Crack the Spine - Issue 175

Crack the Spine

Literary magazine

Issue 175

Issue 175 December 16, 2015 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine

This issue is generously sponsored by:

Outskirts Press

CONTENTS Jason Half-Pillow Juan Casts a Shadow

Linda Ardison

Ode to Sheets that Blow in the Wind

Alexander Sammartino Message Not Sent #48

Taylor Brake

A Response

Shannon McPherson Dry Spell

Holly Day

The Trip

J. T. Townley What Jack Says

Jason Half-Pillow Juan Casts a Shadow

Juan is in America. He is from Spain. Juan is in America to study English at an English language school in Santa Barbara, California. The school has many branches all over the world. He narrowed his choice down to Malta and Santa Barbara and flipped a coin, like he had seen many times in American movies.

He is living with an American family, the Johnson’s. The Johnson’s have hosted English students in Santa Barbara for ten years. They are very interested in other cultures and tell people that all the time when asked how they can stand constantly having so many strangers in their home. Most of the students who come to Santa Barbara to study English are Arab. The Johnsons don’t mind Arab girls but find Arab men obnoxious. They are glad to have Juan instead of an Arab. They had three Arab men in a row. The Johnson’s were very jealous of other hosts who had Arab girls and wore grim looks when listening to how those hosts say how funny and lively the girls were during graduation ceremonies at the school. They had plates full of finger foods intended to represent California’s contribution to American cuisine. Many of the foods contained salmon.

Juan wants to learn English because he wants to get out of Spain. Spain’s unemployment rate is higher than America’s during the Great Depression, a thing neither Juan nor his hosts, the Johnsons, know anything about. Many people Juan’s age spend more time marching around the streets carrying communist banners. Juan’s father does not like that. His relatives were all nationalists during Spain’s Civil War and were also all executed by communists.

He said the communists who killed his relatives were Russian stooges. He uses

the actual word “stooge” from the three stooges, and means by it “clowns not to be taken seriously” He does not mean by it that they are unknowing servants of a perfidious alien power. Neither he nor Juan are aware of that English idiom.

Juan thinks his father exaggerates and once asked how he or his father could even exist if the communists had killed all of their ancestors. His father flew into a rage. The next day, he brought pamphlets from the English language school and told Juan it was time for him to get the hell out of Spain, before it was too late. The girls in the pamphlets were all attractive, so Juan readily agreed.

Juan is excited also to learn about American culture, at least that was what he keeps saying in class, but really he is there to score hot, blonde girls with big, firm boobs. He was happy to see that the real student boobs were much nicer in real life than even those in the pamphlets.

Santa Barbara has a fair share of those but for the most part, Juan has been disappointed in that regard. The boobs he admired were all on German and Scandinavian students.

His teacher is a curly haired Jewish woman that the Arab boys sometimes turn their backs on in class. She has grey hairs mixed in the curly mass of black hair and wears very big glasses. Juan noticed her big boobs and wonders all the time if they were ever firm and upright instead of them taking turns having one always hanging lower than the other. Juan hates himself for looking at them but knows also he’s not the only one.

Juan thinks the teacher and the Arab boys are all idiots and wonders how hard it would be to get a refund, if they’d give him cash even though his father paid with some kind of bank check. He goes to ask and stands behind three students who take turns approaching the 18 year old foreign girl at the desk

who doesn’t speak English well and sees that no matter your story, you can’t get refunds.

The Germanic and Scandinavian looking girl students hate the Arabs and also tower high above them. There are two girls who play Volleyball at the beach everyday and switch into their beach volleyball outfits every day after class before riding down to the beach on the hulking sting ray style cruiser bicycles that they bought and intend to leave to their host family for future students because they’re so rich they can apparently afford to do such things. One day, they shoved a group of Arab boys against the Coke machine near the Mediterranean style, outdoor study area. Juan didn’t know which side to root for, though it was obvious the Arab guys were overmatched, so he figured it was best to go with the winners. Most Spaniards feel inferior to Germans and sometimes wonder if it isn’t perhaps innate, and he thought it would be nice to see the skinniest Arab with the sad adolescent beard punch each girl in their toned stomach and fell them both but he instead watched him cringe into the space between the Coke and Bottled Water machine. There were so many bottled water options, that they needed their own machine. Juan didn’t mind.

He really doesn’t like Arabs in a visceral way. He thinks they’re taking over his country. Juan is from the South of Spain. It is very hot there and the architecture very Moorish.

The Johnsons have no idea that Spain is split into many regions and that in many, Spanish is a second language. Juan elected not to enlighten them about any of this. He is embarrassed that his country can’t get its act together and so he says nothing, which is his way of pretending that things there run smoothly, hoping that his hosts will be impressed. The Johnsons don’t know who the Moors are either. In his room one night, Juan thought he could tell them that

the Moors were people who believed a Hound did indeed haunt the land of the Baskervilles and fled England and settled in Spain to avoid it, and they would believe him. He is often bored at their house and is therefore often tempted to give it a try.

Juan might want to rethink being so cocky. When asked if there are a lot of Canaries in the Canary islands by a relatively geographically astute Irish girl with big but floppy knockers, Juan said there must be, since the island was named after them. Juan does know that the name of the islands derives from the Latin word for “dog” and has nothing at all to do with the birds, who live on the island only in pet shops. They are there only because so many English people live there, and the women like birds. The Irish girl knew the islands were named after dogs and had been testing Juan and secretly relished his ignorance. Juan thought about her boobs a lot while she was talking and it suddenly hit him that they were just like his teacher’s. He wondered if the Irish girl would grow up to be so didactic too. It dawned on him later that day that she already was because the Irish spoke English. He then realized she had to have been some kind of employee, until he learned that she was accompanying some German friends and did a lot of their homework for them. He felt much better. Maybe those Germans weren’t so intellectually superior after all, or maybe they were but were just lazy.

The Johnson’s have a son who never makes any effort to be friends with any male students his parents host. He always tells them to “be sure to get a chick” and doesn’t believe the choice is out of their hands. Juan is relieved when his hosts ask him to tell their son about Spain and the son tells his parents they know he doesn’t give a shit and to please pass the peas. He cuts off half the cube of butter and stirs it into the peas until it melts. His mom says she already

put butter on them, and that he’s not leaving Juan enough for his bread. Juan thinks he should say Spaniards don’t butter their bread but wonders if they’ll take that to mean their poor and can’t afford butter, which they can but generally just don’t like. The son salts the shit out of the peas and his mother says he should taste first, that he should dip his toe in the water before diving in. He says that makes no sense and changes the topic, turning to his dad and telling him the boat really needs a bigger refrigerator and a better stereo system. He got in a completion the other day with another sailboat and blew out the speakers. He tells his dad they had killer bass woofers. His dad said those things are out of the question. That they scare the fish so much that they scatter for days and some never return. He rolled his eyes and asked if the other boat was playing rap music. The mother tells Juan not to listen to rap, that it will ruin him.

