Crack the Spine
Issue 139
Literary magazine
Issue 139 February 18, 2015 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine
Cover Art: “Barcode� by David J. Thompson David J. Thompson is a former prep school teacher and coach. His photography has appeared in a number of journals both in print and on-line. Please visit his website at ninemilephoto.com
CONTENTS Howard Brown Badass is a Strictly Relative Term
M.M. Adjarian Opposition
Cheryl Smart Frank Watson
s
Grandmother
little river knocking
Geoffrey Miller Latin Elephant
Ralph Monday Watercolors
Robert Kerbeck
Ass Breaker: A Cautionary Tale
Howard Brown Badass is a Strictly Relative Term
Every place you go, there’s always a Booker Bowden was in Webster badass, someone who’s fought their way to the top of the heap and managed to hang on against all contenders. In the little town of Webster, Mississippi, that was Tommy Lee Tiller who’d been the local badass so long, he’d forgotten the rest of the premise—that there’s always someone else out there just a little bigger and a little meaner, waiting (well, maybe not even consciously waiting, but definitely able) to take you down. Ordinarily, that lapse of memory wouldn’t have mattered, not in Webster anyway, because all the local talent had long ago been vanquished. But the world is a very big place and, like everything else, badass is a strictly relative term. And on this particular night everything was about to change.
visiting his cousin. Sitting in the Dairy Crème parking lot on the hood of his ’56 Chevy, fighting was the last thing on Booker’s mind. So, when Tommy Lee sauntered over and asked: Just who the fuck are you? Booker didn’t even look up but replied, Go on, boy, I’m talking to my cousin. Don’t call me boy, sumbitch, Tommy Lee snarled, call me man. Then, without more, he reached out and slapped Booker across the face with his open palm. Booker didn’t say anything else, but motioned his cousin away as slid off the car hood. He seemed almost nonchalant, letting his arms dangle at his side, while Tommy Lee stood before him, his fists cocked. Come on, Tommy Lee taunted, let’s see what you got. Still Booker didn’t
respond, smiling wryly, waiting, watching. And when Tommy Lee finally let fly with a round-house punch, Booker simply stepped aside and let the other man’s momentum take him to the ground. Tommy Lee scrambled back to his feet and charged, his upper torso bent low, his arms stretched before him, hoping to tackle Booker. But Booker met him head on this time, bringing his right knee up to catch Tommy Lee full in the face, then following up with a swift kick to the groin as his adversary lay writhing in the gravel. And it was over.
Two days later, Booker went back to his own hometown, which lay a hundred miles to the north, and never returned to Webster again; while Tommy Lee lived there all the rest of his days. And every morning when Tommy Lee stepped into the bathroom and looked at the partial plate floating
in the water glass which sat on the lavatory sink, he would run his tongue over the gaping space where his four front teeth should have been and remember the savage beating he’d taken that night in the parking lot of the Dairy Crème. Yet, painful as that memory always proved to be, he could never quite wrap his mind around the notion that badass is a strictly relative term.
M.M. Adjarian Opposition Astrologers divining fate Call the straight-angled confrontation Between two celestial orbs An opposition. The day I was born An airy Libra sun and fiery Aries moon – One ruled by love, the other by war Faced off. But before I sailed On amniotic seas to reach the earth, A man and woman came together like air and fire, And combusted. Father sun, so distant in the sky, Mother moon, uneasy as the night – They traced troubled orbits around my heart. I feel them still. It’s delicate, this balance. My arms stretched wide, my toes curled under: Ever and uncertain on my cosmic tightrope I wobble
While a pair of scales tips and dips And a warrior god, Powerless before the destiny of blood and stars, Shakes his fist.
