CRACK THE SPINE
Issue Fifteen
Crack The Spine Issue Fifteen February 12, 2012 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2012 by Crack the Spine
Contents Tiffany Morse ……………….………..……...………..Body Impressions Lauren Eyler…………………………..……..……Kingsport, Tennessee Rachelle Mathis………...…….…………The Beds We Make and Lie In Masticate Brian Barbeito…….……..…………………..…………………....……Bun Randi Lee……….…………….……………………………………...I Live Angelic Sugai………………………………......…….………….…Broken Johanna Hardy……………….……………….…………..Papa’s Garden
Body Impressions By Tiffany Morse
When Henry got into bed each night, it was like rolling into a warm, loving embrace. His body fit perfectly into the mattress, the pillowtop curling up on either side, surrounding him in softness. Every night, Henry stayed up watching tv, roaming around on the internet, and playing solitaire, delaying his gratification until he was sure his wife had fallen asleep. Then, he stripped down to his boxers and threw himself into bed. He loved that this new mattress allowed him to do that without disturbing Margaret. As his body sank into the cuddles of the mattress, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Margaret could not sleep later than 6 am. Ever since her daughter had started school, she'd been waking up at that hour to make breakfast and pack a sack lunch. Even now with Jenny off in college, she could not break the routine. She rolled off the mattress, quietly and slowly so as not to wake Henry. She held the doorknob open as she gently closed the bathroom door, and then slowly released the knob. She knew the click of the door was unlikely to wake Henry from his deep morning sleep, but this was as much a part of her morning ritual as brushing her teeth, which she did next. She showered, got dressed, and went to brew a half pot of coffee. In the kitchen she sat with a mug of coffee and a romance novel. She was about a hundred pages in and couldn't determine if she'd already read this one. It seemed familiar, but she kept reading since she couldn't remember what happened next.
As she finished her coffee, Henry shuffled down the stairs, still in his pajamas. He grunted a “mornin” and poured a glass of orange juice. Then, just as he did every day, he shuffled off to his office and powered up his computer. Margaret held in a sigh, replaced her bookmark, and put her mug in the dishwasher before lacing up her shoes and heading out the door.
Henry hated to leave the mattress in the morning. And he always tried to delay getting up until he thought Margaret had left for the morning. Somehow he never seemed to time it right. She was always sitting there at the kitchen table when he quietly snuck down the stairs. She always saw him right away so he couldn't sneak back up. And then she left. No morning pleasantries. No offer to make him some toast. She just left. He wasn't sure where she went. “For a walk” she'd tell him when he asked. A walk. What was the point of wandering around the neighborhood every morning? Nothing ever changed.
Jenny's elementary school was a half mile from their house. And every morning, Margaret walked to the school and back. It gave her a chance to enjoy the outdoors, and to see what was happening in the neighborhood. The Castille's finally pulled up the dead rose bush in their side yard. The Danahey's front yard was all dug up. She'd have to call Wendy later and ask what was happening. The empty house on the corner had a new sold sign in front of it. When the weather was nice, Margaret would stop in front of the school and watch the gym class for a little while. It gave her a certain amount of pleasure, watching the children run around the open field trying to kick a soccer ball or running the bases in a kickball game. The teacher had changed a few times over the years, but it
was always a woman. And she always had a whistle around her neck. This one liked to stand with her fists on her hips, the whistle permanently resting between her lips so she could blow it at any time without moving her hands.
Henry checked the datebook on his computer. Ah. Yes. He smiled. Today Jenny came home from school for the weekend. He had lots to show her. Interesting articles he'd found online about the current president (whom she supported) and about the former president (whom he supported). Maybe he could finally get her to understand what was really happening in this world, that this young guy, with his promises of change, was going to be the ruin of their country, their way of life. They'd get into a heated discussion, and he'd feel young and energized again. Like when Margaret and he would argue about Nixon and religion and public versus private schools. Yes.
Jenny sighed and shrugged. “I've gotta get this paper done, and if I stay it's never going to happen.” Bridget and Hannah shook their heads. “But it's going to be a huge weekend,” Sarah complained. “I know. That's why I have to go.” She sniffed and looked down at her feet. “Besides, I promised my parents weeks ago that I'd come home this weekend.” She shoved a couple more dirty shirts into her bulging laundry bag and looked up. “Sorry guys.” “You won't get anything done at home, you know,” Bridget said, frowning. “Your dad will be all weekend 'Jen, come look at this' and 'Jen, let's talk about that.'”