The son plays sports and hates academics but still gets straight A’s because he turns in all his work and the tests are easy, and if you don’t get an A on one, the unofficial school policy allows students to retake it ad nauseum until the teacher caves in and just gives them an A to avoid all the hassle. He is a junior.

He has fucked ten girls already and presently has two girlfriends. No one at the school sees anything disturbing in this. VD is rampant, and most of the students’ parents keep sailboats down at the docks, next to the most popular beach in the city, where tourists flock. By most people’s standards, they’re all richer than shit. Still, Juan and his family live in a very nice house near the school but the neighborhood is zoned strangely, so not all their neighbors are just like them. Some are just plain old businesses, including a rickety old Tienda that looks like it grew out of the bushes.

The Johnson’s also have a daughter attending Princeton. She majors in Political Science. Her parents neither know, nor care to know, what she is learning there, but dinner guests are often interested, though most of them are men, and are probably interested first because of her looks, which are stunning.

If she’s not there, they ask the parents but don’t listen to the answer, which is usually no more than “political something or other.”

If she’s there visiting for a long weekend maybe, she and a male guest or two might engage in serious conversation about politics and governance. Her understanding of politics and governance is much more sophisticated than the usual partisan side taking. Asked who she likes in the primaries, she says she will never deign to vote. What if your execution is on the ballot? She mentions something in the Constitution prohibiting laws directed at specific persons.

One guest once scoffed and said paper was powerless to stop the frenzied bloodlust of a mob. This particular discussion took place when the Johnsons were hosting a timid Japanese boy who couldn’t follow at all what was being said and thus kept his head down, slurping his soup loudly. It was some kind of squash concoction that he found nauseating.

Juan has seen pictures of the girl all over the house. In fact, he is sleeping in her room and beats off to photos of her when he thinks the others are asleep.

One night, he left a nightstand lamp on, and he threw a shadow onto an orange tree outside. It was around 11:30 and several Mexicans, drunk from the beer they got at the Tienda, passed and saw the shadow; their roars of laughter got all the dogs barking, which set off a chain, and it all filled the night air.

Everyone in the vicinity locked their doors and looked outside to see what was going on. The old Mexican cashier in the Tienda came out cocking a shotgun.

Roughly thirty two percent saw the same shadow and the older among them had no idea what the hell was going on. Among those, 90 percent went straight back to bed. Those who were white men and lived in nice houses and had plenty of money crawled into bed next to their spouse replied to their significant other’s cursory query about what was going on out there, by saying “nothing” the same way they do when they hear garbage can lid clang and the sound of the same three cats fighting.

Juan did not cast a shadow on the Johnson’s tree but their neighbors, all of them in the country illegally. Juan had no idea the commotion he was causing.

Back in Spain, people stayed up until five reveling in the streets. He continued with his antics, though he tended to skip nights, and sometimes didn’t cast that same shadow for as long as five days. He finally got a phone that he could look at pornography on without having to turn on the nightstand lamp, so, to the disappointment of many, the giant shadow did not appear. The only sign of what he was doing was the slight flapping noise sneaking out his open window, but it generally got lost in the general noise of the neighborhood. The Johnson’s were against air conditioning and drove an electric car, so Juan had to keep the window open to keep the room cool at night.

The Johnson’s daughter came home. She and her brother did not get along.

She stopped going to Princeton. Her parents were aghast. She said it was pointless and vowed to get a job at Starbucks and enroll in the City’s Community College. She said the education would be more intimate than at Princeton.

In the meantime, she rose every morning at five and got to the dock and took the family’s boat out, precluding every day her brother’s from going out on with

all his friends and screw his girlfriend on deck in front of whoever was not passed out. She had been beating him to the punch their whole lives.

Then one night, she came in the room. Juan was conjugating verbs at her old desk. She was braless wearing only a t-shirt. She sat on her old bed and turned the nightstand lamp on. Her heavenly figure with its heavenly bust line showed in gargantuan shadow on the orange tree in the yard next door. People on the street stopped to look. A car pulled over. She asked Juan to come over and talk and told him she was embarrassed to have studied Spanish for so long in high school and even to have taken AP Spanish and received a 4 on the exam and not be able to speak it at all. He said that was too bad and that his English wasn’t too good either and he’d studied it forever. She then put her hand on his cock and in minutes was riding his dick, leaning into him, and that too was cast as a giant shadow on the tree.

Everyone came out to look at the tree, wearing expressions like Richard Dreyfus wore in the climactic scene in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

They fucked every night, always casting the same shadow, she always riding his dick and the crowds became less aghast. Word spread, and more and more people who lived at increasing distance from the neighborhood came to watch, get drunk, and laugh. Their amazement was dampened somewhat by the seasoned pros who told them it happens every night, and told them what to watch for, and then proudly smiled and nodded with folded arms as everything they predicted came true.

Juan’s staying power improved, so the show lasted longer and longer.

Finally, someone filmed it on their phone and put it on YouTube and included the exact address in the clip’s title. She had taken to yelling “oh Juan” through the open window, so they knew his name was Juan and threw it in the title too.

Within a week of the video being on YouTube, everyone at the English school knew it was Juan and he became something of a star.

All of the Arab guys sought his company and approval and laughed at everything he said, and the Germanic and Scandinavian looking girls took to constantly inviting him to do things, which he did, going with them to the beach, to Starbucks to study, and sometimes just outside for a Coke. The Arabs watched him from behind the bushes and while doing a bad job standing in circles and pretending to be in conversation.

They studied his every move and gesture to ascertain what it was that made him so special. The more talented among them impersonated him for the others, who tried doing the same thing but came off looking stupid, as was their wont.

The Johnson’s daughter had second thoughts about dropping out of Princeton and, as she had not formally done so was still in a position to return.

She merely withdrew for the semester, claiming to have suffered an emotional crisis and then getting her doctor back home to write a letter saying that was true. If political science had jaded her so much, she realized that she could just switch majors.

