CRACK THE SPINE
Issue Seven
Crack the Spine Issue Seven January 16, 2012 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright © 2012 by Crack the Spine
Cover Art “Two Faced (Lighten)” by Lucy Boynton
Contents David Spicer…………………….………….I Flunked Trig Three Times The Robert Johnson Blues James Piatt…………………………...…….…………...The Writer‟s Fear Steve Klepetar…………..…..…………………………….………...Alarm A Way of Drowning Peter Lingard…….……………………………....………..…..Footy Siren Aaron Poller……………………………………………...….…...Museum November Alexandra Oh………………………………..……..I Am Not an Animal Carl Palmer…………………………………….………..The Opportunist
The Robert Johnson Blues By David Spicer For Donna
Rumor has it that memory is surreal. I suggest it‟s a tidal wave in the mind that compels me to forget past lives. But one runaway night my sleeping psyche struck a deal with the demons and recalled fumes of a spirit‟s blubber: An avatar in Babylonia, without a Hollywood color. Centuries later I married Crazy Horse‟s top warrior. Penance for that arrived in the body of a mythic elk of Alaska that couldn‟t be shot. I‟ve had my share of guardian angels watch me suck up to Elvis or ride a dolphin at Sea World after hours until dawn. My hair‟s been shorter than Faust‟s wit and longer than a nun‟s prayer. A sly bullfighter romanced me until I fed him cracker crumbs. Our motto was Kill the slags, collect the cash, and stay glued in exile until the gin drips out. My favorite body was Etienne, a hermaphrodite with a cleft palate forced to rise up on cue and giggle with speed. The medieval life as King Pierre quizzed the dense rote of forgotten races-----gods who live behind the rim of the universe. I‟ve flunked too many math exams, mute with absence of numbers before teachers severed my head countless times. Sipped poison for Empress Astir and forecast the melee of egos in a heap of bugles. Now, I‟m a miser named Henri who sleeps with a calico cat and the Robert Johnson blues in a rust-love Edsel by the county woods to pose a riddle: Is a fool laughed at the only fool?
I Flunked Trig Three Times By David Spicer A cousin‟s friend told him my eyebrows reminded her of a serial killer‟s. Teresa, a long jumper, wore sunglasses inside, watched crime shows online, and stole Chablis from the fridge. Her wise slogan, Mao lives in snail syrup, played tuba to fussy ears, and her comment depressed me enough that I ate a pizza a day for a week. Aberrant in this life, I haven‟t killed a bug for years. Yes, I carry a raven on my shoulders over weekends and vacations, but she‟s a sidekick that chooses antique chess sets for me after I cater to charities for fired mimics. What did I do to Teresa, cram cacti in a purse or pet her dog‟s tufts like a coed‟s? My life is an explosion of wine and a lousy panorama of silly songs to shine on ladies who scuffle with weights in the spa. I flunked trig three times and I used a wok to bathe a baby, but Teresa ripped the cloth from my cut ego. No salve serves as its elegy. I won‟t goad or plan to harass her at the company manor: I‟ll just sit on a reef with my raven and plot the next move. David Spicer has, over the years and in pursuit of the word, worked as a paper boy, dishwasher, bottle loader, record warehouser, carpet roll dragger, burger flopper, ditch digger, weather observer, furniture mover, Manpower flunky, gas pumper, bookseller, tutor, 11th & 12th grader babysitter, magazine and book editor and publisher, typesetter, proofreader, carney barker, chocolate twister, artist's model, and last and certainly least, clinical trial subject for a laxative. He is the author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story, and four chapbooks plus five unpublished manuscripts of poems. His poems have appeared or will appear in The American Poetry Review, Alcatraz, Nitty Gritty, Ploughshares, Used Furniture, Hinchas de Poesia, and many others.
