UFM 22 UFM
issue24 / 1
CO N T EN TS Prose
Poetry
Adam Phillips “Lawless & Inhuman”
9
“Tortured Souls ”
13
Rudy Ravindra
Carl Boon
19 20 21 22
23 “One of Us Has Changed” “Between the Opening and Closing of Doors” 24 25 “Watching the Boats”
“Aegean Spring” “Corridors” “The New Village Cemetery” “The Loss of a Son”
Joseph Kerschbaum
Editor’s Note 5 About Us 4 Submission Guidlines 6 Bios and Credits 27
2/
issue24 UFM
UFM JUNE 2016, Issue 24
UMBRELLA FACTORY WORKERS Editor-In-Chief
Anthony ILacqua Copy Editor
Janice Hampton Art Director
Jana Bloomquist
UFM
issue24 / 3
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
4/
issue24 UFM
hello there UFM editor’s letter - March 2016 Welcome to Umbrella Factory Magazine Issue 24 We’re glad you’re here. I find it strange that so many writers’ whole goal is publication and most publications’ whole goal is great content and larger readerships. Without writers, there are no magazines. Without magazines, there is no readership, and so why would a writer bother? It is a relationship, and perhaps that’s the real reason we’re here. I can assure you that the literary magazine community is very small. It’s amazing that there are so many publications, thousands in fact, and there seems to be a nearly countable amount of writers and editors (often the same) contributing to this literary scene. Spend a few days looking through online archives of magazines and you’ll see just how small this community is. And still, there is room, everyday, for more. There is room for more writers, more magazines, and hopefully, more readers. The goal as a writer may very well be the goal to get as many publications as possible. So, what happens when magazine x picks up and runs writer y’s story “z”? The writer tells a few friends or colleagues and puts a mention of publication on the ol’ C.V. Good enough, right? Maybe. What else can the writer do? Here’s the relationship: The magazine who accepted the writer’s work has just given that writer the gift of readership. That’s it, readership. The magazine distributed no (or very little, in some cases) money. The magazine has a limited run if in print, or has limited time as current front page exposure if online. So, seemingly, this is a short relationship. Generally speaking, a literary magazine will run a writer only once. This is what the magazine does: 1) gives exposure. This helps with career building. 2) may really propel the writer, if the magazine contributes to anthologies or Pushcart. 3) introduces that writer to other writers who have involvement as editors or contributors of other magazines. This is what the writer should do for the magazine: 1) thank them by promotion. Yes, tell everyone you know, even those who may not care. Tell everyone you know to subscribe to that publication, not just the one issue where you’ve been showcased. 2) continue to promote that magazine long after the issue you were in is archived, sold out or otherwise vanished. You can add links to these publications on your C.V. For instance, the contributors from Umbrella Factory Magazine who add a link to our magazine on their websites generate a sizable amount of traffic for us. I’m grateful for that, as an editor I know I’m dealing with a professional when I see these links. 3) the longer you promote these literary magazines, the longer they can continue doing what they do. What a great day it will be when everyone is reading literary magazines. In this issue, new fiction from Adam Phillips and Rudy Ravindra. Although neither of these pieces have anything stylistically or thematically in common, they both share unique narration. Phillips’s piece, Lawless & Inhuman, is from the point of view of Homer’s Cyclops. Reminiscent of Grendel by John Gardner, a point of view shift is refreshing. And Rudy Ravindra? I can nearly hear Aparna, the main character, narrating Tortured Souls. Carl Boon and Jospeh Kerschbaum are our poets. I am especially intrigued by Kerschbaum’s “Watching the Boats” and Boon’s “The Loss of a Son.” I hope you like them too. Until next time. Read. Submit. Tell everyone you know. Stay Dry. Anthony ILacqua
UFM
issue24 / 5
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/
issue24 UFM
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.
UFM
issue24 / 7
PROSE
8/
issue24 UFM
LAWLESS AND INHUMAN Adam Phillips
UFM
issue24 / 9
prose Let me establish, let me affirm before uttering another word, that in my estimation (and I have certainly spent sufficient time thinking on the issue) very little, perhaps none of it, is in fact your fault. At least not intentionally. It all stems, and rest assured that I am well aware of how this sounds, I can clearly hear the choruses of “Well sure, no shit that’s what he would be obsessed with”…The overarching problem… The problem begins with your eyes. The stereoscopic vision. See, from the moment the blurry gauze of infancy clears from your plural, widespread eyes, your entire experience of the world has been based on a systemic error... While you take for granted, understandably, that you are seeing the world as it is, you are, in fact, trapped within a false mockup of reality that does not, has never, and never will, exist. It’s a fake. A facsimile. A gross misunderstanding. See, what you may be unaware of (and no one ever tells you this since you are all in it together, so to speak) is that your brain takes two different vantages, one from each scattered eye, and combines them into a third view which does not, in fact, exist independent of the viewfinder of your perception. Do you understand the problems, the inevitable afflictions that you are cursed to incur based on the fact that this lie, this ontological hoax, represents the earliest foundation of your very existence? The unavoidable difficulties with thoughtprocess, self-concept, and perception of objective reality? The utter impossibility of appropriately understanding one’s place in the world? You insist that there are two sides to everything, and that the truth lies in the average. You insist upon the thesis, the antithesis, and the synthesis, when sometimes… In an elementary nutshell, you attribute depth when there is none, and then you proceed to confuse this depth with meaning... I sympathize. To an extent. It’s only natural, you see, that you would consider yourself the absolute arbiter and centerpiece of the universe, when that specific universe owes its entire provenance and production to the three pounds of gray rubber floating inside the pocket of your very own skull. How could you be expected to think otherwise?
