Riding Light: Winter 2016

Riding Light

Issue 7 Winter 2016

The Riding Light Review

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Winter 2016 Family

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A sixteen-year-old boy once imagined riding on a beam of light, and his simple thought experiment played an important role that would later change the world—it ushered in the age of modern physics. This boy was Albert Einstein.

Einstein‘s use of imagination fueled his work in physics, which eventually lead to his famous 1905 papers on Special Relativity.

Riding Light emerged out of a desire to push the boundaries of creativity through language, ideas, and story. We believe in the power of imagination, the fuel for our ideas and innovation. This notion inspired the name of our magazine.

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Masthead Editor in Chief Cyn Bermudez Associate Editor, Fiction and Nonfiction Melissa RaÊ Shofner Associate Editor, Fiction and Nonfiction Yvonne Morales Lau Associate Editor, Poetry Kara Donovan Junior Copy Editor Sophie Eden Readers Jamie Hoang Š 2015 The Riding Light Review ISSN 2334-251X

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from individual authors or artists. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission of the author(s) or artist(s) is illegal. www.ridinglight.org

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Editorial 8 Artists 9 Photography Showcase RISING FROM WINTER WATERS 38 Louis Staeble Fiction WHEN THE WAR IS OVER 13 Sabrina Ghaus Art by Katherine Rudin SMALL KINDNESSES 24 Aaron Emmel Art by Kathy Rudin THE CLOSET 53 Meneese Wall Art by Emma Zurer THINGS RUSTED ON THE WHEEL 62 Hannah Lackoff Art by Hannah Lackoff Poetry LONG DISTANCE 23 Lisa Stice Art by Emma Zurer THE YEARS 35 Steve Luria Ablon Art by Emma Zurer 6

THESE MOUNTAINS ARE LONG-EXTINCT VOLCANOES 48 Julie Hungiville LeMay Art by Emma Zurer ALL THINGS TRANSIENT 50 Julie Hungiville LeMay Art by Laura Kiselevach LIKE FATHER LIKE DAUGHTER 60 Pattie Palmer-Baker Art by William Morris I'M TRYING TO REMEMBER HOW HARD PAPI LOVED MAMI 78 Natalie Caro Art by Peter Griffin Nonfiction I READ ONCE THAT THE WORST PART ABOUT GROWING UP IS REALIZING YOUR FATHER IS MADE OF THE SAME DUST AND EARTH THAT YOU ARE—OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT 76

By Alexis Ancona Art by Louis Staeble

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EDITORIAL My brother Kevin called me on the first day of January and proclaimed 2016 will be a good one for us. He asked me about my resolutions. I said none besides the usual, be healthier, etc. But as I prepared the winter issue, the first for 2016, I contemplated what real change I‘d like to make this year (again, besides the usual). So, after some thought, I decided on two resolutions: to live in the present and to live fearlessly.

Much of my time is spent preparing: I prepare, I plan, I hope, I fear, I worry. Every now and then, I remember to stop, plant my feet on the ground, and take in the present moment. Then everything else follows—forgiveness, letting go, having faith, etc. I, too, feel good about the coming year. What are your resolutions?

As I mentioned, this is our first issue of 2016. The theme is family. We have contributions by Steve Luria Ablon, Alexis Ancona, Natalie Caro, Aaron Emmel, Sabrina Ghaus, Laura Kiselevach, Hannah Lackoff, Julie LeMay, Rees Nielsen, Pattie Palmer-Baker, Kathy Rudin, Louis Staeble, Lisa Stice, Meneese Wall, and Emma Zurer. I love that we‘re kicking of the new year with such a great issue. Enjoy.

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ARTISTS Cover Art by Rees Nielsen Rees Nielsen and family farmed stone fruit and grapes for thirty-five years in California's San Joaquin Valley two miles southwest of Selma. In 2011, after losing his wife, Riina, he moved to Indianola, Iowa to live closer to his grandchildren, Marshall and Adelaide Taylor. He maintains an art web site with his son Nathan at thehowlingquail.com. His prose, poetry and visual art has appeared in many publications here and in the UK. Photography Showcase Rising From Winter Waters Louis Staeble lives in Bowling Green, Ohio. His photographs have appeared in Agave, Blinders Journal, Blue Hour, Digital Papercut, Driftwood, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Four Ties Literary Review, Inklette Magazine, Microfiction Monday, Paper Tape Magazine, Qwerty, Revolution John, Rose Red Review, Sonder Review, Timber Journal, Up The Staircase Quarterly, and Your Impossible Voice.

His web pages can be viewed either at http://staeblestudioa.weebly.com or http://lstaebl.wix.com/closeup.

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Interior Art Kathy Rudin is an artist from New York City. Her work has been published in, OUT, Genre, Wilde, DUMDUM, RIPRAP Journal, The Sun, The Boiler Journal, and Bop Dead City, among others, and has been exhibited at galleries in New York City, Miami, Los Angeles and Vancouver. She also volunteers at an animal shelter, and sh likes cheese.

After twenty years of working as a visual designer and photo stylist for such clients as Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY, and The New York Times, Laura Kiselevach decided to pursue her passion for photography. Using only her well trained eye and a smart phone camera, she captures both the grandeur and minutia of her everyday life. Laura‘s work has been published in Rip/Torn, Roadside Fiction, Temenos, Short, Fast and Deadly, Wilde Magazine, Quickest Flipest, The Casserole, Muzzle Magazine, among others, and exhibited at galleries in New York City, Florida and Los Angeles. A native of Pittston, Pennsylvania, Laura lives in New York City.

Emma Zurer is a Brooklyn-bred artist, performer, and educator who promotes the acceptance of clowns and the legacy of Klaus Nomi. Her collages have been exhibited in New York at the SculptureCenter and CULTUREfix Gallery. Emma has performed with the artist collective Cheryl in nightclubs around New York, including the Museum of Modern Art. She recently joined the engagement team at Abrons Arts 10

Center, where she also teaches movement and art classes for children. You can view more of Emma‘s collage work at emmazurer.com.

