Crack the Spine - Issue 158 by Kerri Foley

Crack the Spine

Literary magazine

Issue 158

Cover Art: “Coconut in Foam” by A.J. Huffman A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, haiku, and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, includingLabletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.

CONTENTS Joshua Chaplinsky

Black Work

Caleb J. Oakes

I Brought All the Words I Could Find In the Best Possible Way

David Haight Grace

Bradley K. Meyer Superficially

Jacob Collins-Wilson

Despite

Deborah Guzzi Lurkers at the Threshold

Tommy Dean

A Marriage

Joshua Chaplinsky Black Work

Murad peered through the blinds at the growing mob outside his office, dust from the slats smudging his fingers. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen such a large group of villagers in the city. Where the hell are the police? he thought. He shook his head, rubbing his dirty hand on his khaki pants. The black smudge joined a myriad of other stains and discolorations. A simple, shortsleeve button-down hung over his belt, untucked. His appearance did not shine like that of a typical lawyer. He turned to the couple across from him. They sat in a pair of rusty folding chairs. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he asked. “It is getting ugly out there.” The couple didn’t confer with one another. They didn’t even make eyecontact. They communicated through their clasping hands, which formed a knot of knuckles and fingernails between them. “I’m sure,” Fahima said. The face isolated by the hijab was young—twenty-five at the most—but the woman spoke with uncharacteristic authority. Her husband nodded in silence, his bushy mustache concealing his expression. But his hard-set eyes were full of concern, his forehead a furrow of lines. Murad took another peek at the crowd. A bottle exploded against the building, shards of glass tinkling against the window. An angry cheer erupted from the crowd. “We will leave through the back,” he said. “Hopefully they will not notice.”

He sat down behind the only other piece of furniture in the entire office: a giant wooden table he had inherited from his grandfather. Its intricately carved Ruqyah—Quranic verses to ward off jinn—was in bad need of refinishing. Stacks of old law books were on the floor beneath it, surrounded by curls of peeled paint from the walls “Okay,” Murad said. “Let us go over this one more time, just to be sure. I will play the part of the judge. How long have you and Bilal been married?” “For about a month,” Fahima said. She looked at Bilal as she said it, as if making sure he knew the correct answer. “And why did you keep this a secret from your family?” “Because my family does not approve of Bilal.” There was another outburst from the crowd, as if in support of this statement. “So you married against your family’s wishes?” Murad said. “Yes. I married for love.” “Many couples in arranged marriages find love.” Fahima’s eyes narrowed. “I am the one who decides who I love. No one else.” “But you are still young and Bilal is a widower. Surely you can understand their concern.” “My father’s only concern is for himself,” Fahima said with disdain. “He made a deal for me to marry my cousin, who is only a few years younger than Bilal. In return my uncle promised him a sizable chunk of land.” “Your family claims Bilal kidnapped you,” Murad said. “Those are serious charges.” “Please. If I did not want to be with Bilal, why would I testify on his behalf?” “They say he has brainwashed you.”

“They also say Bilal is a Barmanou. And for that they should be laughed out of court.” “I’m sorry, Barmanou?” Murad broke character. “I forget, you are from the city. If you live in the mountains you know the Forest Man, a story told to scare young girls. He is half man, half ape, and wears the skin of other animals. He will rape your daughters if they do not behave, force them to bear his children. I know Bilal is old and hairy, but this is a ridiculous accusation.” Bilal grunted in indignation. Murad laughed. “Perhaps I do not know because I only have brothers,” Murad said. “Perhaps,” Fahima said. “That is a shame for you. Sisters are a joy. As are daughters.” “Daughters are a joy I know. I have two, and I love them very much.” “Would you allow them to marry for love, not your own profit?” The question was a challenge. “Of course.” “Good. Then you have no need of Barmanou.” Murad traced his finger along the Ruqyah on the table. “Sounds like a story my grandfather would have appreciated. He loved folklore.” Fahima followed the path of his finger, reading the engraving. “Your grandfather, did he believe in jinn?” “He believed they were metaphorical, not metaphysical,” Murad said. Fahima scoffed. “That is fancy talk.” Murad smiled. “No, he did not believe in jinn. My grandfather was not a superstitious man.” “But he was a good man.”

