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CO N T EN TS
Prose
Poetry
Kelley A Pasmanick
Darren Demaree
“Call Me A Gimp” 9
19 “Replacing the Monument #10” “Replacing the Monument #11” 20 21 “Replacing the Monument #12”
A.J. Huffman
“My Mother Wrote A Note On Some Dead Chicken” “Dissipated Huricane Rains” “One Pink Highligher And One Green Sock” “Watching the Boats”
Editor’s Note 5 About Us 4 Submission Guidlines 6 Bios and Credits 27
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UFM SEPTEMBER 2016, Issue 25
UMBRELLA FACTORY WORKERS Editor-In-Chief
Anthony ILacqua
Copy Editor
Janice Ilacqua Art Director
Jana BRAMWELL
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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 - September 2016 Hello Readers, writers, and those just happening by, welcome to Issue 25 of Umbrella Factory Magazine. As always, I am thrilled to present the latest issue of our humble magazine for your consideration. And as always, I’m both amazed and grateful we’ve made it another issue. Again, as always, I hope we’ve stayed true to our promise of connecting well developed readers to the best writing available. We’ve made a slight departure in this issue with our fiction. Our general guidelines for prose are very broad and not very tangible. Yes, we like well developed fiction with a beginning, a middle and an end. We prefer characters with appeal. Of course we like universal themes that make us think or feel, hopefully both. And in this issue Kelley A Pasmanick’s “Call Me a Gimp” is all we like and more. The slight departure is simply the one and only quantifiable guideline we have: word count. Yes, word count. We like 1,000 to 5,000 word short stories. We occasionally get flash fiction, which oftentimes doesn’t get read, but we’ve never gotten anything longer than the 5,000 word upper limit. Well, until now...
piece we offer.
The essence of the story, “Call Me a Gimp” we meet a recent college graduate who accepts an invitation by a friend’s mother to get a pedicure. That’s the basic premise of the story. The treatment of this premise, however, is not just another day at the nail salon. The non-linear approach Pasmanick takes with the narration of her story feels the way a thousand thoughts processing at once might feel when not a single coherent statement exits the lips. As a reader, I was enthralled with this story, and I hope you will be too. As an editor, I feel like this is a story that needs an audience. In this issue, “Call Me a Gimp” is the only prose
As a writer I have different feelings about this story. “Call Me a Gimp” is well over 8,000 words. I think it’s a great story, but 8,000+ words? It may be tough to write a short story of this length, but it’s almost assuredly not going to get published. I think the only reason to write short stories is for literary magazines. Literary magazines, and almost all of them in this modern, digital, online age prefer shorter stories for very practical reasons. A flash fiction magazine, for instance will run 10 to 20 pieces in lieu of this one. And Twitter style fiction magazines can run upwards of 300 to 400 or more and be well under 8,000 words. As a writer, I’m yet to be bold enough to write something as insightful, detailed and honestly, as long as “Call Me a Gimp.” I’m very grateful to add this story and this writer to the annuals of Umbrella Factory Magazine. We have new poetry to offer this issue. Both of our contributors are prolific poets and working editors. A.J. Huffman, editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press offers us a few select poems, “My Mother Wrote a Note on Some Dead Chicken,” being my favorite. Darren Demaree (“Replacing The Monument #10, #11,#12”) is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. He has a history with us at Umbrella Factory Magazine, we featured his poetry in Issue 22, December 2015. We are grateful to have him back. Our cover is another Fabio Sassi original “Umbrella Factory.” We love Fabio and his work. Please enjoy Issue 25. Until next time: Read. Submit. 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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PROSE
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Call ME A GIMP Kelley A Pasmanick
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Dedication For Charles Robert Franco, of blessed memory, my best friend and the love of my life who never once doubted I would be an author one day. Even though you are no longer here to see my dream come true, Charlie, thank you for willing it to occur. Thank you for extending to me the privilege of your friendship. You and it have made all the difference in the world to me. I love you.