10 /
issue24 UFM
And with all of this in mind, am I deluded into believing that perhaps you’ll listen to, maybe even be moved by, whatever I might say? Absolutely not. Which brings us to the next obvious question: Why then do I feel compelled to speak? Is it a desire to be understood? You won’t. Is it a plea, an apology, a justification? I need none. A warning? Almost certainly not. Maybe it’s just a need for truth. Maybe it’s the childish urge to let you know that I know what you are up to. And to make you hear, whether or not you concede, that there are things you either can’t understand, or are willfully concealing. And thinking of this, I confess, I grow peevish. Your versions of reality are always so convoluted, so, at the risk of being offensive...so fucking silly. Take, for example, the story about the girl... First of all, let’s talk nuts and bolts. Physically…such a union would be absolutely impossible (although not, apparently, in the eyes of Guido Reni…For his terror of women, I must suffer in perpetuity?)…I mean I suppose some creative facsimile could be improvised, and granted it’s not as if I’ve never, in an excessively idle moment, thought about this…But even so…As an illustrative point of context, would you, for example, copulate with a shaved cat? But I digress. This putative obsession with the pale girl; absolute fiction. I, and ultimately he, the shepherd, the goat boy, fell victim to the boredom, the lack of creativity and mutual respect amongst the young couple themselves. And why couldn’t they have just loved one another better? They could have, should have, done nothing but play chase through the meadows, feasting on and with those empyrean bodies, the Garden and the Fall all at once, drinking wine, dozing in the sun… Goddamn. Imagine a shot at a life like that. But beauty wasn’t enough for them. They’d always had it, and so had never learned to take joy in it. Neither had they learned to love themselves, and following a few days of unbroken togetherness, each began to project this insecure self-loathing upon the other. Their only hope (and I can appreciate the grim desperation of their push for com-
patibility; each represented the only game in town, so to speak; beyond the pasty girl and the goat boy, the pool of potential partners dropped off precipitously to her shrewish sisters, his hircine brothers, a sundry assortment of hermits and witches and bestializing shepherds)… Their only hope was to manufacture a common interest, and since both were shallow and cruel, their united cause became, quite naturally, the exertion of petty cruelty. It is telling, here, that their choice of victim could literally not have been more ill-advised. Why not the hobbled old soothsayer living at the bottom of the refuse heap? Why not the alpha ram at the top of the mountain? Why not the singing, sentient willow trees along the shore? Each of these had paid as much attention to the spectral girl as I ever had. Why single out the one thing that would inevitably destroy you? I think they had fallen prey to a common fallacy that frequently afflicts the thinking of many a man. You possess a tendency to arbitrarily declare that something, some theme or trend or common event, has somehow either mysteriously stopped or spontaneously begun at a certain point in time. Such as, “We are now to the point where science and medicine (a claim undoubtedly identically professed by the physician drilling holes in skulls and the phrenologist proving racial superiority) are infallible.” Or “We no longer live in a barbaric age where the king sacrifices the lives of peasants for the financial gain of the aristocracy.” Or, in this particular case, “We have advanced beyond the time when the agrarian cyclops might respond to taunts by crushing us with stones.” Which, clearly, we had not. In the entire history of the world, nothing has ever finished or begun. I recall the day they took up. I was deep in the recesses of the cave, tinkering, patching a bellows I had not used in a hundred or a thousand years (a vestigial habit from my captivity), when I heard their voices in the field above my head. Him first, in the cloying tone with which the elderly shepherds call their flocks, “The giant loves you. I’ve seen him spying on you as you bathe. He’s hiding in the cave, touching himself.” “I will never let him touch me,” said she. “I would throw myself into fire!”
Naturally, I assumed their interest would be short-lived. But quite the opposite. From that moment forward…Jesus Christ. Every step I took, every walk along the beach, there they were, underfoot, tittering, rubbing up against my legs and fleeing in panic. I couldn’t shit in the forest without first checking behind every bush and shrub lest they ambush me with cries of “beast!” and “foul ogre!” The last straw, not so much a last straw as an endless fusillade of straw that eventually, inevitably, had to attain critical mass…I was playing my lyre, sitting in a private (previously private) cove at the remotest tip of the island (The lengths they must have gone to get there! Scrabbling over obsidian scree, fighting through brambles)…. While I’m not particularly sentimental, I was, that afternoon, in the midst of writing a song to memorialize a close friend who had died in the Great War. Singing softly, I was unpleasantly startled by the intrusion of voices… “He’s singing about your breasts!” bleated the boy. “I would never surrender my breasts to that beast!” screeched the girl. “He’s singing about how he wants to milk you like a cow-” In that moment, the crassness of their intrusion, the idiocy of their exclamations…I leaped up, intending, I think, to frighten them, chase them off, somehow serve notice that this would not be tolerated. In my haste I upset the lyre… Watching the instrument shatter into kindling against the rocks below me…The instrument that my father had handed down, that had documented our captivity, that had been used to woo and to kill… While my intention was not, specifically, to crush the boy…nor can I claim that my intention was to avoid it. Both of them saw, in that moment, that they had grievously misunderstood the workings of the world, and they began to run, scattering, as would befit their mutual lack of concern for the other, in opposite directions. With both hands I tore the tip from the hill… A great gout of blood did spurt from beneath the rock as it struck, followed by a rolling wave of water, the punctured artery of a spring, seeping darkly down to join the ocean. This is
