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CO NT EN T S Prose

PHOTOGRAPHY

Kyle HEGER

Deana Collins

“Along the Way”

“All I wANT for Father’s Day is My Two Front Teeth Which Here Knocked Out in a Barroom Brawl” 9 MIKE MULVEY “BETWEENERS” 13

Poetry John Grey

24 “Eye-Witness”

25 “The Old School” “Observations On A Walk Through The Park” 26 27 “Your Representative On Earth” “From The Corpse To The Young Boy At The Wake” 28

Editor’s Note About Us Submission Guidlines Bios and Credits

5 4 6 38

UFM DECEMBER 2016, Issue 26

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UMBRELLA FACTORY WORKERS

Editor-In-Chief

Scott Laudati

“Buffalo Bones”

“He Never Was One For

Conversation” “Ruined” Bruce McRae

“Moving Target”

“Workaday Blues”

“The Volume Of Man”

“ONE DAY”

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Anthony ILacqua

30 32

Copy Editor

33 34 35 36

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 - December 2016 Welcome to Issue 26 of Umbrella Factory Magazine Here we are again at the end of another year and our last installment of 2016. As always, I’m grateful to offer another issue of our humble magazine. Aside from the other year end things we think about here at UFM, I think it’s important to note that our organization just turned seven years old this month.

This year’s Pushcart Prize nominations went to Carl Boon’s poetry “Corridors,” “The New Village Cemetery” and “The Loss of a Son” which appeared in Issue 24, June 2016. And Mark Aufiery’s short story, “The Ring” which appeared in Issue 23, March 2016. Since 2012, Umbrella Factory Magazine has participated in The Pushcart Prize by nominating one prose author and one poet annually.

Oftentimes, I’m baffled by the amount of poetry submissions we get. Sorting through submissions can be pleasurable, especially when treated with the feeling that the next great poem is just about to be read.

Without poets many, and I mean a great many, literary magazines could not continue. I suppose, in way, our poets are a big reason to continue literary endeavors. Being a small independent magazine, as we are, we love poets. In this issue, new poetry by John Grey, Scott Laudati and Bruce McRae. I am a particular fan of “From The Corpse To The Young Boy At The Wake” by John Grey.

Kyle Heger’s “All I Want for Father’s Day Is My Two Front Teeth, Which Were Knocked out in a Barroom Brawl” and Mike Mulvey’s “Betweeners,” both nonfiction, round out this issue’s content.

It isn’t often that we get to publish art in our magazine. A big part of that, of course, is that we are a literary magazine and although we accept art, art is not our primary focus. When we started UFM all those years ago, we did so knowing that it would be poets and writers keeping us going, but we wanted to include artists, musicians, filmmakers or anyone else doing something especially cool. We are pleased to introduce “Along the Way” a photography portfolio by Deana Collins. Thematically, this small six piece portfolio appeals to my aesthetic of the loneliness of being on the road. I find the composition of each photograph as well as the entire collection a mixture of silence and static, artistic beauty and negative space. Ultimately, as a writer, isn’t it the negative space that’s so attractive? What do you think? Is a picture worth a 1,000 words?

Thank for your time and consideration with Issue 26.

Read. Submit. Tell everyone you know. Stay Dry. Anthony ILacqua, worker

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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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All I WANT FOR FaTHER’S DAY IS MY TWO FRONT TEETH, WHICH WERE KNOCKED OUT IN A BARROOM BRAWL Kyle Heger

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prose Well, to tell the truth, sometimes I want more. I mean, let’s get real. Little boys might be made of snips and snails and puppydogs’ tails, but we grownup men are a bit more complicated. It takes something more substantial to keep us going.

What I really want for Father’s Day are all the things that America’s marketers say that I, as a red-white-and-blue blooded American man, want. And that’s saying a lot. Because if anybody knows what I want, it’s those guys.

But that shouldn’t come as any great surprise.

After all, that’s how they make their money: by knowing what makes their target markets tick.

I have no apologies to make for wanting so much. I’m just that kind of a guy. A guy with big appetites. Big impulses. Big dreams. Larger than life. Like Paul Bunyan. Oliver North. Or John Cena.

On the other hand, I’m also a levelheaded guy. A problem solver. Mr. Practical.

So I know that not much can go wrong if I trust in America’s marketers. By putting myself in their hands, I’ll be a team player, conform to expectation, comply with the system, do my part as a consumer to keep our economy strong here in the land of the free and the home of the brave. I have confidence that they’ll do right by me.

Patience has never been my strong suit.