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prose
I
was scrolling down to press “Submit” for yet another online job application when the phone rang. I stared at it, but didn’t answer. Mom and Dad were home, and I was in their house now. “Lorinne! Phone!” Mom called from downstairs. My door was shut, and I was thankful in some way to mute her grating voice. My name? Lorinne Palmer. L.P. If my parents had only given me a name beginning with a C. I would be C.P. with C.P. Call me a gimp; I am one. G.I.M.P.: Girl Impacted Most Physically. I took a deep breath before picking up the receiver, trying to remember what jobs I had applied for recently in case whoever was on the other end of the phone asked, “What are you planning to do now?” It was useless. I couldn’t even remember where I had applied. I gave up and pressed the green button labeled “Talk.” “Hello?” I asked. “Lorinne, it’s Ellen.” I had no idea why she was calling, let alone why she was calling for me. Ellen Cohen was best friends with my parents. She loved me because she loved my parents but kept her distance with a restraint made of judgment and sarcasm. She was the mother of Aaron Cohen, my first love. I was the way I was with anyone on the phone: polite. “Hi, Ellen, how are you?” “Fine,” she paused. “I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. You did the research, found your program, and finished with a record that exceeded all of our expectations.” Just then I wondered what exactly her expectations had been. “Thank you,” I replied. “That means a lot coming from you.” It did, only because she’d never said anything like that before. This wasn’t a criticism. I still wondered why she was telling me this. Now. At all. The graduation party had passed, which meant that so had my opportunity to speak to all of the family friends/judges/malcontents about how hard going away and doing well was. I never did. There was no opportunity. My parents had made sure of that. They made my party an open house. I hadn’t said anything but hello, goodbye, goodbye, hello, as many times as the Beatles had in their glory days, my parents relieved not to be put on display. I never got a chance to tell them thank you. For nothing. The gifts had been given from others, the well wishes said by others, the thank you notes written to other people. During the most appropriate time,
at the party, Ellen had never said anything at all to me. Maybe that was why she was best friends with my parents. Everything all three of them did was on their own terms. She was certainly making up for her bout of reticence now. This was just like her. Whether it was good or bad—and most often it was the latter—she made everything she said stand out, but something about this conversation was different, even for her. Out of anything else she’d ever said or would say to me, I had the feeling that this exchange would stand out more. “Well, I just thought you’d like to know,” she replied. You just thought I’d like to know it from you, I thought. “Thank you for telling me,” I said. It was an answer of deference—noncommittal—an answer that wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere. I was wrong. “I’d like to take you for a pedicure. Would you like to go for a pedicure?” My answer would lead somewhere—to a yes, which would lead to somewhere yet again: a nail salon. We decided to meet the next day. It wasn’t like I had other plans. Ellen would pick me up at one. Hanging up the phone, I wondered what I had just done. And even more than that, I wondered why. Just like the “I’m proud of you” she repeated before hanging up, I wondered why she was making the effort to be social with me when she never had before. Things just never were with her. There was always a reason. There had to be a reason. * “What did Ellen want?” Mom asked when I went downstairs. “She wants to take me for a pedicure.” “A pedicure? Why?” Mom asked as she gave me her with you? look. “I don’t know. I guess she wanted to. I said okay.” Just like my phone etiquette, my answers to friends of my parents were polite— almost always in the affirmative. “When are you going?” “Tomorrow at one.” “Huh,” she said. I took that as my cue and left the room. * According to The Random House College Dictionary, “gimp” is a noun, and its definition is “a cripple.” It was the first day of first grade at Montgomery Elementary. I was in a combination class with first and second graders. We all went to recess. I sat at my usual place from the year before, on the slide, watching. I always watched.
It wasn’t like I could do anything. My pink crutches made playing difficult. I was a spectator in my own life, forced into the role of narrator to describe the events going on around me. Call me a gimp; I am one. I already knew the value of a nap at five years old. By the time I was six in first grade, I was always tired. That was the first year I had started using Lofstrand crutches. They left red marks on my arms, from where the gray cuffs chafed my skin. My palms sweated from holding the handles so tightly. My feet hurt and sweated from the plastic braces that encased them. The worst of it was my yellow helmet with its trademark rainbow strap. I fell a lot, so to protect my head, I wore a helmet. The helmet made my head sweat and my hair dripping and itchy. I had just removed it, and was running my fingers through my hair, scratching my scalp furiously when someone spoke to me. “Hey? Do you want to play hide and go seek?” He was wearing a yellow sweatshirt and yellow sweat pants. His blonde hair was spiked, and his eyes were green and clear. They were open, seeing. They were different from the other kids’ eyes. The thing that I remember the most was that he was smiling, not like the other kids when they were joking about wanting to play with me, but he showed his teeth, white and comforting in a disarming smile. “What? I can’t. I can’t hide fast enough.” “Sure you can. Will gives us sixty seconds. Don’t worry, I’ll help you.” “I can’t really walk. I have a physical disability called cerebral palsy,” I said just like I always did, saying what my parents and doctors and physical therapists and occupational therapists had said since I was diagnosed at the age of one. “I don’t care that you can’t walk. You can still be my friend. I’m Aaron, what’s your name?” “I’m Lorinne Palmer.” Even back then I always gave my first and last name. “Nice to meet you, Lorinne. Come play with us. You can be the ‘safe zone,’ if you want. If Danny can’t find one of us and we decide to come out, and make it to you, then we won’t be it. Oh, you can point out the good hiding places while he’s counting! Come on, let’s go!” Aaron took my hand into his. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.” I had made my first friend. He accepted me for me, despite my faults. At seven years old, he did something profound. He was able to put
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differences aside. My difference. My disability. And I loved him for it. * I was in the shower letting the water drench me, thinking about how this pedicure would play out. What I imagined didn’t even come close to the reality. Turning the faucet to cold, I made sure to scrub my underarms thoroughly. Even while scrubbing with cold water, I could feel the sticky wetness of sweat gather. My body was always in a constant state of stress response. But why was my body fighting today? There was no need. Today, I was flying. Away in a minivan. Away from the disappointment that was my life. Then, I remembered it was Ellen’s minivan, her invitation. This was a conspiracy, some covert special op. I wondered if Mom already knew that she was going to ask to take me out. Probably. I had fallen for it, setting the wheels in motion for Phase 2, unable to retreat. What it was that I had fallen for, I couldn’t yet say. I stood, grabbing the towel from its hook, hoping to soften the blow that was to come. * Back in my room, knowing I’d be on display for at least the next two hours, I immediately turned the fan on high, applied an overly thick layer of deodorant, a few sprays of perfume, and fingered through my closet for the dressy clothes. These were the clothes I felt most uncomfortable wearing, the ones in the best shape because I avoided them. They were pretty but restrictive, and therefore useless: best-inshow clothes. What everyone had forgotten was that I was shown off every day. My superlative? Most likely to be stared at while trying her hardest not to be. This was going to be anything but relaxing. Idiot, I thought. I still hadn’t figured out what had possessed me to say yes. I tried to remember when the last time was I had left the house. I couldn’t remember. Maybe my subconscious had kicked in—that my response to Ellen wasn’t impulsive. It was a trigger. Get out while you have the chance, when you have the chance. I neglected to consider the most important thing. Who got me out made all the difference. After drying myself once more with my robe, I lifted a white Lycra camisole over my head and a blue translucent polyester top over that. I hiked leggings up my too-skinny legs, realizing I’d forgotten to shave them. Great. Maybe the pedicurists wouldn’t notice. That was most likely since they’d be entirely focused on the unnatural