Cheryl Smart Grandmother An Essay
s
Worn squares of paper, fingerprint smudges across the top and bottom where the secret inside has been folded over itself again and again. I like you, do you like me? Check yes or no. There’s a memory there – a crush, a flutter in the belly, heartbreak, or nothing to do with affection at all. Memory is flimsy and brittle. Little notes, thousands of them, slotted away in their storage places, wrinkling and yellowing as we do. Our bodies break down; our brains unfold all these notes, downloading the memories to preserve us. Each experience of time and place a sensory journey inside ourselves, so sensory, we feel our remembrances, smell and taste them, hear them crunch under our feet like dry leaves in late autumn. She unfolds another note today, some days her memories as fresh as the clear, rock-lined creek behind her childhood home. Some days the water there is murky, she sifts through silt and sand for memories but muddies them more and more with each panning. She remembers the only doll she ever owned as a child, maybe the only gift her father ever gave. A delicate Chalkware doll made in a 2-part mold from gypsum plaster, the poor man’s porcelain. Chalk dolls were born to die, chipping and breaking easily, their painted-on faces washing away with the slightest bit of moisture. She unfolds the chalk doll note again today, most of the memory erased except the last bit of it. I’m anxious to help her remember. She’s downloading, and we’re running out of time…
She crosses the creek with her sisters, dirty bare toes gripping a fallen log, bits of rough bark chipping off and falling into the passing water below, then drifting. She clutches her chalk doll close to her body, hiding it away gently when it’s not tucked into the crook of her arm like this. She traces her small fingers along the doll’s puckered red mouth and puts her own lips there too often. Now the paint is wearing away, yet she cannot stop kissing. She admires the red gingham dress and bonnet, the yarn meant to be hair, pushed down into tiny holes drilled into the chalk. She pulls bits of yellow hair out of the bonnet to frame the doll’s sweet face. They are skipping through the meadow beside their cabin, Queen Anne’s lace tickling her shoulders, her doll bouncing happily inside the cradle of her arm, up and down with each skip. Rain the day before has brought the earthy scent of early summer, and filled the rain barrel beside the cabin with fresh water. She loves the rain. Climbing the split logs to the old, planked wood porch, she lags behind her two older sisters because they’ve quickened their steps. They are whispering to one another, something she is not meant to hear. She wants to hear. She catches up, and in an instant that is the slowest of moments where time bends unnaturally, one of the sisters snatches the doll from her arms. It is tossed, as if it were nothing more than a rock, into the rain barrel at the corner of the cabin. She screams, looks down into the barrel, watches what’s left of the puckered red mouth dissolve completely. Golden strings of hair float up while the doll floats down to her water grave, red gingham bonnet slipping off as her doll’s head melts away and disappears, the red gingham dress folding in on itself as the chalk body does the same.
No matter how many times she unfolds this note and shares it with me, it’s always the trauma that is rooted in clarity, the homicidal act. And what bruises her the most, seventy years later, is not the loss of her only childhood comfort, but that her adoring sister is the killer. A giggling, heartless killer who murdered her doll.
Frank Watson little river knocking
little river cut from the mountain top and the stones you left behind for my slippery feet
knocking on the window view to another life
Geoffrey Miller Latin Elephant Genuine coincidence – nature’s delicacies announce a German, an Egyptian and a cripple – collectively engraved, imprinted by senseless opportunity and peculiar intimacy – they create a caricature in waiting in Athos. While legitimate prettiness, vague backbiting and frivolous vanity decorate their dreaming, lies and absent conversations – a hundred living objects disseminate etiquette, habits, and expected rumors in the Latin Elephant. Stout unraveling awe glimpses the lame bending in the morning – “… a stupid paper cross …” – an unmistakable visitor of hallucination and antiquities – the German shrugs – “… a tight birth … incapable to hesitate …” – striking through both malignancy and forgiveness, obstinately publish the creature’s surprise, comfort and debt with temper and play.
The Egyptian coated in a sugary, black and hash pipe smoking skin, a resemblance confided completely through concealment to his lost servant the three now seek, “… three o’clock …. soberly amazed by history … tea?” Patronizing ruffles agitation for this man of lofty, charity influence – “…anticipated … wreck … sake … morning …” The German mentions – “… six days … fleeting topics … losing, unused … destitute …” “The lecturer’s telegram … six o’clock … assure … vortex …” – the Egyptian stretches – “… give it here … glimpses … unopened …” – the invalid utters. An idle nurse with a frowned finger, cheerful and accidently anonymous – the Egyptian, begs, concerns, stagnation and breach – a maid – “… common … popular … rosy … question … spread, soiled … knees and sharply …” She listens, part, both – “a candle is distressing treatment …” Laughter, chatter and talent, welcome the sullen, greedily maintained capital – “… slight … original …” – the German, drawls “… maintain … work … reflected …” “… It’s twelve o’clock last week, the envelope … abroad …” orders the sunken one who thought of marrying the shadow of the nurse’s innocence.