I’m more of the shoot-now-and-ask-questionslater type. So, to get an idea of what kind of gifts I can expect this upcoming Father’s Day, I did a little checking on the Internet. And, boy, oh, boy: I was not disappointed with what I found. Here’s a heads-up for all of you who will want to recognize me on this special day.

First Things First: Getting the Greeting Cards out of the Way Everybody knows that greeting cards come before gifts proper. Like Cheetos come before pizza. Yes, all that sentiment and communication can be boring. But it’s tradition.

And, though I’m more than a bit of a rebel, I’m also all for order. Like any good soldier, I know when it’s time to snap to attention and salute.

With that in mind, my first stop was at some

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Ecard vendors.

Hallmark, the gold-standard in greeting cards, will serve as an example of the best of what’s out there with its Father’s Day Ecard page. You won’t go wrong giving me one of their cards featuring Indiana Jones and his father. I fancy myself a bit of a rascally action hero, somewhere between John McClane of Die Hard fame and Marvel Comics’ Wolverine.

I also get a kick out of Hallmark cards with Star Wars characters, including one with iconic father figure Darth Vader himself and the inspiring words, “Dads have the answer.”

I mean, sure, he was a tyrant and a murderer who cut off his son’s hand while attempting to kill him. But you have to admit he had charisma. And he was damned good with a light saber. There are worse role models: pacifists, socialists, secular humanists.

And you’ll be on the safe side picking one of Hallmark’s cards featuring superheroes, muscle cars, beer bottles, a hammer, nails and plenty of fishing scenes. It’s nice to know that even in the midst of chaotic social changes, there’s someone out there who knows that the foundations of fatherhood remain the same: fast driving, hard drinking, home repairs and sports.

America still has a chance of staying true to the roots that made it great.

Shopping for Happiness in All the Right Places After that bit of business was out of the way, I was free to take the bull by the horns.

So I tracked down some of our country’s most beloved purveyors of consumer goods to see what they had in store for us men folk on our special day.

Target didn’t let me down. They never do. Their web site shows that they still know what I want. They had me hooked from their eye-catching “King of the Grill” tee-shirt right on through the mouthwatering book ManBque: Meat, Beer and Rock and Roll. Just reading the title makes me feel like a five-alarm belch is on its way.

These savvy retailers don’t stop with just selling equipment for traditional forms of manly recreation such as horseshoes and golf.

They prove that they have their feet planted squarely in the new millennium by highlighting electronic media. They offer wide-screen TVs, the classic laugh-till-you-puke comedy, Ferris Buehler’s Day Off and the inspiring death orgy of Frank Miller’s 300.

In addition, Target also has the X-box games Madden NFL 25 and NBA 2k14 9 (because men never get enough of throwing, catching, kicking and bouncing balls, even if it’s only on a computer screen). And my current favorite, Titanfall. Now that’s what I’m talking about! If fighting a war in the near-future as either an elite pilot or a huge, heavily armored “titan” doesn’t bring out the father in me, nothing will.

Good old Walmart doesn’t specify exact items for Father’s Day. But they do lay out some general categories under the Father’s Day umbrella, showing that their heads are still screwed on straight. Under the DIY Dad section, they have subsections on tools, auto gifts, outdoor power equipment and grills.

So far so good. In their electronics section, they offer TVs, phones, video games, laptop computers. Still batting a hundred.

To Walmart’s credit, some categories are conspicuous by their absence. You sure won’t see categories such as “housekeeping,” “lowfat cooking,” “jazz,” “literature,” “yoga” or “parenting.” Everybody in his right mind knows that great fathers aren’t made, they’re born.

Either you’ve got the gift of knowing how to toss the old pigskin around in the backyard with your boys or you haven’t.

And in a section called “Sporty Dad,” Walmart not only has subsections on fishing, camping and fitness but also has the gumption to include one of fatherhood’s most defining pastimes (and rites of passage): hunting. It’s going to take a lot more than a bunch of vegans, animal rights-activists, environmentalists and gun-control advocates to stop us dads from slaughtering animals. And loving every minute of it. Hunting’s in our blood. Leave it to good old Walmart to stand firmly beside us on this.

Big-Buck Gifts for Your Favorite Big Buck

Next, I wanted to see what guys with loved ones who have more disposable income than mine do can expect for Father’s Day. I sure got an eyeful at the Sharper Image website’s list of Father’s Day gift suggestions.

Where else, outside of the IMAX version of Top Gun could you see such enticing forms of flying fun? They have a Video Chopper, a motion-controlled RC helicopter, and even a Football Helmet Copter described as “the high-flying way to show your team pride.”