She announced to Juan one day on the boat her intention to do that. She was very sexy and intercourse with her felt really good but, at the same time, Juan was also screwing all the Scandinavian and German girls, so he was not desperate for her to stay and thus told her that she had to do what was best for her, that he would of course miss her and cherish the memory of their time together, but that he would let her go. She thought him so magnamous and had never heard that speech with a Spanish accent before and thought it charming, so she proceeded to mount his penis and ride him on the boat’s deck. He leaned

forward to suck on her breasts but the waves were such that he never managed to do it. Drunkards on jet skis whizzed by and a few saw what was going on and crashed – among those, two drowned. He was green with nausea by the time he ejaculated. She took a post-coital nap and he vomited over the stern.

Passing assholes threw beer cans at him and one hit him on the head. A brawl broke out on the other boat because the beer can was not only full but unopened and being saved for later by a guy who had not thrown it. He said, “hey that was my fucking beer!” and lunged at the other guy. The fight went poorly because the boat as just small enough so that all the commotion rocked the vessel too much and neither could get a solid enough footing to throw a really good punch.

She left. No further shadows were cast. Juan was screwing the Germans and Scandinavians in their own rooms and often on top of blankets at the beach.

The blankets were made of a something synthetic that had the appearance of wool, and it itched the same too.

The Johnson’s daughter thought she could sail the family boat back to Princeton and underestimated very much how hard that would be. She never even made it to the Panama Canal, as was her intent. Somewhere after Baja California, her boat as boarded by a motley crew of Mexican pirates, who had taken to sea robbery, after concluding there was little to be gained from working for any of the cartels and finding way too depressing all the former tourist areas in Northern Mexico now abandoned and the walls on all the shut down beach establishments riddled with old bullet holes.

They boarded her boat and threw her overboard. Two of them were named Juan also, and it was they who remonstrated most vociferously the guy who came up with the idea of throwing her overboard right away and didn’t check

with the rest of the group at all and just went ahead and did it. They found two ATM cards in her purse. Had she stayed on board they could have gotten the pin numbers. Eventually the fat guy who’d thrown her overboard got sick of their complaining and shot one of the Juans and that silenced the other one.

They docked at what they hoped would be a deserted little port on the coast of Guatemala and two went ashore intending to find a store at which they could use the ATM cards as credit cards. Within 100 feet of the shore they met a gang, all teenage boys, some no more than 13, who beat the crap out of them and took their weapons. They all swam out to the boat, where the Guatemalans spent hours trying to torture out of the Mexicans the pin numbers. They started shouting out random four number combinations but kept changing them too. Everyone gave a different number.

The Guatemalans concluded they knew nothing and threw the Mexicans overboard and sailed for Panama, where the banking system was known to be entirely criminal. They thought there some banker could reprogram the card to accept a new pin number. Their plan was to wait for a guy in a suit to come out of a bank and grab him and take him somewhere and beat the shit out of him and have him call the bank and do everything they wanted. They capsized near Costa Rica and everyone drowned instead.

Back in Santa Barbara, the term ended and Juan went back to Spain, where he became very depressed. He enrolled in the national university in Galicia, where the students were all Galician and spoke the language of their region instead of Spanish. Many of the professors did too, some out of conviction, others out of fear of both the students and the community at large. Juan didn’t care and felt even more isolated.

His parents disapproved of him moving there and refused to give him money to offset his rent. He ended up living with Arabs who were there on student visas to escape their own countries. All of them were enrolled in Spanish for Foreigners programs. One moved out, but then Juan saw him everywhere with a handheld digital camera and became convinced the guy was casing the whole town for some kind of Al Qaeda attack to coincide with the visit of the King Juan Carlos and his lovely wife later that summer. He shared his theories by letter with his parents and begged that they resume sending money. They wrote back and told him they’d consider it if he got an ATM card at a bank that had a branch in their city too, so they could go there and put money in the account.

They hated the internet.

As for the Johnson’s themselves, they never knew what happened, to anybody.

They assumed their daughter had run away but didn’t cancel the ATM cards because they figured wherever she was, she’d need money, and even if she didn’t, having it was always a good thing. Their son bitched incessantly about getting a new boat but they said they’d do that if he got a job but they’d only rent it to him. No more freeloading. They were told that the following semester some Arab men would be living with them, and they told the school that they were done hosting students. They made up a lame excuse and promised the school they would find a substitute among their many affluent friends and then went around the neighborhood telling the illegals that they should consider hosting students, that it was a good way to make some extra dough and you really made a lot overcharging for home cooked meals. They said they could maybe make enough that half of them could even move out and get a place of their own.

The illegals didn’t get their hints but the women among them were happy the Johnsons had finally came over to make their acquaintance and from that time forward, every day they brought them baskets of oranges from their tree.

Linda Ardison

Ode to Sheets that Blow in the Wind

For the white-bright sheets on Mother’s clothesline with its T-posts at each end, a chestnut pole to hold the middle from the sun-soaked grass beneath, a heavy weight of cotton, wet and cool and begging to be run through as the children pass.

At my death, please wrap me in the scent of sheet blown full as sails, the kind long lost to dryers; give me the summer breeze, the sweetness of clean linens on my bed in twilight; place my face against the goodness of a fresh-pressed pillowcase, remove from me forever polyester’s cheapened irritation, the synthetic Dupont-driven chemistries a war-torn nation once adored, along with Oleo, before they knew the clothesline offered them the cleanse of wind, the soul’s clear speech, the twining spirit.

Alexander Sammartino Message Not Sent #48

match.com Clementine Hallow About me: Don’t look at the profile picture. It’s not me. I searched “women on trampolines” and it was the third picture that came up. For a period of six weeks I fed my neighbor’s lhaso apso Kit-Kats. When I dropped out of college I operated a fork lift at a salmon canning plant in Alaska for one month. My neighbor’s dog’s name is Serenity. She’s still alive. I’ve never eaten salmon. My issue with online dating is that it encourages a certain fatalism, replacing total surprise with unearned certainty. Even if you loved me, knowing so many things that may or may not be true about me would be boring. My issue with whatever is supposed to be the opposite of online dating is that I don’t think anyone will ever know enough about me. You will never know just enough about someone.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

If you’re still reading, you might be the one. I read tips for writing this, a more extensive literature than I would have imagined, particularly for men. As a woman I’m supposed to appear outgoing and fun. And unique. As a woman I’m supposed to state what I desire in a man. Anyone who resembles Charles Manson is where I draw the line. I don’t just mean physically. Beards are okay,

however. These are supposed to be subtle, these details about myself. Here, a woman should not describe her radical feminist principles which may or may not have led her to stab a waiter in the thigh with a fork after said waiter attempted to take the woman’s order before her male counterpart at a meal. I own a carwash off 16th and McDowell. I have never stabbed a waiter. Nor have I been to a meal with a male counterpart whom I was not related to or who did not owe me money since I last ate with my ex-husband at the Oink Café where he announced his decision to travel with his boyfriend of six weeks who is a fire dancer in the circus. That was three years ago. I ate poached eggs and had a bacon sundae for desert. The sundae was dry, from the overly salted bacon. My then husband said he planned to showcase his chair balancing act in the circus, a skill he claimed I had never appreciated. That’s also something I’m not supposed to do. Mention my divorce. This space only celebrates lies.