“He believed in the kindness within people.” Fahima studied Murad’s face. “You are a lot like him. I can tell.” “I try to be.” Fahima held her head high. “I do not believe in jinn,” she said. Bilal grumbled, prompting Fahima to slap his arm. “You do not believe in jinn, either!” Bilal recoiled from the blow, his face blossoming for a brief moment. “If only the judge could see you both as I have,” Murad said. “He could not possibly believe Bilal capable of kidnapping.” “Bilal is barely capable of catching a goat,” Fahima said. They all laughed. The crowd outside started to chant: Send us the whore! Send us the whore! Bilal’s countenance fell. Fahima became serious again. “Those are the true Barmanou, outside.” she said. “Will any of your grandfather’s Ruqyah protect me from them?” “I wish they could,” Murad said. The trio lapsed into silence. Bilal bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Amantu Billahi wa rasulihi,” he said in a soft voice. “Ameen,” Murad said. “Ameen,” Fahima said, squeezing her husband’s hand. Murad looked at his watch. “It is time.” Bilal looked at his wife and raised a pleading eyebrow. “What?” she said, feigning ignorance. Bilal nodded towards Murad. “Oh fine.” Fahima played up her exasperation and turned to Murad. “I think Bilal is being silly, but just in case something happens, he wants you to know that I am pregnant.”

Send us the whore! Send us the whore! “You’re what?” Murad said, shocked. “Pregnant,” she repeated. Bilal put an arm around his wife. “How… how many months?” Murad said. “Three.” “And you’ve been married…” “...one month.” Bilal finished the sentence with pride. Murad looked to Bilal and then back to Fahima. “And you did not tell me this because?” “I want to testify on my husband’s behalf,” Fahima said. “Besides, my body is nobody’s business.” “Right.” Murad looked down at the table. “Well… I would not bring it up before the judge.” “Of course not.” The chanting resonated louder and angrier in the quiet that followed. Murad gestured towards the back door. “You should go.” “Are you not coming with us?” Fahima said. “I’ll meet you at the High Court. Someone must distract the mob.” Murad placed his palm against the table. “I will say an extra Ruqyah for the child.” The couple stood up. Fahima maintained her defiance. Bilal had tears in his eyes. “As-salamu alaykum,” he said. “Wa alaykumu s-salam.” Murad said. Bilal ushered his wife out through the back of the office. Murad began to repeat the Ruqyah to himself as he gathered his notes for the trial. “I believe in Allah, the Almighty, and His Messenger, peace be upon him. I

believe in Allah, the Almighty, and His Messenger, peace be upon him...” He had to admit, despite their impotence, the words had a soothing effect. He paused to take a final look outside. There were at least thirty people for him to confront. He had never addressed such a large crowd, even in court. He walked toward the front door and took a deep breath before turning the knob and stepping outside. Fresh anger infused the crowd at the sight of Murad. Amidst the fury, he realized his previous estimate had been incorrect.There were over fifty irate protesters, all male, with fire in their eyes and bile in their mouths. Spittle clung to their beards as they yelled. He scanned the crowd for police. A handful of provincial officers observed the proceedings, but they were powerless to enforce any real control. The mob seemed indifferent to their presence. Murad held up a hand to quiet the crowd, but this only enraged them further. More bottles smashed against the building. An empty aluminum can bounced off his head. He shielded his eyes behind an arm and waited for the rabble to settle. “Where is the whore?” one man yelled. “Give her to us!” yelled another. “Please, please,” Murad said. “Remember, Mr. Bilal is the one on trial here, not his wife.” “She is not his wife!” another voice said. An old man in a dingy white kameez limped forward, assisted by a younger man in similar garb. The crowd quieted. “Why have you involved yourself in this?” he asked Murad. “I was hired to defend Mr. Bilal.”