Their engineers must be real Brainiacs. These little whirly birds even come equipped with a “built-in projector to beam your team’s logo onto the wall!” Sometimes it seems that life just can’t get any better.

But the high-flying good times don’t end there for Dad. Not when Sharper Image has so many ways to scratch his drone itch: from the relatively simple video camera drone, video camera drone with LED, and video drones with real-time display, to the more sophisticated Steady-Cam Professional HD Video Drone and the Quad Smart Drone. It’s just too bad these flying beauties have to stop with taking videos instead of actually being able to drop a payload, so I could see a little bug-splat action like those lucky devils who operate the real things in Afghanistan get to witness.

I don’t imagine that anyone who is going to buy me Father’s Day presents can afford to get me one of these gizmos. But if they could … wow, that would make my day! Imagine how high I could rise in the neighborhood-watch organization if I was able to track suspicious characters with my very own eyes in the skies. I could sure put one of these to good use the next time some punk kid has the gall to come prowling through my gated community on the way back home from a convenience store wearing a hoodie and carrying candy.

The good folks at Sharper Image know the playbook of my heart by heart. They know that I want not only to play sports, but to excel at them, to be the best that gadgets can make me. Thus they sell golf swing training aids, golf shoe bags, golf club organizers, clip-on golf

accessories, LED golf balls, US golf course travel maps, hybrid golf watches, electronic return putting mats and home golf training systems.

Of course, my sporting ambitions don’t begin and end with golf. So the company also offers Zepp Tennis Swing Analyzers and Zepp Baseball and Softball Swing Analyzers. And the company realizes that my love of sports extends well beyond active participation to include the wonderful world of fandom. To empower me to improve my tail gate parties, they sell MegaCan Sports Coolers to hold plenty of beer cans.

These beauties come in NFL, NBA, MLB and college team designs.

To help me show my team spirit from the comfort and safety of home and in my dayto-day life, they sell: Washington Post baseball books, MLB ballpark maps, MLB money-clip wallets, 3-D football stadium replicas and even a Yankees World Series Display, which they describe as a “framed collection of replica tickets commemorating the unsurpassed 27 World Series won by the New York Yankees.”

Gosh, owning something like that would be the next best thing to actually participating in history.

As everybody knows, some of the best man games take place up close and personal in recreation rooms. So Sharper Image is smart enough to sell 2-person basketball sets, Foosball coffee tables, 2-in-1 flip-top game tables, PacMan’s Arcade Party, Pac-Man’s Arcade Party Cocktail Tables, Dead-Heat arcade games, and Deadstorm Pirates video arcade games. Put me down for one of the latter. If I’m gonna wish, I might as well wish big. Anything with the word “Dead” in it has got to be cool. I’ll be a natural when it comes to piloting a pirate ship with one hand and shooting down enemies with the other.

After all, I’ve got years of suburban rush-hour commuting under my belt. I’m a cinch for the much-coveted yo-ho-ho rating And, of course, nothing barks out, “Man up” better than a good dose of blood-letting. So Sharper Image sells A Time of War 50-DVD sets and WWII: The Ultimate DVD Collection. Let the good times roll. Just like a tank over enemy

territory.

These folks know my love of cooking starts and stops with BBQ grills, the modern equivalent of the caveman’s bonfire. These high-end merchants provide such man candy as: digital BBQ forks, digital BBQ and kitchen thermometers, stainless steel steam-cleaning grill brushes, cordless BBQ thermometer spatulas, BBQ grill lights and fans, automatic BBQ grill cleaning robots, Grillight BBQ gift sets, personalized grillmasters aprons (prepare for some gut-busting laughs), personalized BBQ mats (equally big laughs), 3-in-1 BBQ tools, 6-in-1 BBQ grill tool sets and even 24-piece BBQ tool sets. Talk about pushing the envelope!

And they have something to please two-fisted drinkers like me, from those devoted to beer and wine up to those with a hankering after the harder stuff: craft home beer brewing systems, beer tasting guides, mini keg coolers with taps, double-walled beer glasses, stainless steel beer mugs, wine carriers, LED illuminated bar caddies, executive whiskey glasses, and wall mounted liquor dispensers. Here’s mud in your eye, Pardner! Let’s take bets on who can drink who under the table. But I’ve gotta warn you: I’ve already made one hell of a head start.

Not ones to look down their noses at another time-honored masculine vice, the aficionados at Sharper Image offer double cigar holders and flasks, 3-cigar holders with cutters, 5-in-1 cigar tools, various humidors, cigar cutters and crystal cigar ashtrays. It gives me hope that someday they will even hearken back to the glory days of manhood by offering up the much missed, good old-fashioned cuspidor.