The Writerâ€&#x;s Fear By James Piatt
It was winter, the weather was icy cold, and the wind was gusting along the eaves of the two-story house. The old man sat down at his tattered desk. His wrinkled hands of parched leather, with splotches of brown, pushed the pen nervously onto white linen paper, words flowed sporadically, commas, rhymes, and metaphors spilled upon the white naked pages with abandon, ebony ink dripped from his pen like blood from an open wound then dried. Sentences written with care became sadly mutated then appeared like hundreds of snakes wriggling in a dark pit. His words crept into infinity like poles along a railroad track, his paragraphs stretched down into a never-ending abyss: He feared the implicit messages hidden in the writings. He finally folded his stories inside a manila file, he put a label on the contents – dark! He needed to allow the writings to smolder in the vat of time, and escape to the pit of all similesâ€&#x; temporary oblivion, so he closed them tightly into a dark metal file in the far corner of the room. Spring arrived one unexpected day and the darkness of winter disappeared into shadowy memories. The balmy warmth carried by gentle breezes replaced all of the past distressing icy winds. The old man took out his stories from the file, and reread the words of his writings as he copied them into his old computer; he wept in silence, no one knew why, only he. Mounds of tales accumulated upon his computer desktop, he was tempted to erase them all, and did erase many! He eventually saved and printed some of them. His mind, for a short time, faltered in a silenced instant as he reflected upon the works of literary giants of the illusionary, romantic, and metaphoric word. He could only hope his works were one tenth as good. Beside his desk, the heat of the Ben Franklin warmed his elderly bones as he threw many of the stories he had printed, one after the other, into the
insidious fire. He wept once again no one knew why, only he, and the demons inside his discarded tales. His plaintive words had coalesced from the nostalgia of lost memories, which, he had secreted inside the hidden obscurity of his writingsâ€&#x; darkness: The task was finally done, the remaining yarns were saved after being edited with deathâ€&#x;s scythe. It was time for harvesting the last of the crop, and, for testing the veracity of the words that he had penned from his soul. As always, he dreaded the stories would not measure up, but, trusting in his literary heritage, he pushed the magical icon, and the stories traveled at lightening speed to an editor. He leaned back effete with anticipation and apprehension. In the months ahead, he would wait in dread for the final proclamation of an editorial sage who held sway over the words he had penned in blood! He wondered if Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, or Hemingway ever felt the pernicious objective and subjective stab of an editorâ€&#x;s red pen, or feared the dreaded rejection words penned from the depth of their light souls. He sighed, then shrugged, and leaned forward with pen in hand to start the manically obsessive process all over again.
James earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, one of his MA concentrations was Existential Literature, ergo the reason for his stories being somewhat dark. He earned a doctorate from Brigham Young University. Twenty four of his short stories have been published these past two years by; Literary House Review, Greensilk Journal, Magic Cat Press, Welcome to Wherever, The Medulla Review, and others.
Alarm By Steve Klepetar
When alarm bells broke nightâ€&#x;s thin shell, everyone was lost. Even the dog, my uncle with his Brancusi smile, could find nothing to do with hats. Wet wool in the foyer, that peculiar English smell, ropes looped around handles and doors. Can we be without hope? Teacups yes, but no more umbrellas shivering in the hall, no light in the windows of dawn. I see it in sheets and flares. No doubt there will be lines of howling widows around the block. You can see it coming in reddening sky - everyone who stares at a white hole comes to know the miseries of sight. Only now does one learn that your roommate stole my silver bracelet or perhaps tossed it onto the garden mound where even grass turns back on itself, green parody of cats.
A Way of Drowning By Steve Klepetar
Pale as the balm of forgetting, ears abandon the crashing sea where deep weeds tangle lung-torn legs thrashing in desperate throes of hope.
Through this mountain of foam bodies crash.
In the way of eggs Cracking with new birth, stars spill out against
a black basin of sky. To nothing but sea breath and stinging salt, abandon yourself.
Steve Klepetarâ€&#x;s work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His latest chapbook is Thirty-six Crows, published in 2010 by erbaccepress.
Footy Siren By Peter Lingard “You lucky stiff. You‟ll be home in time for the big game on Sunday,” one of Allan Rhodes employees reminded him. “That‟s right!” exclaimed Allan. “It hadn‟t occurred to me. I‟ll hoist a wet one for ya.” He immediately called his wife. “Cecelia? How are ya, darling? D‟ya miss me?” He walked away from the man to gain privacy. “Allan! It‟s so good to hear you. I‟m fine, and, yes, I do miss you. I‟m getting excited thinking of having you here. I plan to do all sorts of nasty things to your body so you better make sure you‟re fit and ready.” He grinned. “I hope you‟re not gonna be too nasty, otherwise I might stay here a bit longer.” “Don‟t you dare,” said his wife. “I don‟t care how much money you‟re making in that God-forsaken country, I want you here.” He laughed. “No worries. Not to change the subject, but I need you to do something. The Bombers take on the Pies at the MCG on the twenty-third. Get us a coupla tickets, will ya, Ceese. Best seats ya can.” He purchased a gold and diamond necklace for a „sorry I‟ve been away‟ gift. The cost was less than a quarter of what it would be in Australia but he knew his wife would appreciate the piece. A deadly attack by the Taliban at the airport caused the cancellation of his flight. As he was still in in Afghanistan, he had to take care of a couple of snafus on his site before boarding a rescheduled flight three days later. After a meeting with a cocontractor at Sydney airport, he arrived at Melbourne late in the day of the muchanticipated game. Cecelia met him with open arms and a crunching kiss. “Am I glad to see you,” she whispered hoarsely. Once they were in the back of the limousine, Cecelia straddled her husband‟s lap and started to unfasten his tie. She told him of the celebrations she had planned and then cancelled because of his delayed return. “We‟ll do something next week,” she promised him. Her impatience made the removal of Allen‟s tie difficult. Her husband‟s hands wandered to every part of her body and they kissed as if they had just invented the idea.