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blue hue of my feet. I checked myself in the mirror. No comments should be made about my appearance: I looked like everyone else, as nondisabled as possible, the spitting image of the projection everyone wanted me to be. * We had just finished eating at the food court. Grandma had passed away the day before on the coldest day of the year. I had just turned seventeen. Aaron showed up and offered to take me out. I skipped out on shiva, the seven day period of mourning. I had a hovan, a rolled sandwich with humus and tabbouli. He had sushi. I never realized that he liked sushi. It was my favorite food. “Throw away your trash,” he scolded as if he were talking to a child instead of a seventeen year old. He looked in the direction of the numerous trash receptacles placed around the food court. “Why? It’s hard for me, Aaron. The custodial people will get it.” “You can’t just leave it there, Lorinne.” “Will you help me?” “You can do it. You’re just being lazy.” “No, I’m not!” It was the truth. I wasn’t being lazy. Having crutches meant my hands were in their service, not mine. Holding something other than their handles—in addition to their handles—wasn’t easy. It took finesse, something I knew by definition only. “Fine, there,” he said, grabbing the trash and shoving it violently into the can. “What? Don’t look at me like that.” He stared at me. I stared back at him into his green eyes, those eyes in which I had lost myself so many times before. They were my escape. This time, though, I saw disappointment. His sentiments were unwarranted. I was insistent. “It’s not my fault I can’t throw away the trash!” “You can. You just don’t want to.” “Shut up! You’re not the one who’s disabled.” “Why do you always have to bring up your cerebral palsy? It’s not that big of a deal.” “Are you sure about that, Aaron?” “What are you talking about?” “I’ve loved you for eleven years and would do anything for you, and you don’t love me.” “We’ve already been through this. I don’t love you like that. I can’t. You’re like my sister.” “Bullshit, you don’t see me enough for me to be like your sister.” “That’s just the way I feel, Lorinne, and
it has nothing to do with your cerebral palsy.” “Fine.” You’re lying. You would never admit that because you know it would break me, I thought. On the drive home, with the windows rolled down, I flicked a birdie. “What are you doing?” Aaron said, taking hold of my rebellious hand. I loved his hand, but holding it was making my heart hurt. “I’m flicking off God because you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and you don’t even care because I’m disabled.” He was flattered. I could tell by the smile on his face. Of course, you are, I thought, you’re a guy. I loved him, but I read the signs wrong. “I know it’s because I’m disabled. You would never admit it to me because you’ve been raised with a conscience, but I can see it in your face. You know that I could never be like the other girls you’ve dated and do what they do.” * Ellen came at one on the dot. I opened the back door, and Ellen immediately commanded me to “Go to the car.” I had yet to say a word. I opened the car door and hoisted myself into the front seat using the grab bar above my head. I thought for a moment before sitting, wondering if Ellen would get mad that I just assumed that I could sit in the front seat. This was an outing. We were bonding. I snickered at the thought. The front seat is A-OK, I thought. If she asks, I’ll just tell her I’m getting into the spirit of things. Putting on my seatbelt and my sunglasses, I craned my neck to see anything that I could. Nothing. No doubt she and Mom were sharing information: whether I had shared anything with Mom about today’s event and whether Ellen would report back. I hadn’t and of course she would. I closed my eyes to silence the rays that even my sunglasses were unable to protect me from. A dull pain was forming in my temples and the lower back of my head near my neck. Stress. I tried to focus on the experience, to be positive. My feet in all of their Smurfish glory would benefit even if my head didn’t. The last time I had a pedicure was a few days before my graduation from college—more than nine months before. My feet had been itching for weeks before graduation, shredded yellowed skin found its way onto my dorm room floor, into my sheets, in my socks, and in the section of my orthotic molded for my ankle. I’d never seen my skin in such bad shape. The first time I witnessed my decay, it was a Friday in springtime, and I’d taken off
my nylon knee-high sock. I saw that the skin had noticeable boundaries. It was separated, like a puzzle piece was before it made the clicking sound which meant that the cardboard piece was in its properly fitting slot. It had the flakiness of a croissant, coming off in layers, not the snowflake quality of psoriasis or dandruff. I lifted the sliver and it came right off, completely disconnected. I felt no pain. It didn’t even tear. Not even peeling skin after a sunburn could compare to this piece of flesh. It was whole and it wasn’t white and curled, either. Examining it further, I saw the squiggles and swirls that gave it its own print. There were lines, straight and sharply veering, beginning and ending. The skin, having retained its peach color, looked like the skin of another part of me: my hands. The lines that I had seen in this seemingly dead piece of skin were life lines. What did it mean when the skin in which those lines were imbedded withered seconds later into unrecognizable sandpapery shards? I remember sitting there on my twin bed, one barefoot, legs shaped in a four, wondering: if this little cluster of dermal cells had the tenacity to have just died in front of me, how long would the rest of me take? * The car door slammed, shaking me back to the present. Ellen was sitting next to me. “Thank you for taking me,” I said. “You’re welcome,” she replied, looking at me. I had to look away. Her eyes were her son’s. “I’m very pleased with what you’ve accomplished,” she continued. Again I questioned how much my pleasing her was supposed to please me. Ellen transferred her stare from my face to my feet. “They sure are purple.” I followed her gaze. “They mean you no harm,” I replied. The key turned in the ignition and Ellen looked at me questioningly once again. I didn’t bother to elaborate. We were off. * I told myself I had grown since Aaron. I realized that what he and I had was nothing compared to what Ben and I had. At the age of six I realized that a person could have two best friends. Aaron was one, Ben was the other. Ben was much better at it. He was actually a friend. Later, we saw each other all the time, went to restaurants, the movies, talked on the phone. He was the first friend who ever called me voluntarily. When he called and asked to get together, I never said no. He made me feel wanted.