what happened. Give me a rock, a man, and an aquifer, and I will demonstrate this to you a thousand times. But once you got ahold of the story...Christ. I will confirm that the girl sat sobbing on the jetty for parts of several days. I will also confirm that later that same afternoon, I strolled the beach unmolested for what felt like the first time in a century. This incident notwithstanding, in my limited interaction with men, we have generally tended to get along fairly well. Take, for example, the visitors from Ithaka. And here, it’s the men, as much as me, who have been denigrated by your retrospective embellishment of the truth... Let us begin, for example, with their arrival. Your version of events would have us believe that these men, these men who had survived war and ambush, the vagaries of nature and her bestial offspring, the horrifying rage and treachery of mankind, these same men, upon wandering into a giant’s unoccupied lair, these same intrepid warseasoned kingdom-conquering men, immediately decided that the wisest course of action would be to consume all of the giant’s provisions and then pass out right there at the scene of the crime... In reality, they came politely calling, hoping to spend a night out of the elements. I butchered a couple of lambs and they brought the wine. If I trapped them within the cave it was by no means with the intention of taking hostages, but rather as an inadvertent, and I certainly concede somewhat thoughtless, byproduct of a former prisoner’s habitual paranoia. Each night I barricade myself inside, and in the deepest recesses of the cavern I keep several tons of dried grain, dehydrated meats, and a bubbling freshwater spring so that one might conceivably remain inside until an entire war has run its course, this time without my participation. It’s true that we ate and drank and talked (the stories they had—and I thought I had seen some shit!), and it’s true that my sight did not survive the night. Though, beyond the physical mechanism of the heated spear puncturing my eye, there lies a great chasm separating the event and the subsequent exaltation… As I have said, the stories floating above the campfire that night were incredible. Sexual bondage, vestal virgins and nymphomaniacs, zom-
bies and voracious sea beasts, drug abuse, apocalyptic storms, drinking of blood, adultery… And while all of this danger and debauchery had been transpiring, I had been quietly walking the shores of my island, tending my sheep. Although, of course my life had not always been so pastoral, and having fallen prey to the loquacious spell of the wine bowl, when the rhythm of the oration came to me, I volunteered the centuriesold tale of our battle with the carnivorous horde of Ethiopian Bulls, whose hides repel steel. Having shattered an armory’s worth of finely wrought weapons against the adamantine hides of the beasts, we found ourselves unarmed, penned inside a densely tangled yew forest with the monsters circling around, confident in their knowledge that, sooner or later, we would have to emerge and be gored. Grimly watching their ranks, the red coats reflexive and metallic in the hellish African sun, suddenly something caught my eye, and I was moved to inspiration. Peering more closely at the warp and the woof of the coarse bullet-proof hairs, I was suddenly struck by the realization that, although a blade could not slip through to penetrate the pale skin beneath, something thinner could… I snapped a branch from above my head, and with the sharp edge of my belt buckle whittled it to a thin lance. I built a fire, and slowly tempered the stave above the flames, beads of sap rising to the glossy surface, spreading and hardening. With the advantage of time, as the bulls’ size and brute strength denied them entry into the forest, for two days and nights we kept a bonfire burning, fashioning a deadly ligneous arsenal… When the time came we simply emerged from the woods and thrust the razor-sharp implements into the beasts’ hearts like heated blades sliding into butter. As I finished the story, one of the men began to challenge my account, insisting that (based on what store of expert knowledge, I do not know) the wood would snap, the tips would break away, the hearts of the beasts resided, per god’s plan, too deep within their flesh to be lanced… I said I didn’t know what to tell him. Another of the men, whether in support or repudiation of his compatriot I could not say, said that the matter could be definitively put to rest, the
UFM
issue24 / 11
discussion decided ad infinitum, if I were to simply fashion one of the spears and drive it through…(at this point his bleary wine-red eyes crawled over the cave for several minutes) the heavy leather wine bladder. I consented, rolling away the boulder and fetching a limb, which I then sharpened with my dagger, and tempered over the communal fire. And when I arose, sucked into the spirit of my oration now, approaching the wine sack as if stalking god’s most ferocious beast in the jungle… I presume the sheep had been drawn from its usual chamber deeper within the cavern by the voices, the light and warmth of the fire… I hadn’t seen it come in. My feet got tangled, I went down… I’m sure it was a clownish spectacle, the tiptoeing giant trampling the shrieking lamb, crashing to the floor. And the men howled, until I straightened up, the spear dangling from the jelly of my punctured eye. And it’s true that I did utter, in panic and shame, (my fear of a damaged reputation superceding any desire to try and save the eye) upon hearing the footfalls of my brethren approaching the cavern, that nothing had happened, and they should return home. “And who is in there!” they called. To which I replied, motioning blindly with my hands for my guests to fall silent, “Nobody.” And my fellow cyclopes left, chuckling and whispering loudly about my histrionics. I insisted that the travelers stay until morning, lest they be observed crossing the island to their boat, hidden amongst the rocks. In the morning, we bid one another a somber goodbye, me wishing them luck on the culmination of their journey, the men awkwardly commiserating about my injury. After my sight returned, I more or less forgot about the men. A pleasant but insignificant night drinking with some waylaid travelers. Until a couple, ten years later, when the story made its way back across the sea... All I can figure is this: upon returning home to their women, to the other scattered bands of warriors who had survived the war, their stories of violence and cunning must have proven somehow insufficient. There was supposed to be more. So they invented more.
