Brushfire Issue #57

brushďŹ re literary arts journal

brushfire edition fifty-seven

fall 2005 - spring 2006

valen alexis hernandez ..................................... editor lark anderson ................................................... assistant editor

Published by the Associated Students of the University of Nevada, Reno.

Opinions expressed are not necessarily those of ASUN or the faculty, staff, or administration of the University of Nevada, Reno.

Copyright © 2006 Brushfire and the individual contributors All rights are reserved by the authors and artists.

Cover design by Valen Alexis Hernandez Layout by Valen Alexis Hernandez and Lark Anderson Printed in Reno, Nevada by A. Carlisle Printers Set in Perpetua

contents shane kurr

.........................................07

leah madison

.........................................11

brian porray

.........................................14

autumn spencer

.........................................14

matthew cox

.........................................15

je alessandrelli

.........................................17

ashie k. waaraich

.........................................21

michael thomas

.........................................22

nina bentel

.........................................31

katie dunlap

.........................................31

anthony alston

.........................................32

steven x. berg

.........................................37

aubrey o’connor

.........................................47

grigory lukin

.........................................48

frances arnold shaw

.........................................49

sandra beckerman

.........................................50

craig kolvet

.........................................51

carla wheeler

.........................................55

rebekah sharpe

.........................................56

kelly bridegum

.........................................57

carolyn bautista

.........................................59

noah bessette

.........................................60

scooby meredith

.........................................60

lark anderson

.........................................61

amber sobrio

.........................................66

brianna thompson

.........................................69

jason ross

.........................................72

jennifer monzon

.........................................73

jex lawrence

.........................................76

stephanie dixon

.........................................78

andrea ďŹ elds

.........................................78

erin granat

.........................................79

mackenzie leighton

.........................................81

danyelle overbo

.........................................82

april m. mayabb

.........................................86

paul saucier

.........................................89

patsy lee hardin

.........................................96

ray hardin

.........................................97

wes hoskins

.........................................98

greg nielsen

.........................................99

submission info

.......................................100

shane kurr

the girl i adore so she’s beautiful from head to toes, inside to the out, and i’d be content only if shetookmysoultoshowmewhatlove’sabout;atearfellfromheaventoearth and met elements of hell, to bloom to make the interior as perfect as the shell; she’sappreciativeoftheart,andnotonetostart,confrontationandshedoesn’t wantwaroh,howiadore;theintellectofthesubjectandihopeshe’llacceptmy invitationtomytrainofthought,andi’llacceptherguidancetothehappinessi’ve alwayssought…;sohereiamconfusedbythefacethatcouldsetsailathousand ships,strengthenedwitharingthatencirclesherlowerlip;dostthouknowhow theeaffectsi?herfaceshinesherradiancepushesAphroditeaside;nowiremember when she walked with me in the rain back to my car, she must have been crazytogowithmealoneinthedark,andimustbeinsanetobelieveshe’dwant me from the start; so i remember how it rained when we said goodbye, and a feelofregretslowlyconsumedmymind,asiwatchedheropenthedoorandgo, thinkingishouldhavetriedtokissbutmissedmychancewhileiwatchherwalk away slow….; i was up all night and she was the only one on my mind, she’s the muse inspiring me in her absence to write these lines; all i want is a sign of sure reciprocation for the way i feel, i thought she smiled when she read the part of thenightbeforetoday’sdeal;couldhavebeenanillusionasiwasblindedbyher beauty,becausetruewonderslikeherarenewtome;ifonlyihadthegalltocall andsay“ilikeyouandiwantyourlipstomeetmine,becauseicanfindnofaceas gloriousasthine”;iwatchedherwalkawayagaintonightafteragentleembrace, and the rain fell once again as i last saw her face, and i made the same mistake as the night before, and i feel regret again for not being able to kiss the girl i adore… brushfire

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heART on display i’msittingherebleedingthewordsthatmakemegosane/theonlywayiknow howtoexpresstheimpatienceandthepain/mypenismybladeandeverylinei writeisanotherslashonthewrist/emokidsthatcutforrealdon’thavethelists, ofhardshipbrokenhomeexperiencethatmakesmeapoetsayingwhatigottasay just to get away from my past/ if i really tried to bleed, i know it wouldn’t last/ becausemyheart’sbeenbrokenanddriedupaboutfiveandahalftimes/isay halfbecauseoftheonegirlwhosebeautyandmindinspiredmetowriteinnumerablelines/shegottiedupwithactivityeventhoughsheclaimstohaveliked me/ then broke it off with little or no reason just to make another event that defines me/ enough with that, enough bullshit out the ballpoints/ i’d love to forgethalfwhatirememberbutireallyain’tgotachoice/whichisfinebecause my therapy helps to murder the time/ like others in the fashion of rhyme/ my blank verse rap sheet music/ it’s the fake curse that beats me when i use it/ in elementaryschooliwasspecialed,twoyearslaterlabeledgifted/8yearslater how the years shifted/ me from what i was to what my words have become/ i wanna know, how come/ the randomness of what i write doesn’t cause my intelligencetotakeflight/thecurseiturnedtoagiftnowshapesmylife/wheni grow old and get one, i guarantee you’ll pity my wife...... this isn’t just my art, this is more, this my heart and it lies here open and bare, so listen in, and when you do, i know my face may be ugly, but try not to stare...... doyoulikewhathappenswhenmypenmeetsthelooseleaf?/andireadandperfectandmemorizetheinkonthesheet/whenireciteandadlibthewordsthat tell the tell-tale heartfelt story of my so-called life/ because i hate this, at least, thecurseofaperfectionist/everythingmustbeperfectformyalteregolyricist/ i carry a pen and a felt tip at all times/ no matter where i am i can translate my lunacytolines/mylunacyismypersonaandsheneedsfixmypsyche/dothese songshelpthefactthatgirlsstilldon’tlikeme?/butit’salrightbecauseitcanno longerfazeme/igetrejectedbytheignorantgirlsonthedaily/idon’twritethis tohaveitsoundgood/iwriteittoconveythecontentsthewayiknowitshould/ my paper is my therapist and i can’t help but babble on and on/ was stuck in vegas, they called it paradise, there’s wars in the real Babylon/ i’m too political anditmakesmerantonandon/untilican’tstopandijustruinedanothersong/ the cold nights never get better when the sun rises/ if we hide in the closet, therewillbenoonethatcanfindus/neoncastsmyshadowandiwouldloveto escape,can’twaittillthedayifleefromthisplanetoftheapes/ifyouwouldlike, you’reallinvitedtostrapupandjoinme/idon’tknowwheretogosowhydon’t you all point me, unanimously in the direction that will lead us to a landfill or train of thought/ and if you all can’t then i can just use the moral compass i just bought….

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intervention i step outside and feel the cold chill air, not used to the freeze not from around here,thinkingabouthomethinkingaboutlove,oneinthesamebecauselifeain’t what it once was, not too happy with what the present brought, ain’t too cool with all that I lost, but change is life and change is forever, i’ll just light another cloveandwalktowardsanotherendeavor,moveuptothestepsthinkingnever theless,losttherespectformyselfonceifoundthesourceofthestress,notlove notawomanjustmyself,twoshotsforonepainandnotaflushinthehandigot dealt,thesmokedon’thelpandthedrinkdon’tmatter,becauseneitherbuilds upwhatwasshattered(mychildhood,mylife,mybeing),butistillcontinuethe former and the latter, how can i explain this shit to my moms when i can’t do it for me, lost all that i am and still can’t see all that i used to be, got the walkman spinning just like my head, got the headphones up but i’m too gone to realize the batteries are dead, i’ve been like this for weeks and i still don’t get it, addictedtowhatidon’tcan’tshouldn’twishIhadn’t…ittakes5minutestowrite a verse but it took a lifetime to obtain this curse, and it takes a lifetime to meet thehearse,can’tunderstandwhatwentwrongbecauseit’sbeentoolongsinceI wroteasong,toomanywordsandnotonetoexplain,alltheemotionsthatgrew to what drove me insane, and i’m still the same, but still different, that’s what happenswhenucomefromtheneonsandthefluorescents,9to5thelengthof thedriveandidowhatigottodotokeepmyselffromruiningalife,probablymy own but it’s still a good thing i ain’t got a wife…

brushfire

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inspirations Who’s the inspiration and who’s to blame? for this pen and paper thing i try to play like a game? is it an author, artist or group? no, is it a girl that you might know? honestly i doubt it could be just one, but just for the reader i can try to listsome…Starrynightsandstormydays,theclimateandenvironmentimpact a lot of what i got to say, it’s the culture that i witness, it’s how when i walk into Walgreen’sautomaticallylabeledassuspicious,it’stheguyswhobeattheirwives andthewomenwhofightback,it’smoreoftherealitythanitisthefact,it’swhat people say every time i turn my…….That’s the least of it though, because it’s more so, the single moms that try to feed their kids with food stamps and EBT, notwhatitlookslikebutexactlywhatisee,it’sthememoriesofbeinganoutcast inmiddleschoolandinhighschoolhowigotplayed,thebiggestmistakeihave ever made, even if i’m still trying to forget her name…. It’s the rights of the left andmyfavoriteteachernamedKRS,orhowiwentfromtheghettototheburbs andtotheghettobacktotheburbs,itcouldbemyeighthgradeEnglishteacher making fun at how i write and speak my words… It’s the things i learned in historyandeverythingthateverhappenedtome,allthatiamandallthatiused tobe,mygreatgrandma,motherandabrother,twouncles,oneauntagrandpa andeversincehecameback,mydad,babycousinsand the life that i had… It’s the windshield my face cracked and the hummingbirds that can still fly, all of the world’s wonders and the never-ending question‘why?’, the neon and the struggles,seeingpeoplepickthemselvesupaftertheystumble,notasinglehero butAtticusFinch,thebuzzofthetattoomachinefollowedbythepiercingneedle andthepinch….It’sthepeoplethatrealizedepressionisn’temo,allthepretty things like the roses and the rainbows, it was riding the CAT bus and now it’s the Citifare, it’s how i used to do all the things i learned not to do in DARE, it’s all the love i got and all the love that’s not, all of life’s games and the cards i got dealt, and finally it’s anyone who reads this not including myself.

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leah madison

brushďŹ re

001

brushďŹ re

13

brian porray

autumn spencer

matthew cox

connect

I

’m going to give unto you a revelation.This revelation has a considerable amount of gravity to it, and you may not believe it when you first read it.

However, I ask that you keep your mind open to the possibility that this is indeed the truth. Read it over a few times if you have to. If you find this to be an actual lie, I do wish that you work to make it true, for your livelihood in thisconfusingplacefarfromhomemaybeinjeopardy.Areyoureadytohearthis world-changing reality? Very well.

You know everyone at this university. Everyone.

There it was. I’m sure the large majority of you are skeptical. After all, onsignsaroundcampus,we’veseenthatseveralthousandpeopleattendthisplace.

Howisitpossibleforonemanorwomantoknowsomanypeople?Howcanyou even begin to stretch your mind that far?

Well,let’sfirsteliminatetheobvious.Youhaveyourneighbors,friends, relatives,andprofessors.I’mcertainnoneofyouwillarguethatyouknowthese individuals,unlessyou’vebeeninaspatinvolvingloudmusicoranunfortunate gradediscrepancy.Justfornow,admitthatyouknowthem,andyoucangobackto being angry with them when you finish reading.

Now,youmusttakewhotheyknow,andaddittothesum.Itdoesn’tmatterifyou’venevermetthepeople,asanindividualisnothingmorethanareputationintheabsenceofahumanbeing.HowdoyouknowAmeliaEarhartorAlbert Einsteinarerealpeople?Youmayhaveseenpictures,butpictureslie.Icouldshow you a picture of Martin Luther King and tell you it’s King Arthur. How do you knowthatKingArthurdidn’tlooklikethepicture?Peoplehavereputations,andit is these reputations that make the person real.

Giventhatinformation,youtakethedistinguishedprofessor’scolleagues, yourfriend’sacquaintances,yoursibling’sclassmates,andyourneighbor’sstudy group,andyouaddthemintothemix.Whenyoudomeetthesepeople,someday brushfire

15

wayoffinthedarkfuture,you’vealreadygotsomethingincommon:youknowthe sameneighbor,friend,relative,orprofessor.Youmaydiscoverthatthereputations theycarry,ifyou’veevenheardthem,arenotthetruth.Youmaydiscoverthese reputationsarespot-on.Ineithercase,don’tletthereputationdefinetheperson, eventhoughthatiswhatultimatelymakesthemreal.Instead,createyourown interpretationoftheirreputation.Makethemthepersonthatyoureallythinkthey deserve to be.

So,whatabouteveryoneelse?Icouldtellyouthefriendsofthesereputationsarerealpeople,too,andthatyoumaynevermeetthem.Youstillknowthey arethere,though.Eachpersonchangesthereputations,andthereputationsshape thefriendsandfamilyyouknow,andthefriendsandfamilyalteryou.You’rebeing changedatthiscollegeasyoureadthispage,andthechangersarepeoplethatyou may never talk to or see in your entire life.

Don’ttakethatasanexcusetoignoreresponsibility,though.Itdoesn’t stand up too well when you say you couldn’t fulfill your duties when you were madeirresponsiblebythereputationofafriend’sfriend.Infact,youstarttosound crazy.Isoundcrazybylettinguntoyouthisrevelation,butitisariskI’mwillingto take. I know that I will help everyone I know at this college.Which is everyone.

Actually,it’snot.Idon’tknoweverylastpersonatthiscollege,andneitherdoyou.Iapologizeforlyingtoyou,butit’softeneasytooverlooktheminute details.There’sonepersonthatneitheryounorIknow.Ican’ttellyouhisname,or evenifhe’samaleorfemale.However,we’lljustcallhim“Jimmy”andthenwecan fix the pronouns and proper nouns when we figure out the truth.

Jimmyhasn’tmetanyonehereyet.Hehasbeenrathershy,sittingaloneat theDownunderCafe,orhidinginthebackofclass.Heprobablyhasasingleroom, orhasaroommatewhodoesn’tknowtheroomisindeedadoubleandthatthereis someoneinthatotherbed.He’ssomewhatcontent,butsomething’smissinginhis life.

Oneday,you’llseeJimmydoingsomething,andyou’llwishtocomment onit.Perhapsyou’llevenbeabletoassisthim.Hemightbeswordfightingagoator workingonpsychologyhomework.Ineithercase,you’llfeelcompelledtosupport him.

He’ll appear like a nice guy.That, too, is up for debate.There is no tellinghowgoodorevilapersonisbyappearancealone.That’swhyserialkillersand rapistsarethemostnormal-lookingpeopleandthenicestpeopleare,evenintheir owneyes,unattractive.Therecanalsobeserialkillerswholookliketheycame outoftheirmotheratthewrongendandnunswhobearastrikingresemblanceto Kiera Knightley.

WhatI’mabouttosuggestisbothdangerousandworthwhile.Iunderstand if you ignore this request, but I also have a stake in the outcome. It’s very simplewhatIwantyoutodo.Itmightrequirememorization,however,because you’ll be called to do it when you see him.

TalktoJimmy.Itdoesn’thavetobeanutteranceofsuchgreatbrilliance thatthestudentbodywillwishtoerectacastlewithyournameonit.Itcansimply beagreeting,oracommentontheweather.Itcanbeaquestiononhowagoatcan

16 brushfire

learn to swordfight. I really don’t care what you talk about.

However, I’d like to know Jimmy. He seems like a fascinating guy, if he evenisaguy.Gettoknowhim,andaddhimtoourworld.Oncehemeetsyou,he willknoweveryoneintheuniversity.We’llallknowhim,too.Ifonlybyreputation, we’ll know him.

