$3 USD
L I T E R A R Y
A R T S
M A G A Z I N E
Contents
1
Olivia Deeta
Brown Mountain Innocent August
4
Marcia Aldrich
Small
6
Jesse Kidd
The Fear Interior Living
12
Carlos Matos
Who’s Johnny
13
Micheal Cole
Seven Day Diary
14
Guy Choate
March 31, 2011
17
Clay Byers
Divorcing Teresa
20
Deanne Muir
Mad
25
Jessica Collins
I Pledge My Allegiance
26
April Blevins
Thoughts on Seeing a Dog I Feel Affection for Gnawing on a Fawn’s Leg
Graham Carew
Artwork
Brown Mountain Olivia Deeta you wore your underwear under your swimsuit by accident. wet feet gathering mud running to the tent from the river. tall over the campsite the brown mountain looms campfires are lit. your cousins tell stories of the lizard man out in the dark woods.
1
Innocent Olivia Deeta the blind woman sees, she sees with her hands. you cower. your little child sins, rocks in your belly. she knows. you hit your sister, neglected your cat. you cry. you were never innocent, everyone is a stained sheet.
2
August Olivia Deeta the overcast sea smells of cocoa butter and salt warm air floating mixed with wind a dead bird on the ground. the streets are clear and gray summertime is over and the beach house windows are black the waves calm and soothing.
3
Small Marcia Aldrich • Begonias: the wax begonias in shades of scarlet are known as “Dragonwing” because they are much larger in leaf and flower and provide excellent cover.
feet long, planted with begonias, was braced on the railing of the balcony outside our bedroom. To get to the balcony, slide open the glass door running the full length of the wall. I often feel I’m perched in the trees—so close I can reach out and touch them. Everything alive either wants to enter the house, burrow • We did not think holes into the wood, or nest close by. how the boundaries A small bird arrived carrying tufts of inside and outside of fine grass in its beak. It landed would be contested. on the railing, looked about, and darted into the box where I could • I pulled out my Field no longer see it under cover of the Guide to identify the begonia leaves. What I could see bird. House Sparrow. was movement in the middle of First imported from the box and a sense that something England in 1850s by was growing. Then another small Nicolas Pike. Known bird, the female, joined the building in Europe for eating project. They kept up a furious pace, caterpillars of the a tag team approach. Just a few feet snow-white linden from their nest, behind the glass, the moth. birds did not know that I saw them. Then after days of rapid enterprise, • The male has a gray the birds disappeared. I thought they crown, whitish cheek had abandoned us. Days passed. and black throat. The Storms with heavy rains came female has a bright drenching the flower box. More days throat and brighter passed like years and then just as eyes. I’d forgotten about the sparrows out popped the smallest bird from the • Weightier matters mound, perched on the rim of the are being considered box, looking a bit dazed. And then, by august bodies the great emergence—five fledglings all over the world, appeared on the rim, beaks open in about debt crises a ground swell of hunger; they were and tax revenues, incautious. Soon they flew tipsy on about overthrowing the velvet wings of freedom and governments, about made a furious chatter. After a day of borders and who listening to them calling out to each belongs and who other, they left, every single one of doesn’t, but I am them, and I held an emptiness in my positively tipsy with heart. I looked inside the box and the sparrows before found the burrowed cavity where the me. sparrows took their small repose. A flower box, three
• Our house is built on the banks of
4
the Red Cedar River that often overflows in spring. • Trees: Silver Maples. The leaves are silvery white on the underside. Roots have been known to break through basement walls. • Nest: an object inside a larger one, like the cavity within the flower box, like this here thing. • Emily Dickinson wrote: “I am small, like the wren. Small was #222 on the list of most common English words before 1923. • Both male and female do the building together and are monogamous, usually for life. • When they disappear, I ask: where did they go. Did our nest fail? • The young emerge after 15 to 17 days. • The sparrow’s furious chatter. • Small, my house, my swallow, me.
5
The Fear Jesse Kidd I am going to phrase this as a question. Did you ever experience the fear at 10 or 3 or whatever time it could be in Instanbul, or wherever you imagine those lost friends to bethe fear of sleep as a kind of permanent forgetting, that to surrender would be to forever purge the memory? I thought maybe this is about time, maybe about growing older or further apart from an idea of what you would be at an age when you thought you would be old enough that this would all be somehow irrelevant. Doubt I mean. Or forgetting. I’m not sure which I told myself- I am going to speak slowly from now on and mean what I say. I am going to try to think of this as a question. I am going to Istanbul where I will sleep
6
another thousand years before waking to another night, another room, another prince of skulls coming to cut the fear right from mefrom my bones and my skull, from the whites of my eyes and the pores of my skin, to cut from me my need to never forget, and let him. I dream I will feel nothing when he bares my skull to the air. Here we bow to the kingdom of the air. Here we drink to the fountains forever filled with coins. Here we call to the strangers past in the passage below. Come closer. Here, you will forget everything.
