Eclectic Flash, Volume 1, September 2010 by Eclectic Flash

Volume 1

S E PT EM B E R 2010

Number from the Editor:

3 Sincerely, Brad Nelson Chief Editor, Eclectic Flash editor@eclecticflash.com

e clectic flash ( ISS N: 2150-25 2 8 ) i s p u b l i s h e d t h r e e t i m e s p e r y e a r b y Eclectic flash P u blishing . Th i s p u b l i c at i on m ay no t b e r e p roduced i n whole or in pa r t w i t h o u t e x p r e s s w r i t t en c on sen t f rom the publisher or the in di v i d u a l a u t h o r s o f t h e w o r k s c onta ined within this issue, e x c e p t i ng b r i e f q u o tat i on s f o r u s e in critical articles a n d r e v i e w s . A l l r i g h t s r e s e rv e d . C op yr i ght ÂŠ 2010. V isit us o n the w e b at w w w. e c l e c t i c f l a s h . c o m . Co nta ct eclectic flash: edi to r @ e c l e c t i c f l a s h . c o m . Th ank y o u .

Poetry ?

Nonfiction ?

Fiction ?

Table of Contents A Little Bit for Braz by Aaron Polson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 After the Fire by Lewis J. Kahler. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 An Unremarkable Death by Zach Owen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 A Simple Word Too Easily Said by Bud Koenemund. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 Antoine by Amy Holwerda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 Apparition by Gyllian Davis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 Armageddon: The Short Version by Wayne Faust. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14 And We Danced by Annmarie Lockhart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Aubade in c: A Story About Breakfast by Travis King. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Be sure to close the hatch, for that which followsâ&#x20AC;Ś by Darren Hawbrook. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 Bleed Out by Matt Chupp. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 August by Amy Ellis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 Book of Gardens by Val Gryphin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 Bottling Frank by Kate Brown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22 Crumbs in the Recliner by Dave Davis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22 Flashlight Tag by Kim Klugh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23

Deductive Reasoning by Maulik Shah. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 Diana by Preet Kaur. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 Don’t Bother by Rasmenia Massoud. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 Following Abraham by Jan Smith. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26 Everything but the Man by Loren Arthur Moreno. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 Family Heirloom by Helen Whittaker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 Geologic Time by J. Katunich. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 Free Verse by Richard Soloway. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 Grandma’s Pumpkin Pie: An Inherited Recipe by Annmarie Lockhart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 Handing Down by Ethan Swage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 How They Hunt Rabbits by Ajay Vishwanathan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31 freeze by Samantha R. Peloquin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32 How to Write a Pop Song by Matthew Glasgow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32 I Dream a Whisper by Loren A. Moreno. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33 Last Days of Rome I: Nero by Andreas Sundgren. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34 Gravity by Diana Brodie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35 Living Room by Jeni Aron. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36

My Mind’s Eye by J. L. Stratton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36 New Friends by J. P. Reese. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38 Poets Never Really Die by Suicide by Bud Koenemund. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40 Night Travel by M. Kathleen Topper Walworth. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40 Nightcrawler by R. K. Gemienhardt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40 Not Her Real Name by Michael Russell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41 Prince Charming After a Long Day of Sole Searching by Kim Klugh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43 The Obituary by Michael Ramberg. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43 Of Q-Tips and Tomorrows by Dawn Lei. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44 Offices of Love by Joe Kraus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45 Sorry About Your Poem by Doug Mathewson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46 Post by Sarah Eaton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47 Queen of Fire by Townsend Walker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Quittin’ Time by Russell Bittner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49 Summer of ‘69 by Ray Sharp. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 Rabid Angels by Stef Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 Recession Love by Aaron M. Wilson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51

Salt Water by Juliet Kemp. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52 The Alchemy of Striptease by Marie Lecrivain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53 Scarecrows by Sue Pickard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .54 Seussical, the Romance by Rita Rubin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .54 Shell Game by Kristi Petersen Schoonover. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .55 The Candle Shop by Shonna Gillis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .56 Shore Leave by Austin Eichelberger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .57 Siblings by Cezarija Abartis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .57 Storks by Bonnie ZoBell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58 The Necklace by Stephanie Wytovich. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60 Summer School by Francine Witte. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60 Sweet Pastry by Jennifer Stakes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62 The Cooper’s Hawk by Christina Kapp. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62 The Parson’s Confession by Darryl Brent Willis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .63 The Coulee Man by Len Kuntz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .63 The Crunchy Truth by Steve Kissing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64 The Flood by Dariel Suarez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .65

The Subject by Sherilyn Willard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67 The Gargoyle of Bishop’s Peak by Joe Amaral. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67 The High Sign by Paul Beckman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .69 The Probability of Him by Jen Knox. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .69 The Thing That Lasts by Robert Laughlin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .70 The Sentient Soldier by J. L. Stratton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .70 The Thin Pages of Her Words by Sheldon Lee Compton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .72 The Watch by Craig B. Phillips. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .72 The Well by Durga Vijaykumar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .74 The Wolves by Walter Campbell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .74 Thirst by Tom Mahony. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .75 Waiting on the Road to Palladium by Neil John Buchanan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .77 wordsFall by Ryan McGinty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .78 Washout by M. P. Powers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .78 What Precise Moment by Dan Powell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .79 What’s Under the Bed? by Amanda Connell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .80 January by Michael Dickel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .81

E c l ec t i c Flash

A Little Bit for Braz by Aaron Polson The first victim tacked to Piecemeal’s rap sheet was missing the pinkie finger of her left hand. Three bodies later, and the police had a pattern, something to work with: a pinkie, a hand, the forearm up to the elbow joint. PK they started calling the murderer around the precincts in the city, PK for Piecemeal Killer, like a playground nickname. Braz Butterfield worked the case all the way to both shoulder joints and a missing leg. Five years. Fifteen victims. He’d wondered in the past if they’d missed one of the victims, working backwards like they did from the shoulder. After years of tiny pins on a map of the city, trips into the foulest alleys and the rustediron, faded-paint parts of town, rubbing elbows with junkies and greasy, early morning fog, Braz developed a certain belief, his own act of faith, that they’d miscalculated because PK took something so small, so insignificant, the coroner’s report had been remiss. Something tiny like a fingernail. Academic now, he reminded himself as he stood over the corpse in room 166 of the South Dells’ Motel 6. Academic. Braz Butterfield held the unfolded portrait of PK, the only sketch anybody had been able to squeeze from a potential witness in five years. The cold meat on the bed matched as close as anybody— the loping, dangling ears, the hitch in an otherwise thin and somewhat distinguished nose, the odd spacing of the eyes, a centimeter or two away from being “just right,” the obtuse pucker of the upper lip. Braz had him. The bullet wound and rest of the hotel room told the story: a plastic shopping bag filled with homespun collages made from snippets of truck-stop porn, the spilled bag with traces of methamphetamine, the lack of money anywhere in the room. Braz had searched of course, explored every possible crevasse and even scoured the Ford Ranger outside in the lot.

That’s where he’d found the suitcase. That’s how he really knew, even more than the artist’s sketch. Braz found the missing parts in the suitcase, each sealed like leftovers in vacuum-tight plastic bags. He didn’t bother to count and verify the fifteen victims’ missing bits or even search for the suspected sixteenth. No. That was for crime scene. He’d make that call soon enough. Maybe. The corpse held him for the present. PK had captured the last five years of Braz Butterfield’s life. PK had ended Braz’s marriage. PK had added fifteen pounds to Braz’s midsection and took a few inches from his hairline. PK had made him miss his son’s last football game, but nothing had kept Braz from the funeral after the boy wrapped his Honda around an oak on spring break. No, PK had captured so much of him, Braz might as well be missing pieces, too. The fingers of Braz’s left hand played at his pocket, feeling the outline of Toby’s Boy Scout knife. Remembering. Planning. Go on. The voice startled him at first, but Braz knelt next to the bed, praying at the altar of the monster who’d taken so much, piece by piece, little pieces adding to something bigger than Braz’s world. He fished the knife from his pocket and unfolded the smallest blade. Go on. With a trembling hand, Braz lifted PK’s left hand and separated the pinkie from the other fingers. He pushed the blade under the nail, pushed until it wouldn’t go any further. There was a dark line, but no blood came—it had already pooled at PK’s back. Braz twisted the knife, prying until the yellowed nail broke free of the skin. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, savoring the smoothness and thickness of it before stashing it in his pocket with the folded knife. He’d grab a box of plastic bags on the way home. When he walked out of the room, Braz couldn’t help but smile, his eyes lingering on the left pinkie,

wondering how long it will take the next detective to make the connection, piece by tiny little piece. After the Fire by Lewis J. Kahler

their brilliance finally fell silent. We never thought about the fact that we had imprisoned them; had killed them in our childhood innocence. I thought of the old woman, trapped in a bed, as the house fell down around her and her son played with fire just waiting and watching.

The last embers danced in brilliant arcs to the dirt, and died slowly in a final breath of smoke. He stood over the waning flames, stirring the ashes with the charred handle of a beheaded golf club. His hat sat slightly forward, pony tail jutting out the back, and his eyes were masked by the brim. The straw was frayed, giving him the look of an aged Huckleberry Finn. Occasionally, his eyes would look toward the farmhouse, a single light in the upstairs window shown bright in the cool night. Inside, a nurse made his mother comfortable, while the cancer ate away what was left of her body.

We each took a pull from the bottle of dandelion wine he had placed precariously on a rock at the edge of the fire. It glowed like honey.

“I want to be with her, but I can’t,” he said. “I know it’s wrong.”

I watched the final embers dance their shootingstar dance to the ground. He drank the last of the golden wine, and shook his head slowly but deliberately, as if he could shake the thoughts from his mind.

I had been called that afternoon. I was the only friend they had left. As the money dwindled and the house fell into disrepair, one by one their friends had abandoned them. The deterioration had become too much a reminder of their own mortality. I could see it, too—the pain and despair in his eyes as his mother struggled for breath, the clapboards on the house rotting, and the grass overgrown because there was no gas for the mower. “I could go in with you. I don’t mind,” I said. “No. No, I figure there are things to be done alone. Dying is one of ‘em. Won’t be long. I will miss her though.” I could see a tear in his eye. It almost sparkled in the flame. He wiped it with a hand scarred by work and covered in ash. “Damn smoke’ll get ya every time,” he said. I allowed him the lie, and, in his own silent way, I knew he appreciated it. Each time he stuck the old club into the ashes, the embers lit up the night like a school of fireflies. When we were kids, we would catch fireflies and put them in jars. Watch them light their tails, until

“You want another log for the fire?” I asked. “No,” he replied, and he jabbed the ashes one last time. I figure it’s about time to head up. We both looked at the house; the light in the window went out. “Yup, we need to put this all to bed, he said.”