The old man laughed. “Bilal does not have the money to hire lawyers. He does not even have money to support a family.” “I am not defending him for money. I am defending him because I believe it is right.” The old man bristled. “This is a family matter, and will be dealt with accordingly.” “Bilal has been summoned by the High Court. Who are you to challenge their authority?” Murad said. “My name is Amir,” the man told him. “I am Fahima’s father.” He gestured to his escort. “This is my eldest son, Hassan. You are doing us both a great dishonor by defending the man who took my daughter. If you value your life, you will bring them both to me at once.” The vocal crowd backed him up. They were simian in their fury. Fists shook, saliva flew—Murad imagined this is what the Barmanou must look like. His knuckles went white as he tightened his grip on his papers. He could picture his grandfather’s jinn, their distended bodies wisps of smoke, weaving in and out of the crowd, filling the men’s ears with Shayateen’s waswasa, inciting them to riot. “I am afraid I cannot do that,” Murad said. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. “They are already at the courthouse, awaiting my arrival.” “Is that so?” Hassan said. “Then you will not mind if we search the premises.” “I assure you, they are not—” He didn’t have time to finish the sentence. The crowd surged towards the door. Murad pushed against them, but he was no match for their sheer numbers. They knocked him to the ground and flowed past him into the empty office.

“They are not here,” one of them cried. “They must have escaped out back.” Half the men ran through the back door while the others went back the way they came. Murad watched from his vantage point amidst a sea of legs. A folding chair came crashing through the window onto the street. Murad shielded himself from falling glass. He scrambled through the open doorway on his hands and knees. A small group of men were setting fire to his law books. “No, don’t!” he cried. A fist smashed into his face and he fell back hard on the ground, clutching his nose. Horrified, he watched as the brittle pages of the books ignited and flames tickled the legs of his grandfather’s table. “I believed in Allah, the Almighty, and His Messenger, peace be upon him. I believed in Allah, the Almighty, and His Messenger, peace be upon him...” he repeated to himself as he watched the heirloom burn. The men pushed past, one of them delivering a swift kick to Murad’s ribs as he went. “Banchod!” he said. Murad shuddered from the blow. But despite the pain, he struggled to his feet and followed the men out the door. He kept his distance as they reported to Hassan and Amir. “They are gone,” one man said. “Stay with Father,” Hassan told the man. He took off down the street towards the High Court. Murad took off after him.

Fahima and Bilal stuck to the back roads after leaving Murad’s office. The route was longer, but it was safer and offered more cover. At some point though, it would lead them to the open space of the main road.

Bilal peeked around a corner. He could see the stone facade and spired domes of the High Court. “I do not see the men,” he said. They made a break for it, blending in with whatever foot-traffic there was. Fahima’s breathing grew heavy. “Do not look back,” Bilal said. Instead, Fahima looked up at the impressive edifice that was the High Court building. The lush green lawn and rows of Date Palms gave it the appearance of an oasis within the city. A safe haven that inspired confidence within her. All they had to do was get inside. They quickened their pace. Bystanders watched them pass, wondering what the hurry was. As they reached the steps beneath the main arch, Hassan’s voice cut the air. “Fahima!” She turned to see her brother pointing a beat up .38 at her, the mob following close behind. He did not wait for them to catch up to pull the trigger. Pedestrians screamed and scattered, but Fahima just stood there. In the time it took for Hassan to realize he had missed, Bilal was on top of him. “Run!” Bilal yelled to his wife. As she turned to comply, Fahima stumbled on the steps and fell to her knees. She picked herself up quickly, but by that point the crowd was upon her. A brick struck hard against the back of her head, knocking her to her knees again. A second blow forced her face downward, crushing her nose against the stairs. Blows continued to fall. Stones and sticks and fists. Angry voices surrounded her. She turned herself over to face her attackers. She put one hand over her stomach and held one up in front of her face. She scanned the crowd for Bilal,