12 /
issue24 UFM
This, this impulse to hyperbole and bombast, I understand all too well (see cyclops, blinding of, above). But the story itself? With all the artistic license in the world, and no danger of a contrary witness. Mightn’t they have bested me in arm-wrestling? Tied me up? Tricked me into falling down a well? Bedded my captive harem of impossibly beautiful women and stolen my gold? Killed me? But instead, with absolute freedom to portray themselves however they wished, with no constraints of truth or likelihood, the men chose to claim... The men said that they had tied themselves to the underbellies of my sheep and, clinging and rigid with silence, a troupe of grown men mounting sheep from beneath, faces buried in the wool, nestled amongst the animal’s genitals and the shit clotted in its fur, undertook the slow, meandering, unpredictable passage down to the beach and their vessel. That is the image those men, your men, chose to entomb themselves within for eternity. I’m sure I would be less sensitive to the weirdness and stupidity of the story if it didn’t portray me as such an oblivious ignoramus. Again, for awhile I’d held out hope it would simply fall from vogue. Perhaps in another three thousand years... Thus far, interactions between your species and mine have been fairly innocuous (one dead boy and one lanced eye). But this of course has not always been the case, in matters of interspecies relations. Vividly, I remember the darkness, the stench, the infernal noises, centuries of staggering around in molten metal in the dark (I’ve never been able to determine if I was actually present for this, or if it’s all some collective, ancestral memory)...And then we were brought up... Into servitude. That I recall. Chained to the work bench, the slag basin, the bellows...And I could have broken the chains, but what then? Where would I have gone? And of course I know that this was not you, not your fault. At this point you were still simpler, smaller, more prone to cowering in packs and waiting to see what the world would do. You too were often turned into tools, pawns, for those who ruled. But there is an undeniable parallel here. The ethereal slavers, the false emancipators
who freed us just so we might perpetrate suffering upon their enemies, they justified this simply by virtue of the fact that they needed something. They were incapable of forging their own weapons. And when one represents the alpha and omega, the stars and the sun and the moon, then clearly any need should not be evaluated, questioned, but simply filled with ingenuity and force. And once the tool for filling this need has been located and consumed, subsumed, subjugated, one praises the divine completeness of the system. God provides. Or, “This thing can only have been brought into existence because I need it. Thus I will help it achieve its purpose by using it.” Recognize anyone? You are the wind clattering through shells strung on fishing line, and I am the bludgeoning tsunami. You are the rat who solves the maze and I am the buzzsaw that rids the maze of walls. The difference, one of many, between us is that I too can throw dulcet sounds into the wind and work the puzzles. I can move the stones, and I can create the tomes. While blind, my other senses grew deadly acute. And then my vision returned. Sooner or later, you’re going to decide you need me. And then you will find me... I do not hate your incompleteness, nor do I wish to improve you by turning you into me. I have no need to render the world asunder (neither do you; and yet your entire history has been spent chasing nothing but that ideal). I refuse to help you kill one another…If that had ever factored into my plans, I could have crushed any of you, all of you, beneath mountains. Any time. I don’t need your permission. I could have sat up on the hill flinging lightning bolts. My friends and I could have done it in a day. Maybe there is a prophesy. Or a simple case of old debts, partially paid. We’re not completely out of touch with old acquaintances, down here at the bottom of the volcano. Maybe they’re ready to decree something. Why would they have stopped? There’s nothing new, and nothing ever goes away. Either way, maybe I have seen all of this before. Maybe I am seeing it now.
TORTURED SOULS Rudy Ravindra
UFM
issue24 / 13
prose Every evening a breathing bottle of red wine and two long stemmed glasses greeted Aparna. But this evening no wine, no glasses. And no sight of Ganesh who’d be in the kitchen, all the six burners blazing, various concoctions cooking, stirring this, sautéing that, draining this, adding ingredients to another. He didn’t go out, his German jalopy was in the garage. And he never went for a walk in the evening. He got his exercise out of the way first thing in the morning, rain or shine. She called, “Ganesh, where are you, darling?” No response. He was not in living room, not in master bedroom, not in den, not in TV room, not in guest bedrooms. He was slumped over on the couch in the patio, and looked like he was asleep in the warm, sunny space. On closer examination, though, his lower jaw was slack, mouth open and eyelids partially closed. No pulse in his cold arm. His skin was reddish and a faint odor of almonds was around. A well-trained organic chemist, she knew those unmistakable signs of cyanide poisoning. An empty vial with a sign of skull-andcrossbones was another tell-tale sign. And his note. Dear Aparna, Sorry. I can’t go on anymore. Ganesh
At first brush with death at such a close quarter, she shivered at the sight of the cold corpse, stumbled out. She was shocked, troubled, sad, and angry. He seemed fine in the morning, and as usual, came to the door to say bye. She abhorred suicide with all her heart, and had no sympathy for such a lily-livered loser. He only thought of himself, and indifferent to her feelings, his loyal, loving wife. She gave him everything a man ever wanted—companionship, love, sex. She even supported him during the past few years after he was laid off, thanks to the Great Recession. No doubt he was depressed at his futile job search, but that was no excuse for such an ignominious exit. * After the funeral, Aparna said, “I’ll go to Bangalore to immerse his ashes in Cauvery.”