By the age of twelve, I loved him as well as Aaron, but I loved them differently. I figured out that I still loved Aaron because of what he had been when I played with him when he was seven on the playground. I loved Ben because of who he had consistently been from the time I met him. He was the same—laughing, loving, concerned, wise, confident, and most of all, supportive to me. We were each other’s best friends, but I never told him how I felt because I was afraid what happened with Aaron would happen again. He actually was my friend and witnessed my unraveling when Aaron was no longer present, and if I told him how I felt and his feelings weren’t mutual, there wouldn’t be anyone to wind me back up after the fallout. He was the first one to hold my hands, in spite of their being worn and calloused. I was constantly rubbing and lotioning my hands as the years went by, and still he held them. His were full and soft. They weren’t thinned out from overuse like mine, or from hard labor. He wasn’t a boy who had scars from mistakes and asinine behavior. His body wasn’t a record of hard times or losses of innocence. Holding his hands, my insecurities vanished. When he wasn’t holding my hands, my awareness of aging sped up. My knees always seemed to ache more, and it seemed like more surgical scars showed up on my body. The boys noticed, too, but from a different angle. They asked me if I could do it, how I could do it. The disabled girl fucking piqued their interests. I didn’t really know if I could have sex, whether I was physically able to or not. I told the boys I had to ask my doctor. I asked my doctor. Her response was that I would have to have kids as soon as possible, which really meant as young as possible. My dream of having a family was dying. The immediacy and negativity, with which she answered, made me think I wouldn’t have kids, that I couldn’t have kids. The conversation was awkward, and it hurt me a lot. I internalized her response the way I imagined sex would be, humiliating and painful. Call me a gimp; I am one. “Not to worry,” she said. Yes, you just told me I needed to have kids ASAP and then not to worry, I thought. Am I confused? I was sixteen, but my body and my mind were aging much more quickly, so why wouldn’t I worry? I told Ben. We were in the car driving back to my house from a movie. I was tired, and my head rested on his shoulder, my hand in his. He held my hands on a regular basis.
He transformed them from the worn, haggard, calloused, long, piano-playing-fingers-but-not, to beautiful, warm, wanted hands, capable of doing the right things that would lead to love. “Ben?” I shifted and sat up straighter, squeezing his hand harder. He squeezed back and looked at me. “Yeah? What’s wrong?” “I went to the doctor.” He knew I was going to my specialist for a checkup. “What did she say?” “Everything’s fine, but I asked her something that maybe I shouldn’t have. I’m regretting her answer.” “What did you ask her?” “I asked her if I could have kids.” It appeared that he took one long look at the road before looking at me. “Lorinne—” “I’m scared. I really didn’t expect her to say it was a problem. She said it was. She said it would be an issue because of the C.P. The babies—a baby would be at risk because I would be considered a high risk pregnancy.” “What? Your kids won’t have C.P. It’s not hereditary.” “I know. I told her that. At first I thought she was an idiot, but she said because of me there would be more of a chance for complications, that they could have birth defects.” My voice rose, tears were in my eyes. I smiled at Ben. “Who would’ve thought my worry would be valid?” We reached the street before mine and Ben stopped the car. He took off his seatbelt, turned, and smiled. “It’ll be all right, Lorinne.” And when he said that, I knew it would be. * I tried making conversation with Ellen. I asked after the family. Wrong move. “How’s Jack doing?” I asked of her husband, the man who always had a smile for me every time I saw him, the man who had blessed me repeatedly during Shabbat and holiday dinners. He was the only person I knew who asked God to keep me safe. Asking how he was only seemed fair. “He’s doing fine,” Ellen answered drawing out the “I” in “fine.” She was annoyed. I was certain of it. “And Erick?” “He’s finishing up his classes at state, so he can transfer.” “That’s great! I’m sure he’ll like it there. Everyone seems to.”