“Get your pants off,” Cecelia commanded without breaking a kiss. Their teeth clashed. “Not in the limo, for Christ‟s sake. We might distract the driver and end up in a ditch. Later‟s greater, you‟ll see.” “You prude!” his wife complained as she retreated to the corner of the black leather seat, propped her chin in her palm and stared unseeingly out of the grey window. Allan completed the removal of his tie and wound it around three straight fingers. “What time does the game start, Ceese?” His wife slowly turned her head and fixed her ice-cold eyes on him. “Game? Is that what this is to you, a game?” “This? I‟m talking about the footy. What time‟s the first bounce?” “First bounce! Are you insane? I didn‟t get any football tickets! You‟ve been away for six weeks and come home on the day of our twelfth wedding anniversary wanting to go to a footy game. Have you completely lost it?” Anniversary! Allan smiled lovingly while he performed a mental shuffle. “Talking of our anniversary, I bought you a little something. A special present for a special lady on our special day. I hope you like it.” He extracted a black jewellery box from his briefcase. “Happy Anniversary. Here‟s to many more, eh?” Cecelia knew she needed to roll back her anger before she accepted the gift. She took a slow breath and forced a smile as she slid across the seat until her hip made contact with her husband. “You bought something special for me?” she asked in a young girl‟s voice. Allan put the jewelry box in her hand. “Take a look.” Cecelia opened the box, eyed the beautiful gold and diamond piece that lay on the blue velvet and immediately forgot about role-playing. “My God, Allan, this must have cost a fortune! It‟s beautiful.” She turned her head and started for his mouth, then stopped. “Is it all right if I kiss you?” She found it impossible to keep the sarcasm out of her voice and she smiled in an attempt to soften its effect. Her husband smiled back. “Yeah, I guess the driver‟s seen couples kissing before.” Allan managed to wait ten minutes before he casually asked the driver if he knew the time of the first bounce.
“Seven-thirty, sir,” the man told him. Allan looked at his watch and saw that it was already twenty to seven. Cecelia unlocked the front door and Allan carried his two bags into the house. He dumped them in the hallway and headed straight for the bedroom. “Are we alone?” he asked his wife over his shoulder. “Yes. I sent the kids to my parents‟ house. We have to pick them up tomorrow afternoon. I think mother‟s going to put on a „welcome home and happy anniversary‟ meal for us.” Allan had already thrown his jacket onto the floor and was levering off his shoes. “Come on, Ceese, let‟s…” His wife was already naked; she grabbed his trouser belt and unbuckled it. Seconds later, Allan backed his wife to the bed and fell on top of her. “Whoa there, stud. A little foreplay wouldn‟t go amiss. What‟s the rush?” “It‟s been a while, Ceese. Let me in, for Christ‟s sake.” Cecelia pushed him away and sat up. “No way, Jose! What am I? Some object you can use to get the dirty water off your chest? There are two of us here, lover. A little sexual equality is called for.” “Yeah, I‟m sorry.” He squinted at the fuzzy red numbers on the bedside table. There were six minutes until game time. Cecelia caught his glance at the clock. “It‟s the bloody footy, isn‟t it? What, you reckon you can give me a quick one and be in front of the box soon after the start?” She saw her husband‟s guilty look, thought of the necklace and softened. “Okay, stud. You can go and watch your game and we‟ll get to this later. Collingwood‟ll be done by half-time, anyway.” At quarter-time, Cecelia entered the den wearing her sexiest dress and carrying a silver tray on which rested a cold can of Carlton Draft. “A beer for monsieur?” “Holy molee, Ceese, you look great. Thanks for the beer. This is a great game; the Bombers are ahead by two goals.” “I‟m so glad, dear. If you get tired of watching the action, I know of some in which you can actually participate. Just give me a call.” At half time, his wife appeared in another fetching outfit with another beer and a bowl of crisps. She made a big production of positioning herself in front of her husband and bending down to place the items on the coffee table.
