C R AC K T HE SP IN E Issue Thirteen
Crack the Spine Issue Thirteen February 30, 2012 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2012 by Crack the Spine
Cover Art “Flower House” by Christopher Woods Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Texas. He is the author of a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. His photographs appeared recently in TIFERET, SAN PEDRO RIVER REVIEW, GENERATIONS and 2 BRIDGES REVIEW.
Contents Robin van Eck……………….…………….………Crabapples & Pickles Nora Weston……………………...…...….…………..Feudality of When On the Edge of Suspension Kenneth Radu………………..…..………………….…….…….Sparrows Kyle Sunby…….……………………………......…………..Gastromancy Anthony J. Langford…………………………….…….…...Me Old Mate Matt Dube………………………...……...……………..Tools For the Job Gene Hines……………………………………...…..Bottle of Ginger Ale
Crabapples & Pickles By Robin van Eck
Chop 2 cups of crabapples and 6 pickles into small pieces and cook in boiling water until water evaporates then mash into a thick paste. Nate stares at the hand scrawled words on the recipe card. If Grandma says it will work, it must be true. The bowl of crabapples he stole off Mr. Dorson's tree this morning is on the counter, alongside a jar of Bick's Yum Yum's. Nate grabs a paring knife from the drawer and glances at the clock. Mom's at work, Grandma went to play Bridge with Mrs. Sherman down the street. Who knows where Sidney is. Neither should be back until late afternoon. Surely that's enough time to get this done and clean up. Doesn’t have to be perfect cubes, he thinks, as he attacks the sour red apples with the knife and dumps them in the pot on the stove. A few little round beasts slide out from under the knife and roll across the floor. He scoops them up and tosses them in the pot, then moves to the pickles. The recipe calls for six. He fills a bowl with coin-shaped cucumbers and stands them end to end to resemble a whole pickle. When he thinks he has the equivalent of six, he slices them into smaller bite-sized pieces. Streams of sweet juice run down the cutting board and drip onto the floor. Something seems a little off. Maybe it was the way Grandma stared at him this morning or the shared glances between her and his mother. Nate pushes the uneasiness from his mind and looks down at his bare chest. Pathetic. Already fourteen years old, there should be something there. Anything. He cuts the pickles with increased fervor. Juice splatters his feet as he slides the pieces into the pot. The flame on the stove goes higher. He stands back and watches, waiting for the water to bubble. Impatient, he stabs at the floating chunks of fruit. How long is this going to take? If he'd read the instructions on the box of Rogaine he would have avoided the itchy rash. Not recommended for use on any part of the body other than scalp. Could they have made the words any smaller? The commercials called it the proven method of hair growth for men. He saved a month’s worth of allowance to buy it. When he walked out of Shoppers Drug Mart with the box stuffed in the bottom of his backpack, the sun seemed brighter.
Nate hurried home and locked himself in the bathroom. Discarded cardboard packaging fell in the sink. He skimmed the instructions. Seemed easy enough. He tore off his shirt and grimaced. Please, please, let this work. A quarter size blob of foam expanded to fill his palm which he spread liberally over his chest in large round circles. A little more, he added to the really bare spots. The foam was sticky like mousse and evaporated on contact. With his entire chest saturated, he put his shirt back on and hid the cans and torn packaging in the back of his closet. A painful burning sensation woke him early the next morning. When he took off his pajama shirt his upper torso was one fiery raised welt. Oh no! Tears stung his eyes. No. No. No. He touched his chest with the tip of his finger. A searing pain, like he was being skewered, ripped through his chest. “Mom,” he screamed. “Help.” “Good grief, Nathan. What's all the racket?” She appeared in the doorway, still wiping sleep from her eyes. “Oh for the love of Pete! What did you do?” “I don't know. It hurts.” Fatigue forgotten, his mother jumped into emergency combat mode. “Come on. Get dressed. We're going to the hospital.” Nate shook his head. “No. Can't you do something?” “If I knew what it was, maybe. But –” Nate raced from the bathroom and to his bedroom. There was no way he was going to tell some doctor what he had done. It was bad enough he couldn't grow hair like everyone else. No way. Not going to happen. He handed the bottle to his mother. “Oh. You didn't?” The corner of her mouth twitched. Nate nodded. She must be thinking what an imbecile her only son was. And why couldn't she have a normal kid, just once. “Get in the bathtub,” she said. “What are going to do?” “Just take off your pants and stand still.” “But...”
