Embers Igniting 2015 by Embers Igniting

Embers Igniting 2

Volume 2

Printed by abqGrafix, Albuquerque, nm Copyright ÂŠ 2015 Embers Igniting www.embersigniting.com embersigniting@gmail.com All rights revert to contributors upon publication.

Note Editor from the

We humans are creatures divided. We are at war within ourselves, doing

the very things we despise with no legitimate explanation for why. Paul understood this intimately, saying in Romans, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.” Think on the stories you see portrayed on screen and in books. How many characters are conflicted, confused, or trapped by their desires? These characters are written this way because it is fundamentally human and therefore relatable. It’s real, albeit painful. Think on your own life. The husband cheating on the wife he loves, the woman stealing from her own business, the teenager letting that guy touch her even though it makes her stomach twist. We are discontented animals, sheep told that the ultimate goal, the true aspiration, is to earn and climb and be liked. So we do it, even when our insides scream and claw against our bones for more—God, please more—and why? This volume is a snapshot of our infernal division, our two minds and seeming inability to control our flitting between them. This is duality. A house divided against itself cannot stand, and yet, we manage to do so. For now. For a while. But we cannot stand forever, and the war within us will end, one way or the other. We get to decide how it ends. “Now is our chance to choose the right side. God is holding back to give us that chance. It won’t last forever. We must take it or leave it.” -c.s. Lewis, from Mere Christianity

Table of Contents A rt

Fiction

01 Trapped James Schlavin 06 Call Waiting Chelsea Warren 08 Choosing Sides Chelsea Warren 09 Containerization II Randi Ward 21 Beyond Range Emily Carrico 22 Washed Out Chelsea Warren 36 Parable of the Talents Susan Kugelmann 37 Parable of the Pearls and Pigs Susan Kugelmann 44 Escape James Schlavin

02 An Interstellar Gambling Problem Travis Perry 10 Smirk Phil Della 25 Leave It with Me Phil Della 38 Schism n.h. Cole

Poetry

07 If the Sky Karli Rhind 23 The Unknown Universe Travis Perry 35 Outlined Karli Rhind

Trapped J a m e s S c h l av i n

18Ë?x 24Ë? graphite on paper

An Interstellar

Gambling Problem T r av i s P e r ry

The Sirian stood at the head of the tall table with steep side panels

forming the three-dimensional space used for a game like craps played in a low gravity field. The alien’s green, reptilian hand extended toward the human who had just gambled away his life savings. Again. Alfredo Voss, sweating heavily from his brow, replied with artificial cheer and a smile that couldn’t contain the undertone of a whine that sent ripples through his plump face. “Those were all the chips I had, my friend. But perhaps you’d be interested in acquiring a personal robot servant in exchange for a double-ornothing round?” Nine-point-zero-six, having observed his owner’s latest gambling disaster while quietly standing behind him, had no intention of holding his peace any longer. “Hold on there, Fred. If you think I’m going to obediently allow you to turn me over to this lowlife.” He turned to the Sirian. “No offense.” The reptilian table master hissed. “Then you don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do. I’m invoking my self-preservation protocol.” “Listen, Nine—” “No sir, no sir, don’t you Nine me. My duty to obey you does not include willingly destroying myself, as you should well know my programmed protocols provide for.” “Excuse us,” said Alfredo, offering a sickened smile at the brown-hooded and robed Sirian, whose only visible features were its scaly, clawed hands. “Nine,” he said in a voice below a whisper. “Self-preservation doesn’t apply here, as you should well know. I’m not trying to destroy you, just change the, ah, venue of your ownership. And I don’t know where you got the idea that you can decide in advance for yourself when self-preservation is, ahem, at stake.” “Gesundheit,” quipped the robot. “First off, as I recall, it was you who put autonomy into my self-preservation protocols so I could help you fight off interstellar pirates. Remember? Secondly, you and I both know that the Sirians are the primary suppliers of spare robotics parts to this region of the galaxy. So what makes you think my self-preservation isn’t at stake?” “Nine, look, I really need this. I can win it all back, I know it. I’ve just run into a bit of bad luck is all. A turn of luck is coming—I can feel it.”

“You ordered me to not talk about your gambling, so I’m not going to talk about it.” The robot narrowed his large round eyes. “But you are not offering me up at the gambling table.” “Very well,” Alfredo said acidly, the corners of his mouth turned downward. He reached out his hand and removed the rose-hued gemstone set into Ninepoint-zero-six’s chest. “Oh, please don’t take my canterole.” Nine-point-zero-six lowered his head and buried his prominent eyes into his stainless steel hands. Alfredo had already turned to the table master. “What can I get for this canterole? It’s a secondary control measure put into all robots made on Earth. Taking it from one of them throws the robot into emotional turmoil and makes it certain that they will obey any order.” The word “obey” came out like a growl. The deeply hooded reptilian snarled and clicked. An oddly feminine voice from the Sirian’s hood translator stated, “I’m familiar with human canterole technology. The device is worth ten chips.” “Ten chips! Why, my friend, an Earth robot is completely useless without a canterole. That makes one of them almost as valuable as a whole robot.” “Oh, please, please, don’t sell my—” “I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice,” he hissed, his eyes hopefully fixed on the Sirian. “You might as well gamble away my head,” muttered Nine-point-zero-six in despair. “Twenty chips for the head,” said the soft voice of the Sirian. “Really?” gasped Alfredo. “That’s more like it, but I believe you’re under estimating the true value of the piece. While it does not contain the brain of a Model Nine robot, it does contain a sophisticated sensor array; it is specially designed to allow a face made of stainless steel to reproduce a full range of human emotions. See the eyelids and soft plastic around the eyes, the rubber around the mouth?” The human reached out and pinched Nine-point-zero-six’s upper lip. “Thirty chips,” offered the Sirian. “Oh, so now you’re haggling away my head,” moaned Nine-point-zero-six. “Can I at least have my canterole back?” Alfredo turned toward him, his eyes blazing. “You may have it on the condition you don’t complain about what I do with your head. After all, it’s always possible for me to buy you another one.” “Right,” started Nine-point-zero-six sarcastically. But then he closed his stainless steel jaw while pulling his lips inward, literally biting his lips, even though a hidden speaker on his body produced his voice and not his mouth. “Better. Remember, I could always offer up your canterole along with your head.” Alfredo pressed the canterole back into a hollow spot at the center of Ninepoint-zero-six’s steel chest. “Better,” echoed the robot with genuine relief.

“You might as well gamble away my head.”

He had always been more of a lucky gambler than a brilliant thinker.

The table master and Alfredo finally settled on forty-two chips for Ninepoint-zero-six’s head. The Sirian insisted on having it removed, ready to take as a prize, before it would hand over any chips. “I’ll be back within the hour,” Alfredo said, no longer sweating. At least for the moment. He walked away from the table with a hand gesture that meant Nine-pointzero-six was to follow. He strode through a round, steel portal, out of the section of the vast casino space station exclusively reserved for the wealthiest clients. He bounced in the low gravity of the casino across the common gambling floor, ignoring all distractions: holographic gambling machines and clientele of many alien races, a few of whom openly stared at him; the scantily clothed hostesses; and entertainers of many sentient species. He came to the outer docking passageway, which led him to his spaceship, the Castaway Courier. This one freelance trading vessel had done more to expand the human race’s contact with aliens than any single exploration vessel of the Human Hegemonic Fleet, giving Alfredo a reputation for brilliance and daring. Nine-point-zerosix, who had been with his owner since the beginning, accepted the latter as true but the former as not. He had always been more of a lucky gambler than a brilliant thinker. He strode into the engineering section where Mak Tog, his Palien engineer, tinkered with a perimeter sensor. “What can I do for you, boss?” said the noseless, humanoid alien with snow-white hair and skin. And perfectly pale eyes. “Remove Nine-point-zero-six’s head for me and install a backup power supply. Oh, and a mobile phone, one that covers human and Sirian frequencies.” “Sure, boss,” answered Mak Tog. But he briefly pressed the palms of his hands to his temples, indicating in the Palien way his confusion at the strange command. The engineer placed a hand under the left side of Nine-point-zero-six’s head to support it while his other hand operated a disassembly tool. Alfredo faced his robot servant. “You’ll use the installed phone in your body to call your head. You should be able to patch a live video feed back to your eyes. So at least you can see, even with your head removed.” “And what will happen when—I mean—if you should lose at the table again?” “Well, at least you’ll know where your head is. Maybe we’ll mount a rescue operation.” Alfredo chuckled as he ran his hand through his thinning gray hair. A decade ago, he’d looked much different. Then, his owner had enough money on hand to pay for youth treatments—money he’d now lost to gambling. The human added, “Unless the Sirians cut off your mobile service. Then you might have some trouble. But don’t worry. I’m gonna win this time.” Minutes later, the Palien engineer was ready to disconnect the flexible fiber optic cables that carried data from head to body. Everything went black for Nine-point-zero-six.