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prose “He already knows a lot of people up there because of Aaron. Erick drives up a lot to visit.” “How is he?” “Aaron,” she said, turning to me as she mentioned his name, “he’s fine. He’s almost done. He’ll graduate with honors.” “I’m not surprised,” I replied. “Of course he will,” I said, thinking about how only a year or so before, he’d taken a break from school to deal with a drug problem. I could see that I had pressed her hot button even with this mundane conversation, but I didn’t know what else to say. Then again, this was Ellen. Anything involving both me and Aaron wasn’t mundane. As innocent and unassuming as this conversation was, it wasn’t. Not to her. It would never be. Don’t bother, I thought, wondering if I should tell her that this was exactly what it appeared to be: small talk. I exhaled the bother she had made me feel. Rolling the window down, Ellen couldn’t see that I had shut my eyes behind my sunglasses. “We’re here,” Ellen said. I could feel her turning toward me, as much as I could feel the sandy sleep in my eyes. I couldn’t believe that I had fallen asleep so quickly. We couldn’t have been driving for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. My bones, now conscious, had returned to their naturally stiffened state. I struggled to sit up. “Okay,” I croaked, hoping she didn’t notice the fatigue in my voice. I lifted myself again with the help of the bar and swiveled myself so that I went feet first out and down. Gravity didn’t help me. A heaviness gripped me that was similar to how I felt after I ate. I couldn’t lift myself nearly as easily, but I couldn’t ask for help. Not from her. “My foot fell asleep,” I lied, but in reality it was a common occurrence. My left foot fell asleep almost on a daily basis. It was the stronger one, doing the work for two while the right foot sat back and watched. My entire left side did the work for two. I was sure to follow up my response with a quick “I’m sorry.” I finally hopped down using the running board as a halfway point and hurried to catch up with Ellen, who was already making her way across the street to a red sign, the color old women painted their nails, with “Nail Salon” scrawled across it. As soon as the bell rang, attention shifted from task to countenance. Even after the employees’ gazes shifted away from Ellen, they remained on me. I always held people’s attention for longer. Because it wasn’t really my face they were focused on. They were fixed—fixated. On
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something else. A woman with dainty steps skirted over to us. “Hello, hello!” she said enthusiastically, her l’s sounding like r’s. “Two pedicures,” Ellen said. “Two pedicures!” she repeated, just as enthusiastically, transforming ‘cures’ into ‘cues’. She moved next to me, lifted her hand, and pointed with her pointer finger. “There,” she said, giving direction to her gesture. I began walking in the direction she had indicated toward the brown leather chair and tripped. My crutches weren’t beside me, in line with the steps I had just taken. I looked over and saw the hand of the woman standing next to me on my right crutch handle. She lifted and it and lowered it in strokes that couldn’t be considered steps. “I’m fine, I can walk,” I said in my most authoritative voice, not smiling my usual smile that actually made me uncomfortable, but that was used to cajole others into comfort. I looked over at Ellen for assistance. She wasn’t even next to me anymore but had gone to the wall to choose the color of her nail polish. “I help you,” she replied, exposing teeth that were too small, too jagged, and too not-white to have formed what must have been a smile. “I can walk. I can do it,” I said, looking her straight in the eye. “Is okay,” she said, her smile looking more like a grimace now. From the look on her face, it was obvious that her smile was to me what my walk was to her. Not one. By the time we finally made it to the chair, I had already severely tripped several times because every time I lifted my crutch to take a step, the woman pushed it back down again. I knew what she was thinking with that ravenous showing of teeth. Liability due to lack of ability. More like libel. She was defaming and destroying the way I moved, the way I survived every day. Too bad it wasn’t done in print. I looked over to where Ellen was already sitting, wondering if she had caught any of this. It was doubtful. She was staring straight ahead in the direction of the TV, but there were headphones in her ears that were connected to her iPhone. She didn’t seem to be focusing on anything, in particular. “There!” the woman said, exceedingly pleased with herself as she released my hand along with my crutch handle. I immediately snatched it from her and held firmly to the other while I lifted both over my head as far away
from her as possible. Not wanting her to touch any more of me, I lifted my legs and tucked my feet under me, waiting for her to leave. * Ben’s hands, like everything else about him, became unbearable. I could feel it happening again, like it did with Aaron eight years earlier. My feelings were seeping out of me like the urine from my spastic bladder, without permission and at inappropriate times. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him, I did. I was starving for him. But I didn’t say a word. * “Did you pick your polish color?” Ellen asked as she removed her headphones from her ears, watching the woman walk away. I looked at her, hoping that the question in my mind hadn’t shown up on my face. Seriously? “I always go with clear,” I said as unaffected as possible. There was a reason. Just like with high heels or backless sandals, the polish never stayed on my feet. I dragged my feet and the polish off along with them. “You should paint them purple to match your feet. Or blue. Or both,” she smiled. “That would make my toes bruisecolored,” I retorted. Ellen slipped her headphones over her ears. Our pedicurists finally sat down on the rolling stools before us, almost in unison. Perhaps they’d planned it that way so they’d have each other to talk to. Before they started in with each other, I made sure to tell her what I told every pedicurist since my first pedicure. “Please make sure to take all the dead skin of the bottoms and right sides of feet, and please make sure to scrub and clean my toenails and in between my toes. If you could also lotion my feet and legs, that would be great.” I followed it up with something I knew she’d understand. “Thank you.” She blinked with her mouth slightly ajar, as if my order was too tall. Nonsense. I was determined to get what I had paid for: rejuvenated. I felt someone else’s eyes on me. I looked over to my left. Ellen was staring me, headphones removed once again. I stared back, smiling. The steam rose as the hot water bubbled. The jets had been turned on. I un-tucked my feet and leaned forward, feeling a pulsating stretch in my ankles at my heel cord where I had had surgery. I lifted the green Velcro straps, undid the buckle, and with difficulty slid my sandals