Ralph Monday Watercolors
That’s what the mute girl painted, watercolors that made no sense except to her. Globs of smeared color meandering like streams over the thick page. The brush was the thickness of her hair, hacking like a hoe at garden weeds to force something to grow from a technique ancient as Egyptian papyrus. This is the sun. Only a van Gogh scream. That is my big mountain. A corrupted Cezanne vision. A pretty tree. Twisted double cross. A flowing river. Open, bloody wounds.
A meadow with lovely deer. Splotched sickly green and brown. Mommy and daddy in love. A black hole rimmed in red. Me. Gash cut from the center.
Robert Kerbeck Ass Breaker: A Cautionary Tale
Uncle Harry could go screw himself. Captain Dave didn’t care how rich the billionaire was, or that the man owned the entire island of Lanai. This time Dave was firing one of Harry’s lazy, but permanently employed, Hawaiians. Dave had no clue why the outrageously powerful man (or anyone on his executive team) was so petrified to fire even a single local, recycling them all into different jobs every time there was a problem. But Dave’d had enough. Brandon the Beautiful was going to be Hawaiian history. “How many times this week has he come in late?” Captain Dave hollered at the beach boys, Puka and Pete the Canadian, standing in his makeshift office. Neither answered. “How about every fucking time.” Dave loved giving nicknames, always had. He thought a good one summed up a man real quick. His own, Captain Dave, wasn’t given to him but earned when Dave had run the most popular charter fishing boat on Maui. The boat, Kiss My Hairy, boasted the largest number of sport fishing records not just in Maui, but all the Hawaiian islands. Many of those still stood, even though he’d lost the party boat years ago. For a while, a few people had called him Hustler Dave, after the girlie magazine had done a shoot on Kiss My Hairy with three naked babes in various positions with a 529-pound tiger shark. He still had one of the Hustler photos taped on the wall behind his desk, featuring the dead shark staring at the one with the biggest tits. The photographer had placed Dave in the background with a gaff at the ready
as if the woman’s cup size might just bring the shark back to life. He was never quite sure why he’d agreed to the photo, which for his wife had been the final straw. Shelly moved out without saying a word. She’d had enough, a concept Dave had been unfamiliar with. More was always better—until that moment, when it suddenly became less. “You talk to your ‘brah’ Brandon today?” Dave swiveled in his chair and kicked his swollen feet up like he was some fat-cat senior executive rather than the manager of the sports activities shack at a formerly five-star resort, now missing one or two. “Nah, Captain Dave, Puka don’t hear nothin’.” “What about you, you fucking Canadian?” Dave had tried to come up with a better nickname for the kid, but his infallible politeness and genetic inability to acquire a tan made Pete the Canadian stick. “I’m sorry, Captain. I don’t know where he is.” “Well, if you do hear from him, you tell him he’s fired. You got that?” Both men looked as confused as they did when tourists returned the mask, snorkel, and fin sets they’d rented all mixed up. “How did a kid’s mask get with these adult fins?” he’d heard Puka say more than once. Despite being dumb, the thirty-year-old was Dave’s favorite, as well as the easiest to nickname, wearing dozens of strands of puka shells like some Hawaiian hippie. His real name was Pomaika’i. Dave had nicknamed practically everyone on Lanai, as their Hawaiian names were too damn difficult to pronounce. “Captain, maybe—” Puka started. “Maybe what?” The wiry Hawaiian was the only one Dave could count on to show up on time
and not close early when the surf was up. Puka was also the best diver on the island, even though he wasn’t certified. He could free-dive down to over seventy feet just to grab an octopus he’d spotted on a ledge. “Maybe you give Brandon one more chance. I talk to him.” “Excuse me, can I get some help here?” There was a tourist at the checkout window just around the corner from Dave’s desk, the man already foaming at the mouth for having to wait more than two seconds to get gear. “Sounds like a job for a Canadian,” Dave said with a snort, but it was true. Pete the Canadian was the best at handling difficult guests. Dave had gotten so good, he could literally hear in the tone of a guest’s voice if they were going to be a problem. For guests looking for some local color and a touch of aloha spirit, he’d send out Puka. For the women, Captain Dave sent Brandon the Beautiful.