I’ve already exceeded the suggested word count for this. I’m aware. I’m bigger than 350 words, even if I don’t always feel like it.

This is all a result of a recent trip to a fondue restaurant in the mall. There I was, enjoying my Alpine cheese fondue mix with an assortment of spiced pork when I noticed, at the table across from me, a man and woman on a first date, specifically a first date after having been matched via a dating website. The fondue bubbled. I chewed a celery stick, spectating. The woman had a tribal tattoo on her lower back that undulated as she continually adjusted her vest of fake mink. The man sported a nineties spiked haircut and had red cheeks. I’m only speculating that they met online. One person would say, “So you’re from (I didn’t hear the place),” then the other would nod. Both looked profoundly at the fondue. This pattern repeated for references to work, smoking habits, passions (both loved writing, a popular hobby on these sites, I’ve noticed). The waiter

asked whether he could interest me in some holiday gimmick. I waved him away, sipping my Fanta. The fluorescents gave the couple a forced glow. The scent of a moist body filled the air.

In watching them sift through their silence, I reveled in my solitude. Here they were, forcing a conversation that they knew the apparent answers to, showing each other Instagram pictures they’d taken earlier that day. I was alone, sure, but not trying to force a conversation, trying to feign interest in what I had only decided to pursue out of a lack of better alternatives. I was living sincerely and virtuously in a booth at a fondue restaurant by myself.

I ordered dessert, a dark and white chocolate fondue mix. Across from me, the woman incessantly tapped her poker against the bowl before removing the meat from the cheese. The man chewed his steak over the fondue. I cut marshmallows in half for the illusion of more marshmallows. Then, the man stretched his watch toward the woman. The man pointed to the watch, explained its features, its significance (he mumbled heavily, but I think I heard something about his sister). The woman yawned, nodding. I thought things like, “What an ugly, stupid watch,” and “That’s not going to get you laid.” But the woman said things like, “Oh wow,” and “That’s so nice.” The marshmallow and chocolate, at that moment, had spread throughout my mouth, making it difficult to breathe. The waiter came over and kneeled down, his back to me, and he explained the holiday gimmick to the couple. If you paid fifty dollars for this gift card, the money went directly to a children’s hospital. After listening carefully, nodding often, the man and woman reached for their wallets at the same time.

And when they realized they both reached for their wallets at the same time, they looked at each other and laughed, a nasally false hoarse laugh, turning

heads in the fondue establishment. The waiter chuckled, scratching his bald spot.

It didn’t matter the couple was motivated by falsity, by desperation. They knew the artifice governing them. Yet they showed up for the date. Yet they shared fondue. Yet they laughed. This world of bits and pieces, of degrees, of half-truths, is the hole we must sink into.

I have a passion for cars, specifically 60’s era Cadillac’s and Oldsmobile’s. My favorite song is “Creep” by Radiohead. I once hitchhiked to Gainesville and vomited in the glove-box of a private detective. I’m looking for someone who knows how stupid, how artificial, how desperate all of this is, and yet still doesn’t care, a person who will acknowledge the insincerity of the moment, while taking my hand in his.

Taylor Brake A Response

To my should have been whom would have been, Your being is and yellow always I think Sounds small and curt and mine Sounds which once would shine now grey.

Matte, the tonic- no harmonics, not even flawsJust small As love, sudden, bright and impromptuPremature, I know I should have knownYou tell me it’s okay- not many, just one As if that somehow feels better As if some meaning would be less meaningful, to me.

Well, my gratitude for honesty, on principle Then left to dust and attics filled with principleYou’ll never find the greater good or love without conditions Some days, I prefer the nighttime’s quiet chill My hubris- one Christmas is enough each year.

I think Of how you stay astride your horse Or whence it came in favorite Joe’s corrosive coat And I think somehow it suits you, Fey F7’s sundry spout, Sun-dried, supine I hear it stillI only know the chord because you wrote it down And in your hand, I’d hold and hold it heartbound, But you left it in a palm which holds no interest, mine.

To err, inherent in the play of sand and stars And sweeter things: of words, and compost heaps, It's not so wrong, never nothing nor unique.

To err- no, please forget it, You knew it all along.

With love, And a song-bird’s sullied sympathy

Shannon McPherson Dry Spell

I hiked through the field, bleached brown weeds crunching beneath my feet.

The ground ached for the moisture it had missed for the previous six summers.

I reached the edge of the lake and stared into the pit, my eyes following the deep fissures that had formed in the dirt. Clouds swirled above my head, but I paid them no mind.

I felt a light pat on top of my head. I reached up to feel my hair. A droplet of water landed on my skin, followed by another. The raindrops fell continuously, the water sizzling across the parched earth.

Holly Day The Trip

we used to pile into my dad’s van, drive all the way from Nebraska to Texas mostly in silence, because complaining about the unbearable heat would just make my dad turn the car back around, and home was even worse than three hundred miles of flat black asphalt, lines of heat reflecting off the horizon in wavy cartoon lines. once we had reached the ocean, nothing could keep us quiet; we screamed from sunup to sundown, splashed in the cool ocean surf, trying to erase the memories of hot tar and dead cornfields.

J. T. Townley What Jack Says

I catch Trey and Miss Ellen taking a smoke break in the middle of the Friday night rush. They’re shacked up together, is what Jack says, but now’s not the time to care. The January chill freezes me solid. I pretend not to notice Trey and Miss Ellen exhaling blue smoke as I shiver across the alley and heave the bags into the dumpster. When I spin around, my breath plumes in the jaundiced streetlight. I stand there, hands on my hips, staring, but they completely ignore me.

You got time to lean, I say, you got time to clean.