Back in the casino, Nine-point-zero-six had the disturbing experience of watching his own headless body standing behind his owner. His head rested on the edge of the gambling table, turned at his request so he could see Alfredo in action. This time, he really did do well at the table. He rolled the fist-sized dice with confidence, and he placed bets at appropriate times and in appropriate amounts. The numbered cube spun in midair, falling with the extreme leisure of the table’s low gravity. In hours he won back almost all of what he’d lost. His streak of wins was impressive, and it seemed even to Nine-point-zero-six’s fuzzy processors that the luck would continue unended, though the probability functions of his math co-processor harshly told him otherwise. But suddenly it all changed. Alfredo lost big on two rolls in a row. “Stop now,” urged Nine-point-zero-six. “Please.” “It’s not a good time to stop. I’ve had such good luck up to now. And when good luck comes, you need to push it so you can get all you possibly can out of it.” Alfredo wiped the sweat away from his brow. “Please, sir, please. My head.” Alfredo flushed with anger. Nine-point-zero-six watched himself lay a hand on the human’s shoulder. Alfredo’s narrowed eyes opened wide. He stared into the eyes of his robot servant, the conflict within him evident in his changing facial expressions. The Sirian table master hissed and extended a hand, pointing at the dice. The human stood from his stool. He reached out his trembling hand toward Nine-point-zero-six’s head as he spoke to the Sirian. “I’ve still got a cargo run to do, my friend. Next week. I’ll be back next week.” “I’ll be looking forward to that,” answered the smooth voice. Alfredo cashed in his remaining chips, grumbling about losing a good piece of luck, and handed off Nine-point-zero-six’s head to his body to be carried back to the ship. The robot dutifully followed his owner, bag-handling his own head.

Call Waiting Chelsea Warren

digital photograph

If the Sky Karli Rhind

If the sky quit its job As if something of importance could not stick around in this tipsy world Tipping under itself, it sounds something like a hungry stomach rumble, Then it disperses all cumulus clouds and blueness to a plum purple. Washing out the glue of tropospheric pull and pondering as the world watches, the atmosphere excludes itself. The company of the sky and its friends, the ocean and the universe, collapses. An eternity of ethereal blue which once held its arms open to the world decides to hold the love of different worlds away from Earth. If the sky quit its job What would the stars rest upon? What would the ocean whisper to? Isolation and sadness and hesitation stumble their way into our minds, Making humans hum a harmony never heard before and the animals lift their humble heads to the torn-away sky, Howling and mourning the absence of a home—the tipsy world is engulfed in invisibility. If the sky quit its job Dwell on its beauty lost to another time and remember it, glorious and bright. The sky’s softness blankets a new wonder in this universe— It will be out there, shining and arms open to another world of another love.

Choosing Sides Chelsea Warren

digital photograph

Containerization II Randi Ward

digital photograph

Smirk Phil Dell a

From her perch atop the living room couch, legs crossed like a yoga

instructor with her open laptop, my wife asks me with all the charm and sparkle in her voice that I have always loved, “What are you smirking about?” I have our new digital camera in hand as I glance at myself in the mirror beside the couch, somewhat shocked at the notion that my face could be up to something without my knowledge, but after an inspection I have to ask what she means because I don’t see it. “Your lips, they’re thin.” My wife sets aside her laptop, stretching and yawning as she steps into her slippers before shuffling over to wrap her arms around my neck. “So, what is it?” she asks with a smile. “It’s nothing,” I answer, turning away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My wife finds this curious, like a crossword puzzle clue. She lifts the camera strap from around my neck and fiddles with some switches and buttons—she already knows this camera better than I do. “Don’t smile,” she instructs, and then she shows me the view screen with its unflattering image of me, smirk or no smirk. “I don’t see it,” I tell her as she leaves the room, but perhaps I’m blind to this smirk because I can feel tightness in my face, as if it’s holding a pose instead of relaxed. That smirk doesn’t leave me alone for the rest of the evening, nor does my wife. She keeps asking, “Why are you smirking? Why won’t you tell me? Is there something the matter? You can tell me, you know.”

The next morning, after waking to the alarm, I find myself in the bathroom

staring into the mirror while my wife sits on the toilet. As I’m searching in the drawer for my shaver, she tells me about something, I don’t know what, and then she shouts, “Quick, turn around!” I spin, expecting to see some puny spider, but all my wife does is stare at me until I get ticked off. “I dreamed you had a stroke,” she says. “It freaked me out so much, I nearly threw up. Bet that smirk caused it. You don’t seem to have it anymore.”

I had forgotten about the smirk, but at the very thought, I feel it re-emerge like a shadow. While I plug in my shaver, my wife joins me at the mirror to wash her hands. Perhaps I’m wrong, but her face seems different, too. I smile at her in the mirror, but she won’t meet my eyes—she’s looking at my mouth instead, and she’s not amused. Unable to wipe this smirk off my face, I flee behind the fogged shower stall where I hope the hot water will massage my face back to normal, but it’s no use. I don’t know how to hold my face anymore. When I finally go downstairs for breakfast, I find a note on the counter: We need milk. The empty driveway tells me she’s gone, but it doesn’t explain why she left. “I get out of the shower, and you’re gone,” I say into the phone. “No goodbye. What’s with that?” “I said goodbye. You didn’t hear me, I guess.” “Didn’t hear you? I was in the shower.” The line seems to go dead because there is no reply. “Hello? Are you there?” Finally, she snarks, “I’m driving.” “Why are you leaving so early?” “I told you.” “I guess I didn’t hear you.” “You answered me.” I try to sound sincere. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.” “It’s for my course,” she says, and it all comes back; she wants to become the first aid attendant at her work. “Can I go now?” she asks, and I can tell in her voice that she’s already gone. After eating an apple and pouring my coffee, I go upstairs to brush my teeth when I notice I haven’t shaved yet, and I always shave. I certainly have plenty of time to shave; still, I decide to let my whiskers stay where they are, even though my boss won’t like them. He doesn’t allow anyone to wear facial hair in his company. My wife probably won’t like whiskers either, but I decide that I might. Mainly, I hope a beard will cover my smirk. To my surprise, standing in the bathroom before the mirror, I notice a welcome comfort has returned to my face. In my wife’s absence, the smirk has left.

At my job, only one co-worker says anything about my face. It’s Brian, the

I had forgotten about the smirk, but at the very thought, I feel it re-emerge like a shadow.

portly, bald shipper who runs the forklift. “I’d be careful with that, if I were you,” he says as he lifts one thousand pounds of glue to a towering height. I shrug off his warning and wait for the true test, but my boss doesn’t come in all day. I guess he’s out of town. On my way home, as soon as I cross the Port Mann Bridge into Surrey, my face starts to tighten. Inside our town house, I find my wife on the couch studying. “How was your day?” I ask. “Did you get milk?”

After her glance to note my empty hands and smirk, she stares intently again, in silence, at her first aid manual.

On Friday my boss phones to announce he’s back, and he wants to see certain

That’s when I feel it. For the first time, my smirk pays me a visit at work.

items: a current trial balance, a particular credit application. Oh, yes, and he wants to see me, which means he’ll see my face. When I enter his office, he sits holding a phone to his ear and pointing to an empty chair with his outstretched hand, but then he registers my face. “What is this?” he sputters, slamming down the phone. “Are you referring to my beard?” I ask. “I’m doing it for my wife.” I decided in advance on this tactic. What can he do, call my wife and protest? Instead, he scowls, and I wonder how this crabby, old Israeli, who is once divorced, will respond. He shakes his head, “Do you not own a mirror? It is a disaster.” I flash him a beaming grin and hand over the phone book – sized stack of reports, which he fans through far too quickly. “How does this ape-man look professional? Tell me that.” I know I can never convince this Armani-wearing, clean-shaven millionaire, so I simply stroke my face, enjoying the sensation. “Do you still bathe?” is his next query. That’s when I feel it. For the first time, my smirk pays me a visit at work. “You think this is funny?” he erupts. “I shower every day,” I assure him, turning away to conceal my face. Apparently, my beard is not thick enough to hide the smirk. He looks through my reports more closely now, putting on his reading glasses. “What is this? High Life Home Furnishings in ninety days for fourteen thousand dollars. Why was I not notified?” While I consider my reply, I plead with the smirk. Why visit me here? My marriage I understand. You have every right. Just not here, now, in front of him. Unable to think clearly, I answer. “I guess I forgot.” “You forgot how to do your job?” I try again to compose myself. “Sorry,” I say, but I guess I smirk. “I fail to see what’s so funny,” he roars. “It’s not funny,” I agree. “Have you spoken to this lowlife Home Furnishings?” “Of course,” I tell him, but really I have no idea. “Is their account on hold?” I nod, hoping it is. Clearly, his confidence in me has plummeted, because he calls our store downstairs to double check and discovers the contrary; an additional four thousand dollars has been charged in the last two days. “This is unacceptable. Get me their phone number.” I stand to leave. “A sloppy appearance leads to shoddy work,” he admonishes. I stare at the carpet to

show my remorse but also to hide my face. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” I meet his gaze. “I hope you realize the enormous amount of trust I have placed in you.” I can’t help it. The smirk is too strong. I think about covering my face with my hands, but by then it’s too late. He’s seen enough. “If I have to look at that dirty grin one more second I’ll—get out!”