Allan glanced at her breasts. Cecelia raised her eyebrows expectantly and Allan gave her an apologetic smile. “You got a great rack, Ceese, but don‟t get me going just yet. Like I said; later is greater.” He leaned to his left to watch a replay of the first half highlights. “It‟s a hell of a game. They‟re goin‟ at each other hammer and tongs. Right now, it‟s the Pies by two points.” He wafted his hand at the beer and crisps. “Thanks for this.” “My pleasure,” Cecelia said in her huskiest voice. She smoothed down her dress and folded it between her thighs. “How about you and me going at it hammer and tongs?” “Like you said, Ceese; after the game.” At three-quarter-time, Cecelia entered the room wearing only panties. She carried a fresh brew and several tea-light candles on a tray. She stood to the side of her husband‟s chair, bowed and proffered the libation. Allan took the fresh beer in one hand, grasped the empty can from the coffee table with the other and passed it to his wife without looking at her. “Here, hon. Thanks.” He felt the empty can leave his hand. Cecelia distributed the candles around the room and lit them. Allan smiled at her. As she left the room, she turned off the lights. A minute later, it dawned on him what the candles were about and he smiled in anticipation. With two minutes remaining in the game, the Pies were ahead by one point. Essendon surged up field with purpose but only managed a minor score. It took Collingwood three kicks to reach their fifty. A string of hand passes was broken when a player fumbled the ball. A dozen men fell to the ground and scrapped amongst themselves in an attempt to gain possession. Thirty-seven seconds remained on the screen clock. Cecelia wore nothing save the necklace when she entered the room and took up a position in front of the television. She stood arms akimbo; her feet firmly planted forty centimetres apart. Clotted cream clung to her naked breasts. Sprinkles sat on the cream. A close-up shot of what must have been a team-runner‟s yellow tabard highlighted her pubic hair and Allan thought he noticed sprinkles there, too. “Don‟t you dare look at the television between my legs!” “Ceese, please. There‟s only thirty seconds ta go. It's a tied game, for Christ‟s sake. Don‟t do this to me. Please.” “It‟s time, stud. It‟s been well over two hours. I‟ve unpacked your bags, done your laundry, put together a bundle of clothes for the dry-cleaner, and served you with
crisps and beer. I thought I could wait your stupid game out, but I can‟t. You need to make a decision.” Allan remained silent, frantically trying to think how to neutralise his wife‟s ultimatum. He listened intently but the stupid commentators didn‟t mention a player‟s name or a team. Cecelia shifted slightly and a glob of cream plopped onto the carpet, followed by a small shower of sprinkles. Allen heard the roar of the crowd and the excitement of the commentators. He glued his eyes on his wife‟s face but tried to listen to their words. The temptation to look at the screen was almost irresistible. “What an unbelievable victory!” an announcer screamed. “This has been one for the ages.” “Who won the game?” Allan wanted to cry out. Cecelia‟s forefinger began to flick up and down on her hip, her red fingernails reflecting the candlelight. “It‟s me or the footy, stud.” Another voice shouted. “This was one game that should have ended in a draw.” How long before they said something that would inform him who had won? Had they already said something and he‟d missed it? Didn‟t they think blind people listened to their commentary? How far could he push his wife? He blinked his eyelids several times to prevent a glance at the screen. “Let’s see that winning score again. It’s something that’ll be replayed until eternity.” The pace of the silently tapping finger increased. “You have the remote control, Allen. All you need do is switch off the footy.” “I hate to see someone lose a game as good as this but I guess that’s what makes it the world’s greatest sport. It’s almost as good as sex”
Peter Lingard, born a Briton sold ice-creams on railway stations, worked as a bank clerk, delivered milk, laboured in a large dairy, served in the Royal Marines and „bounced‟ leery customers in a London clip-joint. He was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. Peter lived in the US for a while, where he owned a freight forwarding business. He went to Australia because the sun frequently shines there and the natives communicate in English. His stories and poems have appeared in 50+ magazines and e-zines. His first novel seeks publication.
Museum By Aaron Poller
From my office window the world is kind. In Winston-Salem day has begun, is holding its own, traffic, cherry trees in bloom and a flock of birds racing somewhere left to right then out of sight, leaving the picture to trigger neurons of my half awake brain. This morning we are all going someplace important or not, and someone will await our late arrival, perhaps, if we are in luck, welcome us, make us feel a part of it. Aaron Poller currently works as an advanced practice nursepsychotherapist in Winston-Salem and teaches Mental Health Nursing at Winston-Salem State University. He has been writing since the 1960′s when he studied poetry with Jean Garrigue and Daniel Hoffman while a student at the University of Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared recently in Barnwood Poetry Magazine, Eunoia Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Writing Disorder, Cherry Blossom Review, Wild Goose Poetry Review, Poetry Quarterly, Poetic Medicine, The Yale Journal of Humanities in Medicine and Palimpsest. He lives in a small house with his wife, four rescued dogs and three rescued cats.