The leap was eighty feet down. Standing naked (but for a fire-coal-red Speedo), it seemed Brandon had been preparing for the jump his whole life. He’d completed his final tattoos in Oahu the weekend before. His whole right side was covered like one of Chief Kahekili’s warriors. Brandon was Hekili, God of Thunder, half dark and half light. He was glad, however, he’d done his eyelid and tongue tattoos last. For Brandon, there would be no diving platform like the one built by Red Bull for the cliff diving championships to make Kahekili’s Leap safer. No, Brandon would do lele kawa—cliff diving—just as the chief’s warriors had. They had to jump out far enough to avoid the jutting lava cliffs while maintaining control of their bodies, falling at over sixty miles per hour. To Brandon, there wasn’t much challenge in just going straight down, no matter how high up. The ability to clear
the cliff and the sure death of the shallow ledge at the bottom was how the warriors proved their bravery. Jumping was scary; avoiding the cliff was something else. He felt at peace, one with the blue of the sky and the turquoise of the ocean below. After the leap, he would be the only true warrior on the island. He would swim around the point and climb up the cliff, reborn. No one would dare call him Brandon the Beautiful again or joke that he was “prettier than a girl,” as the drunk haole did every time Brandon waited on women at the beach. The jibes were designed to maximize his tips, of which the old man commandeered a hefty percentage. Captain Dave got paid to sit on his ass all day, guzzling rum and Cokes, while the beach boys toiled in the sun, grabbing chairs and drinks, handing out sports equipment, even rescuing clueless tourists standing with their backs to the dangerous surf. Brandon breathed in, then out, saying the prayer for deeper water the kahuna had taught him. Then his cell phone rang. His girlfriend, Uku, lowered the GoPro camera that was attached to a small pole without bothering to turn it off. “Ciao,” she answered after she’d pulled his phone out of her pocket. “I’m with dumbass now. He’s jumping off da Leap.” Uku had a big mouth, was big in every way. Brandon wasn’t sure he could take her in a fight, probably why he’d never broken up with her. On Lanai, an island of less than three thousand people, your first girlfriend was usually your last. “Shuddup.” Brandon had wanted the Leap video to go viral in and around the town of Lanai City. He wouldn’t have to say a word. He could just bask in the BRAHs shouted out of every truck, each covered in the red dirt of the island. “No shit. Brandon didn’t tell me dat.” Uku put the phone against her large
Polynesian hip. “You lie to me. You say you off today.” “Who’s that?” “Puka.” The locals used many of Captain Dave’s nicknames as though the Hawaiian language was too tough even for them—or just took too much time. “Tell him I’m busy.” “He says you getting fired if you don’t get you ass to work right now. He says you can jump any day.” “I don’t need that job.” “Yeah you do.” “Says who?” “Say dis girl.” Uku stuffed the phone back into her pocket and rumbled toward him, ready to go all Samoan on him, raising the flashing red, still filming camera and pole like she was going to club him with it. At Lanai City High School, the yearbook had named Uku “Most Likely To Be Arrested.” Uku had beat up the editor. As she came toward him, Brandon took three steps back, then ran toward the cliff. Unlike Kahekili’s warriors, Brandon was no longer jumping to prove his bravery. He was running from his girlfriend.
At the Hotel Lanai bar, Captain Dave heard the news. “Brandon Kaunolu jumped off the Leap. Look.” “Brandon the Beautiful?” Dave asked like he hadn’t heard correctly. He’d had a couple of mai tais already, despite happy hour being hours away. All Dave could make out on the small screen of his bar mate’s iPhone was someone flying
through the air and landing in the ocean with a huge splash. After the figure landed though, the screaming was unmistakable. The jumper was hurt. “Is he all right?” Dave asked. “They don’t know. Haven’t found him—or his body yet.” “Where did you get this?” “His girlfriend posted it on Facebook right after she called the police.”
The boat harbor at Manele Bay on Lanai was where Dave’s ex-wife was harbormaster. Shelly hadn’t been keen when she’d learned he’d moved to the island. She thought he’d followed her, when the best way to describe it was the current had simply taken him in her direction. They didn’t see each other much. She was a harbormaster, he a former boat captain who’d lost his license. He drank, she didn’t. “I need to be out there,” Dave said, barging through the office door Shelly kept open so she could see the harbor outside. She was sitting behind her desk, wearing reading glasses and a light dress with flowers he didn’t recognize. Every fish in the ocean he could name, flowers only one or two. She read him the way she regularly had. “You’re drunk.” “I’ve been drinking, yes, but I want to help in the search.” “We’ve got plenty of boats looking.” She had on red lipstick—even though there was no need—and her gray hair was pulled back regally. His ex remained a classy-looking broad. “You don’t need another boat,” he said, pointedly. She stared at him over her glasses like he might be more wasted than she’d thought. “You need a Zodiac.”
