” “He thinks it’s a waste of money,” she said, adverting her eyes from him. “Daddy doesn’t want to spend the money for his own daughter? The first daughter… Certainly makes sense to me. Why don’t you listen to him and you can both save a buck.” “How about you? Are you going to kick in?” “Are you crazy. I want to be around trees and chirping birds and a soft wind. I’m not going to waste my hard earned money on one day. And something I don’t even want.” “You don’t want me. I knew it!” “I want you,” he said, without thinking, then felt sick to his stomach. “Well, I had you figured in for half the costs. Anyway, I want a large affair. It’s the right thing to do. Mother agrees with me. That I should have a big affair.” “Your mother does. Your mother this; your mother that! Take your father’s advice and save the money.” “I know. I’ve been thinking… We could put it towards our first house.” “Now you’re using the brain God gave you!” he said, tapping his head. “But… it’s my money. I’ll do as I please.” “Yes, it’s your money; but it’s our life.” “It’s supposed to be the biggest day in a girls life. I want everyone to see me. Besides, it’s good luck. And why are you so dead set against it?” “Because you’re pushing to hard. Seems unnatural.” Trying to sound reassuring and still convincing, she said, “It’s only one day in your life. What could possibly be the harm?” “You know,” Jake said, “it would be nice if you ate at least some of your dinner.” “I’m full. Can’t eat another bite.” “You only had a bite.” She nodded. Held up the chicken bone. “Not quite.” “Here then; give me your plate.” “Don’t eat too much. Remember your weight.”
After that it was like he didn’t hear her anymore and he quickly, with an irritated motion of his fork and knife, his neck and shoulder awkwardly tensed, shoved her food into his mouth. He was watching her from his huddled position, the tops of his eyes festering on her, when the foul deed planted itself forever within him. And as the days and nights passed he studied her every movement, discerning, cunning, hatefully so he was fixated. He memorized her mannerisms; the way she walked; how she prepared for bed; even the way she stirred her morning coffee, the ring unobtrusively glaring him. She liked her evening bath and the flossing and brushing of her teeth, sliding into her skimpy nightgown. She’d turn the spot lamp on by her bed and read away, content, unaware, sliding off into a deep sleep. He’d observe her in the morning getting ready for work as she was an early riser, and he’d lay there with the sheets gathered up and pretend to be asleep, hidden, his eyelids barely slit to the light of day. The next evening and the evening after were the same: she talked of the wedding, her ring, her mother. And her mother’s face was now like some kind of bizarre, oversize billboard stuck in his face. He’d see Rita; her mother. Rita; her mother. His stomach and sides ached; his head pounded, throbbing wildly, then going blank with blackness so dense he thought he was falling through time. It was endless his pain. But he managed to wash the dishes and scrub the stovetop, putting everything away except his small chef’s knife, as if it were just another day in his life with Rita. He turned his head back very slowly from the sink where he was drying the remaining silverware, his train of perception ever so sneakily taking note of Rita as she sat in the comfortable chair and made corrections on the extra work she had bought home with her. He felt his left eye, then his right eye make contact with her in the sly glance he managed to produce, turning back to his soapy sponge and then to her for another clandestine peek.