off. My feet lacked the ability to slide. Extending my legs, I aimed for the basin. As my feet sunk down into the water, I could feel my toes do what was expected of them for once—to stretch and straighten. It was a rarity that they ever had help relaxing. I didn’t relax either. We couldn’t. Our natural state wasn’t relaxed, but hypertensive. “Feet blue,” I heard the pedicurist say through shut eyes. I opened them, knowing now that I’d have to monitor her. “They’re fine. That’s normal for me,” I said. “They won’t be blue in a minute,” I added pointing to the bubbling water. The woman let them soak about ten minutes and slowly lifted them from the basin. I was right. They were white and pink in places with no blue in sight. She patted them dry, but my skin still felt damp. “Please dry my feet more, especially the soles of my feet and in between my toes. Make sure there’s no water on my feet,” I continued, simplifying my request. My toes didn’t naturally spread. Naturally, they were on top of each other with no room to breathe. When it came to moisture, my feet took on a soggy quality like Cheerios in milk and stayed that way, the skin having low endurance and susceptible to tearing. It was broken skin that caused the next obstacle. After she had sprayed my feet with disinfectant, cut my toenails, and pushed down my cuticles, she lifted my foot to remove all the dead skin with the paddle in her right hand and came across something I didn’t even know was there. A callous had formed and split without my knowledge, but consent was pointless to consider. I would have never willingly consented to the life I was leading. “Broken,” she said. “What is?” I asked, thinking she was referring to a nail. “Toe,” she replied. I motioned for her to release my foot from her grasp. I twisted it as I did when I put my orthotics on that morning, into the shape of a four. Not seeing anything, I felt for something, scaling each toe with my finger. I felt a small slit on the third toe of my left foot. I pulled my foot closer to me. She was right. It was broken. It was open. The toe was only partially connected to itself, looking as if with the slighted pull half of my toe would come off. I tried to mask my alarm. Ellen had noticed the interruption and removed her headphones for a third time.
“What’s wrong, Lorinne?” “A callous must’ve split before we came. It looks worse than it is.” “No pedicure,” the pedicurist said. “No, no, it’s fine,” I said in an attempt to diminish her discomfort. “It’s from how I walk, the way I walk,” I said pointing to my crutches. That was exactly it. It was because I walked differently. My feet landed differently, so the pressure from the weight of my body was distributed differently. The pedicurist looked over at Ellen. “I’m a nurse, it’s fine,” Ellen responded and readjusted her headphones. This is the first time her credentials might benefit me, I thought and waited. The pedicurist proceeded to continue scraping my foot with the paddle, moving to the metatarsal where the thickest callous was. That was that. * Aaron called me in January 2005, after not having talked to me for over a year. I didn’t see it coming. “Lorinne?” “Yes?” “It’s Aaron.” “Aaron—Oh, hey, Aaron, how are you? It’s so nice to hear from you!” “What’s going on?” “Oh, nothing, I’m just doing homework.” “I wanted to make sure that you hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth or anything, and I wanted to wish you a happy New Year.” “No, I haven’t fallen off and a happy New Year to you, as well. I’m glad you called, that makes me feel good.” He was calling me. I was right. He did need me. * “Thank you, Ellen, for taking me. I appreciate you making it so that I was able to finish the pedicure,” I said when we were in the car getting ready to leave. I wasn’t looking at her, but instead at my new feet. Fresh feet. Ablebodied feet. “You’re welcome, Lorinne.” “I think the last time you and I went out together without Mom and Dad was when you took me, Aaron, and Erick to get grab bags from a garage sale in your neighborhood. I didn’t get one. No sense in spending your money on a bunch of random stuff that I may or may not like,” I said, smiling at her. I should’ve stopped there. It was pointless chatter and therefore acceptable under the current
circumstances. That was the most I had said to her the whole afternoon. Maybe it was from giddiness that my feet were uncharacteristically soft and smooth. Maybe it was because I was going home, but I didn’t stop. I kept going. “That was the day Aaron helped me climb a tree.” I smiled. The day he helped me climb the tree in front of his house I wasn’t afraid. Aaron was there, right behind me, with arms out ready to catch me or grab me if I took a wrong step. He was leading me up it, higher, although he was still on the ground, with “You can do it, Lorinne! Keep going! A little higher!” Imagining his face, I clambered up the branches, smiling. I focused on how it felt to lift my legs up so high, how it felt when my knees bent, unnatural for me but somehow right. Sure. Normal. Driving along with Ellen, I wondered if Aaron led me every day after that like the day he had when I climbed the tree. I suppose he didn’t lead me on, he just made me feel normal. I mistook normalcy for love. And I overdosed on it. I wasn’t afraid among those branches—a swinger of birches—but I was now. The psychologist in the hospital told me to face my fear. But it was more complicated than that. My fear was a person, the same person who used to make my fears go away, ready to catch me even before I fell. Aaron was my fear. The counselors said to call him once I was released. They said it would help. My cordless phone was ringing. My hands were shaking more than they usually did when I was nervous. “Aaron?” I stared at the scrap of paper in front of me. I couldn’t read the impeccable handwriting I had in spite of my poor motor skills. Being sixteen turned out to be anything but sweet. There were tears in my eyes. “Yes? Who is this?” “This is Lorinne Palmer. How are you?” “Fine, Lorinne,” he said hesitating, certainly wondering why I was calling. “Uh, I just wanted you to know that I love you. I thought you deserved to know.” I needed him to take some responsibility for his part in all of this. It wasn’t just my fault that I was sick and in the hospital after taking extreme measures to take the break that I deserved from him and everything else in my life. It was his, too. He surprised me, though. “I’ve had a feeling about that for a long time. I’m flattered, I really am.” I couldn’t breathe. He had known all