Other Interior Art by William Morris, Peter Griffin, and Louis Staeble.

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The Riding Light Review is fiscally sponsored by Art Without Limits. Please visit our website for information on how you can make a tax-deductible donation: ridinglight.org.

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WHEN THE WAR IS OVER Sabrina Ghaus It was July when my sibling decided she was going to be my sister. We had been talking about it, off and on, splayed across our beds in the heat of Karachi summer.

Nadeem had always taken an interest in my clothes and bangles—and of course she was welcome to wear them. My mother dressed her in silk shalwar kameez and golden churiya ever since she was able to vocalize preferences. But Nadeem was ten now, and had been seeing a counselor, and had decided that it was best for us to call her ―she.‖ Ma nodded when Nadeem told us this one night at dinner. ―Okay betta,‖ she said, 13

with her eye-crinkling, heart-shaped smile, and ladled a little more daal onto Nadeem‘s plate. Nadeem caught the edge of Ma‘s shalwar kameez and tugged. ―Okay?‖ Ma paused, gently setting down the pot of lentils. ―Nadeem,‖ Ma said, and touched my sister‘s cheek. ―I trust you.‖ And that was that. *** Years ago, when Nadeem first told me that she wasn‘t sure about being called ―they,‖ which is how everyone refers to children who haven‘t figured out their preference, I showed her a book I had bought ages ago, written by a trans woman who taught in the Freedom School a couple blocks away. Her name was Rahima. Like Nadeem, she had figured it out early.

Unlike Nadeem, however, Rahima remembered living in Karachi when being a hijra meant being sentenced to a lifetime on the streets. It hadn‘t been that long ago, after all—my mother‘s generation still told stories about Pakistan in the 2000s, of beheadings and makebelieve borders and these awful war machines called drones. Ma told me she couldn‘t travel to faraway places without special stamps that cost lots of money.

She said her parents waited years to be together 14

because the stamps were so expensive and took so much time to be processed. It is strange and sad to think about that. Ma said that it proved love is powerful, but I think she is also grateful for the way things are now. I don‘t think either of us believes it should be that hard to love somebody. I had more questions, but I think Ma had had enough, and I decided I would ask at school the next day. Maybe Rahima could tell me. She knew more than anyone else about the old rules, and I think she knew more than anyone about Ma‘s life, too. *** Rahima was a close friend of my mother‘s, who regularly visited our house for chai and biscuits. When she was over, Ma and Rahima would spend ages singing together in the slanting sunlight of late afternoon, while Nadeem and I would peek at them through Ma‘s half-open bedroom door. Not that the door was always open. But when Rahima and Ma would sing together I felt an ache older than a hundred years, and I would sit and listen and sometimes cry. Nadeem and I held those times sacred, like prayer. Afterward, we would help ourselves to the remaining biscuits in the kitchen, dipping them in leftover tea and scurrying away once we heard the creak of Ma‘s door opening.

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Sometimes I wondered if Ma and Rahima were in love, and so on the night of a new moon I chose to confide my suspicions with Nadeem. We were stargazing on the beach behind our house. I remember how dark it was that evening, the sound of waves rearranging the sand and Nadeem‘s rustlings as she shifted her hands underneath her child-body. Nadeem picked up a fistful of sand and watched it stream from her fingers. ―Would that mean Rahima would live with us forever?‖ I said that it might.

Nadeem pursed her lips and shrugged. ―As long as they don‘t stop singing, I‘m okay with it,‖ she said. I laughed and tugged at one of her braids. I had plaited them an hour ago, stringing them through with ribbons, and already her slippery black hair had loosened them. ―Uff, silly bee,‖ I said. ―When people are in love they just make more music. Sometimes even babies. Maybe Rahima will live with us, if she and Ma decide that‘s what they want.‖ Nadeem wriggled happily in response. ―If Rahima lived with us then she and Ma would be busy singing all the time. Then we could eat all the biscuits!‖ I rolled my eyes. But as I counted stars that night, I cupped my hands in front of my heart and made fervent du‘a that someday Rahima would come to 16

share our home, for good. *** July was a sticky month. Rahima was over almost daily, and Nadeem and I took great pleasure in taking quick sips of her piping hot tea, tugging at her dupatta, and asking for stories. I was a little bit jealous of Nadeem‘s relationship with Rahima—she was always bringing books for Nadeem, showing her pictures that Nadeem never felt the need to share with me. Ma would sometimes disappear for stretches of time into the room where Rahima and Nadeem were talking.

Later on I realized that Ma and Rahima had guessed ages ago that Nadeem needed different things to help her grow, physically, into a body she felt comfortable with. So when Nadeem told me that Ma and Rahima were taking her to a healer, I wasn‘t surprised.

Nadeem needed things to help her body become less confusing to her. I guess Rahima and Nadeem shared that experience.

On the day of Nadeem‘s appointment, Ma and Nadeem and I met Rahima at the clinic early in the morning. It wouldn‘t take long, Rahima assured us.

The process is quite simple. The healer would give Nadeem the proper pills and talk us through how the changes in Nadeem‘s body would gradually take place.

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And then there would be the surgery, but that would take maybe a couple of hours.

I remember seeing Nadeem after she emerged from the surgery, looking sleepy in the arms of our healer.

Her limbs were long and gangly, gathered up like spider‘s legs. Ma was there, gripping Nadeem‘s hand.

And Rahima was with me, in the waiting room.

Rahima stayed over that night, and Nadeem slept in my room, cuddled in my bed. Ma and Rahima talked long into the darkness, and I lay awake listening. The last thing I heard before falling asleep was Ma‘s voice saying in soft Urdu, ―I am so happy, Rahima. Meh bohth khush hoon, bohth khush, aaj meh bhoth khush hoon . . .‖ *** A few years later, Nadeem and I would dance together at Ma and Rahima‘s love celebration—like what they used to call weddings, except anyone can have one with anyone they love. Ma and Nadeem and I had a love celebration after Nadeem‘s surgery. It was the first time I ever saw Ma and Rahima kiss. I remember Nadeem‘s eyes widen at the sight, how her pink cheeks lifted in a smile, and she squeezed my hand before I reminded her to take the last pills from after the surgery.