Jenny groaned. She stared into the corner of the room and then shook her head. “No. I have an important paper to write.” “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”
When Margaret returned home, she got straight to work. She put clean sheets on Jenny's old bed, changed the towels in the upstairs bathroom. The sheets and towels weren't dirty, she knew, but they were stale from being unused for such a long time. She decided she might as well do the sheets on her bed as well. She had gotten lazy about it since Jenny went to school. Her own mother, if she were alive, would be horrified to know that Margaret was changing the sheets at best once a month. But what did it matter, really? It's not like the sheets were getting dirty. Besides, she hated putting sheets on this new mattress. When Henry bought this mattress, he had failed to mention it to Margaret until the morning it was being delivered. In fact, the doorbell had rung and he had bounded down the stairs singing “Our new mattress is here! Our new mattress is here!” Once it was set up in their bedroom, she had tried to put sheets on it but none of their fitted sheets fit. It was obnoxiously deep, and she had had to run out to the store and buy new sets of sheets labeled “Extra Deep Pockets.” Still she had to fight and pull and tug to get the fourth corner on. And the sheet never stayed on. Every other day she had to tug at all four corners. Now, as she pulled the clean fitted sheet across to the fourth corner, the sheet rumpled across the mattress before pulling taut. She ran her palm over the top to smooth it and pull the corner tighter. Her hand sank. She ran her hand over the sheet again and again, and sure enough, she'd discovered a sunken spot in the mattress. A deep divot where Henry slept. She briskly walked around the bed and smoothed her
side. And there was a sunken spot on her side too. She stood at the foot of the bed surveying the mattress. It had two dips with a central crest down the middle.
Henry popped his head out of his office. The coast looked clear. He crossed the family room to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and stared. There was nothing to eat. Ever since Jenny went away to school, there was never anything in this house to eat. What did that woman do all day if she wasn't grocery shopping? He turned and stepped on a stale bread crust. She certainly wasn't cleaning. He kicked the bread aside and went back to his office, hungry. He had just sat down to read his email when he heard Margaret on the steps. He came out of his office and stared up at her. She was carrying the laundry basket. About time, he thought. He was almost out of clean socks. “There's nothing to eat.” She paused on the landing. “Of course there's something to eat. You just didn't look hard enough.” “I'm telling you, there's nothing to eat.” They stared at each other. “And the house is dirty.”
The nerve! She got to the bottom of the steps and dropped the basket to the floor. She started dragging it to the laundry room. “Aha! So that's how the floor got all scratched up there!” Margaret didn't even turn to look at him. If he didn't want a scratched floor, he could help her carry the laundry.
When she came out of the laundry room, she went straight to the fridge and pulled out a loaf of bread, sandwich meat, and a jar of pickles. “Lunch,” she said as she set the pickle jar on the counter. “You know I don't like turkey.” “Well, I don't like that damned mattress you bought.”
Women. They made absolutely no sense. What in the world could she find wrong with the mattress? Henry was surprised she didn't break the jar when she slammed it down so hard. The pickle juice was still slamming waves against the glass, like high tide at the coast. “It's the best mattress we've ever slept on. Seven inches of memory foam!” “Hah. Memory foam. Is that what it's called? It's got such a great memory that it looks like you're still laying on it right at this moment. And we've only had it for two months.” What was she talking about? That mattress had a ten year warranty. It was the best mattress on the market. He checked his pocket for his wallet. “I'm going out to lunch. I hope you can find some time to clean up for Jenny.”
When he was gone, Margaret dug through the desk drawers in his office until she found the receipt for the mattress. She called the store, explained the situation. The manager was very nice. He explained that sometimes there were problems with memory foam.
“The memory foam is soft and pliable and when you sit or lay on it, it forms to your body, sinking in deepest where it feels the greatest weight. That's what gives you that cradled feeling when you're on the mattress. But sometimes the memory foam forgets its original shape and you end with what they call 'body impressions,' areas in the mattress that stay sunken down even after you've been out of bed for hours. You'll have to contact the manufacturer,” he said. Then he offered to fax over a form she would need to fill out to make a warranty claim. He assured her he would send it right away. Margaret sat by the fax machine, nervously looking out the window for Henry's car, waiting for the fax to come in.
Jenny practiced what she was going to say. She took a deep drag of her cigarette, glanced up as she threaded it through the crack in her window to ash, and exhaled, blowing smoke through the same crack. “Mom. Dad. I know it's been a while since I was home last.” She took another drag, exhaled. “But I have this huge paper due on Monday and my grade for the whole semester depends on it.” She nodded. “I'm sorry, but I'll be very busy working in my room this weekend.” She took another drag and turned up the stereo. She smiled. “Oh yeah, and by the way,” she giggled, “Mom, would you do my laundry? I'm just too busy with school work.” She took one last drag of her cigarette, flicked it out the window and took a swig of her Diet Coke. Yeah. Perfect.
Margaret raged against the mattress. The warranty paper said she had to measure the depth of the body impressions. It suggested stretching a string across the width of the mattress and setting a ruler perpendicular to the string. In that way, she was supposed to be able to measure the distance from the string to the deepest part of the sunken
area, the depth of the body impression. She couldn't stretch the string by herself though. She tried tucking one end under the mattress, but every time she got to the other side and gave it a tug to make it taut, it would pull out. Clearly she couldn't do this by herself. She was going to have to get help. If she asked just the right way, maybe Henry would be willing.
Henry filled the car with gas before he headed home. He wanted to be sure that they could go out to dinner and maybe ice cream afterward with no interruptions. Especially for something so trivial and annoying as getting gas.