By early Saturday morning, it has been almost a week with the smirk and

no end in sight. Thankfully, my wife has stopped caring. The poor girl is so wrapped up in her studies she hardly notices me. Even eating breakfast is too time consuming for her. She is forever memorizing procedures and practicing techniques. I hear her babble on about backboards, airways, direct pressure, chest compressions, and the like. While she kneels on the carpet practicing cpr on a life-sized doll of a human torso, I vow to save my job by calling Davinder, the owner of High Life, while it’s still before 8 a.m. I don’t really want to talk to this guy, not at first that is. I’m hoping there will be some family member I can talk to—some child or wife or uncle—who might be surprised to learn the shocking truth about how badly Davinder is managing the family finances. That way I can use the guy’s family against him to help recover my boss’ money. When I dial, a woman answers in some foreign language. “This is Valentine from Mars Products,” I begin. “Do you speak English?” “Very sorry, English very bad. Bring husband.” “Listen, I’m in a hurry. Tell Davinder, your husband, tell him I want my money. Tell him if I don’t get my money, then I’m coming to your house. Is that clear? Because if I have to come to your house, it won’t be pretty. Do you understand?” “No understand.” “I mean ugly. Things will get ugly.” I raise my voice to pretend. “I will get angry. Do you know angry? This is angry.” “Bring husband.” “I don’t want your husband,” I yell. “I want my money.” Now I’m not pretending. Now I’m furious, and I scream, “If I don’t get my money, you’re gonna suffer! I’m coming to your house. I’m coming inside your house, understand? Do you understand me? Answer me. I said answer me.” My wife, who has been kissing that practice dummy and pumping its chest, suspends her practice to direct a wide-eyed stare in my direction. This somehow helps me regain my composure. “You do understand me, I hope?” The woman understood well enough, because she’s hung up, and who can blame her? I certainly don’t. If I have to guess, I’d say the smirk is to blame. “How’s it going?” I ask my wife. “You want some real lips to practice on?” She glances in my general direction without interest before once more locking lips with that thing that’s the color of a dead turkey. Pleased to have that ordeal

behind me, I breathe a sigh and decide I’ve earned French toast—without milk. While I’m forking the soggy bread onto the buttery pan, I listen to my wife in the background. She’s on and off the phone several times, shuffling her papers, packing up to leave for another hands-on study party before her big test on Monday. “You gonna have time to eat?” I call out, hopeful for any response. None comes. “It’s almost ready!” I say later. “Do you want juice?” Still nothing. “Are you gonna eat this or not?” I yell, annoyed at being ignored. Finally, I march into the living room to find her whispering into the phone with tears dripping from her chin. Afraid that I’ll upset her worse by draping a comforting arm around her shoulder, especially with this smirk, I decide to present her with a freshly forked, syrupy morsel. Carrying it over, I overhear her say, “Gotta go. It’s him.” Before I can present my offering, she charges past and locks herself in the bathroom. “Do you still want your French toast?” I ask, forking the bite into my mouth. “It’s delicious.” The only responses she gives are unintelligible, shuddering gasps. “Is something the matter?” Moments later, she vomits. At least that helps explain things. This means her breakfast is going to waste, so I eat it. Soon afterward, she bursts through the door and storms across the linoleum. “I can’t take this. It’s hard enough with my test coming up, but look at me. I’m a mess. My heart is squeezed tight. And it’s all your fault.” “What did I do?” “You idiot, you threatened that lady. And you called her from our home phone, so her husband called back. Do you think he was thrilled? And I have to take the brunt, because you don’t have a brain in your head.” “Did he really?” “He said he knows where we live, and it’s where we die. He’s as bad as you. And I have my test in two days. And am I ready? Am I even close to being there?” “Let me get this straight,” I cut in. “So you’re not sick?” “I’m sick with worry. What else would you call this trembling and tightness in my chest?” “Maybe it’s the flu,” I suggest. “Maybe it’s living with you, do you think? Looking at that mouth, if you can call it that. I’ve decided that I can’t take it anymore. I’ve called Vance, and he’ll take me in for the time being.” “Vance? Who’s that?” “How can I stay here, Valentine? You want me to get attacked?” “Slow down.” “And in case you’re wondering about him, don’t worry; he keeps saying he can’t have sex because he’s Christian. I don’t understand. Maybe it’s Lent, and he’s abstaining.”

“I don’t get it. You have the hots for this guy?” She stalks off to grab her books. “Help me out here. Where exactly are you going?” “I’m late,” she says. “I’m really late. I don’t have time to explain.” The way she says that, her erratic behavior, the puking—suddenly I have an insight. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” She rolls her eyes in her panicked flight, hauling several bags over each shoulder—all she wants from here, I guess. I tote the practice dummy to the passenger seat of her Jeep and buckle in the sexless freak. “So, that’s it?” I say. “Just like that?” Somehow my smirk feels like it’s fading, allowing me time for one true, stricken look of painful loss, which she witnesses without compassion before roaring her car to life and shooting off over the town house speed bumps.

I’ve read somewhere that a husband should give his wife gifts, hide love notes

for her under her pillow, send her flowers at work, sneak chocolates into her lunch, and strategically position sticky notes in her underwear. I haven’t done any of this yet. I’ve been waiting for the smirk to disappear first. Perhaps the time has come. I have it in mind to make a card, so I pull out a sheet of white printer paper and fold it in half. I cut it into the shape of a heart and pause to contemplate a rhyme when she’s there again opening the door, breathless and tromping up the stairs. “Forgot my purse.” I chase after her with the card, and as she’s coming at me in the hall, I hold it out. She snaps the card from me, unfolds it, turns it over once, and shoves it back, saying, “Very kindergarten of you. And being blank about sums things up.” I watch her descend the stairs but stay put. She has time to be out the door and gone again; however, she hasn’t left for some reason, so I hurry down to investigate and discover her standing at the fridge. “Where’s that French toast?” I point to my stomach. I can read the irritation in her eyes, and I’m desperate to turn her exasperation with me around, but I don’t know how. “Why is there never any milk in this house?” As I stand watching her search the fridge for food, I realize that this town house, third speed bump past the play structure, is the last place I want to be today. “Why don’t we go out for food?” I suggest. She gives me a suspicious glare. “You’re never here anymore.” She mumbles while heading out the front door. “We’ll get takeout,” I say, chasing her down. She’s in the car buckling up when I try the passenger door, which she autolocks, so I block her exit, even though I know this will only piss her off. Down rolls her window.

“Very kindergarten of you. And being blank about sums things up.”

My wife rushes to a tough guy sporting a fauxhawk and a tattoo sleeve.

“You’re making a scene.” I get down on one knee. “Don’t leave me here like this. I’m scared that man will come and cut off my head.” I’m pretending, but I’m guessing it’s a real concern of hers. “Tell him to clean up the blood after he’s done.” Her reply. I can see one neighbor’s blinds rise, and when I glance toward the playground, there’s the council secretary scoping me out. Clearly, this stunt is costing me in more ways than one, but somehow I feel victory is near. I feel it in my face. So I step up to her window for one final appeal. “Okay, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you why I’m smirking.” But I don’t know what to tell her because I have no idea why. “It’s because,” I say. “It’s because of,” I say again. “It’s because I’m an idiot, I guess. I have no idea why.” She eyes me with intense hatred and disgust until she can stand my face no longer. Straightening up, I wonder if I should be more specific about all the dumb things I’ve ever done. All my misdeeds. Will the smirk want my complete confession before finally leaving? I pray that it will show mercy because I can’t even begin to remember all of my embarrassing offenses. Still, it is not my place to make demands. Whatever the smirk wants, it will get. I am sure. “If you’re coming,” she relents, “hurry up.”

Across the Port Mann Bridge, she takes the first exit, heading up a steep hill

in Coquitlam to a cul-de-sac where cars overflow the driveway. Inside there must be a dozen people, most of them older and happier than I am based on the way they’re lying on the carpet laughing, like kids at a sleepover. Half of them are wrapped in tensor bandages or wearing neck braces or propped on their sides, top knees bent in the recovery position, with silly grins on their wrinkled faces, as if being an accident victim beat all other forms of entertainment. My wife rushes to a tough guy sporting a fauxhawk and a tattoo sleeve. She’s grinning, and he’s beaming. I don’t join them since I’m a watcher, and there’s definitely some spying to do here. I see that my competition is about my height but not what I’d call handsome. Why she picked him, I have to wonder, but maybe he’s nice, like I used to be. I’d like to keep up the spectating, except they’re looking this way, so I pluck up the nerve to meet the happy couple. “Hi, I’m Vance,” says the guy, extending that tattooed appendage. Now that I’m closer, I see he’s got dolphins jumping through cresting waves in front of a magic-marker sunset with these fake clouds and a bearded dude floating in the sky. “Valentine,” I tell the guy. “Like the holiday.” “Except he’s nothing like a valentine,” says my wife. “He’s more like a death threat.” I smile at this, and the sad thing is, because I want her back, I don’t retaliate. “Let’s get started,” commands the guy. “What should we do with him?”