7
Interior Living Jesse Kidd I am going to Ikea where I will lie very, very still in my very own miniature Swedish apartment which might overlook an ocean, except there are no windows, and assuming there is only a finite quantity of ocean view to distribute among the many prospective onlookers, therefore, positioning my tiny Swedish apartment well away from the water (perhaps next to a barren cliff or an industrial waste site) seems like the humanitarian thing to do. Lying in my tiny bed which folds into the wall which enfolds the living space- 200 square feet- full of living, I sense I will need a tiny dog to keep me company. Or at least a stuffed dog. Or a picture of a dog. Okso I lie in my tiny bed with a picture
8
of my tiny dog. I think of my small, compact refrigerator filled with strange Swedish meats and berries, fishes that have been buried a hundred days in volcanic sand before making their way across the mountains and the fjords to the small table where sits a certain Swedish family- man, woman (or woman, woman- or two men- or maybe transvestites), child of indeterminate age and sex. We need not contemplate orgies when viewing this family, though one senses they would not judge us should we choose to do so. The notion of this family existing in what must be a parallel dimension to the one I currently inhabit, alone in my tiny bed in my tiny apartment next to the industrial waste site. A voice from yet another dimension shoots up out of the nether to pronounce that the store will be closing
9
in fifteen minutes, whatever that means. I close my eyes. I see the family rising from the steaming leftovers of the sensible portions of herring. I imagine them- man and child, woman and man and child- walking hand in hand through that door, that door that leads outside of their tiny apartment, walking quietly together outside, where quietly they take in a view of the ocean as a storm approaches and watch how it gleams in their eyes, violent and vast and wild without measure.
10
11
Who’s Johnny Carlos Matos America. In America, Johnny was the name of every cool guy in every cool movie. There was a Johnny in Grease. There was a Johnny in The Karate Kid. There was a Johnny in The Outsiders. Let’s not forget El Debarge’s, “Who’s Johnny” from one of his favorite movies, Short Circuit. Number five is alive. And, of course, Marty McFly jinning “Johnny B Goode” at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance with Marvin Berry and the Starlighters. Oddly enough, John (João) was the name of countless men in his family, but his parents, easing into assimilation, had given him the most American name they could think of, a name his mother caught from General Hospital. He hated the way it sounded in other people’s mouths— off the cuff like it was nothing too serious, like it was something for selling soap or toothpaste—everything important burned away by nothing more than a little lemon on the backs of their front teeth. Not good for hiding, not good for running, not good for accosting those with easy smiles or difficult ones. It didn’t match the sour face in his genes, across the ocean to some place old and painted on caves.
12
Seven Day Diary Michael Cole Some days you fall into the sky some days the sky falls on you. But today most of us will check the time by simply sliding our hands from our thighs to our hearts to measure the effects of this day’s appetite. The clouds seed the same ideas either way. Light will spill when it’s ready, so the sun, so the stars, so the flashlights & high beams, the fluorescents humming for new markets & marquees that reach for our eyes like newly navigated islands when our eyes only wanted to be wings. The heart is a ship with sails wrap the ropes around your wrists hold the horizon rather than the wake behind you. Every experience you’ve ever held in your hands is stored in the soles of your heels like rain in the clouds.
13
March 31, 2011 Guy Choate I went to the grocery store today, but with all of the groceries I keep, not even a trained chef can make anything fancier than scrambled eggs with spinach and cheese. My roommate and I aren’t always on the same schedule, so trying to share meals isn’t really an option. Although, we did get drunk the other night and make tacos together out of the bacon cheeseburger-flavored deer meat her little sister had given her. Her little sister has her life together--married, a steady job--just like my older sister. My roommate and I have neither of those things, the knowledge of which bonds us together, I think. But, usually I’m all alone, and making a meal for one person just isn’t worth the effort.
We’re scavenging our kitchen together now, though. It’s
nearly midnight and both of our sisters have probably been in bed for hours, resting up for work in the morning.
“I want some more Ramen, but how much sodium is that?”
My roommate asks rhetorically. We’re each taking down a package of 25-cent noodles per day. She usually eats hers with Sriracha, while I’ve perfected a dish that adds tuna and cheddar cheese. We swap information on things that are on sale at the grocery store--I tell her that I came home with pre-seasoned tomatoes and okra in the can for 99 cents today. She loves things that are already seasoned.