Oh, and I’m sure you know my reputation upon reading this: I talk too muchonpaper,butnotenoughoutloud.Don’tmakemymistake,butdon’tovercorrect. Good day.

jeff alessandrelli

abortion rights Heaven sent, my loveDo what comes natural; maybe one day you too can be the single, middle aged mother at the tarot card reading, early afternoon on a weekday, muttering, rambling“Tell me a story now, baby, tell me a story because I’ve seen it all, seen it all and more, honey, and goddamn my luck’s due for a change.”

brushfire

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lennon in ‘87 I heard from a business associate religion never happened and thinking back, I do recall that bodybuilder in college, naturally gravitating toward rooms smelling of chalk and linseed, ripping out his body hair with duct tape while yelping, tunefully “Oh Screech! Oh Screech!

Oh Screech!”

Never even the mention or that thought of one or one’s who shall go nameless, and somehow it’s always the strangest things to remind you of John Lennon in 1987, a hairless bodybuilder or nothing that ever was.

He, our leftover working class hero, wandering through New York in an early autumn devoid of fuchsia and bronze, adrift because of non-occurrences he had little to do with and, of course, Holden Caulfield and three to six shots.

18 brushfire

Nowhere to go; only possession something that now seems less than the temporal soul.

Instrument and glasses memory, still everything and nothing a reminder.

Whistling without sound; waiting for new pressure or a pilgrimage taught to cast away.

Waiting for something to happen.

Painfully timeless in snow, rain, or other and crueling to rewrite “Jealous Guy” for yet eternity.

Silent and jaspered.

Past chattered.

Or simply pondering the adverse of using the word Love with power.

And Lennon wandering stolid in one autumn of ‘87 before (as they used to say) everything hits at once.

brushfire

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musical chairs stealthy cobains stopped in the beerlight remnants of a last call stoned clean, immaculate virtuosity of such light suddenly grasped quiets its musicality artfully silhouetted onward and out never lulls, lapses All God’s children want to be happy.

somes andwhenhopewasmeregratitudeforpastservicesrendered,thescienceexperimentassumedcompletion.Theycouldnot,then,constructthefactsagain withprecisionandnearrelation. Itwasbeautiful;Itwasgone. compressiondid not,neverdid,meancircumventionoffeelingandsome,afterthefact,strayedto thefields. thehorseswerebeautifullycomposed,ifnotgallant,andasnickered oldmanseducedwithuselessknowledgeaboutlifespansandinevitable“morality.”thescienceexperimenthadcometoitsconclusion. and expedience had remindedthedesignsomething.another,ofcourse,hadassumedcompletion. walking back that threaded voice again, already saying it “these aren’t love songs.” “for you, none of these are love songs.”

20 brushfire

ashie k. waaraich Standing amidst Flowers, clad in a rich silky dress she looked like the goddess of beauty.

Deeplyengrossedinthoughtandcontemplation I seeked to explore her beauty from a distance.

Her radiant complexion, revealed to me, the scripture of light, light which illuminates the dark heart.

Her honey drenched lips, testified the presence of Manna dew in our very own world.

Her long black hair, whispered near my senses secret of endless dark nights of separation I stared at her like a thirsty traveler, whogazesatalakeataninstanceawayfromhim I stood in front of her like a starved beggar longing for a juicy piece of bread I felt her from a distance like a breathless fish out of water, striving to survive.

My eyes drifted towards her being like an innocent child who searches for his lost mother in a desperate cry Angels of heaven seemed to be looking down at me through her innocent eyes.

And I like a devote worshipper, prostrated before the goddess of beauty while she resembled the column of light without losing a single moment of my life. brushfire

21

michael thomas the absurdist papers I: reconciling camus I desire elegant absurdity, with its calm nature And useless sensibilities.

I told this to my Mother once And she in turn shrugged And seemed to care less, But filled my ear and lips With worthwhile phrases…

As though I could question Her functional answers, Those sayings of hers that blare ‘We are true’ straight to my ears.

So I asked a Good Father what he thought of adiaphorous amoral contingency plan-less falterations in concrescence with pain-staking co-literation…— He said ‘what?’

I then pulled smiles From my coat pocket And gave them out Willingly.

Meanwhile Good Father Stood perplexed, Afraid of my abandon Lost in my decisions.

22 brushfire

the absurdist papers II: father camus’ swift tooth And then there was The insipid night The night that he said Straight to my face, I don’t drink elegantly I swallow, jarring, and Gulp down my flames And conditional thrusts With my liquid tooth that Resides in the lower jaw Of your mouth.

Shelled by his tone I in turn shattered him With sickly wrought Language, un-assuaging.

So unstable is its phoenix Of temptation (That liquid mouth of yours) That you guzzle down tires You drink yourself Into oblivious tryst-like Tasteless action, And all through my guts (That are kept for your use) I can feel your fell nature Rewire my reason.

The last phrase was spoken With the abandonment of hands From his face that will not know What my touch once was.

the absurdist papers III: i stand, as camus, in a living room To tell an elegant Mystery, I’ll need a set of feet With quill pens for toe nails So as to squabble with my siblings About their unaccomplished feats.

With lacquered words unfeigned I could let them taste the turns that say: Calm down and let your ferocity Quietly gaze back at you, Though the useless woman who Speaks from her useless position, Crumpled in her useless chair, Begins tempering worthlessness With a delinquency that creases Your tongue.

Here, she will tell you Your crimes and that ‘I bore you just to eat you— This is no game of love.’

And if escape was mandatory Would you then attempt to push stones?

Or would you settle into your living room chair With a twist of verbiage About how Fightingthosewholoveuswithgreed Feels more Sisyphian than anything else. brushfire

23

lake weather: making provisions Before us and our teeth At least we could bear ourselves In grins resplendent Though summertime smiles Do not languish In self-evident accusations.

That is the language of the beach And incidental cures that a girl In bikini glamour could stumble upon, Wrap herself in.

That is the reason why We have teeth. To bare them In grins and grimaces, Peel back our lips, Determine just how deep or Showily shallow we can Sometimes be. But to turn over Beachsandandsummertimelanguage With waves of indifference that New teenage rock throwers

Owe to societal polishing (In their bathing suits of surf wear With shiny logos plastered useless On their face). They bare their teeth Casually in grins, as they stand Shouldertoshoulder,onthecornerstone That is beach. There they rain rocks On ducks and geese, with a casual Causality. And to see their forms blur, Smear on the wave sides edge Until their societal role is obtained To be useless and mean That is the shape for rock throwers to take.

But don’t wear their grins When you hail your own wordy Hailstorms down on their persona specks.

Wearyourheartyrevengeriddenappetite Smile that all starving artists own.

Come to dinner with your smile wide Ready to eat the souls of the shallow

24 brushfire

michael thomas

a breath of water

A

lbertpulledhimselfunwillinglyfromsleep,holdingontoafamiliarsensationfilledwithmemoriesofhappinessanddisappointment.Coming fullyawake,herealizedthatthesensation,thedeepandtinglingfeeling inhisstomach,wasarealfeelingrespondingtoarealsituation.Janny satcrossedleggedonthefootofhisbed,handsfoldedunderherchin.Shewatched himcalmly,inanaloofmanner.Ashesatupandlookedatherhenoticedtheglaring red alarm clock numbers.

Three forty-nine.

“Hi Janny,” he said.

“Hi Albert,” she responded.

Ithadalwaysbeenlikethis,untiltwoyearsago.Surprisedandalittleannoyed,herecalledhowshehadalwayswokenhimupthiswaywhentheywerestill in grade school.

“Hmm…it’sbeen…well,you’relateagain,Janny.Bytwoyears.”Hesaid matter-of-factly,buttherewasacalmfriendlinesstoit,somethingthatlayinAlbert’svoice,asoothingsoundthatcaughteachwordprecisely,almostlingeringon everysyllableasthoughhewerealwaystastingthelanguagethatflowedfromwithinhim.Hewasoftenteasedforhisslowmannerofspeechandtheeloquencethat arosewithit.Hiseloquencemadethosearoundhimfeelasiftheywereoutclassed.

Butatthesametimehisslow,preciselanguagehadanunderlyingemotionalqualityallowinghisvoicetosoundfriendlyandcomforting.Buthiseccentricities—his shoulderlengthblackhair,histoo-cleanpaleskin,andhisfemininefeatures,along withhisneariridescentgreenish-blueeyes—oftencausedconversationtodwindle.Asmuchashiswaywithlanguagewaspleasantandinviting,hewasultimately separated;splitawayfromothersbythefactthathisappearanceandpersonality unsettled them.

HereturnedhisattentiontoJanny.Hesawaslightsmileslipacrossher brushfire

25

face,andhecouldtellthatshewasgladtohearthosewords.Hisfewwordscrossed a silent barrier that stood between them for two years.

“StillthesameAlafterall.Scoldingmeforbeing late. Always was supposedtobeherebytwothirty.”Sheletoutabriefhuffofamusementandresether faceintoitsaloofconditionagain,“Ithought…”shepaused,lookedathimandthen lookedatthedoorshehadcomein,“Ithoughtyoumighthavestartedlockingit.”

“Hmm?”heknewwhatshewastalkingabout,butactedsleepaddledinorderto keephertalking,soastokeephersayingthings.Herealizedthathehadmissedher voice and felt an odd comfort in this knowledge.

“Ithoughtyoumighthavestartedlockingyourdoor,butIhadtotry,I…” shepausedagain,wantingtosaysomething.Tosaysomethingbesidestheusual formalities.Shewantedtosaysomethingthatwouldmaketwoyearsmendthemselves, and she wanted to say it the way that Al had said it, in order to return his acceptance.Shelookedbackathimandsawthathewaswatchingherclosely.“I haven’tseenyouinawhile,”sheended,lettinghercooldemeanorslideoffofher face. Albert didn’t deserve small talk. She started to feel embarrassed.

“Yes, it has been awhile. Probably, oh say, I don’t know…”he feigned thoughtfulness,“Iguessit’sbeensinceyesterdayafternoonwhenyoudrovepastme withJimmy.Butyoumostlikelydidn’tseeme,”Hewatchedherclosely,reading herreactionsbythemoonlightthatspilledthroughhisbedroomwindow.Henoted thatthemoonwassolowitappearedtobehanginginhiswindowlikeabigdumb threequartercircleofwhiteluminosity.Hecouldtellthatshewastryinghardto hideherfeelingsbutnotedaslightreactioninhereyes,somethingthatshecouldn’t hide and something that he couldn’t understand.

“Yeah,‘I haven’t seen you in a while,’that was pretty dumb, huh?”she lookeddown,fussingwithherhands.Shestoppedandlookedbackupathim.

“Listen,thisisn’twhatIcameheretodo.Look,I’msorryabout…”butheleaned forward and put his hand over her mouth.

“Shh, you’ll wake my mom and dad if you start getting all bent out of shape.”Hegotoutofbed,“C’mon,getyourshoes,let’sgo.”Hewasstilldressedin hisschoolclothing.Shewasn’tsurprised.Hehadbeendoingitforaslongashehad beengoingtoschool,andasalways,theywerefreshcloths.Hepulledasweateron over his spare torso and quickly pulled on his shoes.

Theyslippedintothenight,astheyalwayshad,bothwiththoughtsofhow theylivedthrougheighteenyearsrightnexttoeachother.Theyhadbeenclose friendsfornearlythirteenofthoseyears.Tonight,thetwoyearsthatdividedthem wouldn’t matter anymore.

TheydriftedsoftlydownthehillbehindAlbert’shouseuntiltheyreached thecreekthathadformedthehill.Itwasswollenwiththespringthawandthey tracedtheedgeofthewater.Theywalkedcarefully,plyingtheirsighttothecoming darknessoflatemorningasthemoonstarteditsslipperydescentintothemountainsideabovethem,wrappingthesurroundingworldintheblacknessofitsabsence.

They reached a large fallen tree that formed a bridge across the cold, scufflingwater.Theycrossedoverthedeadtreewithease,theiryearsoffamiliarity

26 brushfire

allowing them a second sight in the dark.

Startingtoascendthehillontheothersideofthecreek,Jannyfeltthe needtosaysomething.Itpressedinonherandshetensedwithnervousness.Asif sensingthis,Albertspokeawayfromher,intothedark,buthisvoicereachedback to her easily, “You know, I still come out here sometimes, on my own.”

“Oh…”was all she could think of. She lengthened her stride as they reachedthetopofthehillandcameupnexttohim,almosttouchinghisshoulder.

He looked briefly at her as they walked.

“We didn’t use to walk this close together.” He pointed out gently.

“I,um,listen…”shesawthatshehadhisattention,buthedidn’tslowhis pace.

“Waittillwegetthere,thenwecantalk.Rightnow,letmejustgetused tobeingaroundyouagain.”Hehadn’taimedhiswordsathurtingher,butshestill felt stung.

Thepaththeyfollowedtwistedbrieflythroughaclusteroftreesatthe baseofthemountain,thenturneddownandawayfromitaltogetherleadingthem totheirdestination:anexpanseofmeadowthathuddledupagainstthefoothillasif itweretryingtocreepupthehillandescapethelakethatpressedinonitfromthe other side.

Theyenteredtheedgeofthemeadowwherethetallgrassthatswayed againsttheirkneesclimbedupthegentleslopeofthefoothill.Theywalkedalong thedividinglineoflushgrassthatswoopedinalongarchagainstabuttressofchokingsagebrush.Theeffectmadethemeadowlooklikeabowlthathadbeensplitin half.Towardsthecenterofthearcheddividinglinestoodalonepinetree,tall,full, andgreen,withathicksturdybase.Thelargetreeseemedtostandcommanding themeadowinitsretreatfromthelakeanditsonslaughtagainstthesagebrush.

Astheyapproachedthetree,Jannystartedtofeeltheenergyofhermemoriesflowthroughher.Shetriedtoturnitoffbuttheykeptcoming.Eachofthem wasasparkingimageorsoundofherandAlbert.Tumbling,climbingGrandpaTree, “…over one hundred years old…,”knifed initials with a little blood, a kite buriedinthemiddleofthetree,“Al?”“Yeah”“never…leave?”“Janny?”“Yeah”“When’re older…”

She stopped, “Al... do you remember?”

He didn’t turn to her, but kept looking at the tree,“Yeah, I do. Never stopped, even with two years… no words. But I came here, and kept Grandpa company.Thatsoundsinsane,butitsquiethereandIcanthinkeasierhere.Maybe hekeptmecompany,wiseoldmanthatheis.Isoundcrazy…sorry.”Helookedat thegrassathisfeetforamoment,watchedittraceslowovalsinthelightbreeze.

“Ithinkit’sthegrass,itssmell…clearsthehead,maybe,andletsmegetpast… things.”Hefinallyturnedandlookedather.Hislipscurvedintoatight,one-sided smile.

Shestudiedhisleanfaceforamomentandsawthetraceofsadnessthat shehadbeenseeinginhisfaceforthepasttwoyears.Everytimetheysaweach other,passinginthehallsatschooloratoneofthestoresintheheartofthesmall brushfire

27

townwheretheylived,hehadturnedhiseyesawayfromher.Sheknewhewas tryingtohideit,butshehadknownhimforaslongasshecouldrememberandshe couldseehissadness.Ithadsickenedher,andshehadhatedhimforhisweakness.