14 /
issue24 UFM
Her father didn’t look happy. “Why go all the way? There are plenty of rivers here in this area, Eno, Cape Fear River, to name just a couple.” “But, I promised, he wanted his ashes immersed in Cauvery.” Her mother said, “Why would he talk about ashes, he was barely sixty!” Aparna screwed up her left eye, a habit when she tried to recollect. “Well, after his parents passed away, one after another, he was a bit depressed. He’d say, that it’ll be his turn next, being the oldest of the next generation.” Her brothers wanted to spare her the ordeal, travel to India to immerse the ashes, and her daughters wanted to accompany her. Though glad of the enormous support, she convinced them that she’d be fine. However much she disapproved of his senseless and selfish act, she felt a moral obligation to go on the long journey. When she agreed to do it, she assumed, however, that he would make the eternal journey at a ripe old age, due to natural causes. * Her plane landed at Bangalore in the evening, a bit worse for the wear, she walked out of the terminal to be met by Ganesh’s siblings— Santosh and Veena. They hugged her and said how sorry they were about their brother’s fatal heart attack. She acted the part of the bereaved widow, and even summoned a few crocodile tears from her compliant lachrymal glands, although sorrow was farthest from her mind. They all got into a Toyota SUV, and in the evening rush hour, the going was slow. Just like a tour guide, Veena gave a running commentary. “Here’s the agricultural university. Now we are passing the Mekhri Circle, an important landmark. You know, Mr. Mekhri was a businessman, he leveled this road at his own expense. Because the bullocks carrying their load had to climb up a steep gradient, he got the road leveled, to make it easy for the animals. He was honored by our king. And then during the Freedom struggle, Mr. Mekhri was thrown into jail by the British. After independence, the government honored Mr. Mekhri by naming this important intersection after him.” However inspiring the story, Aparna was
in no mood for the bullocks of Bangalore. After travelling for almost thirty hours, she was tired and hankered for a hot shower. As if to relieve his sister, Santosh took over. “On your left is Raman Research Institute, you know the Nobel laureate in Physics, and the right is Tata Institute. Now we are on our road, you might remember this, but things change year by year. Lot of new buildings and many multistory apartments.” * Aparna was glad to be finally in her room, the same room she shared with Ganesh on her last visit to Bangalore. After an invigorating hot shower, she changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt and went downstairs. Anu, in a bright blue sari, hugged her. “I’m sorry, really sorry. He was a good man.” Aparna nodded, kept a stiff upper lip, and hugged the teenager, “Hi Deepti, I see you have gotten taller.” She picked up the little girl and kissed her, “Hello, Durga!” Durga asked, “What did you get me from America?” Anu laughed. “Durga, behave!”, and Santosh looked at his daughter in a mock-stern manner. Aparna said, “I got you some goodies, you’ll get them after I unpack, okay?” They shared steaming dishes of rice, fried okra, eggplant curry, and sambar. Veena asked, “Aparna, did Ganesh write a will?” “No, no. I don’t think so.” Veena shook her head. “Hmmm…Did he tell you about his site?” Aparna asked, “What’s that?” Santosh said, “It’s piece of land to build a house.” Aparna smiled. “Okay, okay, I got it. We call it a lot.” Santosh said, “My father gave him this site, it’s pretty big, a few miles from here. I think it’s worth two crores.” Veena laughed. “No, no, my boy. More than that, much more, at least two and half, or even three. That area is fastly developing.” Aparna enquired. “How much is it in dollars?”
Santosh took out his cell phone. “Depending upon the exchange rate…mmm… huh…ahh…it’ll be four hundred thousand. And if Veena is right it’ll be around half a million.” Veena said, “I know it’ll be hard for someone like you, born and raised in the States, to settle down in India. Actually, my father was convinced Ganesh won’t return to live here permanently. Just a few weeks before he passed away, father told me he was going to change the will, give me that site instead. But he passed away so suddenly, didn’t have the time.” After dinner, Veena went back to her apartment. Aparna helped Anu with the dishes, and they sat in the living room to look at black and white pictures of Ganesh and his siblings. Aparna asked, “Veena seems to be handling the divorce well, ha?” Anu made a face. “She’s gotten more loony, hangs around here all the time, and raves and rants about her ex.” Santosh came out of his study. “Here’s the title of the site. You hang on to this, and when you are ready, we can transfer the site to your name. It’s very simple, all we need is your marriage certificate and his death certificate. Now-adays everything’s online. Let me know if I can help.” * Aparna wondered why Ganesh did not enlighten her about the lot in a prime locale. Maybe he didn’t think that it was important, or he simply didn’t care about the property as he never intended to return to India. And that Veena, gunning for the lot. Aparna decided to move fast and sell the lot. Half a million dollars was nothing to sneeze at. She made up her mind to talk to her uncle, a well-connected bureaucrat in the Central government at Delhi. She was awakened by a noise—thud, thud, thud. She peered at her wrist watch in the semidarkness—it was five in the morning. She peeped out of the window, in the dim street lamp two men were unloading milk cartons. Once the milk truck drove off, Aparna dozed off, only to be rudely roused by a call for prayer from a nearby mosque, the muezzin yelling at the top of his voice, “Allah ho Akbar”. And just when his voice faded, a bunch of people appeared on
the street chanting loudly, “Hare Rama, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare…”, accompanied by a one-man orchestra, playing what looked like miniature cymbals. It seemed as though the Muslims and Hindus waged a war on sleep. In spite of the cacophony, it appeared that people in the house were still sound asleep. She badly wanted to go out for her opioid rush. But the front door was securely bolted, and if she tried to open it, the noise might disturb the sleeping populace. At last, a toilet was flushed, thank god someone was up at last. She quickly brushed, tied her hair with a Scrunchie, wore her jogging outfit and came downstairs, just in time to see Anu unbolting the many latches of the heavy front door. “Hi, Anu. I’ll go for a jog.” “You really can’t jog on these roads, so much construction, too many cars and scooters even at this time in the morning. Wait for a few minutes. Have a cup of coffee. I’ll ask Santosh to drop you at the Sankey Tank. There’s a track around the lake, you can jog as fast as you want.” * Anu asked, “Did you have a good jog?” “Yeah. That was great.” Anu asked, “Ready for hot dosas?” She served crisp dosas and coconut chutney and filled the water glasses. “So, after breakfast, do you want to see the city a bit? I can take you around, we can have lunch somewhere.” Anu appeared to realize that she might have said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, I mean, you came for this, this thing, must be very sad.” “That’s fine. Let’s go.” Aparna scooped up a bit of the spicy chutney with a piece of the dosa and popped it into her mouth. * They went down the road to the busy market area. Anu pointed out, “See that barber shop, Ganesh used to arrive from America with a head full of hair, get it all chopped off, real short. He’d say he saved sixteen dollars by getting his hair cut in India. He spent almost two thousand dollars on his air ticket, ha, ha, ha.” “Oh. Yeah. Ganesh was tight-fisted. Never bought anything at regular price. All his shirts,