“She’ll be gone by morning. I’ll need to make arrangements and such. Thanks,” he said. A tear still hung in his eye, and he extended his hand for me to shake. The flames died, and the last of the burning ashes changed from red to grey to black. We fell into darkness, and somehow we both knew that, in more ways than we could understand, this was the end. An Unremarkable Death by Zach Owen She is a beautiful member of her species—long legs, radiant eyes, fine hair, and a plump eightmillimeter body. She does not have her own name, but only a name that all of her kind carry: Musca domestica, otherwise known as the common housefly. Today She scavenges for food, hoping to quell Her appetite and to feed the children, all 150 of them. They’re still just pups, white little maggots left safely half-buried in a pile of dog shit somewhere behind a broken down tractor. It is strange

to Her, though, that none of Her friends or mates are in sight. Normally by this hour they are sharing feces and discussing their day. Still, dinner must be gathered (and vomited back up a few times). So She surveys the kitchen as She flies carelessly about. The enemy, strange two-legged giants, have become lazy in their attempts to kill Her and Her kind. Once, they had swatted flies to death and sprayed them down, but lately they have relented, and mostly just sit quietly watching their colorful box as it spits out flashes of light. She remembers a time when She witnessed a close friend crushed beneath one of the giants’ weapons, a strange limb that extended from the beast’s hand, with a broad flat structure on the end. For several seconds She had sat watching in horror, struck dumb with anxiety, before realizing that She too could meet death from the cruel flattening thing if She waited any longer. So She changed positions in a few milliseconds, and took off to warn Her community. In a week, they were so wary of the flattener that they never gave the giants a chance to pick it up. As soon as they spied the enemy advancing towards the flattener, they would take off and leave the towering monsters befuddled and red-faced. But the giants constructed a new death device, a large glowing building that buzzed noisily. When clouds masked the sun, the building’s glow intensified and the entrancing lights beckoned to be touched. It was more beautiful than anything She had seen. Many of Her friends admired the bizarre temple of lights, watching from a distance. The treasure was encased by some kind of fence, with gaps large enough to fly through. Some of them decided to put aside their fear; the light was begging them onward, into the temple. They were dead in an instant. A bolt of wicked lightning flung itself forth from inside the temple and killed its admirers. Yet, the lights were so powerful that many a fly couldn’t turn away from its unkind beauty. The body count rose. Only one fly survived the light.

This fly was quite old and unlike any other. He’d lived longer than a month, which was unheard of. The temple’s lightning gave him great pain but did not kill him; nothing could silence his will to live. To other flies he was a teacher and a prophet. He foretold of a great new trap that the giants would leave for them in the days to come. But for once, they thought him wrong. Nobody had spotted a new invention created to erase the fly population. And the time passed and no sign or omen of death presented itself. Over time, She stopped being superstitious and overly cautious. *** So far She’s done quite well for Herself, and Her recently spawned children are well fed. She loves to watch the gelatinous white pups wriggle excitedly when She comes back to spit their dinner up for them. The thought of food makes Her feel discomfort. She is famished. But the kitchen is empty—not a crumb in sight. Every surface has been wiped clean, and no scrap of food remains for Her to ingest. Wait! How had She missed it? All of Her friends are in the middle of the room, congregating on a long papery structure that hangs from the ceiling. Perhaps they can tell Her where all the food has gone to. She dives for the paper and feels Her excitement grow. There are mass numbers of Her friends and family clumped together. But why are they so silent? It is too late to question this and turn away, for She finds herself stuck to the paper. She begins to wiggle and squirm frantically, attempting to loosen Herself. She calls out to the other flies but they are still. They seem frozen in place, no movement in their limbs. Their responses are impossible because they are dead. She sees this now, as they lie motionless in awkward and unnatural positions. Trying to calm Herself, She looks around to see if there is some weakness to the sticky surface She is glued to. Instead, She sees the wise fly, his ancient, bloated body just above Her own. Panic strikes Her, and

She begins to let hysteria take hold, convulsing spastically. The wise fly was right, after all, and now here he is: dead. What does this mean? Is it fate? Is inescapable death looming on the horizon? She lays motionless and begins to weep, feeling alien chemicals seep into Her body and begin to poison Her organs. A subtle sense of pain is stirring inside of Her. It begins to intensify gradually. While She waits for death, She thinks of Her children. Who will take care of them? Who will nurture them and make sure they make it through metamorphosis and become healthy, full-grown adults? The paper above Her is covered with an incredible amount of flies. She knows that this will be a holocaust. There will be no more families, no more life here. It is the end of civilization. She watches as a giant enters the kitchen, his huge feet thumping on the ground and sending boneshattering echoes into the air. He has something in his hands. It is more of the sticky paper. She watches him hang it from the ceiling and waits for other flies to find death. Even though they are distant, she feels she can hear the cries of Her children. Nothing can extinguish them from Her thoughts as She waits for the poisons to send Her into darkness. A Simple Word Too Easily Said by Bud Koenemund for Kristen Brownell Lord, how can so small a word cause such pain? Indeed, the gift becomes too abstract when Words, easily said, fall like drops of rain On the ocean, and fool even wise men; Oh, how the promises the heart believes, When it dares to hope, break upon the rocks Of high speech—but feelings only conceived— Then sink down into the depths of self-mock; Verses and oaths so quickly lose their worth When once solemn pledges become dilute Through casual repetition and dearth Of the emotion real and absolute. Even sweet words, spoke too oft’, turn sour, And kill the root of this precious flower.

Antoine by Amy Holwerda Antoine goes to work and wipes down tables with dishrags. When the customers leave, he sits alone and watches the late-night news. As the stories of his neighborhood flash sadly on the television screen, he pulls a Winston from behind his ear and lights it, feet resting on a tabletop, pressing his luck into the back legs of the chair he tips. Five years from now, and maybe even ten, Antoine will be working the same job, wiping down the same tables with the same dishrags. He’ll be watching the same stories on the late-night news feeling like he’s seen all there is in this world, even though he’s never left his hometown. He’s traveled to Iraq, Somalia, Kuwait, Sierra Leone, the Sudan, Liberia, and Afghanistan. He’s seen candlelight vigils, Powerball winners, blue-ribbon tomatoes, flash flood warnings, feedthe-children campaigns, red light specials, recalled toys, recalled meat, recalled tires, environmentally friendly cars. He’s seen beached whales. Mad cows. Cloned sheep. Adoptable pets. Smoking chimpanzees. Picket signs raising. Twin towers falling. Gas prices soaring. The stock market crashing. He’s seen his own hands clenched in fists and later embraced in prayer. And yet, with all he’s seen, Antoine doesn’t turn away. He stays. He waits, pressing his luck further into the chair he tips and the Winston lit at his lips. Apparition by Gyllian Davis The barn is silent as a cathedral. In place of stained glass windows, sunlight filters in through the open doors, causing the hay to shine like gold. Instead of Roman arches, thick beams of wood support the high ceiling. There are no statues of saints or the Virgin Mary, but barn swallows sculpt their mud-nests in the rafters. And there is no altar, only a rusting tractor in the corner, blanketed with cobwebs. Dust motes float gently to the floor, like manna from heaven. I had once dreamed of being married in a barn.

When I was a little girl, I would lie on the floor in a halo of itchy straw, swatting away horseflies and staring up at the bright pieces of sky that showed through holes in the roof, envisioning my future wedding. When I closed my eyes the ceremony played like a film in my head, one that I watched over and over again, even throughout adolescence. I would walk down an aisle of hay, barefoot, and the rafters would be decorated with flowers from the nearby meadow. Poppies, buttercups wet with dew, daisies, and lilies-of-the-valley nodding their heads in the breeze of a summer morning. The barn swallows would watch us intently, their beady little eyes blinking, their heads turning curiously from side to side. And when my new husband and I kissed, they would swoop over us, their wings flashing in celebration, and the horses in the stalls would stomp their hooves and whinny. Now the barn is empty. My feet brush softly against the wooden floorboards, stirring up miniature clouds of dust. The swallows have deserted their crumbling nests, and now all that remains is a single barn owl, staring disapprovingly down at me from the rafters. He adjusts his wings and closes his eyes once more. He needs his rest for the time of night when he will pursue mice across a damp field, coasting on his wings, a deadly hunter. I tread softly across the warped boards, as if afraid of waking the barn out of a deep sleep. I can almost hear the noise that has long been absent. The scratching of the chickens in the yard, the roar of the tractor as it sprang to life, the snorting of the horses impatient for their meals. Now the only sound is the creaking of the weathervane as the wind turns it around and around. I sit on a sagging hay bale and fold my hands in my lap as if in prayer. I study the countless scratches on the floorboards, put there by the hooves of generations of cattle, and sink into a day-dream where I hear the clatter of their hooves as they are herded through the barn doors, whisking away flies with their tails. Finally, I lift my eyes and before me is the hayloft, a ladder climbing halfway up the wall to a platform of rotten boards. Once bursting with golden bales, the loft is now sparsely coated with a thin layer of ancient straw. My father used to pitch straw and alfalfa from the loft

down into the stables. Sweat would bead on his forehead and every so often he would clutch his back, his face a grimace of pain. In my mind’s eye I watch him work, and begin to grow drowsy. As the noon sun shifts it comes to a rest on my skin, shining through an open crevice in the wall behind me. I close my eyes and breathe in the familiar smell of hay and old cattle dung. The air is quiet and warm. I lean my head against the wall and let my mind fade away into a gentle sleep. When I awake later in the afternoon, I dimly recall dreaming of the laughter of children. I lift my eyelids, heavy with sleep, and oddly, their laughter still rings in my ears. My gaze turns towards the hayloft and there they are: four sweet little children, giggling as they ascend the ladder. Colorless and nearly transparent, the boys and girls flicker in and out of my vision. The biggest one, a boy, reaches the top of the ladder first and helps the others into the loft. They laugh and frolic in the hay, rolling and jumping and chasing each other. They are difficult to see, and when they run through sunbeams, they vanish entirely. They are clearest in the darker corners of the loft. Their laughter is distant, almost echoing, as if it were coming out of the past. Now, one by one, they jump off the loft into a pile of hay on the floor below, shrieking with laughter. The girls’ dresses billow up like parachutes as they fall. My eyes fill with tears, and I watch as the children I never had dance out the barn door into the sunlight and vanish. Armageddon: The Short Version by Wayne Faust And unless those days should be shortened, no flesh would be saved. Matthew 24:22 And so it began… All the armies of Earth met in one place. On one side were the Americans and their allies.

On the other side were the Chinese, backed by the Muslim countries and some others. It might have been about oil, and it might have been about religion, but this is the Short Version. Suffice to say that it was Armageddon, the climactic event in all of human history. The top American general was named Wally, a nickname for William Wallace. He’d been named after the Scottish hero in the movie Braveheart, played by Mel Gibson. Wally’s parents had liked movies. The top Chinese general was named Wu Zhi. He didn’t have a nickname. Or a movie. The two men faced each other across the Plain of Megiddo at the End of Days. America and the world had finally signed a treaty getting rid of all nukes. There were internet stories that America had retained some in Mayfield, Iowa, of all places, but that was just a rumor. So this would be a conventional war—the true Mother of All Battles. But things didn’t go as planned… In the opening salvo, America fired off the first wave of Cruise Missiles. Then the Chinese did the same. Nothing happened. Impossibly, both waves of missiles simply disintegrated upon firing. Plodding ahead, the Americans next launched some bunker-busting drones, which had worked well in Afghanistan. But they too disintegrated upon take-off. The Chinese fired a secret laser weapon from one of their satellites. It blinked out like a light bulb. In his command bunker, General Wally stared wide-eyed at the wall screen. Some of his aides whispered that it was the hand of God reaching down to stop this war. But Wally wasn’t religious. He thought it might be a Chinese computer virus. But their weapons weren’t working either.