November By Aaron Poller
The dirty pecan tree growing out in to our small house has begun littering the patio where we sit squinting at the yard as we sip our coffee. Pecans, dried leaves, the small branches, all strewn like the debris of some great flood. I spend an hour, perhaps two, trying to clean the mess, and each fall there is more, more filth from this tree that grows greater each year, too large now to chop down, dedicated to its production of refuse, and here, in gathering my enemies, such fear.
I Am Not an Animal By Alexandra Oh I watch my father‟s tail move back and forth as he talks to the Hunter by the wooden gate. Back and forth like a pendulum. I can feel the dirt on my eyeballs when I think about how I‟m watching Father without blinking, millions of little particles like attached leeches to my irises, blocking me from my weakened father. I try to keep my eyes open because blinking means blindness and blindness means I won‟t be able to see the Hunter when he slits my father‟s neck with a knife. I was worried for my father at first, but then I started giggling to myself a little because I think it‟s funny because father has such a thick neck. Mid-slit he could clamp down on the knife of the Hunter by tucking his chin and tear it away from the Hunter‟s grasp, like a dog pulling at a leash. Father‟s neck is thicker than his teeth. His teeth are dull from all the grinding. Father‟s tail has gone limp and the Hunter walks away from the gate of our yard, bloodless knife hiding. He turns back to the gate before walking down the factory road, deserted in the mid-afternoon gray. He nods in my direction, smiling. I wonder if my father is whimpering because there is a sound in the still air, which sounds suspiciously like mewling. But cats mewl. My father is a dog. I came outside of the house yesterday and haven‟t been inside since then. My mother the Pig watched me from the doorway for 37 minutes last night without speaking a word. She stood completely still, a shadowy, round shape in the doorway. I couldn‟t picture her eyes frowning, although I tried. I couldn‟t picture her hands shaking, either, but that‟s because I knew they were hidden in the wide sleeves of her dress. Tiger came by to tell me to go inside, but I told him to go away. He hasn‟t been in the house either. Little Tiger came by for 14 minutes to tell me about a book he‟s been reading at the factory school. There was a poem in it about a large white bird and a seaman, and I listened for a while as he read to me some of the words, but they didn‟t make any sense, and all I wanted to do was to drink lots of water. When I told Little Tiger I was thirsty, he became really excited and grabbed my hands, shouting, “Older Sister, Older Sister, you‟re like the Mariner!” “Mariner?” I smiled, squinting at Little Tiger. “Yes, you‟re like the Mariner on the ship on the sea.” I shook my head. No, Little Brother. I looked down at my feet, curling my toes inside my shoes. I am on land. Little Tiger ran into the house and brought me a cup of water from within. He stood on his tiptoes and pressed the rim of the cup to my swollen lips. Tasting the plastic, my head starting hurting again. The throbbing started in the frontal lobe, like it always does, because that is where the little demon nestles with a gong. He beats the gong with several veins he found in my eyeball strung together with an
eyelash. I took the water from Little Tiger and poured it on the cabbage plants in my backyard, and then I ate the damp dirt surrounding the cabbage in order to make the lining in my belly. Father is watching me from the doorway, now. Father has grandfather eyes even though he was born in 1935, before liberation, and before the war. Father feels sympathy for me because I was born into a family of animals. I am the only human in a family full of animals. There is Father the Dog and Mother the Pig and Tiger, Little Tiger, Rat, and me, the Girl. I am sixteen or seventeen or eighteen years old. I don‟t know my age, but I do know that I am old, old and dirty. The real me is a long way from here. She is a me who is an empress on the moon. Moon-children bring her peonies to eat and she bathes in a moon-lake with skeletal moon-fishes. Tiger once showed me pictures of fishes living in lakes in caves or really deep in the ocean, and those white and blind fishes are the ones with me in the moonlake. Their sharp and long teeth graze my bare legs, but never bite, for I am their beloved queen. Our country used to have queens, and a dynasty, but it died long before I was born. It is my second night outside the house. After my father stood in the doorway, watching me move around the yard, kicking dust, he slowly closed the door shut. He never came out to water the plants in the vegetable garden or feed the chickens. Forgetful Father. I‟m standing in the middle of the tiny front yard so that I can watch my family of animals through a window, illuminated like bulbs. In the darkness they cannot see me, and they do not know I am watching. The chickens know, for they claw with their wings