Miss Ellen takes a long drag, then exhales. Mind your business, Jezebel.

She’s got at least twenty years on me. Her hair’s fried, her teeth are stained, and no makeup on earth could hide those wrinkles.

For the hundredth time, Miss Ellen, it’s Isabelle. I glare up at Trey. Don’t you have brisket to carve?

Take it easy, says Trey.

Y’all know we’re slammed!

Trey nods, drops his butt, and crushes it into the grimy asphalt with his boot heel. Miss Ellen flicks hers into the shadows. Snickering, they file inside.

When my shift’s over, I pour Jack a Crown Royal neat and explain everything.

Jack says to pay them no mind, they’ve got nothing but hate in their shriveled black hearts. They’re lonely and jealous, is what Jack says. But not us. We’ve got plans, me and Jack.

I blow him a kiss, then wander out to the bus stop, hugging myself against the chill.

I’ve been at Saucy’s maybe six weeks, and now, out of the blue, Mr. George goes and makes me shift manager? I get a raise, a set of keys, the safe combo.

Not because I’m reliable and dependable and trustworthy, though that’s what everyone’s said about me at every job I’ve ever had, in cities and Podunk towns and one-stoplight crossroads all across this great state. Not because I’m intelligent and well-educated, either, with almost two semesters of Del Mar Community College. Nope. Mr. George promoted me because he wants to get into my pants, plain and simple. It’s always the same story: bald, fat, long in the tooth. Plus, his wife and kids!

Jack says Mr. George is a heartless bastard.

When I get home I lie in bed for hours, gazing at the smoke-stained ceiling and marveling at the possibilities.

It’s a slow Tuesday night, and nobody wants to be here. Miss Ellen’s doing nothing but distracting Trey from his meat duties, so I send her home early.

She throws a hissy-fit, but what else is new? Says I’m thieving food right out of her babies’ mouths, but it’s not as bad as it sounds, since her kids are teenagers.

Old enough to fend for themselves, is what Jack says. But tonight she bitches to Mr. George, who calls me in for a powwow. All three of us in his cramped office that stinks of Saucy’s Special Sauce, dirty leather, and Red Man chewing tobacco. I take charge immediately.

Shift manager decides who stays and who goes, right? A judgment call.

Depending on how slow the night is and who’s hardly working.

Mr. George hitches up his Wrangler’s and smoothes down his mustache. Miss Ellen don’t think you’re playing fair, he says.

Talk about an understatement: she’s practically foaming at the mouth.

I smile to myself. It’s a paradox, is what Jack says.

A what? says Mr. George.

Who in the hell’s Jack? Miss Ellen asks.

I wonder: Did I say that out loud?

Now I shine my smile on them. Miss Ellen wants to work when she’s not needed, I explain, but when she’s on the clock, she hardly does anything at all.

For a second, it looks like Miss Ellen might protest, but cat’s got her tongue.

In the end, Mr. George sees it my way.

Good riddance!

Now it’s just me, Mr. George, and Trey. Trey preps the meat, I handle the front end, and Mr. George surveys his dominion from a stool behind the bar.

Mostly, he’s hiding out from his family, lying in wait to drag me into his cramped office and bend me over his desk. Only a matter of time. He nurses a Lone Star till it goes flat, then grabs his coat and shuffles across the parking lot to his fancy Cadillac.

Near closing time, there’s only one customer left, a graybeard in pressed denim mawing on ribs and potato salad. Reminds me of Kenny Rogers. I bring him more rolls and refill his iced tea, then make myself scarce. I can’t bear his lewd, hungry gazes. I wipe down the tables, refill the salts, peppers, and sugars, then restock all the stations. When everything’s shipshape, I linger against the taxidermy wall, since that’s as far away from Kenny as I can get without hiding out in Mr. George’s office. Though he doesn’t seem the type, Mr. George has all kinds of hunting trophies: deer and elk, antelope, moose, and caribou, you

name it. Even a bear in a bright red Saucy’s t-shirt right there at the front entrance.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Trey swagger over in time to the George Strait trickling through the speakers. He’s mouthing the words, fisting a bottle of Bud Light like a microphone. He grins and says, How do, boss lady?

I’m not your boss, I say.

And I’m not: Mr. George keeps his meat guys on a straight salary, and they report directly to him. Says the stress of hustling for tips might taint the whole meat process, which they’re responsible for, start to finish. The meat’s the heart and soul of Saucy’s BBQ, and Mr. George’s secret recipes draw crowds from miles around. We even have celebrity sightings! Randy Travis, Troy Aikman, Kinky Friedman—though nobody since I’ve been here. I’m not missing much, is what Jack says.

Trey works on his grin. I nod to his beer and say: Getting started early tonight?

Trey puzzles for a minute, then scans the dining room till he spots Kenny in the corner, wiping at his mouth with a paper napkin. Trey raises his beer and says, Evening!

Kenny reciprocates with a half-full glass of iced tea.

I make no move to refill it.

Me and Trey chew the fat for a spell. Not literally, of course, I’ve been a vegetarian since I first met Jack. Though everybody gives me a hard time for eating so-called rabbit food, it suits me just fine. Anyway, I’ve never really wasted much breath on Trey, since he and Miss Ellen are bed buddies. I cannot for the life of me fathom what he sees in her. He asks me all kinds of questions, where I grew up, how long I’ve been in Ft. Worth, where else I’ve lived, what I

get up to when I’m not sporting a Saucy’s apron. Talk about Spanish Inquisition! I just play along, though I know exactly what he’s getting at.

When Kenny pays his tab and slips out into the frozen night, Trey leans in real close. He smells like Bud and hickory smoke.

Lemme buy you drink? Trey says.

He’s behind the bar twisting the caps off a pair of longnecks before I can protest. I follow him over to the counter and perch on a stool. Maybe Trey’s just another predator, but at least I won’t have to suffer any more of Kenny’s leering.

Trey slides the beer in front of me, and we lean into the music, something by George Jones I don’t recognize. I know what Trey’s got on his mind. I can feel his eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. Jack says I have to be careful, men don’t know what to do in the presence of such beauty. It confuses them, is what Jack says.

Trey and I sip our beers. He points to something Mr. George keeps on the liquor shelf behind the bar.

Know what that thing’s called?

They had bunny rabbits like that other places I worked.

Which is true. I got snapshots of every last one taped to my bedroom wall to prove the point.

He chuckles. That’s a goddamn jackalope.