No time to speculate. Wally ordered his tanks forward. So did the Chinese. The ground rumbled for a moment and then went silent. The tanks had disintegrated around their crews. It was even worse when both sides ordered in their bombers. They disappeared on the runways, leaving their pilots in midair to comically drop down onto the tarmac like cartoon characters. General Wally ground his teeth. The war was half an hour old, and already he was running out of options. “Send the Marines!” he almost shouted. But what was the point? Every gun, hand grenade, and weapon had disintegrated. All the Marines could do was go for a walk. “Get me the President,” growled Wally. The President came on the line. Wally asked for permission to activate Mayfield. The internet rumors had been true. There was a big argument between Wally and the President. But this is the Short Version so we have to move on. Eventually, Wally got permission to launch the secret nukes. The Chinese had secret nukes, too, of course, in Lanzhou Province. They launched them at the same time. The world should have ended right there. But the missiles blinked out on radar screens. “Son of a bitch,” said General Wally. “兒子的婊子,” said Wu Zhi. There was just one thing left to do. “Send for my jeep!” shouted Wally to his aide, Corporal Theodore. Wally climbed the metal stairs to the surface. It was eerily quiet as he gazed across the vast Plain of Meggido. A large dust cloud marked where two million enemy soldiers waited. Wally had a million

soldiers of his own behind him, now completely impotent. A bird chirped. His driver, Corporal Rutherford, pulled up behind the wheel of the only jeep left in the army. Wally had modeled his career after George S. Patton, played by George C. Scott in the movie, so he needed a jeep. “Thanks for coming, Lumpy,” said Wally. “Where to, Sir?” asked Rutherford. “Forward,” said Wally, pointing toward the enemy lines. Rutherford swallowed hard as they pulled away from the bunker. It was a pleasant evening. A gentle breeze drifted down from the high country. A nice day for Armageddon. As they traversed the vast plain, Wally wondered what was really going on. There were no battle simulations for something like this. Rutherford slowed the jeep and pointed. On top of a small rise in the very middle of the vast plain was a lone figure, wearing the uniform of a Chinese Army officer. As the jeep crept closer, Wally gasped, “My God, it’s Wu Zhi. Stop the jeep.” The Chinese general gazed down at them like an evil statue, hands folded in front of him. Wally knew this was the defining moment of his life. The way he handled himself here would be written about in history books for a thousand years. He stepped out and began to walk toward the Chinese general, about a hundred yards away. Far in the distance, a wolf howled. Wally crested the rise and came face to face with his adversary. The man was a lot taller than Wally had expected. Like Wally, he wore an empty sidearm holster. The two men stared into each other’s eyes. Wally felt like Patton, facing down Rommel in the desert. One last doubt crossed Wally’s mind. Maybe there was a reason for all of this. Maybe God really did want everybody to just get along… But Wally wasn’t religious.

Wally offered his right hand to Wu Zhi, flashing him the most sincere smile he could manage. Wu Zhi hesitated, and then finally reached out his own right hand. It was just what Wally had been waiting for. Wally reared back with his left hand and punched Wu Zhi in the nose as hard as he could. The sound echoed like a gunshot across the Plain of Megiddo. Wu Zhi fell back, his nose bloody and dripping. He prepared to retaliate. And so it began… Again. And We Danced by Annmarie Lockhart Our first night, we danced and you told me I reminded you of someone; neither of us mentioned we were seeing other people. Our last night, we drank and your friends pulled us apart; you told me what scared you and slipped beer-top rings on my fingers. Aubade in c: A Story About Breakfast by Travis King Morning. The rising sun shines through the glass of a sliding door and through the slats of the vertical blinds covering it. This door separates the wide outdoors from the insular comfort of the ranch-style house in which Kathryn and Raymond Livewell have made their home these past fifteen years. The two sit across from each other, each eating with mechanical motion their masses of instant oatmeal from cheap ceramic bowls. This is metaphor. Take, for instance, the oatmeal itself—a very obvious metaphor for life, which is soft and chewy and

tastes rather of oats— No. That’s not it. I mean to say, of course, that this oatmeal is a metaphor because it can be too hot or too cold or just right— No again. Too vague. Too simplistic. Think of it this way instead: It’s all about Scotland and how oatmeal there isn’t the same as it is here in . . . er, something about variety, see— Okay. Forget the oatmeal metaphor. They’re eating goddamn Life cereal. And as they eat, the cereal becomes soggy and the milk grows warm, and they avoid each other’s eyes, focusing on the newspaper, or the clock on the wall, or even the wall itself. Or on their spoons. They focus much attention on their spoons. Time passes. Not a lot, but enough. 400 seconds have passed since a particular group—no special group, but a particular group nonetheless—of photons launched themselves from the sun toward the earth at the universal speed limit: 299,792,458 meters per second, c. This is of no conscious concern to Kath and Ray (as they call each other), but it’s important. Kathryn has very little milk left in her bowl and only one square of cereal. She looks at the square, letting her gaze rest for a while, and then, with a flicker, her eyes focus on her spoon. With her left hand, for she is left-handed (this too is important), she swirls the spoon slowly around the bowl, once, twice, thrice, stirring up a whirlpool that is small and insignificant to her but oh-so-large and threatening to the small, soggy, tattered bit of processed and enriched grains that is her food. Perhaps if she had ever experienced existence as a piece of cereal, she would not be doing this; perhaps she would see it for what it is: unnecessary and wanton torture inflicted upon the helpless viand before it meets its end. Then again, perhaps not. 499 seconds have passed since those photons left the sun. Kathryn’s just about to snatch up the cereal with her spoon, when that very stream of photons passes between two of the slats of the blinds. It passes through a very narrow slit, since Raymond prefers them closed and allows Kathryn to

open them only slightly during breakfast. It passes through a very narrow slit, and it strikes the amethyst stone set into her engagement ring, a silver ring that she still wears nestled up against the much more expensive but less visually impressive platinum band that marks her as Raymond’s wife. It reminds her of something she has been wanting to say, something she knows she must say. She forms the words in her mind. “Ray . . . we never make love anymore. Hell, we hardly ever touch anymore! What’s wrong with this relationship?” She has many questions, but she’s afraid to ask them for fear of the answers. What if he says he doesn’t love her? What then? What would she do? “Ray . . . we never make love anymore. Hell, we hardly ever touch anymore! What’s wrong with this relationship?” The question plays over and over and over in her head, like a goddamn advertising slogan, until she can no longer stand it, until the words are a cacophonous roar drowning out everything else— no longer a slogan, but an emergency broadcast warning of the storm she can already sense descending around her. “Ray . . . we never make love anymore. Hell, we hardly ever touch anymore! What’s wrong with this relationship? Don’t you love me? I love you.” “I love you, too, dear,” says Raymond, his voice flat. Kathryn’s eyes widen. She doesn’t know what to say next. She stares at her husband, whose face is hidden in shadow as he gazes at the Entertainment section of the newspaper. He’s reading an opinion piece about celebrity divorces. The writer of the piece has expressed how terrible it is that these celebrities don’t respect the institution of marriage, that they marry for prestige or money or lust or anything but love, that they’re no small part of the reason family values are going to hell. Raymond’s not sure celebrities have that much power to influence social institutions, but he does find it sad that so many of those Hollywood types

are so distracted by the superficial, by the small, unimportant things like fame and wealth, that they can’t see what they have before them. He finishes the piece, closes the newspaper, glances at his watch. “Well,” he says. “Time to go. Gotta get to the bank before the employees. Money, after all, doesn’t manage itself.” It’s the same thing he says every day. He stands. Without a glance at Kathryn, he walks away. As soon as she hears the front door close, Kathryn stands, too. She considers opening the blinds. She likes the bright natural light of the sun and the warmth it offers. But there’s no point. She won’t even be in the room. She removes the bowls from the table—hers and his—and steps up to the kitchen, where she places the dishes in the sink. She heads off to the bedroom. To go back to sleep, perhaps, or to fantasize about another life and another man, or to pack her bags and run away. I can’t say. This is a story about breakfast. Breakfast is over. Be sure to close the hatch, for that which follows… by Darren Hawbrook The thought occurred some twenty minutes after he returned from his foray outside. Grubb threw down the ripe, green fruit he had scavenged from the jungle and froze with fear, mouthfuls of mulch filling his cheeks. It must have been tiredness, a mind devoid of company for six months that allowed him to make this most rudimentary of errors—one never to be made after nightfall. And it was dark now.

From the cockpit he had watched the sunset ebb through colours of purple to phantom green, before blackness enveloped everything. Only then did he seal the storm shutters on the stricken vessel. That was his ritual. Surprising, then, he had forgotten to close the outside hatch on his return. His whiskered cheeks twitched—the reflex to chew stronger than the prescient sense of danger that stiffened the rest of his body. He spat his food out and froze, disquieting thoughts arresting his breath momentarily. Silence hung in the air, and time itself appeared to disintegrate. Turning sharply, he grabbed his laser from the console panel and started to run. His desperate footfalls reverberated through the metal corridors; shadows lived and died in the glow of the permalights, sourcing their power from the auxiliary cells. At the first hint of cool air seeping in through the hatch, he arrested his stride and readied his laser. The nocturnal world had woken. Harsh sounds issued from the jungle, the calls of a thousand different life forms aware of his presence there. He heaved the hatch shut and slumped to the floor, his shoulders resting against the sixteen-inch hull of the vessel, and remained there for some considerable time, wondering if anything had gotten in. Finally, he returned to the cockpit and picked at the remaining fruit, his appetite more or less gone. A red LED flashed away on the central panel, an SOS that had transmitted its weak signal for six months, barely penetrating into space. Six months. Had it really been that long since the failed landing? He laughed, regretfully. Keltia IV’s quarantine status ensured them no interference from the galactic authorities. It also meant there’d be little hope of rescue if anything went wrong. And now the three quantaines of Lodianz crystals stashed in the Bronitum’s hold were worthless to him, for anyone picking up his SOS was likely to be a smuggler or drug-runner, and take the haul for themselves. Of course, Grubb hadn’t been the one to suggest such a harsh alien world to stash their cargo on. That had been Luger, captain of the Brontium, a decision seconded by the remaining member of their tertiary, Carlos Salcido. And they had both

failed to return from the jungle before the sun had set on their third day. Still, he was here now… No point in going over the past. A noise not in keeping with the regular creaking of the hull arrested Grubb’s attention. He held still, straining to hear; it came again, a firm clank and then a dragging noise, repeating itself at short intervals, each time a little louder…a little nearer. He tightened his grip around the pistol. Something had gotten in. He retreated behind a collapsed column that had previously housed the ship’s air circulation pumps and waited, his finger resting on the trigger. Peering down the corridor, it seemed like darkness itself had crept in through the open hatch. One by one the permalights blinked out, overtaken by a creeping gloom that drained the light and energy from the lamps. Clunk, drag. Clunk, drag. Grubb stared into the darkness. The lights dimmed around him, offered up a final flicker, and went out. He brandished his weapon blindly, his head lolling from side to side, trying to locate the direction from which the awful clunking sound was coming—and then the breath, the hot dank breath of something alien touched his skin. It was warm and unpleasant, unmistakably wild. He rolled away instinctively, unloading several rounds that exploded in bursts of fragmentary energy against the interior hull. The plasma glow that accompanied each blast afforded him enough visibility to mark out the stalking anomaly bearing down on him. His primitive instinct to survive streamed out in a constant flow of protons, his finger held relentlessly on the trigger, until a warning light flashed to indicate his ammunition was almost spent. And still it came. He ceased his fire. Sparks of energy flitted capriciously and died. The realization almost crippled him. There lived on this planet something so terrible that the first men that came here condemned it and left, never to return. He stood there, fixedly, in a rare moment of calm, and heard his stalking death moving nearer in that

