CultureCult Magazine - Issue #10 (New Year 2019)

NEW YEAR 2019 FALSE SPRING ISSUE

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Contents Issue Ten

A Magazine of Arts, Literature & Culture JAY CHAKRAVARTI (Jagannath) Editorial Team S. DUBOIS || SHANKAR BHUSHAN Layout Design JAY CHAKRAVARTI © CULTURECULT Published by Jagannath Chakravarti from 11/1, Khanpur Road, Kolkata - 700047, West Bengal, India. All rights reserved. No part of this magazine can be reprinted/reused in its entire form or in part without the written permission of the publisher.

Cover Art: Jay Chakravarti Visit culturecultmagazine.wixsite.com/home CultureCult Magazine is presented by

Volume Three ● Number Two ● New Year 2019

Editor

BLACKNOISE BOOKS

POETRY

21 62 45 14 65 15 64 13 70 66 50 52 32 39

SHAURJA DASGUPTA SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR JARED MORNINGSTAR SALMAN SOWDAGAR FABRICE POUSSIN FRANCINE WITTE NATE MAXSON ANDREW SCOTT ELIZABETH FISHER JOHN GREY

E DIT O RIAL Jay Chakravarti

02

A RT I C LE S

PAM MUNTER Channeling Doris Day

46

OPINION

SUMATI MUNIANDY The Workplace Bully

68

C U L T O F F EA R

JAY CHAKRAVARTI Film: Mother! - The Heart of the Muse

60

P HOT O G RAP HY E A S E L D E K O L KA TA

RISHAV MUKHERJEE

74

FICT IO NS

DAN ALLEN The Beggar

ANN S. EPSTEIN It Ends with Cake

BEN D’ALESSIO Pigmalion

16 22 34

SHO RT FI CT I O NS

KENT DE LIMA The Sweater

FRANCINE WITTE (Three short fictions)

42 72

COLE BAUER DRAMA

K.W. PEERY P R O S E P O ET R Y

LINDA M. CRATE ARATHY ASOK ILLUSTRATIONS BY S A B A R I

MICHAEL VERDERBER Dogleg

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SERI A L NOVELLA

TOTI O’BRIEN General Gate (Part 2 of 2)

04

EDITORIAL JAY CHAKRAVARTI

On Screenplays I wish people read screenplays.

Of course, people DO read screenplays - those who would like to get an idea of the screenwriting process often go through the screenplays of the greats and the auteurs. Those in the business of producing films, too, enjoy any clever little script that comes their way which they might want to translate into a moving picture.

But screenplays, in their very essence, are not things to be read. For the final consumer (reader), the intended product is the film itself, that is to be made out of the said screenplay.

That is the primary difference between screenplays and playscripts, the latter being as much a part of literature as the novel or the short story.

Aren’t drama scripts meant to be seen rather than read too - one may ask, and that is where the enduring nature of theatrical performances come into play.

A drama script is indispensable for the duration of the play’s “run” each performance being a creation in itself, the bedrock for which happens to be the playscript. It is the blueprint for each of its performances and the script comes to the fore again when performance is attempted by a second set of performers.

Thus, a drama script is revisited and reinvented over time, unlike a screenplay whose shelf-life goes little beyond the final edit of the “film” concerned.

Rightly so, some would say, and I would be tempted to agree with them too.

A screenplay is often written for a singular (set of) director(s) who realises it with a vision of their own. Not for no reason do we call films a ‘director’s medium’. And since the screenplay is written for the “one recorded performance”, it faces an inevitable ‘demise’ after the film is canned.

Even in this day and age of remakes and reboots, old scripts are seldom reworked into new films. It would be lazy for any new set of producers/ directors to skip rewriting the old script into something that is updated and ‘considered’ brand new.

So why do I wish (despite the cold logic in the above paragraphs) that people read screenplays?

Well, wouldn’t you wish so too if you find the act of visual storytelling (read: writing screenplays) much easier than going through the trouble of finding the right financiers for it?

Wouldn’t you wish people read screenplays when all you have been writing recently are screenplays and you happen to be the editor of a literature magazine; whose readership (limited as that may be) you appreciate enough to WANT to share your stories with?

Well, that's just my luck! Here's wishing you have a "happier" new year! Ciao

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JAGANNATH (JAY) CHAKRAVARTI

is an Independent filmmaker based out of Kolkata, India. Besides fulfilling the duties of the founder/chief editor of CultureCult Magazine, he enjoys dabbling in several forms of artistic expression including poetry, digital painting, film criticism and acting. He holds a Masters degree in English Literature.

ART: Jay Chakravarti

ARTWORK: Comfreak

TOTI O’BRIEN is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a selfemployed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has most recently appeared in Gyroscope, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Pacific Review, and Italian Americana.

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SERIAL NOVELLA TOTI O‘BRIEN

General GATE PART 2 of 2

The sun shone on my face—too much, and too bright. We had landed far from the gates… quite… no building was in view. We alighted, then waited at the foot of the metal stairs— lightly clothed, unburdened by luggage, looking lost.

Yesterday (was it?) we had been directly poured through the crowd of the arrivals hall.

Today the situation was odder—I mean, this being singled out. For a second I feared something would happen. A bomb would explode.

Someone from behind, from the airplane, would shoot us. But no. Some of us were ushered in a range-rover. Other vehicles drove up from various directions, lifting dust. Again everything went fast.

They came towards me, unhesitant yet unexpressive, without making eye contact. The old woman hugged me stiffly, her bones pocking mine—a strange, stilted, unnatural welcome. The man was much younger. He drove—they had arrived on a battered pick-up truck. I thought he might be a neighbor providing a lift, then I changed my mind. He must be my something.

But he hadn’t greeted me at all.

The landscape was ocher and barren. All signs were in Spanish, which I luckily spoke. I imagined my two somehow-relatives also did.

They hadn’t yet, not a single word. Each of us seemed to concentrate on the road, as if it only counted. * The flat was at the second floor, above a gas station.

The room had a single bed. A poster covered a wall— the huge black and white picture of a nineteen seventies star. Judging by discoloration and tears, it must have been there for decades.

My mom (yes, I was sure) and the man hadn’t commented about my lack of baggage. Neither had Xavier, but he already knew I wasn’t I—I mean Alicia—and something was wrong. Had they guessed? They must.

Did my mother… high check bones, sunken eyes. Who was this woman? None of my business.

Here—another thin mattress. Flimsy blanket. Déjàvu. This time I would not… Rage started simmering in my guts, immediately smothered. It required energy I couldn’t summon at the moment. Hadn’t I felt some gumption—a spark of resilience—on the plane, when a

reached forward and drank. After gulping a few mouthfuls in haste, I left the flow brush my lips, like a finger.

A great weakness invaded me, as it seemed to intermittently occur since it all had started—waves of paralysis drowning me. When I finally lifted my head I was drenched. I shut the faucet, and I recalled the note.

My dress glued to my torso, I was shivering. A chest drawer, pushed against a wall, contained a few things divided in categories—T-shirts at the top, trousers, sweatshirts, all light colored, tan or beige. The size… they would fit approximately. But then they would fit many. Should I… I remembered the knocks. I smelled cooking, I heard clinks of kitchenware right across the corridor. The door in front of mine was ajar. I peeked in and saw a table— covered pot in the middle, Mother sat in a slumped pose, Brother crumbling bread. Brother?

Neither had said a word, during or after our drive. I realized I didn’t yet know my name. Frankly, I didn’t

My head buzzed with a sense of unreality, the same wish for vanishing I had felt sitting at the gate. loved memory had sneaked on me? Correct, and that ember was alive. Only, I had no use for it now.

Another thin mattress, all right. I lay down and looked at the ceiling with its landscape of stains. I should read them as if they were grounds of coffee, or a Rorschach test. Sometimes truth is nowhere and right in your face.

Did I think those thoughts? I started, tried to, then I melted into a sort of dream, tinted purple. Yes, the color was what I remembered on waking. It throbbed, allpervasive, soaking me like cheap bubble soap. Nice—a cloud I could wrap myself in, a shield, a protection.

Purple was under my lids when the knocks awoke me. How long had I been out? The light in the room seemed unchanged—not too bright, though there was no curtain. The exposure must have been northwest.

Was it morning? Why did I assume so? My cell…

Did someone have a cellphone? My thoughts kept self-thinking for no reason, just to pass the time. But I must get up. The knocks… A sink was in a corner. I should wash my face. No mirror was there. Oh my—a common thread, definitely.

As I turned on the faucet, water splashed all over the place. Why had I expected a trickle? First I jumped back, surprised by the impromptu shower, then I greedily

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care. Did I look like her? Really. How could they be so dumb? Suddenly I wanted to stare at them in the eyes, long and steady, but I looked at the pot instead. Mother caught my gaze. As if she had been waiting, she ladled a bunch of veggies into my dish. Green beans—a heap, a small pyramid.

She served Bro, then herself. They started eating gingerly, slowly. Was there something wrong? Mother put down the fork. Her hands, bony and wide, rested to the sides of her bowl—a pair of dead birds. She stared at me boldly. I waited for a catastrophe, or deliverance—both.

I waited, yes, for a conclusion of sorts. Actually I couldn’t wait. “Porque te lo cortaste?” she finally, painfully spat, as if every word hurt her palate. “Y cuando?” Bro whispered, munching on.

The room served as dinner and living—a few trinkets showed off on the shelves of a dark cupboard. A small sofa, an armchair, a coffee table crowded the same corner. Stuff was on the coffee table as well, photo frames of dark metal. Oxidized silver, pewter. Leaving my beans untouched I reached for the armchair, and I collapsed on it—again that exhaustion, like ten minutes ago. I cradled in, then peeked at the pictures. I knew what I would find. There: a bunch of strangers in pose, all in black and white. And myself. Yes, we looked iden-

tical. My head buzzed with a sense of unreality, the same wish for vanishing I had felt sitting at the gate.

Her hair was much longer, let lose. An imposing mass of dark curls rippled on her shoulders, cut by the silver frame. Did they reach the small of her back? Mine didn’t. Mesmerized, I kept watching until a detail struck me—the embroidery on her dress, where the shoulder strap joined the neckline. As I stared and stared, it clicked in—she was wearing the same thing I had on.

Grayish, of course, in the reproduction—the orange sundress. I still didn’t know my name.

Three dolls occupied a shelf of the cupboard, leaned against the back panel. Casually bunched up—one newer, one older, one pretty worn out. Heads were painted papier-mâché oddly perched on limbs of stuffed fabric, dressed in colorful rags—almost coming apart.

The toys caught my attention. They resembled me—a thrice-repeated caricature. I went to brush my finger over their legs, sticking out of the shelf—not quite daring to pick them up. They were filled with something else than cotton—finer, more compact. Sawdust. Sand. * Bro was hastily shaking my shoulder, his hand clamping my bones. I had a hard time coordinating myself, past and present. My sleep must have been thick—with no dreams, or the brisk awakening erased them. Nothing lingered, not even a color, a mood. As I understood the wind shaking me was a man’s arm, I had one more déjà-vu. Xavier’s name came to my lips but didn’t go further. In the meantime I made out the room, unlit as it was. I had dozed off on the armchair.

“Hola chica, levantate.” Sure. “Y vestite.” I was dressed already. Did he mean I should change? I recalled the plain T-shirts, pants, sweatshirts, suited for whatever travel or flight was beginning. Wearing them would take a couple of minutes.

I came out of the room empty handed—no luggage.

Bro didn’t seem to notice. At the door (I was sheepishly following him) he gave me a brisk look. “Las munecas!”

I grabbed them. * The road winded through the countryside. Not a village in view, not even farms, houses. Gradually the landscape got greener, cooler, more forested. I must have gotten enough sleep, because I was rested. As I cracked the window open, scents of unknown vegetation peered in, almost comforting—as if, paradoxically, no man’s land had become the new familiar. So soon?

The dolls sat between my thighs. I looked at their painted heads—ugly. Why were we carrying them? Suddenly, I feared we might be visiting relatives. I mean reuniting. I mean our... Why had I made him into my

brother? How if we were together? Nonsense. No sign of affection had been... but then things weren’t normal, whatever it meant. Maybe we were together. After a stop at Mom’s we were journeying home, to rejoin our...

Daughters? The idea was unsettling. I didn’t look forward to exploring it. On the contrary, the mere thought of it choked me. Also, if he was my husband I wouldn’t—this time I should not… I was ogling the dolls without really looking, as if they could read my mind, as if they could rat on me. The road made a brisk twist, or maybe the truck did. Of course beltless, I lost my balance. Instinctively I grabbed the toys as if they were infants, clamped their dead bodies tight, my nails digging into them. When I released my grip, I understood. * We stopped near a thick grove. Was it the outer edge of a forest? I heard sounds—nocturnal birds, insects— and they soothed me, like music. I realized my companion, unlike me, hadn’t slumbered in daytime. First he laid down a blanket in the back of the truck, then himself on it. He made no inviting gesture, which was good and bad. What should I do? Stay seated? Get out, breathe the night air? Walk away while he slept? If yes, where to? I took a tiny stroll, uncertain and listless, then I felt overwhelmed not sure by what. Later, I found myself lying besides him, not sure how I got there. * When dawn broke, we resumed the road. I had a sense of where we were aimed... I foresaw a border. Not too soon. After dusk, tonight or tomorrow. Meanwhile, I was starving.

The word ‘hambre’ spontaneously formed itself, round, clear, confident, then it died in my throat. The long route, so quiet, the afternoon naps, the night rest… all of it had piled up, building a veneer of composure— and a kind of lucidity, both impassive and feverish.

Therefore, while the impulse traveled from my brain to my mouth—in that fraction of time—I realized I hadn’t spoken so far. Easy enough, accordingly to the surrounding muteness. All my mother had uttered was, ‘porque te lo cortaste’. As for him, ‘levantate, chica’, ‘vestite’, ‘las munecas”. All the rest had been a silent movie, fancy accelerations included.

Would my voice give me away? How could it not?

Xavier? I had said a few things. Hushed, murmured.

But Xavier knew since the beginning. Hadn’t I concluded so? * The long drive, I said—which should have horrified me, as it led me further away—was grounding me instead. I subconsciously trusted (I know it sounds crazy)

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it would bring me to a place where I could perhaps get oriented, find help, make a call… Hope? Why did I? My brain, having squeezed its entire capacity of anguish, poured endorphins into my blood for lack of other juices. Oh, survival.

As the sun got higher in the sky—the air scorching— the landscape turned desert again, a desolate mesa. No signs had been in view for several hours. The gas station popped out of the blue—a two-story building so similar to the one we had left, I thought we had gone full circle.

In the outside restrooms, an antediluvian mirror—so scratched it was foggy—topped the sink. My face almost disturbed me, same as I recalled it. Of course. Yet. Even my hair, identical, neither tousled nor misshaped... My hair, so well disciplined.

Why the vision that should have reassured me made me cringe? She (my face?) felt like an unwanted witness, someone who knew too much. Someone to whom I should respond if she asked. Someone I had to carry,

ing the impressive load stuffed inside the munecas. They would stop us. They were waiting for us. That is what I had become—a mousetrap, a snare. They would grab the dolls, rip them with an x-acto knife. All the snow I had pictured under the lining of the accordion cases will spill out of those ridiculous limbs. They wouldn’t arrest me, but him. I mean they would arrest me—carry me to the next station of this mad globetrotting.

Everyone, I have read, has a doppelganger. Rather a few. How many did I have? Once the stock was exhausted, would they restore me to my former life? I would be a hazard, of course. How could I not… I wouldn’t, I’d swear. Never, ever, for Christ’s sake. They must know. They must have done studies. They would count on their (how should I call my like? suckers?) to be harmless. Paralyzed. Mute. Brain-dead. Memoryimpaired. Sealed. Zombie-like. I would be a leak-less tank. They must have done studies. *

Everyone, I have read, has a doppelganger. Rather a few.

How many did I have? and she was burdensome. My face filled me with shame. * My mate brought back two sandwiches. One for me—bread, lettuce, and fish. He ate and drove. Eyes glued to the road, my mind started speeding up. It went faster and faster, but kept turning around.

Had they shadowed me and X from the airport to the plaza, to the house, to the train? Would I have noticed? No. Proper trailing through towns isn’t difficult.

Had they followed us to the gas station this time around? Very likely. Since when we had rushed away, we had crossed wilderness. Positive—no one could be tracking us. I was there for a reason, though, but unless I had a chip… I didn’t. Could I have been… The X-ray rooms? I believed the ritual was meant to get me out of my clothes, into a new disguise. Could the X-ray machine have made an implant? Too complex. Could the new/old garments contain… But I wasn’t wearing them.

I had tossed the orange sundress on top of the drawer chest. It was miles and miles away.

Nothing made sense entirely. Only bits and pieces did, as it occurs in nightmares. * I guessed where we were directed. We would pass a border, no matter from which country to which, carry-

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The beach... I had not seen it come. For some reason I thought we were directed inland. I had closed my eyes without sleeping, my thoughts tangling in endless loops.

I hadn’t noticed a change in the air, a faint marine breeze.

The beach (a narrow strip) ran parallel to the road, at the foot of a vertiginous cliff. The ocean (which one?) was grey and indistinct. Seeing it thrilled me in a most irrational way. I had the impulse of opening the truck door, jumping into the water. As if it were possible from so high. Also, as if I could get somewhere by swimming.

Where was I, besides as far as hell? Hours and hours of flight away from home, no idea in which direction. They had managed to shake me up, disorient me like before hide-and-seek. Still the sea looked amicable. * It was dusk, and we had made it to no border. I had suspected it would be a long way. We would have to stop for gas sooner or later. But we abruptly left the main road and borrowed a dirt path, tumbling downhill toward the shore.

There were lights, a few shackles, the sound of music. People. Normal. When had I last… The group of Xavier’s friends came to mind, as we had spent some time in a bar, then walked while I pushed the bike. Nor-

mal people, were they? Not sure. I was so stunned, so shocked I couldn’t judge. It had happened in a daze, or so I remembered it. Then, the line in the courtyard for the janitor’s job. Had I dreamed of it? Weren’t those folks too silent? In my present flashback they looked unreal. And the passengers of my last flights were all but normal. I have described them a bit. Like me they were trapped. Into unreality, I mean. Those folk… why hadn’t we exchanged a glance? How was it possible?

Here, now, people were dancing. A few couples did.

Others drank, sitting at the tables of what looked like a very small tavern, on the beach. * They danced to radio songs. A few square feet of floor were squeezed between the tables, on one side, and a low raise—a step, maybe two feet large, six feet long. Over such ridiculous stage were two chairs, a dark jacket tossed across one of them while the other was empty, and the seat shone. At least a glossy shimmer caught my eye, as if the wood were wet, freshly varnished—the feeling vaguely obscene. To the left, leaning against the chair, an accordion. My breathing went shallow. Maybe it was the stuffiness of the air, the damp, crowded room. I looked for the instrument case, which was nowhere in view. The accordion itself looked ominous—his keys grinning like teeth. Then all of a sudden it seemed forlorn, naked—a mollusk without carapace, a snail without shell. I felt forlorn, naked, abandoned. My eyes riveted to the scrawny stage, I walked like an automaton, as my brother (was he?) pushed me past it, through a side door, perhaps to the bathroom. * I found myself in a miniature storage area, stinky with the mixed smell of food, cleaning products, and rot. A ledge stuck out of a wall, under which a stool was ensconced. A mirror was above it, cracked and stained.

Fairly large, though randomly obstructed by pictures.

Real ones? And magazine cuttings. Perhaps. I am reconstructing. At the moment my impression was quick, vague—and sharp at the same time. More than all nightmarish. A detail grabbed my attention, freezing me on the spot. It kept happening, did it? A sussultatory motion of consciousness—as if treading in the mud, then suddenly getting pricked by a thorn, stubbing a toe against a rock, an emerging root. Yes, the trivia catching my eye sent all of my sirens spinning, lighting them bloody red. * She sure was no beauty, and her diva poses were shy.