My wife whispers something into his ear while smiling. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’ve got a bad hip injury and a head injury. That’s what you said, right?” “He’s got brain damage,” clarifies my wife. “So hit the deck, man, and don’t move.” They pounce on me like two kidnappers. I’m jacked onto my side, bound like a mummy, strapped to a board, and collared with a neck brace before they take a discussion break, leaving me to do I don’t know what. I try to roll over, kick my leg, anything, but it’s a no go. They’ve got me completely hamstrung. I want to scream at them, but that wouldn’t earn me points. And I need points if I want to win this game. I’m thinking I should just relax. I’ve got this guy beat if I play it smart. What I need to do is quit making stupid mistakes. Let tattoo boy do the screwing up. He can’t look like a stud forever. And I’ve already won her over once before—I can do it again, I hope. After a couple of minutes, I see my wife and the guy head down the hall. My mind is racing about what they’re doing around that corner when they return with his coat and her purse. “I’m starving,” my wife tells the room. “We’ll be back in a while.” That smirk on her face I’d recognize anywhere. I have to shout to get the attention of this pot-bellied guy who comes over to untie me, but it takes forever because of the straps. The moment I’m free of that backboard, I hop over to the window like I’m in a gunny sack race because I’m still wrapped in this first aid crap, arms bound to my sides. I see her car is where we left it, so I hop to the stairs to find what’s-his-face alone. “Dinah’s in the bathroom,” he explains. “You know chicks.” He’s smiling in that manly, conspiratorial way, until he gets a load of my face. “What’s the idea, you porpoise-armed punk? You think this is funny?” He’s got his hands up, pushing my chest because I’m leaning so far forward, I’ll fall over if he lets go. “You touch my wife, and I swear you’ll need more than first aid.” If my face were any closer to his, we could be making out, so I think I’m making my point. “Chill out, man,” he says, tipping me upright. “It was Dinah’s idea, but I’ll unwrap you.” “You prick.” Losing control would be easy, so I shut up and let the guy unwrap me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about me touching your wife. I’m a Christian. I wouldn’t.” I have to laugh at this, as if he’s somehow immune to my wife’s allure because of some religion. “You don’t believe me? I’ve had to push her off me three times. I’m not stupid. I know she’s married. I’m trying to help.” The guy doesn’t look all self-righteous, like I’d expect. Instead, he looks like he might cry.

I have to laugh at this, as if he’s somehow immune to my wife’s allure because of some religion.

“What’s your name again?” I ask when he’s got me undone. He tells me, but it doesn’t stick. It doesn’t matter what his name is anyway because he’s out the front door and fighting with the lock on his truck like a car thief. I decide to leave him alone, but then it dawns on me this guy and my wife will talk again soon, and I want to smooth things over. “Listen, about that, you know, back there. I guess I’m dealing with some stuff.” “I understand,” he says. “Anyway, no hard feelings,” I tell him and chuckle. Then I think again. “You’re not gonna tell her what I said?” But he doesn’t have a chance to reply as you-know-who appears. “What’s the matter?” she starts in on me. “You’re smirking.” I guess she’s right because I can feel it, but it’s different this time. This time I know why I’m smirking. I’m smirking because my wife, she’s hilarious. “No worries,” says the guy. “Your husband was only being a husband.” “That’s what I’m afraid of.” From the glare my wife’s giving me, I can see that I’m the one who should worry. Nevertheless, she’s in the passenger seat without further comment, but instead of backing his rig out, the guy looks at me as if something’s wrong. “Aren’t you coming?” I can hear my wife pleading to “just go,” but this guy’s the driver, and he won’t be pushed around. Standing there, I realize that I don’t need to tag along. What’s-his-name isn’t going to misbehave. I fish out a couple of twenties from my wallet to hand over. “Take her somewhere nice,” I say. “And make sure she eats. She’s got me worried.” I lock eyes with this friendly guy as he backs out waving. I say friendly because I can see why my wife likes him, even if he looks like a goof. When they’re gone, I don’t bother heading back inside the house—I take my wife’s car home instead. I’m thinking, if I ever want her to sleep in our bed again, I should call Davinder and make peace. At home, I take it easy over the speed bumps—don’t want to kill any kids— and shoehorn the car into its cramped space before hurrying inside to find Davinder’s number, but I really don’t want to make this call. After I don’t know how long getting up the guts, I punch in the number. Whatever I’m going to say, I’ll find out in a few seconds, even though what I probably should do is rehearse. At about the third ring, I disconnect, thinking that I need to be sincere. For ten minutes, I rack my brain for the perfect words until I realize sincerity doesn’t come from reading a script. When I call again, I get his voice mail. “This is Valentine from Mars Products,” I say, but that’s as far as I get before faltering. “I’m calling,” I say, stopping again. “The reason I’m calling is to—” I can’t go on because I’m choking up like I do at funerals. “I want to say how sorry I am for screaming and—screaming and yelling.” The emotion in me takes over

again, forcing me to compose myself. “Anyway, please forgive me. I made a mistake. What I said was shameful.” I can’t even see now, and I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. If it’s not a smirk tripping me up, then it’s some involuntary crybaby reflex. There’s no point going on, so I hang up and squeeze my fists and grit my teeth. It occurs to me how Davinder threatened my wife, and do I think he’s going to call and apologize? Is he going to leave a blubbering retraction on our voice mail? I don’t think so. I’ll have to tell my wife that she’s ninety-nine percent safe because of my apology and ask that she please come back home. After about five minutes of fretting, I call her cell to see what she thinks. “I got the milk,” I say straight away, even though I haven’t yet. “It’s about time.” “Listen, about you sleeping over at that guy’s place.” “Vance. His name is Vance.” “He’s a nice guy. I see why you like him.” “I’m kind of busy right now,” she informs me. “I’ll hurry this up then. I’m okay with you sleeping at his place. What’s his name again?” She lets my mental lapse slide, for which I’m grateful, and asks, “You want to know what Vance said about you?” A stranger’s opinion of me—should I care? “He thinks you’re a good guy,” she says. “But I beg to differ.” “The good guy’s making a comeback,” I tell her. We don’t have anything else to say, but for a change, the dead air between us isn’t stifling. Finally, I remember to say, “I called that Davinder guy and apologized.” “So, what did he say?” she asks, and I’m impressed that she even knows who I’m talking about. Before I can tell her I only talked to his voice mail, she switches conversations to someone in the background, so I hold the line like the patient boy that I now am. “Vance told me to say you can sleep over, too,” she says, “if you want.” “Do you want me to?” I ask. “He wants us to come to church with him tomorrow.” I can hear the letdown in her voice, as if she’s failed her first aid exam. It looks like Vance has made his big mistake, and I can’t stop myself from laughing. “I take it from that reaction you’ll be abstaining,” she says. I’m thinking that the last place I want to be on Sunday morning is in some church. “I don’t really want to go alone,” she says. “Isn’t Vance going?” “Of course he’s going.” I guess this is my chance to get back in her good books, although it’s not what I’d hoped for. Is she going to want to start attending church now?

“Where does this guy live?” “So you’ll do it. Thank you. I think it will be good for us,” she says. I don’t know how to answer except to say something she won’t want to hear. “I’ll get Vance to tell you directions.” The guy’s giving me street names and stuff, but I’m not taking anything down. I don’t even have a pen. All I keep thinking is how did this happen, and how far am I willing to go to save this marriage? When I’m clawing through the kitchen drawer, desperate to find a pen, I guess I know my answer. “Can you start again?” I ask the guy. “I wasn’t ready.”