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*** After the party was over, Ma‘s face was flushed from the humidity, and her eyes looked bright with something that made me feel small—in a good way.

Like Ma was shining out love for me and Nadeem and Rahima and she was satisfied with where life had taken her. All four of us were draped in garlands made of carnations, and my hands were sticky from the sweet mithai made by Rahima‘s students. Ma kissed me and Nadeem on our foreheads, and Rahima stood with her arm around Ma‘s waist, resting a cheek on her shoulder. I don‘t think I can forget that moment, because Ma and Rahima both cried a little bit, and I felt something tug at my eyes, too. We trooped back home from the party hall in an auto rickshaw, and I remember slipping into the house just as the clouds broke. The monsoon was here, and so was Rahima, and I would make chai for all of us before bed.

Sabrina Ghaus is a California native and community organizer based in Boston. Her poetry can be found in Jaggery. This is her first foray into short story writing.

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LONG DISTANCE Lisa Stice When will you be home?

I wish I could say but I can’t.

Two weeks between phone calls, I have forgotten your voice.

I wish I could say but I can‘t use the words that would say it all: I have forgotten your voice, and the baby does not know you.

I can‘t use the words that would say it all.

Two weeks between phone calls, and the baby does not know you.

When will you be home?

Lisa Stice received a BA in English literature from Mesa State College (now Colorado Mesa University) and an MFA in creative writing and literary arts from the University of Alaska Anchorage. She taught high school for ten years and is now a military wife who lives in North Carolina with her husband, daughter and dog. Some of her poems are forthcoming or in 0Dark-Thirty, Emerge Literary Journal, Inklette, 300 Days of Sun, and On the Rusk.

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SMALL KINDNESSES Aaron Emmel While I was out taking a walk, my mother commissioned my eight-year-old niece—the orchestrator of her siblings‘ more formidable enterprises—to search the trash can in my room. I overheard my name as I pulled off my boots and hung up my coat.

Nora: Look what we found in Uncle Nathan's trash!

Elise: You were right, grandma. He's still smoking.

Nora: It's a wrapper. See? For cigarettes. It's empty.

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My mom confronted me about smoking again during lunch. "So the girls found out that you haven't been honest with us." She looked meaningfully at my nieces.

"I said I was going to quit and I'm quitting," I said.

Laura started to ask me how my walk had been. My mother cut her off. "Do you think you're being a good example to these kids? Do you want them to start smoking, too?"

"I don't smoke near the house," I said.

"So that's what you're doing on your walks." She nodded at her grandchildren. *** When I was younger, the past had been a place you could leave. But now I realized nothing had changed.

I still spoke too loudly in order to get her attention, and I still looked at her afterward to see if she'd approved of what I'd said.

We were visiting my sister Laura, her husband Gary and their three kids. I'd appreciated in theory, of course, that people who were parents hadn‘t started out that way, but I was still amazed at my sister's transformation into motherhood. She was gentle, reasonable, firm. It wasn‘t until I saw Laura with her 24

three kids that I understood the hunger I carried around inside of me. I wanted to be worthy of ministration by patient fingers.

Nora, the younger of my two nieces, was five. I tried to teach her how to play chess and finally figured out that no matter how many times I told her the king's bishop couldn't fly over the other pieces, that‘s exactly what it was going to do. *** That afternoon I made myself something to eat because I hadn't finished lunch. While in the kitchen, I overheard them talking in the next room again.

Elise: Uncle Nathan is angry.

My mom: You're right, Elise. He is.

Elise: Why? My mom: Sometimes when people act angry, it's really because they feel guilty. They know they're doing something wrong, and they're embarrassed about it. So they act angry to cover it up.

Elise: Should we search his room again?

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A couple of hours later, walking through the living room, I saw my mom reading one of Laura's novels. I sat down on the couch next to her chair and asked about how things were going in her life. Two minutes later, we were talking about my job.

"You've been working at the store for two years?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"And you haven't been promoted for, what? A year?"

"No," I said.

"You know," she said, "I don't want to tell you this.

But someone has to. You're twenty-five. And you don't have any money, and you're at a dead-end job."

"I'm looking for—" "Why do you think you're single, Nathan? Do you think a woman wants a man with no money?"

"Maybe it doesn't seem like I'm trying," I said. "But I am trying."

"Don't you want a better life for yourself?"

"Yes, mom, I do, and I have my résumé out."

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"Why do you think you're so angry about this?"

"I'm not angry." I paused. I considered the rational thing to say, something constructive that lacked generalizations, and said instead, "This happens every time we're together. Every family gathering turns into a discussion of why I'm not good enough."

"So you want to blame me for pointing things out. Is that it?"

I stood up.

"And now you're going to run away," she said.

I stared at her. Jason walked in. None of the things I thought of telling her were things that I wanted to say in front of a three-year-old. I left the room.

When I saw my mom next, she was in the kitchen sitting at the counter and facing the window. A half glass of orange juice stood beside her. When she looked off into the distance, a peace settled on her face like a nimbus, like she looked for something greater, and I felt, in those instants, that she was right and all the rest of us were wrong. She looked for something better; it's not her fault that we were only clay and fragile. It's not her fault that she wanted something more. I didn't want her to give up. I didn't 27

want her to have to settle. I wanted her gaze to continue rising upward. I wanted to be deserving of her search.

Fuck you..

I followed her gaze to the window and out of it.

Sometime in the night, there had been a snowfall covering our imperfections. For a few hours, the world had been clean and reflected light. But now it was afternoon again, and we had trampled it down to the muddy slush of our footprints. *** The children were predictable. Give them an activity, any activity, and it would conclude with them all wrestling the dog on the floor.

"In my entire life I've never seen a group of kids so atrocious," my mom said once we were alone again, but not necessarily to me. "Their behavior is...unbelievable."

That's when I realized: she was helpless before joy.

Give her a cause, an enemy, and she was valorous and tough. She knew how to fight. But she did not know how to deal with happiness.