The one in Mr. George’s office is better, I say. This one’s just a head and antlers.

He stares at me like we’re teetering on the edge of some cliff. I squirm on my barstool, waiting.

Them things can only breed during lightning flashes.

You don’t say, I say, trying to sound convincing.

Know what their favorite drink is?

I try to keep a poker face. I don’t know, Lone Star?

Whiskey, he says. That’s why Mr. George don’t keep none in the place.

I sip at my longneck. Trey’s eyes are bright, and he’s grinning like he’s never had this much fun.

They’re fearsome critters, he says. Back in the Wild West days, when cowboys would gather around campfires to sing songs and tell stories, they could hear jackalopes out in the night, imitating their pitch and cadence, sometimes even singing along.

That’s some story, I say.

Trey grins like he’s getting away with something. After a spell, I stack the chairs on the tables, then run a broom over the floor. I feel my Saucy’s t-shirt darkening at the small of my back. Trey must have closing duties, but he traces my every move like he’s got nothing better to do. Jack warned me about this. I put a spell on them, is what Jack says. It’s not my fault. It just happens.

Trey sneaks up behind me and knocks the broom from my hands, then pulls me right up against him. I can smell his sweat, plus something dank and earthy.

He plants a wet one right on my mouth. I shove him hard in the chest.

You know I got somebody, right?

Uh-huh, he says, then leans in for another sloppy, wet one.

(I sure hope Jack doesn’t see what’s going on here. Only Jack sees everything.)

I’m serious, Trey. Me and Jack have a good thing going.

He lets me wriggle loose, then sidles back a couple steps. His boot heels clomp on the uneven plank flooring. Jack, huh? he says.

Yep. Trey’s grin looks menacing in the dirty fluorescent light. Feller got a last name?

Lopez, I say.

Trey swallows a laugh, swaggering across to the bar. He guzzles down the dregs of his beer. His eyes look yellow.

Sounds like something you pulled outta the clear blue, he says.

I don’t like where this is going, so I disappear to count the till in Mr. George’s locked office. When I’m done, I secure the day’s take in the safe, shrug on my coat, and kill the lights. I can hear Trey singing to himself back in the kitchen as I slip out into the cold night.

Miss Ellen’s still at Saucy’s when I arrive the next day. Must be working a double. I could tell her about Trey, but what good would that do? Jack says I did the right thing. Miss Ellen’s the problem, is what Jack says. Jack says they’ll both get what’s coming to them.

Still, Miss Ellen acts like I’ve killed her firstborn. Afternoon, Miss Ellen, I say.

How do y’all stand this winter cold? (My first stint in North Texas. I’m originally from Corpus.) She sucks her horsey teeth and waves goodbye to customers. Was lunch busy? I ask ten minutes later. Did you make good money? Miss Ellen just huffs and walks away. I see her colluding with Mr. George more than once. The air crackles with tension. When I glance over at Trey, his face is smeared with smug self-satisfaction.

Folks inhale their food like they’ve been on a starvation diet.

Miss Ellen’s just a bitter old maid, like Jacks says, so I let everything slide. I’m a bigger person than Miss Ellen—in spirit, of course, not physique. I wonder if

she’s ever measured her hip spread? I’m above the fray. Plus, I’m beautiful and intelligent and well-educated, just like Jack says. So I make it a point to live up to my good qualities.

But soon as Mr. George leaves for the day, Miss Ellen goes off the rails. I’ve just made a round refilling teas and waters when she accosts me at the beverage station.

You’re dumber than a box of rocks, she says.

Excuse me? is all I manage.

But she’s already pre-busing tables, grinning her haggish grin.

Not fifteen minutes later, Miss Ellen surprises me in the hallway outside Mr. George’s office.

Who was you talking to in there, sweetie pie?

You must be hearing things, I say.

Miss Ellen licks the lipstick off her teeth. Only reason you got promoted is you’re always sucking up to Mr. George. She sneers. Probably sucking something else, too, if you catch my drift.

Think what you want to, I say. I’m in a relationship.

But Miss Ellen’s not listening. She flashes her yellow grin, then saunters back to the dining room like she’s the Queen of Sheba.

I always knew she didn’t like me, she made that clear from the get-go, but tonight is something else altogether.

We have a mini-rush, typical for Wednesday night, and we’re all in the weeds for a spell. Usually, we catch up and everything gets better, but not tonight.

Just as the orders begin to slow down, Miss Ellen goes berserk. There’s no other way to put it. She starts yelling in the middle of the dining room, a pitcher of tea in one hand, water in the other.

Ladies and gents, she says, your Saucy’s BBQ shift manager! Miss Ellen spreads her arms out wide, tea and water dripping onto the wood floors.

Folks look up dumbly from their brisket and beans. Mothers scowl and cover their children’s ears, as if they sense something coming.

I race over to Trey’s station. Why don’t you do something? I hiss.

He just grins and shakes his head. Then his eyes go wide, and a donkey laugh explodes from his chest.

I turn to see Miss Ellen dumping her pitchers out. Over customers’ heads!

They gasp and shout, shimmying from their chairs.

Miss Ellen! I say. You’re completely outta line!

She glares back at me, empty pitchers dangling from her outstretched middle fingers.

I realize yelling’s not improving the situation. So I take a deep breath, wondering in the mean time if one of the wet guests might retaliate, tackling her to the floor and dousing her with Saucy’s Special Sauce.

Why don’t you head on home? I say. I’ll finish up your shift for you.

There she goes again, trying to take what’s mine!

These good people are trying to enjoy their meal, Miss Ellen, so why don’t we discuss this in private?

The hell we will! First, you try to run me off, then you try to steal my beauhunk. But, I tell you what, that ain’t happening, honey. Not in a month of Sundays.

I shoot a look over Trey’s direction, but he keeps his eyes down, pretending to work on the meat.

The brighter customers grab their coats and steal for the door.

I ain’t about to listen to a dumbass skank such as yourself, says Miss Ellen.

And guess what, sugar? I sure as shit ain’t leaving till I’m good and ready.

At that, she tumps over one table, then another. As they hit the floor, cups clatter, silverware clanks, and plates shatter. Ribs and chopped beef sandwiches, beans and potato salad spray across the wood planking.

Customers scatter.

Miss Ellen winks at me, grinning.

I chew my lip, then wander back to Mr. George’s office. I listen for Jack’s advice, but for once he’s got nothing to say. So I dig a book of free meal coupons out of the top desk drawer, then work the dining room. Sorry for the disturbance, I explain, tearing vouchers along their perforations. We hope you’ll come back to Saucy’s again real soon.