pants, shoes, always on sale. But when it came to me he never hesitated to spend. Insisted I get the best pants suits, the best dresses.” Tears started to roll down her fair cheeks. Anu held her hand, “I know, it’s difficult…” They drove by an open garbage dump where stray dogs fought for scraps of food, barked, and attacked each other. And a dog mounted a bitch. People walked by unperturbed. They reached Vidhana Soudha, seat of the legislature of Karnataka State, and walked around the imposing granite building. “We can try to go inside, but all this security these days…” They crossed the busy road to admire the Graeco-Roman architecture of the nineteenth century brick-red High Court building, and ambled around the striking Ionic porticoes. After a stroll in the cool Cubbon park, they adjourned to Koshy’s for lunch. “We can go to Tipu’s fort and his summer palace, but those areas are very congested. I think you are better off seeing pictures of the gorgeous architecture.” Anu sipped a cold Coke. Aparna took a big swig of her beer. “Ganesh used to say that India looks more beautiful in pictures, one can edit out the garbage and stray dogs.” “I think he is, I mean, he was right. I myself can see how this city is destroyed with all this growth. More offices, factories, so many new apartment complexes.” Anu sighed. “How are your daughters?” Aparna got a picture out of her wallet. “Oh! How pretty! Are they working or still in college?” “Sona is doing her residency at Vanderbilt, she wants to go into Dermatology. Mona is laid back, trying find a niche. Right now she is studying creative writing at Columbia. God knows if she can make a living with that degree.” * The next day, Santosh, Veena, and Aparna went to Srirangapatna, to the banks of Cauvery. Accompanied by a purohit chanting slokas, they descended to the river bank. The urn was handled reverently, and placed on the wa-
UFM
issue24 / 15
prose ter surface. It floated and bobbed, turned every which way before being drawn in by an eddy of current. A whole life reduced to an urn of ashes. From a loving mother’s womb to a sacred river’s womb. They stood with their hands folded together, their eyes brimming with tears. Aparna felt more anger than sorrow. She would have been grief-stricken if he had a cardiac arrest; she would have cared for him if he was stricken by a terminal illness; and she would have mourned if he had perished in an automobile accident. She couldn’t, however, bring herself to condone his selfish act. * Once back home from the short but arduous trip, Aparna called all her folks to let them know that she was back, safe and sound. It was dinner time when the cab brought her from the airport. She ordered a pizza and had a long, hot shower. She stepped out of the shower stall, toweled and examined herself in the full length mirror. Not bad at all for a middle aged broad. Her perky breasts and long lithe legs could still make a man drool. At her request, Ganesh would inspect her tight tush for any signs of dreadful dimples, and kiss her keister, leading to other exciting events. That dumb schmuck, chose death over derriere. Dabbing her wet hair with a towel, she jammed it into a ponytail, and wore her jammies. She gulped down her first beer greedily, and took a big bite of the peperoni pizza, and fiddled with her iPad. An e-mail from her uncle, since the real estate market in Bangalore was booming and the lot might appreciate in value, he advised her to hold on to the lot, and sell it after a few years. Sitting on this very love seat, they shared the ottoman, and sometimes, she caressed Ganesh’s feet with hers, and he would kiss and surprise her when he transferred a tic tac from his mouth to hers, their kisses tasted of mint. It was a game, before the main event. Now only memories. That chump. She didn’t know which was worse, a man yearning for a younger woman or a man departing to another world—most likely hell, he doesn’t deserve heaven. When Chris, her first husband,
16 /
issue24 UFM
bedded a blonde bimbo half his age, Aparna felt humiliated. After Chris, she never even imagined that she would desire another man, let alone marry. It was not that she fell madly in love with Ganesh, who was neither ruggedly handsome nor stinking rich. At first glance he appeared dull and in need of a shot of caffeine. But once he let his guard down, he was fun to be with. His subtle sense of humor was entertaining. That sucker. She was even ready to bear his children. Right after their wedding, some ten years back, Ganesh asked, “Do you think, we can, we…I mean, can we have a baby?” “But honey, I got my tubes tied after the girls were born.” But, the idea of a baby, maybe a boy this time, appealed to her. The hope with which she went through the surgery to reverse the tubal ligation was not realized even after two years. In vitro fertilization was a possibility, but the hormone injections and the associated risk factors were a major deterrent. She dumped his toothbrush, his razor, his comb and other toiletries. Except his clothes, shoes and books, there was nothing in the house to remind of his existence. First thing in the morning, she’d call the Salvation Army to get them out. The furniture, TV, stereo, pots and pans, and even the house were all hers. The pictures from Costa Rica, her arm around him in the Monteverde rainforest, she on his lap at the Arenal volcano, in the boat on the large lake from Arenal en route to Monteverde, brought back fond memories. That fabulous hotel in Monteverde, together in the swirling water, she feeling his strength, like the hot water spouting out of the Jacuzzi jets. Pulling the pictures out of the frames, she fed them to the shredder. That idiot. When she was about to empty his desk drawers, she saw a Texas-postmarked envelope, dated a few days prior to his disgraceful deed. So antediluvian to actually mail a letter in this age of instant communication. To the best of her knowledge he didn’t know anybody in Texas. Since the envelope was already open and the recipient’s ashes in transit to the Bay of Bengal, she didn’t hesitate to read the loopy handwriting.