Frankly, kind of pathetic. So was the gauche handwriting smudged over the pics, all signed to a same person—the joint’s owner, I guessed. She was wearing a nondescript

party dress, the same always. Cleavage, thin shoulder straps, necklace, a silk flower? Her hair was damn long.

In one of the pics she stood on a terrace, leaned against a bannister, sporting a swimsuit. Quite a small bikini, and I saw the stubs—a straight line from her navel to her pubic bone, where the fabric cut perpendicularly.

They gleamed. Ominously. Two things landed on me that didn’t go together. That’s why I was paralyzed.

First, the awareness of our identity struck me in the face.

There I was, not in the mirror, but on it. No doubt as for what was expected of me. In a few minutes, I guessed? Simultaneously, my non-being her was forever proved—should I have entertained a doubt—as the skin between my belly button and my Mons of Venus was clear. Intact.

He had left me in the greenroom without comments (none was needed, the routine must be obvious). He had dumped a rucksack of his, I assumed, in a corner of the ledge, which was crowded with miscellaneous trash. The bag was half open, letting a dash of orange in view—my crumpled sundress. God. The thing had come along, then. I shivered. A comb was beneath it. And a tiny, sad beauty case. Why did I take it out? Why did I unzip it?

I was no musician. Let’s sit for a minute. I pulled out the stool from under the ledge. It offered little comfort.

Still I sat, propped my elbows, my head rested in my hands. Drama queenish—but I couldn't see myself at the moment. I was at the end of my wits, that’s all.

Nothing crucial. I have said it before: the nightmare could only go on, not worsen, not really. Still I was at the end of my wits. What should I do, where could I… * Mindlessly, I passed my fingers through my hair. It felt less pristine, though it still looked ok in the mirror.

Short, of course, if compared to the mane of Alicia-theentertainer, the star. Now I could understand my mother’s bitterness, my brother’s (lover, manager?) discontent.

I needed the restroom. I stepped through the main room, noticing a few awkward glances cast in my direction. Brother was at the bar, working on a beer. I slowed down deliberately, trying not to look afraid or uncomfortable. A bead curtain led into the kitchen. Wait. The baño must be certainly outside.

A lantern at the front door, a dim neon sign didn’t quite break the darkness. There’s something about a beach at night, though—it casts its own light. I made out the silhouette of a shed that must be the toilets, headed there, got in, fumbled with the wobbling hook meant to lock it. A large vent in the roof let a glare in— the stars, the moon, maybe? The walls must have been recently white washed—they looked eerily luminous. I

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kept staring at them while I sat. My urine wouldn’t come out. Was I even trying?

As I had pulled my pants down, I had felt something at the bottom of a pocket. How comes I hadn’t noticed it before? Well, those tough kaki trousers had a bunch of zippers, all over the legs, in the strangest places. I hadn’t opened them. I hadn’t paid attention. In a low pocket, hanging dumbly at mid-thigh, something lingered—a small pocketknife. I clicked it open. For what I could discern it was fairly new, razor sharp. * Then I am not quite sure. I knew where I came to and it was several places, all blurred now. In the toilets, stool towering over my face, walls squeezing me tight.

At the front door, or was it the kitchen curtain? Had to be, because beads kept swinging. They made noise, a rattle, like rain, making me sick again. Did I vomit? Wait, I came to once more. I was in the greenroom. I recall the orange dress, a corner of it hanging close to my

it through the labyrinth. I hadn’t answered his question.

Could not. I could hide underneath it, using it as an umbrella while I tried to fill the holes. Of course he had been informed of my arrival, given an excuse— concerning my relatives—to explain the delay. Luckily he had never met my family. Didn’t have a number for them, didn’t speak their language. He would have found a way to get in touch if he had been too worried. They must have contacted him in a timely manner. Who did? I mean, who did they say they were?

A delay. A short one. Was it? Two days, three? Today was… Oh, god. How was my father? What had they said? “Not bad,” I muttered, as if that meant a lot of things. That I was worried indeed, or in shock. That I’d rather not talk (I’d rather not). That I was exhausted (I was).

Dear lord, how screwed was this? I couldn’t tell the truth. Now my own life didn’t fit me. It had been pocked. It leaked. It was pierced in the middle, torn by

I was in the greenroom. I recall the orange dress, a corner of it hanging close to my mouth. mouth. Someone lifted my head from behind, pushed something against my lip. A plastic cup. Water. I recall a horrible strain in my neck, and me trying to press down against whatever lifted it. How I wanted for my head to fall back, away from my torso. Leave my head alone, please. I remember a distant throb (my palm?). I think I remember blood. Faces, known/unknown. Unknown.

Was my brother there? Afterwards, I thought he might have been taken already. The next time I came to, I was in the van. * “How is your father?” he asked. He had stared at me in silence—various feelings compressed in his gaze. I had not expected him. My eyes shifted immediately to the side. My child’s name escaped me. My voice sharply burst out, then tapered down—I meant not… I think he understood. “A playdate. He’ll be home when we will arrive.” His tone and expression had softened. He leaned forwards with an indecisive smile, kissed my cheek. “You look ghastly.” I grasped his arm and squeezed it, trying to convey something. Affection?

Presence, making up for my exasperating laconism. I am not sure if he saw the gauze. Didn’t ask about luggage.

My father? I hung by that shred of information—the end of a ball of yarn I should… unravel? Rather follow

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those missing days, badly stitched over with lies.

In the car I didn’t say a word. I shrunk myself in a fist, waiting to see my child—soon, please, sooner. Then I’d land. Then, little by little, I guessed things would fall in place. I’d know how to deal with what had happened, patch and fix. Would I? I would find counsel if needed—private, confidential. Just let me get home.

True. Not only my child mattered. Home did too. * My passport came back two months later. I had reported the—theft, loss?—and a brand new document was on its way. I had no presentiment as I handled the envelope, only a slight curiosity, a puzzlement slowing me down. I lingered, not quite daring opening it. I had no idea whom the thing could be from. My address was handwritten in a nondescript calligraphy, ringing no bell.

A return address was missing, which should have halted delivery but apparently hadn’t. The print on the stamp was readable—the mail had been sent from the local airport, thirty miles away. A post office was there. Mailboxes as well, where one could drop an already stamped missive. Red—I visualized one of them shining in the sharp, rarefied light.

I didn’t want to think of it, but I did—wildly, compulsively. I pictured myself sitting on a bench, witness-

PHOTOGRAPHY: Daniela Morescalchi

ing the moment. Calmly observing whoever lifted his hand (hers—was it one of the nurses?) then dropped her load in the slant. Just my passport was inside the envelope. I was waiting for the replacement… I would keep both. Should I say I had recouped the lost one? By instinct, I sensed such admission would complicate things.

Or not, but I was scared. Also fascinated. Obsessed.

Thinking of the instant when my papers were mailed made me ache for stopping it. Stop the instant, freeze time. I must find the person who did it, I felt, as if my life depended— It occurred to me, whoever sent the thing back might have been extraneous. To the entire deal—a passer by who had found my ID by pure chance, in a waste bin, under a seat. Inconceivable... Wouldn’t they have destroyed, re-used, disposed of it in a proper manner?

They should have. But things hadn’t been logical, lately. * Then I wondered about how those studs felt. If they indented like the halves of a zipper. If they touched at all, when— Must have. Did they mean anything? Who had them put in, first? He had a scar. She didn’t for what I could tell. I had just glanced at her picture.

So that’s why he had cooled off, that night. Not be-

cause he didn’t care for Alicia. The hell he did. Because I was un-studded. But hadn’t he figured it out since the airport? My fakeness... Maybe he was still in doubt until—or he wouldn’t have started. Why didn’t he stop?

His distraction, his remoteness, didn’t regard Alicia.

But why, why would someone else’s ardor—or lack thereof—affect me?

2 As I park at the curb, I’m comforted by the sight of a car pulling right behind me. Why should it reassure me?

I must walk a block to my destination. Not much, but the street is dark and the night chilly. It has rained until an hour ago. It probably won’t again, still the humidity makes me shiver. Most irrationally, I feel as if the car parked after mine will shorten the distance I’ll have to walk back. Of course it will not. It will make it look shorter, perhaps, as I’ll come uphill and see it, a few seconds before spotting mine. Will that soothe my anxiety (a mild symptom of Post Traumatic Disorder)? In fact, the last thing I should look for, while parking at night in an unfamiliar neighborhood, most deserted, unlit, is someone pulling at the curb behind me. My reflexes are

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 11

kind of screwed-up, since—the-other-way-around.

Those thoughts cross my mind while I get myself organized. As I lock my door, turn around, and take the first step, the case almost trips me. It stands on the concrete besides my back door, sticking out perpendicular to the lane. Black like asphalt—shadowed by the semiobscurity yet familiar, and I recognize it. My brain spins a wild carrousel. I try to line up memories stubbornly refusing to segue. And I try to do it fast, but velocity only adds to the incongruity. What’s my accordion case doing here? Who pulled it out of my back seat? Did I? When? I didn’t. Wait! Was it on my backseat at all? It wasn’t. Instinct makes me look up, frantically scanning the car that just parked—sensing the solution must be there.

The driver’s door is cracked open, and the window rolled down. The man sticks out his elbow, then his hand—he is smoking a cigarette. A long face. Do I know him? He is looking at me, seemingly enjoying my confusion, as if he had expected it indeed. He points at the case with his fag. “Yesterday you forgot it,” he says.

At the joint where I played, he means. Was he there?

Did he rescue it for me? Sure, but how did he…

“It was in the hall, by the door. You must have left in a hurry. When I made it to the parking lot…” I have stopped listening. Yes, I do forget things, especially when—like after a gig—I am swamped. I forget more and more. It is also a mild symptom of—Christ, not my accordion. And how could I, once home—was I drunk?

I don’t think so. Did I have something on my mind?

How bad…

“Thank you. Thank you!” How did he find me, I should ask, but I don’t feel like. I know he’s headed to

12 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

the joint where I’m headed. He’ll be listening to the band I’m going to listen to. It’s a small world. Maybe he thought I would come. Someone, yesterday, told him that’s where he’d likely find me. He had the thing in his car—he parks and he sees me. Ours is a small world.

As I pick up the case… here’s the pain in my side, the cramp I know well. On the right side, don’t worry. A bother, that’s all. Is the thing too darn heavy? Too light.

I click it open, and it is half full of crumpled papers. I have slid on my knees without noticing. Now I’m bent in front of the case, as if lost in prayer. Doom has grabbed my neck and I feel oppressed. Where’s my instrument, and what it this stuff? Balled-up dailies, some more yellowed than others, old, with black and white pictures—who stuffed this crap in, what’s this practical joke?

His voice gets to me, soft and velvety. “Something wrong?” “My accordion…” I mutter. “Not there?” Perspicacious, is he? Can he see from the driver’s seat? He walks out. I register a tall dark shape. He is wearing an evening suit, out-fashioned… I have no time to detail.

As he bends towards me, though, I can’t help watching.

Yes, something about him is— “I’m sorry.” Didn’t he lift the case? To him my instrument would also have felt weightless. Still, didn’t he guess? “Don’t worry. You forgot to put it back in. It is at the joint. They would keep it, of course!” Of course they would. I have to go back and get it, right now.

Should I give them a call? Just go. “By the way, yesterday you played divinely, Alicia.” He is smiling. He looks ecstatic, in fact. Have I heard this before? “You played divinely, Alicia.” I know. I know. []

ARTWORK: D Williams

ANDREW SCOTT is a native of Fredericton, NB. During his time as an active poet, Andrew Scott has taken the time to speak in front of a classrooms, judge poetry competitions as well as be published worldwide in such publications as The Art of Being Human, Battered Shadows and The Broken Ones. His books, Snake With A Flower, The Phoenix Has Risen, The Path, The Storm Is Coming and Through My Eyes are available now

POETRY ANDREW

SCOTT

Queens of Fate The Queens of Fate will decide your way through a harsh tunnel filled with darkness or a simple, straight path filled with light.

The sorcerers' decisions are not yours.

Us earth dwellers will never have to decide what your choice deeds will bring you from when you decisions and actions are conceived with your own gain in mind.

While you sleep soundly in comfort even as the chaos created by you for your own gain spirals out of control.

The upcoming nightmare, you will not feel.

The Fates will create it for you.

Skipping along, you will be feeling the air, fancy free, thinking all is well with the people used in life that were laid to waste for theirs to clean and heal.

At a place that you will feel the most joy and satisfaction you will not see the decision arrive, however you will feel it in the center of your heart, mind.

The true darkness or light delivered from the giving hands of the Queens of Fate. [] PAINTING: ‘Nocturne’

by James Abbott McNeill Whistler

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 13

POETRY SALMAN

SOWD AGAR

The Muezzin’s Call Deep in slumber, It hits my ear, The muezzin's call, From behind the minaret's wall, Summoning for the dawn prayer.

The sound very faint though, In a flash opens my eyes, In surprise.

"Whoa! There's no minaret here."

Why? Not a mosque, In this dreary desert, The Thar, Where the feet only feels the sand, And the eye only sees, A few lonely huts, Scattered here and there.

I had moved into one of them, The last towards the west, Not before yesterday, To collect sandstone, And carry it to the nearest town, To use in construction.

I was afraid, My eyes won't open, Early in the morn, To quickly start my day's work, And wrap it up, Before the sun reached The middle of the sky, And to leave the hot desert Before it got any hotter, For the town, Only to return after dusk.

But here I was Already up In the wee hours, Because of the muezzin's call.

14 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

SALMAN SOWDAGAR lives in Hyderabad, India. His work has appeared in magazines like Verse of Silence, The Bombay Review, The Criterion, and in anthologies like The World Anthology of Poetry 2016 (released as a part of The 32nd World Congress of Poets in Taiwan), The Hall of Poets Anthology, Asian Poetry Anthology, among others. He is studying English Literature from IGNOU.

I walk out of my shack, Into the sandy air, Which blinds my vision.

But my ears good enough, To catch again and again, The faint voice of the muezzin.

After a lot of struggle, When the winds slowed their pace, I see through the dawn-dark desert, Into the direction of the call, Not with exactitude.

After a few anxious turns of my head, I see a speck of light, Miles away.

A light so light, One can barely notice, Unless it's a moonless night.

It surely belonged to a mosque.

"Which town is that?" I wonder, And in the next tick of the clock, As in a response to my thoughts, A lightning flashes across the sky, For a few fleeting moments, Laying bare to me, Somewhere halfway towards that light, The electric fences, That divide India and Pakistan.

"Good heavens! That mosque is in Pakistan," I utter in utter disbelief.

But its azan reaches my land, And has actually woke me up, On time for my work.

A Pakistani muezzin helping his Indian brother.

I look up to the sky, And thank the Almighty, For giving me such a lovely neighbour.

And then I pray, "Let the two brothers continue To love and serve each other, In ways the world will never know." []

ART A panel from Max Slevogt’s ‘Sandstorm in the Libyan Desert’

POETRY

Dream It felt like a dream, that day your parents called you in from the yard, swing still creaking. Your father’s suitcase packed, the taxi on its way. It’s not your fault they both would say, but inside you knew it was. The way you kept asking for time, for love, or just to stay up late. Eventually you’d ask your mother for the truth even she didn’t have. It’s a grownup thing, she’d say. Pretend this is a dream, and you’d been doing that all along.

Each night staying up just a little bit later, trying to figure out a way to wake up. []

FRANCINE WITTE

Again Later in June, we would wish the rain over us, welcome that last crisp of spring. We wanted to hold these lovemoments, whisper of forever written in the tree buds. And yet we knew what was coming, sad repeat of last year’s summer, drying grass, bend of flowerheads into the field, the sudden

Cycle First, the forests fell. trees to the ground like belly flop divers, their leafheads against

broken promises, the surrender of our tired hearts. How we knew again that everything that started in April would show its fraying edges, and by summer the end of all of it would begin. []

the earth, full and green and useless. Then we turned the land into parks and yards, planted lettuce and beans, so we could pretend we weren’t spinning around on a dying rock. Or that we weren’t just another mother sending her child off into the world, holding her breath, waiting for another forest to burst its head up through the soil. []

PHOTOGRAPHY: Alex Perez

FRANCINE WITTE is the author of four poetry chapbooks and two flash fiction chapbooks. Her full-length poetry collection, Café Crazy, (Kelsay Books.) Her play, Love is a Bad Neighborhood, will be produced in NYC this December.

She is a former English teacher.

She lives in NYC.

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 15

ART: ‘Mask Still Life III’ by Emil Nolde

FICTION DAN

ALLEN

The

Beggar

16 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

Canadian author DAN ALLEN writes speculative fiction stories that lean toward the dark side. His work appeared in the horror anthology - Secret Stairs: A Tribute to Urban Legend (March 2018). In 2018, his work has also been featured in Bringing It Back (Horrified Press), Canadian Creatures (Schreyer Ink) and elsewhere.

Visit www.danallenhorror.com and follow him on Facebook and Twitter at @danallenhorror.

# Teri got by in school, she finished college, she the cement but the air is warm and the sun has finally moved to the big city. She is not passionate about pursucome back from months of winter. The people pass ing further education. She just wants to be with her him. They do not see him. They walk around him, subfriends. She shares her time with them. Traveling and consciously changing their path to avoid him. His back exploring the world and shopping. Teri is passionate is getting uncomfortably warm. He wants to take his about shopping. She has a wonderful fashion sense. She jacket off, but it is part of his uniform. So are his aviator has never worn a pair of blue jeans in her life. She presun glasses. He takes pleasure in staring at them. The fers skirts and dresses. She likes high heels instead of oblivious hordes, hurrying about. He does not want sneakers. them to see his eyes. He does not want them to see # where he stares. His empty coffee cup sits in front of He keeps the empty coffee cup close, certainly him. It is part of his uniform. It is to collect the change not concerned that anyone will snatch it. He is not worthey drop in it. Its bigger purpose is to complete the ried that it will get kicked over. The coffee cup collects illusion of why he is there. the coins but it is a lure. It draws them in close.He # watches their legs. Each unique with their shapes and Teri looks in the mirror. She is beautiful. She curves. From his street level vantage point he can often knows she is beautiful but she thinks everyone is. Everysee up the thighs. He can imagine the rest. He sits on one loves Teri, everyone knows Teri. She makes friends the cement for that very reason. The begging for money easy and holds friends dear. She comes from a small is not his primary purpose for being there. He is hunttown. Went to the hometown college. She is not overly ing. interested in boys. She dates a few of them but never for # long. Boys are for later, when she is ready to get married People do not see Teri as a snob. She is kind and have a family. and generous and has friends from all walks of life. Teri # does not see herself as naive, but she is. She is far too His hands are filthy. Dirt is packed under his trusting. She honestly believes bad things may happen to fingernails. His pants are covered with stains from a other people but never to her. She travels the city streets hundred wine spills, and as many nights sleeping in with the same fearless innocence that she travels the puke. They do not look close enough to see it is not real. world.

There is no sign in front of him. He does not bother # with one. To the unsuspecting it is obvious why he is He says nothing when a passerby drops coins. there.

He does not say thank you. He does not have to.