But now, after two years, she realized why she had been sickened. It was…

“Al… it was… I hated that look, that look… on your face right now. I usedtogetsickwhenIsawyoulookinglikethat.Allhurting.Allsad.Igotsickfrom thewayyoulookedawayfromme.SoItriedhatingyou.It…itworked…Icould take your sad little face out of my head. But, now… I’m… I want to say…”

“Janine, don’t.You don’t need to. I don’t want an apology. It’ll only be wordsthatyou’lleventuallyrealizeyounevermeant.You’llforgetthem,andthey won’tmattertoyouanymore.ButI’llprobablyrememberthem,andthatwillget myheadallbentagainwhenyoudofinallyforget.Then I’ll just be back where I started two years ago, figuring that words are words and they collapse.”

“Fine, that’s fine Al. But it’s not fair! I need to do it or else I can’t start where I need to start.”

“Then let’s go and sit with Grandpa. Let the grass, or him, or whatever sort it out for us.”

TheywalkedtherestofthedistancetothetreewithAlbertleadingand Jannyseveralfeetbehind.WhenAlbertreachedthetree,hetouchedthetrunkfor amomentthenturnedandsatdownunderitsshelterpullinghiskneestohischest.

Helookedoutacrossthemeadowtowherethelakeeventuallyswallowedit,the dark water sucking the green grass into its maw.

JannypausedforamomentnearthefarthestreachesofGrandpatree’s branches.ShelookedatthewayAlbertheldhisknees,thewayhislongblackhair fellacrosshisfaceandtouchedhisshoulders.Shetookabreathandwalkedinunderthetreebranches,surrenderingherselftothememories.Butnothingchanged herturmoil,andshefeltalittleletdownthatthecalmshehadbeenlookingfor wasstilleludingher.ShemovedtothetreelookingattheplacewereAlberthad touchedthetrunkandsawthelittlehandcarvedinitials.Shesighedatthemixture offeelingsthatrosewithinher.Shelaidherhandoverthecarvingandlookedup throughthetreebranches.Sheclosedhereyesandwithherheadstilltilteduptried toimaginethetreeshoweringitsmemoriesdownonher.Theonlyimagethatcame howeverwastheoneshehadjustseenofAlbert,sitting,withhislegstohischest.

She let out another breath and sat next to Albert.

“Al…” “Just wait a little while.Try to, oh I don’t know, smell the lake water or something.”

“What?”

“Smell the lake water. It’s how I try to get those clumsy words out and replacethemwith…water…sothatmymindandeverythingelseflows…like water.”

Shelookedathim,andfeltatwingehither.Sherememberedthis—this wayofhis…hehadalwaysbeenlikethis.Sheturnedandlookeddownatthewaves ofwater.Sheclosedhereyesagain,andsawtheimageofAlbertoncemore.She toreherselfawayfromitandputherselfattheedgeofthewater.Sheknewthe

28 brushfire

grasswouldbewetandthatherfeetwouldsinkintothemuck.Shetriedtorecreatethesmellofthewater,buthermindonlybroughtoutthemusty,earthytasteof themuddygrass.Sheshookherheadtodispelthemuck’stasteatthebackofher throat.Thensheputherselfinthewater,floating,treadingwater,gentlykicking, and took a deep breath, to let the scent of water enter her lungs and on its way there infuse itself within her sense of smell. Still nothing came.

Shebecamefrustratedwithherinabilitytosmell,butbecauseshefeltthat sheowedsomethingtoAlbert,shedidn’tgiveup.Shethoughthardofwater,ofthe smellofwateruntilthewords‘water’and‘smell’diminishedintogibberish.She openedherinnereyes,foundherselffloatingdeepunderthewaterwithonlyits murkydepthstogreetherwithitsdarkness.Sheremainedsuspended.Then,she tookadeepbreathofthewater,lettingtheliquidglidethroughhernostrilsinto herlungs.Shesensedthenthewrongnessanddisgustthatherbodyshouldfeelfor breathingwater.Butshecontinuedtobreathethewaterinuntilherlungsburned withtheliquid,andthewaterthatshewastryingsodesperatelytosmell—still smelled like nothing.

Shebegantopanicthen.Tobelievethatshewouldreallydrown,thatshe woulddie.Thateverythingwouldendandshewouldneverbeabletoapologize for…what?To…who? Hopelessnesssealeditselfaroundher,blockingoffany escapeassurlyasifshewouldneverbreatheagainwithherlungssofilledwith water.

Thenahandwrappeditselfaroundhersandbegantopullherup.Asshe rosethroughthewater,herbodyweightlessandbeinglifted,shethought“Ihave died”.Andthenareassurancebrokethesealofherdespair,becausethehandwas real, tangible, and her mind went utterly clean as the water flowed within her, replacingherbloodandshewasnowwaterandhumanandaliveandbreathing waterandairbothassheburstthroughthesurfaceofthewaterandcamebackto herself.

SheopenedherrealeyesandfeltthesteadygripofAlbert’shandwrapped aroundhers.Sheturnedandsawthathewaswatchingherintently,holdingher handandwatchingherface.Theysatthatwayforalongtime,withherwatching Albertholdherhand,calmly,wisely,surelyathousandyearsolderthaneighteen.

Finally, Albert asked, “What does water smell like?”

“I…I…”sheshookherhead,reassemblingherself,reaffirmingherexistence.Her bodywasn’twater,andshewasjustagirl,justaplaingirlwithaplainheartshaped face,andplain,dullstraw-blondhair,andplainbrowneyeswithaplainbodyanda plain,immaturemind.ButAlbertsatacrossfromher,holdingherhand;anexotic, palefigure,withiridescenteyes,andlongblackhair,andfeaturesthatmusthave inspiredfantasiesofelves.Sheletaircoatherlungsandtastedthefragranceofpine, and grass, and… the world.

“I… you…saved me.”

“Youdiditonyourfirsttry.Ithinkithastodowithhavingsomeoneyou trustbeingnearyou.Orthinkingaboutsomeoneyoutrustsavingyou,Ithinkthat’s whatdoesit.Ittookmethreeweekstofinallygetit.Ihadtofinallyimaginethat insteadofdying,Iwasbeingsaved.IthinkthatGrandpaisapartofit,orsomeconbrushfire

29

-nection to Grandpa.”

“How…how…”

“You just do it. It doesn’t matter how or why. But that you just did.You provethatyouexist…youcomebacktotheworld.”Helookeddowntowherehe heldherhand,andletitgo,somewhatsheepishly.Hewaseighteenagain.Butthe sense of millennia still clung to him, diminished, but alive.

“No,tellmeplease,howdidyou…”shepaused,“…doityourfirsttime.

Who saved you? Please… tell me?”

He looked at her, unsure, deciding. At last he leveled his gaze,“I lied to you,it’snotsomeonethatyoujusttrust.It’s…Iwas…,well,ithastobesomeone you trust and…”he looked at her even more steadily,“…and you have to love them,withallofyourheart,lovethemenoughthattheywillcometosaveyou.”

She drank his gaze for a moment then said, “I slept with Jimmy.”

“Iknow,itdoesn’tmatter,Ifiguredyouhad,beingwithhimallthetime.

It doesn’t matter. This is now, here, with Grandpa, you, and me.”

“I don’t love him.”

“I know.”

“Because…”Anepiphanylatcheditselfhardtoherthesamewaythat Albert’shandhadlatcheditselfhardtoherhand,notlettinggo,“…because,I…I love you…”

Shehadwantedtosaythatallnight,shehadrehearseditathousandtimes howshewouldcometohim,tellhimshewassorry,tellhimthatshelovedhimtoo.

Tellhimthatshehadbeenstupidandtooyoungandscaredwhenhehadsaidthose samewordstohertwoyearsago.Butnowsheknewbetter.Thatshelovedhim… and now, he already knew, she didn’t have to say it.

Albertnodded,“Iknow,otherwiseyouwouldn’thavebreathedthewater.

Youwouldn’thaveevenbotheredtryingtosmellthewater,likeIasked.Butyou didandyouletmebringyououtofit.Youletmegiveyouairagain.Justlikeyou didforme,whenIsathere,forthreeweeks,drowningoverandoveragain,because Iwantedto.Ithoughtifdrowningwouldendit,wouldcleanourclumsywords, I would be better. But then, I let you save me and realized that I loved you and I wasexistingagain.Iknewyouwouldcome,onenight,likeyoualwaysdid.Andwe would come here, and it happened.”

Theysat,watchingoneanother,notsayinganything,realizingthatthey wereyoungandoldnow.Twoyearshadpassedandchangedthembuthadbrought them back to sit underneath Grandpa.

30 brushfire

nina bentel

tumor

katie dunlap

vanilla ice

anthony alston

from the portraits series,

from the portraits series,

2

1

from the nest series,

from the nests

series, 3

from the nests

series, 5

2

from the origami vultures series,

4

from the origami vultures

series, 3

from the eggs series,

2

from the origami vultures series, 2

brushďŹ re

35

steven x. berg

the villain

E

rik’s mom made him a mask for Halloween.

You’ve never dressed up, she said. You should. It might be fun.

Sure, he said.

Hetiedthemaskon.Helookedintothemirror.Itlookedprettycool.It was a red bandanna with eyeholes.

You like it?

Okay.

So his mom went into his dad’s closet and started pulling things out.

Wearthisshirt.Yourdadwon’tmind.It’sold.Theshirthadshinybuttons on the front.

This hat, too. It was charcoal gray with a green-black band.

She cut up a piece of black fabric and made it into a cape.

Doesn’t that look cool? she asked.

Okay, Erik said.

Now you can be a superhero! Like in the comics.

Okay.

E

rik went to school.

HalloweenwasSaturday,soeveryonewassupposedtodressuponFriday.The busdrivergavelollipopstoeverykidwhodid,butshehadrunoutbythetimeshe got to Erik. His was the last stop. Sorry, she said.

The children snickered as Erik sat down.

Nice costume, said a ghost. Your mom make it for you?

Erikleanedhisheadagainstthewindow.Hekepthismouthshut.Like always.

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S

choollookedlikeacircus.Therewereghostsandzombies,ninjasandcommandos,SupermenandSpider-Men.Therewereprincessesandpixies,witchesand WonderWomen.Therewasonepoorgirldressedinleatherwithawhipandthe principal made her go home.

Candywasdistributedfreely.Childrenplayedgamesthinkingtheirteachers couldn’t tell who they were.

Thethirty-firstofOctoberwasjustashotasthefourthofJulyhadbeen.

Thesunfeltheavy.Eriktookoffhishatandfannedhimself.Hetriednottotalkto anyone.Theywouldjustmakefunofhimagain.Hewishedheknewhowtomake fun of them.

O

kay,saidMrs.Griffiths.IknowtodayisHalloweenandyouallwanttohave fun,butthisisstillthefourthgradeandyoustillhavetolearnsomethingsso I get my bonus at Christmas. So take off your masks and pay attention.

She wrote some numbers on the chalkboard.

Eriksighed.Hetookoffhishatandmask.Helookedatthedesknextto his.Thequeensittingthereworeatallpointyhat.Shehadfreakishlystraighthair.

ShesawEriklookingatherandshewrinkledhernoseandmadeagaggingsound.

Erikwishedhehadamirror.Thequeentoldhimoncehelookedlikeavultureina wig. He couldn’t see it.

Today, said Mrs. Griffiths, we are working on division.

Erikcuppedhisfaceinhishand.Hestaredoutthewindow.Hestaredout the window until class seemed like one long, breathless moment.

I wanna go home, he thought.

Erik! said Mrs. Griffiths.

Mmmphh? he said.

What’s the answer? She pointed at the board.

Erik blinked at the problem. Seven? he said.

Very good. See, why can’t you all learn your assignments the way Erik does?

Now he wanted to moan.

T

hey walked up to him at lunch.

Hesatinadivotinthedirtbytheedgeoftheplayground.Heateadryturkey sandwich. If you looked at the divot from really close, it looked like the Grand Canyon.

Eriksawthemcoming.Sixthgraders.TheleadonewasdressedlikeSuperman.Hehadfloppyblondhair,likeamop.Hisstepswerebig.Hisstepswere eager,likehecouldn’twaittogetanywhere.Erikdidn’tknowhisname.Buthewas always the leader.

Hey faggot, said Superman.

Erikdidnotknowwhatthewordfaggotmeant.Hehadtriedlookingit upbuthisdictionaryathomewasasmallpaperbackwithoutmuchinit.Hehad thought about asking his mom. It didn’t seem like a good idea, though.

Howwedoingtoday?saidSuperman.Hesquattedinthedirtafootortwo

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away.

Um, said Erik. He was afraid to talk.

Um? The fuck kind of answer is that?

ThesituationseemedtorequireanexpletiveonErik’spart.Hecouldn’t think of one.

AninjasatdownnexttoSuperman.Idon’tthinkhe’sgoingtotalktous today, he said. He’s in his own little world again. I wonder what’s it like in there.

That’sanicehat,saidSuperman.ThehatsatonErik’sknee.CanIseeit?

Erik grabbed the hat and hugged it close.

Guess not, said Superman.

Hey man, said a zombie. That’s HIS hat. Don’t fuck with it.

Don’t be a pussy.

No, he’s right. The ninja spat in the dirt. It probably has lice and shit.

Yeah. The zombie smiled nervous-like.

Superman lifted a hand. He balled a mighty fist. Erik cringed.

See? Superman laughed. I told you. He’s like a dog. He swung the fist butstoppeditshort.Erikcoveredhisface.HejustassumesI’mgonnahithim!He reachedoverandslappedErikontheback.HepokedErikinthestomach,hard.

Erik doubled over.

The bell rang.

Oop, said Superman. Gotta go. Hope we didn’t bother you, um— He searched for a name. What’s your name? Your hero name, I mean.

Fuckhead Man, said the ninja.

They all laughed.

Erik wondered how many times that was now. He’d lost count.

O

nFridaystheclasshadtogotothelibraryafterlunch.Mrs.PhelpsthelibrariansawErikaloneatatable.Hewasn’tholdingabook,whichwasunusual.

He looked like he might cry.

Are you okay, Erik? she asked.

Erikfeltverycoldintheface.WhenMrs.Phelpsspokehefeltworse.His skin tingled. He thought of the Superman kid and clenched his fist.

I’m okay, he said.

You look upset.

I’m okay. He lifted his head. He had not been crying. He refused to cry.

Well maybe you should have a glass of water or something.

Okay.

She got him one. So, did you finish that last Tolkien book?

Yeah.

And you liked it?

It was okay.

She smiled. I know you liked it.

He didn’t say anything.

Do you feel better?

Yes. Thank you. brushfire

39

You’rewelcome.Lookslikeyourclassisgettingreadytoleave.You’dbettergo.ShehandedhimasciencefictionbookcalledFound.You’lllikeit,shesaid.

R

eadingTime. Erik usually liked this. But today he could not concentrate.

HestaredatasentenceinFound:Imetmyhusband,Billy,incollegeandwefell inloverightaway.Erikdidn’tunderstandit.HowcouldshehaveMETherhusband incollege?Imean,hewasn’therhusbandwhenshemethim,washe?Hewasn’t even her husband while they were in college, right?

Erik!Awhisper.Mrs.Griffithstappedhisshoulder.Istheresomething wrong?

Uhhh, he stuttered. N-No, Mrs…. May I go to the bathroom?

Yes.Don’tforgettotakethepass.Thehallmonitorgaveyoudetention last time.

Okay.Hegrabbedthewhitewoodenpassoffthewallandscurriedout.

H

eswoopedthroughthehallway.Hefeltfreenow.Hetriedtothinkofacool nameforhimself.FalconMan.RavenMan.VultureMan.Somekindofbird.

Erikheardwhistlinginthebathroom.Hewalkedin.Thedoorwasheld open by a big rock. The doorstop must be broken again.