same shambling manner: clunk, drag; clunk, drag. He primed his weapon one last time, pressed the warm barrel to his forehead and pulled the trigger, departing the world in a searing glow of atoms before the darkness could possess him. Bleed Out by Matt Chupp You’re 15 and riding in the back of an ambulance for the first time. It’s mid-June and hot like the inside of an oven. You’ve spent much of your life bleeding for one reason or another, but never this much, never this fiercely. You see panic in the small-town paramedic’s gray eyes and know you should feel pain, but there’s only a chilling numbness. You see his lips moving and hear a faint, distant buzzing in your ears. He presses his thumb down on your forearm, choking off the flow of blood to the radial artery while he packs your right wrist and hand with dry gauze. He retightens the tourniquet he put in place before hauling you into the ambulance. His lips move again. It sounds like an ocean is sloshing around inside your head. “What year is it?” you manage to make out. “Am I underwater?” you think you answer. He bites his lower lip and continues to apply pressure. You don’t think to ask if you’re dying. As the drive lengthens, the adrenaline fades, and your mad-thumping heart slows its beat. You close eyes blazing green yet sprinkled with redness. An abrupt, powerful shake jolts them back open. “Don’t close your eyes,” Gray Eyes says. Easy for him, you think; he’s not as tired as you. You grow angry at him in that moment. In your anger, adrenaline reignites, and you begin to listen, to feel. You rock gently around in the back of the ambulance as it starts and stops in what you imagine to be heavy midday traffic. The dullness in your ears pops like your airplane just descended, and you’re suddenly able to hear the roar of the siren overhead and the honk of the horn out front. Clarity returns. You wonder where your dad is; wasn’t he supposed to pick you up from driver’s ed? You ask Gray Eyes. He seems surprised and

pleased that your words, though spoken slowly, aren’t slurred. “He’s following close behind us,” he says. “He’ll meet us at the hospital.” Gray Eyes and his partner, a tall white man with yellowing teeth he flashes in an encouraging smile, wheel you into the ER. The doctor, a petite, unassuming woman with glasses and short-cropped brown hair, helps them pull you into a private room down a side hall. She listens as the paramedics recount what’s happened. Then she takes a look. “Dipshits,” she exclaims, shaking her head. “Why would you use dry gauze? The blood’s already clotting.” She looks at your dad, who you only now realize is standing next to you, and then at you, eye to eye. The paramedics mumble an apology and leave. “This is going to hurt,” the doctor says. You nod and scrunch your face while your dad grasps your left hand and tells you to be strong. Someone, maybe a random nurse, tightens the tourniquet even more. Firm hands lock down your right arm, and someone starts to peel back the makeshift bandages. You’re assailed by a sensation like tearing muscle. You scream. It stops briefly, then continues. More screams. Tears leak out under closed lids. You raise them, blinking to clear your vision. The jagged wound is exposed to the air and the doctor’s scrutiny. “I have to check for glass shards,” she says after a time. “This is going to hurt more.” You appreciate and hate her honesty. The pain is jolting. Nerve endings—some of which you’ve diced like tomatoes—fire off simultaneously. Your arms, chest, legs, stomach, neck—it all clenches brutally. You crush your dad’s supportive hand in a vice-like grip. You try and scream, but it can’t force itself out of your constricted throat. To your ears, it sounds like a cat being choked, but you feel like you’re the one choking. You begin to sweat, even as the chill is replaced by burning ice. You don’t know how long it lasts, only that it stops as the edges of your vision start to go black. “You’re doin’ real good,” your dad whispers. A bead of his sweat falls and strikes your forehead. “Real good.” Eight hazy hours later, after jamming a block nee-

dle into your armpit, they wheel you into what’s supposed to be a reasonably simple surgery. Instead, they find much more damage than expected, and you feel your arm start to tingle after seven hours under the microscope. The block holds, and the stitches pull without pain as the surgeon closes the wound. Someone wheels you into recovery. Meanwhile, all you can think about is how your bladder is about to rupture. You croak out your need to a nurse on duty, and she places a bottle into your left hand. You look at it forlornly, knowing you’re not up to the task. She seems to recognize this, too, and slips your flaccid penis into the opening. You’d crack a joke if only you could frame the words. You wake up—minutes? hours? days?—later in an unfamiliar bed. Your right arm is heavily bandaged and elevated. The sun shines in through bleachwhite curtains. You hope to hear birds chirping in the trees outside, but only the noise of car horns and crowds filter in. Familiar faces surround you. Knowing only how to be brave, you hide your vulnerability in a slanted smile. August by Amy Ellis The waves formed holes in the sand where our feet stood and we lay in them like shallow graves, letting the salt water rush over us as our skin browned in the August sun. Our hair caught salt and sand, matting up and tangling together as the ground washed away from under us. We formed tide pools and caverns. We displaced water, air and earth as we caught our skin on fire and let it burn. Book of Gardens by Val Gryphin Psalm I – The Apple: Lament of the Sacrifice Grandmere, Grandmere! I must speak with you. I— I apologize, Grandmere, I have spoken rudely. Please forgive me.

Yes, the goats are fed. And I brought in wood. It is about Gentleman. He is coming here tonight to ask if he might employ me. Yes, I know it is a wonderful chance, but please, you must listen to me. When I speak with him, his eyes, they hunger for things forbidden. When I move, he watches me, and when I speak to him, he has the oddest smile. No, he has never been less then gentlemanly to me, but I have spoken to other boys who have been in his employ. Even those who are still with him whispered to me of his perversions, and the ones who have left tell me of their nightmares. No, Grandmere, they are honest. I know they are telling the truth. Grandmere, please, he wants more than I—more than he has a right to demand. There must be another way for us to survive. Grandmere! I— Of course I do not wish you to die! I have always done whatever it took to care for you. But this is not the only way. I cannot— Please, Grandmere, don’t cry. I am not turning my back on you. I just— Someone is at the door. Yes, I will answer it. Psalm II – The Snake: Song of the Deceptor Good evening, Grandmere. Greetings, Young One. How are you both this fine night? I am happy to find you at home. How is your health Grandmere? Ah, good to hear, good to hear. Is it not wonderful how well the people are doing? Even with the drought everyone has enough to eat. Oh, don’t be silly. It is my pleasure to aid my fellow man. I feel it my duty to help where I am needed. Ah, you are too kind, too kind. But I am not here to

talk about what I have accomplished; that would be pointless. I am here to offer your grandson a position in my household. From what I hear, Young One is very good at aiding in the daily tasks of the household. Yes, it is a wonderful opportunity. My manservant is leaving to marry after the harvest, so I will also be seeking a new boy to aid me in my daily grooming. Ah, I do understand that you need someone to care for you. Let me assure you that you will be well compensated for letting me employ your grandson. I will see that you never want for food, nor clothing, nor anything your heart desires. And Young One will be given frequent holidays so you will not grow lonely. Oh nonsense, Grandmere, it is not a favor; I am pleased to do it. Do we have an agreement? Excellent. I’m glad we see eye to eye. Young One, come to my house early on the morrow and we will settle you in your new home. I bid you good evening, Grandmere. Goodnight, Young One. Psalm III – Adam: Requiem of the Complacent Ahh, that went well. See? This is a good thing for you, Young One. Yes, yes, you will be well taken care of, and I will die safe and warm in my own home. Tish! You know there is no other way for you to provide for us in this village. Gentleman’s offer is most generous. Come now, you know that even if you farmed you would not be able to provide for me as I should be provided for. This drought has practically killed our land, and the best you can do is eek out a meager harvest each year. Ah, and maybe he will offer to pay a dowry for some fine young woman so you can marry, as he has for so many other boys. Then you will have a wife who will care for me in my old age. Do not disrespect Gentleman! I am sure he will

treat you as nothing less than a son. Ack, those other boys! They are simply troublemakers. They are just upset that they are no longer sheltered under Gentleman’s wing. It is their own fault, you know. If they hadn’t disrespected such a good man, they still might be living there. No, not another word. You sound like a little girl. This is the best thing that could have happened for us, you will see. Titch! Don’t weep. It is unseemly for a young man to cry. Bottling Frank by Kate Brown It was Ada’s New Year’s resolution, the climax to last minute Christmas shopping. As usual, Frank had ogled the peroxide blonde with baby-blue eye shadow who worked at the checkout. As usual, when he handed over his debit card, he bragged about how he’d been in the marines. As usual, Ada felt her heart turn cold. But this time, contrary to the normal flow of events—Ada looking bashful and pretending it wasn’t happening—a gentle palpitation thrilled through her body. Hearts were meant to be warm, Ada’s heart told her. If she didn’t do something about it soon, hers would turn to stone. Ada ordered a giant size bottle from an online curiosity store. She had worked as a lab technician at a hospital in her youth and was familiar with the use of formaldehyde as a preservative. She cheered herself with the knowledge that not many prospective murderesses would be as practically well prepared as she. On New Year’s Eve, just as the clocks were set to chime, when Frank had already almost done the job for her, half-pickled on cheap sherry, Ada put a plastic bag over his head. The death blow, if you could call it that, was surprisingly easy. It reminded her of watching her grandmother drown an unwanted litter of kittens. She squeezed Frank into his new home before rigor-mortis set in. A trip to a local art gallery sufficed to give Ada an idea of what to do with the body. “Husband in a Bottle,” she named the work, as Frank set sail for

the last time down the river Thames. Crumbs in the Recliner by Dave Davis What a wonderful thing it is to live in a free society. Every man has his castle to do with what he will, depending, of course, on the zoning laws where every man lives. In my neighborhood, for example, I cannot so much as build a shed or park a boat in my driveway without express written consent from that warren of wizards known as the township zoning board—an all-powerful body imbued with an unerring sense of what is good for us and bad for our community. Every night, on my knees, I thank god for their unassailable wisdom. My castle is made of sturdy red brick—small, but as my son described it once for a school writing assignment, cozy. Hearing him refer to our non-descript, perfectly rectangular, semi-level 1,200-square-foot abode in such a term assuaged some of the guilt I felt—and still feel—for not measuring up to the many fathers of my son’s friends who provided for their families in ways that I either could not or would not. It is a mark of my selfishness that I never thought of those fathers who did less or had less. What a wonderful thing is capitalism, offering us, torturing us, alluring us with an endless and everchanging variety of choices. As an economic philosophy, capitalism achieved its greatest expression in television advertising of the fifties and sixties, mesmerizing the Baby Boomers, the first generation to grow up in front of the TV set, with dreams of lives we could only live vicariously through the purchase of things we did not need but had to have. The living room was the womb of our existence, television the focal point of our universe, and commercials our oracle. Our parents, somehow shamed by memories of a Great Depression, of which they were victims and not perpetrators, longed not to deprive us of our hearts’ desires. Baby Boomers were America’s first spoiled generation; though, in our advanced age, we often choose to view our youth in the light of what we didn’t have rather than what we did