Nate stood naked, hands over his vital areas. His mother nudged him into the tub and turned on the shower. “If your father could see you now...” she shook her head. With the hand held nozzle she washed his chest with warm water, then dabbed it dry. He grit his teeth, but didn't fuss. From the shelf above the toilet she grabbed a container of thick white cream that smelled like oranges and smeared it over his chest. “Stay there,” she said, making a quick exit. Where did she think he was going to go? “Can I stay home today?” he called. When she returned, a silky pink blouse was draped over her arm. One that buttoned up the front. “I'm not putting that on,” he said. “You will if you don't want it to hurt.” She shook the shirt out in front of him. A large cluster of cloth bunched together to look like a flower taunted him. That was Friday. By Monday the welts were gone, but the skin was still severely inflamed like a bad sunburn. After a month, only a few red dots remained. Still no hair. Nate promised his mother he would stop the antics and allow himself to mature at the rate ‘the good Lord’ intended. But she was not, nor had she ever been, a teenage boy. How could she possibly understand? The week preceding the start of summer vacation, Nate searched the internet for alternative methods of follicle stimulation. Pages listed organic powders, herbal remedies like Saw Palmetto and Stinging Nettle Root, aloe vera, and massage. Last summer he'd fallen into a patch of stinging nettle. His hand prickled for days; no way was he putting that on his chest. Sidney, his sister, wasn't due home from college for another week. His mother was out in the backyard pulling vegetables for dinner. He grabbed the bottle of aloe vera from under the bathroom sink and shut himself in his room. He took off his shirt and sat on the bed. Green gel filled his palm. In small circles he massaged it into his chest then filled his palm again. He gripped his boobs with both hands, kneading the gel into his skin. It was wet like water, but sticky. He closed his eyes. Please let this work. The floor creaked. He opened his eyes. Sidney leaned against the bedroom door frame, arms crossed. Heat rose in his cheeks. He dropped his hands to his lap and tried to look casual.
Sidney shook her head. “Can't you masturbate like a normal kid? God, you're so weird.” “Get out of here,” The order lacked substance as his voice went an octave higher. Sidney laughed. He threw the open bottle at her head, but she was gone. The bottle hit the wall. Green gel snaked down the wall, like snot from a toddler's nose. By the time Grandma came to visit a few weeks later, he'd tried everything, to no avail. All that was left was the Chinese powder he'd found in Nature's Best. The label was in Chinese but how hard could it be? When Grandma went down for a nap, he slipped into the bathroom. The memories of the Rogaine incident flooded back. He started to sweat. His hands became clammy, water dripped down his side. Even his chin and neck glistened. It's all natural, he convinced himself. What harm could it do? The top of the container resembled a salt shaker. The white powder smelled earthy, like damp wood. He turned it over and began to shake it, the way his mother seasoned fresh meat. The powder fell down the front of his pants, and on the bathmat. But much of it stuck to his skin, like glue. Mixed with the liquid from his pores, the powder became a thick doughy film. It hardened instantly. Flour and water would have given him the same result, and would have been cheaper. “Owwww.” “Quit moving,” Grandma said as she picked dried flakes of dough off his skin, any possible growth ripped away with the pastry. “What were you doing, trying to papier mache yourself? Turn yourself into a piñata? Good heavens, boy.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “What's this all about anyway? Just let nature do its thing. ” She shook her head. This morning at breakfast Grandma looked like she wanted to say something. As soon as his mother left for work, she leaned across the table. “Now if you really want something that will work. Try this.” She handed him the recipe card that now lies on the counter, splattered with pickle juice. Let cool before applying to skin. The mixture is thick and lumpy like the homemade apple sauce Grandma likes to make but smells like sour feet. Use liberally on all areas of desired growth.
With a wooden spoon he violently mixes the goo then rams the potato masher into it until the lumps are gone. Wash the desired area with soap and water before application. Nate grabs a cloth and washes his front, then dries it with a tea towel. The yellowish, red mixture emits violent tongues of heat. How long is he supposed to wait? It's definitely too hot, but he's impatient. He blows into the pot, stirs it some more, but it continues to steam. He combs his hand through his hair in frustration. Flakes of that stupid powder still clung to several strands. Think, think. Nate grabs a plate and spreads spoonfuls of sauce across the surface. He blows then tests it with his finger. It's still warm, but okay. He picks up a handful and spreads it across his chest. The snotty globs slide down his stomach and fall to the floor with a splat. No! That's not supposed to happen. He stares at the mess at his feet then at the paper on the counter. The last sentence is illegible thanks to the vinegar and dill. What is he doing wrong? Think, think, think. Nate scoops more sauce onto the plate then lies on the kitchen floor. He tips the plate and spreads the sauce over his chest until it is completely covered. Juice drips down his side and puddles onto the floor but the sauce stays. How long is he supposed to wait? If he stays too long the hair might become thick and bushy, but if not long enough...he didn't want to think about that. He stares at the ceiling, wondering how the grease stains got there. Juice absorbs into his skin. Something stirs on his chest. Could it really be working? Nate scrambles to his feet, brushes sauce onto the floor and hurries to the bathroom. The mirror is too small, the lighting all wrong. At the full length mirror in his mother's room, he puffs his chest and spreads his arms. He leans closer, his forehead to the glass. Yes! There's two, maybe even three, tiny hairs in the middle of his chest. He touches them, feels the pointed heads against his finger. See. They just need a little encouragement. Now if only they were a little darker.