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For my fourteenth birthday my mother had given me a razor and shaving cream. I didn‘t even bother to hide my disdain after I opened the package. A razor? For my birthday? Why splurge? Why not just give me tube socks? I refused to justify toiletries as a birthday present by shaving with them. I left them on the kitchen table for a week and a half and after that they were gone. I guessed she'd thrown them away.

Eventually I bought a razor myself.

I had forgotten that gift until now. The look of pride in her eyes, the acknowledgment that the child she had raised had turned into a man. And when I threw the razor aside, she had looked sad. Not surprised—sad, as though she had hoped that maybe things would be different, and they had turned out the way she‘d expected after all.

Elise walked through the room a few minutes later.

She retrieved the toy she had been playing with before her siblings had tackled her.

"Elise, I want the chips your mom told me about," my mom said.

Elise nodded, turned away from the toy, and walked back to the kitchen. She returned a short time later with a bag of sweet potato chips.

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"Thank you," my mother said, not moving from her chair. She ate two of the chips and put the bag aside. *** In the evening, while my mom and I watched Gary unload the dishwasher and Laura prepared dinner, Elise ran sobbing into the kitchen. Nora was right behind her.

"Nora pulled my hair!" Elise spluttered.

Nora didn't have a chance to present the rebuttal she was obviously there to make. My mother spun on her stool to face Elise. "Good!" she said to Elise. "You deserve it."

Gary stood up with a plate in his hands. "Don‘t tell her that."

"She acts like a brat and she got what she deserved,‖ my mom said.

Gary put the plate away. "There's no excuse for them to hurt each other."

"Don't start!" my mom shouted. Everything else in the room stopped. We were all staring at her: me, Gary, Laura, Elise, Nora. "Don't you dare! I've kept my mouth shut! I've watched your children behave like 30

little villains this entire time and I haven't said anything. Don't you start with me!"

Gary took a spoon out of the dishwasher and put it in the drawer. My mom glared at us and waited for an argument. But no one argued. In that moment I realized that all I had to do was not fight, and her power over me was gone.

She stood up slowly, an old woman, and left the room for bed. The rest of us stayed up and made sundaes. I saved the caramel topping, my mom‘s favorite, for her.

In the morning, I would surprise her. I would seek out and accept her small kindnesses. I would acknowledge the tokens that she used to signify social connection.

Razors. Half-eaten bags of chips. I would let her be, to me, the person she wanted to be.

Aaron Emmel‘s short stories have appeared in more than a dozen publications. He‘s also written comic books, nonfiction books, and close to one hundred articles. Aaron lives with his awesome wife and children in Maryland.

Find him online at www.aaronemmel.com.

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THE YEARS Steven Luria Ablon Sixty years ago parents, uncles, aunts drinking gin and tonic, smoking camels, playing Canasta, on the porch, and I the baby, crawling in the grass, fireflies, sluggish one after the next, my eternal lantern, a convocation of souls from distant galaxies pulsing through the orchard, climbing over brown half eaten crabapples my body teaming with photoelectric energies, peach blossoms hanging barely from the branch and the red winged black bird waiting to decide.

My parents say they plan on living two more years. They used to say twenty more, they used to say ten. The magnolia blossoms late in August, delinquent or confused or does it want to be in color when all the other blossoms have gone?

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Steven Luria Ablon is an adult and child psychoanalyst and an Associate Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at Harvard University Medical School and Massachusetts General Hospital. He has published four books of poems: Tornado Weather, (Mellen Press), 1993, Flying Over Tasmania, (Fithian Press), 1997, Blue Damsels, (Peter Randall Press), 2005, and Night Call (Plain View Press) 2011. His work has appeared in many magazines, including Third Wednesday, Off The Coast, Dos Passos Review, and Ploughshares.

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RISING FROM WINTER WATERS Photography by Louis Staeble

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Louis Staeble lives in Bowling Green, Ohio. His photographs have appeared in Agave, Blinders Journal, Blue Hour, Digital Papercut, Driftwood, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Four Ties Literary Review, Inklette Magazine, Microfiction Monday, Paper Tape Magazine, Qwerty, Revolution John, Rose Red Review, Sonder Review, Timber Journal, Up The Staircase Quarterly, and Your Impossible Voice.

His web pages can be viewed either at http://staeblestudioa.weebly.com or http://lstaebl.wix.com/closeup.

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THESE MOUNTAINS ARE LONG-EXTINCT VOLCANOES Julie Hungiville LeMay The ground below shifts shadow and light, a bewilderment of late-fall colors: rust, sand, gray. In a four-seater Cessna we fly over the Talkeetna range, over ground we knew long ago. We circle Billy Mountain – so close, too close.

I have to look away.

To the west a sorrow of unnamed mountains marches north in ragged unison, dusted with pure shimmer of a blessing of snow.

Incandescence. At this distance, clarity realized in the diamond braid of the Nelchina River. Once, sea-life swam these mountains. Ammonite fossils remain along the riverbed, along the slopes.

Once, we walked the cold creeks, washed ourselves half-clean 46

after weeks in the tundra. The pilot follows the river. Today is my son‘s thirtieth birthday. He says: You are twice as old as I am now. I think: You are the age I was when you were born.

Does this have meaning? I was never good at math and these heights are dizzying.

Remember hot chocolate that tastes of camp smoke?

Fresh-caught arctic char and the greasy sweetness of Oreos that we packed in? This wasn‘t before the battles, but before a divorce which left you stranded on alternating shores of an unnavigable river.

How could you feel abandoned when we fought over you at least once a week? The pilot banks south, over lake-studded lowlands, hidden swamps, erupted peaks, volcanic edifice.

I want this trip to bring back some remembered joy.

Maybe from this distance, we‘ll be able to see it.

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ALL THINGS TRANSIENT Julie Hungiville LeMay B&W Photograph, 1924 I became like my grandmother, young in that photograph, but the image fading, black and white into light.

She stands at a station, in transit, no arrival, no departure, no destination.

Simply traveling.