Beyond Range

E m i ly C a r r i c o

digital photograph

Washed Out Chelsea Warren

digital photograph

The

Unknown Universe

T r av i s P e r ry

On a highway, cut into the mountains Towering over the sea A son of Montana, the mountains I knowâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Friendly giants, I fear not their immeasurable power But the sea, the sea Stretching out below In a darkened hemisphere of blue Like the atmosphere of Neptune In it lies mystery and fear It is an unknown universe Totally alien to one such as I I cannot drink its waters I cannot breathe its air I cannot smell or hear there Or stay warm of my own accord Dwarfing my mountain friends This universe is vast Flowing far beyond The power of my eyes to see Matched in enormity Only by the lighter blue over-hemisphere The all-encompassing sky In the far distance the two seal shut Closing off what is above from the below The above is alien, too Though Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve hurled through it Strapped to a seat Contained inside an aluminum aircraft

I do not own the sky I cannot fly with the freedom of a bird But I know the big sky Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen its moods The billowing beauty of bright clouds The dark power of the hammering thunderstorm But who knows the sea? Far above it, only the surface shows The rest is hidden The mystery of the depths Some know it better than I The sailors, the surfers, the divers But can any see into it, through it? Or dwell carefree within it? It is forever foreign, separate, mysterious The unknown universe Stretching out vast The darkened hemisphere Far beyond what I can see

Leave It with Me Phil Dell a

It had been an hour already in the border line-up, and our van was next. Our return trek up the entire state of Washington was nearly complete. “I see you have a mattress there,” said the Canadian border guard after we rolled to his tollbooth window where he reached for our passports. “And it doesn’t look new.” I sat in the passenger seat, dog on my lap, hands pinching receipts. That matt ress lay propped behind me on its side between my two children and our baggage. “It’s new to us,” said my husband, Harold. “It belonged to my sister, but we sort of inherited it. My sister is no longer—how do I say this—alive.” “Has it been fumigated?” the guard asked. Harold gave me this hopeful glance that seemed to ask if I’d had the thing fumigated before we left. I had been prepared to answer different questions, ones involving alcohol and tobacco or fresh fruit, not bedbugs. As if awakened by the guard’s voice, my nine-year-old, Matt—who takes after my petite size—piped up from the back seat, “What does fumigated mean, Mommy?” I didn’t answer, because I knew the reactions I’d get. “It means using chemicals to kill bugs,” said Harold. “They think there are bugs in this mattress.” I twisted in my seat to see Matt’s lips curl down when he heard this. “It’s not bug-infested,” I had to say. “That’s just one of their silly rules to make our lives miserable.” Matt didn’t believe me, based on the way he leaned away from the mattress. As sweetly as possible, I said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The only bugs in this mattress are good bugs, the kind that eat dead skin and are microscopic.” “Skin-eating bugs, did you hear that, Matt? Good one, Mom,” said my teenage daughter, Simone. “The point I’m trying to make is—” I stopped. What was the point? “What are we supposed to do?” I asked the border guard, because I’m the one who wanted the mattress, and just like my sister-in-law was so suddenly taken from me, her old bed appeared to be next.

“We’re getting rid of the dog, too?” Harold asked. “Bonus.”

“You’ll have to re-enter the United States by making a U-turn there,” the guard said, indicating with his outstretched arm. “Then find a dumpster.” I crushed my receipts. Our whole trip, all three days, were supposed to help us remember Stephanie, to come to terms with the accident that took her life. Now this. My husband faithfully followed the instructions, and within a couple of minutes, we rolled back into Sumas, Washington, heading south past the same traffic jam we had minutes earlier escaped. While Harold hunted for a dumpster, I scanned the parking lots of duty-free shops, customs brokerages, and gas stations for someone who might have pity on me and my mattress. Apparently, Harold’s search was easier than mine, because he veered across traffic into an independent gas station that advertised Tillamook pepper jack cheese free with fill-up. He stopped beside a dirty, yellow dumpster massive enough to hold a demolished house. As he undid his seatbelt and swung open his door, I spoke to the windshield. “Stephanie wouldn’t want this.” My husband took his time deciding his next move, probably on account of his recent string of blunders. Thankfully, he left the mattress and drove on, ten above the speed limit, heading out the south end of Sumas and into manure-rich dairy farm country. “Your plan?” he finally asked. I knew he didn’t care what happened to the mattress. “What’s the plan?” he asked again. “Throw the filthy thing into the ditch,” I finally blurted, on the verge of tears. “She was your sister, not mine.” He pulled over onto the shoulder, and my Scottie dog Maggie roused herself to lick my face. I got out and opened the back hatch then struggled to tug that forty-year-old, twin-sized mattress. As I stood in the drizzle, Maggie seized her opportunity to escape. “We’re getting rid of the dog, too?” Harold asked. “Bonus.” My dog ran across the road as fast as a helium balloon in the breeze while I waited for a semi-truck to pass so I could give chase. Fortunately, she bolted straight down the opposite shoulder and not into oncoming traffic or across the muddy corn field. As I pursued her, our van sped past me, making a U-turn in front of Maggie. Simone stepped out, crouched down in front of the van, and scooped Maggie into her arms. When I reached them, walking slowly with my arms folded against the cold, I didn’t open the door until I knew they had a hold of that dog’s collar. When I sat down, Harold didn’t bother to start the engine. “Now what?” he asked. “I have no idea.” “Do you want this mattress or not?” I looked at the pale green and yellow striped thing that Stephanie used when she was little, and even though it looked questionable with those stains, I believed it still had some life.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Harold continued. “I have pictures to remember her. I don’t need her cruddy, old mattress.” “That’s not why I want it.” “So we’re keeping it.” I didn’t nod, but I wanted to. “I really don’t want to sleep on it,” Matt said. “It’s stinky.” “It’s not for you,” I boomed over my shoulder, neck twisting until it twinged. Harold started the car and popped it into gear but then suddenly jerked it into park and killed the motor. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” he said, unbuckling to shift around in his seat. “We should pray.” I didn’t feel like praying. In fact, at the moment, I didn’t even feel like living. “Heavenly Father,” Harold began. “We seek Your blessing on this mattress. It’s nothing special, but Patty has plans for it, so I guess that’s reason enough. We now ask for Your guidance about how to rescue this hunk of junk from the dump. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.” “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” I said. “It’s a used mattress,” he said. “I’m sure God has a sense of humor.” “Kids, I hope you realize your father’s example is not to be followed.” Harold sighed before starting the car and heading back toward the border we couldn’t cross. “Which way?” he asked when we returned to Sumas. On our right, a little past some baseball diamonds on the outskirts of town, I saw a church, and suddenly I knew what to do. “Stop there,” I told him, and he parked along the algae-coated north side of the building. “You want me to go in?” he asked. “What I want is a husband who knows what he’s doing,” I said, because it had been bugging me all the way home. I had to get out of there, so I hurried for the church’s main entrance, where I tried the handle and shoved my way inside. “Hello!” I called as I brushed past a wire rack filled with evangelism tracts. “Anybody home?” I listened for voices, but there weren’t any, so I kept glancing around the milkwhite, high-ceilinged foyer. They had a thermometer graph half colored red, and underneath it said, Send Ray to Croatia Fund. Send me, too, I thought. I said aloud, “Would it be okay if I left my little mattress in your church?” I considered where I’d lean it with a note explaining our predicament, and I was sure that would be fine. Harold rolled down his window when I got back to the van. “You think we could leave it here?” I asked. “What do you mean?” “There’s nobody around.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “They’ll throw it out.” “Not if I put a note with it.” He shook his head. “You need permission.” “So whatever you say goes?” He gave me the look you get from a traffic cop after committing a violation. I sighed and walked to the passenger side, slamming the door after I got in. “Well, drive or something. I want to go to bed.” Harold took a side street into a neighborhood and craned his neck, looking for someone waiting around to help strangers. I filed my fingernails. “You think I should knock on doors?” he asked. “I’m waiting until you give up and go back to that church.” “We have to have faith,” he reminded me. I supposed he was right. Of course, he was right. Why was it that he got to be right, and me, the one who hadn’t done anything wrong, I was the guilty one? He kept driving by blind faith, turning down street after street of unspectacular homes. I stared at him blankly as he rolled his window down, looking around with so much faith in his smart-aleck prayer that I shook my head. “Who are they?” asked Simone, pointing toward the back window. We all swung our heads around and saw two guys in the distance, biking our way on the opposite side of the street. “What is that they’re wearing?” asked Matt. “Name tags?” “That is what an answer to prayer looks like,” said Harold. “What makes you so sure?” asked our daughter. “They look really young.” Harold parked by them and got out to explain to both Mormon missionaries about our mattress. He lifted the hatch to show, then he hurriedly slammed it, nearly clipping one of the kid’s noses. I got out, taking Maggie with me. “What a cute dog you have,” said Elder Kimball. “Can I pet him?” The other missionary, Elder Mullen, had more of my husband’s attitude toward dogs. “You can take the dog as well, I guess,” said Harold. “She’s probably got bugs, too.” “The mattress is fine,” I had to object. “I don’t know why my husband says half of what he does.” “My wife is attached to this bed for some reason,” Harold went on. “I can’t believe you’re willing to store it, and I have no idea how we’ll eventually get it across the line, so it could be a while.” “It’s no problem,” said Elder Kimball in a positive, cheerful way. “We have lots of space in our apartment.” Elder Mullen didn’t seem so sure. I caught him eyeing the biggest stain, but he didn’t say anything. Then the two got back on their bikes. Elder Kimball waved, and my husband pulled out to follow. They didn’t live close by, either. I