Nate races back to the bathroom, grabs his mother's pink disposable razor and lavender shaving cream off the edge of the tub and sits on the toilet.
Robin’s short stories, articles and book reviews have been published online and in print. Most recently, her short story, Wednesday, was publishing in Freshwater Pearls Anthology, Recliner Books 2011 and another story was short-listed for Freefall Magazine’s 2010 Prose and Poetry Contest. She lives in Calgary with her husband and daughter and is currently working on her first novel.
Feudality of When By Nora Weston
ex-o-tic matter scatters, universally opposing austerity illumination blinks, sparking veraciousness that whips into cosmos when, sprinkled heavens scream still too silent baryonic particles win as life on Earth begins
On the Edge of Suspension By Nora Weston after the white puffs descend to crash upon soaking red ground when starlight sizzles, discontent but in awe of the screeching sounds while muffled ears deny guilt, pretend and suspend belief of harmony’s death since iniquity is never mankind’s friend yet trickery dresses well for the feast a feast imagined with barbecued pig juicy meat to gobble; men do love to eat time flies engrossed by decadence until burnt eyes open, tears ignite
Nora Weston’s fiction and poetry slips in-between and all around science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Her latest novels are Guardian 2632 and The Twelfth Paladin published by Melange Books. Bete Noire will feature her work inApril 2012, plus her work can be found online, in magazines, and anthologies. Nora loves all things spooky, but there is nothing more frightening to her than teenagers with driving permits...and she’s taught five of these terrifying creatures to drive.
Sparrows By Kenneth Radu
Birds flustered among the artificial trees in the mall. Again checking his cell phone (no missed calls), Lewis tried not to look anxious while sitting on the bench next to the waterless fountain. Not all the coins, mostly pennies and dimes, had been collected for distribution to various charities listed on a sign tacked to one of the potted polyurethane trunks. Danny had agreed to meet at 9:30 before most of the stores opened at ten. That was twenty minutes ago. He had arrived just after nine and walked past the coffee shop which began brewing at eight. Two security guards were joshing in French with the woman who pressed down various levers on the machines. Yes, he noticed holsters at the hip. A gaggle of seniors in bright sweats flocked by in their spotless running-shoes, a group power-walking session. Lewis had avoided the mania of the superannuated to exercise in crowds. He didn’t think he’d meet anyone he knew because his friends loudly despised the mall, the experience of buying shoes or bagels somehow more authentic and virtuous if done within a square mile of downtown Montreal. What a dull brown-sodden bird, those sparrows. What was the French name for them? He scanned all the French advertising within view as if expecting to find a translation. Perhaps they had flown in through a skylight except, given the airconditioning; he didn’t think the windows were ever opened. Flitting from branch to branch, sometimes hopping among the leaves that looked real, they neither chirped nor sang. He wondered how they found nourishment and then imagined them flying to the fast food court down a way and pecking at Thai noodles, pizza crumbs or bits of chicken brochettes off the floor before the cleaning staff arrived. So common as to be
unremarkable, their presence taken for granted, even inside a shopping plaza: moineau, yes, les moineaux sont bruns et ennuyeux. Brown and boring in both languages. Danny and he would greet in this spot then trundle off for a coffee and pastry to consume in a corner and talk privately about a lengthy essay which the boy must submit within a week to a history professor who did not grant extensions. Lewis checked his watch again. The later Danny was, the less time they would have together. The requirements thus far had presented little difficulty since, aside from three lives sessions during the term; most of the course was conducted on-line and consisted of 12 weekly responses to questions based upon specific readings in a course pack. Danny had scanned the texts and emailed them to Lewis who, knowing his former student’s password to the site, read them, also listened to the professor’s video lecture, chose a question, wrote the 400 hundred words, then emailed the response to Danny. Where was he? Why had he not managed his affairs to be here on time? Of course Lewis understood that a major essay was to be handed in personally in at the end of semester. Although Danny had promised to try to write it himself, he procrastinated and Lewis knew the boy needed him to do the work. Ah, at last, there he was, approaching in torn designers jeans and body-hugging pink T-shirt painted over with a picture of a metallic blue spider stitched in luminescent threads. Even from where he sat, Lewis noticed how the silver chains around Danny’s neck reflected light and sparkled. Upon seeing Lewis, he smiled, revealing the white teeth of consistent dental work and family wealth. His lustrous black hair, long and wavy, and golden-brown skin tones reminded Lewis of Bollywood actors primped with sheen. Graceful on his feet, he sauntered as if about to dance. Subject to a proper makeover Danny could easily pose for Gentleman’s Quarterly or become an alluring youth advertising sexy wear. Lewis glanced at the provocative teen in a store window poster rising above summer shorts and bathing suits.