Dear Sweetiepie:
Thanks for coming to my sick-bed, or should I say death-bed? Anyway, when you get this missive, I’ll be long gone, six feet under the ground, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Don’t cry for me. Go have a strong margarita, make sure to use good quality tequila, and plenty of it! Now you may wonder why I’m spending my last days writing this dumb letter. I hate to leave loose ends. I hate for you to hate me for the rest of your life. I also want you to know the kind of woman I am. I know I hurt you real bad when I banished you to the East coast, to a dull job, far away from our exciting world of real, original research. I had to send you away. It’s because I loved you more than any other man. And I just couldn’t bear to hurt you. I never wanted you to know my problem. Yes, it was a big problem, which I had no control over. You see, I’m what’s called a nymphomaniac. Oh, how I hate that word. I prefer to think of it as an insatiable need for sex. One man was never enough for me. And I know you only too well, it would have broken your heart totally and permanently to discover that your beloved Julia is an incorrigible addict. I was wrong to think that you would be satisfied with our sporadic couplings. You wanted more, you wanted marriage, stability, love and all the rest. I was not made to be someone’s wife, to live forever with one man. I knew I’ll never be able to change. That’s why I had break it off with you. Don’t think I don’t miss you. Don’t think I don’t love you. Don’t think I would have given anything to change my hopeless ways and bear your children. With Love, Julia
In spite of herself, Aparna had tears at such a poignant and vulnerable outpouring. But she was furious at the gutless Ganesh who obviously loved this woman, this Julia, whoever she was. Was he still in love with her? Did he think of her, dream of her, and fantasize about her? Did he picture her, this Julia, while he
was inside her, his dear, dumb wife? She remembered his sudden trip to California, without the usual advance planning, without browsing various websites for the best deal. He went to visit his mentor who was terminally ill. So, this Julia must be his mentor. Aparna was curious about Julia’s looks. She picked up a bulky folder with his publications. From 1988 through 2005, many publications in prestigious, peerreviewed journals were authored by Ganesh Rao and Julia Mead. From the affiliation of the authors, it was a simple matter to pull up the website of the biomedical institute in California, and Professor Julia Mead’s resume was but a few clicks away. In a picture of the young-looking, red-headed professor with her lab members, a younger Ganesh was right next to her. There was a long list of Professor Mead’s accomplishments, awards, publications, invited lectures at prestigious universities, national and international conferences. And a glowing obituary with links to condolences from the luminaries of the scientific enterprise, and to her gravesite in Hays county, Texas, with an epitaph: Julia Agnes Mead 1950-2014 A cowgirl by birth A scientist by accident In spite of her jealousy, Aparna couldn’t but admire the professor’s phenomenal scientific career during such a short life span. Why did she love Ganesh? He was no Adonis nor was he extraordinarily brilliant. It was evident from his publications that he played, at best, second fiddle and was always the quintessential junior scientist, a plodding pipettor who needed to be guided by the famous professor’s brilliant brain waves. After all, she was the recipient of the big grants, coveted awards and plum posts. Perhaps Ganesh had neither the initiative nor the innovative ideas to thrive on his own, and to run an independent, well-funded research laboratory. Or, maybe his dogged devotion to his mentor was such that he didn’t care to learn to fly on his own. Only questions, no answers.
UFM
issue24 / 17
POETRY
18 /
issue24 UFM
Carl Boon
AEGEAN SPRING The fantasy of fall’s a scarlet wildflower on the hillside, the girls on bicycles today, their shoulders twisted against the wind that will bring rain, that will secure us this October— after the heat, after the girls’ long journeys conclude in swirled dirt. North of here the snow will threaten the higher hills, Bozdağ, women in shawls hauling potatoes and beets. I’ll be bound to the balcony, listening to football in Ohio, trying to hear the buckeyes dropping from the trees where my mother cooks bean soup and walks the dog.
UFM
issue24 / 19
Carl Boon
CORRIDORS Frances smeared toothpaste on her cheeks, urged us to know her father would be arriving soon in his mint-colored ’35 Ford. They’d be going for a ride.
excrement in unusual places. Becky and Donna brought mops down the corridors. But Frances and her father had better places to be: after lunch: three sets
From the kitchen I heard Ricky fumbling with the dishwasher— a loose spring, a lost bolt— the door wouldn’t close. And Pat already had the pudding in the cups.
at the Bowl-o-Rama. 147 last week, not bad for a skinny girl like me. And she sat in the lobby and waited until her eyes closed, and I thought, yes, why not?