have. In the midst of my castle sits a recliner, the symbol of my familial authority, the showpiece of my wealth. Enter into homes all over America—rich, poor, and in-between—and you will find the ubiquitous recliner, capitalism’s great equalizer. And in front of my recliner a high definition, flat screen TV. Oh yes, I need high definition. Being able to see that shadow of a mustache on the over-styled, infinitely coifed morning show lady is priceless. And below the high definition, flat screen TV sits an overblown sound system so powerful I can call down the wrath of neighbors who do not understand that volume is not simply our generation’s birthright but a necessity. So, in my castle I sit, enthroned upon my recliner, watching TV shows crammed between an endless parade of commercials. And, as I did when I was a child of the fifties, I eat and watch, eat and watch, enjoying the fruits of capitalism, the benefits of living in a free society. Into my recliner fall the crumbs of my abundance. Peanuts, popcorn, chips, cheese snacks, candy, cookies—things I do not need but must have—the daily droppings of my luxurious life—the blessing and bane of my generation. Flashlight Tag by Kim Klugh Children of Summer you flit in the twilight you flicker through thick summer air like fireflies filling the yard you flash signals, send secrets in code SOS fashion—one blink sent, two blinks back a language based on glimmering lights— on, off, on, off, on, on, off flecks of light land on dew-laden grass blades, the drive-way, a splintered fence post, a broad flat stone, entwined honeysuckle vines hours later on the shadowless lawn darkness swallows each of you

and your bodies soak up starlight and fallen moonbeams glowing deep in the folds of sleep. Deductive Reasoning by Maulik Shah Jane Watson roamed the stacks, looking for the one book that she still needed. This branch of the London Public Library was vast and cavernous, and the classification system here was arcane. The musty smell of the rarely opened tomes was overwhelming as she stifled her need to cough. She turned the corner and spied the title that she was looking for waiting on a shelf. With a small cry of victory she seized it. She made her way back to the table where she was working. As she sat down amidst the array of papers and books spread out in front of her, she was startled to hear someone clearing their throat behind her. She jerked her head around to see a wizened man with barely recognizable features meet her gaze. He was easily the oldest person that Jane had ever seen. He was sitting at a nearby table, in front of an opened book, his gnarled hand resting on an ornate cane that lay beside him. On the seat next to him lay a well-worn cap, an old-fashioned sort which Jane couldn’t make out. “I see you’re studying the different forms of plant poisons in Northern England,” the man croaked, looking at her newfound prize. “It’s for my graduate thesis,” she said, wondering at this old specimen of a man before her. Although the man’s face with obscured with layers of wrinkles, the one feature that was still bright were the eyes that shone through. “You should check out the Rhymes book on the subject; it’s the definitive work.” He indicated the book that was sitting in front of him. “You’re welcome to it, if you like.” “I’ve been looking for that!” she replied. “I gathered you might.” “Well, thank you. Sorry, let me introduce myself.

My name is Jane Watson. I’m a doctoral student in Botany at Cambridge.” She proffered her hand. The man took it with a surprisingly firm grip. “Watson, eh? I knew a Watson. Couldn’t have been a relation, he didn’t have any children. My name, young lady, is Sherlock Holmes.” Jane chuckled. “Sherlock Holmes? Your parents must have been real mystery buffs.”

“It’s true, nonetheless.” Jane thought for a moment. “Well, there’s no way for you to really prove it. Even if you could do your Holmesian magic and divine something through observation and deduction.” “In fact, I can already tell much about you.”

“On the contrary, you misunderstand. I am the Sherlock Holmes. You may have read about me.”

“Really? What could you tell about me from meeting me for five minutes?” she said.

Jane laughed out loud, her voice echoing around the stacks. “You’re the Sherlock Holmes? Sure.”

“You are twenty-seven years old, and you’re a graduate student in the school of science,” he said evenly. “You have a dog named Max, and you were born in Liverpool. You have two brothers, and your parents have a store near Wembley.”

“I assure you, madam. I am not joking,” he said, not smiling. “You’re real? You’re not just a character in a story?” “Yes, Ms. Watson. I’m real. The Watson that I knew wrote about our adventures, until we parted our ways.” “It’s impossible! You must be over a hundred, at least. Nobody lives that long.” “One hundred forty-four, actually. As I’ve been quoted saying, my dear, when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Jane crossed her arms in front of her. “Right. You’re the real Sherlock Holmes. How do you explain that?” Holmes leaned forward conspiratorially. “I retired earlier this century to take up a hobby of mine, beekeeping. I discovered a rather startling property of the queen bee’s jelly—Royal Jelly, as you might have heard it called. Once prepared properly and ingested in just the right way, it’s a remarkable curative.” Jane vaguely remembered reading a Holmes story about his retirement somewhere. Could this really be the original Sherlock? she thought. “I see you’re still skeptical, young lady.”

“It’s hard to believe, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How did you know all this?” she exclaimed, delighted and frightened at the same time. The old man hadn’t lost any of his legendary acumen. “Was it what I’m wearing? My manner of speech? What?” “It’s elementary, my dear Watson,” he said dryly, holding up his Blackberry. “I just googled you.” Diana by Preet Kaur A dreamless night, that night. My eyes buzzed and itched. I rubbed them while waiting at the void deck. For five pitiful minutes I watched as the last buses deposited late-night commuters. Then an old friend picked me up, and we drove up and down highways, like bums with nothing better to do. I must have closed my eyes, because I didn’t notice when the neighborhoods disappeared and the big roads appeared, roads which were bright as daylight. The hum of the air conditioner masked sounds of cars zipping by. Rushing to funerals and anniversaries, they must be, for nothing else could account for such dangerous speeds. All ahead the road stretched, yawning across tar and smoke and plume, like a scene from a nineteenth century industrial novel, only now the factories were invisible erections on a landscape made to look like

a permanent green garden planted with luscious artificial trees standing tall and endlessly waiting in vain for a new cycle, a new Armageddon, a release from this mechanical setup. In a bubble of safety from the humid air without, a pleasant lull occupied the cool silence of the car. Someone was telling a story or a joke on the radio. Three men in a bar: an Indian, a Malay, and a Chinese. My eyes buzzed some more. I brushed my hair, feeling for a rough bump of the occasional dry skin and pulling it out of the soft strands. Cramped for space, the bits of skin pushed out and became tiny dandruff hills. I wondered if my keys were in the bag. Then I wondered about the Portuguese author and his story where death disappeared for seven months and the old age homes were full of the stench of scented powder and urine, which is exactly what old people smell of. I know this because an old man had fallen asleep next to me in the library the day before, and I wasn’t sure whether he was sleeping or dead, he looked so peaceful, and I was just on my way to alert a librarian when he stirred or snored—I can’t remember—so I continued reading. But I remember his smell, like newspapers left out in the rain. Below that a lace of ammonia. Outside, glaring headlights pierced brightly, and their heat penetrated the glass windows. The afternoon rain had left a mist hanging over trees and under street lamps, gathering flies in a tropical nighttime ritual. As my hand moved mechanically within the maze of my head, I wondered if we had suddenly, unknowingly, crossed over from that world to this one. There is something uncanny about being protected in the cushion of a steel shell. I wondered if it might not be that we were still and the world, instead, moved and maneuvered about this car as though our destination were the center of all activity, the penultimate motivation for the existence of this world and its occupants. “Look,” he said, pointing upwards while he rounded a sharp bend. At first I didn’t see. His voice had sounded strange and frightened me, so I stared at his face instead and tried to recognize this stranger. And then I looked up and saw her, mighty Diana brighter than all the earth. Gathered around her were oddly contorted fluffy battleships with holes in their masts and husks, sailing in the

wind, the wind tattering their sails. Her glittering pupil shadowed the perfect circle of her eye, and hurt mine. The moon had stolen the glory of her brother, and on the edges of her wispy outline, I could see the Antipodes walking, hard-shelled turtles crawling on soft bellies, rounding up their affairs or just beginning them. I wondered if we mightn’t be on the other side of things, the world up there and us floating about the stars, such that our lights appeared like dying fires by the time we reached them there on the moon. Don’t Bother by Rasmenia Massoud If you feel like you need to read this, don’t bother. It won’t provide a satisfying explanation. It won’t make anyone feel better about what’s happened here today. You won’t be comforted. I won’t be redeemed. Our parents will still be dead, and so will I. You’ll still be alone. Lucky you. Are you still reading? You never could do what you were told. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find here. Now would be a good time to find something better to do. Enroll at the community college. Join a gym. Be smarter than your parents. Be stronger than your older brother. Be a greater success than your family. You’ve already outlived us. I’ve given you a head start. What happened was what has happened countless times before. His fists. Her face, big and round, looking like a plum that someone dropped on the pavement. We’ve seen all of it before, but I just got tired of the routine. The same scene, the same excuses from him, the same argument in his defense from her. The same watery eyes looking up at me from that bruised plum, begging me to stop when I did the same thing to him. If you’re still reading this, you’re only wasting time. I haven’t immortalized any words of wisdom here for you. No pieces of brotherly knowledge and experience to take with you. My failure is your disappointment. My big mess is your salvation. The woman who gives me my methadone every day is always so optimistic. She smiles all the time and tells me how great it will be later on, when I’m better. I don’t know what “better” means, but I think

she only says things like that because she doesn’t know that I’ve been selling my methadone. If you’re still reading this because you want to know why, it’s because this is what big brothers do for their little sisters. You’ll get more insurance money and fewer burdens this way. You’re finally free. I’m sure that reading this didn’t bring you any peace. I’m positive that it didn’t win me any forgiveness. I can’t tell you what to do from here on out. But, I can tell you that you won’t have a face like smashed fruit like our mother ever again. You won’t have to bail your older brother out of jail anymore. If you read this looking for answers, they’re not here. Now would be a good time to stop asking questions. Don’t bother. Following Abraham by Jan Smith Do you remember the Christmas we agreed no gifts between us, the year you played Abraham, I played Sarah, the children played hostile and we all became refugees herding our pets and possessions across the Jordan called Route 17

When finally you returned to our tribe, older and wiser, I thought surely your love affair had ended with the graduation season but you said Yahweh’s whisperings had seeped into your very soul bidding you join Him in another place with your loved ones as a sacrifice So we wandered three children, two cats, and one dog to where Jehovah waited and pitched the tents in time to make the youngsters cry for their old school and I cursed myself for not striking you with a household idol to end your talk of a Promised Land That Fall between homesick sobs, I resigned myself to life as a martyred nomad hating your romance and finally you until by Christmas I suggested we not celebrate your lover’s birthday with affectionate tokens to each other knowing all I wanted was to stuff your stocking with books on atheism and God as myth

Your exodus began at forty-seven when you quietly confessed a dalliance with God and I supported this liaison, thinking He seemed a safer object for your mid-life restlessness than a young blonde in a red convertible

You handed me a box anyway and said, in gratitude for this pilgrimage, and for a trembling moment believing in redemption, I opened the accolade and found resting, in a firmament of tissue paper stamped with silvery stars, a vanilla-scented cross

Soon after that you left for seminary to tions, you said, while back at the tent I dren and I could keep to our routines in sweeping porch the home of memories and picnics, of friends and family

A holy car deodorizer, you exclaimed with obvious delight, to hang by a thin gold thread on my rear view mirror, leaving me in aromatic silence to wonder what gift my ancient sister Sarah got to dangle on a camel’s ear, her tribute from Abraham the First for following illusion

be with Him, no distracwaited, grateful the chilthe big pink house with and dreams, of bonfires