but he was nowhere in sight. She attempted to call out to him but could only manage a sob. Murad pushed through the crowd. He was just another man among dozens, all fighting to get to Fahima, so no one bothered to stop him. He grabbed one of the attackers and pulled him off her. He punched a second in the side of the neck. It was sloppy, but it did the trick. Fahima, one hand now free, reached out and raked one of her assailants across the eyes. He fell back, shrieking. But there were too many of them. As soon as Murad dispatched one, two more joined in. He was quickly identified as the cause of the problem and restrained. Screaming Fahima’s name, he struggled against the attackers, but they held him tight, forcing him to witness the brutal beating. This time he didn’t just imagine the Barmanou, he physically saw them. The crowd had transformed before his very eyes. Inhuman beasts forsaking their last vestiges of humanity to sate their lust for blood. The jinn had distorted their minds, demonic tongues laden with evil, flicking in and out of the men’s ears. The mob inhaled the translucent grey bodies, screaming them back out with spittle and blood. Fahima locked eyes with Murad in disbelief. She could see them as well. Hassan appeared in front of her, shepherded by his own jinni, which was bigger and more distorted than the rest. The man advanced, blood from his face staining his kameez. The crowd parted for him. He held the .38 by the barrel and raised it above his head. “Hassan, no—” Fahima said. He brought the butt of the gun down on her face. Fahima felt shattered bits of teeth hit the back of her throat. Her crumpled mouth finished the sentence as Hassan raised the gun up again.

“—I’m pregnant.” This stayed the second blow. Hassan dropped the gun. He looked from his sister’s broken face to her stomach. “Please,” she said. There was a quiver in her voice. “You are going to be an Uncle.” The crowd went quiet. Murad recited the Ruqyah under his breath. The jinni wrapped itself around Hassan’s body and whispered into his ear. Hassan’s face twisted. Fahima could no longer recognize him as her brother. He was an animal. The beast drew back his foot and kicked her hard in the stomach. Fahima screamed. “You. Are not. My sister.” He emphasized each sentence with a kick. The crowd erupted once more. Murad lost all strength in his legs. His captors let him fall. The jinni bounced around with manic glee, weaving in and out of Hassan’s limbs as he pummeled his sister. The rest of the jinn howled along with the men as they celebrated their justice. By the time police intervened, most of the mob had scattered. Bilal, his face beaten beyond recognition, sat next to his wife’s limp body, stroking her hand. Her hijab was in tatters and blood pooled between her legs. Murad sat on the other side of her, head in his hands, still reciting the Ruqyah. He looked up as Amir approached. Due to his injury, the old man had arrived late to the scene. “Why?” Murad said. It was the only word he could muster. Bilal wept in silence. Although Amir hadn’t participated in the killing of his daughter, he took full credit. “I did it for the honor of our family,” he said. “A marriage without consent is black work.”

“She was your daughter!” Bilal’s voice was pure anguish. It was a desperate attempt to empty himself so that his wife might live. The exertion blew out his throat. Murad put his head back in his hands. “I believe in Allah, the Almighty, and His Messenger, peace be upon him. I believe in Allah, the Almighty, and His Messenger, peace be upon him...” The words had lost all their comfort.

Caleb J. Oakes

I Brought All the Words I Could Find

I was going to say something but I forgot what it was; something about how I miss what I felt for you. Sorry it’s so ineloquent; I’m distracted by something terrible stuck in my mind, like a roach in a bowl of sugar. It smells like perfection. And it’s heavy like perfection. But when I put it in my mouth it’s a lie.

Caleb J. Oakes

In the Best Possible Way

If I am a samurai then you are a samurai. And we only have one sword that we share, which we named love. One day you were swinging it around and sliced my ear off; and I said “Motherfuck, that’s sharp.”