If she were to speak, surely she would stammer, unsure, her small smile 48

vanish, her expression then stunned. I watch as the lightness, which began in her chest, spreads until she looks pure light, transparent.

Julie Hungiville LeMay was born in Buffalo, New York and moved to Alaska‘s Matanuska Valley where she has lived since 1978. Her work has been published in a number of literary journals including Potomac Review, Passager, Bluestem, Lummox, Pilgrimage, and Cirque. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles and served as poetry editor for their literary journal, Lunch Ticket.

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THE CLOSET Meneese Wall ―Shhh! He‘ll hear you. Don‘t forget the rules,‖ Darby instructed. At nine, bravery wasn‘t easy; it was an extreme sport in need of proper training and equipment. She and her older brother, Derek, knew the entry closet was off limits. They also knew the real reason for the mandate, and it wasn‘t that the space was only the size of a utility pantry reserved for their parents and guests. Didn‘t matter; Derek had a plan.

On one side of the closet was the front door, on the other - the piano. Neither of the kids liked practicing the piano, not because they lacked talent or desire, but because of its placement. The entry closet overshadowed all of life‘s melodies with immutable dissonance, which was exacerbated by its location in the front room, the formal living/dining room, a wholly uninviting expanse, distinguished by ascetic tidiness, scratchy, uncomfortably firm furniture, and tables brimming with breakable, pious nick-knacks.

The kids weren‘t allowed to touch anything except the piano, which was fine by them.

Regardless, nothing good ever happened in there: ‗Special‘ meals required Sunday best attire, which was confining and worrisome should they get soiled in any 51

way; report cards were formally reviewed with wonted chagrin no matter the alphabetic judgments on the page; and the room was a Stepford sanctum primarily for visitors - ‗proper this‘ and ‗disingenuous that,‘ aspects of life not so alien to the rest of the house as well. Whenever corpulent Aunt Lou was in town, she‘d insist on a ―concert from her darlings,‖ followed by gifts of sweaty hugs and bile breath, which dawdled long after her pinched viewpoint bade adieu. ―I‘m not gonna risk him going for that door because of your stupid idea.‖ Darby‘s resolve stiffened. She‘d seen the consequences of its opening too many times to soften her rule-Nazi stance. She had hoped to train her older brother to prune his choices in lieu of fertilizing some cockamamie scheme. ―Well, if it works, that‘ll stop him, right?‖ Derek rationalized.

Kids are inadvertent masters of the fact that we each live in a world that revolves around ourselves. A truth Darby and Derek‘s father perverted. He wasn‘t Dad but the family arbiter of all, a foreigner, not from another country, but to those around him and especially to himself. His distant eyes were blind to any of life‘s realities, purposes, or meanings other than his own. Consequently, his family ideal conflated all members in his own image, as though God so ordered 52

it. He was conservative in dress, thought, and politics—tall with dark hair, square shoulders, whitecollar hands, and a belly pouch that belied his youth‘s military aspirations. With a gait of conspicuous nonchalance, he wielded an A-minor demeanor that quietly collected evidence of others‘ gaffes. His speech was flat and in lyrical balance with his facial expressions. ―I‘m goin‘ in,‖ Derek murmured with confidence as he removed his sneakers for covert stealth, an unnecessary precaution on the front room‘s shag carpeting. Despite Darby‘s fear of the situation‘s outcome, she was astonished by her brother‘s fearlessness and unwitting sacrifice of himself should the mission turn south, which was the only direction Darby could foresee if Derek didn‘t abort his misguided plan right away.

Their mother was preparing dinner in the kitchen, where she couldn‘t see the closet, dressed in her usual shroud of stoic acquiescence. She possessed average height, large bones, chiseled features, dutiful attire crowned by short teased dark hair, and green eyes that gazed through you. Her skin was white alabaster with a demeanor just as hard and a communication style as opaque. Children exfoliated her nerves. Her husband was in the bedroom at the back of the house dressing 53

for dinner. He‘d just signed a large client to his real estate firm earlier in the day, so his mood was high.

Derek returned to the hallway only a couple of minutes after his departure. His triumphant glee rattled Darby‘s intuition. ―Put those back, now,‖ she whispered in an authoritative tone, trying to get her brother to embrace pragmatic expectations. Derek wouldn‘t budge. So Darby drew on her Ninja-like instincts and grabbed at the pilfered haul. Oh no. One of the items dropped to the floor.

Why wasn’t the hallway carpeted too? She panicked, looking toward their parent‘s room.

As if on cue, their father opened the door with familiar control. A pivotal chill filled the air. Seeing what Derek held, he ambled toward his son. Darby picked up the brush, situated herself between Derek and their father, and started apologizing. ―We‘re just putting ‗em back. Really! We didn‘t...‖ He wrenched the wooden hairbrush from Darby‘s firm grip and swept her aside. ―Stay there,‖ he commanded. Darby‘s tears came hot and fast. She was frustrated at herself for her lack of words to assuage 54

the inevitable. Instincts made her cry more, and loudly, while she tugged at her father‘s trousers pleading with inept vocabulary for leniency. This time his sweeping action introduced Darby‘s back to the wall. An audible thud emptied her lungs.

He looked to Derek, ―Rules are rules.‖ Their father reclaimed the other items and hoisted Derek until his small frame rested at a perpendicular on their father‘s hipbone. Darby closed her eyes tight to dispel her tears, regroup, and reshape the situation. When she opened them, her brother and father were gone.

She thought of their mother whose conspicuous absences oozed pus into their mounting familial wounds. Darby couldn‘t breathe or move. Her brother‘s howls from undeserved pain in the front room amplified her sense of failure. *** ―Twenty is a good age to start over,‖ Derek wrote to Darby, ―and eighteen months is a short time to repay such a huge debt. Your continuous efforts to save us both over the years ... well, not sure I deserved it. ―Just a couple more months, then I‘ll be home. In the meantime, don‘t worry. You did what needed to be done and I‘m glad I‘m the one in here, not you. You 55

were always good at cloak-and-dagger. Mom and Dad‘s usefulness on this planet expired the day you were born. Their deaths set us free. Bask in it. Love, Derek.‖ Why didn’t our father see that we were intelligent, curious kids with our own paths to follow? We weren’t bad. Darby set the letter aside and peered into a box, the one from the entry closet. She kept it as a reminder that monsters could be vanquished.