Everything but the Man by Loren Arthur Moreno He thought he heard the clicking again. It always woke him at that hour of the night. At two o’clock in the morning. That clicking coming from downstairs, Kenneth’s writing room. The sound of Kenneth’s fingers gliding rapidly over his computer keyboard, writing another one of his stories. Stories of boys who lose their parents to house fires. Stories of gay lovers torn asunder by the ravages of the virus. Stories of fathers and sons and a lifetime of disappointment. He turned to his side and squinted through his sleep-blurred vision. He felt through the crumple of sheets and covers for Kenneth, but he wasn’t there. Over the humming of the air conditioner, he heard the clicking. He knew he heard it. Kenneth should come to bed, he thought. He tossed the covers off his body. He sat up on the edge of the mattress. He stood and felt the cold wood floor under his bare feet. He adjusted the elastic waist of his boxer shorts; they had risen up to his navel. The floor boards creaked as he made his way toward the bedroom door. The hallway was awash in a dull orange glow. Night-lights, a habit from his childhood. They still gave him that sense of motherly protection, though his mother had been dead for years. She had willed his childhood home to him. To him and Kenneth. Her husband wouldn’t have let her do it had he still been alive at the time. Leave the house to their son and his gay lover, that is. He made his way down the stairs. Through the bay of windows in the living room he saw moonlight filtered through the branches of the mango tree. They always kept the windows open, he and Kenneth did. He could smell the scent of Manoa rain, those showers that come at night, as if God is sad. Those showers that keep the valley lush and green and attainable. As he walked toward Kenneth’s writing room, he felt alone, though he knew he heard the clicking, Kenneth’s clicking, so he could not be alone. He came to the door, and it was closed. He opened it to a pitch-dark room. He entered and turned on the light and felt sad. But deep inside he knew to expect it. The room hadn’t changed. He had refused to touch a single thing after Kenneth died. The com-

puter. Papers strewn across the desktop. The overturned cup of pens. Kenneth’s gray cardigan sweater draped over the back of the chair. A bookshelf full of Proust and Joyce and Bronte and Wilde. The photograph of his and Kenneth’s commitment ceremony on a Kauai beach, the pair, younger then, dressed in white linen and draped in ti leaf lei. The room was full of everything but the man. But he thought he heard the clicking. He always thought he heard the clicking. Family Heirloom by Helen Whittaker My grandmother’s house was just as I remembered it. The crunch of gravel on the front path, the lion’s head knocker, the smell of beeswax, and the umbrella stand in the corner of the hall. When I was a child the umbrella stand fascinated me. It had an off-white circular base; ivory, Oma explained—like the piano keys. The umbrella bin was shaped like an umbrella itself, inverted and partially opened. Its spines were ivory, too; and stretched between, forming the fabric of the umbrella, was a translucent beige-coloured material that reminded me of the hide on my bongo drums. Whenever Heike and I stayed with Oma, the umbrella stand was our touchstone. One of us would stand next to it, close our eyes and count to a hundred while the other hid. It was our hiding place for the sweets we smuggled in for midnight feasts. As teenagers, it was where we stashed our make-up. It didn’t take long to clear the house. I got the umbrella stand and the contents of Oma’s bureau. Sorting through her papers the next day, one handwritten letter caught my eye. Sehr geehrte Fräulein Schwartz,

June 14th 1943

Please accept my deepest sympathies. Your late father’s patronage of our work has helped to make this country great. Your own generous donation from your father’s estate will allow us to continue our research for many years to come. Please accept this small token of my appreciation: an umbrella stand, fashioned entirely from waste materials.

Yours, Joseph Mengele Geologic Time by J. Katunich It wasn’t so long ago that she and Keith would sit under the railroad trestle in his truck, parked in the dark and getting drunk on Zimas (for her) and Busch (for him). This time, though, she sat across from him in the truck’s cab, sober and chaste, while he counted in his head precisely how long it had been since the last time they kissed, when the taste of malt in her mouth had seemed to Keith both foreign and stale. It felt as though he was lying when he told himself it had been only three months. It was more like the geologic time he had been learning about in his class at the community college. A kind of time counted in millions of years, though more meaningfully measured, his professor once said, in the laying down of successive strata, one layer over another. Like time itself was being buried, Keith had thought, sitting in the large and nearly empty lecture hall. “Do you have any questions?” she said, and she sounded like a professor herself. It was after all what she’d gone off to school for. To be a professor. In math. Just like her: in a field that only seemed obvious until one looked at it more deeply. Keith was earning a D or worse in pre-calc, although it really didn’t matter whether he failed it, since he had no idea what to major in anyways. She, on the other hand, had an impressive way of mapping out her life that both marveled and scared Keith. She cleared her throat. She was expecting questions from Keith. A dozen or more fat and luscious snowflakes fell on the windshield, and melted instantly from the heat she radiated. Keith did have questions to ask her, and many of them he had wanted to ask her for a very long time. It just never seemed the right time and place, and this of course, in his truck, under the trestle, on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, the day before she flies back to her college on the other side of the country, was the completely wrong time. Keith knew her well enough to tell she was impatient. He knew this from the way she looked three times at her wrist even though she was wearing

no watch. She wanted some response from Keith that showed, at the very least, he had enough interest in her news to ask a question. Although he knew she didn’t want any of the questions he had jostling in his head. Like: “Do you remember the time when we were five and we pulled down our pants and showed our stuff to each other?” Nor: “Did you really kiss Jesse Turner in the back of the church basement, or did the other kids make that up?” And especially not: “Were you really a virgin when we made love the first time or did you just tell me that because you knew I was?” Nor even: “Did it happen the time we came to the trestle at the end of the summer, right before you left, when you were so wild that I knew it was our last?” None of these questions would work, although he’d have to make do and ask something to satisfy her. So he asked: “Will they tell you if it was a boy or a girl?” “Jesus, Keith,” she said, as if his question was sarcasm. “I’ll ask the doctor right after the extraction.” Then she told Keith she needed to get home, she needed to pack, and that when it was all done she’d send him half the bill. “Around $300,” she said. On the drive back through the thickening snow, toward the world of lights, the world of geology classes and calculus, and of airports and clinics, she and Keith passed in silence over the low weathered mountains where they had spent their lives. Keith found himself thinking of the fossils his dad used to find in the rocks, they were these little stars in a round circle of rock, the size of a Life-Saver. His dad would bring them home for Keith from the quarry, and explain how they were shafts of an ancient seaweed. When they dug deep through the rocks, they’d find them all the time, accidental discoveries after three hundred million years buried.

To Keith three hundred million years sounded about right, to leave for forgotten the remains of a life. It sounded about the time, he thought, it would take to get over her.

saying George?”

Free Verse by Richard Soloway

In the reverberating silence that shook the table, my mother put her hand to her head and worried her temples methodically. She raised her right eyebrow and responded: “What about Grandma Ann? Did she know any of this?”

It all depends on means and ends; vers libre is all very well, some think it swell, but Heaven forfend, you should for too long dwell on rhyme and stress, dactyl, antipest and spondee, count all the syllables, oh fucking hell, life’s too short to worry about a trochee. Grandma’s Pumpkin Pie: An Inherited Recipe by Annmarie Lockhart Thanksgiving was traditional enough, with the requisite turkey and stuffing, cranberries and sweet potatoes, the lineup of empty wine bottles. The younger children ran downstairs to play after eating, but my cousin Sarah and I, in high school now, lingered with the adults over dessert plates piled and re-piled with Grandma Ann’s handeddown, liquored-up pumpkin pie. Uncle George and my mother were talking about old family stories, their voices a droning soundtrack to the private thoughts of the absentminded eaters at the table. It wasn’t until Uncle George used the words “speakeasy,” “raid,” “G-men,” and “floozy” all in the same sentence that anyone noticed their conversation. “What the hell are you talking about George?” my mother asked. “Well, didn’t you think it was odd that her name was Dot?” “Dot is short for Dorothy.” “Sure, if you’re from Kansas. But there are no Dorothys in this family.” Uncle George had a point and my mother thought about this for a minute. “Alright, but what are you

“I’m saying our mother, Dot, was named for Dottie Dollar, the dancer Grandpa Charlie was banging at the speakeasy.”

Uncle George just rolled his eyes. Sarah and I looked at each other. I went to the kitchen and opened another bottle of wine. I refilled my mother’s glass first. She drank down half of it and held it up for more. After topping her off, I walked around to Uncle George and poured him another. Aunt Elizabeth and my dad took half a glass each. No one batted an eye as I poured an inch of the garnet liquid into two glasses for Sarah and myself. Aunt Elizabeth brightened. “I almost forgot! I made that chocolate-chip mint ice cream pie you like so much! You know, with the Girl Scout cookie crumb crust?” Aunt Elizabeth scrambled for the kitchen. Uncle George finally spoke. “Margaret, I can’t believe you didn’t know this.” My mother shrugged. My mother looked at Uncle George and asked: “Wasn’t Grandma Ann pregnant when Grandpa Charlie died in the car accident?” “Not exactly.” “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?” Uncle George shook his head. “Margaret, did you spend our entire childhood with your nose in a book? How can you not know any of this? Grandma Ann couldn’t have children. Something about some childhood illness, I don’t know. She was never pregnant.” My mother’s head nearly spun off. “But Dot was born seven months after the accident! The dates work out.” Uncle George waited a slow minute for the truth

to register with my mother. Let it not be said that George wasn’t a patient man.

Handing Down by Ethan Swage

“You’re not saying—”

Hibernal: Grandpa’s hands were meaty and powerful. Even after two heart attacks and a stroke had caused the rest of his body to deteriorate, he could still bend masonry nails with those hands, the way he had when he first met Grandma. He kept a pound box of four-inch Tremonts on his bedside table, next to her picture, and bent them for the grandkids every Sunday when they came to visit. Sometimes they showed him nails that their fathers had hand-bent for them. “Good enough, I suppose,” he said, studying the nails, somber yet beaming inside. “But Grandpa bends them better.” He bent nails to reassure himself that the real David Kindig, not just the lonely old widower his grandchildren knew only as Grandpa, was still alive and robust somewhere within his withered shell. That the wild man who had earned his steelhard reputation long before his grandsons were born was still capable of resurrecting some of the hell he had long ago buried. Every night he fell asleep dreaming that he was back in his mother’s arms, beginning instead of ending, the hands she had always adored still pink and smooth instead of liver-spotted and wrinkled.

“Yes, I am saying.” “Our mother wasn’t—” “No, she wasn’t.” “Our grandmother wasn’t—” “No, she wasn’t.” “Our grandmother was a stripper, not a schoolteacher?” “You got it, sister.” “What does that make Grandma Ann?” “Our adoptive grandmother, I guess.” “Well, what the hell ever happened to Dottie Ditz?” “Dottie Dollar. Yeah, well, things didn’t go so good for her after the accident. She apparently hit the bottle. Pretty hard. She died. Drowned out in the Sound one night. Someone saw her step out of her silver dress and walk out into the water. By the time anyone realized she was gone, well, she was really gone. Her body was never recovered.” Too many thoughts seemed to be swirling around the table as we all sat there considering our misunderstood origins. It was my father that finally put the room to rights. “Let’s not forget those were crazy times. No point getting all worked up about coming from a stripper. Hell, if you knew who I came from Margaret, you’d take the kids and run.” My mother raised her other eyebrow this time and said, “Quite a leap of faith there Steve to think your origins have anything to do with my kids.” As her words stirred up my father’s features into a confused jumble, my mother winked at me, smiled, and told me to pour another round for the table.