David Haight Grace

“Tell him you love him,” they insisted. We were huddled around the large hospital bed which had swallowed my husband. He was scarcely conscious, eyes no longer open, his mouth nothing more than a pink paper cut, and that once prominent barrel chest sunk. My five children were crowded behind me, urging me forward. I stiffened my back and held my ground. They were all in various states of hysterics, even my boys. Swollen eyed and convulsing they caressed his hands and face. They thought they were saying goodbye. They weren’t. They were clutching a drowning man, an already dead man, trying to memorize his fading features, watching his torso with its fragile movements for that moment when it would rise no more, mixing like the sun and the sea their memories of who he was and who he

would be, desperately trying to force themselves to come to terms with his death that hadn’t yet come. “Tell him you love him, mom,” they insisted again. They were convinced he was at the gates that separated this life and the next and my words were the ticket that would allow him to pass. They thought I was grace. Even as grown adults their sentimentality was breathtaking. What was now happening was between Bill and God and there was no space between them. As far as my husband of fifty odd years, we said our goodbyes before this final bit of theater at home, in our bedroom, where I was unable to let him take in his last breath and which will be my last regret as a married woman. But I knew I’d have to do this. He knew too. Even now, lying their slipping away he was

amused by all this – charmed by my fierce reluctance. Go ahead. For them. Then he called me Pigeon. I closed my eyes and placed my hands on top of his. Behind me the tides were rising in their eyes and they clung together like rats. This was the performance they wanted. He was already urging me to relax, whispering it’s nearly over. “I love you Bill.” Then he was gone. The small white hospital room erupted in tears. Getting the finale they wanted my children left me and fell in a heap like soiled laundry on the chairs behind me. Turning around I found my oldest child, Bill junior, the one closest in appearance and personality to my husband and said, “I want to go home.” My other children Martha, Margaret, Judy and Derek all thought it was too soon, tried to coax me into sitting down, to be with him, pray, but Bill junior did as he was told,

collecting my things, handed me my purse, and pushed through the pink darting eyes and muffled disappointed voices, refusing to look as the hospital disappeared in the side mirror of my son’s shaking car.

Bradley K. Meyer Superficially

Cosmologists and cosmetologists care equally for the face of the moon.

Jacob Collins-Wilson Despite

As a child I was short and thin and snuck wild berries into my mouth. My parents owned a camera store for ten years in a small strip mall called Sunset Esplanade. In back of the mall, my brother and I watched trucks unload. There was a little creek we followed into the small forest where we'd eat berries and climb trees to throw rocks at passing cars. I swore a lot back then. Now, waking up with the same mouth, I wonder how those summers passed so fast. For years we played in the creek, took quick shits in the forest and ran from strangers, and the only thing I actually remember doing is one time hitting the wiffle ball into the street because I was mad at my brother Eli for being older and stronger and striking me out. Two cars ran it over and he said it was karma for the rocks

I'd thrown, so I cried. Actually, I lied. My brother told me about that stuff. I don't remember what it felt like to watch the ball fly away while our parents traded the weekend shifts between them. Yesterday my brother said, “The reason you can't remember it is because it wasn't fun at all. We were stuck there. Not allowed to go to the park or stay home. We had two trees and a kiddie pool that the laundromat people filled for us on hot days.” I reminded him of the creek and forest and he laughed at me. “What about the shits I took?” I said. “Those were at home in Manning. We didn't have running water in the trailer and had to shit outside behind the raspberry and blackberry brambles.” “Where are the pictures we used to take?” I asked him.

“What pictures?” “I remember taking pictures of you climbing the trees.” “You weren't old enough to take pictures.” “But I remember holding that black camera with the chip on the bottom because I dropped it on the rocks.” “Well they're probably buried in the boxes with thousands of other random pictures of strangers.” “You're probably right.” I still remember some things, I think. But they're all sad too. I wish I knew which plants are edible and which tracks belong to safe animals. Then I'd find a true forest and build a pit-toilet. Then I'd be a boy again, regardless.

Deborah Guzzi

Lurkers at the Threshold The black navel of contemplation—the theater hall— throbs, brash flashes of screen light assault. The walls holding in the public: strobe, engross, entomb, fragile denizens of the dark—in their skin sacks. Gazing ever outward—as emotion and anger floods over them. Never acknowledging, their own vicariousness; they sit. The black falsifies—corpus mundi—the body of the world— it is a screen of aqueous humor between the orb of eye nourishing mind over matter. The bouncing ball of real and surreal worlds scroll, dragging the on lookers, back and forth in compared realities; abandoning, then reclaiming, their own; they sit. Navel of contemplation—the theater hall entices, buttered and brined, a sugary delight, stock still; they sit like snippets on the floor of the cutting room. The darkness secures their plight. Infinity spools on a real reel, behind and above, brazen. Blasted fronts, monochrome backs, slouched; they sit.