Ping! Nailed it at 20 yards! They sure beat the hell out of the rusty old coffee can I’ve been using to spit out my wads of Skoal.

A Cave for Every Man and a Man in Every Cave Of course not everybody can afford such costly items. Fortunately, thousands of rip-roaring gifts for men are but a simple Yahoo search away. For instance, by typing in “catalogs for men” on this search engine,

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I found a result called “gifts for men” that, in turn, lead to a website called Catalogs.com and a page titled Gadgets and Guy Stuff.

Heh. heh. They had me at “Gadgets.”

Options there include such meaty finds as Sporty’s Tool Shed, Shop Knuckleheads (all about The Three Stooges), Pool Dawg (about billiards), Spy Museum Store and Air Rattle (about Airsoft guns). Heady stuff. I knew I’d come to the right spot.

Best of all, they have a catalog called Knife Cave chock full of affordable items such as a V-42 fighting stiletto, throwing stars and blow guns. I couldn’t have found this at a better time because, somehow, I’ve managed to misplace my blow guns and could sure use some new ones.

They also offer a Maxam stun gun, handcuffs, various batons and a selection of concealed weapons, including belt-buckle knives and ink-pen knives. You never know when you’re going to need to slip somebody some cold steel on the sly.

Some of my personal favorites are the Cold Steel Urban Pal with Black Rubber Handles, the Black Hawk Serpa Holster for Glock, and Scorpion Knuckles Burgundy. Hint.

Hint. My old brass knuckles are falling apart, and they’re just plain brass colored. I could sure use an upgrade to something like that sweet little burgundy Scorpion number.

I hate to be a complainer. However, I can’t help pointing out how disappointed I was that I didn’t see any monogrammed blackjacks listed. Or any blackjacks at all, if you can believe that. But maybe I just missed seeing them under another name, such as “saps.”

The site helpfully lists themes by which

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shoppers can search for products, including: dragons, skulls, pirates, spiders, scorpions, serpents, ninja, samurai and the ever-popular catch-all category of “German.” It reads like a who’s-who list of guy fetishes.

It’s just a hop, pounce and jump from the Knife Cave to the holy grail of Father’s Day gift seekers: a magnificent site called Man Cave.

The term “Man Cave” was popularized

by John Gray in his groundbreaking book, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. For those of you who need a reminder of what it means, the site provides this description: “A Man Cave is created by ‘the man of the house. . .’ Man Caves are often used for spending time alone or socializing with other male friends.

And yes, even women and children are allowed in as long as they remember who is ‘King’ of the castle. Particular events that take place in a Man Cave include: watching sporting events, getting together to talk, playing poker or billiards, beer or wine tasting …

“The Man Cave is a reflection of its owner. … His interests and passions are on display for everyone to see. Some themed Man Cave ideas include: The Las Vegas Casino Man Cave, the NFL Man Cave, The Classic Car Man Cave … the Cigar Lounge Man Cave.”

This place is the bomb. If it belongs in a Man Cave, you’ll find it here. When I found this site, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven, where I could luxuriate in the true spirit of Father’s Day. In the end, it turns out that guys who get gifts from Sharper Image aren’t all that different from those who receive the bounty of the Knife Cave and the Man Cave.

As fathers, we’re all men. We work hard, and we play hard. We drink hard, and we eat hard. We BBQ hard, and we even swing around in our hammocks hard.

Back to the Tusks Sure, I want all the great stuff featured on these websites. I lose sleep at night, drooling over it.

But, when push comes to shove, I’m nothing if not a hardscrabble, bare knuckled realist, so I’ll take what I can get. I’ll stand by the title to this thing—All I Really Want for Father’s Day Is My Two Front Teeth—with one slight amendment: I’ll settle for my two front teeth for Father’s Day, if that’s the best deal I can get.

But not just any old teeth. Oh, no.

I won’t settle quite that easily. I may be a practitioner of realpolitik, but that doesn’t make me a pushover. Not me.

These tusks must be realistic reproductions of General George Patton’s teeth (or, in a pinch, General Eisenhower’s). One of them must come equipped with a little tracking device so that, in case my dare-devil lifestyle gets me kidnapped by eco-terrorists, atheists or illegal immigrants, members of my man pack can locate me, come swooping down out of the hills in full throat, lay waste to my jailers and free me.

The other tooth must have an easily employed cyanide capsule in it. Because I never know when I’m going to be called upon to make the ultimate gesture of self-sacrifice.

We heroes are like that. And heroism is what Father’s Day is all about.