He focused his attention on her hand that bore the ring; on her fourth skinny finger. He thought, all her fingers were far too pointy in shape; her fingernails perfectly filed and then coated with clear polish. He liked the natural look to a women hands. Clean, unmolested hands with trimmed fingernails. She sometimes tried to tickle him with those bony fingers, driving them into his ribs and it hurt more than anything. It certainly wasn’t fun. It would be so easy, he thought. Just do it! He recalled how heavy a sleeper she was. He was thinking, and almost said abruptly, No worries for her. No… she makes everyone else worry, except her boss. Ha. Her boss. Must be a poor tortured soul. …That stormy night when the sky streaked with bright lightening and cracked loudly with thunder she slept right through it while I jumped from bed in a nervous fright… And, tomorrow night was her monthly Friday night out with her girlfriends after work. She had gone out with the girls, as she called it, before they had met and she wasn’t about to give that treat up. Anyway, he liked when she was out. He could pull out his father’s old Jarl pipe and stuff it with English tobacco, pour a nice bourbon, and enjoy the evening. Of course, he had to sit next to the open window and blow the smoke out lest she catch a whiff. Usually Rita came home drunk and he’d have to undress her and put her to bed, kissing her perfect stomach a few times along the way. He almost loved her then because her mouth was shut and he didn’t have to listen to any of her opinions or commands; she merely lay docile, wheezing little puffs of air in and out, her nose flaring, her strange marbly eyes rolling to the side. Friday morning she went to work as usual and he decided that night, when she was loaded, that he would take the ring back, end their relationship, and leave the apartment. He had to have the ring back. It was of symbolic importance to him. And, in his mind, it would be the true end to the relationship. As if a torpedoed, sinking ship burning into the water. She almost ruined his plans as she had wanted to go over to her parents house for some
reason, mentioning it again in the morning because her sister and brother and their significant others were going to be there and they were all set to have their famous roast beef dinner, completed with soft rolls from the town bakery. But Rita doesn’t eat, he thought. And that’s what he said to her and she didn’t like the comment one bit, turning and walking out the door to work. Jake never felt better. It was as if the gods had bestowed in him a new sense of confidence, a self assuredness that was totally invigorating. He held his head high, finally, he noticed in the bathroom mirror as his chin seemed naturally elevated and more square than usual; he put on an almost new pressed shirt that had been on the frail metal hanger for years and was still covered with the filmy dry-cleaners bag, traveling with him whenever and wherever he moved, remaining unworn - he thought the shirt was too good for him to wear; he worshiped the garment, but never dared to close it around his chest and button it tight. When he wrote a check out that morning for the cable TV and popped it in the mail he was cognizant of his handwriting: each loop of letter or number, each straight line, each punctuation, even the way he put the stamp on. His signature was flawless. He knew when Rita came home she would be feeling pretty good; but he would pour her a tall glass of wine anyway and push it right at her, while he sipped at a short bourbon, remaining smug and committed. He left work early, walking right out of the office, not saying a thing to anyone and it seemed no one cared or even noticed his departure from the gray cubical. He figured they thought it was not him because of the erect posture, elevated shoulders and pressed shirt. Probably some other salesman from another territory; and it was Friday, people came and went. Besides, he just didn’t care anymore. He went to the speciality shop and bought a nice leg of lamb - Rita’s favorite. Later that night, after Jake had roasted the lamb in the oven with potato’s and carrots and fresh rosemary and taken a nap, did he get out his little chef’s knife again and sharpen it - sharpen it until he could cut himself by just pressing down. He thought it would carve the lamb wonderfully,
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prose easily. No need for tearing and pulling at a perfect leg of lamb with a dull knife. How insulting, he thought. He sliced a nice piece away, the clear juice oozing among the layers of fat and meat, spilling down into the roasting pan, the fragrant scent of rosemary filling his nose. At 12:30 a.m., Rita came barging in and woke Jake from the sofa. “Jake! Jake! I’m home. Honey pie, it’s me.” Jake sprung from the sofa, shaking from the deep sleep, barely standing. “Have a good time?” automatically shot from his mouth. “Oh… the best. Simply marvelous company. And all we did was talk about men! How awful and wonderful they are. And we decided we all like to look at a good ass. A nice tight butt in tight jeans,” she snickered, her cheeks dimpling, her eyes glazed as she appeared to look into the broad spectrum of air before her, as though a thick mist were closing in, and she waved her hand at it as if one would lazily shoo a fly away. She was soused but good and Jake smiled, even laughed, as he pushed the glass of wine at her, raising the rim to her lips. “Drink?” “But Jake. I think I’ve had