lost track of how many turns we made and began to wonder if we were being purposely disoriented so these two bleached-white boys could take advantage of us. Finally, they stopped in front of a two-story apartment complex. Elder Kimball guided as my husband backed the van to their front door. When I went to see where that mattress of mine would be stored, their apartment looked empty. How did they live without a table? “Do you guys even own a bed?” I had to ask. “We have sleeping bags, and there’s always the floor,” said Elder Kimball. “You need this bed more than I do,” I said. Elder Kimball laughed but not with embarrassment—he laughed like someone with confidence in himself. “It’s a sacrifice that we have chosen,” he said. “It toughens the spirit. Hardship is good for a person.” “Bring on the tough times,” said Harold, joking again. I didn’t say anything, but Harold could use some floor time, I figured. He could use a mission, too. “How much do we owe you?” asked Harold. Elder Kimball appeared offended, and even Elder Mullen chimed in. “It’s our joy to help people in need.” “It’s what we do,” said Elder Kimball. “I teach shop class,” said Harold, “but I don’t do it for free. Here, take twenty dollars.” Harold put the money away when he saw how upset Elder Kimball seemed. It’s funny calling someone elder when he’s young enough to be your child, but this young man really did act like my elder, like he knew so much more than me. “I probably should take your information,” Elder Kimball said. “Just in case.” He gave Harold his business card. In his chicken scratch, Harold penned our information on the back and returned it. I made sure to take a card as well, because it only made sense. “We’ll figure something out,” said Harold. “But I don’t know what.” We shook hands, but when I shook Elder Kimball’s hand, I gave him a hug on top of that. While I had him in my arms, I whispered, “I’m a Christian, but I’m not as good as you.” As we drove off, I couldn’t believe Harold knew the way back. I’d have been lost, but before long, we were at the border and through it. The whole way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Elder Kimball and how inferior I felt compared to him.

Back home in Abbotsford during the months that followed, I didn’t so much

forget about my sister-in-law and her mattress as get overwhelmed by projects around our house and its embarrassingly unkempt yard. When I wasn’t carving out new flower beds in the front or planting strawberries in the side yard, I was

“So we’re looking for a little, dead thing,” he said finally.

busy undertaking a happy birthday overhaul of Matt’s bedroom. There simply wasn’t enough time. Whenever I did think about that mattress, I was never in a position to act. I always seemed to remember it as I lay under the covers at night, enduring the tug-of-war over the sheets or my space being invaded. At one point well into spring, when Harold was pawing me in bed, I sat up and felt around in the dark for that business card. “It was right here,” I said. “Did you touch my stuff again?” “Don’t blame me. Blame that dog of yours.” “Aren’t you even going to help me look?” “You haven’t said what you’re looking for.” I had every piece of paper off that nightstand and the contents of both drawers upended onto the covers; I even got a flashlight from the kitchen to check under the bed, when I heard Harold snoring. “Can’t you stay awake?” I said, shaking him. “I have to get up early.” “That didn’t stop you five minutes ago from keeping me awake.” “I don’t even know what you’re looking for,” he said again, but he got up and stood beside me as I rummaged. “What color is it?” he asked. “I don’t remember.” “How big is it?” “Not very.” “Is it alive?” “Don’t be stupid.” “So we’re looking for a little, dead thing,” he said finally. I eventually told him what it was when we were back in bed. He lay far away from me on his side, and I had some slack in the comforter. I didn’t want to say anything, but then I thought that maybe he could help. “If I were you, I’d give up on that mattress,” he said. “Too much hassle.” His attitude made me want my mattress more than ever. I just needed to know how to get it home. So the next morning, after he went to work and the kids were off to school, I called the only Mormon person I knew, Melina, and told her my situation. “I have a mattress in my basement you’re welcome to,” she said. “Thank you,” I replied, “but this one has sentimental value.” “I realize it’s a little late,” she said, “but couldn’t you have chosen a pair of your sister-in-law’s old slippers instead?” “I want another mattress,” I explained. “I don’t need slippers.” “A twin-sized mattress,” Melina went on. “Is it for one of your kids?” I didn’t appreciate her tone, or the interrogation, so I said, “Elder Kimball is his name. Do you want me to spell it?” “I’ll do what I can,” she said. “I’m not sure where to start though.”

“Could you get me his phone number?” I could hear her children starting up in the background. “Listen, I’ll call you back,” she said. Like a fool, I actually believed her; I even sat by the phone picking my hangnails until they bled. Eventually, I started vacuuming, and before long, it was time to pick up the kids. I usually see Melina at the elementary school—her daughter is in my son’s class—but I didn’t bump into her that day, and when I finally saw her a couple of days later, I was too embarrassed to mention it. Later that week, I took Simone to youth group and my son to Pioneer Boys at church. Before things got started, I cornered Pastor Darren. “Do you think you could help me? My husband has given up.” Then I rattled off my story. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Those Mormons,” I said. “They’re amazing!” “They are impressive,” he agreed. “Do you ever have mattresses left in the lobby?” I had to ask. “No,” he said, “but we make regular trips to the dump.” “Do people leave stuff with notes? Do notes help?” “Oh, people write things,” he said, “but they seldom follow through, and we only have so much space. I should get going, but let me know what happens. It’s interesting.” I had to admit, the more I asked for help, the better Elder Kimball looked and the worse I felt about saddling him with my mattress. The next morning, I did something about it. I didn’t worry about making dinner or doing the laundry or walking the dog; I dedicated all my time to solving this problem. The first thing I did was find the phone number for the Mormon church in Sumas, which turned out to be simple; however, it only got me their answering machine. Next, I called a fumigation outfit for a price quote, which forced me to rethink the entire overpriced endeavor. They wanted to arrange a pick-up and asked for my address, but then I explained the whole situation. “You want to know what I think?” said the salesman. “You want to know what I’d tell my wife? Maybe you should just forget about it. It’s not gonna bring anybody back to life.” Normally, I would have fired right back, but his words struck me. Was that what I wanted? I didn’t think so. “You sound like my husband,” I said, “and that’s not a good thing. Now realize this—I made a commitment to this missionary, and I intend to see it through. My mattress is not garbage, and I’m going to need your help bringing it back.” Once he understood the seriousness of the matter, he said, “Since you don’t know the address where your dead sister-in-law’s mattress is, I can’t collect it for you. You’ll have to cart the thing here yourself and retrieve it next week. So, two trips. All that for a shot piece of furniture. Do you really have that kind of time and money to blow? I mean, seriously, religion be damned.”

I called a fumigation outfit for a price quote, which forced me to rethink the entire overpriced endeavor.

I thanked him for his perspective, even though I didn’t appreciate his honesty, and after hanging up, I dismissed the whole idea. That’s where I left it until my husband came home. He asked me about my day, and I took twenty minutes telling him. “Let’s drive down there right now,” he said. “What did I just say?” I asked. “Weren’t you paying attention?” “Leave it with me,” he said. “Let me handle it.” “That’s not what you said before,” I reminded him. “It will be fun,” he said, patting his pockets. “Where are my keys?” “You can’t go now,” I said. “Everything’s closed. You really think it’s a good idea?” “Every great idea sounds crazy,” he said. “It’s got God written all over it.” After reconsidering things in light of my husband’s enthusiastic about-face, I quickly became excited. “I’ll just have to drive by myself tomorrow,” I said, “except I have no idea where.” My husband considered things briefly then phoned his substitute teacher line. The whole system was automated, so he didn’t have to speak to anyone, but when it came to entering the excuse code, he struggled with his answer. “Should I tell them I’m sick or that I have a doctor’s appointment?” “It’s an appointment,” I said. What else was it if not an appointment? “But it’s not a doctor’s appointment.” “Who’s going to know?” I said. When he entered code twenty-five for unpaid leave, I realized that buying a new mattress would have been way cheaper. And thinking about my husband driving to the States alone helped me realize I had to see Elder Kimball again for myself. We had unfinished business. When I told the kids they’d have to fend for themselves while Mommy and Daddy did a job across the line, they looked concerned, like their parents were going off for a year on a mission. “How long will you be gone?” Simone asked. “Can I come?” Matt said. “You have school,” I said, “and we’ll be back tomorrow evening.” “What if I get sick at school?” Matt asked. “The school has an emergency contact,” I reassured him. He wanted to know who, and when I told him he got upset. “Honey, you’ll be fine. You’re a big boy.” “Don’t worry, Matty,” my daughter said. “You can call me at school if you get scared. There, problem solved.” “You’re a good sister, you know that?” I said. “I’m sure your father misses his.” The next morning, Harold and I got an early start, and when we reached the border, he told the guard everything about our situation. I mean everything— dead sister, mattress, prayer, Mormons—but the border guard didn’t even crack a smile. All he asked was, “Any fruit or meat?” “I sure hope those boys are home,” Harold said after we crossed the border.