We talk about things we wanted to eat today and after
drooling over the idea of a couple of burgers from this place called Port of Call down the street, we turn back to our barren kitchen to
14
search for a possible substitute. She eats a can of Taco Bell-brand refried beans. I dip a spoon into my jar of peanut butter and then drag it through a bulk container of raw oats. Even though we’re talking about chocolate oatmeal cookies our moms used to make and we’d eat, still warm, off the wax paper, the smell of rolled oats makes me feel like I’m eating horse food.
Exactly one mile from my house, there’s a casino that sends
me coupons twice a month to come eat at their buffet for free. The coupons are only good for one free buffet because they want me to come alone and not have anyone there to talk me out of spending all night. They include the number to call should I have a gambling problem, but I get no cell phone reception as I walk past the Pai Gow table with a belly full of frog legs and sweet potatoes.
I’ll be 30 years old in 258 days, and this is my life. I still feel
like I have the potential to be something great, but this is my life. At least for now.
15
16
Divorcing Teresa Clay Byers Every Winter Teresa returned to Red Vine Village to divorce her husband. The journey became easier every year but the end result would always take something from her. She marched along in her thick brown boots she bought from a roadside merchant when the weather turned sour. Her heart was good. The ground beneath her feet knew she was right and pure. However deeper down something wrong was growing in power, both in the Earth and in the mind of Teresa. The chill in the air corrupted her. The Red Vine Village began to appear on the horizon. The village is filled with massive spires of vines and gnarled, knotted ancientwood. All rusted red in color. She saw these leviathans and knew she had to prepare. She rounded the corner and entered the town square. She was met with the familiar stench of monkfish and goat filth that haunted the village for centuries. The entire village was waiting in a semi-circle around the table Teresa knew all too well. On it lay her newest “husband�, bound at the arms, legs, and throat by ropes blessed by the village priest. Beside the table her instruments for divorcing him were laid out in a mahogany leather tool belt. She was nearly fifty feet away from him but she was still blinded by glint put off by her perfectly crafted instruments. The tears began to stream down her face but she did not break her stride. However she did pause once out of respect to the UnderBeast flying high overhead, its leathery wings deafening all in attendance. It had come only as an observer to make sure everything went according to the ritual. This will be my last one she thought. Let them take
17
me away but I will not be a slave to this any longer. She reached the table as the sun was reaching noontime. She looked down at the writhing man and could feel the desire to run rise up inside her like a railroad spike. The crowd began to chant words that she knew by heart but no longer heard. She grasped the short curved blade and the deepearth shuddered. The chanting grew louder and louder but Teresa did not notice. Not anymore at least. Even though the man was gagged he tried with all his being to protest what was about to occur. With a look of sympathy and familiarity in her eyes Teresa went about the task of plunging the blade under the ribcage at the belly. The Underbeast above belched out a mountain-crashing screech. She cut long and deep into the gurgling soul. Then Teresa plunged her arm deep into the writhing and squealing thing on the table. When her elbow deep arm was black with blood she closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. With a forced yank she removed her arm from the now motionless man. In her glistening hand was the reason she had been summoned as she had been so many times before. A ruby-like crystal glinted horrible in the oppressing sunlight. The villagers shielded their eyes as much as they could without resisting the urge to view the object. She took the rag next to the table and wiped her hands clean. It was done. As she left the village her boots began to let out a metallic, clanging echo with each step. When she reached the edge of town she pushed open the rusted red metal door and exited the old warehouse into the midday chill. As she gently closed the door
18
she saw that the attentive semi-circle or rats that had witnessed it all were now swarming the metal gurney. And from above a lone bat screeched in excitement as it awaited picking off the leftovers. She padlocked the door and walked back to her Volvo. It started with a lurch and she drove off down Red Vine Lane, “Wouldn’t it Be Nice” by the Beach Boys played on the radio. Snow began to fall.