Miss Ellen stands there amid the splattered sauce and broken crockery, fuming.

When I’ve ushered the last patrons out the door, I lock it and flip the window sign around to Closed. It can’t be seven-thirty yet. Then I right the tables, trash the ruined food, and salvage the cups and silverware. I bus my section and Miss Ellen’s, then sweep and mop. At first, I think I’ll have to negotiate around her, but when I look up from over by the taxidermy wall, she’s slithered toward the kitchen to conspire with Trey. I keep my trap shut. You can’t win for losing with that old battle-axe, is what Jack says.

It’s a quarter to nine by the time I’ve got everything squared away. No thanks to Miss Ellen, who’s done a fat lot of nothing since she trashed the place and ran the customers off. I charge over to the kitchen, ready to give them a piece of my mind. The kitchen’s empty. And, I’m sorry to say, spotless, so I can’t hold that over Trey’s head. I catch a faint whiff of smoke, then notice the

back door’s propped open, a violation of Saucy’s employee code. I’m sure they’re out there sucking on Menthols, gloating about the spectacle they caused.

Jack says they’ve got it in for me.

One of Trey’s carving knives glints at me from where it hangs against the magnetic rack. When I palm it, the knife sings like a sword from a scabbard.

I lean into the door. The arctic blast stings my face and burns my lungs. Trey and Miss Ellen don’t even look up.

Y’all are done here, I say, stabbing at the air. Go home and get your heads on straight.

Their yellow eyes saucer, but neither says a word.

I’m glad I don’t have to hack at their chests twenty-seven times apiece, though part of me knows that’s what they deserve. What Jack says is, we’ve got our future to think about. Plus, it’s not worth all the hassle.

I slip back into the warmth, locking the door behind me.

It takes another two hours to count the till and write up the incident report.

Honestly, there’s not much money to count. I focus on the report. Which isn’t hard, all I have to do is state the facts. Still, I want to get it just right, so I start over three times, scratching out words, phrases, entire sentences, ink smudging all over the page. Although procedure says file the report in the incident report file, I leave it smack in the middle of Mr. George’s desk so he’ll see it first thing in the morning.

When I get home, I lie in bed gazing at the smoke-stained ceiling, wide-awake and buzzing. I’m beautiful and intelligent and well-educated, is what Jack says.

Plus, I’m a great writer, something he never knew about me, since I only just learned it myself. What Jack says is, the world is our oyster.

Eyes on the prize.

Mr. George doesn’t take the incident report lightly. He calls me in and asks for more information before I have a chance to shake off the cold. We wedge into his cramped, stinky office, and before he has a chance to cop a feel, I give him the whole story again, only with even more color and detail.

Mr. George pats his beer belly and shakes his balding head. I’m real disappointed in you, Isabelle. Thought you’d take your new managerial responsibilities seriously.

It feels like a knife in the back.

But Mr. George, I say.

Closing up early and turning away customers? That ain’t no way to run a business!

He eyeballs me for longer than anybody’d be comfortable with, but I try not to hold it against him, though he’s a serious perv. After all, I’m young and beautiful, with curves in all the right places. Plus, I got my Saucy’s t-shirt knotted up to show off my midriff, never mind the cold outside.

Then you give out free meal coupons?

I feel a smile flicker across my face. That’s right.

On whose authority?

He’s backing me into a corner, so to speak. With that gut, all he’d have to do is hoist himself out of his chair to pin me to the wall.

I’m sorry, Mr. George. Please forgive me, Mr. George. It won’t happen again, Mr. George.

He leers. I back out of his rank office before he suggests I perform certain acts with my mouth.

What Jack says is, payback’s hell.

I don’t know what Mr. George says to Trey and Miss Ellen, but it just makes things worse. When I see her the next day, Miss Ellen says: I don’t give a good goddamn what you and Mr. George got going.

Come again?

But you so much as look at my man again, I’ll tear out your eyes with my bare hands.

She flashes her Lee Press-On Nails like claws. Which they kind of are.

So I keep my distance from Trey and Miss Ellen. It’s no mean feat, given what it’s like to work at Saucy’s, but I manage. I make it all about the customers, their enjoyment of a world-class dining experience. It’s just a BBQ joint, but that’s beside the point. Mr. George already chewed me out once. I aim to avoid a repeat.

Patience is a virtue, is what Jack says.

On Saturday morning, the sun’s shining in a crystal blue sky. Mockingbirds twitter on the power lines outside my grimy window. It must be seventy-five degrees outside. But by the time I get the #9 across town to work, the sky in the distance has turned blue-black. I’ve never seen anything like it. A thick wall of menacing, purplish clouds.

What’s going on? I ask as I climb onto the bus.

The driver ignores me, but a blue-haired lady in front says, Don’t you watch the weather report?

The bus staggers into the street. I clutch at a pole, baffled.

Blue Norther, says a black man across the aisle.

I wait for more, since what does that even mean? But you can’t trust anyone, is what Jack says.

When I get to my stop, sporting my Saucy’s BBQ t-shirt and that’s all, the temperature’s dropped twenty degrees. A cold wind howls from the same direction as those blue-black clouds. I speed-walk to Saucy’s and lunge against the door. It’s locked. I practically dislocate my shoulder. The sign in the window says Closed, and all the lights are off. Which makes no sense, point of fact. It’s Saturday afternoon! We should be slammed!

I dig through my purse till I unearth my keys. I jiggle the lock just like Mr. George showed me. Now I’m through the door, listening to the wind shriek down the street outside. I’m not sure how long I stand there in that weird, bruised light. But Jack’s voice snaps me out of my trance: Our time is now, is what Jacks says.

Problem is, I’m not clear what he means. I grab a stool at the bar. I sit there for a while, mulling the whole thing over. No one comes pounding on the door.

I flip on the kitchen lights, then wander back to the walk-in and grab salad fixings. I make myself a big one, with greens, tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, onions, and some grated pepper jack. I even scatter a few pecans on top. But no dressing. Maybe it’s Jack’s influence, but I can’t bear the stuff.

I stand behind the bar and shovel it into my mouth. Jack says to stay alert, even while eating. You never know who might emerge from the shadows to do you in, is what Jack says. It’s true, too. A gang of thugs could kick the door in to rob the place this very second. What Jacks says is, always keep on your toes.