Autumnal: Five hulking Kindig boys, each separated in age by two years, habitually bragged to their friends that their father was a bear, a grizzly when he was angry. Each of their house key rings sported a masonry nail fob that their father had hand-bent. They displayed them to friends as if the fobs were trophies, and to their enemies as a warning. Although his sons grew up during a time when corporal punishment was still commonplace, Dad never spanked them. Their hushed consensus held that he was afraid that if he ever spanked them, he would break them. They proudly reminisced about the time a man ran a stop sign and hit Dad’s car. Nothing serious, no injuries, but Dad leapt out of the car roaring like a lion. He brought both fists down on the man’s hood, and the resulting blow sounded like a clap of thunder. His boys sat frozen in their seats, backs straight, hearts thumping madly, their eyes bulged in horrified wonder. The man’s hood looked as if a meteor had fallen from the sky and crushed it. But that was Dad: nothing could withstand the force of those massive hands. When his eldest son, David Jr., bent his first nail at the age of eighteen, in hands

that had grown large enough to rival his father’s, Dad’s smile seemed as if it could have outshined the sun. Later that night, after gazing at himself for what seemed like hours in the bathroom mirror, Dad plodded down the basement stairs and then sat in the dark in his workshop, bending masonry nails until his hands were raw. His descent had finally begun. Estival: Nineteen-year-old David Kindig held Maura Crawford’s delicate hand in his, promising not to crush it as he gave it a playful squeeze. His hands were huge, and the mere sight of them made her feel safe. She had seen what he could do with those hands, and considered them the impenetrable gates to a burly castle she longed to explore. Maura’s father was also a mason; she had met David at one of her father’s worksites. He had introduced himself by bending a masonry nail into a crude circle, slipping it on her finger, and saying, “With this ring, I thee invite to lunch.” After eliciting Dad’s nod of approval, she joined David. With her legs dangling from the tailgate of his Chevy pickup, she shared one of his three sandwiches, all the while watching his hands, mesmerized. Those hands, she thought, will one day hold our babies. Vernal: Jacob and Muriel Kindig gazed in amazement at their newborn son, David. Ten pounds, four ounces, they both thought repeatedly, still trying to convince themselves that the “bear cub” shivering in Muriel’s arms was really theirs. Jacob was still aghast at the image of that massive head slowly emerging from Muriel’s petite body. He crossed himself and silently begged forgiveness from above as he pictured a full-grown steer emerging from the belly of a spindly-legged calf. Muriel felt as if she were a dinghy that had just dropped a battleship-sized anchor. She swore to Jacob that this would be their first and last baby. Then David reached out and grabbed her finger, squeezing impossibly hard for a newborn. Muriel fell silent. “Look at those mitts,” Jacob said. But Muriel disagreed. “My son’s—David’s hands are not mitts,” she said. “They’re just like yours—hammers. So strong that someday he’ll be able to drive nails with them.” “Or bend nails with them!” Jacob said, his words rife with pride. David fell asleep in his mother’s arms, alive and robust within a shell she was confident would eventually grow to match his beautiful, powerful hands.

How They Hunt Rabbits by Ajay Vishwanathan Donald Rumsfeld Looks at his men and responds, “Then go for it.” He then becomes a pebble in a river as his men sweep past him, loaded with arms and intention. That evening, he smiles at his waitress as she serves him his meal hot, smoke still rising like rumors. “Nothing like a good kill,” he remarks as he digs into his rabbit. Even today, he refuses to believe that it was not a rabbit he ate. There were none that day. M. Night Shyamalan Is told cottontails are active early or late during the day. But he prefers nights, less melodrama. Says he shoots better when no one else is watching him. When no one sees the victim, just its wavy silhouette. He keeps following moonlit paths for years in search of his climax. Mohandas Gandhi He doesn’t need to hunt them. They surrender at his feet. Every one of them, till the other animals start coming. And it becomes a problem. Sigmund Freud Having abruptly abandoned his hunt, he lies on a bed of rotting roots, arms flung to the sides, and tries to figure out why he’d accidentally crushed a stem with pink buds underfoot at the same time the hem of his coat snagged on a rose bush thorn. John McEnroe Just as he is about to take his shot, his phone rings. “You can’t be serious calling me in the middle of my vacation?” He flings his cell phone into the woods. And turns to his assistant, “Dumbass! I had said vibrate mode. Do you have a problem other than you’re bald, you walk like an elephant on dry leaves, and now you’re deaf?” Mao Zedong He doesn’t sneak up behind them or tiptoe around trails, his aides do. He doesn’t have the time because he is finishing his book in his van. On a sighting, he cocks his gun, takes his shoes off and walks to a predetermined spot. Then, a gunshot. Another. Shouts of hooray. He sits back in his van, nonchalant about the dead rabbit being carried behind him. Difficult to say who shot it. His

book has no mention of rabbits. Which could be because he didn’t take permission from peasants for hunting on their farms. Harry Houdini He cannot shoot them. They escape every time. Angelina Jolie She stops, eyes squinted above the barrel, then goes open-eyed. And stares at the curve of the morning sun emerging from behind tree trunks, and wonders if she missed a secret along life’s way as she prepares to litter her course with voiceless dead. Al Gore In his book, he writes, “Five Things Before You Hunt Rabbits.” 1. Keep away from paved roads. You will never find them there. Man has driven them away. 2. Try arrows. Gunshots release too much heat. 3. Protect yourself well. Wear smart, wear cotton. 4. Walk to your spot. Save gas. 5. Used a gun? Fine, now pick up the shells after yourself. freeze by Samantha R. Peloquin the air is so hot that the bar of soap in the shower is melting and my brain is scrambling like eggs that sizzle when they hit a blistering iron skillet. people slither through the scorching streets, dripping liquid candle wax, vividly colorful tears from a sputtering flame. it feels as though the city has been doused in gasoline and set alight, and I can hear people below my window moaning and sighing in despair.

the priest this morning said this is what hell feels like, but I’m not sure I believe him. How to Write a Pop Song by Matthew Glasgow Verse 1 I was starring at the tracks With a hedge stone at my back It was closing in on dawn And I was barely holding on That night, I took the outgoing train to New York City. There, I was certain, my talents would be recognized. I had to get out of that small town if I ever wanted to become a famous musician. I said one last goodbye to my grandmother, God rest her soul, and made my way to the big city. I hope, wherever she is, she understands what I had to do. Refrain I’ve been running for a while I’ve been gone from day to day But if I’m still here tomorrow I think its time I stay I played at any club or bar that would take me. It was just me, my voice, my hands, and my guitar strings. I inherited all of grandmother’s money, as well as the money my parents left me from when their station wagon careened off the road when I was five years old (I will never forgive my uncle for getting married), so I was able to afford a decent apartment and a high quality demo CD. I gave that damn CD to anyone with ears, and eventually I started to catch on amongst the underground listeners. Within no time, I was actually playing for money, and the venues got larger and larger. Verse 2 My hands began to shake As I walked on past the gate I did what I done before Still searching for something more My manager told me that my first single, “I’ve

Been Running,” was rising up the charts. I cannot explain the sheer joy of hearing a song that I wrote on the radio, seeing my name on the marquee, or reading a favorable article about myself in the newspaper. People said they loved my music because of my raw style. They believed the words I sang, they felt my pain. Refrain Verse 3 I was walking down the road The air was blowing cold The headlights hit my eyes And I was barely alive Now that I look back, I owe everything I have to my dear grandmother. Whenever I’m up on the stage, I think of how she used to sing to me. Her voice was so soft and sweet. It still haunts my ears when I’m playing to thousands of fans. Sometimes I wish that I could go back to that time, before her tracheotomy, when her lullabies were all that I needed to sleep at night. I tremble more and more with each waking day now. When I’m swarmed with praise and fame, I wish that I was back in that small town, but deep in my heart, I know I can never return. It was all so simple, watching her lay still in her bed while I got dressed to work another nightshift at the supermarket, restringing my old guitar that never could stay in tune. The paramedics pronounced her dead due to complications of the surgery. There was no autopsy. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time. Refrain 2x (Outro) All of these years later, I still play my first hit to end each show. My voice now worn from screaming for help, my fingertips forever calloused from those cold, lifeless strings. No one would ever believe me now, no one would care. They pay their ticket, they see the fading celebrity. Just the other day, my manager asked me why I still carried that old guitar on tour. I told him because music is a cut-throat business, and I need to remind myself how I got here. He looked at me strangely, then laughed. I laughed as well.

I Dream a Whisper by Loren A. Moreno In the dream I’m digging a hole. I stand in the middle of a vast field, the night awash in tarry darkness, save for the twilight from a tiny crescent that burns in the sky. Hundreds of thousands of stars dominate, as if the sky is a black canvass littered with silver glitter. I dig. The reason for my back-breaking chore, I am unsure. But I hold in my hands the wood shaft of a steel shovel that is longer than I am tall, and its weight is demanding and savage. Every so often a whisper speaks: I am not allowed to leave. Even if I were to run, where would I go? All around is emptiness, a field of dead grass from where I stand to the infinite. No matter where I run, it would be the same spot—same earth below me, same sky above. I dig because it tells me to, the whisper. The voice comes from both somewhere and nowhere. Kyle. I dig because it says things to me that no one really knows and it scares me. I’m scared because the whisper threatens my mother. It says it’s going to strangle her if I don’t keep digging, and that I will be to blame for her death. It says it will lock me in a closet, pants legs and shirt sleeves brushing against my head as I hug my knees and cry while my mother screams. It says it will push me down the stairs. The whisper knows, too. It knows about Bryan. Digusting little boys. It knows how he and I went looking for honeysuckle behind the houses. How we picked the blossoms and licked the tear drops of sap off its ends. How we stripped down to our nakedness and hugged each other, our soft, warm bodies pressed so closely. Joined. How we kissed each other, two boys kissing. We didn’t know what we were doing. It just felt right. Bryan, too. I’ll find him. He’ll dig, too. The digging continues because I have no other option but to wait until I wake up. I’m knee deep in a hole, a hole as big around as the wide trunk of a monkey pod tree. The earth is supple, as if forty nights of rain has seeped to the very core, softening the sod and dirt and clay. I pile the extra dirt at

the surface, but when I go back to pile more, the dirt has disappeared. I am never filthy. It’s as if the dirt I shovel is not real. Then stars drop from the sky. It always happens when the hole is chest deep. The stars are suspended in the air in front of my face, all around. Or perhaps the earth has lifted into space and I’m now among the stars. How it happens, I am unsure. But there is beauty in this moment, and I anticipate it each time I dream. I hold my breath when it arrives, when the silver masses swirl and dance and burn. They sing. I stop digging and bathe in the chorus of stars. But then the whisper speaks and all goes silent and dark and desperate again. His voice chases it all away, the moment filled with Mother’s embrace, her humming and rocking, her kiss. He tells me to keep digging, don’t stop digging. And I do. I dig because I am frightened. Because his voice is my father’s voice. Because in the whisper I smell the wafting of cigarettes and acrid sweat and Jack Daniels. Because I feel a crazed grip at my throat. Because I cannot breathe. My arms should ache from the repetitive penetration of the earth and tossing of dirt over my head. The shoveling should have taken its toll on my body by now, but it has not. I feel nothing. I am numb. Not a drop of sweat has broken my forehead or above my lip. I only feel tired in my mind. Then Bryan appears. He stands at the surface of the hole, looking down at me, as if he arrived out of shadows. He is beautiful, his youthful chestnut skin glistening in twilight as if he is a newly developed sepia photograph. Where did you come from? How did you get here? I ask. I always ask. He does not reply. He looks at me, eyes painted with sadness. He turns and walks away, walks dragging his shovel behind him. I scale the wall of dirt, clamber out of the hole, and watch him walk away. I want to follow but the voice won’t let me. It whispers. Disgusting little boys. Bryan is far now. He lifts his shovel. And I brace myself, because I know what happens next. I’ve experienced this dream too many times. He pierces the earth and a bell tolls, a loud Kawaihao Church bell. This is where the dream is supposed to end. It always ends with the bell ringing. Tonight,

it does not. I’m still standing there. I see Bryan digging now, a frantic shoveling. I don’t know what to do next because I’ve never dreamed this far. So I run. I run to Bryan. The voice no longer whispers now. It screams. Run and your mother dies. She will die. But I don’t listen. I run. I run because Bryan is there in my sight, and nothing will prevent us from being together. Not now. Not ever. I tell Bryan to stop shoveling. That the whisper can’t hurt us. That it’s just a voice, a voice from somewhere and nowhere, and it is not real. Bryan stares at me plainly, as if I have spoken a language that he cannot understand. I am scared now, scared that Bryan is not real either. But Bryan drops his shovel and smiles. He reaches for me. Last Days of Rome I: Nero by Andreas Sundgren “The last days of Rome,” he mumbled. The bartender paused in polishing glasses, “Excuse me, sir, can I help you in any way?” The man by the panoramic window did not answer; he just inhaled deeply on the cigarette that he wasn’t allowed to smoke where he was sitting. While evening fell he had chain-smoked almost two packs of some menthol crap, whatever was left in the vending machine. The bartender went back to the polishing. From the 20th floor the man looked out over the city, all its fading splendor mirrored in the bay. The bridge was barely discernible through the smoke, but whatever was beyond it was lost in the growing darkness. The traffic out of the city was a string of pearls in yellow, red and white in constant motion swallowed by the black hole as it reached the final bridge span. The shifting light from the brightly lit streets reflected in the mirrors of the sky bar ceiling, flames creeping along the oak wall panels, licking the brass railings around the bar, dying when they reached the wall to wall carpet. The man raised his voice. “Nero,” he said. The bartender stopped again, “Nero, Sir?”