Erikwalkedtothesink.Heheardaflyunzipping.Heheardsomeonesay, Ohyeah.Heheardthesoundofpissing.Helookedinthemirror.Hesawaredcape at the urinal. He saw floppy hair, like a mop. He froze up. He felt his skin get all cold. He felt his heart beat faster.

He thought, I have to do something.

HethoughtaboutpunchingSuperman.Thingswouldbeeventhatway.

But no—Superman was a lot bigger. He might hit back.

Anidea!Hesawhiseyesgetwideinthemirror.Heslippedhismaskover his face. He had left the hat in class—oh well.

He skipped over to the rock/doorstop. He lifted it. It was heavy. He couldn’t quite lift the rock over his head.The door started to glide closed. Erik skippedbacktotheurinal.Supermanmusthaveheardsomething.Hestartedto turn his head. Wha—?

CRACK! Eriksmashedthevillaininthejaw.Therockcameoutofhishandsand fell.

Supermanpitchedintothetilesonthewall.Hemadeasoundasmuch like a scream as like a sneeze. His knees gave way and he sunk.

He hit his nose on the urinal’s porcelain top.

He breathed blood like fire. Lots of blood.

Something small and hard bounced on the floor. A tooth.

Eriksteppedback,ahandoverhismouth.Hehadtofightagainstlaughing toohard—itwouldmaketoomuchnoise,hethought.Hiseyeslituplikefirecrackers.

Superman’sheadwrithedbackandforthsnake-likeinapoolofbloodand other liquids Erik didn’t want to think about. Yuck.

40 brushfire

Then Superman started yelling.

Thebathroomdoorflewopenandfootstepscameclackingin.Erikfelta hand on his shoulder. A voice shouted out: Holy SHIT! The hall monitor.

I

n the principal’s office they yelled at him: What were you thinking?

God, we try SO hard and then look at this….

What’s wrong with you? …psychiatric help…. …obviously we can’t have him in this school anymore…. …’s gonna be MY ass on the chopping block, you can bet….

Erik, said the counselor, you’ve been in trouble before, I know. Lots of detentionsandstufffortalkinginclassorbeinglateorbeingrude.ButI’dthought we’dleftallthatbehind.You’vebeenalmostcleanforthelasttwoyears,nomajor problemsatall.Mrs.Griffithssaysyou’rethebestinclass.Shewasgoingtorecommend you for the honor roll this quarter. Mrs. Phelps says you love to read.You knowhowmuchwehopeforthatinastudent?I’vesaidoverandoveragainyou should go into GT or something, if your mom and dad would go for it. ButTHIS isjustbeyond,youunderstand?Youcouldhavekilledhim!Doyougetthat?Ikeep askingyouifthere’stroubleathomeorsomething,somethingtoexplainthissort ofthingandyoualwayssayno.WhenyourparentsgethereI’mgoingtotalkto them.

TearsrolleddownErik’scheeks.Herefusedtoadmithewascrying.They wereyellingathimsomuch.Hefeltsoembarrassed.Hecouldn’tstandtobeseen likethis—red-facedandbarelyabletospeak.Theprincipal’sofficewasacolorless box. It had filing cabinets like monoliths.

Hestillworethecostume.Itmadehimfeelnakednow.Sohetoreitoff.

He pulled off the mask and dropped it.

He stripped off the cape and flung it away.

He crossed his arms so no one could see the buttons on his shirt.

He wanted to get hold of the hat so he could throw it in the trashcan.

E

rik’sdadcamefromwork.Theprincipal’sofficehadwindows—Erikwatched his dad drive up, get out of the car, and walk to the front door. He sat down with his son. The principal explained the situation for a long time.

Why? Erik’s dad asked.

Erik didn’t say anything.

Is this because I wouldn’t buy you a costume? Well, I’m sorry but…

Erik didn’t say anything.

Ididn’tknowitwasthatimportanttoyou.Younevershowedinterestbefore.Erik’sdadpaused.Hesaid:Yourmomcouldn’tcome.Idon’tthinkshewanted to face it.

Erik sniffled. brushfire

41

A

t home, Erik’s mom wouldn’t speak to him. She cried.

His dad yelled at him some more.

They sent him to his room.

I

n bed, Erik steeled his fists and beat the pillow senseless.

No, he said. They can’t tell me what to do. I’m better than THEM. I’m better than they think I am. They can’t just force me to do things. I’ll show them.

He didn’t know what he would show them. But he would.

I’m not going to cry anymore. I’m not going to do what they want. I’m not going to do what they expect. It’s not my fault. I’m not going to act like I’m the one wrong. I’M NOT THE MONSTER, I’M NOT THE MONSTER, I’M NOT THE MONSTER.

T

heyofferedhimacompromise:ifheapologized,sincerely,thentheremight notbealawsuit—andErik’sdadsaidtheysureashellcouldn’taffordtohave one.

Expulsion was almost certain.The principal said he would try to help avoidit,though,ifhethoughtErikwasmakinganefforttochange.Erikwouldhave to go on probation.

They took him to school.

Everyone was there: the principal, the counselor, Mrs. Griffiths, Mrs. Phelps, Erik’s parents, the Superman kid’s parents.

Thekidwasnolongerdressedup.Ahugebandagewasplasteredacrosshis broken nose. His jaw was bruised and his chin looked like a candied yam.

Erik studied Superman’s face and detected a faint bit of smile.

Well, son, said the principal. What have you got to say?

Say you’re sorry, said Erik’s mom.

They waited.

ErikstaredatSuperman’slittlesmile.Itsickenedhim.Smugness.Imagine what he would gain, Erik thought. Imagine what you will lose, Erik thought. In what way, he thought, is HE sorry? What did I ever do to him?

Eriksawnorepentance.Hewonderedwhereheknewthatwordfrom.

Say you’re sorry, Erik’s mom said again.

Erik shook his head. No, he said. He walked out.

42 brushfire

steven x. berg ten women I.

Luminosity Gas lamps Snow Mythic Glow Truly I don’t know and I don’t care Blind Glow In-between-time Scrying Dark ceiling Hoped-for The snow-warm pulse Of a fellow-traveler’s heart.

II.

III.

Chilled hands astride A table set for one.

Chardonnay bottle corks Beside a faded Albrecht Dürer The bright red eyes Of fifteen fireflies Rise high off the line But do not shine To thine?

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43

IV.

V.

An angel hath wings to fly, yes, But more often to simply present itself Before the non-believer.

I know What yr.

Thinking— How can Any One Person Be SO Cool?

VI.

The wind wants in so I let it in.

There’s silence here Knitting spiderwebs in the corner Where C___ wants to feel the rush on her neck And I want to see another angel Blown in from the cold So, Barring reflection, I beckon the wind to hurry.

44 brushfire

VII.

VIII.

Tinkerbell died for somebody’s sins But not for mine.

She’s got a book’s worth of poetry Just waiting in a binder She’s got a couple suicide attempts Not that far behind her.

That’s my girl.

IX.

X.

The priest said, “A stake through its heart Will turn the creature to dust,” But I couldn’t find your heart.

Hush—listen Before I think it through: Know this isn’t true But I love you I love you.

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45

here I. it’s dawn in New York city but that’s a long way from here II. 106 flowers white ones waiting watching III. here’s the stairway— more steps in the cracks than cracks in the steps than steps IV. hell’s sitting here on a summer’s day V. quiet quiet quiet quiet.

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glacial shards...

Glacial shards— White flames— Rosy cheeks— Cold hearts— Christmastime is here.

coffins on the sidewalk...

Coffins on the sidewalks Haphazard Fallin out of windows Or from rain clouds

aubrey o’connor softly dying Independent rhythms composed from syncopation are pulsing out of time. A musical mood is heard off key. The path is obscure, demented eyes cannot see, darkness is softened by fire too brightly illustrated. Wind carries a heart of wild direction, constricting hands confine a dwindling spirit.

Beaten and battered wings fall from grace, debris of the drum lie scattered around a body broken. Suppressed is her song, painted flames are extinguished. Lightening eyes of emerald now calm as glass. brushfire

47

tear my heart open Betray no thoughts! Threads Twisting our complicated Weave have been broken.

End your cruel facade Acknowledge your lie. Only This my final wish.

Coward! Your image The epitome. There is Truth in memory

grigory lukin starless world There are no stars in the sky, For they have been outshined By the pollution of light Which has emerged underneath: By the casinos that work Twenty-four hours a day; By those who drive to and from Their home, their school, and their friends; By those who stay up all night Because they don’t want to sleep And cannot find enough time To burn the power within; By those who light cigarettes During their five-minute breaks; By people burning their things So that they don’t freeze to death; By lovers, loners, and all Who do their act day by day.

The world has lost all its stars, shovel But seems like nobody cares...

There is a shovel hanging on my wall In case I am awakened late at night BythosethatIhadonceconsideredfriends: My enemies, conspiring by my side.

48 brushfire

frances arnold shaw beyond words for You the Monarch undresses from its cocoon’s embrace, and gushes from the nectar of flowering apple trees to the rising Sierra Madres Bursting into the Sun’s dropping rays.

Your laughter reflects in a daffodil, and from its sanguine mouth i breathe You, yet You do not speak. i feel You polish my mortal skin in the fragile breeze, yet i cannot touch You. i know a sliver of You when i press to my lips and tongue a stark mango. it drips down my chin to my navel’s moon, and ecstasy blossoms beneath my glowing bosom.

You are the heartbeat of my spirit, thoughts, and bones. my aches, tears, and scars dissolve, yet attempts to express my sacred elation crumbles. instead, i offer You my soul’s timeless devotion.

brushfire

49

sandra beckerman

craig kolvet

table for two

H

aveyoueverwonderedaboutthebeautiesoflife?Suchasthefeelof sunshineonyourfaceonasunnyafternoon.Orthesightofarainbowafterasummershower,orthesmelloftherain.Nowimagine beingtoldthatyouwouldneverbeabletoseeorhearorsmellthese thingsagain.Imaginethatyouknewthatyouweregoingtodie.Imaginethepain that death might bring you. This paints quite a different picture doesn’t it?

RyanMillerhadnotbeenhavingaverygoodday.Let’sjustsayhislastweekhad beenalittlestressful.But,therewassomehopeforhim;theendofhispain.Allhe hadtodowasjustsitinhischairandwait.Secretly,though,hewasn’tlookingforwardtotheend.Hehadbecomeaccustomedtohispaineversincehedisappeared from his life. That felt like ages ago.

Ryan quieted his thoughts. It wasn’t good for him to be thinking like that.

AcrossthetablefromRyansatabeautiful,dark-hairedwoman.Hergreen eyeshadanalmostetherealglow.Theblackdressshewaswearingmadeherlook paleinthehalf-lightoftheroom.Shewassinkingherteethintoaliverthatshehad just made. It was cooked with onions and garnished with mushrooms.

“Wouldyoulikesome?”HerwordsweregivenflavorbyherEnglishaccent.There was a distant sort of dreamy look in her eyes, like maybe she didn’t belong in this world.

Ryaneyedthehalf-eatenliversittinginfrontoftheyounglady.Itdidlook likeittastedgood.Hebegantosalivate.Buttheonlywordstoescapehismouth were,”No thanks.”

“Youknowwhatyourproblemis,Ryan?Youaretoouptight;yououghtto loosen up a little. Go with the flow sometime.”

Herstatementwasmetwithalongsilence.Hecouldhearhertakeanother bite and swallow before she spoke again.

“Ah,thequiettype,eh?Consideringyoursituation,I’dsuggestthatyou brushfire

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speakyourmindwhileyouarestillableto.”Hereyeslitupatthis.ThefiresofHell are as beautiful.

“Iamamanwhoacceptshisfate.Icandonothingaboutanythingaslong as I am here. All I can do is wait and hope you lose interest in me and move on to another pet project.”

“Nowyou’retalking.Although,Idon’tthinkthatIappreciateyourtone.

Mmm,thesoundofyourvoicemakesmeso…”shepausedtothinkoftheright word, “excited.” She gazed at him hungrily.

Theveryideaofmeetingthiswomaninasexualencounterwasnotan entirelyunpleasantone.Asmallsmilepassedhislips.Shemusthaveseenitbecause she replied.

“Unfortunately for you, the smell of death follows your presence.”

“Then why do you tease me?”

SheleanedintowhispertoRyan.Ryanleanedinexpectingtohearsome secret.Instead,shelickedhischeek,hertonguewastastinghimmorethantrying to incite pleasure. “The taste of you, of your fear, is seductive.”

“You’renotansweringmyquestion,”hesaidflatly,ignoringhisnowwet cheek.

“I don’t answer to you.”

Silence.

“Well, Ryan, if you don’t like me, why don’t you just leave?”She smiled coyly.

“You know why I can never leave you now.”

“Youknow,Ihaven’thadagoodtalkwithadateforaverylongtime.Usuallybynow,mydateiscryingandscreaming.Butyou,youarecalmandrational.

YouknowthatIcanneverletyouliveafterthis,soyoubearthepaintoentertain me?”

“Nottoentertainyou,no.I’mdoingthisbecauseIwantyoutotakepity on me.”

Theyoungladypushedherplateforwardthenwipedhermouthdelicately withhernapkin.“IamafraidthatImustbegoingnow.Ishallseeyoutomorrow night for another meal. Perhaps we can talk more then. Good night, Ryan.”

Ryanwasnowencasedindarkness.Hewouldnotbeleavingthisroom tonight.No,hewouldnotevenbeabletosleeponthefloor,forwhateversmall amount of comfort that would allow. For the fifth…. No, was it more? Could it havebeensixorsevendays?Ryancouldn’trememberhowlonghehadbeenthere, sleeping in his wooden chair near the table.

Toaddtohisdiscomfort,hisarmstartedtothrob from the I.V. that she wasusingtokeephimalivewithoutfeedinghimdirectly.Ontopofthat,botharms had been handcuffed behind his back to the chair.

The hours passed on in the night. He had no clock, so he didn’t know whattimeitwas,buthedidknowthathecouldn’tgetmorethanafewminutes sleepatatime.Hewouldclosehiseyes,hisheadwoulddriftdowntohischest,and then the dreams would come.

Suddenly,Ryan’sheadjerkedbackwithsomuchforcehehithisheadon

52 brushfire

thebackofthechair.Hisneckbegantofeelwetasifthereweresomethingdrippingonit.Aseconddarknessenvelopedhisvision.Maybehisheadwasworsethan hethoughtatfirst.Maybeitwouldbefatal.Ryanlikedthatidea.Ifonlyhebledout during the night… he could escape. Slowly, he succumbed to sleep.

“Nasty little head wound you’ve got there, Ryan. Rough night?”

Damn. Her accent was getting on his nerves.

“Well,you’llbehappytoknowthatitisnowtimetobeginmakingdinner for our date tonight! What do you think?”

“Why don’t you stick your head up your ass, see if it fits.”

“Hmm, I think we should begin getting dinner ready…”

Onceagain,hefoundhishost’stastesinfooddissatisfying...verydissatisfying.

“Tonight I think I’d like breakfast for dinner.”

Withoutwaitingforareply,theyoungwomanrolledRyan’schairover toatablebehindhim.Sheunhandcuffedhisarms,sheknewhewastoophysically weaktodoanything.Ryantriedtostruggle,buthewaseasilysubdued.Shelaid himoutonthetableandrestrainedhisarmsneartheheadofthetable.Shethen fastenedhisfeettotheotherendofthetable,thusstretchinghimout.Lastthing shedidwastiedownhiswaistsothatshecouldminimizehisattemptstoescape while she was working.