Jenny stopped at a gas station two towns away from home, just to be sure she wouldn't run into any of her parents' friends. She cleaned out the ashtray and threw away the empty Diet Coke can with ashes all over the top. Before she tossed it in the garbage she swilled it around a couple times, the cigarette butts bumping against the aluminum side, to be sure there was nothing still on fire in there. In the convenience store, she bought a new air freshener for under her seat and some gum to cover the smell of smoke on her breath.
Margaret was poised in the master closet when Henry came upstairs to change. “Hi, Henry. How was your lunch?” She tried to be bright and cheery. He shrugged. “Fine.” He tried to get around her but she stood her ground. “I called the mattress store and talked to the manager and he said the memory foam should remain springy and if it's not, we can fill out the warranty form.” Henry stopped short and stared at her.
“But it's okay. I got the form already and it's simple. I've already completed most of it. I just need your help with one small part.” Henry closed his eyes and moved his lips. His cheeks looked flushed. “Okay?”
She just can't leave well enough alone. No. Gotta get into my stuff and go behind my back when I already made it clear that the mattress is fine. “The mattress is fine. I told you that this morning. It's fine. It a great mattress.” “But maybe it could be even better,” she said with a smile on her face. Fake fake fake. “No. It's fine the way it is. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” “Because it's damaged. That mattress has a flaw and you won't do anything about it. You won't even admit there's a problem.” “That mattress is perfect. It's the most comforting mattress I've ever slept on!” Henry's hands balled up into fists. She would not take this away from him. He wouldn't let her. He loved that mattress. It made him happy. Margaret's chin was scrunching up. Great. Now she was going to cry.
Jenny heard yelling when she came in the door. She couldn't make out the words, but her parents were definitely up in their room fighting. “Um, hello? I'm home.” She dropped her laundry bag on the floor and took her suitcase and backpack up to her room.
“Mom? Dad? Where are you?” She peeked around corners and into doorways. Her father suddenly appeared in front of her, his face a bit red but stretched with a huge grin. “So good to see you, pumpkin!” He threw his arms out wide and hugged her so she had to drop the suitcase. “Hi, Dad. Good to see you too.” His kisses were wet and she always felt like a little girl, afraid to let him see her wipe it off her cheek. “Where's Mom?” “She's just in our room finishing getting ready.” He grabbed her suitcase and tried to pull her backpack off her shoulder. “Let me help with these.”
Margaret quietly closed the bedroom door behind her and crossed the hallway to Jenny's room. “Hi, honey,” she said quietly. She ran the tip of her index finger one more time under her eye, to be sure it was dry. “Welcome home.” Jenny set her book bag down on the bed and hugged her. Margaret held her tight, tilted her face into her daughter's hair. She pulled back on Jenny's shoulders to look her in the eye. “Is your roommate still smoking? Can't you get a room change to live with someone who doesn't smoke?” Jenny shrugged. “Sorry, Mom. I told you, the arrangements can't be changed mid-year.”
Jenny's parents finally left her alone for a minute so she could “freshen up.” When she went downstairs to talk to them, she brought her backpack as backup. She took a deep breath. “So, listen. Mom and Dad. Um. I know it's been awhile since I was home last.” Her father chuckled. “Eleven weeks, to be exact.” He's been keeping count? “Um. Yeah. Well.” Her mother jumped in. “We thought, honey, that since you'd been away for so long you'd probably been missing some of your favorite things here.” “Uh.” Jenny looked at her mom and at her dad. She looked at her backpack for support. “So we made reservations for tonight at Lorenzo's! Won't that be fun?” They all stood around looking at each for a moment, her mother with her Carol Brady smile on, her father beaming and rocking on his feet. And Jenny feeling frustrated and trying to look pleasant. “You love Lorenzo's.” “Of course she loves Lorenzo's,” her father practically yelled. He slapped her on the back and pulled her into a side hug. Jenny smiled and nodded. “Sure. Okay. I just have a few things I want to get done before we go.” Christ, her parents were freaks. She'd have to tell them at dinner. Tell them to leave her the fuck alone already. She sighed. She should have stayed on campus.
At dinner, Henry leaned back in his chair, his hands on his belly, and looked at his baby girl. How did she get so grown up already. Gorgeous. Like Margaret used to be.
Hm. Margaret. When he looked at his wife, he saw the old hen she'd become for a moment, but then she smiled and laughed at something witty their daughter had said, and he saw the beautiful radiant woman she had once been. Yes.
Margaret kept catching Henry staring at her. Well, maybe not staring exactly, but looking at her in a way she hadn't seen him do in years. She was embarrassed and wondered if she blushed. She tugged at a curl of her hair at the back of her neck. She remembered how Henry had commented so often about her elegant neck when they were young. The front of her neck was a mess now, but the back probably still looked halfway decent.
Jenny looked from her mother to her father. Are you kidding? Really? They were so gross sometimes. She cleared her throat. “I have a huge paper due on Monday that's going to take me all weekend to write.” She swallowed a sip of water. “I won't be able to hang out or anything after tonight. Sorry.” “We understand, dear. We're just happy to have you home.” “Sure, pumpkin. Just let us know if there's anything we can help you with.” Her mother kept looking at her father. Jenny looked at their wine glasses. How much Chianti did they drink, anyway? “I think I should drive home.”