When I’m finished eating, I pitch my bowl into the sink, shut off the kitchen lights, then make my way to Mr. George’s office to use the phone, call someone, find out what’s going on. The stale air reeks of Saucy’s Special Sauce and dirty

feet. I press the receiver to my ear, my index finger poised over the buttons.

But then I think better of it.

Could this be what Jack means?

Before I understand what’s happening, I’m on my knees in front of that gray steel box, massaging the dial, coaxing the lever. The door is thick and solid and always feels heavier than it should. I unzip the money pouch and fondle the week’s take. It goes straight into my purse. Ditto for paychecks made out to Trey and Miss Ellen—though I leave the rest, since who are these people and what have they ever done to me?

The overhead fluorescents hum. Fumes waft up from the carpet, so I have to take quick, shallow breaths. That strong box is a dark pit, but leave no stone unturned, like Jack says. Way back in the back, there’s a revolver, a box of bullets, various and sundry papers that don’t interest me. I’m shoulder-deep before I feel the stacks of crisp, new bills. I palm one out into the smudge of light. Hundreds bound in a paper wrapper that reads $10,000. The ink smell goes straight to my head. I ferret out four more stacks just like the first. What Jack says is, ill-gotten gains. I slip the cash down the front of my jeans. Before I shut the door and spin the dial, I secrete the remaining paychecks into my purse, along with the gun and ammo. Jack says anything worth doing’s worth doing right.

I stand and stretch and survey the scene. Satisfied, I’m about to turn off the light and make myself scarce. Then I realize: The jackalope! And me without my point-and-shoot! I sling my purse over my shoulder, scoop him up in my arms, and make for the door.

I wait for a moment in the dark, listening. The wind has quieted. I don’t hear any voices or cars in the street. Angry light seeps through the windows. I lean

against the door until my breathing is calm and regular, then, keys in hand, I slip out into the January chill.

The frigid air knocks the wind out of me. Ice hangs from tree branches and power lines. There’s an inch of powdery snow on the ground, too. My fingers turn to stone, and I fumble with the key for what feels like ten minutes before I finally get the door locked.

I stand there shivering, hugging the jackalope to my chest. I wonder if the buses are running in the storm? If not, I could pay for a taxi. Or maybe some kind stranger will feel sorry for me and give me a lift? Yet as I begin walking in the snow, I realize I’m not all that cold. Feels like I have my arms wrapped around a hot loaf of bread.

What Jack says is, You’re one in a million, Belle.

His black eyes gleam against the bright snow. His little nose twitches.

Do you really mean that?

I owe you big-time, is what Jack says.

I cuddle him closer and revel in his warmth. I can feel his body pulsing with life. Soon I say: Lemme buy you a drink?

What Jack says is, Another time, darling.

You sure? I say. I’ve got some Crown Royal at home.

Mighty tempting, is what Jack says, pink tongue licking at the night air.

Then how about it? I say. It’s not far.

Jack says, They’ll be coming for you. He shakes the snow from his antlers, his little nose twitching. Then he leaps from my arms, landing with a powdery thud.

Don’t be in such a hurry, I say.

Jack’s ears quiver. He looks left and right and left again.

There’s a bar right around the corner, I say.

Jack wags his head. You got to get gone, is what Jack says.

The cash feels heavy in my crotch. My bare arms tingle with blue beneath the streetlamps. I’m afraid he may be right.

Jack gives me a saucy wink. I blow him a kiss. I have a feeling this may be goodbye. And sure enough, in a golden glow, he bounds off down the street.

I chase after him for a couple of blocks, teeth chattering, slip-sliding all over the sidewalk. It’s a wonder I don’t fall and break my neck. But I don’t stop running, even when I lose Jack’s trail in the dark. Though my feet go numb and I can’t stop shivering, I keep on running. I run deep into the blue-black night, and I never look back.

Contributors Linda Ardison Linda Ardison’s work has appeared in Hawaii Pacific Review, Poet Lore, The Laurel Review, Louisiana Literature, Anglican Theological Review, and Vox Poetica, among others; as well as in the books “Essential Love: Poems About Mothers and Fathers, Daughters and Sons,” later reprinted in The Well-Versed Parent: Poetic Prescriptions for Parenthood. She is a first-place poetry award winner at the Christopher Newport University Writers Conference, as well as a first-place Short Fiction Award recipient fromNew Millennium Writings and a former winner of an Atlantic Monthly writing scholarship to the Bread Loaf School of English, where she subsequently attended the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. Linda also received a fellowship grant from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. Before retirement, she worked as a consultant for twenty years in the Writing Center at York College of Pennsylvania. In addition to attending a number of writers conferences, she has studied with two past Poets Laureate, John Ciardi and William Meredith, as well as with Bill Brown and Robert Gorham Davis. She is a member of the Virginia Poetry Society andHampton Roads Writers.

Taylor Brake Taylor Brake is a young poet and producer hailing from Denver, Colorado. He has previously been published online and in print anthologies by Lines With

Rhymes. His verse is characterized by amorality and a particularly musical, synesthetic voice.

Holly Day Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared inOyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include “Music Theory for Dummies” (3rd edition), “Piano All-in-One for Dummies,” “The Book Of,” and “Nordeast Minneapolis: A History.”

Jason Half-Pillow Jason Half-Pillow’s writing has appeared in numerous journals: The Iowa Review, The Bicycle Review, Hobo Pancakes, Driftwood Press, Gadfly Online, Dirty Chai, Crab Fat Magazine, the eel, Remarkable Doorways Literary Journal, Points in Case, The Satiristand in an anthology, “Bully”, published by KY Story. Work of his will appear soon also in The Intentional and Fiction Southeast.

Shannon McPherson Still mourning the day she never received her Hogwarts acceptance letter, Shannon eventually decided to pursue a graduate degree in Creative Writing and puts her writing skills to good use at a video game company in the mountains of California. She has been published on Flash Fiction Magazine and 101 Words. She spends her days at her workplace, being a dishwasher tyrant, grammar Nazi, and all around bossy pants. She spends her nights drinking wine while watching My Little Pony with her small child. She’s not sure which is worse.

Alexander Sammartino Alexander Sammartino is a MFA student at Syracuse University. His work has appeared in the Atticus Review, Siren Literary Journal, and the Collegiate Scholar, among others.

J. T. Townley J. T. Townley has published in Collier’s, Harvard Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Prairie Schooner, The Threepenny Review, and other magazines and journals. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and an MPhil in English from Oxford University, and he teaches at the University of Virginia. To learn more, visit his website.

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