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prose along, and he put me through this? Now, he really did have some fault in this. It wasn’t my bad decision, my stupendous error in judgment. He knew about my feelings, and he didn’t discourage them. “You knew? You put me in the hospital. Do you know what you’ve done?” “I thought you would thank me for helping you—for letting your parents know that you needed help.” “Thank you? Why would I thank you? What would I thank you for? Jumping to conclusions? Do you know what I’ve gone through? How people have treated me? How they’ve looked at me? My parents don’t look at me the same way. They probably never will.” “You know I care about you,” Aaron responded. “Yes.” I don’t know why I said yes. Yes, I said to the young man who told his parents, a nurse and a lawyer, that I was sick, that I needed help. His parents told my parents what he said and that he thought that I was going to hurt him. How could I hurt him? I was sixteen, but I couldn’t even drive to get to his house, since no car had been adapted with hand controls for me. “It’s not that I don’t love you. I just don’t love you like that.” “Like what?” I wanted to make him say it. “Romantically.” I loved him, but I’d read the signs wrong. He didn’t love me. “Then why do you treat me—” “I treat you like a person. That’s what you are.” “That’s a copout! A person doesn’t hold the other’s hand. A person doesn’t hug and kiss the other.” He hugged and kissed me every time I saw him. He did it with a smile, as if he wanted to. “He would if he thought they were going to make her feel better, to make her smile.” “You shut up! Do you think what you did made you the better person? It didn’t. It just made me believe that I had you.” “You do have me.” “No, I don’t, not in the way I need you. Do you not love me because I’m disabled?” “No, that isn’t the reason why.” Tears streamed down my cheeks. He had to be politically correct at a time like this. He was the only person I had ever cried for. “Don’t cry.” “Why shouldn’t I? I love you so much,
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and you’re hurting me. From the age of six I’ve wanted to marry you. I’m allowed to cry.” “I didn’t mean to. I never meant to—” “But you did. What’s done is done.” “No, hear me out. I just thought that you should be shown affection. You are loved, maybe not in the way that you would like, but you are loved by me.” “Why should you be so concerned about me?” “I’ve watched you become sadder and sadder, and I thought I could make you happy, just like I used to. I didn’t know I was the one making you this way.” “All I want to do is to love you. Is that so bad?” “No, it isn’t. But maybe instead of loving me so much, you should love me a little less and you a little more.” “You don’t think I love myself, do you?” “No. No, I don’t.” I hung up the phone. * I found myself recounting that day Aaron and I climbed trees. I told Ellen I felt active, young, able. I could feel myself smiling. I looked over at Ellen. She wasn’t smiling. On the contrary, she was visibly upset. She was screaming at me, “Get over it, Lorinne! Get over him!” I cringed. “I didn’t say anything!” I retorted, feeling my chest heave with anger. “No, you stop!” Ellen’s hands gripped the steering wheel as she looked over at me. “What? I wasn’t talking about that!” “Stop it!” Ellen screamed. “I didn’t do anything!” “Stop talking about how you feel about Aaron!” “But I wasn’t!” Riding the rest of the way home, I didn’t bother to say anymore. I imagined that Ellen’s headphones were on my head, as I attempted to block out her twenty minute tirade that only ended when she dropped me off in my driveway. I had been right all along. Something about this day would stand out. This conversation. It was almost the exact one that her son had had with me three years before. “For God’s sake, Lorinne, get over your cerebral palsy!” I remember Aaron screaming as we sat on the curb, waiting for everyone to come out for Tashlich, where we tossed sins in the form of bread crumbs at the creek behind our house, which we did at our house every Rosh Hashanah. School hadn’t started yet, so I was
still home. I had told him that I still loved him, that I hadn’t stopped. I just didn’t talk about it with anyone since I had been sick. But now I was talking to him. We were all about to absolve our sins by throwing bread crumbs into the ravine up the road. In spite of this show of ire, I was determined to make sure my confession wouldn’t be reduced to a piece of bread. Aaron hadn’t said the most important thing. I had finally solved the puzzle. My cerebral palsy was and had become an interchangeable term for something else: my love for him. “Get over your cerebral palsy” meant in the same breath, “Get over your love for me.” Aaron was the person who had the most power over me, but I couldn’t get over it, not even for him. And now, three years later at twentyone, a screaming Aaron was replaced with his screaming mother. I was thinking the same thing: he and it weren’t something that just could be gotten over. And I wouldn’t. Not for her. Not for Aaron. Not even for myself. * Aaron said I would lose him if I kept pulling this shit, this shit being acting as if I loved him, and I did love him, more than anyone. “I swear to God, you will lose me.” He couldn’t understand how I was able to love him. He said I didn’t know what love was. “I swear to God, you will lose me.” Impossible, I thought, I mean something to you. He said I didn’t know what love was. He said my love for him was a fantasy. He refused to acknowledge it, and as a result, he refused to validate my feelings. Impossible, I thought, I mean something to you. I was/am disabled, and I loved him, which meant that he was exalted, and he knew it. He said my love for him was a fantasy. He refused to acknowledge it, and as a result, he refused to validate my feelings. I was/am physically fucked up and that meant to him, my emotions were, too. * I had already been back from being with Ellen for over an hour when Mom knocked on my door. I knew it was her because when she knocked on my door, that was all she did. She’d enter the room and I’d be in the middle of something, most often dressing or undressing. This time, I was fully dressed, although I was still in the middle of something. I was halfway through yet another job application. I didn’t say a word but minimized the screen.