at my worn slippers. But the Mother and the Father and the children (not Tiger, he is still away) are oblivious to the sentinel outside their window, dressed in white. Everything about me is clean and white, except for my shoes. The family tonight celebrates the New Year. Tonight they eat the sisters of my friends, the chickens, and peppered fish soup with warm rice, vegetable omelets, pancakes stuffed with squid and octopus, and barley tea. “And barley tea,” I say to the chickens. “And maybe pomegranates after dinner.” The mother in the house cocks her head to the left and looks in my direction, and I think maybe she hears the whisper of my voice through the window. She smiles and stretches a hand out, beckoning. I want to go to her. I take a step forward, but then I remember, and I stop. She cannot see me. Through the window, I see Little Rat, with her back to me, rise from the west side of the table. She moves around Little Tiger until she is on the east side of the table, the empty side, and then lowers her body down again to the ground in a deep kowtow. Her knees shake as she descends, and my knees shake as I stand watching. I let out a sigh of relief when she successfully finishes her bow. Do her knees ache? My knees ache. Without a
sound, I clap and smile. Little Rat stands and with two hands receives an envelope from our father. Little Tiger repeats the motions. And now my family eats. From inside the house, you cannot see clearly because there are lights in your eyes and everywhere you look there is someone who loves you, desperately. You must shield them from your filthy face and body, which reeks of impurity. How unchaste. How dirty. Wipe my hands clean on the grass. Come here chickens. Wipe my hands on the chickens. I can see my family more clearly from outside. Standing in the backyard with the chickens is better, and safer. I can see them, and tell them how to save themselves. “They haven‟t forgotten to set you a table setting.” Tiger speaks to me in the night. He stands outside the gate, like the Hunter stood earlier in the day. They forgot yours. Tiger nods. Tiger‟s feet are the same size as the Hunter‟s. Don‟t stand there. Tiger‟s feet are calloused and breaking. The Hunter‟s are as smooth as milk. “He can‟t hurt me,” Tiger responds, hands placed lightly on the swinging gate. His hands are bandaged like mummy hands. Tiger brought a story home from school once about a man who lived in a spaceship. This man soared through space for years and years looking for a planet to call home. He tried to land on stars, but they were too small, and then he tried asteroids, but they were too cold. After 100 years of space, the man died. His spaceship floated for another 1000 years before landing on a planet so far from here that if the loudest person on Earth yelled from the tallest mountain, the people on that planet wouldn‟t even think to hear. When they opened the spaceship and found the bones of a 1140 (he started flying at 40) year old man, they exclaimed and chortled because they had never seen anything so lovely. They buried him in the side of a mountain and named the mountain Baekdu because in their language, that meant Home. I told Tiger I wanted to visit the grave of the man in the mountain and Tiger told me he would take me there, and leave me there. I walk Little Tiger and Rat to their schools in the morning. Rat laughs at the leaves in my hair when I leave her with the missionaries at their school. Little Tiger and I walk two miles to the factory school where he learns about Hirohito (Ox), Kim Il Sung (Rat), and Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Foreigner). After school, he works in the factory that sponsors the school, checking for defective firing pins. Some boys get their hands stuck in the machines in the factory, losing their fingers, so I‟m happy Little Tiger has the
simple job of sorting for defects. Little Tiger finds his work unsatisfactory, however. “When they tell me to leave school in a year, I‟ll work in the factory only so that I can buy books. I‟ll study, and then I‟ll go to a University. I will study and become a lawyer and then I can help us keep our house. It‟s up to me because I‟m the son of the family.” “But Older Brother, Little Tiger…” I try to remind Little Tiger that he shouldn‟t speak as if Older Brother is dead, but Little Tiger looks at me and takes my hand. “Older Sister, you have to believe in me because you can‟t believe in him anymore.” I snatch my hand away and slap Little Tiger across the cheek. The noise echoes in the empty schoolyard, which is connected to the factory yard. Men standing by the factory doors stare at me. I cover my eyes with my hands; the slapping hand is warm, humming against my own cheek. The devil in my brain knocks, so I get on my knees and gather the grass, pulling it with my nails. I stuff grass down my throat without chewing. I need to cushion the cradle in my belly. When I look up, Little Tiger is gone and the schoolyard is empty except for the Hunter. Tiger worked in the factory with Little Tiger until Tiger was fired