Darby recalled her father‘s detached tone as he‘d raise his eyebrows and stare daggers at the box on the floor of the entry closet. ―Whenever you enter or leave this house, this is your reminder that an appetite for good behavior is the only way. Go ahead, choose the tool befitting the crime.‖ First was the wide, wooden hairbrush—for minor infractions. Sometimes, its flat side carried out the sentence, but other times the bristles were deemed more persuasive. Darby shuddered at the stories contained in the speckles of dried blood. Next, she pulled out a long leather belt with a white metal buckle. ―It‘s not stainless,‖ she said out loud as confirmation of her memories of its use. Last were the two Cricket bats. Where’d he get these? He never played the game. The only difference between the bats was the 56

red-rimmed dime-size holes in one of them. That one was reserved for Derek.

Meneese Wall amalgamates various avocations inside her Santa Fe crucible—writer, graphic designer, domestic slave, healthcare guru, wife, and mother to a catalytic daughter (not necessarily in that order). More of her creative dexterity can be found on her website www.meneesewall.com.

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LIKE FATHER LIKE DAUGHTER Pattie Palmer-Baker Somewhere within me a river heavy with black water surges, hurtles my dead father head first, the whites of his eyes glinting.

No it was not the drink that killed him. yes he drank whiskey – gallons, not enough to finish in off.

Sufficient to shred his liver, Black-out his heart, gut his inside.

It was the white pills he swallowed – all of them, a thousand of them and now he swims white in the dark river cries out for me to get him out 58

or get in with him

Pattie Palmer-Baker is artist and poet. Although she often combines these two forms of expression in collages of paste paper and calligraphy, the inspiration for and the meaning of the artwork lies within the poem. Over the years of exhibiting her artwork, the discovery that many people responded most strongly to the poetry motivated her to strengthen her focus on writing. She has been published in Martian Migraine Press, Eholi Gaduji Journal, Poeming Pigeons Anthology, Petals in the Pan Anthology, Silver Birch Press Blog, The Ghazal Page, and Voicecatcher.

Voicecatcher nominated her for the Pushcart Poetry Prize in 2013.

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THINGS RUSTED ON THE WHEEL Hannah Lackoff When I get home, Eddie‘s asleep on the couch. His massive figure seems to overfill the furniture like too much water in a teacup. His feet hang over the end, and one knee is bent awkwardly over the coffee table; his head is bent back and his mouth slightly open.

He‘s not snoring, because Eddie has to be a walking contradiction. He‘s so loud when he‘s awake that you would think he‘d want to continue that intensity of volume while asleep. But he doesn‘t toss or turn like everyone else; he‘s never fraught with insomnia or bad dreams. All of his daily concerns, all of the drama and 60

the flair and the hard work he puts into being the center of attention evaporates as he sprawls. It must be exhausting work trying to make everyone like you.

I can smell the cheesiness of what was a full bag of Dorritos when I left, and the diet Pepsi he has inevitably spilled somewhere. It has to be diet Pepsi, not Coke like everyone else drinks. He has to be different but not too different.

On the TV is some martial arts movie I don‘t recognize. Chances are good that he was copying the karate chops until he got tired and settled in for some refreshments. The sound is low; I can just barely make out the occasional scream.

Eddie stirs slightly—rare for him—and his head somehow tilts in a way so that each exhalation causes his hair to fluff up around his forehead: a flat-out poof, over and over again. This is so far removed from the normally dignified look he tries to give to his perfectly coiffed hair that I have to plaster my hands over my mouth to stifle my laughter. ―Who the fuck ate all my peanut butter cups?‖ That‘s got to be Suzanne, in the everlasting battle with Eddie over the Reeses. I walk into the kitchen and sure enough, she‘s holding an empty bag and scowling.

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―He only likes them cause I like them.‖ She shoves the bag violently into the garbage. ―We‘re going shopping tomorrow,‖ I tell her, ―I‘ll get you some more.‖ ―We?‖ She wrinkles her forehead and scrunches her eyebrows together. ―Yeah,‖ I make a face back. ―I promised Eddie he could come this time.‖ ―Bad idea.‖ She shakes a finger at me and pulls her bathrobe tighter around her. ―You remember what happened last time.‖ *** He‘s juggling oranges again. I am going to kill him.

He‘s drawing a crowd—there‘s a mother with two little kids and a young couple with a grocery cart full of healthy looking food. They‘re all watching the contrast of the whirling oranges against his gray sweat suit. Their eyes go round and round like cartoons. I think one of the children is holding its‘ breath. From the canned goods aisle I can‘t hear him singing, but I can see his lips moving. I‘m assuming that‘s what he‘s doing.

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After a moment, he loses control and drops the oranges. They go flying everywhere and he only manages to catch one before it‘s too late, and they‘re all on the ground rolling under displays and cart wheels. Eddie bows ridiculously low and finishes with a flourish, handing his last orange to one of the children and ruffling its hair so hard that its whole body sways. He blows a kiss and prances off in the direction of the sandwich meats.

Today, I am refusing to clean up his messes, to mediate between him and Suzanne, to remind him to buy his own peanut butter cups. I am just going to stand here with the soups and pick out something for our celebratory dinner. I‘m debating between two or three cans of minestrone when Eddie prances his way over, laden down with turkey slices and salami. ―Did you see me?‖ he asks, still prancing. ―Uh huh. Two cans or three, Eddie?‖ ―I dunno. Think I should go professional?‖ ―Uh huh. How much soup did we eat last time?‖ ―Eddie McIvers, juggler extrordin-aire!‖ he punches the last syllable, dumping the turkey into the shopping cart.