enough. I’m wasted. I just want to go to sleep and forget the world exists. God I feel like quitting my job,” she sighed, and took a mouthful of wine. “Oh… and look, a leg of lamb on the table. My favorite!” she exclaimed, her bleak eyes now red and swollen, her face askew, her lips rubbery, as she smiled and talked, as if one function was competing with the other. “Oh… I’ll just have a nibble,” she said, and reached over the nicely sliced pieces that Jake had methodically laid out and yanked at a fresh strip of meat until it pulled from the bone in a long chunk. She picked up the glass of wine and had another deep drink. Holding the glass before her, she slurred, “That wine is so good.” A moment later she set the empty glass down on the table. Maintaining his constant and seemingly in control composure, he stated, dully, “I’d like to quit my job, too.” “I know,” Rita quickly added, roughly chewing on the piece of lamb she held in her fingers. “I’ve had it with mine! My boss. Aha. Terrible. It’s been bothering me. It’s been digging at me a long time now. I can’t take it anymore. Probably hasn’t been doing us any good, either. Bringing my problems home.” “Well…” he made sure to hold eye contact; to form his words clearly, directly. “Don’t do anything rash. Think it through. The pro’s and the con’s. The good and the bad.” “Yep! That’s what my father says: Don’t quit your job until you have another lined up and it’s a lock. All at once, like a great stone dropping, Rita slumped on the sofa and passed out. Instantly Jake went to her, got on his knees, and gently tried to remove the ring from her finger. Then he pulled and twisted, but it wouldn’t budge. She’s bloated, he thought. She didn’t seem close to waking, so he got the dish soap and moistened her finger with the sponge, working around the gold band and skin as best he could. He worried about disturbing her, but she was gone to the world. Then he lifted Rita from the sofa and carried her upstairs to the
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bedroom and set her down on the comforter of the bed that he had earlier made so perfectly. He glanced back at her face and went stiff with fear, then contempt and outrage, thinking her strange, green-gray marbly eyes had burst open and had been staring at him, drilling a hole right through him, extracting the truth of the matter from his heart. He thought of putting tape over her eyes, but didn’t. He wanted to tie her up, but didn’t. She was out for sure and that’s all that mattered. God rest her soul, she was even snoring a little. He ran down the steps and took out his small chefs’ knife and tested its sharpness and a trickle of blood ran from his finger. He returned to her side and placed the knife against her finger, easing the blade’s tip under the gold band of the ring, testing for tightness.
POETRY
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Juanita Rey
A COMEDY I am the pregnant woman sitting alone in the cinema. The screen crackles awake. A light ray shines above me. Real life ends, thank God. Vicarious begins. I emerge from the swill of my day to day into another’s script. No wonder my face glows with expectation. But behind me, some guy is talking on his cellphone. A couple in front get all close and sultry. And down in my guts, new life shocks me like a current. One lone popcorn on my tongue struggles to break free. One gulp. Swallowed. Unlike me, the movie comes and goes I don’t think it even breaks a sweat.
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YES IT PAYS ME It pays me to think of how much I focus on being alive through the medications, doctor’s visits and clinical tests, to think that I have learned to love while hating my body so, to think that I can adore a face even as my own seems lost somewhere inside itself, to think that I can touch while knowing there are parts of me that don’t bear touching.
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Juanita Rey
JESSICA If she hadn’t touched them to measure their growth, their developing shape, or tried out one bra after another in an effort to contain and a lover hadn’t sensitively fondled and kissed those soft fleshy mounds he called dumplings, and first one baby and then a second hadn’t taken up their offer of nourishment, then despite the pain in the side of her right breast, she’d still rather have given up a finger or toe than rain sad curses on her reflection in the bathroom’s full length mirror.
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Brian Morrison
A History of Growth An onion was plucked right out of the dirt the oldest son, Jeremiah, planted it in. All the layers at hand were cut up & fed to the children, who cut paper people & had them raking the onion peels mother called gifts
from God like leaves. Father stabbed at the hard stone field and didn’t know a thing about any onion coming out of any field he failed on. A rattlesnake he would have been, had he known there was sustenance and no one needed him to dig for it. The oldest son, like a terrible thing in the darkness that haunts, stole a shovel of his own from a barn after hopping a fence he did not own the right to & dug his own patch. Father needed his son’s hands, so his son worked both fields, his secret and his father’s. And when his stomach rolled like thunder given the open space of acreage to speak, his father patted him on the head, told him there wasn’t a need to let it get the best of them. Life would go on, and what would come from the dirt would save them all.