“You’re going to enjoy this, I promise.”

PanicwasnowcoursingthroughRyanasithaddonesomanytimesbefore.

Theyounglady’sexpressionneveroncechangedwhileshewasworking.

Hercalmdemeanordidlittletopacifyhervictim.Thenoisethathumanscanproduce,evenafteryouthinkthey’vetornouttheirownvocalcords,theyjustkeep going. Oh well, that’s what earplugs are for.

ShetookthebandagesoffofRyan’sstomach.Thewoundthatsheinflictedyesterdaywasstillthere.Shecutoffthescabbedareawithascalpelthenreopenedthe hole.

InsideshefoundRyan’sintestines.Mmm…Theylookedgood.But,she’d alsoneedsomemeattomakethesausagesshewanted.Shecouldn’tusethegood meatfromhisbackwhereitistenderandbettersuitedforasteak.Shemighttry gettingitfromtherump,butthatwouldcausehimtoomuchpaintositdownwith herandshewouldn’tbeabletoenjoyhiscompany.Hmm,thethighwillhaveto suffice.

Gettingthepartsneededwasn’tthathard.Itwastheconstantwiggling fromRyanthatmadeitdifficulttogetprecisecuts.Shealmostfeltsomethingfor him…no,nevermind...shedidn’tcare.Butallthisdamnmovingaroundwasgettingtoher.However,ifsheweretogivehimanypainkillersitmightcompromise the flavor.

Andallthatbloodshehadtokeepmoppingup,itwasreallyannoyingher.

SheoncealmostconsideredtakinghimofftheI.V.thatgavehimbloodtokeephim alive.Thenshecouldjustlethimbleedoutandhaveallthesausageshewanted.But toeatalone?Never.Thatwasonlyforpeoplewithnoclass.Shewouldjusthaveto brushfire

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endure.

Withinabouttwohoursthewholeprocedurewasoverwith.Ryanwas allbandagedupwithmedicalequipmentkeepinghimalive.Pityforhimshestill wouldn’tdullthepain.Ohwell.Hewasstillscreamingwhenshelefttogrindthe meat and start making the sausages.

Hourswentby.Hewasonthattable,stretchedout.Hisbodydideverythingitcouldtocopewiththepain.Hejustwantedtodie.Damnherforkeeping himalive.Damnhisbodyforfightingforsurvival.Damntheworldforallowing this to happen.

Shehadalreadytakenmostofhisleftleg.Hisliverwaseatenlastnightand bothhisshoulderswereeatenthedaybeforethat.Nowhisintestinesandhisright thighweregoneaswell.Ryancouldonlyimaginewhatwouldbeeatentomorrow.

Helaidtherewallowinginmisery,buthehadrunoutoftearsduringtheextraction of her dinner. He couldn’t even cry.

TherewasalsoanotherpainthatRyanfelt,somewhereinhisstomach.He didn’t know what it could be. He tried to disregard it with the pain in his leg.

Hourslateritwastimeagainfortheir“date.”Ryanwasonceagainmovedtothe woodenchairwherehewasboundandrolledovertothetable.Hehadtositthere andwatchasshecookedhisfleshonthestove.Hehadtosmellhimselfbeingseasoned and served with eggs and toast.

“Youdon’tlooksogood,Ryan,wouldyoulike something to eat?”She questionedasshesatdownatthetableacrossfromhimwithherplateoffood.

“You never tire of that question, do you?” He asked weakly.

“Never,” she smiled. “But, I fear this may be our last meal together.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, when I got started making the sausages, I realized that I left my scalpelinyourstomach.Rightnowitisprobablytearingawayatsomeimportant organoranother.I’llbesurprisedifyousurvivethroughthenight,andevenifyou do, you will probably never regain consciousness.”

Suddenlyfacedwiththerealchanceforescape,Ryanwasexhilarated.

Butthequestionsstartedtofloodhismind.Hehadtoknowsomethingsbeforehe died.

“Why do you do this?”Ryan’s stomach felt like a small, sharp metallic object had just lacerated it.

“Do what?” She said innocently.

“YouknowwhatIamtalkingabout.Whydoyoueatpeopleandthenforce themtowatch?Whatsortofsickandpervertedupbringingtaughtyouthis?”The pain worked its way through his entire torso.

“Ienjoythecompanyofmenwhoknowthattheyaregoingtodie.Ifeel that they have a much deeper sense of what life really is, ironically.”

“NO!”He screamed at death,“one more question. Do you love me?”

Ryan’sbodybegantoslump.Themusclesunderhisskinbegantorandomlycontractandrelax,causinghisbodytospasm.Foambegantopourfromhismouth.His eyesrolledbackintheirsockets.DeathclaimedRyanasoneofhisownandfreed him of the young woman’s torture.

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Now,shewasallaloneatthetable.Shetookanotherbiteofsausageandtookher timechewing;therewasnoreasontoanswerhimnow.Shegiggledslightlyatsome imagining of hers, then immediately began to finish her meal.

carla wheeler

my personal prison The clock reads 9:00. I’ve been in here for an hour and it feels like an eternity.

The hands tick backwards as I watch her mouth move at lightning speed.

Everything is in slow motion and time isn’t moving.

The air holds a bitter, salty smell and I can feel the rain-filled sky.

I can almost taste the drops of rain as they sit suspended in the air.

I am stuck in this prison called English as the world outside awaits me.

Thewindowsarelikerusty,charcoalprisonbarsandlaughlikescreechinghyenas.

The windows laugh at me because I want to be outside.

They can hear my thoughts, I want to hear the birds sing their sing-song to the heavens above.

I want to see the fountains in the lake as they wash the ducks’worries away, I want to watch as the rain pours down its love for the world.

I hate this prison called English because my insides are burning, MythoughtsarewelledupinsidemelikeaballoonandIamreadytoburst,butI can’t.

Icanfeelthebright,fluorescentlightsstaringdownatmewithunblinkingeyes, and I can still hear that rambling voice that sounds like a blur to my ears.

The clock reads 9:01.

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rebekah sharpe silence Slashing, cutting, Bleeding, screaming…

Silence…

All is utterly still and quiet Not a single thing rustles Or moves after a tragic loss Death of a comrade, A confidante A follower An enemy or foe…

It doesn’t matter All is waiting, Holding its breath, Not wanting to break the silence After a life is taken Lover, friend My sunshine, moonlight and more You left How will I move past this?

I will simply be an empty shell Without your love When you are gone…

When you left, I went also, My heart stopping And not starting again Afraid to live without you…

Afraid to break the Silence

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kelly bridegum

brushďŹ re

57

58 brushďŹ re

carolyn bautista

noah bessette

scooby meredith

for the fern of it

lark anderson

picking strangers by the side of roadways

M

yeyesshootopenasIboltuprightwithagasp.Everythingthat happenedinthepastfewhourscomesbacktomeatonce,andI’m overwhelmedwithimagesandpainfulmemoriesofalltheyelling and screaming, the escape, and the accident. The accident!

“Are you all right, Maggie?”

IlookupandseeClaudesittingbytheroadside.Hisfaceisbadlyscratched, butheseemslikehe’llbefine.Inodmyheadathimslowly,andhelooksrelieved.

“Where’sRico?”Iaskquietly.Claudelooksdistant,thecoverofhispoker facemomentarilybrokenandthegriefevident.Heshakeshishead,andpointsbehindme.Iturntoseewherethecarbrokethroughtheguardrailandrolledmid-air tolandinthereservoir.Itremainstherestill,floatingupside-downintheshallow water.

“I could only save you.”

Tears well up in my eyes. I begin to sob silently, and Claude gets up to comfortme.Hehugsmebriefly,tellingmethateverythingwillbefine.Hetells me that as long as we’re together we’ll find a way. I believe him.

“Here, I was able to get this out for you.”Claude hands me Johnny, my teddy bear. “It’s still wet, but it’ll dry out.”

IsmileatClaudeandclutchmywet,stuffedbeartightly.Imaybetwelve yearsold,butIalwayshavehimwithme,eversinceRicononchalantlytossedhim my way those years ago.

“Idunnomuchaboutkids,”Ricosaidbackthen,“butif I give this to you, will you stopyourcrying?”Eversince,Johnnywasasinseparablefrommeasmybrother was.

Claude stands, and I look up at him. “What do we do now?”

“We’re going back,”he pauses and looks down at me.“You want to go back too, don’t you?”My eyes dart hesitantly to the ground: my heart is heavy brushfire

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with all that we’ve already done, and I don’t know how much more I can take.

Claudeknowsthis,andcrouchesbackdowntofaceme.“Justthislasttime,OK? And then it’ll be over, and we’ll be free.We can’t let it end like this, can we? Not after what happened today, right?”

I look into his eyes for a moment, and I know that he’s right. I nod my head in approval. “Just this last time. Promise?”

“Promise.”

TenminutespassasIdrymyselfoffinthesunwhileClaudewatchescars driveby,pickingoutstrangersbythesideoftheroadway.Finally,heseesacarthat will do approaching in the distance, and motions me over.

Istandoutinthestreet,holdingmyteddycloselyandlookingaspitifulas possible,andtheCadillacslowsdownwhenitseesmeandpullsover.Anelderly woman opens the door and looks at me, shocked.

“Oh my God! Are you all right little girl? Where are your parents?”

Ibegintosobandpointatthesmashedguardrail,andwhensheseesthe wreckage,shegaspsandrunsovertome,fumblingforacellularphonetocallin the emergency. She doesn’t notice my brother come up behind her.

Thewomansayssomethingtome,butI’mnotlistening.Claudemotions formetostepback,andInodathimandmove,somethingthatseemstogether attention.Sheturnsaroundtoseehimsmilingoddlyather.Claude’susuallyexpressionless,buthealwayssmileslikethatwhenheworks:it’showhedealswith it.

“Uh…Hellothere.Areyouwithher?”thewoman asks hesitantly. She doesn’tseetheBerettauntilit’stoolate,andthesilencermakessurethatnoone elsehearsit.ClaudeandIdragherdowntothereservoiranddropheroffnearthe ruined vehicle.

It’salwaysthesame;theyneversuspectathing.Afterall,whowouldbelievethata twelveyearoldgirlandherfourteenyearoldbrotherwerecapableofmurder?The ideaisridiculous,butitisourreality:wearemurderers,withthedeathsofdozens engraved into our consciousness.

Thistime,wewereafterpeoplewhoknewus—knewwhatwewerecapableof.Aftertheverypeoplewhotrainedus,whoexploitedusandouryouth, whomadeuskill.Weweregoingbacktothathellonelasttimetoputanendtoit all.Ifwehadanyadvantage,itwasthattheythoughtweweredead,justlikeRico.

“Are you ready Maggie?”

Inodathim,andwegetinthecar.Hopefullywe’dmakeitwithoutrunningintoacop.Ricomadesurewecoulddrive,butClaudestilllookedtooyoung to be behind a wheel.

“Weneedsomestuffbeforeweheadback,sowe’regoingHomefirst,” Claude says as he starts the car and turns us around.

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M

yparentswerekindandlovingpeoplewhodideverythingtheycouldto makeushappy.Motherwasabeautifulwomanwhohoveredoverusall thetime,nurturingusandcaringforusexactlyasamothershould.Fatherwasn’t homeveryoftenbecauseofhiswork,butwhenhewashelovedtotellusstories andplaywithus.Backthen,weweredifferentpeople:Iwasmuchmoretalkative andnotsopronetocry,andClaudewouldlaughandsmilejustlikeanyotherchild hisage.Welivedinalargehousewithawhitepicketfence,andweattendedchurch regularly. We were a normal family.

ItwasChristmas,andIwaseightyearsold.MybrotherandIwereeagerly tearingthroughwrappingpaperandribbonstoopenupourgifts,whileMother andFatherwereinthekitchenmakingushotcocoa.Thejoyofthemomentwasinterruptedbythesoundofourfrontdoorbeingkickedopen.Ourmotherscreamed andClaudeledmebythehandovertothekitchendoorwherewesawtwomen holding our parents up against the wall.

Athirdmanwearingablackleathercoatstoodseveralfeetbehindthem fingeringarevolver.“Youshouldn’thavedoneitTommy,”hetoldmyfather,“you shouldn’thavedoneit.”Themaninblackmotionedfortheotherstostepasideand raisedhisgun,firingasingleshot.Fatherslidtohiskneeslifelessly,andMother screamed once more before she joined him on the floor.

ClaudeandIwatchedhelplesslyasithappened,andfrozenwithamixture offearandhorror,wewereunabletoevenscreamorcry—we just stood there silently until we were noticed by one of the men.

“Jesus Christ! Rico, the kids! They saw it happen!” he cried out.

Ricotookalookatusandpulledouttherevolveragain.“Dammit,thisis just what I need. I don’t wanna have to kill some kids.”

Hewalkedovertousandsighed,thenraisedhisgunatClaude.Neither ofustriedtorun.Inanactofpuredefiance,westoodourgroundandrefusedto budge—wejustglaredathimwithhate-filledeyes.Ricosmiledbrieflyandlowered his gun.

“Takecareofthebodies,”hetoldoneofhismen.Heturnedtotheother one. “Jimmy, you grab these kids. We’re taking them with us.”

C

laudeandIwerestuffedintothebackseatofRico’scar,withhisgoonsoneithersideofus.He’dtoldustostayput:thathewasgoingtogotalktohisboss, andthathe’dbebackinafewminutes.Ithadalreadybeenahalfhour,andeven Jimmyandhispartnerweregettingweary.Ricohadwarnedusnottotalkbefore hetookusfromourhome,buthedidn’tneedto—wehadnothingtosay.Finally, Rico came out of the club and got back in the car.

“You two can leave now,” he said. He wasn’t talking to us.

“You sure about that?” asked Jimmy.

“Yeah. These kids are my responsibility from here on out.”

Thetwolookedateachotherandgotoutofthecartoleave.“Hopeyou know what you’re doing, Rico.”

Hestartedthecarupanddroveusdowntothedocksandthroughaseries ofabandonedwarehousesbeforehefinallyparked.Neveronceduringthetripdid brushfire

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he startled us by sighing.

“When I first saw you kids, I didn’t know what to do,”he said.“I’d never killedkidsbefore,andIdidn’twanttostart.TheonlythingIcoulddowastakeyou withme,andtheonlywaythatwouldflywiththebossisifIgotyouinvolvedinmy business.

“WhenIwasfifteen,Ikilledmyoldman.Theprickusedtogetdrunkand beatmeup,andonedayIsnappedandslithisthroat.Sincethen,theonlythingI’ve ever been good at was killing. For me, it was the only way I could survive.

“I know it probably doesn’t mean much to you kids now, but I’m sorry forwhatIdidtoyou.ItookyouwithmebecauseIthoughtthatsparingyourlives would somehow make up for all those that I’ve taken, but in the end I’ve done worsethankillyou.You’restillyoung,andyou’vegotyourentirelivesaheadof you. I don’t want you to turn out like I did.”He closed his eyes.“So do what you came here to do, and find yourselves another path.”

BANG! Claudefiredasingleshot,blowingalegoffofRico’schairandknockingtheman to the ground.“I’m not going to kill you, Rico,”he said.“You’re going to live, and you’regoingtotakecareofustoatone.Inexchange,we’regoingtoworktogether tobearthesinsofourprofession.”Ricolookedupatusindisbelief,butnodded.

“Butfirst,”Claudewenton,“therearegoingtobesomechanges.”BANG!Hefired another shot, shattering Rico’s bottle of whiskey.