for talking. Tiger liked to talk about things and read lots of books. He said, “It‟s the educated in this world who have monopolized all the wealth.” I would nod and put my head on his knee. “It‟s the rich who have sat preening on the backs of the poor, like our fathers and the fathers of our father.” I would wrap my arms around his torso. He smelled like seaweed, sulfur, and education. Our father is a dog. “We have been enslaved for generations.” Our father is kind. “I‟m going to talk to Mr. Park tomorrow and we‟ll see if he can do anything about our wages.” Mr. Park has the same name as the President. “They share more than the same name.” Mr. Park has a shiny car. “Stay away from him.” My brother likes to talk. “Yes, I like to talk.” Tiger would slide his hand down my hair and curl the ends around his fingers. My brother is a tiger. “Yes, I will protect you.” I am girl who thinks her brother is a tiger. When Tiger worked at the factory, sometimes I would bring him dumplings from our Mother the Pig. I would wait outside until lunchtime and then bring Tiger the dumplings. I would wear my white dress, and my shoes were always clean. On some days, a black car waited outside the factory. I would watch the car from my perch on the rocks by the factory doors and I would wonder who was in the car. I wondered if a moon-prince lived in the car and waited for me, his princess, so he could take me to the moon. I told Tiger about the prince once and he told me to stay away from the car. But I was curious. The car was long and black, and had shiny wheels, which looked like silver stars. I wanted to put my cheek against the wheels to feel if they would burn my skin. My brother would always pull me away, but my eyes remained on the stars for a long time, even when they were no longer in my sight. My mind lingered on those stars, and on the silhouette of a man through the window.
In early December, we received a notice from the board of shareholders of the factory telling us that our house was scheduled for demolition because it was located in an area where they were going to build more factories. Tiger came home and, seeing the notice, ripped it up, throwing them like leaves into the fire. He went out to a bar and came home shaking with cuts on his face. Father whimpered in the corner when Tiger threw our ancestral tablets on the ground, screaming, “We are not animals!” Mother flung herself to the ground, gathering the broken pieces of the tablet onto her soft lap. Rat and Little Tiger closed their eyes. I closed my eyes, but then I opened them. The next day, in the afternoon, I walked slowly down the factory road. I wondered if the neighbors were watching me from their yards and thought I was beautiful. I had cleaned my shoes in the morning. Tiger used to joke that I must have been born upper class, as I have always been a child with the whitest skin, but was accidentally abandoned during the war. That is why I don‟t have a birth date. That is why I am not rich. The factory road is very long, but for some reason, on that day, it seemed like a matter of seconds before I had come to the end of the road, to the factory, where I knocked on the window of the black, star-wheeled car. In the future, there is a bride who wears sunglasses because her groom is the sun and she knows that if she looks at him, she will be blinded. She wears sunglasses at their wedding and sunglasses in their wedding chamber. When she switches from sunglass to sunglass she makes sure to keep her eyes closed. But, the bride loves her groom and the way his heart beats against her cheek, so she opens her eyes and is blinded. I am not blinded by the Hunter when he takes me into the car, nor am I blinded when he takes me to his home far away in the center of the city. My eyes are open, and I see all. I see the paper of ownership, which says we can keep our house. He gives the paper to me and I hold it tightly in my hands when he takes me into the kitchen. I hold it tightly in my hands as he feeds me soybean soup, and later, I hold it tightly as he tucks me into his warm bed, and holds me with his warm body. The corners of the paper are the beginnings of my cradle as I chew and chew and swallow. I am old the way Mother‟s dumplings are old if you refuse to eat them for weeks. I am weeks old. The Hunter isn‟t the only one in the schoolyard with me after Little Tiger disappears because Tiger is there. Tiger comes over and stands by me, growling. I smile at Tiger‟s ferocity. “Why are you smiling like that?” says the Hunter, leaning against his black car. I stop smiling. Tiger turns to me and shakes his head. I can see all the colors in Tiger‟s eyes. The Hunter takes a step towards me. “I‟ll keep my promise to you. You can keep your house. But, there‟s more I can do for you. Why don‟t you come with me?” The Hunter is looking at me like I‟m an animal, but I know I‟m not an animal. I‟m a girl. The Hunter doesn‟t look at Tiger. Look at Tiger. I want him to look at Tiger and be afraid. The Hunter doesn‟t look at Tiger. He opens the door to his car and drives away.