He deliberately sits in the center of the sideThey do not want him to. He does not look in when the walk. He likes the view as they absentmindedly walk coins hit the cup. He does not count them. The money around him. The closer they get, the better. With spring does not matter. They almost fear he will say something in the air, it is unwrapping season. Harvest time for his and they will have to answer. They do not make eye prodding eyes. Long coats and boots are replaced with contact. They do not see who he watches, where he pantyhose and high heels. He feels a stirring. looks. The sun glasses are there to make sure. They do

He sits cross-legged on the side walk. There is a chill in

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 17

ART: ‘Paradise Lost’ by Emil Nolde

not notice when he allows a small smile to escape the corner of his mouth. # She has an office job in the city. She has a basement apartment in the suburbs and commutes. Teri smiles whenever she hears the old BTO song about taking the 8:15 into the city. That's her song, her motto, "takin care of business". Work hard and play harder right? Teri likes her office job. She likes dressing up for work. She can wear her fancy cloths. Teri thinks her life is perfect. # The men are disgusted by him, the ladies fear him. He is dirty. But it is the ladies he is there for. They are the ones most likely to fill his cup. He smiles as he thinks about their guilty need to give money to the street people. It pleases him to know that they would be horrified if he were to touch them. They do not see him smile. He is invisible. An old hag walks directly to him.

Even to him she is hideous. She is bending over trying to hand him something. It is a Jesus pamphlet. He will not take it. She is blocking his view. He wants her gone.

She stuffs the pamphlet in his coffee cup. He silently

18 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

curses her as she wanders off to save someone else. His day is ruined. She smelled bad. # Today Teri brought home a kitten. She always laughed at crazy cat people and now she knows she is one. She names the cat “Pounce”. She likes the name because it is simple. Pounce has an annoyingly cute way of laying upside down, paws in the air, and watching Teri move about. They stay together at night. Pounce claws up under the blankets and burrows around until she falls asleep. # Their legs are eye level to his stare. He watches them all, coming and going. He sees the curves. Spandex and Tights are ok. He watches them from behind. He allows his eyes to wander up to their ass. Don't they know he can see their asses? Bare legs are better, but the Holy Grail are the high heels and pantyhose. He like them black with a pattern running up the back. He picks them out of the crowd. He discreetly sniffs as they pass. # Teri ran out of cat food so she feeds Pounce tuna. Pounce, being a cat, is finicky. It will be tuna only from now on. Teri does not mind. Tuna costs the same.

Teri goes to bed and lets Pounce drink water from a Dixie cup. Teri thinks about what she will wear to work in the morning. She has two closets stuffed with clothes.

The weather has been warming up and she is thinking about breaking out some of her spring pretties. # He gets ready for the day. He never shaves. It is part of the look. He pulls on his ripped, greased up jeans, a few layers of torn shirts, and nasty running shoes. His baseball cap and, of course, his sun glasses. It has been a month since his last selection and the urge is growing strong. It is time to choose.

He takes his position. A rowdy group of young boys approach. Baseball fans perhaps. One of them throws coins at him. The coins miss the cup. They are thrown hard and they scatter. The boys belly laugh, expecting to see a bum scamper around chasing the quarters. But he does not move. He bites his lip to contain his rage. He wants to rip these assholes apart. He lets

watch her walk towards the trains. The black pantyhose.

A simple line runs up the back. He tingles. # Teri is in the shower. She hears a noise. She starts to freak herself out. She is paranoid that she cannot hear. The noise of the shower drowns out her ability to tell if someone is out there. She holds her breath as she grabs the faucet. She pauses, she considers that once she turns off the water the potential intruder will know she is coming. Fuck it she turns off the water. She hears a yowl. It is a long sorrowful cry. Fuck drying off, Teri sticks her head out the bathroom door. She is naked and dripping water everywhere. It is Pounce. She has one of her toys in her mouth. It is a small stuffed animal.

Pounce is carrying it around like it is her dead baby, howling out a mournful cry. As soon as Pounce sees her, she drops the dead baby and her crying ends. Teri wonders what else Pounce does when she thinks she is alone. Strange fucking cat.

She comes back from a daydream and turns off the taps.

The house is quiet. So quiet. out a low growl. The boys do not hear it, but they do sense something is wrong with this picture. They sense danger and they quickly move along.

Something delicious approaches. He sees her milky white legs. No pantyhose, bare and flawless. She has a frisky bounce in her step. Teasing. She gets closer, he stops breathing...

She is not the one. Too young. She is just starting to bud. He will give her time to ripen. A future prospect. For a second he smiles. # Teri strolls towards the commuter trains. She is thinking about making Guacamole. # He spotted her today. She might as well have had a large neon sign floating above her head. His radar picked her up before she even crossed the street. Her walk was just right. She walked slowly with confidence.

Her skirt was short and her legs went on forever. He could see better now. Black pantyhose indeed. He rattles his cup as she nears, hoping to get her attention. Just a momentary pause. Just enough to smell her. She does not miss a step. Her pace remains the same. Her mind is elsewhere. He breaks protocol and turns his head to

# He sees her at least once a day. Twice if he gets out early enough. She always crosses in the late afternoon, merging with the sea of spawning people swimming upstream to the commuter trains. He has given up trying to get her attention. He does not need to. He know she is the one. Teri passes him every single day and does not notice him. Teri will see him only once and it is not today.

He has never been questioned by the authorities. He fits no profile. He is invisible even to the police.

There is no reason for what he does. He hides in plain sight. He hunts in plain sight. If the ladies could see his eyes they would see the lust, but his sun glasses do their job.

He sees her coming. Can he really smell her from where he sits? He believes so. He raises his head and watches her approach. This is not in character. He needs to keep his face down. He allows himself to break his own rules. He cannot help himself. She passes on his right. Solid dark nylons, no lines, but killer high heels.

He can see firm muscles on the back of her legs, on her calves. Once she is past he moves quickly. He is on his feet and in one continuous movement he has shed a few layers of filth and slides these excess clothes and the

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 19

coffee cup into the first trash can he sees. He does not need this uniform anymore. He will make a new one next time. There will be a next time. There always is.

He falls in a dozen bodies behind her. He is confident. The commuter trains only run east and west.

He has a monthly pass. He is prepared. She goes through the westbound gate. She walks on the first car she hits. He pauses, watching through the windows, his eyes tracking her to see where she sits. He slides in, several seats behind her. Nobody notices him. He does not stand out. The glasses prevent eye contact.

On the streets thirty minutes later he sees her enter the side door leading to what must be a basement apartment. He allows a full out, teeth exposed smile.

Her residence is ideal. He heads home. He will sleep well tonight. It will bean early morning. # Teri goes downstairs to her abode and instantly feels eyes on her. It's that creepy feeling she gets when someone is watching. She turns quickly to see a furry face starring down at her. Pounce is perched on top of a bookshelf. The highest point in the room. Teri calls her a little bastard. Pounce lets out a rare meow and jumps down. Pounce circles Teri's legs looking to be fed. Teri relents and grabs a can of tuna. # Today he will not be on the streets. He has found her. He knows where she will be. He puts on a different uniform. Clean jeans, shirt, and shoes. Neutral colors. He looks like anybody. He will blend in. Something silver and sharp replaces the coffee cup. The sunglasses remain the same. It is early dawn and he watches from the bushes. He sees a light come on. # Teri is already awake before her alarm goes off.

Pounce has been nudging her for the past hour. Teri is a morning person. She plays a game of finger mouse with

Pounce before jumping out of bed and heading to the bathroom. Pounce follows her looking for soft food.

Teri is high ponytail happy. She is looking forward to brushing her teeth and having a shower. # He sees another light come on in a small window. He is confident it is the bathroom. It is show time.

He steps out from the shadows of the shrubbery and moves quickly to the side door. The shower is his telltale sign. He relishes in the way the noise from the cascading water muffles his approach. He loves how the steam filled room blurs any movement. Most of all he loves how the warm shower relaxes and sedates his prey. # Teri closes her eyes as the first streams of water engulf her head. It's wonderful. Teri enjoys being naked.

She enjoys washing herself. She always needs to be clean. She throws her head back to allow the spray to roll down her face. She hears something. Her heart skips a beat. She thinks someone maybe inside her apartment.

Teri decides it is obviously just Pounce and she soon loses herself in the steam.

He is just outside the door. He hears the pounding of the water on the tile floor. He hears the lid snap on the shampoo. This is perfect. He hardens. It excites him that she has no idea he is there.

She comes back from a daydream and turns off the taps. The house is quiet. So quiet. She has taken too long. She is running late. She hurries to dry off. She throws open the door and catches movement from the side. Fear paralyses her. She feels betrayed by the shower for leaving her so vulnerable.

He flinches as the door whips open. She only has a towel wrapped around her waist. Her hair is wet.

Beads of water roll down her breasts. He pauses just a moment to take in the perfection. She smells clean. He lunges incredibly fast, the knife going into her over and over again. []

Emil Nolde was a German-Danish painter and printmaker. He was one of the first Expressionists and was one of the first oil painting & watercolor painters of the early 20th century to explore colour.

Nolde was a supporter of the National Socialist German Workers' Party from the early 1920s, having become a member of its Danish section. He expressed anti-semitic, negative opinions about Jewish artists. However, Adolf Hitler rejected all forms of modernism as "degenerate art", and the Nazi regime officially condemned Nolde's work. A total of 1,052 of his works were removed from museums, more than those of any other artist. Some were included in the Degenerate Art exhibition of 1937, despite his protests, He was not allowed to paint - even in private - after 1941. Nevertheless, during this period he created hundreds of watercolors, which he hid. He called them the "Unpainted Pictures" (Wiki)

20 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

POETRY SAURJA D ASGUPTA

Gospel of the Damned Cigarettes burn in the dark cold abyss Cigarette burns... my skin is cooked to gourmet perfection ‘Nothing’ is more than a word now, it is a revolution for us, a Gospel of the Damned Imagination raped by cheap Hollywood thrillers the girl drowns in a bathtub full of fake blood still drowns...and drowns over and over again Final seduction in death, sold to credulous fools a grisly manifesto of the human condition Lazarus was a lie, or an abomination ‘Hate your neighbors as you hate yourself’ a perverse Golden rule, glowing in the pages of the Gospel of the Damned Like a chicken slowly roasting inside a claustrophobic hell it's insides scraped out, creating a gaping hollow I can feel it now Light headed - headlights flashing in the hollows of my eyes The rain outside doesn't matter everything ends when love is crucified Roses bloom, as the crown of thorns opens you up, opened like never before The smoke fills up the dead, dank air as the Gospel of the Damned burns in all its glory...

Questions Questions Cry out For their mother’s arm Find a stranger’s lap Unexpectedly warm A new face New light enters their Starry eyes It’s all about Asking.

Answers wait In a rocking armchair In grey hairs In loss And they die in Questions. []

And I light my cigarette once more. [] PHOTOGRAPHY: Annie Spratt

SAURJA DASGUPTA is a lucid dreamer, which compels him to search for reality. He inspects scientific reality during the day as he works through his PhD in Chemistry at The University of Chicago and artistic reality during the night through his writing. Currently Saurja is working on a shortfilm project and simultaneously writing a popular science book about his scientific research.

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 21

FICTION A N N S. E P S T E I N

It Ends With CAKE “Is this your first time?” a thin but fit graying man asked each of us as we entered the middle school multipurpose room. He extended a large manicured hand.

“My name is Sheldon and I’ll be your facilitator at tonight’s death café. Please, fill out a name tag and sit wherever you like.”

We arranged ourselves around eight double tables, pushed together to make a sixteen-seat square.

Most of us had come alone. Not yet ready to look at one another, we studied the graffiti scribbled on the table tops: Chloe Loves Luke, Algebra SUCKS, Vamos Owls.

We inhaled the institutional-strength disinfectant that failed to hide the smell of sweat and preteen hormones.

At ten after eight, when all but three of the seats were filled, Sheldon announced, “BART is running late.

I’ll give folks a few more minutes to arrive before we get started.” With no more student jottings to read, we dared to look at our companions for the evening. More

22 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

women than men, an age span of several decades. A gaunt middle-aged woman whose name tag identified her as “Bobbie,” drummed ragged fingernails on the table. Her high-necked blouse and long skirt were in mismatched shades of black and from under her frizzy dark hair, crookedly parted, she stared brazenly at her physical opposite across the table. We wondered if Bobbie knew her.

But “Tanya,” a pastel-clad, younger woman, studied her own bitten nails — the only part of her that wasn’t well-groomed — and didn’t return the stare. Nor did she look at the rest of us. She was half out of her seat, eyeing the EXIT sign, when the latecomers finally walked in. One of us moved over so the man and woman who’d come as a couple could sit together.

“Jing,” who’d written his name in both English and Chinese characters, took the last seat, next to Sheldon.

We went around the table and said where we

PHOTOGRAPHY: David Jakab

ANN S. EPSTEIN is a writer of novels, short stories, memoir, craft articles, and book reviews.

Her published novels include On the Shore, Tazia and Gemma (Vine Leaves Press) and A Brain.

A Heart. The Nerve. (Alternative Book Press, 2018). Her other work appears in Sewanee Review (winner of the 2017 Walter Sullivan Prize), PRISM International, Ascent, The Long Story, Saranac Review and others. Ann has a Ph.D. in developmental psychology and M.F.A. in textiles. The social sciences and visual arts infuse the content and imagery of her writing. Many of her stories have historical settings in which fact and fiction are liberally mixed, and she is gratified to have forgotten what is and is not real by the time a work is finished.

Visit https://www.asewovenwords.com/

were from, how we’d heard about the death café, and if we chose, how old we were. About half of us were native San Franciscans, the rest were transplants from elsewhere in the U.S. or abroad. Most of us had seen the notice in the free community newspaper, a few had friends who’d attended another session and suggested we give it a try. The youngest in our group was a 25-year -old new mother, Erica, whose first pregnancy had ended in a stillbirth at five months. Seymour, the oldest, was 73, while Pastel Tanya, at 28, was the next youngest and a native San Franciscan. Black Bobbie, the woman who’d stared at her, was “50ish” and had lived “all over the place.” Several of us wore wedding rings but James and Laurel were the only ones there with a spouse, as well as the only African Americans. We also numbered one Latina, and a man who sounded British but was from New Zealand.

Since only two of us had attended a death café

INSET PHOTOGRAPHY: Oleg Magni

before and, incredibly, only one had Googled it, Sheldon gave a quick overview. “A death café is an informal discussion of death with no agenda or themes. Our objective is simply to increase an awareness of death so people can make the most of their lives.” He said he was an engineer and his role was to “engineer” but not direct the meeting. “I’ll kick things off, pose questions, but jump in only when things take a turn that violates our policies. For example, remember that a death café is a general exploration of death, not a grief support group or counseling session.” He asked if anyone had questions.

Jing, here from China on a technical work visa, asked whether the death café movement ever sponsored lectures or distributed pamphlets. “No,” Sheldon answered. “Our intention isn’t to lead people to any conclusion, product, or course of action. With that in mind, we discourage guest speakers and informational materi-

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 23

als.” In response to a question about the movement’s history, Sheldon told us that the death café model, developed five years ago in the U.K. by Jon Underwood, was based on the ideas of Bernard Crettaz, a Swiss sociologist who conceived of the “café mortel” to have “a conversation about every living thing’s inevitable demise.”

Tanya emitted such a loud sigh that we worried her demise was imminent. Sheldon, seated immediately to her right, twisted in his chair so he could look at her and asked if she was all right. Bobbie snorted, but Tanya merely gave a noncommital nod and glanced at Sheldon’s neat hands before putting her own messed-up ones in her lap, where the table hid them.

Benita, the Mexican American, asked why the meeting was called a café. Sheldon smiled. “Good question. We rarely meet in an actual café but the name comes from the concept behind café mortels. Mr. Crettaz said nothing speaks to the community of the living

His eyes circled the table. “I don’t anticipate problems as long as everyone follows three rules: keep your sharing brief, no interrupting, and respect others’ opinions.

If the conversation goes off the rails, I’ll gently steer us back.” He added that participants at the other death cafés he’d led had thanked him for maintaining control of the meeting without inhibiting discussion. “Shall we begin?”

“Wait!” Bobbie waved her hand. “Can I smoke?”

Our heads swivelled to Sheldon, who grinned.

“No smoking. It’s against the policy of both the public school and death café.” To our collective relief, Bobbie laughed. “Fair enough,” she said. “Smoking is hastening my death and I’m not ready to die. Yet.” Sheldon ended the overview on an upbeat note.

“Since 2011, seven thousand death cafés have been held in fifty-six countries. I’ve participated in close to thirty and facilitated more than a dozen. I have yet to meet a

Frida Kahlo, your countrywoman, did. She said, ‘I hope the end is joyful. And I hope never to come back.’ like sharing food and drink.” He pointed to a table along the back wall with bottled water and tea, vegetables and hummus, and fresh fruit. “Regardless of where we come together, we always offer nourishing things to eat. Most important, every session ends with cake. Any more questions?”

“Not me.” Oliver, who’d attended three death cafés in his hometown of Auckland, said he already knew the history and rules. Not only was he more experienced than the rest of us, he also appeared calmer — eager to get the discussion under way but not anxious about where it would take us. We looked at him with envy, hoping we’d feel more like when tonight’s session ended.

To our surprise, Bobbie told Sheldon she was familiar with the rules too. “I went to a death café in Los Angeles, but the facilitator told me I was not welcome to come back.” Erica, the young mother, looked alarmed. James, the married man, asked why. “She said I made people uncomfortable.” Bobbie pushed a scraggle of hair off her forehead. “She was new to the game.”

Sheldon smiled at her. “Rest assured. I’m an old hand at these sessions. I’ve even dealt with what I call annoying ‘wing nuts,’ not that I’m saying you’re one.”

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person who is inauthentic when sharing feelings about this subject.” He rested his smooth palms on the scarred table. “Let’s kick things off by describing our personal experiences with death and saying what we hope to get out of tonight’s discussion.”

At last, we thought, the death talk begins. Who would speak first?

Following an awkward silence, several of us began talking at once. After all, that’s why we’d come. People spoke of losing parents, spouses, and friends; attending funerals and memorial services. Some were surprised by death while others agonized over a loved one’s slow decline. We had relatives with terminal illnesses and agreed that society did a lousy job preparing people to die. With luck, we’d learn something here that would help us help them, as well as ourselves.

Only one person had never known someone who died, but confessed she wept copiously at death scenes in tear-jerkers like Terms of Endearment, Titanic, and The Fault in Our Stars. Well who, except the hard-hearted or the cynical, didn’t? Erica, the new mother, spoke of the callousness of the doctor, and the tenderness of the nurse, who attended her after the stillbirth. She said women were more open than men to talking about

death, just like they were about discussing emotional matters in general. Even the guys admitted she was right, except Sheldon, who just smiled. One woman complained that her mother as well as father, both nearing 90, refused to talk about the end of their lives. “So I’m taking matters into my own hands. If I can crystallize my own thoughts enough to share with them, maybe they’ll start to discuss theirs.”

Benita said her folks, though not as old, were the same. “Given my country’s high murder rate, people think Mexicans accept death. We party on Día de Muertos, the Day of the Dead, for goodness sakes, seeming to mock mortality, yet we rarely talk about our own deaths.”

New Zealand Oliver addressed Benita, “Frida Kahlo, your countrywoman, did. She said, ‘I hope the end is joyful. And I hope never to come back.’ Of course, she died at 47, after a life filled with pain. It’s no wonder she’d had enough.” He turned to Sheldon. “A wise philosopher — or was it a cleric? — said that if we live a meaningful life, we have no reason to fear death.”

“Sounds Talmudic,” commented Seymour, the elderly man.

Sheldon replied that it was a widely held view.

Then he said, “For those of you with parents in reasonably good health, it’s not surprising they’re reluctant to face the end. Those who’ve had brushes with death are often more willing to talk about it.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, having survived the threat, they may also be more likely to deny it.”

“After last month’s election,” said a bearded man in an Occupy T-shirt, “I can’t deny the nearness of death. Nuclear war is no longer a remote possibility.”