Henry stood in Jenny's bedroom door, watching her set up her books and laptop at her old desk. After Jenny's freshman year at college, Margaret had wanted to take down all
of Jenny's posters and repaint the room, converting it to a generic guest room. He wouldn't let her, though. His little girl needed her room and her things, her memories to feel like she's home and safe and happy. Now, Jenny moved trinkets and music boxes to the floor to make room for stacks of books with solid-colored, pictureless covers and small print. Henry knocked on the door frame. “It's great to have you home, pumpkin.” Jenny glanced back and nodded. “I know you said you'd be really busy this weekend working on your paper. And it looks like quite an undertaking.” He nodded toward the books. “But I hope you can still join your mom and me for breakfast at Angelo's in the morning. Saturday morning tradition.” He smiled.
Jenny stared at the wall behind her desk, straightened her back, and took a deep breath. Christ she needed cigarette. She bit her lip and turned. She couldn't look her dad in the eyes, so she looked at the posters on her wall, the juice-stained carpet on the floor. “I'm real sorry, Dad.” She shook her head. “I really can't.” “But tradition, Jenny. It's tradition.” His arm dropped from the door frame to his side and he slumped forward, suddenly looking ten years older. Jenny forced herself to look at her dad's eyes, but now he wasn't looking at her. “I'm sorry.” She was going to have to sneak out as soon as they were asleep and chain smoke for about an hour after this.
Margaret pushed aside her flannel nightgowns and found a silky one crushed into the corner of her drawer. She slipped it on and enjoyed the cool, light, shimmery feeling of the fabric against her skin. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, added a touch of mascara to her naked eyes. She spritzed on some perfume and made her way to the bed. Henry stomped into the room. “She won't go.” “Who won't go where?” Henry looked up at her forcefully. “Jenny. She won't go to breakfast.” “Oh. Well, she said she was going to be busy, dear. It's just nice to have her at home, don't you think?” “Hmmph.” Henry stripped off his clothes, down to his boxers, leaving his shirt, belt, pants, and socks in little piles across the bedroom floor. He leaned down and picked up the measuring string. She had forgotten about it. “What the hell is this? Really Margaret, this place has gone to hell.” Margaret rushed to his side of the bed to take the string from him. “Oh that's nothing, dear. Just from a little project I was working on earlier.” He threw the end of it at her and then threw himself into the bed, curling up facing the window on his side of the room. Margaret slowly wound the string around her palm, slipped the coil off her hand, and set it on her nightstand. She slid her legs under the covers, stretched out a bit, and rolled to face her husband's back. She reached out, running the tips of her fingers across his shoulders and down his spine. She played with the hair at the nape of his neck. He swatted her hand away.
She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. “I've been thinking, Henry.” “Yeah, I know. You've been thinking about the mattress and you want to get rid of it. Nothing's good enough for anyone.” He pulled the covers more tightly around himself. “Goodnight.” Margaret couldn't sleep. After an hour or more of staring at the ceiling, she rolled over again to face Henry's back. It was rising and falling in that slow rhythm that meant deep sleep. She scooched herself closer to him, lifting herself up onto the ridge of memory foam that now separated them every night. She balanced on her side, put her arm around her husband, and pressed her face against his back. It was warm and musky and a bit oily, just as she'd remembered. She stayed there as long as she could, which wasn't very long. A minute, maybe. Her body was getting tired from balancing. She could either roll back to her side of the bed or roll deeper into Henry's back. She tried letting herself roll closer to Henry, but she felt like she couldn't breathe. She rolled back to her side of the bed, faced her nightstand and went to sleep.
Henry woke up Sunday morning to the smell of bacon. He got dressed and found Margaret in the kitchen, scrambling eggs, frying bacon, and toasting cinnamon raisin bread. She turned to look at him. “Go to church with me this morning?” He picked up a piece of bacon, crispy and delicious. “Sure.” He looked around. “Jenny coming too?” Margaret shook her head. “I doubt it. She was up late last night working on that paper. I heard her go outside once or twice. Must have needed the fresh air to clear her
thoughts.” She added more bacon to the skillet. “I thought we should let her sleep in before her long drive home today.” Henry was irritated again. This weekend had not been anything like he had hoped. Jenny had stayed locked up in her room nearly all day yesterday until a couple of her high school friends stopped by and took her out for dinner and a movie. Funny she had time to go out with them, but not her own parents. “Oh, would you check her car really quick this morning. Make sure she has gas and oil and everything. I worry about her driving all that way.” Henry nodded, took another piece of bacon and went out to the driveway. The car reeked of cigarette smoke. Was she letting her friends smoke in her car? He shook his head, turned the key. Gas tank was nearly empty. They'd have to give her some extra money to fill it up. He popped the hood, opened the glove compartment to see if there was a rag there, and found instead a pack of cigarettes. He picked up the box, nearly crumpled it in his hand. Had she been lying all this time about her friend being the smoker? Wait. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. He looked around the car. He thought he saw ash caught in the grooves around the gearshift. He looked under the seat and found an air freshener and a plastic wrapper that looked like it came off the top of cigarette box. The window frame had a tiny ashy-white burn in it. That was it. She had been lying. What else was she lying to them about? This mysterious paper she was in such a hurry to finish? Being a pre-med major? Being a college student at all? What happened to his precious little girl? She had never lied to him. Henry checked the oil, slammed the car hood down, and stomped inside. He slammed the cigarettes on the table. “Jenny's the one who smokes. Not her 'friend'.” He made little air quotes. He grabbed several more pieces of bacon and a slice of toast. “I'm going out.”