A sparrow flung itself off a branch and seemed to flip between trees just as Lewis’s heart leaped. How hard to refuse beauty: it stung resistance and wound it up in silken threads. He rose to embrace Danny, as was now their custom upon greeting, but the youth stopped and flicked open his cell phone. Lewis couldn’t hear what Danny said when he stopped to chat only metres away despite being late. Returning to his position on the bench in front of the empty fountain, Lewis tried not to feel slightly affronted, more than slightly. He pretended to count the remaining coins. It had been his plan to refuse to write the essay, to resist, until he saw Danny walking towards him and he would succumb to his student’s presence and pleas. When the cell phone flashed out of a pocket, once again Lewis resented being put on hold. If he were committed to a friend of whom he wished to ask a very great favour, he wouldn’t make him wait. Such were the mores of the day: cell phones always interrupted and took precedence. Any sense of priority perished the moment the musical tones rang or the phone hummed in a tight pocket. The last time they enjoyed coffee and patisseries together, Danny answered his phone twice, checked it four times, and text-messaged once, even logged on to Facebook and laughed over a status. He had so many friends, both real and virtual. “Could I at least have your attention for a half hour?” “You got it, man.” Danny failed to notice, or chose not to, the asperity in his tutor’s voice. Clerks were unlocking and pushing aside the security gates in front of store entrances. Shoppers appeared as if emerging from the walls, stepping out from behind trees, and swarming around the fountain. Danny laughed into his cell phone and shrugged his shoulders. Lewis looked for the sparrows which had become imperceptible. His legs were beginning to stiffen as they often did from prolonged
sitting. Danny’s lustre dimmed somewhat as people crowded the corridor and the singular boy merged into the many, his bright shining light occasionally obscured. Lewis only had an hour, hoping to spend all of it with his young friend, admiring the vibrant eyes, his endearing voice, and relishing the vicarious experience of young aspiration and energy. The power-walking seniors returned in a hustle. No doubt all that running about shopping malls benefitted their attenuated heart. At home he cycled on a stationary bike like Alice running as fast as she could in the same spot while he re-read classics on his e-Reader, a gift from Danny last Christmas for editing and improving several papers throughout the last and the current academic year. Reading helped to ease the mind-deadening tedium of exercise. A girl stepped between Lewis and Danny who embraced her. She was slight, pretty in that standard, underfed, long-brown-hair way of girls, and Lewis, impatient, decided to interrupt the meeting. “Danny.” “Hey, Lewis. Sandra this is my friend Lewis.” He smiled and said hello, but she acknowledged his presence with a slight rising of an eyebrow. He recognized that bone-deep indifference, even hostility, of the young to the old, as if he had no more significance than, well, a common sparrow. Lewis stepped aside as the girl, having dealt with a piece of irrelevance, turned her back and continued flirting. Danny chatted about a forthcoming concert and promised to get together soon before she slithered away in her tight jeans and sequined sandals. He beamed and joked about how hot she was, which Lewis admitted, if one liked rude skinny girls, was true. “You’re late.”
“What are you, my teacher?” Catching the undertone of offense, Lewis dropped the matter and said how much he had been looking forward to seeing Danny again. He loved their conversations over coffee. “I don’t have much time this morning we’ll have to be quick.” The security guards walked by, if not hand in hand, then synchronized like marchers in a parade. Last week thieves had absconded with gold watches and diamond rings from an upscale jewellery store just before closing time. There had been three robberies, two successful, in the past month alone. Several stores had posted signs about shoplifters being pursued and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Danny found a suitable table while he bought the coffee but decided against patisserie, despite his hankering after mille-feuille. Two TV monitors on different stations silently presented the news of the day: a bank executive arrested for purloining funds, a European politician involved in a sexual liaison with an underage girl, a shooting spree somewhere in the States, and suicide bombers in the Middle East. Sitting down, he glimpsed another chain to the collection glittering on Danny’s neck, this one sporting a Byzantine cross pendant. Lewis nurtured a fantasy wherein Danny would offer a chain to his teacher out of love and gratitude: an inappropriate gesture no doubt in some eyes, but one he believed he had earned. Danny shifted on the bench and drank his coffee fast, checked his cell phone, and simultaneously informed Lewis that he needed the essay by the end of the week. Lewis wanted a general conversation, some personal revelations, just to share ideas and talk about something other than academic work. He also could have mentioned that his last girl friend – at his age the term sounded ludicrous – had ended their relationship after five years. He didn’t think he would have another lover. This morning he had awakened with a dizzying sensation that, really, no one would notice his absence if he