Several nodded in agreement; others glared; the rest of us looked toward Sheldon. He leaned forward, poised to intervene, but the moment passed. While death and taxes were certainties, we’d reserve politics for the latter.

A middle-aged man cleared his throat. “I know I’m going to die, but I don’t want to. Frankly, I’m scared.” Many of us echoed this sentiment.

Bobbie hooted. “No one’s as scared as I am.

Except maybe ... ” She raised her eyebrows at Tanya, who looked away. She was the only one who hadn’t yet opened her mouth, save during introductions. Sheldon hadn’t said whether it was okay to remain mum all night, just listen.

“I’m not afraid in the least.” The woman, in a gauzy blouse and turquoise jewelry, had drawn little flowers around her name, which was Marigold. “Death fascinates me. I’m not a death hag, one of those people obsessed with gory endings or the final days of the famous. Like those with a death phobia, I spend a lot of

time thinking about death, except I give it a positive spin.” Marigold said that when most little girls were planning their weddings, she was thinking about her funeral — where it would be held, who would preside, what people would say, the music and floral arrangements. “Instead of imaging my wedding dress, I sketched pictures of the outfit I’d be buried in. Lately though, I’m considering a simple white shroud and cremation.”

“There are no flowers at a Jewish funeral,” said Seymour. “It’s considered a desecration. Like thumbing your nose at God’s decision to impose death by flaunting life.”

“I don’t want a religious ceremony of any kind,” commented Oliver.

“Lots of people don’t,” said Marigold. “That’s why I’m getting my certification as a death celebrant. It’s like being authorized to officiate at civil weddings, only we conduct funerals. We tailor them to whatever customers, sometimes the predeceased, more often the family, wants.”

“Customers? You mean you get paid?” Several of us were aghast.

“Certainly,” answered Marigold. “We’re professionals, the same as funeral directors or members of the clergy who collect a salary for their work. If anything, we deserve more. Unlike the formulaic services they offer, one performed by a death celebrant accommodates the personal desires of the bereaved. After all, an end-of-life ceremony is about the person who died but it’s for the people left behind. They should decide what it will be like.”

“I like that perspective,” said Oliver. “It relieves me of responsibility.”

“You’re responsible for living a good life,” Seymour reminded him.

“A righteous one,” added Laurel, the wife.

“But others bear the burden of your death?” someone asked Marigold.

“Not the burden.” she corrected. “The joy.”

“Joy, my ass,” said Bobbie.

“There was nothing joyful when my wife of 43 years died last October.” Seymour’s voice shook. “I cried then. I cried all winter and summer. A year later, I’m still crying.” He looked around the room. “I came here hoping to meet others going through the same thing.”

Before anyone could reply, Sheldon reminded us that a death café was not a grief support group. We asked him to explain the difference. “Facilitators aren’t counselors. We leave that to the experts. Not that our sessions avoid intense feelings. Death is emotional. But a

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grief support group helps people get over the past they knew, whereas we prepare them to face the unknown.”

We continued to scratch our heads.

Except for Erica. “I joined a group for women who’d lost babies in pregnancy or shortly after birth.

The point was to deal with our pain. But during that whole nightmare, I’d been struck by how family and friends, as well as professionals, differed in their responses. So I’m came here to explore the meaning of death and how people handle it beyond my personal experience.”

We nodded, even if we still didn’t get the difference. But given that Erica accepted it after going through a tragedy more profound than Seymour’s — a stillbirth is an aberration; the death of an elderly spouse “normal” — then who were we to question the distinction?

Nevertheless, we remained protective of Seymour until Sheldon spoke to him gently. “I’ll give you a

transportation, but more people die in car wrecks. So I joined a bike share program, but had nightmares about being hit, thrown in the air, and breaking my spine. If I survived, I’d be a quadriplegic forever, a living death.”

No one asked how Bobbie did manage to get around.

Sheldon glanced at his watch. “An irrational fear of death isn’t common, but neither is Woody Allen the only famous person afflicted with it. There are theories, but no proof, about what causes thanatophobia.

Any idea about the source of yours, Bobbie?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t close to my grandparents, so their deaths didn’t affect me. I never sent a pet to doggie heaven. My parents, in their seventies, are doing well. My husband and kids are healthy.”

We glanced at one another. Bobbie was married? Were her children equally neurotic? Bobbie, seemingly oblivious to our analysis, continued to dismiss the possible causes behind her disorder, including a cancer scare that had turned out to be a false alarm.

But Buddha said, ‘In death we are all beginners.’

list of local resources, religious and secular, after the meeting.” He addressed us all. “And if anyone would like to exchange numbers with Seymour and get together outside of this session, please do so.” Seymour looked sad, but not angry, so we let go of our resentment. When the air was clear, Sheldon said, “Ready?

Let’s continue discussing how people feel about death.”

“Terrified.” Bobbie’s voice was emphatic. “I suffer from thanatophobia, or death phobia. Technically, it’s not a clinical diagnosis. Doctors tell me I have generalized anxiety, which in my case manifests itself as an inordinate fear of dying.” Bobbie enumerated the many ways she fantasized meeting her end: a plane crash, cancer, an earthquake. “We’re sitting on top of the San Andreas and Hayward Faults, for heaven’s sake.

I should move to North Dakota.” Her list also included getting shot or stabbed during a holdup, falling off a step stool and cracking her head, being pushed onto the train tracks during rush hour, and stampeded to death at a soccer match.

“You like soccer?” asked a young man wearing a Bay Area Adult Soccer League jersey.

“I’ve never been to a game in my life,” Bobbie snapped. “Too many risks. I used to avoid taking public

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Another woman, also in her 50s, leaned toward Bobbie and said, “I’m a breast cancer survivor. Stage three. After coming that close to the end, death isn’t nearly as scary.”

“If you’re suggesting I do the same, no f’ing thanks!” The woman jerked away; the rest of us gasped.

Bobbie’s voice turned pleading. “I hope that talking about death will reduce its power over me.” She asked Oliver. “Do you know who said that facing one’s darkest fear is the bravest thing a person can do?”

Oliver shook his head. “But Buddha said, ‘In death we are all beginners.’ And numerous people, including J.R.R. Tolkien, have described death as a journey.”

“Well, I don’t want to go on that journey alone.

The reason I’m brutally honest is so that others will be too. I’m sure I’m not the only one.” Bobbie stared pointedly at Tanya, who again looked away. The room was quiet. Bobbie toyed with an unlit cigarette. “This may sound crazy, but I’m afraid that an inability to continue living with my fear of death will drive me to suicide.”

At that, Tanya finally erupted. “When we were waiting to start, I almost said I wasn’t feeling well, which wasn’t

untrue, and left. I stayed because with BART delayed, I’d have trouble hailing a cab in a neighborhood as dangerous as this, on the border between the Castro and Mission districts, and my luck, I’d get knifed on the corner. Even if I got a ride, BART’s backup would mean more cars on the street and a greater likelihood that I’d be killed in a traffic accident.”

Many of us were uneasy about coming to this part of the city, but our fantasies paled in comparison with Tanya’s. She continued. “Fear of death controls my life. I was prescribed anti-anxiety medication, but the pills made me groggy. Losing my edge, I became more anxious, so I stopped taking them. I’m on leave from a master’s program because I can’t concentrate on my studies. I’ll be kicked out if I don’t return next semester.

And if I die before I pay off my student loans, the bank may liquidate the funeral assets I invested in, a cemetery plot and an oak casket.”

Bobbie pumped her fist in the air. “I knew it the minute you walked in. You are like me.”

On the surface, Black Bobbie and Pastel Tanya were nothing alike. But we could imagine Tanya becoming Bobbie in thirty years. If the poor younger woman lived that long.

“No interrupting,” Sheldon reminded Bobbie.

He urged Tanya to continue.

But she’d already resumed talking. Once the floodgates had opened, nothing could hold her back. “I worry about losing my job. I won an internship at the San Francisco Chronicle, but interns rotate jobs and I refused to do a stint on the obit column. I made up an excuse about being too upset because my father recently died. Now I’m superstitious that my lie will come true.

I’m paralyzed at the supermarket, afraid of buying unhealthy food that will kill me slowly or getting food poisoning, which will kill me instantly. Worst is not being able to form a relationship. Why get close to someone if I’m going to die? Or he is?”

Tanya looked around the table, avoiding Bobbie’s stare. Some of us mustered expressions of sympathy, others fidgeted. “I thought if I could meet reasonable people, talking about death in a reasonable manner, it would help me find relief.”

Sheldon waited a few seconds while Tanya caught her breath. “Were you always obsessed with death?” His tone was curious, neither judgmental nor clinically intrusive.

“My mother describes me as having been cautious as a young child, afraid to try things or make mistakes. I really don’t remember what I was like before fifth grade, which is when my best friend’s older brother died in a car crash the week after he got his driver’s li-

cense. I have vivid memories of being sad, then puzzled, and finally scared. I wondered what happened to Josh.

Did he go to heaven? A different place? I still wonder. Is he there now? Will he come back? Will I recognize him or will he look different? Is he at peace or does his suffering go on forever?”

“How did your friend handle her brother’s death?” Sheldon asked.

“I don’t know. The family moved away after the funeral and I never saw her again. I barely knew Josh.

He was just Janey’s big brother, cute, funny, on the track team. Older kids who did know him seemed to get over it in a few weeks. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t shake it.”

Oliver looked thoughtful. “When Josh was killed and Janey moved, you lost her too. So you could say that, for you, your best friend also died. That’s hard for a young girl to get over.”

“Gee. I never thought of it that way.” Tanya looked like she was doing a whole lot of thinking now.

“In a sense, you could say I died too. My first name is actually Vivienne, French for ‘alive.’ But when I started sixth grade, I switched to using my middle name.”

We waited for a halo of flash bulbs to go off around Tanya’s head, for the hallelujah chorus to ring out in the background. No such phenomenon accompanied her insight.

Sheldon, as if intuiting our disappointment, told us, “Remember, this isn’t psychotherapy. A death café often produces small epiphanies, but don’t expect major breakthroughs. However, you may open the door to the unknown a crack.” He stood and moved toward the back of the room. “Now, if I may mix metaphors, I propose we recharge our batteries and break for a snack.”

The food table was set up under a banner proclaiming Everett Middle School: The Owls Have Talent On and Off the Field. On one side was a display case with soccer and flag football trophies, on the other photos of the school’s arts and civic activism programs. A poster on the bulletin board boasted of Everett’s “diverse population including families of new arrivals and long-time residents. We are also SF’s top school for serving children with learning differences.”

We wondered if middle school was too young to offer a course on death.

Sheldon had measured our pulse correctly. We needed a timeout from talking. Everyone piled their plates with food, except for Bobbie, who took exactly two carrot sticks, two celery sticks, and two cherry tomatoes (no dip), and Tanya, who took nothing. As we ate, we studied the display in silence until Benita spoke.

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“My family, second generation, abandoned most traditions, but not Day of the Dead. It goes back to the Aztecs. Food is a big part of the day.” She described cleaning and decorating graves and bringing the deceased’s favorite foods. “We strew orange marigolds on altars, called ofrendas, to attract our loved one’s souls to our offerings.”

Marigold bounced on her toes. “Cool. I’ll suggest the idea to my clients.” She looked at Benita. “Or would that be cultural appropriation, if my clients aren’t Mexican?”

Benita laughed. “Live and let live. Whatever and whoever. To us, death is merely part of the cycle of living. Food and gifts help the departed on the same spiritual journey we all travel.”

“Well, I’ve traveled farther in life than anyone else here tonight. And my favorite food is cake.” Seymour pointed his fork at Sheldon, “You promised we’d have cake.”

with Jesus.” James grimaced. We glanced at one another.

What was that face about?

“With luck, there won’t be time for my relatives to gather.” Jing, contradicting Laurel, sounded just as adamant. “A good death is fast and painless, while I’m asleep.”

“The opposite,” said Oliver. “I’d rather be awake and conscious of the fact that I’m dying. A scientist until the end is your truly, eager to discover the outcome of the great experiment.”

Sheldon mused. “Except that technically, you’ll be dead when the final results come in. Unless the afterlife is a lab with a computer powerful enough to analyze really big data.”

“Cryogenics.” Lewis, middle-aged and the only man wearing a suit, spoke with assurance. “The cold chamber is a kind of lab, but my afterlife is right here on earth, returned to the living. A good death is when my body and mind are still reasonably intact, and I’m frozen

“Well, I’ve traveled farther in life than anyone else here tonight. And my favorite food is cake.”

“It ends with cake,” Sheldon reminded him.

Oliver winked. “‘It’” referring to . . . ?”

Sheldon smiled. “Cake comes last,” he repeated to Seymour. “First, more conversation.” Seymour looked petulant, but settled for another helping of fruit.

When we returned to our seats, Sheldon asked us to each describe what we regarded as a “good death.” An older woman said she’d be happy to die like her neighbor. “Mona was very isolated until she went into hospice her last month. She’d been a painter, so I brought a dozen of her smaller canvases to her room, hung two outside her door, and scattered the rest around her bed.”

“Like strewing marigolds!”

“Staff and people visiting other patients would pop in to ask about the paintings. Mona, a gregarious sort, was thrilled to no longer spend her days alone. She gladly held forth and urged them to help themselves to any canvas they wanted, free. When she died, only one picture was left, which I took. By then, Mona was ready to go. She told me she’d never felt so loved.”

“Not dying alone.” Laurel echoed Mona. “I want to be at home, surrounded by my family. At peace

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immediately.”

Bobbie rose halfway. “That’s the craziest crap I ever heard. Odds are you’ll die connected to tubes or too senile to remember your name.” She began to hyperventilate. Benita fetched a glass of water and asked if there was a doctor present. Even the buoyant Marigold looked rattled.

The meeting threatened to dissolve. We were afraid Bobbie was going to lose it and Sheldon wouldn’t be able to stop her. In a matter of seconds, however, he resumed control. “Give Bobbie some space,” Sheldon commanded, and told her to take deep breaths with him.

After the tenth breath, Bobbie was calmer, but the rest of us continued to inhale and exhale audibly.

“It’s not ordinarily the facilitator’s role,” said Sheldon, “but I’m giving you a mantra to recite the next time you feel an anxiety attack coming on.” He made Bobbie repeat after him, “Here I am. Here I am.” Tanya watched Bobbie while muttering her own phrase. We couldn’t hear it, but from reading her lips, we guessed it was something like “I’m not you. I’m not you.”

When the discussion resumed, Seymour sighed and said, “Sadly, I won’t see my beloved wife again. Jews don’t believe in an afterlife. We live on through our good deeds, remembered by those who come after us.

For me a good death is going right after I say the‘Shma,’ the prayer Torah tells us to recite when we cross the threshold of our homes, at bedtime, and ideally just before we die. God willing, I’ll end my days on earth knowing that I fulfilled this last mitzvah.”

“I can’t imagine any kind of death as good,” Tanya announced.

“Why? What do you fear?” Sheldon asked “Pain?” In succession, James, Jing, Benita, and Laurel proposed “A violent end?” “The loss of dignity?”

“Being forgotten?” and “Dying young?” The last query came from Seymour. “Dying old, after your quality of life is gone?”

Tanya shook her head in response to all them.

“I fear not knowing.”

“Not knowing how you’ll die?” asked Oliver.

“Not knowing what comes after.” Tanya swallowed. “No one knows for sure, but I want someone to convince me that whatever lies on the other side is something I can live with.”

After a brief silence, Jing spoke up. “Like many people, Chinese believe that if you live a moral life, you needn’t fear death. Death is seen as a natural part of the life cycle. All the same, we don’t talk about it for fear it will upset our inner harmony.”

Marigold teased. “And yet you’re here tonight, talking about death.”

Jing grinned. “I’m not a traditionalist, although I accept the duty to respect and care for my parents. If there were a doctor among us, and if he’d ever had seriously ill or dying Chinese patients, he’d know their children insist on very aggressive treatment. Some people accuse us of being pushy, but we’re just honoring our obligation to do the best we can for our elders.”

“So what would constitute a good death for you?” Sheldon asked.

“It’s easier to describe a bad one. Dying at home is unlucky. The family has to clear out the negative energy by burning the mattress, opening windows, washing floors and walls, even repainting.” Jing smiled again. “I’d do that for my parents so I guess I’m a traditionalist after all.”

“What about an afterlife?” Laurel asked.

“Not all Chinese believe in it,” Jing said, “but many burn symbolic paper money to insure the deceased is financially taken care of in the hereafter.” He stopped abruptly, as if talking about death had indeed upset his inner harmony.

For a moment, we shifted in our seats, our inner harmony discombobulated too. Finally Lewis, the cryogenics guy, spoke. “No burning anything for me.

Air conditioned slumber, with zero to fear because I’m

coming back.” People glanced at Bobbie, afraid his patter would set her off again. Even Sheldon raised his hand, waiting for the outburst. But Bobbie closed her eyes, puffed out her cheeks, and uttered the mantra he’d given her.

Silence settled until Laurel punctured it. “I’ve enjoyed hearing how people of different backgrounds approach death. I was raised Baptist. We believe what Christians have for two thousand years, that existence was created by an all-powerful God. Followers of Jesus Christ, His beloved Son, will spend eternity in heaven, where the Light of the Universe wipes away every tear.

But God will find those who reject his Beloved Son wanting and sentence them to spend an eternity with Satan and his demons in hell. Matthew 25:41.” Laurel smiled calmly at everyone. “Don’t worry. I’m not condemning you. I believe God has mercy on all people of faith.”

When James cleared his throat, all eyes turned toward him. “I, however, am not a person of any faith.

I’m an avowed atheist. Lord knows how the two of us got together.” His laugh was uneasy. “I have no idea what causes consciousness, but when I die, I expect I’ll simply be gone. My afterlife will be in the memories of those left behind, like Seymour said, only minus the God part. What matters is my time on earth. Religion lets people avoid thinking about the here and now.

Frankly, I think atheists are more honest about facing death than prophets who promise a chorus of angels, forty virgins, or being reunited with Frank, Frances, Fido, and Fluffy.” James studied his hands. “Like my wife, I don’t mean to offend anyone. Laurel genuinely cares about your souls. I don’t care what you think as long as I’m free to live a meaningful life as I define it.”

We stared at the graffiti-scarred tables and cleared our throats. Two people cracked their knuckles, out of sync. James continued. “Laurel and I love each other, in this life, but I can’t deny that our religious differences strain our marriage. Since I won’t go to church, I agreed to come here. I think she hopes you all will turn me into a believer.”

“And your hope?” asked Sheldon.

“That she’ll turn into a skeptic.”

James and Laurel did not look at each other, nor did anyone else look at them. All eyes were on Sheldon. We wondered if he’d performed his last miracle with Bobbie, or if he had one more trick up his sleeve for this mismatched pair. “Time for cake,” he said.

Marigold plugged in the coffee urn; others cleared away the fruit and veggies. Sheldon, allowing for differences in taste as well as belief, set out four kinds of cake: cin-

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namon swirl, vanilla with chocolate frosting, chocolate with vanilla frosting, and raspberry-lemon. Also apple pie. “Store bought,” he apologized. “I’m no baker. But I am a good shopper. Everything is from Tartine’s.”

Seymour, claiming the prerogative of eldest, was the first to help himself. He said cake was a must when Jewish people sat shiva, the week-long period to pay condolence calls. “Babka, along with schnapps and Manischewitz, although personally I prefer a hearty Burgundy.”