BETWEENERS Mike Mulvey

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prose Recently detached and living in a complex of efficiencies and condos on the edge of town, I’m renting an efficiency: living room, kitchenette, bathroom, closet—stains in the carpet, stains on the walls. Desiccated fly between the window and screen. My life in storage boxes stacked in a corner.

Four floors of box-like apartments with paperthin walls, peopled, I’m guessing, by a medley of itinerants like me, somewhere in life between point A and point B—I could be wrong, though.

I hardly know these people, if at all.

Never met him, the tenant next door. Quiet, for the most part. Just quietly disappears one day.

Leaves behind an assortment of empty coat hangers and a day planner still in its shrinkwrap.

The guy on the other side, he lives loud— especially when he’s “entertaining.” Never met him either, but from his music, I’m guessing he’s from somewhere down south. Luckily, he’s not around that often. Drives that semi, I bet.

The one parked the next lot over—that would explain the long gaps between periods of living loud.

Don’t know him, really, the guy downstairs.

Met at the mailbox a couple of times—traded small smiles and quick nods. Seems like a nice guy. Graying, older—quiet, for the most part.

But I can hear him, on Saturday nights, mostly, leading a small prayer group. Like monks, they chant the Rosary—Hail Mary’s, Our Fathers, and other rhythmic incantations I only vaguely remember. I used to know them all—by heart.

The prayers drilled into me by the nuns at Saint Anthony’s.

I often hear her, the woman upstairs. On Saturday nights, mostly, when she’s entertaining a guest. The two, this woman and her guest, trade small talk—over drinks, most likely. I only catch a line here and there, especially if I’m watching TV. Some nights the small talk dies and the entertaining goes horizontal. I can

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tell by the sounds of a rhythmic coupling—of needs and desires. Most nights, though, I hear NPR, softly, through the ceiling.

I’ve met her, the woman upstairs. Tess is her name. Young, sweet, soft-spoken—filled with as yet uncrushed innocence and ideals. Tells me she’s a service rep—“at The Travelers,” she says. “Insurance,” she adds. Tess from The Travelers.

She smiles when I borrow her iron. Asks if I’d like a glass of wine.

“Thanks,” I reply. “Maybe next time.” I know where that wine will lead, most likely-unwanted complications. I don’t need the noise right now.

“Sure,” she says, smiling—with disappointed eyes. “Maybe next time.”

Loves music, she tells me a few nights later, when I return her iron. Brahms and Bartok are favorites, she says. “But my tastes are eclectic,” she adds. “I’ll listen to most anything, as long as it’s soft and soothing”—I have that glass of wine.

It’s late. I’m nursing a beer and watching Love Boat re-runs. Stacks of Bluebook midterms patiently await grades. The Love Boat—a floating, R-rated Disneyworld, filled with jaded betweeners, cruising from Port A to Port B. Pouty young things in bikinis pose by the pool, complaining about inattentive boyfriends.

Perfectly-coiffed and bejeweled older women complain about inattentive husbands—only Isaac the bartender seems truly happy.

Downstairs, the incantations begin:

“Hail Mary, full of grace . . . “ I turn up the volume on my TV. A smiling Captain Stubing bows slightly as he greets the ladies on the Lido deck.

“. . . the Lord is with thee . . .”

It’s quiet upstairs—maybe she’s out. Tess is her name. Tess from The Travelers. Then I hear her door, then music, followed too soon by the carnal coming-together of host and guest—not

much small talk tonight. Amorous antiphony.

Andante.

.”. . . blessed art thou among women . . . “ Muted murmurings “sighed upon a midnight pillow” from above.

“ . . . and blessed is the fruit of thy womb . . . “ I turn up the volume on my TV again, open another beer—glance at the Bluebook midterms.

Julie, cruise director on The Love Boat, soothes a pouting passenger. “ . . . pray for us sinners . . .”

I turn off the TV and turn on my stereo—can’t find my headphones. Probably in one of the boxes stacked in the corner.

“ . . . now and at the hour of our death . . . “ Maybe I should head out. The Marriot? Exit 6 off Route 7. Soft jazz and chilled Appletini’s—wall-to-wall suits and secretaries.

Jeremiah’s on South Main? Jim Beam and Carrie Underwood—townies with tats.

La Boca on the Boulevard? Cervezas and Corridos—the Love Boat on shore leave.

Whispered promises and breathless cries of ecstasy from above.

The tempo moves from andante to allegro.

A crescendo, then, suddenly, a coda—to the coupling and the chanting.

“ . . . Amen.”

Lonely strains of Mahler’s Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen, softly from above.

I turn off the stereo, shower, throw on a clean shirt, a jacket, and leave.