Fromthatdayon,welivedasamakeshiftfamily.Forfouryears,weworked for the local Capo,Tony De Luca, killing our way to the top of the game. People whisperedghoststoriesindarkcornersaboutus,butnooneeverreallybelieved theyweretrue—thatis,unlesstheyhadtheunfortunateluckofendingupinour sights.

Wewereuntouchable—orsowebelieved.Afterall,whowouldhave thoughtthatoneofourownfriendswouldhavesoldusout?Itwasawellknown factinourorganizationthatTonywasn’tahugefanofours—itwasunnaturalfor kidstokillgrownmen,ashewouldsay—butnonethelesshetoleratedusbecause wegotthejobdone.Assassinationisalucrativebusiness,andifyou’rethebest, there’salwaysoneortwojackalswaiting—hoping—foryoutofalldownsothey cantakeyourplace.Jimmy,Rico’sformergoon,wasonesuchperson,butwhen we didn’t fall he decided to trip us.

OurlatestjobwastotakeoutGiovanniRomano,aformerSoldatwhohad decidedtojointhecompetitionandsharesecrets.Itwassupposedtobearoutine job:goin,hitthemark,andgetout.Ricowasdriving,Claudewaspoint,andIwas support. It wasn’t that simple.

Giovanniwasn’tinhisapartment,buthewaskindenoughtoleaveusC4 explosivesriggedtothefrontdoorandwindows.Theexplosionknockedusoffthe secondflooremergencyscaffoldingintothedumpsterbelow,butmiraculouslywe wereunharmed.Jimmyhadbeendumbenoughtocomewatchtheshowhimself, andwhenhesawusgetup,hecametofinishthejob.Toobadhedidn’tseeRico comingintimetododgethemovingcar—I’dhavelikedtohavedealtwithhim myself.

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Withoutknowingwhatelsetodo,wereturnedtoTony’sclubtofindout whathadhappened,andweresurprisedtohearthatwordourfailurehadalready reachedtheboss.Tonyusedthesituation,despiteJimmy’sbetrayal,asanexcuseto kickusoutoftheorganization,andhehadusescortedoutbyseveralofhisSoldati to ensure our silence. We had other plans.

Twentyminutesandacarchasestraightoutofthemovieslater,Claude andIdriveourstolenCadillactothewarehousewehadlivedoutofforthepast fouryears,mentallypreparingtoavengeRicoanddowhathehadwantedustodo so long ago: to find another path.

When we arrive, Claude opens up the black steel safe and swings the heavymetaldooropentorevealourweaponscache.Ipickupmybackpack—asilly pinkBarbiebag,completewithflowersandheartsthatRicomademeweartoaccentuatemychildhood—andholditopenforClaudesohecouldfillitwithseveral firearms, a dozen or so clips of ammo, and two bricks of plastic explosives.

“Areyouready?”heasksme.Inodmyhead,andweheadbacktothecar.

I

t’snow10o’clockatnight,andwewatchfrombehindadumpsterasthetruck backsintotheloadingdockacrossthestreet.Atmidnight,Tony’sclubwould openup,andhisshipmentofcocainehadtobereceivedandunloadedbythen.Too badIhadmadesomemodificationstothetruckearlierintheday,becausetonight was going to be a bad night for him.

Theshutterdooropensupandamanworksaforklifttopullcratesout whileahalfdozenotherscrackthemopenwithcrowbars.Asthemengothrough thecrates,oneofthemliftsupthebrickofC4I’dplanted,theblastingcapdangling fromit.“What’sthis?”heaskshisfriends,asIhitthedetonator,killingormaiming everyone in the area and throwing plastic baggies of cocaine everywhere.

ClaudeandIrunintotheruinedstagingareaandcloseandlocktheshutter.Insidethemainclubarea,wecanhearmenscramblingtorespondtotheexplosion,andwepreparetofight.Claudefiresoffseveralroundstosmashthelights, andwe’recoveredinpitchblackdarknessasmenrushintotheroom,unsureof whattoexpect.Theyfumbleaboutandsteponthebagsofdrugspoppingthem, andtheyarecutdownbyClaude’sflawlessgunfire.Bythetimeweleavetheroom to continue our pursuit of Tony, I had counted fifteen men dead.

AswemakeourwaythroughtheclubtowardsTony’sroom,severalmen trytoambushus.BetweenClaude’sgunplayandmyknives,theydon’tevenslow usdown.Claudekicksthedoortothesmallofficein,andshootsthetwomenwho risefrombehindthedesk.Behindtheirbodies,thewindowiswideopen,thecurtainsblowinginthewind.Iruntothewindowandseeafigureheadedtowardsthe parking lot.

IgrabClaudebytheshirtashestartstogothroughthewindowandstop him. He looks at me curiously, and I smile as I hold up my detonator: as Claude scoutedtheareaearlier,Ileftmyteddybear,Johnny,stuffedwithanentirebrickof C4,inthebackseatofTony’sBMW.Now,ashegetsinsideandstartstodriveoff,I saymyfinalfarewellstoJohnny,Rico,andthelifeofdeathwehadlivedforthepast fouryears.Ifliptheswitch.Theresultingexplosionislikeabittersweetperiodon brushfire

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the sentence of my life up until this point.

I look up to my brother and smile again, and for the first time in over a year he smiles back as he drops his guns. “It’s over,” he says, as he hugs me.

Wewalktogetherintothemoonlight,withnotacareintheworld.Tomorrow is an entirely new day for us, and though we have no idea where it will bringus,wetakeheartintheknowledgethataslongaswe’retogether,wecan accomplish anything.

amber sobrio today

For you, Ritty If ever my faith and efforts have been important and necessary, let now be that time.

If ever so much has depended upon so little… ashewalksintothispreviouslygrayroom, each hair on my body rises in respect and adoration… so let me not allow my immature girlish ways botch the very prize I want to acquire.

This time let me be strong and right and unbroken.

Let now be the moment I have waited for forever and let me not fail in the eye of the storm that awaits me.

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girl Girl, people in this world will take you by your curly brown hair, drag you around, stomp on you— if they want to.

People in this world will teach you to question even the color of your very own eyes, if you let ‘em.

And baby, who you gonna look to?

‘Cause there ain’t no one here to defend you if you can’t find the voice you need to defend yourself…

Baby, they’ll tell you your right foot’s your left

if they so desire.

And kid, you won’t survive out there unless you’ve made up your mind to be your own army.

Memorize which foot is which.

Know that girl in the mirror and love her for all the greatness she is, and will be— cause there are too many people in this world who are too ready to tell her otherwise, and she’s gonna need your voice to tell them— they’re wrong.

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my grandpa My grandpa is a genius.

They make him clean the restrooms At work.

It pisses me off to think He cleans up other people’s urine And shit.

My grandpa A genius Scrubbing soiled floors Late night It must have been like When Jesus washed the feet Of those he knew would betray Him It must have seemed so wrong For the Son of God To be Kneeling there The Creator of the World On his knees Cleaning soiled feet Late night “These men don’t deserve you,” I say Grandpa laughs a little Head down Back to the vomit And the piss And the feces To clean.

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sometimes Baby, Sometimes I get scared we won’t make it in this world of stone eyes, barbed wire fences… as all the forces of good and evil are riding on our backs.

But with each new step we take, we grow stronger -togetherBaby, I used to be scared that we wouldn’t make it in this world of needless abuse, unrelenting anger and hate.

But we’re making it better, we’re cleaning it up.

With each new step we grow stronger -togetherand baby the day will come when the stronger are strongest at last.

brianna thompson inseparable loneliness passes over like the shadows of clouds. warm colors fade and I couldn’t say why.

All I see are the leaves falling One by one Autumnal tears floating to the ground.

Indecisive light flickers down cool and distant.

Sunshine like a last glance.

Sunshine like goodbye Stripped of any glamour.

All I see are the leaves falling Scarlet one by one Weightless, empty, aching to land in Non-emptiness.

The softest sound on our planet: A withered leaf Settling against its own.

A subtle sound that rings out naked, Like a cry into the night absorbed by unhearing streets and shocking stars.

I have become part of this; Inseparable from the perpetual stillness of lonely sunshine, Drifting leaves And thousands of their soft sounds.

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for the hunger artist I am hungry for Temptation A fire to unravel me.

Hungry For the obliteration Of illusion (a good smack in the face).

I am Hungry to jump on a couch bed chair overstuffed anything Until I collapse Starving for InterconnectionSome sort of luminous completion among us.

For rain Utterley hopeless completely wet chaos!

For grace some sort of undulating grace To descend upon our lives.

I am hungry for A path.

I am hungry for This self of mine To keep unfolding and unfolding Soundlessly unfolding in all the ways I wouldn’t know.

Hungry to feed a nation Hungry to help give me yourself I’ll see what I can do. insatiable Can you feel this?

A hunger like storms coming You feel the pressure drop yet the energy is invisible until it breaks open And obliterates everything With an intamed completely wet chaos.

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venus I never paid attention when I shaved; it is an assumed monotony Until now.

There is a slickness and a while shine Suggesting the length of the femur.

Pointed toes draw a smooth line from my knee to the arc of my foot.

The curve of my calf descends to an ankle that Could be shy.

Then I rinse it all away and continue my day (as usual) like no Art took place here.

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jason ross mold me to your image I’m ripe for the mold I can hardly wait to go Press out another one of him We need another Plain and simple hick Press out another one of her Her looks are great And dumb as a door Mold me to your image Bend me into shape Putty in your hands Melting wax awaiting Your delicate touch Stand me up and spin me round Dip me in wax Harder to hear the moans Mold me to your image Help me take shape Dye my hair And paint my face Change the shape of who I am No one cares that I’m Now the color blue Acid bath and streak the hair Drink some water Then bathe in champagne Take what you don’t want And throw it all away Mold me to your image

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jennifer monzon

74 brushďŹ re

jex lawrence

stephanie dixon

andrea ďŹ elds

erin granat

rock lobster

T

helobsterscreamsasChiloslowlylowersitintothepot.Ididn’tbelieve himatfirstthatlobstersactuallyscream,butIcanhearit,highpitched andterrible.Chiloseemstorelishdeliveringthevaluablecreatureto itsboilingdeath.PerhapsitmakeshimfeellikeGod.Chilo,Diego,and Chewy(shortforChewbaccabecausehe’shairyanddarkandhasawickedunder bite)grewuphereinSayulita,Mexico.Theyareallcousinsandtheirfamilyowns Tigre,alocalrestaurantspecializinginthefamousSayulitalobster.Sincetheywere oldenoughtoswimtheyhavebeendivingfortheten-leggedwaterspiders,learningfasthowtoavoidthesnappingtailsandpinchingclaws.I’veknowntheguysfor afewyearsnow,eversincemybestfriendAnniestartedbringingmedowntoher beachhouse.Werunaroundwiththelocalswhenwecomedownhere,wearing just our bathing suits day and night, forgetting to put on shoes.

LasttimewecamedownIwasfifteenandhadamouthfullofbracesand achinfullofzits.NowI’mseventeenandsomewhatimproved,andIguessChilo hasacrushonme.He’stheyoungestofthethreeandspeaksthebestEnglish,and I’m still moderately afraid of boys and too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

DiegoandAnniehavehadathingsincethefirsttimeherfamilycametoSayulita, whenshewasnine.Diegowasherfirstkisswhenshewastwelveandtheystarted sleepingtogetherwhenshewasfifteen.NexttimewecometoSayulita,Diegohas hisarmaroundagirlfromMichiganandisholdingtheirlittleblondebaby.Annie realizeshoweasilythatcouldhavebeenherwithnomoneyandababyandanoncommittalMexicansometimeboyfriend.ButfornowAnnieandDiegoarequietly kissing on the couch.

Chewyhasbeenobservingeverythingfromahammockontheporch,but nowhejoinsChilointhekitchen.Chewydoesn’tusuallysaytoomuch,butwhen hedoesit’shilarious.Hesneerswiththoseimpressiveteethatthesunburnedonly cost $3 to begin with. He makes Annie and I feel like we’re on the inside, cooler brushfire

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thanthegringos,andwelovetheshockedstaresfromtouristladieswithcornrowedhairaswebouncethroughtowninthebackofDiego’struck.Theycan’t believe we actually talk to the locals, much less hang out with them.

ChiloandChewyarenowhavingfuntorturingthelobsters,dippingin onespindlylegatatimesoitscreamsbutdoesn’tdie.Thelegsareturningbright, flamingredontheendfromthescaldingwater.Thetransitionfromtheredtothe normalgreenish-blacklobstercolormakesitlookliketheanimaliswearingvampy fingernailpolish.Thesoundofthescreamsismakingmystomachhurt,asisthe ideaofactuallyeatinglobster.Ihatethetaste.LasttimeIateitIpuked,butAnnie andIdecidedIwouldn’tsayanythingbecausetheboyswentdivingespeciallyforus and we don’t want to disappoint them.

TohelpoutIstartchoppingcarrots.Theknifemakessatisfyingsmacks againstthecuttingboard.Wack!Wack!ThenoisestartlesAnnieandshelooksup fromherDiegoreverie,herpaleblueeyescontentandslightlyglassy.Apparently lobstercookingisalongprocess;we’reaboutfiveCoronasdeepatthispoint.The smelloffryingtortillasmixeswiththesimmeringpotatoesandtheoceannight breezinginthroughthewindows.Windowswithnolocksorevenshutters.Becausethat’showitishereinSayulita.Youspendyourchildhoodnotinaclassroom butinthewater,helpingthefamilybusinessbysnatchinglobstersfromtheirsandy homes.Yourunaroundwiththesamethreepeopleyourwholelife,andyoudon’t plan very far into the future. In Sayulita you think as far ahead as that moment, cooking lobsters, trying to impress American girls.

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mackenzie leighton she unfolds

one I pray to shadow’s breath like ingredients of a spirit’s broth, turning and waking my saints beneath alters of lamentation.

four

Whenwindsranfromtimesmadealive by sweat and bed sheets, I stood in dirt. I prayed for solace and was left with watery justification. I ride this cusp in passion and exhaustion and breathy obsession. I float on and beside you, taking nothing but your secrets and hold fast to a foreseen vow that someday our breeze will fly.

five

Grin, I must, at my barking doubts.

I lead and am led and grasp the majesty of this march. two When those younger make me feel younger still Heed, my awkward ballerina, until I am remembered by some andspinunderaquietstage.Thisdance as the woman inside a girl. made invisible. She fears This wisdom I exalt in my nightly sunlight inside closed doors, fears petitions, in my daily fruition. nothing but what is crashing.

I crave answers of why I might be worthy to live beside three an overwhelming monk.

Forgotten lines blur my eyes.

I can’t find the place find a trace of where I should begin.

I wonder aloud in times of ambiguity or derision, in places of doubt that pile on my mind, ceaselessly without cause for incentive.

Wonder, woman, where should you go? Flap away or live on in this nest bound by love’s mother.

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uproar on errant passage This buttery slickness of road we’re on.

With men by our sides wielding hope sold on small yellow ribbons.

The hoards and hoards of blinded believers line up in rows behind a blind leader.

We bound into the swollen land and bruise more than bandage.

Behind the noon hour, all glory is lost in realization that this road we’ve traveled never began.

danyelle overbo angelic cacophony I imagine that the beings called angels look down at us, not to guard but to observe us wandering and lost, that they stand in shadow because it is easier to observe discreetly; they must envy us our pain, our solitude, our loneliness as they perch out of sight singing away

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their cares, an angelic choir, not with golden halos and soft heavenly faces with mouths framed in a serene “O” and high pitched sweet melodies hangingintheairaroundthem the whole perfect group silhouetted in bright golden light, no. They peer down from horizon’s edge eagerly searching to catch us in some indiscretion, their gray sullen dead eyes reaching down to feel a rutting passion, our sweaty flesh clasping and bumping in a messy exchange, all of them fearing that we will discover their dark secrets as they sing their dissonance an angelic cacophony.