“Same with a wake,” observed Erica, the young mother. “It’s even called Irish wake cake, and there’s plenty of alcohol to go with.” Benita said ditto for the Day of the Dead. In addition to bringing the deceased’s favorite candies and foods, visitors brought pan de muerto, or the bread of death. She described it as more like cake than bread, a sweet, egg-rich concoction molded into a big bun with white frosting in the shape of a skeleton. “We eat sugar skulls too,” she said, “and

Sheldon came to the rescue. He stepped around Bobbie and took Tanya’s elbow. “Excuse us Bobbie. I want to get Tanya’s email so I can send her a list of resources.” Before Bobbie could say that she’d like a list too, Sheldon steered Tanya away from the cake. Several of us followed, eavesdropping while we pretended to examine the notices and student artwork on the wall.

Tanya viewed Sheldon skeptically. He laughed.

“Don’t worry. I sensed you needed to be extricated from Bobbie but I don’t have anything else for you, except encouragement to come to another death café.

What did you think of your first one?”

“I like the idea of not fearing death if you’ve lived a good life, although I haven’t much to show for mine. Yet. I’m far from convinced that getting to the other side needn’t be scary, but I’m open to moving in that direction.” She threw what was left of her cake in the trash. “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

Sheldon said to take her time. “If mortality was

“If mortality was easy to comprehend, death cafés wouldn’t exist.” drink too much booze — tequila, mezcal, spiked atole.”

Jing joked that he’d have to get to know more Jewish, Irish, and Mexican people, preferably old and feeble ones, before his visa expired.

Tanya, who’d eaten nothing during the break, cut herself a slice of everything. It seemed as though talking had unstopped her appetite too. Bobbie sidled up to her, a sliver of pie on her plate. She scooped up the apple filling and left the crust. “I’m surprised you eat that much fat and sugar.” She studied Tanya’s slim frame. “Not that obesity is likely to kill you, but skinny people can get diabetes if their blood sugar spikes out of whack.”

Tanya filled her mouth and tilted her head toward Jing, who was giving us the recipe for Chinese New Year cakes. Bobbie didn’t take the hint. She hovered over Tanya and said the two of them should get together for coffee. “I have an entire library on thanatophobia. Not that any of the books helped me, but I’d be glad to loan you a couple.”

“Mmm,” Tanya mumbled.

Bobbie toyed with her pie crust. “Do you ever want to just bring it on, get it over with?”

Tanya edged closer to Jing. Bobbie tailed her.

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easy to comprehend, death cafés wouldn’t exist.” He regarded her playfully. “Who knows, someday you might revert to being Vivienne? Viv? Bon vivant?” Tanya forced a smile. We doubted it too.

When the group reconvened, Sheldon invited general questions about death café before closing the meeting. One of us asked if there were rules about bringing children. Sheldon looked at Bobbie, and Tanya.

“No, but given how intense it can get, my preference is to not allow kids.”

“If I may differ,” said Oliver. “A twelve-year old girl attended a meeting I went to in New Zealand.

She lay with her head in her dad’s lap, not saying anything. At the end, I asked her what it was like to hear adults talking about death. She said she loved it and suggested we put a candle in the cake for the group to blow out together. Everyone thought it was a great idea and the host managed to find a candle in the pantry.”

We thought it was a great idea too.

Oliver bowed to Sheldon. “However, I agree it would have been distracting with more than one child there.”

Sheldon bowed back. “I’ll reconsider, assuming parents can judge whether their child is mature enough and won’t be traumatized by the discussion. Any other

questions?”

Seymour asked whether professionals in the field ever attended the meetings. Marigold raised her hand, but we ignored her. She didn’t have her certification yet. Seymour elaborated. “My friend’s son-in-law is a funeral director. His kind might have something valuable to share.”

Sheldon didn’t rule it out. After explaining the ground rules — no business cards, no educational spiels — he said it went well when a mortuary employee attended a session last year. “He made it clear he was there in a personal, not a professional capacity, and had no other place to debrief about his work. He broke us up when he said the industry was in a pickle about embalming.” It took us a second to get the joke. James and Laurel sat stiffly. Bobbie, grim-faced, stared at Sheldon.

Tanya examined her nails, which looked as if they’d been chewed by worms.

“The last question is mine,” said Sheldon. “A death café can be one session, or people can continue to meet as a group. Who would be interested in coming again?” One by one, we raised our hands. Erica mumbled that it depended on whether she could find a babysitter. We wondered if that was true, or an excuse. James and Laurel held a whispered negotiation. Finally, her hand went up. His was next, a bit wobbly, followed by Tanya’s, which wasn’t much firmer.

Bobbie’s was the last to go up, waving energetically. Tanya half-lowered hers. “I’ll for sure be back,” Bobbie said. She thanked Sheldon for not evicting her or calling her a kook, and for giving her a new coping skill. “Here I am, here I am,” she recited. Suddenly, Bobbie’s voice faltered and her hand went down. Her shad-

owed eyes closed; her black-clad body sagged. We averted our eyes from the pitiable sight. Constantly worrying about death had to be exhausting.

Then, of all things, Tanya put her hand on Bobbie’s shoulder.

“It’s agreed,” Sheldon announced. “Four weeks from tonight. Same time, same place.”

Everyone helped him clean up the remains of our feast. Tomorrow was a school day and sixth-toeighth graders, abuzz with the urge toward procreation and convinced of their own immortality, would again occupy the multipurpose room. Now it looked neat and tidy, as if nothing of significance had happened tonight.

But for some of us, a toe had crossed a threshold.

We’d be back, bringing more questions than we’d started with. Would James and Laurel stay together? Their conflicting positions, heavenly welcome versus peaceful oblivion, were both compelling. Would Seymour grow less mopey? What else might we learn from Jing and Benita about how their cultures viewed death? Would those of us with closed-mouthed aging parents get them to open up? Would Lewis continue to cling to cryogenics or accept death’s finality?

We’d be back because we were morbidly curious about Pastel Tanya, the timid ghost walker, and Black Bobbie, the wide-awake nightmare. Were they really the same inside? Or was Bobbie doomed to the hell of her free-floating anxiety whereas Tanya, whose fear was attached to a specific event, granted a better prognosis? Was it too late for Bobbie? Did Tanya’s youth work in her favor? Could Oliver cite the scientific research that would provide us with answers?

We’d be back for the cake. []

CultureCult CultureCult Magazine Magazine New Winter Year 2018 2019 69 31

PROSE

POETRY

L I N D A M. C R A T E

constellations you made me out to be nothing more than a burden to my own family, you painted me an outcast in what was supposed to be my sea of stars simply so you could take your place in the constellation; but i will never accept your stars—you refused to love a little girl who was starved of love, a happy-go-lucky peaceful girl dragged through the hell of you pain and rage simply because you were too weak a man to break the cycle; instead you molded your pain to your tongue in the shape of a sword to cut me when i was already vulnerable and bullied at school—you never let me have the peace i so craved, and you never listened when i spoke; father knew best even when he didn't—you went into the wood to kill things, i went into the wood for the communion with living things; maybe that's why the deer paused when they saw me because they realized there was something different in my heart than yours—you can be a destructive monster, but i promised myself not to be the monsters that broke me; you carry a gun and a sword tongue—i carry love and light and an imagination that could dim your world in comparison with all the realms i carry in my head and heart, and you said i had an attitude; but you never punished yourself for having a bad day or losing your temper—so why was i held to such a standard that not even you could achieve it? draconian and hellish, you made my life miserable, demanding respect you didn't earn—if i treated you like an authority, only then would you treat me like a person; so i spit in the face of your laws because i have my own galaxy and my stars will burn yours out of the sky so you know what it is like to be an outsider in your own family. []

32 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

LINDA M. CRATE is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks, the latest being Splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018).

a voice reclaimed healing isn't a linear progression of a constellation of forever burning stars, it's up and it's down; it may just break you from time to time—but no matter how many times i shatter, i shall always stand; i won't give you the power or satisfaction of keeping me down—endless as the sky, this is the grief you have carved into me which manifests into thumbs of anger or tears; sometimes even nightmares plague me of the past you made for me—a living hell, unforgiving and cold; distant and draconian with laws and demands which i could never fully forgive nor fathom—i will never understand why someone fashions their pain into a weapon and it uses it against others, i will never understand why you couldn't break the cycle instead of shattering me wide and deep; the plague of your locusts have never left—i just want to stop peering down at that little girl i once was and see the pain, fear, and anger she has; to know her pain and have no way of stopping it—because she wanted to die, sometimes prayed for it, simply to escape you; but i know now i never wanted death just for the agony to stop—you said being alone all the time made me depressed, but that's not true; you were the one that made me depressed and being alone healed me because i discovered that i wasn't the burden or failure you always made me out to be—i was someone beautiful and shining as the creek song of sunlight or the throng of lovely, majestic crows welcoming me into the wood; i was someone misunderstood yet with significance and with importance and you will never take my voice from me again. []

IMAGES COURTESY: WikiImages INSET PHOTOGRAPHY: Oleg Magni

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 33

ART: Pygmalion and Galatea by Anne Louis Girodet de Roussy Trioson

FICTION BEN D’ALESSIO

Pigmalion His outstretched palm glided across the unprotected asses of his assistants with the ease of an oar lapping at the lakewater. When the women refused to acknowledge his advances, looking dead-ahead as they waited for their taxi to pull up in the pounding rain and spirit them away to their studio apartments, John would tug at himself through the pants of his crisp gray suit and make deep, guttural noises only inches from their ears.

Leaned up against a marble pillar, her hat fashioned at a tilt to cover her stare, Dr. Henrietta Higgins observed the man bounce from young assistant to young assistant like a bumblebee pollinating an open field.

He almost nabbed one, rubbing his hands up and down her arms from behind, but a taxi screeched to the curb and the girl took off, yelling over her shoulder "I'll have that report for you by tomorrow morning, Mr. Smith!"

Dr. Higgins approached the man and without introducing herself stated "Advertising Executive," as cold and piercing as the arriving evening.

"What?" He spun around, annoyed that his concentration had been severed.

"Advertising Executive. Smith and Moore? Or Weinstein, Lauer, and Smith? Twenty-eighth and thirtyfourth floors, respectively."

"The first one. So what?" He wind-mill smacked the ass of a passing intern who jogged down the street.

"Mr. Smith, John Smith, if I'm not mistaken?

Mr. Smith my name is Dr. Henrietta Higgins and I'm a psychiatrist with the Reform Man Project or RMP. Are you familiar with the group?"

John didn't even dignify the question with a response.

"Well Mr. Smith, I have spearheaded a campaign to reform men in power, like yourself, to join the twenty-first century." She handed him her card. "I have a high success rate and have worked with Hollywood producers, politicians, fashion moguls, and even ad-men like… " "That's right, Ad-Men," he said, yanking at his crotch, his face contorting this way and that.

"Yes, precisely, Mr. Smith. If you would be willing to waive the doctor-patient privilege and permit me to disclose our procedures, I would not charge for your results. I could even accommodate you for your time."

"You have a sweet little mouth. What if I… " "How could you let him talk to you like that?" said Anna as she appeared from behind the pillar, the raindrops falling from her red trenchcoat.

"Mr. Smith, I'd like you to meet my dear friend, Anna Peckering. Anna, this is Mr. John Smith. An adman who is strongly considering taking part in the RMP." "A pleasure.” She offered her hand for a shake, but John gripped it by the fingers and licked across the knuckles. "Oh Jesus!" she said, flicking her wrist and pulling out a tissue to remove the saliva. "You've got your hands full with this one," she said under her breath, A black car pulled up to the curb and the driver popped out and guided Mr. Smith to the backseat. Dr. Higgins rushed her card into his hand—and pulled it away before he could lick her knuckles—before the driver shut the door. "Please Mr. Smith, feel free to call me at any time." John rolled down the window and made puckering kiss noises as the car pulled away down

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 35

the main thoroughfare. "Night or day, Mr. Smith!" She called into the rush-hour fray. "Night or day!" ___________________________________________ Dr. Higgins and Anna Peckering split a bottle of luscious, deep-garnet Barolo in the fire-lit study of the Higgins Estate. When their glasses got low, Franklin, a stoic butler Dr. Higgins plucked off the streets of London years ago when she had given a speech concerning the infant stages of RMP at Imperial College, was prompt to fill them.

"Thank you, Franklin," said Dr. Higgins, her eyes unmoving from the flames that lapped at the wood as Franklin let the wine drop into the glass. "Anna, how was your trial, dear?"

"Oh we got 'em," she said, scrolling through her phone. "Real piece of shit… " "Anna, please do find a better word."

"Sorry, Henrietta, you know how they get to

der. Franklin grabbed the bottle of wine from the tray by the door and hustled to Dr. Higgins’ side. "Oh, I'm fine with the wine, thank you, dear. Franklin, what was it you said to me? When I passed you on Queen's Gate road all those years ago?"

"Madame Higgins, I am embarrassed of the person I was back then. To repeat myself, especially in front of Ms. Peckering, would keep me up tonight."

"Oh Franklin, please. You’re a new man! Your prior conduct only demonstrates the progress you have made. Please, please, don't be shy. Ms. Peckering is a Pornographic Revenge… am I saying that right?"

"Revenge Porn," Anna corrected.

"Ahh, 'Revenge Porn' attorney. She has heard the worst of it. Please, go ahead."

The butler cleared his throat and couldn't look either of the women in the eyes. "Well, I believe I said that… that… " Dr. Higgins nodded with approval.

"That you should spread your legs so I could… lick you

Oh please, I know you're brilliant and all but these are men we're talking about. me. Holding the girls hostage, so to speak. They ask and ask and ask for a topless photo and then the moment she loses interest or moves on, he holds it over her head and uploads it to pornacopia or something." "'Pornacopia'? Not the worst I've heard, I suppose. I am delighted to hear you have really carved out a niche area of law for yourself. This 'Revenge Porn' is just another symptom of the rapidly outdating concept of Manhood. I do hope that my experiments do not dry up your lucrative practice, my dear. You know that it is not my intent."

"Oh please, I know you're brilliant and all but these are men we're talking about. They've been pulling this crap"—Anna waited a moment to see if Henrietta would reprimand her for the language—"for thousands of years. Back then they would just bop us on the head with a club and drag us into a cave. Now they use photos and text messages. I tell my friends and clients, I don't even know how many times, I tell them 'put everything in writing, except for your sexual fantasies.' God forbid they call their boyfriend to disclose how 'wet they are.'"

"Well you remember when Franklin here started his regimen. Franklin, dear!" She called over her shoul-

36 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

into next week."

"Ha! Do you hear this? He said that to me right out in the open." Franklin, rouged with embarrassment, topped off each of the women's glasses and returned to the foyer. "You are a modern man, my dear Franklin!"

Dr. Higgins called after him. "Never be ashamed of progress!"

Dr. Higgins swirled the wine in the glass and took a long, eyes-closed sip.

"I know that your process has been effective for many clients,” Anna started. “Heck, I've even heard that groups of women have met in solidarity to implement your methodology themselves, but men like the one this morning… they are just… they seem beyond repair."

"Oh, we mustn't give up on them, Anna. Far from a justification, however, their conduct is merely natural reactions to a changing world. Are you familiar with the social workings of the Tuareg culture?"

"I can't say that I am."

"Well, as you may recall, I spent some time in the Sahara and was welcomed to travel with a Tuareg tribe as they trekked across northern Mali. While their gender progressivism has been internationally revered, critics claim it is often an effect of Westerners romanticizing the ideals of a foreign culture. I'll spare you the

details, as it is getting late and I am meeting with a colleague tomorrow morning for brunch, but I will share my most fascinating discovery."

"And what's that?"

"Men are delicate creatures, Anna."

"Mhmm, right."

"I have never been so certain of anything in my life. I shared a tent with the tribe's matriarch and was stunned with her grace and the respect with which she governed. It completely changed my approach to the RMP. Once their slate is completely wiped clean, then you… " Before Dr. Higgins could finish, Franklin came into the study resting a rotary phone on a cordovan red pillow. "Pardon me, Madame, but a man has called who asserts you two are to meet for a drink? He is a complete brute, and I would have hung up on him, but he claims to have received your card this afternoon?"

"Mr. Smith?! Excellent. I was afraid he wouldn't call."

"Madame, if I may, he has the foulest mouth… honestly, it turns my stomach to repeat some of the things he… " "Oh Franklin, don't be hyperbolic. I did not subject you to some sort of regimen straight out of A Clockwork Orange. I'm sure anything he is saying I have also heard from you."

"Of course, Madame. What should I tell him?"

"Tell him to come as early as he can tomorrow morning. I am sure he will think the invite a way of cutting out the middle-man." Dr. Higgins turned toward Anna. "Anna, dear, will you stay and help me carve this man from ivory?"

"Yeah, I'll stay."

"Wonderful!"

"But I really think he's a lost cause."

"Nonsense! When we're finished with him he'll be the paragon of the Reform Man Project. Franklin, dear, make-up the guest suite for Anna, call Priscilla and tell her I must cancel our brunch appointment as a work emergency has arisen, and brew two cups of that Sumatran black, we have a long night ahead of us." ___________________________________________ Anna and Dr. Higgins worked on John Smith's RMP plan deep into the night, refining each and every detail until it was completely personalized to his exact specifications.Crumpled-up pieces of paper containing jettisoned plans surrounded the trashcan like a minefield. The twenty-four-hour news cycle that covered world events became nothing but a perpetual stream of sexual allegations, accusations, apologies, and denials.

Anna, who was falling asleep in her chair despite the third cup of coffee, popped out of a dream: "I sincerely deny this baseless apology!"

"I think you have it mixed up, dear. Why don't you get some rest," said Dr. Higgins, crossing out a sentence from one edge of the paper to the other. "Franklin has made-up the guest suite for you."

"Will we be ready for tomorrow?"

A headline zoomed across the bottom of the screen­­­­­, so quickly it was barely legible, to make room for the next incoming lot: Producer Larry Johnson Vehemently Denies Sexual Advances Allegations Despite String of Unsolicited Dick-Pics to Secretaries Dating Back to 2013.

"We'll be ready. I have completely deconstructed this John Smith and have put together the most comprehensive RMP plan to date."

"If anyone can mold him into a respectable member of society, it's you," and Dr. Higgins nodded to her friend, who returned the gesture. ___________________________________________ Dr. Higgins was already adding the finishing touches, her Implementation Day red lipstick to her outfit when Anna moseyed into the kitchen where Franklin’s breakfast was emitting an intoxicating aroma that had a magnetic pull.

“What are you making?” Anna asked, but Franklin didn’t hear the question.

"I'm always so nervous on Implementation Day," he said, lowering a burner flame as the sunnysided eggs' translucence turned milky white. "She won't tell you… " he peaked out into the hall, "But the last one didn't go so well."

Anna put down her coffee mug. "What? I didn't hear anything about that? Who was it? What happened?"

"Oh yes, it was a disaster. A terrible, terrible relapse." Again, he checked the hallway, this time stepping out of the kitchen and lowering his voice. "She had been so certain it would stick, too."

"Franklin, who was it?"

"Oh, you know, some executive or producer or politician, they all start to look the same after a while."

"What happened?"

"Well, I remember the man leaving and appearing completely reformed, another job well-done by Dr. Higgins, until the very next day… I opened the door to the study and found him standing atop the Doctor's desk, pants around his ankles, pulling at himself most vigorously… " "Where was Henrietta?"

"She was out for lunch. I had to escort the man

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 37

and deliver to her the bad news to her."

The clanking of the iron knocker rapped at the front door.

"My goodness! He's early! I told the bloody… " Franklin trailed off as he went to the door.

Anna slurped down the last of her coffee and rushed to the stairs, but Dr. Higgins was already sauntering down the curling staircase that lined the wall, tight black dress, cigarette in hand, lips electric red.

"You look like a movie star," Anna said, becoming awfully aware of herself in the bathrobe and slippers.

"I want him at his worst," she said, and continued on to the study.

Anna washed up and dressed in her clothes from the day before, and could hear thunderous demands coming from the study as she reached the bottom of the staircase.