Of course, when we arrived at their apartment, they were nowhere to be found. I remembered how the front door of that church had been left unlocked and how I’d walked right in, so I tried the knob on their door. No such luck. That’s when my husband said, “I can’t believe we never prayed about this.” I didn’t roll my eyes this time. I didn’t even get angry. For the first time, I said the prayer instead of him. “Oh, Lord God, heavenly Father, Holy Ghost, almighty Jesus,” I began, because I had no idea what to say, and all I knew was that I should be respectful. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad believer. Even people from a cult are better than me.” I’m not sure, but I think my husband winced at that. “They are a cult. Great people but a cult nonetheless.” He cringed for sure that time, but at least he did it silently. “If it’s okay with You, would You please bring these Mormon boys back home because we really need them one more time.” When I looked up from the pavement, my husband smiled, but the Mormons didn’t show, and I’m not a patient person. “Now what?” I said after a few minutes. “This is killing me.” Harold cupped his hands over the window to look in their apartment. “There it is,” he said. “Do you think we should break in?” “Go for it,” I said. My husband tried to slide open their window with the flats of his hands and was about to run around to the back when he noticed something. “Hey, it looks like one of them is using your mattress.” I had to see this, and sure enough, past the dozen dead flies on the windowsill, I saw a sleeping bag spread out on the mattress. “Leave them a note,” Harold said. “We can wait for their call. I need coffee.” I checked my purse for something to write on and came upon some tattered evangelism tracts. In the glove box, I found a McDonald’s napkin, so I penned a message: Dear Elder Kimball, Sorry we missed you. Came to visit and say thanks for the good example. Brought some reading material for your consideration. God’s blessings from your northern neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Harold Burns p.s. Keep the mattress. When my husband read the note, he said, “You’re sure you don’t want it? I thought that’s why we came.” Surprisingly, I didn’t have to think about it too hard to know the mattress had done all it was going to do for me and should be moved along. I tucked my note and those precious papers into the gap at the front door and went for coffee with Harold. While we sat inside on a trendy, sunken couch, I said to him, “We could be missionaries. What do you think? I mean it, seriously.”

I tucked my note and those precious papers into the gap at the front door and went for coffee with Harold.

“Are you kidding me?” he choked. “I think we should pray about it,” I said, folding my hands at my lips. “Hang on,” Harold cautioned, desperately clearing his throat. “Think about this. What if He says yes?” Gazing at Harold’s panicked stare unnerved me, so I laid my head against his chest, but even then I felt the pounding of his heart through his coat. Sitting there huddled against my husband, suspending my prayer out of fear, it struck me as odd that I had for so long dismissed the two of us as unfit to serve. There are better people on Earth to choose from than us, I had always supposed. But then I thought, what do I know? Maybe there aren’t.

Outlined

Karli Rhind

This world is outlined With black pencil Tracing our bodies and defining Our shape Drafting our three-dimensional lives To stick out from the wallpaper From the concrete From towering buildings Sometimes life is too real It anchors you to the cracking dirt When you dream of floating up Into the atmosphere Head full of butterflies But this place on Earth Can cut you down into the cracks

Parable Talents of the

Susan Kugelmann

digital photograph

Parable Pearls of the

and Pigs

Susan Kugelmann

digital photograph

Schism n.h.

Cole

“In the event of an emergency,” said Sin, twisting in his chair, “please secure your own mask before assisting your child, the disabled, or any other persons.” Liam cringed at his brother’s parroted recollection of the stewardess and tried to tune him out beneath the heavy hum of the turbines’ rotations. Once Sin had begun, there was no telling when he would stop. “They do that, you know, the oxygen thing, they say that because if something happens in midair, it’s more likely that we, the healthy adults, that we would survive over the kids anyway. We can hold our breath longer, you know, than those spoiled little rats that they’re so worried about. Too little oxygen to the encephalon,” Sin tapped his temple, “too little oxygen up here, and we’re done for. Who’s going to help the rats if we’re gone, you know?” Liam didn’t respond. He was both exhausted and irritated with his brother who, before the boarding process, had acquired and imbibed a sizeable number of whiskey miniatures from the airport bar. Liam wouldn’t have cared, had he stopped there. However, he bought more on the plane, and a miniature landfill of plastic ethanol carcasses had begun to form itself on Sin’s tray next to him. The plane wouldn’t land for another four hours. Liam tried to hone in on a sense other than sound and rested upon scent. He had been fortunate in purchasing their tickets; his sister had called, demanding that he attend their late mother’s memorial the following day, so he booked two seats on the next flight out. Those tickets happened to be the last two seats available, though, which left them to rest in the end row, nearest the lavatory. From his sewage throne in the aisle, he was able to detect every odor that escaped, as well as some of the stenches of the desperate individuals that had to wait their turn. These people would pile up in the aisle, ignoring the flight attendant’s constant nagging to wait in their seats. They no doubt needed the fecal release as a result of feasting upon one of the absurdly priced airline meals. Occasionally, it sounded as if some were attempting to bargain with the god of their choice, promising that they would be just and true if only they were allowed this release. Sin pointed to an elderly woman, third in line, who held her eyes shut and palms pressed together. Beneath her breath, she muttered antiquated prayers in Latin.

“That’s probably the ergot, you know, the rye that they served with that microwaved first class chicken and mashed potatoes meal. It rots into lsd if it molds for long enough, could have degraded the inside of the loaf. No one would have noticed.” Sin sighed. “Thank God we’re poor.” Liam tried to ignore him. He crushed his eyelids shut at a particularly foul flatulence that an elephant of a man standing closest to him had emitted, anus roughly at sinus level. His brother’s knuckles cracked against his thigh. He pursed his lips before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come on, man, you aren’t flexing. At this altitude you’re more susceptible to deep vein thrombosis, especially in your calves, and believe me, you don’t want to lose a leg over a clot that you could have prevented if only you’d flexed a little more.” “Would you please shut the fuck up?” A few of the pleaders turned to eye Liam curiously. Sin pouted. “All right, all right, Christ, I’m just trying to look out for you, you know. Fine, your wish is my command,” he remarked, waving his hand in a sarcastic bow. Liam reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of earbuds, which he untangled and plugged into the armrest. Sin couldn’t help but chime in. “Ah, that’s better. Let’s see if they’ve got anything for free other than Disney or crickets.” At that, he was quiet. Liam lowered himself in his seat and placed the back of his skull against the polyester and aluminum headrest, shutting his eyes. He must have slept for the rest of the flight because, when he awoke, Sin was ordering him to be ready to move. The brothers waited for the aisle to clear before hopping up to tear the luggage from the bins above them. They made their way out of the steel bird that had transported them just short of two thousand miles and headed toward the curb to hail a cab. When one pulled up, they waited for the cab driver to open the trunk. Liam dropped the luggage in and opened the door. Sin squeezed in before him, leaving him the passenger side. The middle-aged redneck asked for a destination as he clicked the meter to life. “Fayetteville,” said Liam. The cabbie strained himself backward, arm stretched out across the passenger seat as his neck twisted over his shoulder, creating a display of remarkable psoriasis and stretch marks out of the excess flesh cushioning his cervical plexus. “Now hold on there a second, mister. That’s close to two hundred miles, you know that?” Liam looked irritated, but it was Sin who spoke, eyeing his brother. “Look, you’ll get the money, okay? That’s one hundred and eighty-nine miles, so with a two-fifty start-the-meter fee and a two-twenty per mile fee, that’s four hundred and eighteen for the mileage, right? Then let’s add, say, a fifty dollar tip for the good driver that doesn’t speak, so four hundred and sixty-eight bucks, and we’ll call it even, yeah? See, I know, just relax and drive. Please.”

The cabbie threw his hands into the air before he set the car into gear and adjusted the rearview mirror so that Liam wasn’t obstructing his view. “You’re just lucky I got gas is all.”