Dave gestured toward the tricked-out twin-engine inflatable sitting in the harbor fifty feet from her door. “You want to take Uncle Harry’s Zodiac? Now I know you’re drunk.” “I know the kid. He’s got a lot of pride. He’ll find a way to paddle in somewhere along the coast up there. He’s hurt bad, but he’s on land. I need the Zodiac so I can get in close to shore.” “Okay, ex-Captain Dave. Let’s say I give you the keys to Uncle Harry’s half-amillion-dollar RIB.” Hearing his former wife calling the rigid inflatable boat a RIB would’ve given him a hard-on if he was still capable of the feat. “Even if you aren’t too drunk to find him, how are you going to get him in the boat all by yourself?” A mud-encrusted truck pulled up in front of the harbormaster’s station, and Puka hopped out, carrying a set of snorkel equipment from the shack, a boogie board, and the largest dive fins Dave had ever seen. “Captain Dave. Mrs. ex-Captain Dave.” If they had time, he would’ve hugged the Hawaiian. “Okay,” Shelly said. “Only because it’s an emergency and because you used to be a hell of a boat man. Don’t screw this up.”
By the time they’d passed Kahekili’s Leap, the seas had gotten rough. Uncle Harry’s Zodiac handled them ridiculously well. The billionaire had modeled the boat on the ones used by SEAL Team Six to snatch up unsuspecting terrorists lollygagging on Middle Eastern beaches. Dave knew once the sun set, the winds would calm, but the dark would make it harder to spot an injured man—likely unable to stand, possibly even unconscious. From the video, Dave could tell
Brandon hadn’t entered straight; the most probable result would be a broken leg (or two) and internal bleeding from organs damaged or ruptured from the fall. That Brandon could scream was a minor consolation. In the fading light, pink and purple were taking turns dominating the lowhanging clouds as Dave marveled at the emptiness of the Lanai coastline. This part of the island, most of the island, was completely uninhabited. There were nearly no paved roads. There wasn’t a single traffic light. It was the last of true Hawaii and exactly the kind of paradise he and Shelly had discussed retiring in. And they’d found it. Separately.
Puka was the one who spotted the bright red cloth hung on top of a large stick or branch of a kiawe tree wedged between two boulders up against the towering cliffs. Dave’s over-sixty-year-old eyes could barely make it out—even with Puka pointing right at it. The Hawaiian said it was Brandon the Beautiful’s bathing suit. Apparently, the boy was partial to red. It made sense to Dave that the currents had pushed the boy into the unnamed cove. The captain in him had learned long ago that if a place didn’t have a name, there was usually a good reason for it. The reef in the cove was especially treacherous, even for Hawaii. The shallowness of the ocean shelf there caused waves to jack up suddenly, sometimes doubling, even tripling their size in seconds, before they exploded onto the reef. A boat caught inside would either be capsized or ripped to shreds—likely both. Because of the Zodiac’s relative lack of a hull, Dave was able to maneuver
precariously close to the shelf, hovering just outside the pounding surf. Puka geared up, hooking a rope through the leash plug on the center of the boogie board. He then dove into the ocean and quickly disappeared, hidden from sight by the giant backs of the crashing waves. The plan was for Puka to swim into the cove and put Brandon on the boogie board, then bear-hug him as Dave cranked the engines to pull both men over the reef and out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, while everything on Uncle Harry’s boat was military grade, the boogie board from the activities shack was not. On their very first attempt, signaled by Puka waving the stick with Brandon’s red bathing suit, the rope ripped out the center of the board, leaving both men stranded in the fading twilight that would hold for only another five minutes at most. After that, the men were spending the night in the water, on the reef, against the cliff. Perhaps Puka could get Brandon up onto a boulder, but if he was as seriously injured as Dave suspected, the boy might not make it ’til morning. Sensing a lull between sets, Dave went full throttle into the cove, just as he had through life, consequences be damned. The Zodiac skipped over the reef, doing a version of boat ballet. Puka seemed shocked to see him, even hesitated momentarily, as if a night on the reef might be preferable (and safer) than getting in and trying to punch back out through the pumping surf. But Puka boosted the naked and semiconscious boy into the Zodiac, while Dave kept his head on a swivel for waves that would land all three of them on the jagged, exposed reef, as well as destroy Uncle Harry’s pride and joy. When he saw the set coming—in the dark it was just a heaving of the ocean— Dave gunned it. Unlike Puka, and even Brandon, who might survive a night in the ocean, Dave would not. Like many an old-school helmsman, Captain Dave couldn’t