Margaret was shocked. There must be some mistake. She ran to the door. “Henry, is the car okay?” “She needs gas,” he yelled before slamming his door and pulling out of the garage. Margaret went up to their bedroom and got dressed. Her watch was on her nightstand under the coil of string. She picked up both, slid on the watch and closed the clasp. She grabbed the warranty sheet from under her book and crumpled it up before dropping it and the string into the trashcan. There would be no rescuing the mattress. She'd be sleeping in a sink hole for years to come. Back downstairs, Margaret pulled out a sheet of paper from her stationary drawer. She scrawled: “Jenny, It was so wonderful to see you this weekend. I wish you could have stayed longer. Next time, maybe. Here is some money for gas. Also, here are your (roommate's) cigarettes. Take care of yourself, sweetie. Love, M & D” She put forty dollars on the paper and used the cigarettes as a paperweight. Marlboro Reds. Hm. There had been a time when she had loved smoking, too, before she was married, before she'd even met Henry. She opened the box. There were only two left in it, and one was upside down. She shook her head. She wasn't a young woman anymore, and really she didn't need to feel like she was. She shut the box and straightened it, aligning the bottom of the box with the bottom of the bills. She made sure the stove and toaster were off and left for early Mass.
When Jenny got up Sunday, the house was silent. She dragged all of her things downstairs, ready to get back on the road to school. She hadn't finished the paper, but
she'd made good progress on it. She had three more days to finish it, and that was plenty of time. She went to the laundry room to get her clothes. Her mother had washed and folded everything and put it back in her bag for her. She smiled and hauled it out to the car. When she came back in she noticed the bacon congealing in the skillet and the cold eggs looking rubbery in another pan. She thought about washing the dishes but then thought maybe her parents were saving it for later. Something red caught her eye. There it was, on the kitchen table. Her pack of cigs. Shit. Her heart raced as she walked around to the table. Look at it. Lined up perfectly on top of her mother's note. Jenny pushed her hair back and rolled her eyes. She shoved the cigarettes and the cash in her jacket pocket and read the note. She crumpled up the flowery paper and threw it in the trash before leaving the house.
After Mass, Margaret followed the crowd to the basement where the cub scout troop was hosting donuts and coffee. She went through the line, buying one donut, warm and freshly fried, and a styrofoam cup of coffee. She looked around at all the faces. There had been a time when she would have known every adult or their kids at an event like this. Now she recognized only a handful of people, and she knew none of their names. She wrapped her donut in a napkin and went to her car. As she ate and drank her coffee, she drove. She passed Jenny's high school, subdivisions, restaurants. She drove by a retirement community with its gates, golf course, and cookie cutter houses. And on the outskirts of town, she stopped in front of a new community of townhouses, each with its own tiny little garden of a backyard. There was an open house sign up.
She sat in the car finishing her donut, drinking the last of her coffee. Her fingers rested on the door handle a moment and then she opened it. The townhouse was open, airy, the walls painted a neutral tan. There was a guest bedroom at one end and the master on the other. The master had a full size bed in it. It looked so small, she thought. There was a sitting area with fresh flowers and empty coffee cups. Staging. She looked at the other people roaming around the rooms, a young couple holding hands. They were asking if there was a model with a second floor, room for a nursery. Margaret smiled at the realtor, shook her hand. She felt foolish, but she still took the listing sheet and the realtor's card. In the car, she folded the sheet around the card and tucked them into her glove compartment.
Tiffany Morse lives in North Carolina with her husband, two rambunctious little ones, and a quickly dwindling fish population.
Kingsport, Tennessee By Lauren Eyler
All of us citizens went out to see it, the elephant hanging. We’d seen other murderers like Luck and Willis strung up, but them boys barely weighed as much as her teeth. The whole town packed picnic lunches and walked a mile and a half to the railroad tracks. The prospect of five tons frozen in mid-air was too good to pass up, better an’ cheaper than any circus show put on in town that week, better than any show ever put on for that matter. We all went, but we didn’t go just to watch the elephant swing. These, them, those had other reasons as well. So did some, few, many. Jones’ friends wanted justice. They went to look on ‘til the trunk sagged less its power that threw Jones against a tree. They went to see the feet danglin’ that popped his head easier than a pumpkin. They went to holler and carry on so everybody there knew the rightness of the thing. A few that worked fer the railroad went to see that the mechanics were done proper, to look at the hooks and screws and nod their heads when the mayor asked if things was ready. The poor folks followed the procession, their scraggly eyes lookin’ for good Christians that’d give’em a chicken leg or biscuit. Preacher Edgars went, not to pray, but connivin’ to get them poor folks in the river and cleanse their souls. Minnie Barrett and her gossips went so that, in the days following, their “oh mys” and “on my lifes” would hit the right pitch. We heard a few of the young couples as they walked talkin’ ‘bout how it’d be a story to tell their kids. And the little boys went to see it ‘cause they was nervous of the animal and wanted to prove to the others they wasn’t, but they hid behind their mommas’ skirts while we waited fer them to tie the metal ‘round her neck.