19
Mad Deanne Muir God I think you really did go mad clasping cold crackling sand pies from inbetween your toes and underneath your legs God you can’t make it sing and you can’t make it bring me the warmth that I desire my god I see it stretching and so so badly I want the moon to crack and split wide open how I wish it was all splitting open and spilling out something interesting (like bats that would be interesting) and then maybe you would look away from heaven you were the one who loved Jesus really loved Jesus
20
It was probably the long hair after all we loved those long haired men didn’t we? I think it happened when we were sitting on those benches I would watch you turn and I don’t you think you ever noticed the scent of powder or clean or old of hairspray or slumber or guilt that stagnated in the walls you could only see that man all you could see was the son and his long wavy hair burning and flaxen he could save you better than anyone else ever could and when everyone else has been feeling men and knowing men and being made beautiful by men he would come home to you come home right after a long day of healing,praying, proclaiming, and
21
kneeling his sandals dusty, wearing tears of the sick, the dying, the dead the stench of a thousand gray diseases that could eat flesh and bones and days and tomorrows and also the blood of a martyr he would come home to you with all of that suffering staining him from his glowing head to his burning feet, his face so handsome, his hands callused from the foreheads of widows and lepers he reaches for you when he’s dying he’ll think your name the way it sounded when he whispered it into your hair the spit on his skin will remind him of you and of your collective bed
22
I myself loved John the Baptist who washed him in the river I hope I don’t always fall for the ones who are beheaded you always argued that crucifixion was much more glamorous that an old fashioned beheading yes you were the mad one you were stark raving mad I play the piano by the way perfectly on my knees I could be the mad one but you will never be the only one he sees
23
24
I Pledge My Allegiance Jessica Collins I pledge my allegiance to the state of Florida Because I was born dripping like the juice from the oranges in the grove Where we climbed over the barbed fence to rip bitter rinds with our milk teeth We wore our wounds like red and purple medals hanging from our shins and arms Until the sun scorched scars paled to a ghostly white to make us forget where we came from Maybe my roots never took hold But I sure did spit those seeds at every stoplight on my way out
25
Thoughts on Seeing a Dog I Feel Affection for Gnawing on a Fawn’s Leg April Blevins
First, I think of Michael Butler, whom we lost in the ninth grade. His younger brother mistook him for a deer in the fading light and shot him in the chest. They said he died instantly. That was the first we knew of death, and we weren’t sure what to say to his younger brother. We said nothing, gave sideways glances and avoided him. It wasn’t that we blamed him; we just didn’t know how to be that close to mortality. I wonder if you found the fawn lying in the woods already dead or if you actually killed it. I hope that you found it, though I know you are capable of killing. I recognize it’s irrational, but I don’t want you to be the kind of dog that does that, slaughters for a chew toy. I remember the doe hanging in my grandfather’s barn while he showed me how to clean my kill. He tied ropes to each of her hind legs and strung her up from a rafter. I watched as he cut the skin, making a circle around the limbs with his knife, exposing a band of muscle on each. I couldn’t take any more after that and turned my eyes away. Until that nauseous moment, I was excited to kill and butcher my own food. But I couldn’t stomach this animal in the messy transition. You chew at the knee joint. The fur is ragged and torn. Loose strings of tendon hang out of the open wound, but you don’t seem to notice. You gnaw on the skinny long bone and tear at the exposed flesh. Though I know this act is pure instinct for you, I can’t help but feel a little ashamed that you are stronger than I am, that you can actually follow through on this meal. And I don’t know which I feel
26
more, fear or respect. My father killed himself with his hunting rifle. He sat against a tree in his front yard one December morning, and-That is all I know. I’ve tried countless times to imagine the next few seconds, or maybe it was minutes. His shoulders bowed, the bend of his elbows as he steadied the gun with one hand and cradled the trigger with the other. I know his last thought involved setting up the shot and pulling the trigger just like he taught me while hunting. I wonder if he aimed at a specific part of himself, if he rested his head on the barrel, or if he turned and looked away. Thing is, I don’t actually want to know the truth. Worrying over the mechanics of this act is far safer than imagining the hours before and after it: the moment the decision was made, the moment the flies set in. When I call you back to the car so we can leave this rural place and return to the city, you droWp the grotesque trophy and happily jump in the back. You are obedient, eager to please, the dog I knew before today. I get in the driver’s seat, and you nudge my shoulder with your nose. I can’t get over how quickly that violent, macabre scene gave way to normalcy. I turn to pet you, rub under your chin the way I know you like. But with our faces nearly touching here in the car, I smell the acrid scent of blood and decay on your breath. Good, I think. She must have found it already dead. I am relieved. But the blood stains around your mouth remind me of what you are capable of doing, what we are all capable of doing.
27
28
This fall issue of the Furious Season was edited by Coleen Muir & Shannon Barringer. The artwork on the cover and throughout was created by Graham Carew. The book design and Furious Season logo were created by Christian Baumgart. This issue was printed in Charlotte, North Carolina.
For artwork by Graham Carew contact: grahamcarew@gmail.com www.grahamcarew.com Submissions: May be sent at anytime, via email: furiousseason@gmail.com. Copyright: 2013 Furious Season
FALL 2013 | ISSUE 4