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―Do you think we should have anything on the side? I think Suzanne said she wanted crackers.‖ ―Something on the side, eh?‖ He‘s starting to grin slyly. Something is coming, some wild scheme is popping into his head, and I‘m not even sure I want to know what it is. ―She definitely said she wanted crackers.‖ ―Crackers? Like...saltines? You don‘t have saltines at a celebratory dinner for the greatest art exhibit this city has ever known. You have cheese platters. And wine.

Wine and cheese all around.‖ It‘s only going to be the three of us at the dinner, and he knows it. He also knows that Suzanne specifically asked for Minestrone soup and maybe some crackers; nothing fancy, nothing Eddie. This means no cheese platters, no wine tasting, no napkins folded into swans or little squares of fruit on fancy toothpicks. He‘s driving her crazy, and I think he knows it. When he drives her crazy, she drives him crazy, and as a result, they both drive me crazy. If you asked me why I chose to live in a dingy crowded apartment with the two people I love most in the world, at this moment in my life I honestly couldn‘t give you a good reason.

Because all reason goes out the window when it comes to Eddie and Suzanne.

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And now I‘m stuck in a grocery store with a cart full of sandwich meats and canned soup, with an exproduce juggler who gets more excited about fruit kebabs than anyone I‘ve ever met in my life. I probably should have offed him as soon as he picked up the oranges. He‘s taking toothpicks off the shelf behind me. They‘re little and plastic, in the shape of brightly colored swords. ―No fruits.‖ I tell him. ―Absolutely not. You remember what happened the last time. This is Suzanne‘s dinner, and she said no.‖ ―You can‘t have wine and cheese without some fruit kebabs.‖ ―Eddie.‖ I decide on three cans to be safe and start to push the cart away from the toothpick display hoping he‘ll get the message and follow. ―We are not having wine and cheese. We are not having fruit kebabs or bacon wrapped clams or anything else. We are having soup. We are having crackers. We are having a nice dinner for Suzanne, and we are all going to get along.

For one night. For Suzanne.‖ He‘s pouting dramatically and dragging his feet like a four year old. A prematurely gray four year old who‘s about eight sizes to large, but still manages to slip a 65

package of sword toothpicks into his pocket without me noticing until it‘s too late, and we‘re already home. *** Whenever we have to take a cab anywhere, Eddie likes to pretend it‘s a chauffeur service from years gone by.

He insists that everyone sit in the back seat no matter how crowded it is, and calls the driver ―my good man‖ in a pompous pseudo-British accent. Cab drivers usually give up any pretense of conversation by the time we‘ve pulled away from the curb, and this one is no different.

Eddie is in rare form this evening. Since we‘re on our way to Suzanne‘s gallery opening we‘re both decked out in our finest. While I made do with a simple black dress, Eddie has bought for the occasion a crimson suit jacket, matching slacks, gray shirt and shiny black shoes. But it‘s the tie that is the centerpiece of the ensemble; it is the same shade of crimson as the suit, with gray lines crisscrossing to make diamonds. Inside every diamond is the tiny figure of a gray man, who is dancing. It‘s like Eddie, multiplied by one hundred and stuck to a piece of fabric.

He has been fiddling with the tie ever since we got in the cab. He stopped for a few moments to say ―Jeeves‖ and ―my good man‖ some more, and then 66

immediately continued to fuss. Every time he thinks he‘s got the tie just right he smoothes his sleeves: first left, then right, throws back his shoulders, and tries to see how he looks in the reflection of the cab window.

The cab is small, and Eddie is large. Every time he shrugs, his enormous upper body threatens to topple me over. Every time his arms go up to adjust the masterpiece that is his tie, I get an elbow that seems to take up my entire ribcage. The shiny black shoes have already crushed my foot once when we climbed in, and my toes seem to be in a constant state of peril. If he dares to say ―my good man‖ one more time, I may take his imperfect tie and strangle him with it.

I think he senses my irritation, because he says, ―Perhaps I shouldn‘t have taken the swords.‖ ―Perhaps not, Eddie.‖ We sit in silence for a moment. He reaches up to touch his tie, but then stops himself. ―She was pretty mad, huh.‖ ―Well you do blame her?‖ ―I just wanted things to be nice for her.‖

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―Eddie, she didn‘t even want a celebratory dinner. You talked her into it, and I helped calm her down by promising I‘d keep you in check and let her pick the menu, which of course meant no swords or kebabs or waiter suits or candles. Suzanne doesn‘t like candles, she doesn‘t like fancy dinners, Eddie. Maybe if you paid attention to our lives instead of being so wrapped up in your other little world you‘d notice!‖ Apparently, all the frustration and irritation that has been building up in Suzanne and I for the past months is channeling itself through me. ―I do notice! I just want things to be nice for you guys. I want us to have a good time. Wasn‘t dinner fun?‖ ―Suzanne left in her own cab as soon as she was done eating. Do you know why she did that, Eddie?‖ He‘s a chastised four year old again. He shakes his head in slow motion, not a hair falling out of place this time. ―Because of you.‖ My words hang in the air like a bad closing line in a sappy romance, and I‘m cringing from them.

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―I‘m sorry,‖ I say immediately, wanting to take it back. ―I‘m sorry Eddie, I didn‘t mean it. She doesn't mean it.‖ He gives a forced chuckle. ―Yes she does. I know she does.‖ I shouldn‘t have told him. It wasn‘t my place to say so- I should have let Suzanne deal with it. ―I‘m sorry Laura,‖ he says. ―I‘m sorry too.‖ We ride in silence for a moment.

The he asks, ―Is this the end?‖ I have to give my own forced chuckle trying to pretend I don‘t know what he‘s talking about. But I do. ―I don‘t know.‖ I tell him.

Ahead of us is the art gallery. Suzanne will undoubtedly be inside, perfectly dressed and smiling at people as they come through the door; encouraging them to sign the guest book and get on the mailing list of the city‘s hottest new gallery. I imagine how her face will fall in the middle of all that upswept blond hair when she sees me walk through the door with Eddie. No matter how much I love and want to see 69

her, I wonder if a little self-sacrifice isn‘t worth saving Suzanne‘s big day.