What employees the Kingsport Daily had, came along. Bobby Higgins, the newspaper editor went to take notes. He spoke with the railroad boys and got a quote from the mayor for his front-page story. Lucas Plumb came with him to take the picture, though he didn’t want nothin’ to do with the mayor on account of words exchange ‘bout his second cousin Lena. The Parkers came workin’ in a team to sell lemonades and candied apples. Others came that weren’t us. Those circus people showed up dressed in their costumes, capes and sparkles. They stood to the side and if you looked over at ’em you could see them shakin’ their heads. Course they knew her. They’d been sleeping through her trumpets in the night fer two years. The midget Tiny Joe was said to say g’night to her every evenin’ ‘for he went to bed. All over the South a midget wishin’ an elephant a peaceful rest. Spector himself went, and mostly to cry, though we didn’t know if it were fer the elephant or fer seein’ his two thousand dollar investment gettin’ ready to have her neck broke. It took two tries. The first chain split and she fell tremblin’ the earth as she landed. Cries leapt up from us cause the animal was still alive. “Who’s she gonna trample next,” one of Jones’ friends yelled. Virgil Locke had brung another chain, thicker than the other, and he and the railroad boys and even the mayor hurried over and tied her up again. This time she got still an’ she hung there for everyone to get all the looks they wanted. Even though she didn’t move, her feet seemed to be strainin’ for the grass. Someone in the crowd, and no one was sure if it was one of us, or a clown or the ringmaster or some other person that slipped in and out without us knowin’ raised his voice, “Wait fer them to see the picture in the paper. It’ll be permanent then. And nobody will talk about justice, just who were them people who wanted to do
something like that.” We all took affront and Lester Maple yelled that whoever said that should be strung up next. Two years later, Joseph McKinney finished building a grocery store. He put a sign on it that said, The Hanging Elephant Grocers. His wife had her own little shop attached to its side where she dipped ice cream cones for the young’uns. Some don’t go there and some do, but we all got together and asked McKinney to take down his framed photos of the elephant. He’d hung them above the registers where we could see’em while we stood in line.
Lauren Eyler is a second-year MFA student at the University of South Carolina. This is her first publication. She is much indebted to R. Mutt for his unsolicited advice.
The Beds We Make and Lie In By Rachelle Mathis
There was the night I bled all over your bed and I said sorry when I saw it beneath me and you said it was okay, to just keep loving you. So I did and when we were done I went to the bathroom feeling like just a hole. And when I came back in your sheets torn off the bed crumpled into a shamed pile on the floor next to your trashcan. And you looked at me like it wasn't okay anymore so I just sat, a dog awaiting command. And you shook your hands at me saying, "Let's go. It's time for you to go." We sat in your car in traffic on the 101. And I sat on my hands so they wouldn’t reach for yours. You dropped me off at my car your mouth said you had fun your mouth kissed mine good-bye but your eyes spelled disgust. Your mind was already back in your car driving home to burn the sheets that had me on them. Thanks for the lovely evening.
Masticate By Rachelle Mathis I want to own you. I want to own all of you. I want to see you across the room and know that it was my teeth that left the impression on your skin, beneath your shirt. What is it like to know you're not enough. I could eat you and still not be full. You're coming to me, hands out baby baby baby. I'm biting at you. Slowing tearing you apart. Like maggots to a corpse, I'll consume you. You said it'd be okay. You'd said we'd make it. You think I’d want that, rather than this. I'm seeing you deteriorate in front of me, your mouth slides off your face when you try to kiss me. You're more mine than I ever was yours. I could stop this, if I wanted. But before long, I'll hold the deed. And this ring on my hand, and this ring on yours will mean more and less than ever. You inside Me, digested and safe forever.
Rachelle Mathis is a freelance writer of fiction and poetry. She spends most of her days trying to hold her tongue in classes, and most of her nights singing classic rock songs to her child. She currently lives in Colorado with her daughter and a closet with far too many cocktail dresses. Rachelle has been published in Red River Review and has a poems forthcoming in Anderbo and The Red Asylum.
Bun By Brian Barbeito
We waited in the coffee shop to meet my birth mother. A real shitty neighborhood. Every time someone passed outside we looked up, wondering if this was the soul. Nope. Nope. Nope not that one either. Not that other one. Nope. Then it became difficult to stay that vigilant and we relaxed a bit. A few minutes later a lady walked up to the door and in. We stood up and shook hands with her. Jeans. Sweater. Costume jewelry. An average enough lady. She asked if I had grown up around horses. Someone had told her that I was going to be taken to a farm. Feigned comfort. Nervous eyes. Got the birth name wrong. Now grappling for answers. Sketchy. Troubled. Few more words. The lady I am with is pregnant. Pregnant with denim’s grandchild. Denim says, ‘Don’t forget to take your vitamins.’ The gall. That was ballsy. But she didn’t mean it that way. She was just looking for something nice or relevant to say to two people in a coffee shop. Then she said she had to go. Had something in the oven. That one was also not meant to mean anything. But it was too rich anyhow. Far too rich for my blood.