John Smith was in a white robe that barely covered his knees. Anna was relieved that the implementation process had not yet started, as she wanted to view her friend's work from start to finish, and the subject was still pestering Dr. Higgins about a massage.

But Henrietta didn't move. She sat in her chair in front of the fireplace and smoked a cigarette, and didn't appear to take notice when John Smith dropped the robe, exposing a collage of ill-maintained hair and white blotchy nakedness.

Franklin was about to step forward from the doorway threshold when Dr. Higgins stopped him by merely putting up a hand. She didn’t say a word.

"Come on, come on, you've got a hot little mouth," John said, tugging at himself in an attempt to

BEN D’ALESSIO is an attorney in New Jersey. He is a graduate of Ursinus College and Loyola University New Orleans College of Law. He's traveled across Europe and lived in London and southern Spain and is the author of the novels Binge Until Tragedy and Lunchmeat.

38 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

get erect. When he saw Anna enter the room, he rushed over to Dr. Higgins' desk and ran his hand underneath the top, searching for a button that would lock the door.

"You don't know what this will do for your career," he repeated as he frantically searched for the button, taking breaks to tug at himself and bite his lower lip. "That hot little… help your career if you give me a… I deny all accusations! She was asking for it with that little… fuck that little… " Mid-sentence, as if catching a whiff of wounded prey, he locked eyes with Anna, hopped up on the desk, and lunged across the study.

Franklin stepped up to parry his attempt, but like a blur of black mass, Dr. Higgins struck John across the chin. The man tumbled to the ground unable to break his fall. She pulled him to his feet and smacked him across the face, which erupted with a pop!

"What the hell is the matter with you?! You pig!" Her backhand knuckles connected beautifully with the cheek. "What makes you think you can treat women this way?! Don't you have a mother?!" Her knee crunched into his groin. "A sister? A daughter?!" His naked body went tumbling around the room, knocking into bookshelves and end tables and stumbling over an ottoman. "No one asked to see your penis or offered you a massage!" She kicked him in the rear, then again in the groin when it was uncovered. "You don't act this way! Why can't you behave better?!"

Anna watched as her friend implemented the RMP plan perfectly, and she could only imagine it was like watching Picasso add the finishing stroke to Guernica, like Michelangelo making the final tap of his hammer on David's chiseled hand, and a tear came to her eye. []

POETRY ARATHY

ASOK

ART & DESIGN SABARI CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 39

ARATHY ASOK currently teaches at Government Victoria College, Palakkad, Kerala, India. She has published poems in national and international journals and is currently working on a book of poems and short stories.

40 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

SABARI is a native of Palakkad, Kerala. He has completed his post graduation in English Literature and is a Freelance artist and designer.

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 41

SHORT FICTION KENT DE LIMA

The Sweater I turned, eyed myself in the mirror whether the sweater hid the dark spots all over my body. I wish they were an aftermath of a really bad chickenpox just as how the fish vendor in the market assumed when the shawl slid off my shoulder. I tried putting on some toothpaste to it but they kept on multiplying. Last night, three bore its way into my collar, my left elbow, and my throat. Thank God the sweater’s cut was turtleneck and the air-conditioning in the classroom for my Thursday class was always set at the lowest possible temperature.

I cringed at the mark on my left cheek, just below my darkening eyes. It was healed but it

42 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

still was painful. The one on my thigh, a rather huge one, looked nasty, chromes of red played in the area. I felt nauseated at my own body.

I kept my hair long to at least hide the ones at my nape. The only jeans I have hid the ones on my legs, hugging it painfully at the same time. I wore a sweater for the first time today after I bought one in a surplus store down town. It had a picture of what looked like a mouse with a big pink bow on her head, which looked no anywhere near Minnie Mouse. From the window, I could see the backyard, chickens pecking on the kernels I threw, pigs feasting on their formula, bamboo trees waving with the wind, and the little shack I built myself, all stood there oblivious of my predicament.

The wounds vary in sizes. Usually they were

PHOTOGRAPHY Markus Spiske

as big as the hole on a five-centavo coin, sometimes larger, rarely and with the greatest of misfortune, the size of a tanzan. Some of them were healing, some were fresh, some were a month old, some I forgot were even there. I tried to make fun of it as much as I could, telling myself that this wound looked like a pond of blood with little blue men swimming in it, or just plainly pointing out how the scars seemed to resemble a disfigured ballet dancer.

Mama left my allowance on the dining table. I counted some coins, and a hundred-peso bill, enough for three days. My mother accepted laundry every weekend which I tried to help out as much as I could. My father left early, as he always does, to go either to work or sit with a bottle of beer in his hand. For twenty years of existence, I’ve heard him say ‘I’ll stop’ countless of times but then found him laughing at a friend’s joke outside a convenience store, a shot glass in his left hand, a cigarette on the other.

the favor to her pimply face but I figured that would make us no different from each other.

Our teacher was a middle-aged widow who we learned was recently involved in a drug-dealing case. The school eventually found out that fraternity neophytes, as part of their hazing process, fabricated the information.

To be perfectly frank, our teacher could very well pass as a drug-using addict with her sagged cheeks, bulging eyes, body that was more of a cadaver than a breathing one, and lanky posture. When she started talking about the scientific names of plants I was not even familiar with, my head and the fresh wounds began to throb.

The sweater’s fabric was scraping the wound on my collar and my neck that before the period ended, my head was rigid as someone’s stiffed neck.

I walked home since I was saving money to buy a decent ointment. Our house was a good five to ten minute walk from our school. I always convince myself that I needed the exercise so I could put something into

Mama usually went home late, but whenever she was home early, it was probably because she lost a job or papa was drunk again.

I was in my third year of college but it felt like eternity. Even if mama once said I could carry a good conversation, I felt that keeping myself away from others would be better. Plus, the scars on my face scared them away. The school I went to is understaffed and underequipped, an observation evident from the rusting chairs and 1997 models of computers lined up atop termite-infested mahoganies.

I always sat beside Carmen because she was as quiet as inanimate objects. She wore spectacles with lenses as thick as the glass boards on a basketball ring. If my whole body wasn’t plagued with wounds, I’d probably be staying away from her pimple covered face and sweltering arms. I started to scan my notebook to keep myself busy and to let others know that I did not care.

The look on Carmen’s eyes today was different as if she’s examining the threadwork of my sweater. I surveyed the room; it was how it always was except for the new marks on my eyebrow which Carmen gazed on apprehensively. I bowed my nose down to my notebook and let my hair cascade down to cover Carmen’s view of my face. I always hated it when Carmen looks at me. I couldn’t quite figure out what her scrutiny mean, but oftentimes, I got pity or disgust. I could have returned

my coin bank, which I recently discovered, would never get filled since someone in the house discovered the lock’s combination. At five in the afternoon, I was home and had a change of clothes, a graying sleeveless shirt and shorts. There, I saw mama fanning the firewood profusely as beads of sweat raced down her face. Atop the fireplace rested an old kettle.

Mama usually went home late, but whenever she was home early, it was probably because she lost a job or papa was drunk again and had to be dragged back home. I guessed the case was the latter since mama was heating water to prepare papa a hot bath. Mama wore an oversized, tattered shirt. Underneath it hid a gangly physique. She looked way beyond her years with her sunken cheeks, drooping lips, and gaunt expression.

She could definitely pass as my grandmother.

She had a ghoulish face both from the wrinkles and the bruises that papa’s backhands left. She seemed weak, both physically and emotionally, but she still managed to handwash bucketloads of dirty laundry from Godknows-whom. Everytime she bends down to blow air to the firewood, her face twisted with pain as she cupped the back of her hips.

“Why are you heating water?” Papa’s voice thundered from the backyard. His one hand held the

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 43

chicken’s feeds, the other a pack of cigarettes.

“You’re drunk.” Mama said, a quiver in her tone. “It’s almost boiling. A hot bath will do you good.”

“I’m not drunk.” He replied. He walked surprisingly straight, a talent he apparently practiced, but his face was red of either the alcohol or the blistering heat. He pranced down the kitchen floor, asphalt without finishing overlay, placed the chicken feed where it usually is, then struck a match to light a cigarette stuck on his left ear. “I’m not drunk.” He repeated, a murky slur. “I’m not drunk.”

Mama searched for the potholder, a square piece of cloth from my brother’s old physical education shirt, found it on the rattling bamboo table, and then removed the boiling pot from its fiery pedestal. “I’ll prepare you a hot bath.”

The rattan chair where papa sat on toppled when he abruptly stood up. “Dammit, I’m not drunk!” His left hand jolted and the kettle flew from mama’s fingers. Mama clutched her breasts beneath her already damp clothes. Her hands were like old radiator machines that shivered uncontrollably. The pot sailed all the way to the kitchen door and from where I stood, I could see droplets of water singe the cracks on the floor. Papa was clasping his hand, it was blushing but not as swollen as mama’s neck. The cigarette popped between his lips blew smoke that lingered with the steam of the water, now a puddle for where mama swam.

He cursed, took his packet of cigarette, then cursed some more, unable to make out anything whilst he frantically searched for a rag to cover his scalded palms. Mama gathered what she could salvage from her dignity, stood up, neck as red as beetroot stain, then marched straight towards the kettle.

Papa’s curses were richer than ever. The look he gave mama was exactly the ones he gave to our neighbor who he caught stealing papa’s chicken coops. After one final cuss, he marched off to where I stand. “Tell your mother buy some ointment.”

He fished a bill from his pocket, barely enough to buy the smallest jar in the local pharmacy. His hands lifted to his lips to tuck the fading cigarette between his fingers. “Next time…” I felt the sear on my left shoulder, “tell your mother to shut the hell up.” He stormed off, a fresh stick on his mouth, the old cigarette butt he smeared on my shoulder laid smoking by my feet.

The door banged, signaled he was gone. From what I could see, a twenty-bill in my hand, mama sitting on the chair numbed with heat, I could only thank God that the sweater could hide my new wound. []

KENT DE LIMA is from the Philippines and is a Creative Writing Student, hoping to learn more of what literature has in store for him. He supports the women's plight for protection against domestic violence, and LGBTQ+ rights.

44 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

GRAPHICS Comfreak

POETRY JARED

MORNINGST AR

He held them in the palm of his hand.

Confessions of an Aging Teacher

Lifting them higher above his head like Atlas, his knees buckled: knees that were older now, knees that were forced to support more weight now, all on what would have been enough sleep at 25 and single, but not at pushing 40 who loses sleep every night because he has a seven-year-old who thinks she rules the world, and a seven-month-old who just figured out how to open kitchen cabinets and is addicted to electrical cords, and has to find money to feed them after bills are paid.

Wait, how many lives am I holding?

Looking upward, he saw dreams in vulnerable eyes.

They couldn’t tell he needed coffee, that his heart was pounding off beat, that his arms were shaking, that his knees were cracking.

But he closed his eyes and kept his failing frame steady.

I can’t let them fall; I can’t let them down.

He knew their lives depended on him, just as his children’s would, one day, upon them. []

JARED MORNINGSTAR is a high school English teacher, an adjunct English professor, and a citizen of the world who is concerned about America's current moral and political direction. He loves reading, writing, Route 66, and his wife and children.

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 45

ARTICLE PAM

MUNTER

Channeling

DORIS

DAY

Someone arriving on earth the first weekend in April would surely believe she had found a small, anachronistic, countercultural colony here at the Cypress Inn in Carmel, California. There are people present from the far reaches of the planet, having migrated here for an annual weekend replenishment of spirit and nostalgia. It’s all second-hand, though. The worshipped idol won’t be making an appearance but it almost doesn’t matter. We can so easily resurrect images from a favorite film, her long-running TV sitcom or from the more than 500 recordings she made.

Doris Day’s career is a cornerstone of motion picture history. She holds the record as the only person on the list of the top ten box office stars for ten years in 46 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

a row. Only Streisand and Sinatra would subsequently achieve such conspicuous success in both films and records simultaneously. She is an icon of the 1950s, representing the innocence of a bygone era where even the social and political culture seemed to be in black and white. Shades of gray were viewed with suspicion. Doris Day and especially her films were viewed as comforting, reassuring family fare., many featuring her warm, inviting vocals.

And now, many decades after her career has ended, her fans have come to worship at the shrine of imprinted memories, unconditional approbation of the body of work of a beloved legend and to celebrate her birthday on April 3. Most of us stay at the Cypress Inn, which the icon co-owns. It’s not only petfriendly like the luminary but its walls are covered with fading film posters and stills from her 39 films, the last released in the mid-1960s, a half -century ago. A flat-screen TV in the bar continuously plays her movies and episodes of her TV show. This weekend, time will stand still.

Overheard conversations are dominated by talk of her career, each contributing bits of information often gleaned from media coverage.

Some eagerly and competitively proclaim their superior status. One man proudly told me, “I’m a Doris Day savant.”

Even her birthday is fictitious. Doris MaryAnn Kappelhoff, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, was born in 1922 but she continues to maintain it was two years later. And so we

have come to honor her on her 92nd birthday, not the real one. It seems oddly appropriate.

There are nearly 150 people here, some from as far away as the U.K. and Germany. Most are 50something women or gay men, few people of color. The isolated younger attendees belong to the older ones, not here on their own. And yet, they are all alike in many ways. There is a Stepford Wife quality to the perpetual and relentless cheerfulness and beaming faces. It resembles a provincial church social where everyone makes quick friends. There is no sadness or dismay here, no snark and no complaints. They introduce themselves, want to know where I’m from, what my connection is to

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 47

Doris. More to the point, they want to tell me their own treasured Doris stories, how she has impacted their lives – how she made them happy or nourished them when they needed it most. Some are so fervent, I fight the urge to say, “Amen.”

Most of them are latter-Day fans, from her last half dozen films in the 1960s after the game-changing sexy “Pillow Talk.” They speak lovingly of her as if they were intimate friends, frequent adjectives being “warm,” “lovely,” and “sweet.” Any critical analysis of her work is in short supply here. I spoke with a couple who effervescently spoke of her “purity” and “wholesomeness,” qualities in equally short supply in today’s coarsening culture. She’s emblematic of a simpler time, the one with inevitably happy endings.

Doris, herself, won’t be here, though she did make a surprise appearance two years ago. Those who were there still speak in reverential tones about what it meant to them to meet her. This time, she sent a recorded message to all of us, played back over a speaker phone during the first gathering appropriately held in a church. She thanked us all for being here and for being there for her, too. “It’s all about the doggies,” she reminded us, asking for financial support for her Doris Day Animal Foundation. Her love for animals is a passion that has consumed her life these past five decades.

Few celebrities have enjoyed her longevity and range of marketable talent. It seemed there was little she couldn’t do. Her public personage was meticulously groomed first by Warner Bros. then by her controlling and avaricious third husband and manager,

48 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

Marty Melcher. The inconvenient conclusion is that much of what we admire and love about Doris is a wellcrafted image, a manufactured persona. We don’t want to hear about the rough early life of easy sex on the band bus, the four dysfunctional marriages, her sometimes turbulent relationships with her son and grandson.

We cling to the crystalline voice, relishing that little squeak when she got excited, the boyish-yet-seductive figure, her compelling on-screen honesty and her incredible capacity to exude an evocative warmth even on a recording. It’s like pouring warm honey over the soul.

For us, it’s personal.

For me, the weekend celebration is a poignant reminder of who I once was. I was weaned on Doris Day movies. My first film was hers, too, “Romance on the High Seas” in 1948. I fell in love with the voice, the personality and the movie magazine hype. I sat transfixed through her films countless times, bought all her records, fell completely under her spell. In fact, by the time I was 15 I had joined her church and subsequently studied the profession she portrayed in “Teacher’s Pet” – a journalist. And, yes, I became a performer, like Doris

a singer and actor. As the decades wore on and life’s realities cascaded over me, I left my adulation behind – mostly. My last gasp came in a couple of tribute shows to her performed across the country and a CD done at Capitol Records. I sent one to her and received a flattering, almost gushing fan letter in return. After all those years of listening to Doris in my bedroom, now she was in her house in Carmel, listening to me.

And so my being here in the Land of Doris is an oddly existential experience. I’ve had countless connections to her on many levels over my lifetime.

As a young admirer, I considered her mine alone, an integral component of my identity. But here in the middle of all these giddy fans, I am even more dazzled by the indelible illusion she created for those of us in the emotional hinterlands. She seemed to speak and sing only to each one of us, one needy person at a time.

There were two nights of performances here in Carmel, both given by 30- or 40-something singers. The largest was in a crowded high school auditorium, full of garrulous ambient noise. While waiting to get in, I looked for a place to get away from the cacophonous jabber. I found an isolated women’s restroom. As I entered the stall in the empty reverberating room, cutting through the silence was the familiar title track from Doris’ album, “What Every Girl Should Know.” I realized, though I hadn’t heard it in 50 years, I still knew all the words. I remained for a few more minutes, listening.

Once again, we were alone. []

PAM MUNTER is a Pushcart nominee and has an MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts. She has authored several books including When Teens

Were Keen: Freddie Stewart and The Teen Agers of Monogram (2005) and Almost Famous: In and Out of Show Biz (1986).

She’s a retired clinical psychologist, former performer and film historian.

Her play Life Without was produced by S2S2S, and nominated four times by the Desert Theatre League, including the Bill Groves Award for Outstanding Original Writing and Outstanding Play (staged reading).

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 49

POETRY COLE BAUER

Soul Purpose Lower beings Sit on dead weight Below the average That are the ground For the elite It is the food chain Of the living Of all kinds On this sphere All the while Never making sense As we all try To do the same thing Survive Exist Be okay The humans Destroy themselves Because ignoring The message and answer For meaningless nothingness Bullshit fake conflicts Are their Soul purpose For Being Easily distracted Influenced And entertained You poor Souls []

50 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

Calling in Sick on my Day off Agreed to work A day off To catch up Ease the work week I called in Or out Sick I do feel Like pure garbage But Not with the illness I told the boss I am burned out Over existence We have all been There It is okay Stay home Regret later []

Step over the Anthill An ant In the anthill Working and mating Peace and simplicity Until humans get involved Isn’t that how it Always is? []

ART Jay Chakravarti

Tits Up Life is good The pelicans are witnesses I have made it again Until I haven’t Until I mess it up The pelicans are witnesses Of that as well

My stomach It hurts My eyes They ache My body and mind Fully awake Words won’t end But What are they saying?

I get bored and tired Minnesota, California, Texas I stress and reject interest Everywhere and anywhere eventually No passion, besides the word The pelicans are witnesses

Do the Wrong Thing

My dog and I Went for a walk While my wife slept And she still does And the furry one Joined her

For now Life is good The pelicans In all their various themes Watch as I experience life When I pass them In this no horse Bullshit town []

Here I am awake On a day off Smoking Blabbering on screen In the kitchen Solo I am murdering relaxation With these actions And the writing With digitally typing No typer Or pen and paper How will I Survive?

Just fine Life isn’t over Either are you Me, us, them []

ART Jay Chakravarti

COLE BAUER is an American poet and screenwriter living in Houston, Texas

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 51

POETRY K. W. P E E R Y

Moody Blue Her moody blue eyes... hypnotized in a hallway mirror...

The smell of September rain and somethin' sweet on the stove...

It's Sam Cooke singin' “Somebody have mercy”...

While she studies her naked body... still chasin' dreams of yesterday []

Daniel I was holdin' the dead man's hand at Sam's Town in Tunica... when Daniel Negreanu walked in with a shit-eatin' grin...

IMAGE Barbara A Lane

52 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

He had Hickok eyes...

Hoyle hands and took me for twenty seven grand... before I figured out he was bluffin' []

Frank Frank robbed the First Savings Bank in Beresford South Dakota... with a sawed off single shot and a note that read “Give me money...

No dye packs”...