swim. As the wave on the outside rose, he realized they weren’t going to make it. He’d been a fool to come out here, just as he’d been a fool to come to the island to save his failed marriage. A good captain knew better than to endanger or hurt others when attempting any rescue. Drowning would serve him right. They rose up the face of a wave so steep that Dave couldn’t see the top, but it was already bending, indicating the curl would shortly come down upon them. Uncle Harry’s Zodiac had a different idea, however, and the speed with which to make it happen. While every boat Dave had ever been on would’ve been lost— and him with it—the Zodiac broke through, punishing the wave for having the audacity to challenge the vehicle of choice for Navy SEALs. On the ride back to the harbor, Brandon sat at Dave’s feet, the kid in bad shape. Dave was afraid the boy was partially paralyzed. He couldn’t move his lower body, though his legs didn’t appear to be broken, just his right wrist. Puka had to stay up front to keep the RIB-turned-speedboat from flipping. The boy was pulling pieces of bloody coral and sea urchin from his mangled face, moaning, “I’m gonna be ugly. I’m gonna be so ugly.” In swimming ashore, rather than getting washed out to sea, the boy had been defenseless against the powerful swell. He’d taken a beating on the inside reef. “You’re beautiful, boy,” Dave yelled, racing the stars. “You’re Brandon the Beautiful, the fiercest warrior on Lanai.”
Dave’s firing didn’t come as a complete surprise. Uncle Harry had to keep the locals happy, and the boy was now a celebrity. Even the Oahu papers picked up the story of Brandon Kaunolu, fighting the wicked inter-island currents and strong
surf to make it to shore, despite life-threatening injuries, where he was rescued by the Zodiac of Uncle Harry himself. The articles didn’t mention Captain Dave or Puka. The papers didn’t name Brandon’s exact injury either, describing him as having a shattered wrist as well as “lower extremity distress” that made him unable to swim with more than one arm. There was no nice way to say that Brandon the Beautiful had broken his ass on impact. There was also no surgery to do. Time, Uncle Harry’s minions told Dave, was what the boy needed to heal—that and a desk job with a pillow. Brandon would now be managing the beach boys at the activities shack. The minions threw Dave a bone, told him he could officiate the boy’s wedding to Uku, that it would be Lanai’s version of Kanye and Kim. Uncle Harry had pulled some strings and had gotten Dave his captain’s license back—on a probationary basis. The billionaire probably figured he’d gotten off cheap when Dave returned the man’s rigid inflatable boat without a scratch. Since Dave couldn’t make it past lunch without a cocktail, he would be helming the morning snorkel trips, full of screaming kids and tourists barely able to swim. It wasn’t big-game fishing, but he was back on the water. On the day of the ceremony, Dave was heading early to the bar, but instead he found himself turning and driving down to the harbor. “You always did clean up nice,” Shelly said when she saw him. She was watering the dying grass in the small yard outside the harbormaster’s station. Dave noted that she’d even planted a few flowers, which weren’t doing well in the dry heat on this part of the island. But his wife was stubborn. She didn’t give up on things easily.
“Not too late to change your mind,” he said. “They say it’s bad luck for the officiant to bring a date.” “Where’d you come up with that one?” “A girl with choices has to be creative.” Did she really? What options were there on this tiny island and at their stage of life? Likely none. Shelly had made it clear, though, that she’d rather be alone than with him. That was how completely he’d blown it. “You can’t say I didn’t try.” “No, this time, I can’t.” He turned and walked back to his truck, glad to be sober for once. The boy deserved that, even if his life with Uku was going to be hell. “What would we do at a wedding?” she called just as he reached the door. “You don’t dance. I don’t drink.” He spun and leaned against the truck like he was twenty again and they were meeting for the first time. “I could think of something.” “I bet you could.” Of all the times to go dry. He couldn’t come up with a single comeback. They stood uncomfortably silent in the comfortable heat. “I better get going,” he said, even though he could have stayed there, propped up by his truck, for what remained of his life. “Maybe you should.” As he was pulling out, she slowly turned back to the harbormaster’s station. He’d known her long enough to recognize her body language. She didn’t want him to see her crying, but had moved so that if he was in tune, it would be impossible to miss. He was supposed to go to her. Not to grab and kiss her like in some
Hollywood movie, but to let her know that—for once—he’d read her right. He’d hold her hand and whisper, “It’s okay, Shel.” Best would be to hug her, hum in her ear the way a mother does with a child. Then she’d push him away, afraid that perhaps he could finally be who she wanted, when they both knew that would never happen. On the ride back, the rain started as it often did in the higher elevations of Lanai City. Most weddings in the town were planned for outside, but the inside option was routinely ready to go. The switch happened at least half the time. He was sad he hadn’t gone to her, sad, too, that she wouldn’t be his date. But more than anything, he wished she could see him driving through the rain, whimpering like a baby, as he headed for the Hotel Lanai bar.