I am standing outside my house for the third night. Tiger is nowhere to be seen. “Have you seen Tiger?” I ask Little Rat when she comes home from the missionary school at 4:00. “Don‟t be stupid” is Rat‟s response. She walks into the house and slams the door in my face. Father comes out of the house at 5:34 and gives me a blanket. “You should come inside. Your mother is worried about you out here in the cold.” I remind my father that I can‟t feel the cold. He smiles and glances at my belly. “Still…” “Is Tiger allowed back in the house?” “Tiger is always welcome in the house,” says Father. At 6:50, Little Tiger emerges from the house with dumplings that Mother has cooked and a piece of bread that Little Rat has baked. “Rat says she‟s sorry for yelling at you.” Little Tiger scratches the center of his left eyebrow. “Rat says you‟ve been asking about Tiger.” “Yes, I have. You must not forget him. He is your brother.” Little Tiger nods, but then shakes his head. “He protects us.” Little Tiger places the dumplings on the ground at my feet. “I will protect us now that he can‟t, Older Sister,” he says softly. I kick the plate of dumplings and pull out clumps of my hair. Tiger appears at the gate and yells for me to stop. The dumplings lay sprawled across the yard. I pick them up off the ground and put them in my mouth. “Older Sister, stop, stop.” Little Tiger‟s voice sounds familiar. Little Tiger sounds like Tiger, strong and fearful. I look at the gate and Tiger is gone. “Older Sister, stop.” I stop. There are places in this world that you can go to be close to the stars. I ask Tiger if he would take me to one of those places. Take me to one of those places in the sky where you can eat un-breathed air. I want to suck in all the lights and have them swirl in my belly, air in my belly swishing. My belly and I will feel clean, finally. Let my home be full of pockets of light. how dare you leave me for the moon. you and i were born in the forgotten years but father gave you an animal to protect you, and i had nothing. i have nothing now that
you have gone to the moon to swim in my moon-lake and play with my moon-fishes. they say tigers roamed the mountains of the largest mountain range in korea before the war. take me to that mountain so i can imagine you on my moon, waiting for me, for the me without a skin, who drowns in the air, gasping. The gates to the Hunter‟s home in the city are unlocked. I swing them open and closed on oiled hinges. Tiger stands beside me. “Don‟t, Little Sister,” he murmurs. I must end this for you. I am like a tiger, defending what is mine. I am like you. I loved you when you came to me smiling, trying to share half of your soul with me. Can you cut a soul in half? I asked, and you said yes, that I could be a tiger like you. I said it was all I ever wanted, to have a soul to swim in. “Let me go.” The Hunter killed me when he killed you. The Hunter should have known I would shoot him, blinking, just once. I am dying, he says, confused, his eyes closing, and then opening again. You have killed me. Maybe. You have killed me. Yes. I lay my heavy head in his lap, and the blood from his wound seeps into my eyes. I leave them open to see the world as he sees it, tinged by cold red. I am in my backyard again. I am crouched outside eating pork buns because my mother has left them out on the step for me. I am not hungry, but I have to eat them for the little animal in my belly. Tiger comes to the gate for the last time. He squints his small eyes at me and I stand to face him. Rat says you‟ll go to heaven. My brother shrugs. I will see you later, then. When my brother has left the gate, I open the front door to my home and walk inside. Alexandra Oh studies creative writing and East Asian history at the University of California-San Diego. She is working on her first novel.
The Opportunist By Carl Palmer
Jason Amalynn was the leader in his field of TV and movie special effects. His invention was a special prism laser projector using image reflection and light refraction to create a 3D hologram. The mirage could be created and shown most anywhere on most anything. Not just as trick photography on film, but projected upon buildings, clouds and even a waterfall once. I was in total awe of Jason as his understudy, however felt completely betrayed when he vowed to take his technique public. That‟s why I killed him. Using only a picture of the original object, multiple objects are created, not unlike a mirror fun house. He wanted to donate this “illusion of mass” for military scenarios to multiply our troop strength, virtually surround the enemy and cause them to surrender without loss of life. His humanitarian effort would not put money in my pocket. Being completely familiar with the equipment, it was a cinch to setup my operation, and I had the perfect location, Pier 55, Seattle Washington. My sign read: Alaska Cruise Special $200 Next 3 hours Only Sign up Today and Sail Tonight Out in the drizzling foggy mist of Puget Sound was my cruise ship luring a growing line of suckers ready for a deal. I was racking in the dough so fast I didn‟t see the police arrive or notice that the sun had come out to fade my cruise ship into reality. My biggest mistake was to believe that it always rains in Seattle.
Carl Palmer, nominated for the Micro Award in flash fiction and three Pushcart Prizes by poetry magazine editors, is from Old Mill Road in Ridgeway VA. Carl now lives in University Place WA. without wristwatch, cell phone or alarm clock. His Motto: Long Weekends Forever.
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