hadn’t awakened at all. Old friends all went about their business and lost themselves in family throngs. He had chosen neither to marry nor to father children and he wasn’t about to change his mind now and make a fool of himself like an aged rock star. His mother, incontinent and shrinking in a quilted house robe, couldn’t stay focused long enough to finish a sentence in the nursing home. She took a dozen prescription pills daily, several having to do with her thin blood and less-than-eager heart, and it wouldn’t be many years before he matched her intake. Each week he visited with a small bag of hard candy and a bouquet of flowers to brighten her room. “Well, at least tell me how you’ve been, Danny. It’s been too long since our last meeting. I’ve missed you.” “Yeah, I know, man, it’s just that I’ve been so busy.” Ah, the busyness of youth: too busy to see his old teacher, now personal tutor, now intimate friend as Lewis liked to think himself; too busy to discuss the essay in person with the man who would write it. Too busy with his chicks and social life to do all his university work on his own. Too busy to consider the feelings of an aging man who would do anything for him. Danny wore a silver chain-linked bracelet as well as a shining steel wrist bracelet. The boy spangled. Lewis had shaved this morning, dressed in his new white shirt, and yesterday had the barber trim his eyebrows and nose hairs. “About the essay.” “Right, it’s a big one. I can’t write it myself. Have to study for the finals. There’s no time. Only five days left. You got to do this for me, Lewis, I need you.” Perhaps he derived pleasure from seeing worry tighten the boy’s mouth, and the tension between pouting and smiling on his lips. Hunching over the table, his hands clasped, he lowered his voice and repeated his plea. Lewis inhaled the fragrance of Danny’s cologne. I need you: the words sounded like a declaration of love. At first he
had been flattered that a former student contacted him via Facebook. He let himself become interested in the lad’s academic work, even offered advice, and agreed to read, then edit, an essay, happy that he had much to give a student who was all attention and appreciation. After a while, they began meeting in this very coffee shop to discuss Danny’s academic travails and personal problems, and how much they trusted and liked each other. “Your helping me means a lot, sir, I’m so grateful, I want you to know that.” Danny’s sweet gratitude and evident delight in having a confidential tutor encouraged Lewis to offer more advice until he now did the work for a couple of courses each semester himself, writing convincingly in Danny’s voice and style. If he hesitated and expressed ethical qualms, Danny appealed to his friendship, and Lewis reprimanded himself for causing the boy pain and endangering that special bond between them. Then he did what Danny wanted until he struggled with another crise de conscience. Before Christmas Lewis had again dared to say over café mocha that he shouldn’t be doing this, he had gone too far. “Come on, man, don’t say that. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lewis.” Having grown easy and comfortable in his former teacher’s presence, and expecting help when he asked for it, he had dropped the Sir in mid-semester last year after Lewis had written the essay on Abraham and Isaac for an elective on-line course in the history of religion. Danny received an A. “Without me, you’d fail at least two of your courses.” At which point Danny had chuckled over his almond tart. “But you won’t let that happen because I’m special to you, right?”
Danny’s fingers caressing the back of Lewis’s hand assured both that it wouldn’t. Moved beyond good sense Lewis had blurted out, immediately regretting such a revelation the moment it escaped his mouth. “I’ll do anything for you, Danny.” “Yeah, I know, I like that. So this is what you need to do now.” As a teacher he had insisted students write journal entries in class which he collected and perused, returning them in time for the next exercise. He soon discovered their abilities, limitations, and how they wrote. Only twice had anyone dared to submit a plagiarized essay, suspicion aroused by unfamiliar turns of phrase and terminology the source of which was discovered by a simple Google search. He had always savoured the moment of walking into the classroom in the morning, greeting all those young and often weary faces with a witticism and shaking them out of lethargy. And they never aged, his students perennially young while the years ate away his own vitality. Once he had jokingly suggested Danny crib an online essay, or even buy one, but the boy had expressed or feigned shock. He didn’t want to risk it. Besides, he confessed that he got a kick out of how much Lewis wanted to be his friend and how he could imitate his writing style and vocabulary and receive high marks for the efforts. “When is this going to end, Danny?” “What do you mean?” “You’re in your second year of a three year program.” “You’re kidding, right? Why should it end? No way. Besides, there’s always graduate school. You’re not leaving me, dude, I won’t let you. We’re good together, aren’t we? I know how much I mean to you. I got plans for the future. Hey, actually I
don’t have to leave right away and I’m hungry. Get me a Danish while I make a call. And another coffee.” Yes, he supposed they were “good together” and the promise of continuation until the end of Danny’s studies confirmed that he must surely be attached to the boy’s plans. Silk threads possessed unsuspected strength, especially when resistance was happily paralyzed. And he did not doubt his happiness. Writing the essays and doing whatever Danny wanted, he’d wake up knowing someone would notice his absence. At the counter he ordered a mille-feuille for himself and a large apple Danish. Waiting for the cups of coffee, he looked out to the busy central corridor and searched the phony trees near the empty fountain for the sparrows which seemed to have disappeared. The gaggle of seniors huffed by again. He turned his head away. At the end of the coffee shop Danny’s T-shirt glinted in the shadows.