When they finally tracked him down three weeks later... ole Frank was holed up at the Magnolia Hotel in Omaha... with fifty seven large and an escort named Charity []

IMAGE Michal Jarmoluk

Helen Helen always said "Fist City" was her favorite honky tonk song...

And after her husband had passed away... she was a daytime regular down at Pop's Place...

Ole Helen would slow sip a 7 and 7 while playin' the same twenty Club Keno numbers no matter what...

She smelled like Shalimar... with hints of clove cigarettes... and her hair and nails were always perfect...

I wasn't there the afternoon she passed away... but all the regulars still say...

Helen was the classiest old broad to ever hold her own down at Pop's []

ART Jay Chakravarti

Black’s Beach I buried some ancient treasure in a Nestle's Quik can along Black's Beach in the Spring of 92...

It was the same afternoon a young pilot crashed his hang glider into the wicked cliff at Torrey Pines...

Someday I'll make my way back to La Jolla... just to see if anyone found it... and if his spirit is still floatin' around []

K.W. PEERY is an Americana songwriter and Kansas City based poet/storyteller, . His collection 'Tales of a Receding Hairline' was a semifinalist in the Goodreads Choice Awards - Best in Poetry 2016. Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than a dozen studio albums over the past decade. He is most well known as a founding member of the Marshall/ Peery Project.

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 53

DRAMA MICHAEL VERDERBER

DOGLEG A Golf Comedy

CAST OF CHARACTERS AUSTIN – Male golfer, 25-40 BULLARD – Male, 20s, buffoon SANDIE – female, any age, golf worker MR. CLEVELAND– 50s, business man EXTRAS (optional)

(Lights up on a golf clubhouse. AUSTIN is flipping through a golf magazine; he is dressed appropriately in golf attire, sporting non-comic fashions, wearing brands like Calloway, Cobra, TaylorMade, etc. Throughout the play, extras can walk across the stage from SL to SR and vice versa to help make the clubhouse look busy.)

AUSTIN: (To himself, looking impatient) Awww, where the hell is he?

(A loud crash is heard offstage.)

BULLARD: (offstage) I’m sorry, ma’am, I had no idea that was your baby!

AUSTIN: (without looking up) And there he is…

MICHAEL VERDERBER is a south Texas playwright whose work focuses heavily on nontraditional stagings, unconventionality, and a heavy emphasis on culture. He is a lecturer in Rhetoric & Composition, Short & Drama, and Playwriting courses at Texas A&M University - Kingsville.

Visit www.zerountitled.com

54 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

(BULLARD comes crashing in SL, with an old beat up golf bag, with three clubs sticking out of it. He has a duct-taped driver, one iron, and a terribly old putter. His equipment predates the 1960s. He is dressed stereotypically comic golfer.)

BULLARD: There’s the man of the hour now! Austin! Hey!

(Crosses to AUSTIN. BULLARD looks out of breath.)

BULLARD: Whoo. That’s…that’s a lot of steps.

AUSTIN: It’s about 4 steps.

BULLARD: Well….yeah… but with the bag an all.

(AUSTIN points to his bag, which is ripe with clubs, towels, umbrellas and any other type of gadgetry a golf enthusiast would need.)

BULLARD: …Well, yeah…but you’re not taking into account the…the…

AUSTIN: Why are you dressed like that? This is a golf course not a Scottish parade!

(Golfers cross the stage) BULLARD: (dumbfounded and apprehensive. He watches the other golfers) You guys don’t dress like this?

AUSTIN: Maybe in Scotland…in the 1900s!

BULLARD: Oh. AUSTIN: At least lose the idiotic hat. You look like a jester.

BULLARD: Well, it’s funny! Maybe we can win if— AUSTIN: Are you finished?

BULLARD: Yes. AUSTIN: Good. Well, you were supposed to be here about 45 minutes ago.

BULLARD: I was here 35 minutes ago, but I ran into a little problem with the girl at the front desk.

AUSTIN: Sandie?

BULLARD: Yes! Sandie! That girl was giving me so much hell about getting in here! I was like “This is America, lady! I can go where I please!”

AUSTIN: Not in a country club.

BULLARD: That’s what she said! And what is up with that? I felt so stupid arguing with her! All these old dudes were like gawking at me saying stuff like “Is he giving you problems, Sandie?”

AUSTIN: Did you mention that you were here golfing with me?

BULLARD: (pause) I guess not.

AUSTIN: Yeah, I probably should have warned you.

Some of the guys here can be a little stuffy.

BULLARD: Man, who gives them that bullcrap entitlement anyway?

AUSTIN: The $40,000 a year membership fee.

BULLARD: Oh…ohhhhh.

AUSTIN: Yeah, so are we going to play today or gather moss?

BULLARD: Let’s go. (beat) How long is the game any-

way?

AUSTIN: What? (Pause) Have you even golfed before?

BULLARD: Yeahhhh. I took a golf class in college.

And, you know, we hit the ball around…when we weren’t in the classroom.

AUSTIN: What?! Wait, how often did you guys actually play?

BULLARD: Well, you know, how the rain is…in Washington state…

AUSTIN: Damn, you played, what, one game?

BULLARD: Yeah. You know, at the driving range.

AUSTIN: Are you telling me that all you did in that golf class was drive?

BULLARD: Why would you put a class in a car?

AUSTIN: Drive! As in driving range! God, you haven’t played before, have you?

BULLARD:….ok, not exactly. (beat) Can you teach me?

AUSTIN: WHAT?! This is a tourney!

BULLARD: Yes, I know, but it’s only a fundraiser. No one cares about how good you are in a fundraiser. It’s for the kids.

AUSTIN: This fundraiser is for the animal shelter.

BULLARD: It’s for the kittens.

AUSTIN: But I figured you had some experience! On the email I sent out to all employees, it said on the bottom, that experienced players were preferred.

BULLARD: (defensively) I didn’t…read…that…Well, as stated, it’s only for fun, right. Because you can’t spell “fundraiser” without “fun”!

AUSTIN:(To sky) Maybe an electrical storm can strike me dead.

BULLARD: Nah, no luck there. Clear skies until Tuesday. Then there’s a 40% chance of rain. You don’t think we’ll still be playing on Tuesday, do you? I wouldn’t want to get rained out.

AUSTIN: (ignores the statement) Alright, well while you make a mockery of the game, I’m going to check our tee off time.

BULLARD: Righto! I’ll be here! I won’t go anywhere.

AUSTIN: Oh, I know. (exits) (BULLARD looks around impatiently. He looks at a magazine for a few seconds. Puts it down. Some female golfers cross the stage, he sucks his gut in and tries to look cool. They are oblivious. He begins to pick through AUSTIN’s clubs, going so far as to even sniffing one of the clubs. AUSTIN enters right at that moment.)

AUSTIN: What are you doing?

BULLARD: Nothing! Just checking out your wood… iron clubs.

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 55

AUSTIN: My “wood iron clubs”? (To himself) This is going to be a long tourney.

BULLARD: Great! The longer, the better! So what time is our tee time?

AUSTIN: 9:25.

BULLARD: That’s a little under an hour.

AUSTIN: Yes, I know. We were last to confirm our slot.

BULLARD: Oh, sorry.

AUSTIN: Now we wait.

(Long pause. AUSTIN looks at a scorecard. He is studying his game-plan for the tournament. He is deep in concentration.)

BULLARD: Do you wanna play cards?

(AUSTIN says nothing. Long pause.)

BULLARD: How about tic tac toe?

(AUSTIN says nothing. Long pause.)

BULLARD: Do you wanna watch the golf channel?

Maybe we’ll get some tips on— AUSTIN: (Coughs loudly, tacitly telling BULLARD to be quiet) BULLARD: You know, we don’t have to go through with this.

AUSTIN: Bullard, I’m trying to prep for the holes.

BULLARD: Well, we don’t! We can just leave and go watch the Playboy Channel at my house.

AUSTIN: You want to watch Playboy with me?

BULLARD: Well, no I guess not. Just a suggestion.

(Pause) Do you wanna leave?

AUSTIN: Can’t.

BULLARD: Sure we can. We walk past that crazy chick, Sandie, then down the, ahem, four steps and to the parking lot. Simple.

AUSTIN: No, it’s not.

BULLARD: Yes, it is!

AUSTIN: Bullard! I already paid the $400 entrance fee.

BULLARD: Four hundred dollars!?

56 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

AUSTIN: Yes. But it includes a dinner, for two. It’s not a date, so don’t get excited.

BULLARD: Four hundred dollars!?

AUSTIN: That covers both of us as a team, free drinks from the cash-bar cart.

BULLARD: Four hundred— AUSTIN: Would you shut up?

BULLARD: (Snaps out of it) Sorry. That’s a lot of money, Austin.

AUSTIN: I’m aware…which is why we are going to play this tourney. (Brightens) But we shall eat like kings later!

BULLARD: And drink, right? You said they’d be free drinks?

AUSTIN: Yes. (Looks at his watch.) Alright we got 45 minutes still.

(Lights fade for a second and return. AUSTIN is still concentrating on his scorecard. BULLARD is sitting impatiently.)

BULLARD: Did you really pay $400 to— AUSTIN: Yes. BULLARD: (Pause) Ok. Just checking.

(Lights fade again and return. AUSTIN is still concentrating on his scorecard. BULLARD is swinging a putter like a baseball bat. Golfers walking through are not amused.)

BULLARD: Striiiiiiike two! (Preps to swing again) Striiiiiiike three!!

AUSTIN: Bullard!

BULLARD: Yeah…?

AUSTIN: Please. (Takes club from BULLARD) Thank you.

BULLARD:(Not understanding) Did you wanna take a swing?

AUSTIN: No. Look, ol’ pal. We have twenty minutes until tee-time. Let’s just focus and concentrate. Go stretch or something.

BULLARD: Yeah, that’s a great idea. I used to run track!

(Begins to stretch his legs.)

AUSTIN: You should try stretching your arms and torso, since that’s what you’ll be using more than legs.

BULLARD:I guess that makes sense. (Begins to stretch upper body) AUSTIN: Alright, while you do that, I will start double checking our equipm— BULLARD: Oh, Austin! I forgot to tell you this great joke a friend of mine told me about golf!

AUSTIN: Alright. I love a good golf joke. Shoot.

BULLARD: Ok here goes: If the purpose of golf is… is….wait hold on. I wrote it down. (Digs through his belongings and pulls out a crumbled sheet of paper) Ok, if the purpose…oh wait, this is a receipt. (Digs around some more.

Feel free to take a long time with this. He finally finds it.) Aha! If the purpose of golf is to get the lowest possible score, what’s the point of playing?

AUSTIN: (Pause. He doesn’t find it funny and might even be slightly insulted) Let’s just check our equipment.

BULLARD: Isn’t that hilarious!? Right? “What’s the point of playing?” (Laughs) AUSTIN: (Not amused) Let’s take a look at your clubs…

BULLARD: How is that not hilarious? Golf is like the only dumb sport (Golfers walking by sneer in derision) where the lower the score, the better. Look at basketball, for instance. You can score like 115 points! How cool is that? “Oooh, I’m a golfer, I scored a -2 on that hole.”

AUSTIN: That’s not how you sco— BULLARD:I can be the best golfer by sitting on my ass at home.

AUSTIN: (Unamused) Ok. BULLARD: Do you realize that there are babies that haven’t been born yet that have a better golf score than some people?

AUSTIN: I’m sure there are dead guys with better scores than you.

BULLARD:I will assume that that was a compliment.

AUSTIN: Yeah, do that.

BULLARD:You don’t think it’s a little strange that the scoring in golf is kind of ass-backwards?

AUSTIN: No, it makes sense to me. Every hole is different. Some easy, many are difficult. You can’t score it many other ways.

BULLARD: What if it was like, the more strokes the better?

AUSTIN: That is ridiculous! People would just stand there swinging it like a bat like some other moron I know…

BULLARD: Oh yeah. You’re right. How about, the fewest strokes wins?

AUSTIN: Are you drunk? Is there a hidden camera somewhere?

BULLARD: Why? Is it that good of an idea?

AUSTIN: Yes, it’s truly genius.

BULLARD: Really?

AUSTIN: Yes, why it’s so genius that THAT’S HOW GOLF IS SCORED, YOU IDIOT! (Nearby golfers look repulsed by the yelling. SANDIE enters from SL) SANDIE: Can you please keep it down?

AUSTIN: Sorry, it won’t happen again.

SANDIE: (Sees BULLARD) Oh, it’s you. I’m not surprised. Mr. Seale, he’s with you?

AUSTIN: Unfortunately, he is.

Golf is like the only dumb sport where the lower the score, the better.

Look at basketball, for instance.

You can score like 115 points!

How cool is that? “Oooh, I’m a golfer, I scored a -2 on that hole” (SANDIE crosses to him and pulls him down) SANDIE: I didn’t know this was a fundraiser for the mentally handicapped…

AUSTIN: It’s not. It’s for the animal shelter.

SANDIE: Oh. (Pause) Then why…?

BULLARD: Hey! I’m right here!

SANDIE: I wish you weren’t. Mr. Seale, if you and your, ahem, friend would keep it down, the rest of the clubhouse would appreciate it.

AUSTIN: Sorry, won’t happen again. Will it, Bullard!?

BULLARD: Me? You were the one yelling!

AUSTIN: At your idiocy!

SANDIE: Gentlemen!

BULLARD&AUSTIN: Sorry.

SANDIE: (Under her breath.) Idiots.(SANDIE exits.)

AUSTIN: If I get fined for that, I’m going to be royally pissed.

BULLARD: Who is going to fine you? The golf police?

(Laughs. And then, to self) I should write that one down.

AUSTIN: Well, if you must know, the club can fine me.

They can fine you for wearing blue jeans!

BULLARD: Shut up, no they can’t.

AUSTIN: Club members get warned and then fined.

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 57

Non-members get asked to leave. Simple as that.

BULLARD: Ridiculous.

AUSTIN: Maybe, but those are the rules.

BULLARD: (beat) Why would you want to join such a stuffy establishment, anyway?

AUSTIN: Uh, recognition.

BULLARD: From who?

AUSTIN: “From whom.” Anyone, our boss, Mr. Cleveland.

BULLARD: Are you kidding me? Why would you need his stamp of approval?

AUSTIN: Climbing the ladder. Which department are you in?

BULLARD: Finance.

AUSTIN: You handle our numbers? Jeez. Anyway, where I’m at, it can get pretty competitive and it doesn’t hurt to kiss up a little.

BULLARD: How is this kissing up? Is Mr. Cleveland a member, too?

AUSTIN: Yes, we get to attend the same functions that the club puts on. I get to rub shoulders with the VP, too.

BULLARD: Wow, I’ve never even met the guy.

AUSTIN:I get to brown-nose a bit and even, dare I say it, feel a bit superior. Taste of the good life. Do you know I went on Mr. Cleveland’s yacht last month?

BULLARD: Wow, really?

AUSTIN: Yeah, Mr. Cleveland will be here today, too, so the two of us need to do our best!

BULLARD: Cool. Got it. Do our best. (beat) I’m not worried.

AUSTIN: Why’s that?

BULLARD: …I have a great personality….?

AUSTIN: Charming, I’m sure, but that’s not going to cut it.

(SANDIE enters with clipboard.)

SANDIE: Austin Seale and John Bullard, last up.

AUSTIN: No idiot, use the putter!

BULLARD: Which one is th—nevermind.

AUSTIN: Stop! Stop! Stop!

BULLARD: What happens when it goes into the water?

AUSTIN: Not that way, the other way!

BULLARD: That’s funny, we hit each other’s balls.

Isn’t that funny?

AUSTIN: Please take my suggestions!

BULLARD: Strike four!

AUSTIN: Just because the beer is free doesn’t mean you need to grab all of them!

BULLARD: Strike W! AUSTIN: For crying out loud, Bullard!

BULLARD: Free beer for everyone!

(Lights return as AUSTIN and BULLARD enter. BULLARD looks drunk and he has grass stains all over him.)

AUSTIN: But did you have to chase after the duck in the water?!

BULLARD: That little bastard got my ball!

AUSTIN: Bullard, you’re drunk. Ducks don’t want balls…

BULLARD: Well it was a great ballgame, wasn’t it?

AUSTIN: No one calls golf a ballgame…

BULLARD: Yeah…yeah…

AUSTIN: Well on the bright side we earned a new record…

BULLARD: We did that gooder?

AUSTIN: Highest score in club tourney history.

BULLARD: New high score! Strike five!

AUSTIN: Can you shut up? We are the laughing stock of the club.

BULLARD: What are you worried about? Uh oh, did I pee myself again?

AUSTIN: Again? You are an adult for God’s sakes, act like one!

(MR. CLEVELAND enters with SANDIE carrying his clubs.)

(She exits) AUSTIN: Alright, you ready?

BULLARD: Let’s do eeeeeeeeett! (Comically attacks AUSTIN) AUSTIN: Calm yourself. Seriously.

(As they exit, lights fade. Music plays and voices are heard in the dark.)

AUSTIN: What the hell are you doing?!

BULLARD: Strike three!

58 CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019

MR. CLEVELAND: Ah, there you are! Oscar!

AUSTIN: It’s, uh, Austin.

MR. CLEVELAND: Austin, Dallas, whatever. You put on a helluva show out there.

AUSTIN: I did?

MR. CLEVELAND: Well, you and your partner there.

BULLARD: Me? But I chased a duck…

AUSTIN: Both of us?

MR. CLEVELAND: Absolutely.

AUSTIN: I gotta be honest, Mr. Cleveland, that was probably my worst game. (Gives BULLARD an evil

glance) MR. CLEVELAND: Well, it was priceless, just priceless.

AUSTIN: Why…thank you!

MR. CLEVELAND: Have often do you guys do that?

BULLARD: My first!

AUSTIN: I try to come out whenever I can, Mr. Cleveland.

MR. CLEVELAND: Well, you guys are naturals, just naturals. It’s really what the club needs.

AUSTIN: Are you serious?

MR. CLEVELAND: Absolutely! Especially your partner there. Wasn’t he great, Sandie?

SANDIE: (Forces agreement) Yes, sir!

AUSTIN: Great, Mr. Cleveland, thanks a ton.

MR. CLEVELAND: Tell you what. I got a company dinner coming up next month, and I’d like you boys to come out.

BULLARD: For our golf skills?

MR. CLEVELAND: (Laughs) That’s a riot! You guys are just too good.

AUSTIN: Really?

MR. CLEVELAND: Absolutely. How much do you charge?

AUSTIN: For golf? Nothing!

BULLARD: We play for free!

MR. CLEVELAND: (Laughs) I bet. No really. How much do you guys charge?

AUSTIN: For what?

MR. CLEVELAND: Why, for your comedy act. It’s a riot!

AUSTIN: …our comedy act?

MR. CLEVELAND: Yes, that bad golfer routine was just priceless!

BULLARD: What?

MR. CLEVELAND: I thought it was just genius that the club would hire you guys to play buffoons out on the golf course. It really livened things up a bit out there.

AUSTIN: Uh… MR. CLEVELAND: So how much?

AUSTIN: Can I get back to you on that?

MR. CLEVELAND: Sure thing, Oscar. Take your time.

But the dinner is the 23rd, so don’t take too much time.

(To SANDIE) Come along, Sandie. Take that to my car.

It’s the Lamborghini Reventon.

SANDIE: Oh wow, Mr. Cleveland!

(MR. CLEVELAND and SANDIE exit) BULLARD: Do you think the two of them are going to have sex in the Lamborghini? (AUSTIN doesn’t respond) Well that’s what happens on the Playboy Channel.

AUSTIN: (Dumbfounded and shocked) He drives a Lamborghini and he thinks I’m in a comedy troupe….my life is over.