Brian Michael Barbeito writes impressionistic vignettes, flash fiction, short stories, prose poetry, experimental novels, and book and film reviews. His work has appeared at Glossolalia, Subtle Fiction, Mudjob, Fictionaut, Six Sentences, Thinking Ten, American Chronicle, Our Echo, Ezine Authors, Author Nation, A Million Stores, Crimson Highway, Paragraph Planet, Useless-Knowledge Magazine, Exclusive Conclave of Delights Magazine, Linguistic Erosion, The Journal of Contemporary Literary Horizons, Synchronized Chaos Magazine, and Lunatics Folly. His work is forthcoming in Kurungabaa- A Journal of Literature, History, and Ideas from the Sea, Weirdyear, Smashed Cat Magazine, Otis Nebula, and Bare Root. He is the author of ‘postprandial,’ an experimental prose poem novel, of ‘Vignettes,’ a compilation of short writings, and Windows Without Glass, a collection of flash fiction. Brian resides in Ontario, Canada.
I Live By Randi Lee I live. And the world, Lush, ripe, obtuse, Does not read a word. I bleed. And man, Unaware, unconcerned, Passes me by on an errand. I recede. And the trees, Caught messily between seasonal winds, Clap. I die. And the shelves, Solemn and Empty, Are sold out of my words. And I live.
Randi Lee is an avid fan of both reading and writing poetry. She is currently working on her first fulllength novel. Randi lives in New England with her family and three dogs. Aside from writing, her hobbies include reading, painting, singing and trying new things. Her greatest wish is to inspire and help others with her words.
Broken By Angelic Sugai
The scalding water drips on my fat toe. My porcelain skin slides against the porcelain cauldron of my demise. I think back to the days of my youth where love was lost and life was gone and hope was but a dream. I reach for my heart and find it is not there. It's in my father's hands, buried in the dirt, with the worms. The knife pierces my soft flesh. Many thanks to the prince that placed it in my hands. He risked his world to help me leave mine. Little resistance is met and ooze begins to pour out of the new crevasse in my skin. Silk ribbons of crimson slide down my graceful fingers into the water. Swirls of life move around me in a dance of death. The lightness of my being fades in and out as I drift further into the darkness. Nothingness. Cold fingers bang against my cheek as I awaken from the depths of despair. My limp body is being pulled out of the bathtub and onto the ground. My belly and knees hit first and I lay my head down. My eyes focus on a broken tile on the dirty bathroom floor. Broken. It's the label that has followed me all my days on this miserable earth. I smile at the crack. Pleased to meet you. I'm broken too. Clothes are being put on my thin frame. They hang like the rags of a pauper. I'm helped to my feet and stumble across the hallway. I find my bed and pull back the sheets. The smell of urine hits my nose. I heave. It passes. I crawl in and wrap the cold sheets around me.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my slumber. Eyes half open, and eyelids still heavy, I saw him come towards me. His silhouette scares me, and then I remember. He's my angel, though someone has clipped his wings. He places two small white circles on the nightstand. Next to the circles a cup of water. I pick up the circles and put them in my dry mouth. I chug the water. It goes down, but the aftertaste of rusty pipes and chlorine burns. I let my head fall back on the pillow, the room now a swirl of colors and shapes. My own kaleidoscope. The bandages are falling off my wrist. I pull them off and trace the angry cut. I trace harder and harder until it bleeds once again. I let out a small sigh of relief. I need more time to plan, to make my journey to the other side. They don't understand how broken I am. I cannot be fixed. Tomorrow will be the last day, hour, minute, second. I close my eyes and wait for the anesthesia of sleep.
Angelic Sugai has lived all over the world, but finds she's most at home with a pen, paper, and her two children by her side. She aspires to paint the world with words, one story at a time.
Papa’s Garden By Johanna Hardy
Addie peeked out from behind the tree. She had been hiding, waiting for her brother to come find her, but Evan always took forever; he got distracted with boy things. She could’ve been enjoying the afternoon in Papa’s great garden reading or tending to the plants, but Evan insisted on playing this silly game. Addie let out a small huff, deciding she had waited long enough, and went to search for her little brother. She wondered why she could not see him, unless he had gone inside or into Papa’s garden. She called his name and wandered through the yard towards the giant greenhouse that held Papa’s creation. Addie felt herself relax as she opened the door and walked down the quiet path. Papa made this garden so great, with trees that offered a comfortable shade, flowers that offered beauty and sweet scents, and so much more. There wasn’t even a plot when he had bought the house, but he had worked hard, first building the structure itself, and then plowing rows, digging holes, watering, replanting, and so much else. He worked until his arms were sore, his back weary, and his garden formed to his liking. Through his hard work, this place had become a basket of jewels. In the recent days, the trees had turned emerald, a last attempt at living before the winter struck. The light was shining through, splashing gold in the green shadows. A sapphire blue bloomed in one of Papa’s flowers, and a deep ruby color was found in the apples of Papa’s prized trees.