Kenneth Radu's fiction has appeared previously in Crack the Spine, The Medulla Review, Red Fez, Moon Milk Review, Danse Macabre, Northville Review, etc. His most recent book is Sex in Russia: New & Selected Stories (DC Books Canada). A new collection of short stories will be published in the near future, also by DC Books. He lives in Quebec.
Gastromancy By Kyle Sunby
You can hear her in the bathroom humming and mumbly-singing as she gets ready for bed. He wants her to come out but she takes forever, as she always did. He falls asleep before you see her opening the door. When he stirs in the morning, later than he used to, you don’t see her anywhere. You don’t hear her right away, either. It isn’t until he’s awake and aware of another purposeless day ahead that you can hear her just around a corner, out in the hallway or maybe downstairs. He pulls himself from the bed and throws on the same clothes he wore yesterday. He very much wishes she were in the kitchen, preparing breakfast like she used to. When he’s at the office on Monday, you don’t hear her at all. Things you listen to are employees chatting, copiers printing and fluorescent lights humming. Sounds only come from things you can see. No voices squeak for help or crack jokes from inside file cabinets. Generic, overbearing boss-type shouts and admonishments do not come from behind doors or under desks when the office manager is away at a conference. There aren’t groans or forced ha-has from co-workers responding to his juvenile, overindulged “talent,” as he liked to call it. Not anymore. It’s different now everywhere he goes. At the bar after work, you don’t hear current political or tabloid figures embarrassing themselves with hackneyed bits cribbed from previous nights’ talk shows. You don’t hear famous dead celebrities come to life with their accents and speech patterns exaggerated. You don’t hear drink orders coming from unoccupied stools. His fellow patrons wait for him to pick up where he once left off. For his routine to fall back into their routines. Family functions are quieter, too. Even here, there’s no way he’ll allow you to hear her voice, or any of his others for that matter. Young nieces, nephews, and cousins don’t squeal with delight when the coat rack begins to talk. Or when the dog asks them to pass the mashed potatoes. Those sounds are absent. He hardly even says anything in his own voice.
But if you close your eyes, things stay much the same inside the home they shared. She speaks to him from the living room. She calls to him from the back patio. She laughs once, twice from ... where is that ... a cupboard or a heating vent? In spots that are outside his line of sight, she says she loves him and will never leave. The gag fools nobody but himself.
Born without a hashtag, @KyleSundby has bravely battled meandering prose and refused to let sprawling sentence structure affect him to great lengths. He is a copywriter in Vancouver, Washington who briefly spends time doing other things. His work has appeared on johnnyamerica.net, monkeybicycle.net, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendencies.
Me Old Mate By Anthony J. Langford Depression and anxiety Old friends of mine Before they became so common That everyone wanted to know them And they lost all their meaning A couple of old trollups Betraying their regulars Someone fails a test Gets into an argument Has a flat day And calls it melancholy I’m sure there’s plenty Who have more shit in their heads Than I, But the whole affair Has been trivialised Gone viral Mass marketed The designers are wealthy Everyone’s on a kick back Except for the sad bastards On their backs Like me. Sure, it’s a little easier Smooth & Even Like a tan polished floor And I’m guess I’m happy enough But sometimes When I don’t see it coming I miss the old days.
Anthony J. Langford lives in Sydney Australia but grew up in country Victoria, running through the bush, swimming in the river and embracing imagination. It is this upbringing which has kept his writing grounded. The aim of his writing, no matter what genre, is to explore the truth of people. He has had numerous stories and poems published, including in the 25thAnniversary Edition of Verandah. He is currently working on his seventh novel, though patiently searching for a publisher. His novella, Bottomless River will be released through Ginninderra Press in early 2012. He lives with his partner, baby daughter and three step-children and has traveled extensively throughout the world, made short films which have screened internationally and now makes video poems.