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concrete Poured liquid stone grainy gray and thick like an ice cream shake too dense to suck through a straw without getting a headache.

Its fat rolling fists and arms s-t-r-e-t-c-h out and slice through the land in a branching intricate web as it voraciously swallows the ground up whole.

Solidifying, it divines humanity’s abature with its place.

Ah, magic stone, my heels invoke a tap-tap-tap sound along your rigid spine.

And you sit still, settled.

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the cure

Dedicated to my mother and her new husband Loneliness is the disease probing you. Keeping the dust off the furniture, stopping the cats from scratching holes into the powder green carpets, slowly washing your dinner dish watching as the soap bubbles dance down the drain in one small group, leaving you to sleep in the too big bed an isolated little dent in the middle, the bedspread lying neatly tucked around you.

It really hits you, when the boxes fill the living room one tipped over on its side, packing foam spreading out over the floor like soft colored pillow mints sticking to everything they touch, waiting impatiently to be unpacked each a greedy waving child demanding your attention on the verge of purging their contents onto your carpets in a cloud of dust and the nauseating smell of new paint fills the house with dizziness that amidst all of the wreckage of his past colliding with yours, that this turned out to be the cure.

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april mayabb

tropical storm

T

henightIturnedtwenty-one,Isleptwithastranger.Onlyshewasn’ta stranger, there, in the dimly-lit hotel room; she was my first love. Her eyeswereCaribbeanbluebeaconsthatbeckonedtomefromacrossthe room.Shedancedlikeapalmtreeinastormwind,swayingsoothingly backandforth.Inoticedherhair—asandybeachglisteninginthedarkness.Every moveshemadewasgraceful:tossinghercascadinglocksbackoverhershoulders, slippingoutofhersecondskinofsilversatin,andtoyingwiththehemofmyskirt as she undressed me.

Iimaginedthatshewouldbetheonlyonetoevertouchmesolovingly— thatwewouldspendalifetimetogetherrememberingthatnight.Iwaswrong.I wasalsodrunk.IcouldrememberthebottlesandglassessheandIhadcollectedat thebarnextdoor.Thereweresomanyofthem,withcrushediceremnantsmelting insidethem,thattherewasnolongeranywhereformetorestmyelbowssafely.

We spent over two hours at that table, Our bodies screamed,“let’s fuck”; that much I can be sure of. The worst part, though,isthatIdon’tevenknowhername.MaybeI’dbeentooenrapturedtoask.

ButevenifIdid,hernamewaslostlikethewhisperingofanislandbreeze.Before I’d recognized its warmth, it had already moved on.

Unfortunately,shemovedlikethebreezetoo.Iwelcomedthemorning alone,withoutsomuchasagoodbye.Nonotewasleftonthenighttable,with aphonenumberandaninvitationtocall.Infact,nothingwasleftofmytropical storm. Her clothes, her name and her affection had all vanished while I slept.

Ithasbecomemypersonalquesttofindher.Almostayearhaspassed sinceourunion,butIkeeponlookingforherinsmoke-filledbars.SometimesIsee herforasecond,flashingmetheCaribbeangazefrombehindasandycurtain;then shedisappearsintotheneon,andIknowshe’sdoneitagain.Eventhoughshe’sonly really left me once, I feel a chill every night I come home alone.

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Lastweekend,thequestcametoastunninghalt;Iactuallyfoundher.She wasdancingcheek-to-cheekwithatall,muscularbrunette.Iwaspleasedtosee thatshestilllikeddarkhair.Frommyangle,though,itwashardtotellmuchelse aboutthispartnerofhers.Ihadtoworkmywaythroughtheglitteringcrowdto getabetterview.Ifoundavacanttableontheraisedplatformadjacenttothedance floor.Thisway,Icouldseevirtuallyeveryone,includingmytropicalstormandher partner.

ItwasthenthatInoticedsomethingoddaboutthebrunette.Shewas morethanjustalittletallandmuscular.Shewasahe.Hestoodseveralinchestaller thanher,withabrownponytailthatdangledontohisshoulders.Thebutton-up shirthewaswearinglookedblueunderthemixtureofneonlights,butcouldhave easilybeenblackorpurple.Heevenworeasmallgoatee,whichmadehisnoselook evenlongerandmoreslender.Watchingthetwoofthemgrindtogether,assheand Ihadoncedonebetweensweatysheets,wastoomuchformetobear.Iwantedto screamouttoher,tocallherawayfromthehairybeastshe’dbecomeentangled with.Iwantedtorescueherfromhim,andtoberewardedwithanothernightof bliss and passion.

That’snothowthingscametopass,though.Inervouslymademyway downtothedancefloor,suretoloosenmyhipsasIwalked.Everystepcloserto herbroughtmoreofmyconfidenceout.OnestepontothefloorIwasassertive, andbythetimeIstooddirectlybehindherIwassexy.Whensheturnedaround, notevenawareofmypresence,Iwasascaredadolescent.Itriedtobringforththe couragetosaysomething,butmytonguekeptgettingstuckonalumpthathad riseninmythroat.Itdidn’thelpthatIcouldseetheman’shandsslidinguptheinsidesofherturquoisedressfromwhereIwasstanding.Insteadofrescuingherfrom him,Ishrankawaytowardthebar,hopingshehadn’tnoticedmeatall.Atleastthen she couldn’t laugh at me.

Iretreatedtotheladies’room.Ipulledthedangerouslyhighheelsoffmy feetandhidmyselfinoneofthestalls.Thefoulsmellofperfume,alcoholandsweat hadblendedtotoxicproportionsthere.Iwashardlyabletokeepfromgagging,soI hurriedbackoutthewayI’dcomein.Mystockingfeetenjoyedthecoolnessofthe tilefloorandtherelieffromthetorturoushighheels.I,however,stillfeltlikeIwas going to be sick.

Insteadofheadinghome,likeIknewIshouldhave,Iwentstraighttothe bar.There,Isatdownandstrappedmyfeetbackintothedangerousheels.ThenI orderedashotoftequilawithabeerchaser.Itwasn’texactlyoneofmyfavorite drinks. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last shot of tequila I’d had. But my stomachsomehowconvincedmeitwouldstopdoingflip-flopsifIjusthadafew drinks.

Several drinks later, most of which were shots, I felt bold enough to confrontmytropicalstorm.Shewasnowsittingatatablewithherdark-haired dragon—thesameoneI’dbeenwatchingearlier.Theywereleaningclosetoone another,laughingandflirtinglikeschoolchildreninloveforthefirsttime.Itried not to growl, but instead to look sexy and assertive.

“Hey,don’tIknowyoufromsomewhere?”Ilookeddirectlyintohereyes, brushfire

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hopingtofindsomethingtheretoencourageme.Iwantedthemtotellmethatshe was relieved to see me, and that I was much better in bed than he was.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes didn’t scream for help.

“You ever been to the Emerald Club?”

“No,that’sagaybar,”shemumbledquietly.“Asyoucansee,that’snotmy kind of place.” She gestured toward her man.

“Well it was about a year ago. Don’t you remember me?”

“Obviouslyyou’remistakingherforsomeoneelse,”themancommented.

“And how would you know, buddy? Were you there?”

“Look, I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” she interrupted.

“Iwasn’tthere,butIwaswithheratthetime—andayearbeforethat,”he announced.

“Oh,Isee.”Icouldn’thelpbutlaugh.“Soshesleptwithmeinordertoget away from you!”

“Don’tyouevenfuckingtalklikethat.”Heturnedredenoughtostoptraffic. I thought he was going to jump over the table at me.

“I’veneverevenseenyoubefore,”shesaid.“Youmustjustbedrunk,why don’t I just call you a cab?”

“Yeah,sure.That’sprobablyagoodidea,”Iagreed,althoughreluctantly.

Thiswasmychancetogetherawayfromhim,ifonlyfora moment.I wantedto tellherhowmuchshe’dmeanttome,andhowbadlyI’dhurtwhensheleft.Mostly, though, I wanted her to admit that she’d felt something too.

Sherosefromthetableandtookmebyonearm.Withoutspeaking,she ledmetothebarandsettledmeonastool.Sheorderedaglassoficewaterfrom the bartender and set it in front of me.

“Nomorealcoholforyoutonight,Jamie.Yougostraighthomewhenthe cab comes, do you understand?”

“Sure,”Ihesitatedatthesoundofmyfirstname.“Justtellmeonething.”

“What?” she asked.

“What’s your name?”

“Renata,” she answered quietly, with a shy smile.

And with that, she turned around and walked back out of my life. At leastthistime,shehadn’tleftmecold.AsmanynightsasI’dspentdreamingabout findingheragainsomedayandrunningoffwithhertosomeislandparadise,itno longerseemedrealistictome.Mytropicalstormwouldhaveshimmiedawaywith me into the sunset; Renata, however, had been busy making a life for herself.

I guess it was better for both of us that way. She got to keep the boyfriendshe’dapparentlywantedtohangonto,despiteherrovingeyesofoldendays.

Maybetheyhadagreatrelationshipoutsideofthelousysex,Ithought.ButIcan onlyguess.Ijusthavetocontentmyselfwithmyownexplanations.Maybeshe’ll findherselfsearchingagainsomeday,blowingalongfromislandtoisland,whileI settledownandmakealifewithsomeone.Iwonderifsheknowswhatitistobe leftbehindwhilethewarmislandbreezemovesonahead.SomehowIfoundmyself hoping,onthelongcabridehome,thatsheneverwouldfindout.Shewasneither

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the angel nor the devil I’d imagined her to be.

Tonight is the first night of my life without her. I’m determined not to thinkofherinthesmoke-filledbarroomsandsexuallychargeddancefloors,even though I’ve done it so many times before. I’m going to go out dressed in a new pairofredleatherJimmyChoopumps,blackslackswithredpinstripes,andared camisoletop.I’mhavingdinnerwithacurvyandvivaciousbrunette,andIwant tolookimpressive.HopefullyI’llgettodancewithherafterward.NotthewayI swayedbackandforthdrunkenlyinthemidstofmytropicalstorm.I’mgoingto danceonmyowntwofeet,feelingtherhythmofthediscosurgingdownmyspine.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll find something that Renata and I never did.

paul saucier nature’s mistakes 5:10 p.m.

Mikewalkedslowlydownthecrowdedstreetwithhisheaddowntoavoid lookingatanyoftheanonymousfaceshepassed.Hewouldmuchratherlookat shoes;hewouldbeseeingenoughoftheownerslater.Eachpairpassedanonymouslythroughhisloweredfieldofvision,givinghimthesullensatisfactionthathe would not be required to interact with the owners.

5:12 p.m.

The“OPEN”signflashedfeeblyabovetheentrancetothedingyvideo store,makingtheoddhummingnoisethatMikenoticedeverytimehepassedinto hisownpersonalhell.Hesecretlyhopedthesignwouldfinallygoout,sohecould interpret that as a sign he should turn around, go home, skip work.

“Mike, you’re late,” said Merv, the shift supervisor. “I been friggin’ swamped here.”

“I know, I know, traffic was a killer.”

“Iwouldbealotmoresympathetictoyoursituationthere,ifIknewyou hadafriggin’car,”Mervsaid.Withthatinmind,Iwouldevenbesympathetictothe fact you gotta walk to work, if I didn’t know you lived two blocks from here.”He shotMikethe“Iwouldkillyouifwewerealone”look,oneMikehadbecomealltoo familiarwithoverthelastthreeyears.Althoughhehadnodesiretoemulatehim, MikefounditdifficultnottoadmireMerv.Hewasthepictureofcontentment.He wasoverweight,balding,middle-agedandunmarried;withtherecentadditionof thefurryclusterofhairabovehisliphehadalookthateverychildmolesterwould strivefor.HehadworkedatthevideostoreforlongerthanMikecaredtoponder, andneverexpressedanyqualmswithit.Despiteallthetraitsthatotherssawas

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unfavorable,MikesawinMervamoralitythathehadfoundtobealltooraresince he moved to the city.

WithoutacknowledgingMerv,Mikeliftedthehingedcutoutinthecounter,andenteredthe“EMPLOYEESONLY”area.Thenextcustomerinlinelooked his way, impatiently. He punched the time clock, and began his countdown.

5:15 p.m.

“Hi,canIhelpyou?”Mikesaid,inthesamecannedvoicethathealways used at work.

Withoutaword,themanroughlysetthevideosonthecounter,placing his membership card on top.

“Mr. Singleton,” Mike said, “it looks like you have a $4 late fee.”

“That’s not possible. I always return my videos on time. I won’t pay it.”

Asthelastwordslefttheman’smouthhebrushedthelapelofhisbusiness suit,asiftoremoveaspeckofdust,thenfoldedhishandsandplacedthemonthe counter.Mikecaughtawhiffofliquorontheman’sbreath;probablyonetoomany Glenlivetsontherockswiththeboysattheclub,orsomeotheractivitywhichkept therichfolkengagedwhentheywerenotmakingsomeone’slifemiserable.Maybe the man hated himself; Mike didn’t blame him.

“Mike,yougotaproblemoverthere?”Merv said, in his“Authoritarian Yankee”voice.ThedrawlwouldmakeanyNewYorkerproud,thekindthatmade theletter“r”obsoleteandallowedtheuseof“there”afteralmostanyword.Attimes likethis,histhickaccentwouldhangoneachwordlikesyrup,aspecialoccurrence thatheseemedtosaveforoccasionswhenheeitherknewhewasrightorwhenhe wasdealingwithoneoftheself-proclaimedelitewhofrequentedthestore.This time, Merv had double the pleasure.

“YourmanhereisclaimingthatIhaveadelinquencyfee,”Singletonsaid, beforeMikehadtheopportunitytoreply.“But,asItoldhim,thatsimplycannotbe true.Imanagemyownlawfirm,andkeepimpeccablerecordsofallmygoings-on, right down to video rentals.”

“Let’s see here…yup,”Merv said.“Here it is, September 14th, it looks likeyourented‘StarWhores’and‘Pornocchio,’bothduebackthe16th,andyou didn’treturn‘emuntilthe17th.”Mervlookedintotheman’seyes,andbrieflyto thegrowingcheckoutlinewhereothercustomershadbeguntosnickerandwhispertooneanother.Withouttryingtosuppresshissmirk,Mervsaid,“Twodollars a day per movie, so that’ll be four bucks.”

Itwasasiftheman’shand-tailoredsuithadfallenfromhisbody,leaving himexposedfortheworldtoseewhatwasunderneath.Heremovedhiswallet.

5:48 p.m.

Mike’spatiencewasalreadywearingthin;hehadbeguntofeelsicktohis stomach. “…ThosewillbedueSaturdaybeforemidnight.”Hisvoicehadtakenon thetoneofonewhocarriedavendettaforbothactionsinthepastandoneshe knewwouldcome.Onethatangeredothersnomatterwhathesaid.Heturned

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quickly,impersonally,tothenextpersoninline,utteringthesameresponsethathe often awoke to in the middle of the night: “Hi, can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Citizen Kane. I have a test tomorrow and I haven’t even seen the film yet.”

Mikelookedatthegirlinfrontofhimforasplitsecondlongerthanthe usualfacelesscustomer;hesawalookofdesperationinhereyes.Hethenrecognizedthemasthesameeyeshehadsecretlyadmiredafewtimesfromacrossthe room in Mr. Michelic’s film studies class.