Frances didn’t care for pudding. She would have none of this chicanery. They would lunch— as usual on a Sunday—at Mitch’s Heavenly Restaurant on Route 18:
It’s a lovely April Sunday, the snow has melted, and we all love blackberry cobbler with ice cream and a father’s strong hands to make the world okay.
pork cutlets, mashed potatoes, and blackberry cobbler. Not rotten tapioca. The nurses’ aides ignored such banter. They had sheets to fold, trash to empty,
20 /
issue24 UFM
THE NEW VILLAGE CEMETERY As kids, we raced among the cows, the cemetery on our left, the stones unremarkable, centuries pounded by the sea. Even then, our paths were overcome with pine, wild cherry, nightshade. Then a girl died, and they wondered what to do, what land should have her, for she was the first in a very long time and the old was full. The elders said the evening sun should fall on her. They scanned the hillsides and found a space. So the youngsters cleared the stones, laid the sod, and all came together— in pressed clothes—and prayed. A man who’d memorized the Book built a house nearby. He married a girl and together they grew beans and promised not to let things go the way the elders had. Then came a strange prosperity to the land, which seems to come to every village on the sea, a wish, an order. Years later, when I returned, I counted thirty marble stones, and there were no cows. There’d been storms, one woman said. Another blamed the sea-birds that had disappeared.
UFM
issue24 / 21
Carl Boon
THE LOSS OF A SON
22 /
issue24 UFM
Rose goes to the hallway, lifts her nightshirt, and looks for a reason to live.
in the sink. Her son is dead. Her stomach is full and her son’s motionless in Memorial
The night’s a blur, December, her son dead in the exhaust of his garage.
where the nurses drink coffee and talk of their boyfriends’ indiscretions.
The phone is ringing, cousins making plans, God-talking above the empty
A sitcom plays on the station TV. A woman with a fractured shoulder
casserole pan. It’s absurd— those mushroom bits and shreds of cheese wet
comes in, weeping. The night is full of vultures with nowhere left to land.
Joseph Kerschbaum
ONE OF US HAS CHANGED At the right angle, those incisors glint like poorly concealed weapons under your new hostile snarl.
Somewhere you were inhaling someone. Spitting out their splinters and bones.
Temperature drops as if standing in the shadow of an ominous figure who intends us harm.
That could have been me. That would have been OK. Replacing my life would be easy.
Sky darkens the shade of bruise. Reverberation of old excitement runs up my spine as the first thunder rolls.
Locked doors, shuttered windows are as useless as prayer, hope or denial.
Your chaos was delicious. Wailing siren pushing everyone into basements – pulling me into the empty streets.
You’ll find me underground. I have so much more to lose now. You want to take it away.
Watched as you whip yourself into the biggest monster the atmosphere could sustain.
UFM
issue24 / 23
Joseph Kerschbaum
BETWEEN THE OPENING AND CLOSING OF DOORS
24 /
Red pasta sauce coagulates
is the same sunlight
on the plates in the sink.
that was shinning here this morning.
Yesterday’s unopened mail
The shopping list for tonight’s
is an artifact from another time.
now-cancelled dinner party
Small colonies of dust
was written by a stranger.
in the corners of the room
I remember him. My handwriting
are not thicker, darker
still recognizable. I left the house
then they were 12 hours ago
like any other day. Feels like years ago.
but they look as if they have laid
Unprepared for the unexpected
undisturbed in a forgotten tomb.
future of now
For anyone else
where nothing appears different
the dusk sunlight leaking into the house
but everything has changed.
issue24 UFM
WATCHING THE BOATS
Gentle push
across the lake empty vessels drift away
no going
anywhere
except back
home
for either of us
now
UFM
issue24 / 25
bios
26 /
issue24 UFM
Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two Thirds North, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and the Kentucky Review.
Joseph Kerschbaum’s most recent publications include Ken: a man for all seasons (2012) and Your Casual Survival (2010), both were published by Plan B Press. Joseph lives Bloomington, Indiana. For more information, please visit www.ThirstyOcean.com.
Adam Phillips makes his living teaching at-risk junior high kids how to read, write, and dominate on the
hardwood (these are three separate things; the kids rarely read or write while playing basketball). When not thusly occupied, he’s f**king s**t up old school on the coastline of Rockaway Beach, Oregon, with his inimitable wife and two small sons. If you’re interested, recent/impending publications include Upstreet, Blotterature, Shark Pack Poetry Review, Raven Chronicles, Contemporary American Voices (featured poet in August), and Blue Monday Review. His first novel, Something Like My Name, is forthcoming from Propertius Press.
Rudy Ravindra attended a summer writing workshop at Iowa and trained under ZZ Packer. His prose
has appeared in Ginosko, Chicago Literati, Saturday Evening Post online, and others. He lives in Wilmington, NC More at: http://rudyravindra.wix.com/rudy
Fabio Sassi makes photos and acrylics using tiny objects and what is considered to have no worth by
the mainstream. Fabio is also a casual poet living in Bologna, Italy. His work can be viewed at www.fabiosassi. foliohd.com. Fabio is a regular contributor to Umbrella Factory Magazine. His piece “Paper Brolly” is this issue’s cover image
UFM
issue24 / 27
STAY DRY.
28 /
issue24 UFM