Tools for the Job By Matt Dube "You've got to get him out of here," my wife Shelly was saying into the receiver pressed against my ear. I'd been lying in bed, peacefully asleep or close enough to not matter a second before, and I didn't even remember the phone's ring, let alone picking up the phone. Him was my brother-in-law Lenny, my wife's sister Cara's husband, and usually a good guy, even if he was a little bit stiff and sometimes a tight-fisted prick when it came to his store on the highway. Here was the hospital where Lenny's wife was going through a protracted labor, for a day and change at that point. It was to be his first kid, and as the delivery got closer and closer he got so keyed up about it that it would’ve been funny if it wasn't. The streets were mostly empty-- it was three in the morning by the dashboard clock-- and it usually takes something to get you out on the road at that hour. But I put the bad thoughts pout of my head and ten minutes after Shelly hung up on me, I was in the waiting room at the hospital. I was still holding a fistful of Lenny's shirtsleeve, the same fistful I'd used to drag him here and away from the labor room. "You're worrying for nothing! Dr Chu is the attending. Think about how many babies they've got in China. They've got it down to a science," I said. "Why should I care about what happens in China," Lenny griped. His sister had a troubled delivery, and Lenny had some trouble getting past it. I'd tried, in the weeks leading up to this moment, to remind him that female problems were female problems, that because it happened to his sister didn't mean it was any more likely to happen to his wife, but he wouldn't have it. All of this drama going on inside of him, and there we were, sitting in the waiting room and staring at reruns of the Roseanne show on a TV screwed into the ceiling. "And somehow you think you can help?" I asked. "You're somehow going to step in and save the day?" This is what really got me about Lenny as a brother-in-law: he thought all your problems were just waiting for his magic touch. When he had the kid, I bet we'd never be allowed to babysit it, and that would just kill my wife. "Because there's something you can help me with." I placed a hand behind his neck, gentle at
first, and then holding onto it like you would with a puppy that wouldn't mind you, and led Lenny through the doors till we were standing beside my truck. "I need your help with something," I repeated, and pointed Lenny’s head at the passenger side door and said a prayer he’d follow his nose and get inside. "Sure," he said. "Whatever you need." * Twenty minutes later, we were standing outside Lenny's liquor store. He put his duffel bag down on the pavement and pulled out that big key ring of his. "Are you sure this'll be all right?" he asked, but was already using both hands to unlock the front door. "You've got insurance, right?" I said as I slid through the door Lenny held open. He stood stock still for second, till I waved him in. "I was kidding," I said. "This'll be great, I promise." There, in a near corner, by the three cold-fronted glass doors that kept cold cases and cases of domestic beers , was the goal of our mission, the ATM machine that I'd bet Lenny I could open. I'd seen it done on one of those programs on the Discovery Channel, and couldn't believe it was that easy. I'd been waiting for a chance to test it out, and tonight just sort of fell into my lap, what with needing to keep Lenny occupied and him owning a liquor store and the rest. On the way from the hospital, I told Lenny to park, briefly, at the firehouse where we both served as volunteer fireman, and while Lenny distracted Seth, who was manning the emergency station, I collected the tools I needed in two duffels and somehow carried them out to the bed of Lenny's truck. There was this incredible sense of adventure, just seeing the ATM there and me ready to go to work on it, that I almost didn't hear Lenny behind me, bellyaching about his wife. "She looked green," he said, wandering up behind me in a daze. "I've never seen a person that color before." "Yeah?" I said, not really listening. "How many babies you seen delivered?" I'd grabbed a little of this, a little of that from the firehouse, just in case. An axe, a couple flares, one of those silver lined blankets that when you wrap someone in them they look like a big baked potato. I spread it all out on the floor in front of the ATM, but I was just making room so I could get my hands on what I really wanted, the hydroram. "Those Chinese doctors, they're trained for everything. Nothing surprises them," I
said. "Shelley's friend from Church, she took some of those pills, I don't know where you get them from, on the television or over the internet or over there, but she was so big with her children the doctors didn't even know how many were in there. They thought four, maybe five, going into labor. Turns out it was eight! Eight kids, can you believe that! But Dr Chu, your doctor, does he even bat an eye? He just hands them off, one after another to the nurses who wrap each one in those hospital blankets and sets each one in a tiny bed. You'll be fine," I said, and wiped down the surface of the ATM with a baby wipe, and then wiped that dry, because you want to make sure your work surface is clean. Not like I'd ever done something quite like this before, but I'd seen things go wrong for less. You didn't want any surprises, and the sooner you learned that, the sooner you'd get to a place where you'd see there weren't any surprises, not really; not if you planned things right. "I don't think I could handle eight babies," Lenny said, and when I looked back at him, he wobbled a little in place, but the important thing is that he stayed upright. "Then you have nothing to worry about. You're not having eight babies, just one." I placed the business end of hydroram flush against the front of the machine, alongside that little silver lock that looks like it'd open with a skate key. The hydroram looks kind of like a corkscrew, the kind you can make dance, or at least shake its arms in the air, like it's a little man; the hydroram looks a little like that, but with only one arm instead of two, and a flat end instead of a screw, kind of like a hammer head. The fire department got the 'ram for opening up cars when they slam together and someone's inside. It works by blowing through metal, more or less making the metal inside disappears, like, cosmically gone, and there you go. It's one of those tools, once you have one of these, there's almost nothing you can't do. So I took the hammerheaded end and pressed it flush against the metal body of the ATM. You think, when you think about them in your mind, that these machines are all smooth, impregnable metal, but in truth, they've got a pebbled kind of texture, a grain to them that's something to do with the paint and something to do with making this industrial thing look not so industrial when you lean up against it. It's no iPod, I'll grant you that, but in its way, it's pretty, and much prettier on the outside than the in. Trust me, or wait around and I'll show you. "Delivering a baby's not so hard," I said. "It's a matter of knowing what you're dealing with, and making sure nothing goes wrong. It's the kind of thing you can get a handle on, if you're prepared to." Shelley was probably holding Cara's hand at that