Addie spotted Evan in the middle of it all, his shoes sitting beneath Papa’s best apple tree. The bright red fruits were just beginning to ripen. Evan was out on a far limb, reaching for the first apple of the season. “No, Evan don’t!” Addie cried. Papa rarely yelled at either of them, but each year, he asked to be the one to have the first apple off his prized apple tree so he would know if they’d be sweet and good to eat. Evan glanced down at Addie. She could tell that he wondered why she was making such a fuss, but he batted his hand as if to swat her warning away. He smirked at her and continued his climb to the end of the branch. He grasped the apple, gave a tug hard enough to shake the branch as well as release the apple, and put the fruit in between his teeth so he could climb down. He looked at Addie, and she knew he could see the firm set of her lips and her eyebrows scrunched together. “What?” “Papa’s going to yell at you when he sees you eating the apple. He always wants the first one.” Evan glanced down at the apple, now filled with craters from his teeth. He smiled as an idea came into his head. “I just won’t tell Papa. He won’t know. He’ll just get the next one.” Addie shook her head, knowing her father wouldn’t be pleased with this arrangement. She was about to tell Evan this when he extended the apple to her, offering a bit of the fruit. He slurped the juices happily, making all sorts of delicious noises as he wiggled the apple under her nose.
She knew she shouldn’t, but Addie took the apple and bit a chunk, letting the sweet flavor and crisp crunching fill her. She swallowed quickly and pulled Evan by his sleeve. “Come on, we should go before Papa wonders what we’re doing.” Evan shook his head. “I want another apple before we go.” Addie frowned. “You had one. You can’t have them all.” But Evan wasn’t listening to her. He was back in the tree, shimmying up toward the top, where another fruit glowed in the sunlight. He reached forward, trying to make his fingertips stretch the final inch to grasp the prize. He pushed slightly on the trunk with his foot. The push forward unbalanced her brother and, with a scream, Evan fell to the ground. Addie rushed to his side, a scream escaping her own lips. His leg was twisted wrong. Her hands hovered above her brother, unsure of how to help him. Addie could hear Papa coming from the entrance of the garden. She backed away from her brother, standing over him as he squirmed with pain. Papa came into the clearing. He saw Addie first, but she pointed to her brother. Evan sniveled as Papa checked the twisted ankle. Addie stood behind Papa, her eyes lingering on Evan’s cringing face. “What happened?” Papa asked. “A snake came,” Evan whimpered. “We got into the tree and I fell out when I got too high.”
Papa stayed quiet for a minute. He was frowning slightly, looking at Evan. He finally looked up, his eyes falling on the base of the trees, searching for Evan’s snake. Addie bit at her lip. She looked again at her little brother. Evan had fixed his eyes on her. He gave the slightest shake of his head and mouthed ‘please don’t tell.’ Addie looked down and kicked at the dirt. She noticed the apple core from the first fruit and, without breaking her kicking motion, kicked it under a bush. She turned back to Papa and Evan, noticing that Papa had turned to her. She looked away again, tucking her chin to her chest, hoping he had not seen what she had done. “Well,” Papa said, turning back to Evan, “we should get you to a doctor.” He stood, taking Evan into his arms, and motioned for her to follow him to the door. She jumped to his side, but he didn’t walk right away. Addie looked up to see Papa looking around the clearing again before turning again to look at his daughter. “Where’d the snake come from, Addie?” Addie looked down. “I don’t know, Papa.” He began to walk, and Addie followed closely behind him. “You know,” Papa said, “I’ve never seen a snake in here before. Have you?” “No, Papa,” Addie whispered. Evan had gone silent. Addie wasn’t sure whether it was because of pain or fear of telling the truth.
As they left, Papa took a key he rarely used from his pocket. He shifted Evan in his arms and motioned to Addie to come closer to him. Carefully, she stepped forward. Papa held out the key, his eyes hard and his normal smile gone. “You lock the door, Addie,” he said, dropping the key into her hands. “You can come back later, when the snakes are gone.” Addie’s fingers grasped at the small, cool piece of metal in her hand. She slipped it into the lock and turned the key, hearing the heavy clunk of the bolt slipping into place. She handed the key back to her father. He still wasn’t smiling. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispered, dropping her eyes to the ground. Papa sighed and put the arm that was not holding Evan over Addie’s shoulder. “I know,” he said. He gave Addie’s shoulder a small pat and began to walk towards the house. Before following, Addie looked once more at the walls that held the garden. She turned away before the tears could fall. She could still feel the weight of the key in her hand and the taste of the apple turned bitter in her mouth as she ran to catch back up with her Papa.
Johanna is a student at Northern Michigan University working towards a degree in Writing. She loves to read and write about the human experience - both the joys and the pains of what it means to be human alive. Outside of school and writing, she loves to ride horses, play and write music, and enjoy the nature of the upper peninsula of Michigan.
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