I don’t know him, the guy in the elevator.

Flushed, disheveled, he straightens his tie, runs a hand through his damp hair. He looks at me, smirks, gives me a knowing nod—this guy in the elevator.

I’ll pray for her. The woman upstairs—Tess is her name. Tess from The Travelers.

PHOTOGRAPHY

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“Along The Way” Earlier this year I took a road trip through a few select cities along the southern United States.

I didn’t really know what to expect beyond the hearsay, but was eager to check it out. In the beginning I was most concerned with visiting historical sites, however I soon became acquainted with the alluring peripheral landscapes.

-Deana Collins

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POETRY

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John Grey

EYE-WITNESS one night,

smarter than a Rhodes Scholar,

but it was captured

some guy’s dragged

a film is shot

by someone looking

from his car by five or six brutes

of one boot

out his window –

who slam him down,

cracking the side of a head

start punching and kicking his body

and heavy pine slammed down hard

it’ll be something to download

in a thousand different places –

on a spine,

like the birth of his first child -

while a desperate scream

to file under “didn’t make it”

loses itself in the melee -

or those not named Nathaniel Charles.

it’s one poor soul, face down on the sidewalk. as out come the baseball bats

these men are all over their victim

and crowbars

like a crazed wildebeest herd,

as if fists and feet just aren’t enough -

making sure, to the last thump

he tries to rise, blood rushes to his eyes, then they’re at him again, whacking and thumping until he falls for good this time on a phone

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issue26 UFM

to his side, that there’s no place left in his body for life to run to -

THE OLD SCHOOL What did they find when they dug up the floorboards of the old high school

I’m a little in awe.

but promiscuity, adultery,

Heaped in a pile below my junior year

and even a pregnancy or two.

are blackboards, dusters, wife-beaters, drug abuse and incest.

In the old store-room, besides filthy couches and broken chairs, there were twenty bullies, a hundred wimps,

A globe drops from a high place explodes into splinters of Europe, Africa, racism and dread.

and even two suicides.

They’re going to tear the whole place down

Mice sure but also sadism.

and there’s not much to salvage.

And stagnant air to preserve the lot of them.

The old library bookshelf might have some use but the soap opera?

From the gym, men haul battered equipment.

Did interstate abortions and drinking sprees really stumble off that wretched pommel horse?

And look at that greasy mat.

The brand spanking new high school opens in September.

And it is September.

So let the spanking begin!

You could write your name with one finger in all those alcoholics.

UFM

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John Grey

OBSERVATIONS ON A WALK THROUGH THE PARK You pretty woman,

To you two,

I would buy you pretty baubles

twins are you,

if I could.

you do look so peaceful

Your neck would be a pleasure in gold.

seated together on the grass, reading books and catching sunrays.

And you, shy eyes.

You obviously prefer bliss

It’s okay.

to whatever else there is in life.

You don’t die for many years yet.

And when you do,

Yes, my lady,

it’s closer to being your preference

your attire is fashionable.

than you can imagine now.

I could probably pick you out in a crowd of a million

If life was fair, mademoiselle,

if that’s any help.

you would be known the world over

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issue26 UFM

for your legs.

All of you in fact

And my friend,

attract me in some way,

who looks so abandoned,

oblivious to you,

you are really a temple.

beneficial to me

Believe me,

And I do not form

the prayers to come

these opinions in haste,

will not all be your own.

only in a heart-beat.

YOUR REPRESENTATIVE ON EARTH I spoke of you again tonight though you’ve been gone ten years.

People asked so I responded, recounted the details of your life as I remembered them.

I brought back to life the nurse patrolling the wards of the house. the games-master of the backyard, the waiter delivering Chinese takeout to our kitchen table.

And then there was the adventurer of course white water, rock climbing, and ascender of trees from oak to palm and any waterfall short of Niagara.

I said your name plainly, clearly, to all who were in attendance.

I no doubt made you into some kind of superman but sometimes the dead must be that way just to maintain the connection.

There were laughs for your clown guise.

And a tear or two for your grim portrayal of the dying man.

But, overall, I reckon I did you justice.

The rest is up to you.

UFM

issue26 / 27

John Grey

FROM THE CORPSE TO THE YOUNG BOY AT THE WAKE You’re not dead.

I’m the one being

And this is not a room

So stand up.

fitted for burial.

to be seen alive in.

Go to the window.

I’m no more, no less,

It’s merely an annex

Look up at that

than the contents of a coffin.

to a graveyard.

chancel of a sky.

The sun is at high noon.

Go outside.

Feel the warm in the air.