I lean forward and give the cab driver the change in directions, appropriately polite and distant; he will get no old British terms of servitude from me. I think I hear Eddie whisper one under his breath behind me, but maybe that‘s only wishful thinking. *** Eddie and I climb into the ferris wheel car. He immediately spreads out, putting his arm across the back of the seat and stretching his legs out in front of me. The sun is setting in front of us, and the light is blinding. The car begins to move, sunlight glinting off the rust spots and paint chips. How many times before have we ridden on this dingy Ferris wheel?

Enough times to know not to look at the paint chips and things rusted on the wheel, enough times to know that it always looks better under the stars.

Eddie sighs loudly, and I have to refrain from rolling my eyes, knowing what is coming next. ―This is the life,‖ he says, reaching his hands out as far as they can go to either side. For a crazy moment I am afraid he is going to grab the bar across the top and start doing chin-ups or some other Eddie-like 70

thing. But he doesn‘t, he just keeps his arms out, closes his eyes, and starts humming. Some obscure show tune or 18th century opera, no doubt.

Something that no one else but Eddie would have ever thought to hum on a ferris wheel.

The cars creak quietly as we rise over the tree line, high enough to see the city on the other side of the park. ―Think Suzanne will miss us?‖ he asks. My phone is ringing in the tiny black clutch on my wrist, and I know it‘s her, but I just want to put off the inevitable for a few more minutes and I ignore it. It buzzes in my lap like a purring cat. I imagine Suzanne on the other end, thankful, happy, telling me to come later on my own so she can show me off, too.

That‘s probably not what she‘s going to say.

I get a chill at the top, and Eddie puts his big meaty arm around my shoulders. He smells faintly of socks and strongly of cheap aftershave. I shrug him off. I may have saved Suzanne‘s evening, but I‘m beginning to think I might have ruined mine. ―Don‘t,‖ I say, ―Let‘s just sit.‖

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He takes his arm back but he doesn‘t sulk this time.

We go around again in silence, and the man who runs the ride stops us for a moment at the top, just like in a movie.

The sun is setting, stars twinkling out like fireflies from the childhood summers Eddie and I spent at this very park. Back when things were simple, before things got so rusty everywhere. I pick at a paint fleck with my fingernail and watch it drift down, until I lose sight of it in the oncoming twilight.

Hannah Lackoff's work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the storySouth Million Writers Award and has appeared in Spark, Pinball, Kaleidotrope, 34th Parallel, New Myths, 10,000 Tons of Black Ink and their ―Best Of‖ Volume II, and Bourbon Penn, among others, and has been performed at Wheaton College.

Her short story collection After the World Ended will be published by 18th Wall Productions in Spring 2016.

See more of her work at hannahlackoff.wix.com/writing.

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I READ ONCE THAT THE WORST PART ABOUT GROWING UP IS REALIZING YOUR FATHER IS MADE OF THE SAME DUST AND EARTH THAT YOU ARE—OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT. Alexis Ancona He carved miniature dinosaurs out of rose, zebra, mahogany, and I think some oak. He constructed scale models—the Tabernacle, Tower of Babel, Noah‘s Ark. Meticulously created artifacts—a basin and menorah in the Tabernacle, trees and ponds and tigers in the ark, blue with gold trimming on the Tower.

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He built two Roman shields: scutum and parma; he stretched leather over ancient designs. He painted the mural in my brothers‘ room—a behemoth with a river and sunset backdrop on one side and a glow-in-thedark space scene—a hot sun in one corner—on the other.

He glued my Precious Moments piggy bank back together three, maybe four or six, times. My mom told him to give up and throw it away, but he managed— piece by piece by piece by porcelain, shattered piece.

He mounted my full-length mirror on the back of my door. I saw his hands shake as he balanced the drill.

That was long after he built the cradle that held my brothers and me (and the rocking horse that he never finished).

My father suffers insomnia; I‘ll never forget hearing him sob like a child—like me—into my mother‘s arms.

Originally from Durham, Maine, Alexis Ancona is a senior studying English Literature at Cedarville University. She plans to continue her education with an M.A. in Medieval Studies and a focus in Arthurian Literature.

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I'M TRYING TO REMEMBER HOW HARD PAPI LOVED MAMI Natalie Caro Household Fires I'm trying to remember how hard papi loved mami, Irises in full bloom when we woke, turnt table love spread across the kitchen floor. I keep thinking that I'm not in love because there's no knife in my hand when I tell my boyfriend that he makes my head hurt.

Mami says that she used to go to the roof and light white candles, in the rain, to pray the dark away -but there are no candles in our apartment, because my boyfriend is afraid that I'll start a fire.

Papi wasn't afraid of burning. He liked to light his insides ablaze on purpose and when he crawled into mami's viens she drank to feel warm again and when they loved each other the hardest, pyres filled 75

our three bedroom apartment.

Our white walls became barbershop markers, became surgery cotton, became weapons of mass destruction.

There is no darkness to speak of in my boyfriend's veins, there's only the rages I inspire when I push him passed his limit. They are quiet, they don't cut through curtains, or telephone wires. His love doesn't burn into my knees or cheeks and, in the dark, I wonder if I'd love him more if it did, because more often than not I am a sarcophagus in search of blood and fire and white candles, and

prayers.

Natalie N. Caro is a Bronx-born poet and a 2014 Pushcart Prize Nominee. She holds a B.A. in English Literature and Philosophy from Lehman College/CUNY where she currently teaches composition and an MFA in Poetry from City College/CUNY where she was selected as one of the first recipients of the Creative Writing Fellowship.

Sometimes, she swears that school saved her, but then she thinks about colonization of the mind and feels some type of way.

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The Riding Light Review

Cover art by Allen Forrest Rees Nielsen, contributions by Steve Luria Ablon, Alexis Ancona, Natalie Caro, Aaron Emmel, Sabrina Ghaus, Laura Kiselevach, Hannah Lackoff, Julie LeMay, Pattie Palmer-Baker, Kathy Rudin, Louis Staeble, Lisa Stice, Meneese Wall, and Emma Zurer.