moment, soothing her, talking to her about the things women talk about, listening to what women talk about. I pulled back on the single remaining arm of this dancing man, pulled against the tension. I put my back into it; it's all resistance and counterweight. When I looked back at Lenny, he had one hand over his face and was looking through the cracks between his fingers. And then I released the ram. It makes a loud noise when you use the 'ram at the scene of a traffic accident, even with the honking horns and whooshing traffic and whatever else. Inside the quiet of the liquor store at three in the morning, it was ear splitting. When I looked back, the arm of the 'ram had dug a slash into the ATM's pebbled body, which from the point-ofview of security has certainly seen better days. The hammerhead punched a hole through the metal, and when I pulled it out, a finger of smoke followed. The edges of the hole scalded my fingers. "I could use a hand here," I said, but it was probably impossible to understand me because my burned fingers were in my mouth. Still, Lenny rushed up beside me. "What do you need?" he asked. "The pry bar," I said, hoping it'd take a few seconds for Lenny to find it. "And any burn cream you might have." It didn't take Lenny any time at all to find the crowbar, and he set it on the floor beside the silver blanket. But he went on digging through the duffel looking for something for my fingers, or maybe not to see what would happen next. A couple years in the future and one of his kids wanders into the kitchen from the slip-and-slide trying to hold his femur inside his arm and Lenny'll be able to look anything in the face. He'll be fine. But he was still a young guy. It'd been thirty hours since Shelley first dragged me out of bed to drive her to the hospital. In the twenty-nine hours that followed, Cara's cervix had dilated three centimeters. The 'ram punched a hole almost as big as my fist in this metal box so quickly I didn't have time to cover my ears. I slid the pry bar into the hole and waved it around like a magic wand till the teeth caught onto the hinge the designers had buried in there like a magic switch. I've heard there's a million way into these things, and everyone but the way I used is elegant. But my way still got the job done. When the teeth of the 'bar found a good hold, I let it go and stepped back. "You want at it?" I said to Lenny. "It only needs a tap now, a tiny push, and it'll swing open like the gates to Ali Baba's treasure room." This was the moment of truth; having opened the outer shell, in another instant everything will stand revealed, the secret machinations of the Universe and all that. Once we'd seen inside, and trust me, I've seen the inside; there would be no more mysteries.
"I can't do it," Lenny said. "I won't do it. I'm not ready." "Let me get it for you then," I said, and pulled down on the pry bar’s end. The front of the machine moved on its popped hinge, opening up to reveal a mundane cash drawer: no jackpot, no magic, nothing more valuable than your life savings, sans interest.
Matt Dube is always finding himself subscribed to groups he only meant to observe: a native New Englander, he's found himself resident in the Deep South, Ukraine, and most recently, the flyover communities of the Greater Lakes and Plains. The story "Tools for the Job" tries to pry something valuable from that experience and the loyalty tests it inspires. He teaches creative writing and American lit at a primarily-Equestrian focused University in mid-Missouri and edits the fiction section for the online journal H_NGM_N. His stories appear in the kinds of places you might expect.
Bottle of Ginger Ale By Gene Hines A woman was coming to his room at five o'clock. He had an hour to wait when he went down the hall to the vending machines for something to mix in a drink. He walked by the partially open door of the room next to the vending machines and the elevators. He heard a sob. He walked on to the vending machines. The coins tinkled in the slot and the plastic bottle thumped through the machine. He walked back toward his room, carrying the bottle. He stopped again at the partially open room door. He heard another sob. He pushed the door open. A woman was sitting on a bed, bent over and crying into her hands. She looked up. "Excuse me, wrong room," he said. She replied with a stream of words, intermittent with crying, that he didn't understand. She stood up and came toward him, still crying, her face like a planet with mascara rivers. He backed away from her. She let go of another stream of gibberish. The woman wiped tears away with her fingertips and kept talking. He stood there, holding the bottle of ginger ale. "Got to go," he said.
He saw something cross her face, the passing shadow of a bird's wing or the movement of an eclipse across the sun. She went to the sliding door on the other side of the room and pulled aside the curtain leading to a small balcony. He watched her walk out onto the balcony, seven floors above a brick walkway. She hoisted a leg over the wrought-iron railing. He heard the sibilant sound of the elevator doors, through the still open door of the room. He walked out of the room and saw the woman coming at five o'clock. He met her with a smile and a bottle of ginger ale.
Gene Hines lives in the mountains of Tennessee. His work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. One of his stories was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. It didn't get it.
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