How it softly remonstrates with the cool breeze.

And the grass of course, soft enough for your toes to eat.

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issue26 UFM

I couldn’t breathe even if I had the recipe.

Like I said, it’s your noon.

Sample its pleasures.

It’s hoary old midnight for me.

Please don’t despair.

And wipe that stupid sorrow out of your eyes.

Go away from here.

Have a good time.

You don’t have to justify yourself with me.

And forget about paying your respects.

There’s nobody at the register.

Scott Laudati

BUFFALO BONES an unsmoked cigarette burns for thirteen minutes without a drag, and since you’re all grown up now there must be a wedding day. the town will throw you a parade, rope off the streets where tanks have rolled and armies marched and teenagers did the honey pokey. they’ll re-introduce you to the man who baptized you, he says the “our father” often but he doesn’t look familiar

the blimp banner clocks the national debt

pull out the old box of maps

but nothing about all the i.o.u.’s

from under your bed.

for last months rent,

you get your revolver loaded and pick a direction,

or how fast cigarettes burn

a spot on the map you’ve never been before.

as you sit around counting hours.

hitchhike to the dakotas

an arc of time is never real until

where the weather’s colder.

your lover pulls the joker,

where strangers with no faces

you're all in, full ante,

stand over your shoulders

and one hand later

counting pages in your notebook.

the game is over.

the wolves run free,

you knew it then.

no swings in the park.

they lied to you but that’s ok.

maybe the buffalo jumped the cliff for fun,

it just hurts real bad

left their bleached white skulls in the pits

when the rules change

looking up.

and your professors

they’re hidden until the thaw.

still want the homework.

that’s when you’ll find them grinning

it’s never christmas anymore

with the spring bloom.

just exit polls and prom kings

don’t worry, eventually we all shiver in the sun

UFM

issue26 / 29

Scott Laudati

HE WAS NEVER ONE FOR CONVERSATION he was straight edge until twenty one and six months later they found him in his backseat. od’d for the second time my best friend but he wouldn’t die even though they seem to so easily now. he tried. he kept his demons close and just as his eyes started to shut out the light they would step in. no retreat for my friend. they wanted just enough of him alive to keep feeding it was his birthday i remember that we got him to drink. twenty one years and we undid it with a bottle of johnny double black. i was always one of those who could do the line,

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issue26 UFM

smoke the pack, and then wake up with nothing in my head telling me - just one more. but i never had any trouble with living, and i think that’s more rare than a kid twenty one who’s never touched booze and six months later i was on line with a couple dozen black mothers and their kids, waiting to see those that hadn’t done any worse than anyone else, but in a country that makes everyone a criminal we were waiting to see the ones who got caught the guards pushed mothers, called little kids “animals” right to their mother’s faces, and when they got to methe only white kid in line, everyone

just looked confused. i was a part of their world now and neither team wanted me my friend had followed the junkie script. he robbed his brother’s kids and pawned all of their toys. and so dope sick with nowhere to find help he went right to the corner, right for the needle i don’t know what his mother’s face looked like when she found him full of puke or when she sent him to jail but i remember my mother’s face the first time the world made me cry, when she realized she couldn’t save me anymore. it probably looked something like that

it was my turn eventually and i got to see my friend. he was a man now, heavy from the weights and the bologna sandwiches and blue milk. and so pale. the same dull color of the walls he now called home the phones were broken so we had to bend over and talk through a little slit in the glass. i couldn’t really hear him but his skin was so pale and he said more than anything, his loss of respect and freedom, they took the sun from him. he said that’s what life needs and even if he couldn’t change who he’d been at least under the sun he could grow and maybe someday bloom

i walked out of prison and touched every tree and thought about the signs and the bad moons and my friend who went to sleep and came back under the same fluorescent lights. the squirrels the car horns the mail man. it was like staring at a diseased mirage. but they were free to be nothing. so i stared and i was grateful

UFM

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Scott Laudati

RUINED it was one of a kind i thought back then, and it happened just in time. i didn’t turn out like the other’s who missed out on a young love and spend their 20’s obsessed with finding it. i knew it existed and i knew i didn’t want any part of it you did it to me and i didn’t understand until years later how much i owed you for this lesson we took long walks at night around our town. looking in windows at wagging dogs and lizards under lamps. and i knew that those lizards dreamt of more heat and in those long winter nights so did i. i dreamt of your heat under clothes, under red hair and pink skin, under blankets i felt so trapped with all that heat but i never took the blankets off.