Throb-washed flashes of screen light assault. Flinches go unnoticed. Tears unclaimed. Winces chuckled at. Massed emotion masked untapped— paid for by dirty lucre. “Whose game’s being played?” One hundred times bigger the Gulliver’s prance as Lilliputians huddle entranced; they sit. The walls holding in the pulse; engrossing, entombing fragile denizens of the dark in skin sacks. For the time allotted, they pause and reflect: do not act, do not move, feed their habits. Neither, to left nor, to right do they speak for interaction can certainly cause havoc; they sit. Gazing ever outward as emotion and anger flood over them, never acknowledging their own vicariousness: in the theater, the cinema, the house, the outhouse—corralled. They sprout; trapped in anima mundi—the soul of the universe as year after year; they find this their only way out: skin-walled bone-baited, sour suckers; they sit.

Tommy Dean A Marriage

The pen runs out of ink before I can sign the papers. Another pen and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve only written my middle initial. Meredith, my wife, soon to be ex, is prepared as usual. She sets a package of twenty pens on the table. "I've got more in my purse," she says.

Contributors

Joshua Chaplinsky Joshua Chaplinsky is the Managing Editor of literary website LitReactor.com. He also writes for the popular film site TwitchFilm and has written for ChuckPalahniuk.net, the official website of Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk. His short fiction has/will also appear inL’allure des Mots and Pantheon Magazine. Jacob Collins-Wilson Jacob Collins-Wilson writes poetry, fiction and reviews of both. Email him about anything at emailingjacob@gmail.com because he likes to receive emails. Tommy Dean Tommy Dean is the author of a flash fiction chapbook entitled “Special Like the People on TV” from Redbird Chapbooks. A graduate of the Queens University of Charlotte MFA program, he has been previously published in the Watershed Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, r.kv.r.y, Boston Literary Magazine, Foliate Oak, and Gravel. Find him @TommyDeanWriter on Twitter.

Deborah Guzzi Deborah Guzzi is a healing facilitator specializing in Japanese Shiatsu and Reiki. She writes for Massage and Aromatherapy publications. She travels the world to expand her knowledge of healing and seeking writing inspiration. She has walked the Great Wall of China and visited Nepal (during the civil war), Japan, Egypt (two weeks before “The Arab Spring”), Peru, and France (during December’s terrorist attacks). Her poetry appears in Magazines: here/there: poetry in the UK, Existere – Journal of Arts and Literature in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Hong, China, Latchkey Tales in New Zealand, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece, mgv2>publishing in France, and Travel by the Book, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Emerge Literary Journal, and others in the USA. David Haight David Haight was born in Minneapolis and educated at Hamline University where he received a degree in English and Philosophy and later an MFA in Writing where he was distinguished by the Quay W. Grigg award for Excellence in Literary Study. He published his first novel “Overdrive” in 2006 his second “Me and Mrs. Jones” in 2012 and recently finished a collection of short stories. He lives in the Twin Cities with his wife Lynn. A.J. Huffman A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, haiku, and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, includingLabletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both

English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. Bradley K. Meyer Bradley K Meyer writes from Dayton, Ohio. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in DASH, Rougarou, Apeiron Review, Gravel, Black Heart Magazine & others. He is the author of a chapbook, “Hotel Room” (Vostok East Press, 2013). He edits Pouch Magazinewhich lives at www.pouchmag.com Caleb J. Oakes Caleb J. Oakes really dislikes doing bios. He has a B.A. in creative writing from some university. How typical. He is unwilling to go any further in his education because he believes that education is becoming far too industrialized. But that is just his opinion. Most days he looks for a bit of sunshine to sit in as he reads, or a bit of music to hear as he lifts in the garage. There’s not much to tell. He prefers to be underestimated; appearing as a billow of smoke when he is actually the fire.

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