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Brian Morrison
The Last of the Orange Peels Slow with the task, Mae worried everything was changing and couldn’t bear piercing into the fruit with her slow fingers in silent symphony slipped between rind and meat as a moved wind that couldn’t mean anything for a falling leaf but did. The world, everything
in its memories, clung to the craft of severing, her mind filled with audience claps in the quiet kitchen. She moved by segments of rind, a craft of papier mâché in reverse. Anything she did she did like blessing, like everything could be keened from the orange wedges, their shapes in figures of living mouths. For years, powerless, Mae knew this moment, this chore, couldn’t build remedy, didn’t mean anything in a wish could be granted, but her everything, her Frannie, despite lost hair and bone marrow, might smile and fill the sick room with light once more. Mae didn’t believe the orange could enter her lover’s mouth and cover anything missing in a glow like memory, dress everything vital again. She didn’t think her orange could save a thousand years in her momentary hands, but it was all her Frannie wanted, her one request: One more perfection, a final taste of anything.
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A History of Circular Motion John has goals Lincolnlike in a tophat he hasn’t got & John needs roles to kneel to all oil on shop cloths steaming on hoods of hotrods this justwokeup John hair wifeless biscuit breath smoke whatever John who gases up the ghost of father father the brink of a bone snapping in memories of tight grip and steel spark John the neglected cottonswab the lackluster rims of peeled lemons boss of his child at home eating fillintheblank & the role John manifests in this son the leather lip barrelchest knuckle be a man raprapping the tabletop John tricked out in ornamental man routines
hammers days’ hard work into the greater body of John thought the younger him all valves aflutter motor mounted not entirely unbuilt but considerably John who cannot shape what he cannot fabricate
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ART
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art Forensic Foraging emphasizes the trite, trivial, & mundane. The genre downplays extensive computer intervention. It was developed by me and Sydney lensman, Jim Provencher. Basic photography skills such as composition and framing are important. The technique also flourishes because of high color saturation & contrast. Everything we encounter is shot and then selectively presented. As Jim likes to say: “ You have to get out and shoot a lot to succeed with this approach.” The genre flowed from the early work of Stephen Shore, especially his Amarillo postcards. The DNA of Robert Frank & Walker Evans is also evident. This early morning image of a Vegas parking garage begins as trite & trivial, but the approach outlined above elevates it to a decent shot. You might say that we can turn shit into sugar, so to speak. Carefully notice the composition, golden light, color, texture, and never overlook the funk. Even the most mundane parking garage can become “a shot” with effective Forensic Foraging. Framing, early morning Golden Light, color, & texture make this a image worthy of a Stephen Shore post card. Vegas not Amarillo.
William C. Crawford (AKA Crawdaddy) is a writer & photographer
living in Winston-Salem, NC. He was a a combat photojournalist in Vietnam. He later enjoyed a long career in social work. Crawdaddy also taught at UNC Chapel Hill. He photographs the trite, trivial, and the mundane. Crawdaddy developed the Forensic Foraging technique of photography with his colleague, Sydney lensman, Jim Provencher.
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bios
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Born and raised in the Philadelphia area, Mark He’s 58 and has two beautiful daughters.
Aufiery has lived in Florida and currently lives in Maine.
Brian D. Morrison completed his MFA at the University of Alabama, where he was an assistant editor at Black Warrior Review. His poetry has appeared at West Branch, The Bitter Oleander, Verse Daily, Copper Nickel, Cave Wall, and other journals. Currently, he works as an Assistant Professor of English at Ball State University.
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 2 River View, Harbinger Asylum, Petrichor Machine and Madcap Poets.
Fabio Sassi makes photos and acrylics using tiny objects and what is considered to have no worth by
the mainstream. Fabio lives and works in Bologna, Italy. His work can be viewed at www.fabiosassi.foliohd.com. Fabio is a regular contributor to Umbrella Factory Magazine. His piece “Umbrellas vs Scribbles from Outerspace” is this issue’s cover image
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