“How was it?” she asked. She was staring at my feet. They were purple again. “Fine,” I answered, doing what I always did when she was expecting a specific reaction. I feigned a smile. As Mom shut the door of my room, I wished I could’ve done the same with Aaron. I wished I could’ve shut him out. But I knew I couldn’t. Sitting there at my desk, I knew then what I had known years before. * I was/am disabled and I loved him, which meant that he was exalted, and he knew it. I was Mary Magdalene washing his feet with my hair, and he was Jesus. I was/am physically fucked up and that meant to him that my emotions were, too. He didn’t believe that I loved him, so I proved it to him. I gave him all of my writings about him from the last eleven years. He said I would lose him if I kept pulling this shit. I kept pulling that shit. I lost him. Call me a gimp; I am one. Call me a gimp; I am one. According to The Random House College Dictionary, “gimp” is a noun and its definition is “a cripple.” I am never going to have sex. There are other ways of having children now. I will remain a virgin out of fear. Just call me Mary. According to The Random House College Dictionary, “gimp” is a noun and its definition is “a cripple.” G.I.M.P: Girl Impacted Most Physically. I remain a virgin out of fear. Just call me Mary. I do not need sex. My child will break my hymen instead. I am a Girl Impacted Most Psychologically and a Girl Impacted Most by the Perceptions of others. I do not need sex. My child will break my hymen instead. I will undergo the Immaculate Conception, pure and numb. I am a Girl Impacted Most Psychologically and a Girl Impacted Most by the Perceptions of others. I am either an angel or a freak. I wish to be human. I will undergo the Immaculate Conception, pure and numb. I will grin and bear it because nobody wants me. I am either an angel or a freak. I wish to be human. I am an image shaped by pressure. I will grin and bear it because nobody wants me. My children will want me. They will love me. I am an image shaped by pressure. I have been damaged and broken. I have the scars to prove it. My children will want me. They will love me. They will see me how I should have been made originally, perfect in mind and in form. I have been damaged and broken. I have the scars to prove it. I want to be fixed, but that is impossible. There is no cure. My children will see me how I should have been made originally, perfect in mind and in form. I am a contradiction. My perception of self has been altered. I want to be fixed, but that is impossible. There is no cure. My dreams, by virtue of physical inability, I cannot achieve. I am a contradiction. My perception of self has been altered. I lost Aaron, the first person who put aside what I could not/cannot—my cerebral palsy. Call me a G.I.M.P.; I am one.
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POETRY
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Darren Demaree
REPLACING THE MONUMENT #10 The drowning mark is lowered in a landscape that has no neck above the clouds. Look! The hounds are refusing the valley. Look! The property lines are holding.
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Darren Demaree
REPLACING THE MONUMENT #11 Because I know the old tower silo was the closest thing the county line had to a penis, I mourn the jokes & the off-color of the elbow-paintings, of such good rural laughter. They were terrible jokes. They all used the same words in a different order, but there’s comfort in a predictable awfulness.
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REPLACING THE MONUMENT #12 I got back the spark without the shuffle & leap of the fire & where the fire started. My face has always felt the past long after we’d dealt with the ashes & now, now, I am warm & I don’t know why. Is this feeling what the future is?
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A.J. Huffman
MY MOTHER WROTE A NOTE ON SOME DEAD CHICKEN she left on the counter to thaw. A reminder of its fragility— even in desiccation—and that it needed a living hand to save it from rotting.
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DISSIPATED HURRICANE RAINS and horrific premenstrual cramps have me trapped in a state that is anything but sunshine. I cannot lift my head from this half-deflated pillow. I believe I have corrupted it with my misery. I am supposedly recovering from the flu, but I am far more blue than green and these white walls are taking their toll on what is left of my sanity. I wish I was as blank as their stare, but my mind echoes with reasons to retreat further into comforter’s embrace. I surrender easily, become my own white flag.
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A.J. Huffman
ONE PINK HIGHLIGHTER AND ONE GREEN SOCK is apparently all it takes to rule the world. I laugh as the baby raises both in the air, tiny arms spread in victory’s V. She parades this way, room to room, letting everyone living in her kingdom see that, clearly, she is queen.
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WATCHING THE BOATS
Gentle push
across the lake empty vessels drift away
no going
anywhere
except back
home
for either of us
now
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bios
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Darren C. Demaree is the author of five poetry collections, most recently “The Nineteen Steps Between Us” (2016, After the Pause Press). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.
A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, haiku, and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
Kelley A Pasmanick is a thirty year old woman with cerebral palsy from Atlanta, Georgia. She lives and works in Napa, California as an advocate for individuals with disabilities. Pasmanick’s work has appeared in Wordgathering, Squawk Back, Praxis Magazine, The Mighty, Loud Zoo, and The Jewish Literary Journal. She can be reached at: https://www. facebook.com/kelley.pasmanick
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. His piece: Umbrella Factory is this issue’s cover.
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STAY DRY.
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