Contributors M.M. Adjarian M. M. Adjarian received a BA in comparative literature from the University of California and a PhD in the same field from the University of Michigan. She has published her creative work in The Provo Canyon Review, The Milo Review, The Baltimore Review, The Prague Revue, Poetry Quarterly, The Write Place At the Write Time and RaJAH: Rackham Journal of Arts and Humanities. Her articles and reviews have also appeared in Arts+Culture Texas, Bitch Magazine, Kirkus Reviews, and the Dallas Voice, as well as in several academic journals and compendiums. In 2004, she published a literary critical study entitled Allegories Of Desire: Body Nation And Empire In Modern Caribbean Literature By Women. At present, she is working on a family memoir provisionally titled The Beautiful Dreamers. Howard Brown Howard Brown is a writer and poet who lives on Lookout Mountain, Tennessee. He has published short fiction in Louisiana Literature, flash fiction in Fuck Fiction and poetry in Old Hickory Review and Poetry Super Highway. In 2012, he published a collection of poems entitled “The Gossamer Nature of Random Things.�
Robert Kerbeck Robert Kerbeck recently completed his first novel, “The Ballad Of Mr. Jack.” His short fiction has appeared in the Tower Journal and is forthcoming in Willow Review. A member of the Actors Studio, Robert has worked extensively in theater, film, and television, appearing in lead roles in major shows and earning several awards. He is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and the founder of the Malibu Writers Circle. Geoffrey Miller Geoffrey Miller’s most recent fiction can be found in Revolver, Ginosko Literary Journal, Pank, The Journal of Micro Literature andLabletter. His story ‘When you know’ will be included in the Attic Fiction Flash Anthology 2014 out this November. Visually check outPaper Tape Magazine and Weave Magazine or see ‘Paris’ on the June cover of Spittoon. Ralph Monday Ralph Monday is an Associate Professor of English at Roane State Community College in Harriman, TN., where he teaches composition, literature, and creative writing courses. In fall 2013 he had poems published in The New Plains Review, New Liberties Review, Fiction Week Literary Review, and is represented as the featured poet with 12 poems in the December issue of Poetry Repairs. In winter 2014 he had poems published in Dead Snakes. His work has appeared in publications such as The Phoenix, Bitter Creek Review,
Impressions, Kookamonga Square, Deep Waters, Jacket Magazine, The New Plains Review, New Liberties Review, Dead Snakes and Poetry Repairs. Cheryl Smart Cheryl Smart is a 2nd year MFA candidate at the University of Memphis, studying Creative Nonfiction and Poetry. She is current Nonfiction Editor of U of M’s literary journal, The Pinch. During her undergrad college career, Cheryl divided her studies between Philosophy and Poetry. She has publications appearing or forthcoming in The Little Patuxent Review, Appalachian Heritage, Cleaver Magazine, Word Riot, and Sandcutters 2014 Contest Winners Anthology. Cheryl was a hip hop aerobics instructor in an alternate life, and is now retired from that bit of craziness (although she misses it). David J. Thompson David J. Thompson is a former prep school teacher and coach. His photography has appeared in a number of journals both in print and on-line. Please visit his website at ninemilephoto.com. Frank Watson Frank Watson was born in Venice, California and now lives in New York City. He enjoys literature, art, calligraphy, history, jazz, international culture, and travel. Publications include The Dollhouse Mirror, Seas to Mulberries, The dVerse Anthology (editor), One Hundred Leaves (translator and
editor), Fragments (translator and editor), and Poetry Nook (editor). His work has appeared in various literary journals, anthologies, e-zines, and literary blogs. Frank’s Twitter account is @FollowBlueFlute and his website ispoetrynook.com.
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