BULLARD: …You know, I think there is still a beer or two left on the beer carts…

AUSTIN: (Gives him an evil look that quickly melts away.) ….Ok. BULLARD: Do you think she’ll have sex with ME in the— AUSTIN: NO! []

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 59

COLUMN JAY CHAKRAVARTI

The Heart of the muse Even as one watches Darren Aronofsky's mother!, one might suspect that the apocalyptic ending will convince film readers to register this profound study of the artistic and natural processes as an extension of sorts to Roman Polanski's Rosemary's Baby. While the 1968 study in scarlet would be eponymous of the horrors and fears of the gestation period, Aronofsky's brutal piece of art is a soul searching inspection into creation itself, what inspires art, and tries to address the seemingly innocuous question as to who truly creates a work of art - the artist or the artist's inspiration, the muse her/himself.

It would be unforgivable to not begin this piece with a nod to the little artistic stroke of exclamation succeeding the first word that a child generally ends up uttering. MOTHER! is a shout, also a matriarchal whisper in a truant child's psyche that impels him to settle down, take a few deep breaths and think of things more permanent than 'transient' art.

Jennifer Lawrence, the muse is also the name-

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MOTHER! Writer/Director DARREN ARONOFSKY Country UNITED STATES Language ENGLISH Year 2017 Cinematography MATTHEW LIBATIQUE Editor ANDREW WEISBLUM Producers SCOTT FRANKLIN ARI HANDEL A couple's relationship is tested when uninvited guests arrive at their home, disrupting their tranquil existence. From filmmaker Darren Aronofsky (Black Swan, Requiem for a Dream), mother! stars Jennifer Lawrence, Javier Bardem, Ed Harris and Michelle Pfeiffer in this riveting psychological thriller about love, devotion and sacrifice.

less mother in the film, yet she is also a doe eyed lover who has to play the caring guardian to the eccentric 'Him' (essayed by Javier Bardem). His ego, denoted expressively enough by the glass crystal he managed to salvage off his burning household from a fire that took it all, is as brittle as a piece of glass and liable to break into a hundred pieces at the touch of an aged admirer's curiously careless hands.

The relentless stress of a nine month motherhood and the stoic pace of artistic progression is rendered on several layers, from mother's home restoration 'project' to His 'masterpiece-in-progress'. The creation of life, the miracle of creating something out of nothing drives both the mother and 'Him'. It is also the most common folly of the artist who has tasted a talent in himself that he dare not deem himself worthy of.

It is both the fear and realization of oneself as a God that drives Bardem's character while Lawrence's pregnancy is relegated to a sideshow as throngs of admirers come to sacrifice their souls on the altar of their living God - the artist.

The stepmotherly treatment meted out to one form of creation over the other is the essence of Aronofsky's daring foray into interpreting the biblical God, Eden and the cyclical withering and resurgence of mother nature. mother! attempts to visually convey the cornucopia that turns into the miracle of childbirth in imageries rich in blood, gore, outrageous set pieces and a hellish ending that brings to mind every theological depiction

of the netherworld. mother! is a tale of the Goddess, and of course, the divine that appears and disappears each month like clockwork in the female self. It is also the tale of a man seeped in hubris, of a faith and of a love that is as brittle as the ego of any layman blinded by institutional faith.

Bardem plays the slightly unhinged, courteous, loving, brutal, pathetic artist in shades that play a notch over Lawrence's, whom, essentially, the camera follows.

It is supposed to be her character's lovelorn perspective that blossoms Bardem's character into as many hues as it does and he pulls off the multi-faceted act with a charming perfection.

Lawrence plays the convinced lover and hidden artist with an ease and disarmed attitude that truly makes her moments of visceral unease that much more real.

The apocalypse at the fag end of the feature is a filmmaker's crowning achievement and an example of true, raw horror that is meant to be as disturbingly jarring (and eventually fulfilling) as labour pain - a mark of historical blood on the art of filmmaking that should keep popping up in memory from beneath the customary white carpet that one might hide one's deepest fears beneath.

In the film, of course, the same is done in an attempt to cover up a fratricide, not unlike the first crime scene in biblical history - the one that began to rip apart a quaint, artistic 'promised land'.

Let the artist rise the day the world ends. Or maybe, the mother! []

The new column that celebrates the nuances of Horror, ‘Cult of Fear’ invites contributions from aficionados of the weird, fantastic and the supernatural to define what truly makes horror delectable in the realm of the Arts.

Send in your contributions to CultureCultMagazine@gmail.com

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 61

POETRY SCOTT

THOMAS OUTLAR

Swimming in the Blood and Water of Mars It’s one sip of solace for the suffering gulped etcetera ad infinitum that still doesn’t soothe black coal scar tissue sewn shut and captured in exhausted lungs It’s a longing that never leaves us no matter how many little white lies get dressed up in pretty costumes to parade around town for the surprise party paradise It’s a harsh persuasion that tastes of propaganda spewed forth and spit out from vicious fangs masquerading as teeth of cotton pearl poison jeweled delight It’s a goldmine where the walls cave because tortured centers can never hold their end of the bargain when all the deals are broken before a signature hits the page It’s an ink flood that smells like stardust exploding ancient orbits when the sky swells with violent pulses that rupture all our visions of life beyond []

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Conquistadors Is it ok if a poem doesn’t suffer?

Because I felt you move through my blood like a light Do you want to know the part that hurt the worst?

Because I’d rather talk about how we conquered the world Leaves will still fall in the darkest of silence to feed of the soil where new wings are formed Spread wide your eyes and your tongue for the trial and bless all our dreams during day or the night Do stars always fade when extinguished at core?

Because I found roaring fire at the site of this crash []

SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Scott was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature.

His words have been translated into French, Italian, Dutch, Persian, Serbian, Albanian, and Afrikaans. His radio show Songs of Selah airs weekly on 17Numa Radio.

ART The Colossus by Francisco de Goya

POETRY NATE MAXSON

The Labyrinthine Epoch 1

The steam-border

Incomplete Self Portrait, For Emily I am carved out of a block of ice, a seawater sculpture And there’s a jaguar licking at the wings of my melt I’m a tree split with fire in a continent-wide forest Hoping for a second lightning strike And trying to love me is like trying to love a tornado You hold on tight and we both just hope I drop you Somewhere nice []

Between a campfire and the rain: a still life vanishing Halo/ corona/ the ghost The carboniferous era, When trees covered the globe and didn’t rot, Only burned or changed to stone 2 Here is a place where physics gives way to green The dead century I demand return/ a little twilight below the eyes Hardwired What was the name Hotwired Of the old Earth’s forest?

To my lobotomy Who named it and who walked within it?

A spiral staircase to a new labyrinth Bones taut like the wood of a Stradivarius My exile Who lit this?

It’s the pounding of the minotaur: a distant artillery Who by sky/ this modest fire Trees to bones and bones to dust and dust to walls The failure to escape My Romanian ancestors turn over And what beats its head Their grave engines Against What passes for laughter down here The walls The power goes out And we lower our voices in solidarity []

Frostlands/ Three Tones May/ the North Pole October/ the South A meridian in the dust A finch’s lyric in silver For the queen of leaves who’s crossing the glaciers, The blowing tundra where her sisters turn And I have navigated by this wind To where the plum trees twist and glimmer Everything but this mercurial island All around me Encroaches the frostland from which I’m swimming [] NATE MAXSON is a writer and performance artist living in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

ART Geordanna Cordero-Fields

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POETRY

FABRICE POUSSIN teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and others.

FABRICE POUSSIN

Peace at Noon He had one wish left on his agenda no bucket list, nor many dreams perhaps just to die with peace around.

Purity This morning, the wall again showed a pure white, satin of snow and sterility; the comforter has lost its luster; sharp tones once left scars on the eyes of her guests; now it has faded to shades of dull and gray.

Cold of icy emptiness deep as space infinite, the air has turned into a solid, massive presence; yesterday yet was warm of rainbow tones, or perhaps was it much before; the room has no substance, its life frozen.

There will be no visitor, no dialogue, no embrace; the power gone dead, phone line dissolved, windows sealed shut behind shutters of steel; screams can reach only a perimeter sublime; a heartbeat survives, dim, within its pale cage.

Words fell to the murderous ax, syllables shouted jumbled suspended in the void, when language became meaningless, bodies shriveled to vanish into oblivion, alone, they remained, prisoners of absence. []

Sitting up one last time marveling at the rain his soul slowly departed through his gaze as he looked up to the gray realm infinite.

Letting go of the pain, restful at last, well being penetrated from all facets an invisible smile showed his readiness.

Breathing shallow, just a little tired, slowly he slipped back under the covers at noon it was almost complete on the ides of July.

He had just one wish left for the moment to hear the church’s bell toll wildly as ever and the children at the school yard be still in play. []

Timeless Floating for millions of infinities, dangling in a space held with invisible string, fearing the fall, in uncontrollable vertigo: peace.

Racing to catch up with the light, chasing one’s particles through space, risking collision, annihilation, with a smile, in total bliss: joy.

Facing a possible doom, traveling to other galaxies, powerless, staring in awe at the vastness, surrounded by worlds: humility.

So feeble, so meek, little bit limited, twirling in the cauldron of destiny, trusting a fragile life to an original blast, cradled gently by a tender hand: grace. []

ART Annie Spratt

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 65

POETRY JOHN GREY

No question that between the two of them there were enough good looks for four and their future earning power suggested success and wealth even allowing for a few kids and the usual upheavals along the way.

Yes, it was a match made in dreamland.

The Perfect Couple and The Rest of Us

The rest of us could only sit back and sigh, “Damn, if only I were him” or “if only I were her.”

We were all as ordinary as socks.

And we made do more than we made plans.

The years to come were such a figment of our imaginations, we didn’t even both to imagine them.

And look at the perfect couple now – life’s taken a toll on their features and they’re not yet middle aged.

And he’s been through job after job without looking likely to stick with any of them.

Her software company fizzled out in a quagmire of debt.

They had kids – two in fact.

There’s doubts as to who’s the father of the second.

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

The rest of us did better than we expected.

The guys fell just short of handsome.

The women found various routes to being attractive, And unpromising beginnings worked for us.

We’re all doing better than we ever thought we would.

It only goes to show… in fact, it doesn’t go to show anything.

It could just as easily happened the other way around.

My motto is that if you want to feel good about yourself, seek out a small sample size. []

PHOTOGRAPHY Fabrice Villard

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PHOTOGRAPHY Adam Birkett

The Honeymoon Strip A breast unleashed from a lacy cast – even the thought had her paralyzed with fear – the moment has been dragging on for such a long time now – and this time it’s for life.

She really is about to chance her hand, everything back to basics, exactly where they were last time she took a shower when she examined herself exponentially, wondered what she had that could impress a man with a thirty-two year old beer gut.

She is as frantic as the wind as her shield is unclipped, her torso becomes a target – is she sure he loves her more than just as a friend – for someone supposedly excited, he seems the most doleful of creatures.

Getting naked is a family tradition but it doesn’t feel passed down – his eyes come closer, tarnish the air though his expression stands deadpan.

Her dead ancestors have blown it.

She is totally lost.

Her breasts are bare.

They’re uncomfortable when they should be taunting him by this. []

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 67

OPINION SUMATI

MUNIANDY

Does a bustling office with lots of

The Workplace

drama make you feel helpless? Many people wake up dreading to go to work because they know they are going to face bullying at their workplace.

Workplace bullying can be devastating and a distressing experience for many.

Bullying is essentially an abusive behaviour, where an individual or a group of people deliberately use their power to create a humiliating and intimidating environment for others.

Misuses of power such as shouting, persistently picking on in front of others, victimising, putting down, incessant mockery and attacks are some forms of bullying at workplace. I think these bullies like to control, belittle, and harm the safety, dignity as well as well-being of the people at the workplace. I wonder what vulnerabilities and insecurities they have that forces these bullies to resort to disturbing people’s lives. Is power craze one of the contributing factors? Or do they feel threatened by their subordinates’ God-given talents and extra ordinary skills? In certain cases, overtly aggressive managers may wrongly try and pass bullying off as their so-called new style of management.

One thing is for sure, these bullies take pleasure by exerting power on others. I have no qualms saying that these bullies want to wound, to have power over, to hurt and destroy people. Some gatekeepers in the organisation also like to stop their employees from progressing further to reach their pinnacle of success including their timely promotions. As employers, they should bring out the vigour and dynamism among the employees and not curtail their ability and talents.

In fact, they should utilise the employees’ talents for the betterment of the organisation instead of indirectly stopping them to go beyond.

What has gone wrong in our society that we refuse to see and point out these kinds of monsters lurking around us?

They are wearing masks of propriety and it is high time we uncover their face! Honestly, these kind of cases are a dime a dozen. In certain places, it is truly disheartening to see some of the employers don’t see bullying as a form of threat to the growth of organisations. They do not consider it to be an

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GRAPHICS John Hain

SUMATI MUNIANDY is currently an educator and a writer. She holds her Master’s Degree in TESOL from University Southern Queensland, Business Administration from University Putra Malaysia (UPM). She has written a number of articles in The Star and New Straits Times.

Writing is her passion and she writes her real life experiences to inspire others. She believes that everyone has a story to tell.

issue at all. It shows how myopic people and organisations can be. Unfortunately, many people have decided to secretly keep the problems within them and they do not want to talk about them openly. They might feel that there is no escape from bullying and on top of that many may have run out of choices too. They have their families to feed, bills to take care of, loans to settle, ailing parents to care, their children’s exorbitant education fees and the list goes on.

Depression, anxiety and chronic fatigue creep in and it may take a toll on their family life too. How on earth can these employees stay put and remain in the organisation if their mental health is affected? Isn’t a big loss for the organisation in the long run if talented employees decide to leave?

The employees should, by all means, make an appoint-

ment to see a psychiatrist to get treated. It is important that the employees keep the diaries of the occurrences such as time, place, and witnesses if they contemplate taking further actions. Hearsay evidence is not relevant but the details of every incident which makes the employed feel belittled and humiliated is crucial.

Confiding in a manager or human resource manager is also another alternative, to check if there is a policy within the organisation on how to deal with workplace bullying. Employees must stand up and speak up for their rights rather than hide behind a wall of silence and remain quiet when abuses take place. I have to agree with Michael J. Fox, a Canadian-American actor who once said “One’s dignity may be assaulted, vandalized and cruelly mocked, but it can never be taken away unless it is surrendered”. Stand up and combat bullying once and for all. []

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 69

POETRY ELIZABETH FISHER

I am my Song I don’t know if you can hear it my music playing in my heart but it is there, deep down inside whether or not you will listen is really none of my concern it plays for whoever listens it is a song of my yearning my long song of captivity my loud song of freedom my tender song of love the truth is no one can hear it nobody can hear it but I even though my song is silent it breaks its own sound barrier for my song is me and I am my song []

The World Take the covers off of your face Hideous and morning-broken It’s time to go out into the world So prepare yourself for anything In the light is where everyone hides Searching for a benign trace That’s what’s funny about this world Hiding in the light just means Everyone only comes out in the dark

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Be on your best behavior Everyone is watching you now Stand to the side and stay in the back That’s the best thing you can do Put on your mask and hide yourself Only façades make it these days Everyone is watching you now Make yourself blend into the crowd Even the lights keep their gaze on you Viciously ripping you open Everyone is watching you now Run and hide while you still can []

Perspectives We cannot know what tomorrow brings Asking ourselves if we are ready for it Knowing too well that we could never prepare Everyone still makes plans for days after Using agendas and calendars to mark up dates Pen scribbles notate appointments and meetings Don’t they ever look at the next day Or do they only study their sloppy notes Neglecting to look next to the ink The blank portions of the paper Living their days as if they will never end Every moment dull and dim A simple robot moving through routine Varying slightly every so often Exiting the queue to realize that Under every circumstance possible So violent of an ending can meet us []

ELIZABETH FISHER is a freelance writer, vocal performer, and visual artist currently residing in south Florida.

ART ‘Wood Gatherers, An Autumn Afternoon’ by George Inness

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 71

SHORT FICTIONS FRANCINE WITTE

When Tree Wants to Leave this dark, barky forest, of course, there are questions.

What, where? says Rock, all scrimmy and moss-covered. Out there, in the world, you have to keep moving.

Tree says, yeah, I thought of that. But that’s what’s making it beautiful. In here, I have to wait for the wind to rustle my leaves, but out there I can move through the wind any old time.

Whatever, boo, says Rock, and clamps down to sleep for another billion, trillion years.

Bunny hops by, bippity bop. Movement ain’t shit, says he. You’ll see. It’s all chase or be chased.

I got pebbles and splinters, broken claws in my paws. You are better off frozen and safe.

Tree stares down at his rooty, ropey feet. They drag around like a gownskirt. Every step will have to be measured. Every step will have to be planned.

Which will surely cut into his freedom.

And that’s when he sees a bird circling like smoke curls above him in the sky. Windswept and worldly, but even for all that, where is this bird gonna fly back to end of the day when all he wants is a leafy snuggle, the warm scratch of a branch against his wings. []

Midnight on the Moon is a lonely place, black as the end of hope, like a rocket that ran out of fuel and places to go.

Like a man who, down on Earth, just swore undying love to his wife and sees his lover’s face on the wall behind her.

The wife is a trusting thing, a planet hanging in the sky of his life, faithful and constant. She will always be there for me, he thinks. The man is happy, and the wife is happy, and, miles away, even the lover is happy.

Only the moon is lonely. Only the moon sees the truth. Even with the sun shining all day on its squinty eyes.

The man swears his love again. The wife believes him. And then, later, much , much later, in the white gauzy near-morning, he will enter her, like doubt. []

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Thumb “It’s still your birthday,” Eliza tells the chair, her sister’s empty chair. “Yes, your birthday, even though you’re dead.”

Eliza traces the scar on her own thumb. Her only part of the accident. “It should have been you,” their mother had said.

Then, their mother left and told Eliza to fend for herself. “You can find scraps in the forest.” She didn’t want to argue with her mother, and so she quickly moved her entire life next to a nearby park where nightly she would forage for nuts.

Their father knew nothing of this, scoundrel that he was. He had left them years ago.

The scar on her thumb reminds her of their father. She clung to his shirt the night he left. Like Eliza’s sister had clung to her, scratching Eliza’s thumb before falling off the mountain.

“Be a good girl and blow out your candles.” Their father had said on Eliza’s tenth birthday.

“Your father worked like a dog for that cake.” their mother had said.

Then, their mother gave all of Eliza’s presents to her sister. “Your sister needs them more than you.” was all their mother said.

Then their father stood back and watched the three women squabble over gift wrap and frosting, “this is exactly why I’ll be leaving,” he said.

Then he laughed and said he was kidding. Then her mother laughed. And then her sister, too.

Everyone but Eliza, who is right now looking at her sister’s empty birthday chair, invisible gifts and cake.

Remembering that memory that wasn’t even the least bit pretty. The kind of memory you might even climb a mountain to forget. []

FRANCINE WITTE is the author of four poetry chapbooks and two flash fiction chapbooks. Her full-length poetry collection, Café Crazy, (Kelsay Books.) Her play, Love is a Bad Neighborhood, will be produced in NYC this December. She is a former English teacher. She lives in NYC. ART Michi S (Moinzon)

CultureCult Magazine New Year 2019 73

PHOTOGRAPHY RISHAV MUKHERJEE

Vidyasagar Setu, also known as the Second Hooghly Bridge, is a toll bridge over the Hooghly River in West Bengal, India, linking the cities of Kolkata and Howrah.

With a total length of 823 metres (2,700 ft), Vidyasagar Setu is the longest cable–stayed bridge in India. The bridge has been named after the educationist reformer Pandit Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar (Wiki)

RISHAV MUKHERJEE is a photographer from Kolkata, India

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