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issue26 UFM

it was your heat. i wanted it to suffocate me and one morning we both woke to a song bird sitting on your father’s flag pole. “it’s looking for a lover”, you said. and i knew i’d found mine so i said that. i said i love you. and you weren’t as sure as me, but you said it anyway. we stopped those nighttime walks when we became a couple. we caught up on every season of every show. and at night i didn’t sleep quite so close because i had you now, i didn’t need to suffocate anymore and one afternoon when your parents were gone we sat on your roof and smoked our last joint. it just wasn’t fun anymore. we’d taken the dream

and made it ordinary. “we had it all”, you said, “and then we had to ruin it by falling in love”. we had it all and we made one mistake. we could’ve lived in a time suspended. the weightless. the warmth. but then we fell in love and time started moving again

Bruce McRae

MOVING TARGET I think you’ll find I’m wearing a peanut costume.

I think you’ll find me in the interstellar chicken coop.

That I’m the cloven-footed boy declaring himself to be Pan or a dud bomb or I’m struggling with a flashlight.

I’m like a punch in the lamb or golf cart’s battery.

I have charcoal incisors.

Stare, bloody ingrate, look hard and you’ll see a man with a mouthful of trash cans and trees.

You’ll find me in the theatre of fits, in the outhouse sewing bees, openly debating alien largesse.

As if a blind man who doesn’t like what he sees, you’ll find I’m actually two princes buried under the stairs.

That I’m a misplaced government document.

A fractal in the cinema of the damned.

UFM

issue26 / 33

Bruce McRae

WORKADAY BLUES A woman so tired her molecules are clinking.

A man sitting on the end of his bed, something coming, something going.

Distraction and dissolution applying themselves, so we’re either giving up or giving in, atmospheric pressure and gravity combining talents, bones splintering, musculature compromised, life made worse with improper footwear, life a gamble, banquet, cabaret; one damned thing after another, as one disgruntled customer previously offered, the mad with too much time to fill or kill, the rebellious wearied beyond contempt, the work-shy the legislators of the masses.

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issue26 UFM

THE VOLUME OF MAN My body is filled with dovecotes and spoons.

I contain geraniums and warheads.

Sloshing about inside me are clouds and ditches.

There’s peculiar scenery and savage imagery.

Instead of a heart, a Roman catapult.

Instead of lungs, galloping palominos.

There’s a highway inside me that’s going nowhere.

It’s just below the surface, a sub-molecular reality, and very earthy it is too, very meaty.

And often I walk this road alone, cutting a forlorn figure, I imagine.

In a single sentence we approach ourselves.

We meet, exchange pleasantries, and are soon parted; gladly relieved of our beautiful burden.

UFM

issue26 / 35

Bruce McRae

ONE DAY One day nothing remarkable occurred.

No rivers ran red or economies collapsed.

Not a single sparrow seemed out of place, the sky still blatantly apparent, some rather ordinary clouds banking in ranks, the black-eyed mouse in its usual kitchen.

People prayed for a good harvest, naturally, or for salvation, or for Jenny’s sore to heal – as they had since time first began its long slide towards oblivion.

Women still looked at their men and wondered whatever had become of them, entropy’s sleeve continuing to unravel.

And then one day even that didn’t happen.

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issue26 UFM

bios

UFM

issue26 / 37

Deana Collins is a photographer living in San Francisco, CA. She has been using an analog camera and printing in the darkroom since 2008. Most recently she has been working on several documentary projects in numerous cities.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big

Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.

Kyle Heger , former managing editor of Communication World magazine, lives in Albany, CA, with his wife and three

sons. His writing has won a number of awards and been accepted by 43 publications, including Blue Collar Review, Nerve Cowboy and U.S. 1 Worksheets.

Scott Laudati lives in NYC. He is the author of Hawaiian Shirts In The Electric Chair (Kuboa Press). Visit him on instagram @scottlaudati

Bruce McRae a Canadian musician, is a Pushcart nominee with over a thousand poems published internationally

in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His latest book out now, ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’ is available on Amazon and through Cawing Crow Press, while in September of this year, another book of poems, ‘Like As If’, will be published by Pskis Porch. His poems on video can be viewed on YouTube’s ‘BruceMcRaePoetry’

Mike Mulvey is an adjunct instructor of American Literature at Central Connecticut State University, has an MFA, and has had over two dozen short stories published in lit mags and journals such as War, Literature and the Arts, Johnny America, Prole (UK), Literary Orphans, Roadside Fiction (Ireland), and Umbrella Factory Magazine. In 2013 he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He lost.

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 pieces: Rubber Band Factory (on orange) is this issue’s front cover and Rubber Band Factory (on green)is on back.

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issue26 UFM

STAY DRY.

UFM

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