“Nero; wasn’t he the emperor that sang while Rome burned?” “Possibly, sir. History was never my subject, sir.” “It was Nero,” the man said. “I think he played some kind of instrument, too. A Lyre?” “Can I get you something, sir? On the house of course.” The man turned his gaze towards the window again and said, across his shoulder, “Yes, please. A Vodka. On the rocks.” The bartender picked out a tumbler from the freezer underneath the counter—a big, broad glass, thick bottomed, entirely iced over. Relieved to be given something to do, he took on the task of preparing the drink with extreme care. He balanced the glass on the tips of his fingers, picked three ice cubes carefully with the tongs, let them drop into the glass without hitting the inside ice layer, put the glass exactly in the center of the white napkin on the little silver tray, measured the liquor without spilling a drop, and carried it, straight-backed, tray balanced in turn on the fingertips of the right hand, from behind the bar, across the floor to the table where the man sat. “There you go, sir, the best the house has to offer.” The man nodded, gave the tray a cursory glance, took his drink and returned his gaze to the scenes playing out beyond the window. The bartender lingered, but before he had time to clear his throat, the man said, without looking at him, “I have no cash for a tip. Put ten dollars on my room bill.” “Very well, sir.” The bartender started back towards the safety of the bar, but stopped halfway, turned around and said, “Sir?” “Yes?” “You’re not allowed to smoke in here, but I’ll make an exception just this once.” “Thank you.”

Outside the window, the light had grown in strength; the streets were filled with people running as best they could; cars, bumper to bumper from Market Street over the hill, and Union Square down to the water. “Sir?” “Yes?” “It’s the news. Would you mind if I turned up the volume?” “No, of course not.” Fading up in the background, the sound of a news anchor from the wall-mounted TV set. When the sound was turned back down again, muffled sobs could be heard from the bar. The man turned around to see the bartender with his face buried in a white towel, crying. The man tilted his head slightly, catlike, and said, “What is wrong?” “The President just made the rescue package public; the whole country is declared a disaster area.” The man smiled, shook his head and bent down to retrieve a small black case from the floor underneath his table. He put it on the tabletop and opened the lid. Inside, on burgundy colored crushed velvet, lay an instrument, the same body shape as a Mandolin but about twice its size, made of deep black mahogany. He turned back facing the window and played his Lyre as San Francisco burned. Gravity by Diana Brodie Sunday afternoon. You have left it late. Though the pavement steams up through your feet, you’re intending to walk on. A moment’s inattention. The manhole cover flips open. And an arm, silk-sleeved, clasps you by the ankle, pulls you down.

You stand outside a shady courtyard, an arched gateway you pass through as beneath an eyebrow raised. Music floats down from shuttered rooms. Smoke curls and stifled laughter. The singer repeats the sonorous swing of clarinets. No more false starts. As you are halfway up the stairs, you recognize the stone step you stumble over, the banisters oiled by hands. You reach the darkened room. Stay all afternoon. Forever. The saxophonist plays while the singer in red velvet ends her song. She blows a kiss, and leaves. While you stay on. Living Room by Jeni Aron He sits down on the brown corduroy sectional, pushes the colorful knit afghan to the side and exhales with a large gusty breath. He needs to rest, just for a moment. He slides off his church shoes and tucks them under the couch. They hit something. He reaches down to find the forgotten pair of soccer cleats from last May, grass and dirt still clinging to the pegs. He picks up one of the cleats and pinches the dirt between his two fingers, massaging the soil as it falls to dust onto the crisp tan carpet. He places the shoe back under the couch, sits back and removes his glasses. He wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. He was at the cemetery all morning in the unforgiving sun. The most recent L. L. Bean catalog sits on the sturdy oak coffee table. They had ordered camping gear before the deployment, but the gear now remains untouched in the garage, piled amongst paper towels in bulk and multiple bicycles. The catalogs continue to come. Under the table is a basket holding his wife’s knitting project, gnarled and unfinished. He hears her and the other women in the kitchen cleaning up, glasses and silverware clang. The sound of their busy work is comforting to the man, and he closes his eyes for a few seconds. The song of children playing in the front yard trickles into the house. The children shriek and yell,

chasing each other with their voices. The man opens his eyes and winces at the late afternoon sun as it streams through the window, hitting the colossal flagstone fireplace, the sole reason why they purchased the house over twenty years ago. The American flag stands proudly in its tight triangular fold, snubbing him valiantly and commanding attention at the center of the mantle. To its left is a framed family portrait from three years ago at Disney World—smiles, souvenir sweatshirts, Goofy looming above even the tallest boy. The man feels the pain in his chest twist as he locks eyes with his son in the photo. The man slowly gets up from the couch and plods to the aquarium, its huge world contained in a simple glass box. This box holds life, the man thinks. The other box holds shrapnel and bone. The orange and turquoise fish dance to the top as he shakes out some flaked food onto his palm and sprinkles it on top of the water. This he can control; this he can maintain. The fish gobble up the food and dance some more. The miniature treasure chest at the bottom of the tank opens and closes on its own, burping bubbles at each beat. The man is mesmerized by the contraption and feels himself become weightless as if he too is in the tank. His wife calls out a question from the kitchen and he continues to stare blankly at the water. She calls out again, “Joe! Do you want coffee?” He comes back to himself, wipes his hands on his pants and leaves the room to attend to his wife. My Mind’s Eye by J. L. Stratton Dear All-seeing Sophia,

29 January

I am sending you this email from a hospital bed. One would think that after using the All-seeing Sophia email psychic service for many years, I would have been afforded a proper reading and prediction of my future. I certainly believe, if you truly were psychic, you might have told me to be more careful. Yesterday afternoon, just after receiving your

cryptic email, I was hit by a Wal-Mart truck carrying a load of Dr. Thunder soda. I would think that being hit by a truck would be something you could have easily foreseen. My next correspondence will likely be from my lawyer.

Love impresses upon your eye and punctures from astern. Beware: Love comes from ahead, and pain from behind.

Good day, Jonathan Tischel

Sophia,

Jonathan,

Once again, I have failed to understand your cryptic message. It seems you are telling me that, again, I will be slain but not see it coming.

30 January

You might recall, as I certainly do from my records, my exact words were, “Take heed the rolling thunder, as its love will hit you like a tidal wave bringing you sweetness and effervescence.” My website states, and my lawyer concurs, that All-seeing Sophia will not be responsible for any event, real or perceived, that may or may not be attributable to predictions made by said entity. The notice on my website also clearly states, “Allseeing Sophia services are for entertainment purposes only.” In consideration of your current and rather painful predicament, I am willing to offer you a fifty-percent discount on a future service of my choosing. All-seeing Sophia Dear All-seeing Sophia,

4 February

I certainly wish that I had eyes in the back of my head with the way you predict my fortunes, or rather, misfortunes. On a more civil note, I did meet someone today as you had mentioned in an earlier post. It seems I had left my wallet in the hospital, and as I was leaving, a nurse chased me down to give it back to me. She seems very nice. We have our first date tomorrow. Your friend, Jonathan Jonathan,

9 February

Wish granted. 2 February

Point taken, Sophia, but frankly, I interpreted your message to mean that I would find love, or rather, love would find me. What I received instead, was a fast ride to the hospital in an ambulance. Although, I must say, the EMT was nice to me and I managed to get her number. Do you have any prediction on a future with her? Jonathan Tischel Jonathan,

All-seeing Sophia

Please notice in your next statement, the discount applied. All-seeing Sophia Dear All-seeing Sophia,

10 February

Thank you for sending Rochelle to me. She is wonderful and our relationship is progressing wonderfully. Is this the wish you’ve granted? Anyway, thank you.

3 February

Jonathan

All-seeing Sophia:

16 February

17 February

I must confess I am very disappointed in your services to point of anger. Do I understand correctly in assuming that Rochelle was not the wish you granted? I am in disdain of your cruel sense of humor.

I am writing on behalf of All-seeing Sophia. The Law firm of Adleman, Forrester, and Klemisch has concluded that your case against our client is without warrant. We have taken the initiative and spoken with your lawyer. There is no case.

I woke the other morning with a terrible ache in my eye. I groggily left my bed to wash my face with cool water. The water did not sooth my aching eye, and I was horrified to discover that the pain could not be soothed because THE EYE WAS IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD!

Furthermore, the accounting firm of Wallace & Sons wished to have our legal firm relay this message: “You get what you pay for, at fifty percent.”

HOW COULD YOU!?! Just combing my hair was a terribly painful event. By the way, I only have one eye back there. I can’t make out distances and, try as I might to use the eye, I just run into walls and doors. My hair covers the eye (something I consider a positive considering the grotesque nature of the new visual atrocity) and becomes irritated and painful by day’s end. Furthermore, I had a very romantic evening planned with Rochelle for Valentine’s Day, but you ruined that as well. For the first time since our meeting, she met me in her doorway and quickly embraced me. As we pulled close into that inevitable kiss that I was sure would make her fall in love with me, she slid her lovely hands over my shoulder and into my hair. In my enamored condition, I had forgotten about the eye and, of course, had not told Rochelle of my predicament. Just as I felt the warmth of her lips so close to mine, she poked me in the eye! As you may well know, she was completely disgusted, and I was in no shape to explain, as I was reeling from the pain and trying to keep my own hair out of my watering eye. Rochelle refuses to answer my calls. Lastly, I spoke to my lawyer and he believes we have a viable case. Our next correspondence may very well be in person—and in court! Jonathan Tischel

Mr. Tischel:

Condolences, Adleman, Forrester, and Klemisch New Friends by J. P. Reese John Doew (Writer)

Clear Chat History Me Can’t sleep either? ; )

4:02am

John Hi. How are you?

4:03am

Me 4:03 Fine. What are you doing up so late? or is it early? ; ) You must be writing. I friended Amy Tan yesterday. I love being friends with writers. It’s so inspiring. Me --You still there?