“Onesecond.”Withinafewkeystrokes,hehadenoughinformationto borethegirltodeathwithWellesiantrivia,someofwhichwouldevenhelpherfor tomorrow’stest.“Yeah,it’scheckedin.Itshouldbedownthatmiddleaisleright there.”

Mikegesturedacrossthestore,totheaislebehindthecardboardcutout ofascantilycladwomanpromotingherlatestwasteoffilm.Hesawthesparkof recognition in her eyes as he pointed.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Hmm…”Helookeddownjustlongenoughtoseethetopofthebutton heworeonhisuniformmaroonpolo,acrosshischestfromhisnametag,whichsaid “I’M A CUSTOMER MANIAC!” “…I don’t think so. Enjoy your movie.”Mike watched the girl turn and leave before looking blankly at the next customer in line.

“Youreallyhitthatoneouttatheparkthere,champ,”saidMervfromthe terminaltoMike’sleft.HelookedatMikewithalopsidedgrinthatmadehismolester mustache stick straight out on one side.

Belowthecounter,awayfromcomplainingcustomereyes,Mikereplied to Merv with a single finger.

6:10 p.m.

“Hi,willthisbeallforyoutonight?”Mikeaskedasheblindlyscannedthe customer’s membership card.

“I’ll take a large popcorn, too please,”the man said, in a lispy, squeaky voice. “With extra butter.”

Mikelookedupattheman,andwonderediftheyhadapopcornlarge enough. He was about Mike’s height, but easily twice as wide.The thought of themanpassingthroughthenarrowturnstileatthestore’sexitbroughtagrin toMike’sface,despitehissourmood.Hetriednottostaretoohardattheman’s chubbyfingersasheplacedthevideosonthecounter.Beadsofsweatrolleddown theman’sforehead,despitethechillcominginthroughthenear-constantopening of the store entrance.

“Youguysreallyhavethebestselectionofnaturefilmsaround,”theman said.“I really like nature.We don’t reallygetenough of it around here, if you ask me.”

“You’vegotthatright,”saidMike,humoringtheman’sneedtobesocial.

Heglancedattheman’svideosbeforebaggingthem—aNationalGeographicfilm brushfire

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aboutsharks,andanothercalledNature’sMistakes.Hepausedtostudytheduckbilled platypus and the dodo bird on the cover.

“I’mreallylookingforwardtothatone,”themansaid.“Thoseanimalsare allevolutionarymarvels,butIguessthatjustgoestoshowthatsometimesthatjust isn’t enough.”

“Icouldn’tagreemore,”Mikesaid,ashescannedthecongestedaislesof the store.

6:55 p.m.

Mike couldn’t see the child, but he could certainly hear him.

“Jacob,c’monhoney,hurryandpickoutyourcartoon,”saidJacob’smother.

ThesoundoffallingvideocasesaccompaniedthesoundofJacob’slittle feetaroundthestore,followedbyanoccasionalscreamofdelight.Asthesoundof footstepsapproachedthecounter,thewomansetherotherchild—Jacob’sbabysister—onthecounterandbenttotakethevideofromherson.Theinfantlookedat Mikewithinnocenteyesasshebattedatthesmallrackofcandyonthecountertop.

SheknockeditoveronthesecondhitandbegantocryasboxesofMikeandIkehit the floor.

“It’sokayTaylor,youcanhavesomecandy,”themothersaid.“Don’tworry, the man will clean it up.”

7:14 p.m.

“Lookkid,Idon’tneedyourattitude,”saidthewomanassheshookher fingeraccusinglyinMike’sdirection.“Whateverhappenedtothecustomerisalways right?”

“Thatidealdiedalongwithintegrityandcommonsense.Ormaybeit’s justlikeSantaClausandtheEasterBunny—itonlyexistedinthemindsofthose who wanted it to.”

Sheglared,incredulous,foramomentbeforestormingaway;Mikefelt acoldbreezeenterthestoreasthewomanleft.Throughtheopendoorhesaw clouds gather on the horizon, signaling the first fall storm.

8:01 p.m.

“Thanksfornothing,youlittleasshole,”themansaid,asheleanedoverthe counter.HiswettieleftastreakonthebeigeFormicacountertop.“Ididn’twalk fiveblocksintherainforthisshit.Igotasickkidathomescreamingtoseesome stupid fucking purple dinosaur. ‘Checked out’ is not an option for me.”

“Look,sir,”Mikesaidasheraisedhisvoice.“TherearealotofthingsthatI amrequiredtositbackandtakeatthisjob,butbeingcursedatisnotoneofthem.

‘Checked out’ is the only option.”

“Do you know who I am?”the man said, as his faced turned an even brighter shade of red.

“Ohyeah,you’rethatguythat’sgonnabeleavin’myfriggin’storeright now,”saidMervasheliftedupthehingedcountertoptoentertheemployees’area.

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“I heard that sailor mouth of yours from across the store, for chrissakes.”

Themanheadedfortheexit,butturnedtofaceMikeandMervbefore leaving.“I’mgoingtomakesomecallstomorrow,andI’llseetoitthatIhaveboth your jobs.”

“You couldn’t handle our jobs, pal.” Merv said.

8:10 p.m.

“Can…” 8:43 p.m. “…I…” 9:32 p.m. “…help…”

10:49 p.m. “…you?”

11:07 p.m.

“Itlookslikethingsaredyingdownaroundhere,soI’mgonnagoahead and take off,”Merv said.“Try not to set the friggin’store on fire there, all right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.Thanks for backing me up with that asshole earlier.”

“Noproblem,”Mervsaid.“Weain’thighsociety,butnobodyshouldhave toputupwiththatcrap,youknowwhatI’msaying?Iguessthat’showitissometimes. You just gotta hope the next one in line will be better.”

Mike’s thoughts reflexively turned to Nature’s Mistakes.

“Oh, and be sure to empty the trash. And I’ll be reviewing the security tapes,soyoubetternotletmecatchyoudoingyourhomeworkoranythingonthe clock, you slacker.”

“Whatever,”Mikesaid.“Iknowthattheonlythingyou’llbereviewingis that case of Miller you have in your fridge.”

“Allright,yougotmethere,”Mervsmiledhislopsidedgrin.“Seeyouin the morning.”

“With bells on.”

11:43 p.m.

Withtheclosingdutiesdone,thestoreempty,andnothinglefttodobut waitfortheclocktostrikemidnightandsignalhisfreedom,timetookonthequality of a nightmare in reverse slow motion.

11:50 p.m.

Hewasnotsurprisedwhenheheardthe“DING”ofthedoorasitopened, becauseitalmostalwayshappened.Minutesbeforeclosing,somelatenightfreak wouldcomeinlookingforthenon-widescreenversionofSpartacusonBeta,or attempttodragMikeintoaconversationaboutthelossofartisticvalueinmovies brushfire

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thatreliedonCGeffects.Beforethemanandwomanhadfullypassedintothestore, Mike had delivered the terms of their entrance.“Hi.We close in ten minutes.”

ThemanwasonlyafewyearsolderthanMike,andlookedtobemoreat homewiththefiveo’clockcrowdthanthelate-nighters.Alongwithhisinescapable swagger,themanworealongleathercoat,thekindthatwouldbeequallyathome ataheavymetalconcertorapowerlunchonacoldday.Judgingbytheman’salligatorskinshoes,Mikeassumedthelatter.Hisdarkhairwasintopform,despite therain,andhisfacehadtheleatherylookthatusuallyresultedfromtoomuch tanning.Hehadthesamegeneric,unnaturalgoodlooksthatallhistypehad,probablyfromtheswollenegosofonetoomanyundeservedpromotions,ortoomany zeroesonapaycheck.Mikecertainlybelievedintheoldadage“theclothingmakes theman,”butstrictlyinapejorativesense—tohim,itwasthemarkofashallow person,devoidofcharacterandindividuality;justanothermachine.Themodernday Scarlet Letter of coldness and cruelty.

“Where’syourrestroom?”Theblonde’svoicewassoft,faraway,hereyes distant.Evenfromseveralfeetaway,Mikenoticedshesmelledlikeanoldashtray.

Sheworeashortskirtandknee-highbootswithheels,bothmadefromthesame blackpatent-leather;thenavyblueofherYankeesjacketwasfadedandstainedin places.ShehadthesortofabstractbeautyMikehadseeninpicturesofcelebritiesrecentlyreleasedfromrehab;theformerhigh-schoolcheerleaderafterrough times.

“Back of the store, turn left.”

Themanwatchedashisdateprecariouslymadeherwaythroughtherow ofvideos.HiseyesshiftedtoMike,asifhewerejustanotherfeatureofthestore’s décor; he tapped his foot impatiently. An eternity passed.

12:03 a.m.

Themangrewtiredofwaiting,andbegantobangontheclosedrestroom door.Itfinallyopened,andtheblondeemerged.Themangrabbedherbyboth arms,andshookherhard.Mikesawhismouthmovinginhalf-closed,jaw-clenched anger,butcouldnothearwhathewassaying.Themanturnedtheblondeforcefully aroundtofacethefrontofthestore,andshovedherforward.Hecaughtuptoher aftertwolargestrides,andbeganwalkingbesideher,hishandgrippingthetopof herarm.Bythemiddleoftheaisle,shehadbeguntolosebalance,buttheman didnotslow;whenshetripped,hekepthispace,half-draggingthewomanbyher arm.

“Hey, take it easy, what the hell did she do to you?”Mike said, as the couplenearedtheexit.ThemanslowedjustenoughtoshootMikealookofrage, eveninsanity.Mike’seyesmettheman’sforasplitsecond,shakingMike’snerves, causing him to look away.

Asthecouplepassedthroughtheturnstiletoexitthestore,Mikelooked backtoseethefearandangerinthewoman’seyes.Thetannedskinonherarm waswhitefromthepressureoftheman’shand.Withoutbreakingpace,thedoor slammedopen,screamingoutitshorrible“DING.”Mikehesitated,stillstunned fromwhathehadjustwitnessed.Herushedoutthedoor,butwastoolate—the

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street was empty.

12:22 a.m.

Freedom.Notthekindoffreedomhewouldgetfromgraduation,butthe immediatekindthatgrantedhimenoughtimetocatchupwithhissanity—especiallyaftersuchanight.Thekindoftrivial,short-livedfreedomhegotfrompunching“out”ontheantiquatedtimeclockbehindthecounter.Thebreathlefthismouth andnoseinsteamingtendrilsagainstthechillofthenightashelockedthedoor behindhim.Therainhadsubsidedtoaweakdrizzle,butthecold,wetweather made even the short commute to his apartment too long.

Eventhoughthestreetswerealmostempty,hiseyeswatchedthepavementashewalked.Thecementchangedfromsmooth,traffic-worngraytopitted, industrialblackasheturneddowntheservicestreetthatranbetweenbuildings.

Justtwoloadingdocks,threedumpsters,andthenhismildewedoldapartment building.Hehadlearnedtoappreciatetheeerieeffecthisfootstepsmadeasthey echoedoffthebrickwallsoneithersideofhim—buttonighthisattentionwas focusedonanothersound,oneunderneathhisfootsteps.Itwassporadic,metallic, like a miniature gong beating an odd time.

Thetrenchcoatmanfromthevideostorewassittingbehindthesecond dumpster,slouchedagainstthedirtybrickwallthatlinedtheleftsideofthealley.

Hisblackcoatwasmissing,showingthepinkdesignershirtandbluetiehewore underneath,whichturnedasplotchedpurpleneartheman’sstomach.Hisdatewas nowheretobefound.Mikewatchedashisfootrotatedonitsheel,thetoeofhis alligatorskinshoestrikingthedumpsterwithametallicthud.Awalletlayopened nexttohim.Hiseyes,hazyandfarmoredistantthanthoseofthewomanhehad earlier accompanied, met Mike’s in a silent plea for help.

Mike’s hand went instinctively to the cell phone in his pocket, but recoiled.Hebentdowninfrontoftheman,lookingintotheeyesthathadunnerved him so much just a short while ago. He looked for a reason.

1:02 a.m.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“Yes,” Mike said, tentatively. “I’d like to report a murder.”

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patsy lee hardin tuesday, november 1, 2005 Weightless worn out black Rockports tossed outside with the garbage, closet cleaned of old debris.

Word received, when a cloud covered the moon, “Your best friend died today.”

Leadenshinyblackshoessittinginthecloset.

genetic ghosts Reflected image From mirror to mirror My hairline at the nape Leftward points My tresses I daily arrange And remember mother’s woe At possessing her father’s scruff.

Grandfather I never knew, Yet, I caress him every day.

ants Creator’s energy force commenced Earth’ssealedandwhorlingatmospheric Test tube.

Ensconced upon His laboratory stool, He rests and watches His pets Build and rebuild their communities.

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my secret Walking together, you and I. The world around us opaque, your hand envelops mine.

A touch that sparks an electric hum my body welcomes.

Your surface embrace massages my clitoris, when our hands entwine.

No one knows but me, how erotic walking with you can be.

ray hardin ‘ guantanamo

Hope a lantern through black, Blinking past razor wire down Claystone paths to the sea.

A watercolor—racked brails And braces, scudded sheets Caping cirrus gray.

With achromatic desire Unfurled—but a soft wind, Just a makeshift swaying.

Then a name, blush of God In his ear? The gloaming Splintered, reshaped, revealing A new-jeweled ocean.

Lateened to a moonshard, Water rainbows smite Lapis coasts under cerise Skies, sails two-corners loose, But his heart tacking home.

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wes hoskins blood and bone and steel and chrome Her heart revolves it never is still Gunning her engine she turns up her grill Shinyandnewshewaxesandtreatsbutslickerthanslicksheglidesoffthestreet She jumps off the track rides on the rail and hits all the cracks She hugs the white line she will never go back She approaches the hill and there it transpires The road licks away like a tongue on her tires She slams her old door foot to the floor and stick into four To race to the sign the crossroads the square To feel her wheel the wind and the air Blood and bone and steel and chrome She kisses a truck she’s closer to home Her eyes open to close they bend till they break Her skin rumples and crumples and shivers and quakes They measure the skids, the coolant, the oil Her day and her life her soul and her coil They shovel the wreck her weight and her worth She’s re-called from on high away from the earth To the light she must ride to Detroit in the sky She finds her old line the makers eat lunch they joke and they chide They remember her trunk over pickles and rye They look at her frame so twisted and used They lament what they gave her has been so abused She scoffs at the belt from where she was born So weathered and cold no wonder she’s torn She asks for some keys they laugh and they say Do you get two after driving this way?

Yes it’s my right you built me a lemon it is on you I am here in this grimy old heaven Iwanteverymodelthesleekandtheblacktheredandthemeekandthewhiteand the slack.

They stopped and they stared as a man came down from the manager’s stairs You’ve forgotten your Ford your Henry your piston Here is a wrench it won’t fit an ignition a handle or door But with it you may choose to fix up your core For a mechanic down there has tuned you anew He’s given you life the one you eschew So ride a smooth path and stave off my wrath She took the good wrench a Snap-on it said and fell from Detroit better than dead.

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greg nielsen snowflakes melting on a fiery altar A Sunday cheese omelet And five cups of black coffee.

Warm sun, red leaves.

Strolling through a campus labyrinth.

I’m home inside myself.

Here among the brick, mortar and brains.

Words drift like windless snowflakes Through my head and feet.

I touch the present with empathy.

No past regrets, No fear of the future.

I’m home inside myself Sitting by the fire Sipping creative ideas And energized images.

Rare cathedral moments Transform my spine into a spire While windless snowflakes fall Melting on a fiery altar.

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