It was about 10 p.m. when the cabbie pulled up to the curb of a hostel in down-

He made his way toward Sin, who stared at the counter through a cloud of smoke.

town Fayetteville. The driver got his money, and after the luggage had been unloaded, he began his trip back down to Little Rock. The brothers made their way inside to find a small room adorned by pseudo-antiquities. A polished wooden counter lined the back third of the room and had a single doorway behind it, undoubtedly leading to an office. The only other way out of the room was a small hall with stairs tucked away at the end. Liam approached the counter. The room was empty, and he rang the silver bell that sat in front of him. Sin stayed by the door and lit a cigarette. The door behind the counter opened. A short, heavyset blond teenager strolled over and met Liam across the counter. “Hey, have you got any two-person rooms?” She eyed him and his luggage before her acrylic nails tapped against a keyboard that was hidden from him. “Yeah,” she responded, “are you expecting someone?” “My brother,” he threw a thumb over his shoulder, “over there.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of the counter as he spoke, fixated on the cherry wood. The young woman’s eyes glanced over the room before she tapped away again. A few moments passed before she handed him his keycard and thanked him for his business. Liam turned to pick up his luggage but halted mid-step. He spun on his heel back toward the counter as he called after her. She was halfway through her door, holding it open as she stopped to listen. “I need another key, ma’am.” She returned to tap on her computer before rather aggressively tossing another keycard onto the counter, which he slid off with an open palm and pocketed. He made his way toward Sin, who stared at the counter through a cloud of smoke. Sin didn’t seem to notice his brother until he whistled at him and jerked his head toward the hall. He dropped his cigarette from thumb and forefinger and stomped it out with a twist of his heel before following his brother. They headed toward the staircase that led them to their room, and after dropping the luggage in the immediate corner, Liam fell backward onto his designated mattress. Sin sat on his own mattress, eyeing his brother from across the room; it wasn’t long before he began to ramble and pointed toward the corner of the ceiling above his brother. “There’s asbestos up there, you know. You’re gonna get sick if that falls on you while you’re sleeping. Trust me, I worked in a hospital for a while, remember? You don’t want those amosite fibers lodging themselves in your lungs. They’ll metastasize real quick.”

Liam sighed as loudly as he could, turning away from the spot that Sin had identified for him. “That won’t work, man, you know that. You’ll still be breathing those things in. You’d better put a layer over yourself. Here,” Sin said as he removed the sheet from his bed and draped it over Liam, “I’ll do it. Anyway, night, brother.” When they awoke, they were already late. The brothers shot up as fast as they could and ran out onto the street. They raced through the neighborhood that they had grown up in, aiming for their father’s home. Soon enough, they had arrived, albeit perspired and drained of oxygen. They stood on the front porch, doubled over to catch their breath, before Liam knocked on the door. A familiar face peeled the door open, and Liam felt as if he were staring into an aged mirror. “Well, hey there. Didn’t think you were gonna make it. Come on in.” The brothers followed after their father into a parlor that stank of the expensive cigarettes that everyone present seemed to be inhaling. Some called him Bill as he passed—still others, Molloy. He dropped into his designated leather recliner perched in the center of the room. The brothers stared out over the horde before Liam cast an eye toward the ceiling, astonished at the cumulonimbus that had formed above them all. The only thing that could be distinguished through the carcinogenic fog was a hefty beam that ran the length of the room. Sin followed his brother’s stare for a moment before gazing out over the crowd again. “I can’t breathe in here,” he muttered. Liam tilted his head to the side to watch him disappear into another room. He sighed and made his way into the congregation, finding an open spot on the couch. For a few awkward minutes, he made small talk with people that he hadn’t seen since childhood. Some, he didn’t know at all. Eventually, his father said that it was time to go. Everyone rose and retreated through the glass sliding door that led to the back yard, an advanced stretch of plastic and painted grass that extended half an acre in each direction. Liam remained behind on the couch, his eyes locked on the cherry wood beam that sprouted across the ceiling. At its center, there was a slight smear of a stain across the cheap gloss. He could swear there were still some strands of polyester gripping the stain that spun the circumference of the beam. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as his brother hissed to him from behind the couch. “It won’t help, you know. You think it will, but it won’t. Trust me, it won’t solve your problems. You’ll just drop them on others, which is your larger concern anyway. It won’t help.” Liam stood and caught his father as the horde finished migrating. “Hey, Dad, where’s Lily?” “Upstairs. She’ll be down in a moment. She’s getting your mother ready.” Sin interjected to his brother. “Getting Mother ready? What the fuck does that mean? She wanted to be blistered to ash at eighteen hundred degrees, remember?”

The only thing that could be distinguished through the carcinogenic fog was a hefty beam that ran the length of the room.

After a few minutes of words that seemed more practiced than precisely emotional, the glass sliding door screeched open upon its tracks. 42

His father grimaced and shook his head before he turned to follow the guests out. Everyone had already gathered upon plastic lawn chairs to compliment the gasoline grass. His father walked to the podium that had been angled in front of and between the two swarms of seats. Liam chose a seat at the end of the back row, and Sin stood next to him. “The chairs are bad for my vertebra,” said Sin. His father began to speak, monotone. “Well, so, thank you all for coming out. I can’t begin to express my gratitude for the support that you’ve brought me in this trying time. Rae was a wonderful person.” Sin snorted, and a few of the nearby faces twisted in disgust. Liam tried to ignore them. After a few minutes of words that seemed more practiced than precisely emotional, the glass sliding door screeched open upon its tracks. His father finished his sentence to lift an open palm in that direction. “Ah, and here she is, my lovely daughter. She’s been preparing Rae.” Liam turned but couldn’t make out his mother’s urn beneath an embroidered sheet that Lily had used to cover it. She traipsed down the aisle in practiced mourning and rose up to the podium that their father had vacated. There, she laid the urn atop the pedestal and slowly removed the embroidery. Liam had to squint against the reflected glare of the sun, but he could see it. An ivory urn that had been decorated—poorly—by his sister stood about a foot tall from its perch. A series of prayer beads and mandalas adorned it, all from their mother’s final days as a Buddhist, and there were a few jotted dots of maroon paint strategically placed to represent the om character. She left the urn as she backed down from the podium. Their father clapped, and the audience soon followed. The brothers didn’t. Slowly, everyone moved from their seats to form a line in front of the urn, each offering a few words of their own, as if they meant more to the ashes than to themselves. Out of the corner of his eye, Liam caught Sin slipping out through the side gate. Liam approached his father, who was nursing a whiskey as he watched the line progress. “So, you holding up all right?” “Me? Yeah. It was just a matter of time until your mother got herself into trouble with the wine and the wheel, you know that, but I had to put on a bit of a show up there for her brother, you understand, especially with that god-awful urn.” Liam responded by slapping his father on the shoulder and gripping it firmly. He held it for a few moments before he eased his grip and headed inside, where he found his sister sitting straight and stiff with lady-crossed legs on the couch, draining a glass of chardonnay. He sat next to her on the faux leather. “So,” he inquired, “how’re you doing, sis?” She tilted her glass and extended a few fingers toward him as she responded.

“Well, I’d like to think that I did pretty well decorating Mother. She deserves that, you know, she deserves to look pretty today.” Liam nodded and glanced up at the beam for a moment. She noticed through a sideways sip and lowered her eyes before she spoke. “Have you been up the hill yet?” “Nope.” “You should go up there to see Sin, you know?” He sighed, scratching his head. “Better than most, sis.” He patted her on the knee before he rose. He bent to kiss her on the crown; her hair reeked of bleach and mayonnaise. He wandered out of the house and turned down the street. Anyone watching would have thought him to be aimlessly wandering. After a mile or so, the pavement steepened. He climbed and soon found himself peeling open a barred, steel gate. He continued to move along, eyes locked upon his shoes, before he eventually came to gravel, to grass, and then to a halt. A large loblolly pine sprouted in front of him, and he found himself enjoying its shade. He sat at the base of the native giant, tickling the vegetation with his fingers. He fondled the earth and plucked the overgrown weeds through grips that he formed with his knuckles. His reach for the weeds eventually led him a few inches further, until they ceased to exist for a foot and a half of concrete etched with yet unblemished bronze. He followed the coarse stone with his fingertips and soon found himself tracing what may as well have been braille to a blind man, he was so familiar with it. He traced the S and the I and the N all the way through Sinclair and let his fingertips slow over each letter of Molloy. From the edge of his vision, he could see Sin at the base of the hill. He lifted his head to stare down at his brother, who watched him through a squint and a collection of smoke. Neither said a word, one moving only to lift and lower his cigarette, one moving only to tear weeds from the earth. When Liam ran out of weeds, Sin stepped out his habit and climbed the hill. Liam stared up at his brother, silhouetted by the glare of the sun, a figure that he could hardly see and yet one that was altogether there. Neither moved. “It won’t help, you know,” they said. When Liam could no longer stare into the sun, what was left of his eyesight was recast to the bronze etchings. The indifferent flame would set, much like it had seven hundred and forty-six times since his brother had implored it to cease.

Escape

J a m e s S c h l av i n

18˝x 24˝ graphite on paper

Contributors E m i ly C a r r i c o

is a freshman studying English at the University of New Mexico. She enjoys studio art, photography, and literature. She has grown up in the church, and her relationship with God inspires many of her artistic works. n . h . C o l e is from the San Francisco Bay area and has had several publications to date. He enjoys creating bizarre situations to explore through his thoughtful writing style, which has been described by others to be a curious form of â&#x20AC;&#x153;lack-of-a-conscience creativity.â&#x20AC;?

Phil Della

has had work appear in Exile, cvc Short Fiction Anthology: Book 2, and Seventh Wave. He studied creative writing at the University of Victoria.

Susan Kugelmann

graduated from the University of New Mexico in 2008 with a bfa in studio arts. She is currently a contract photographer in the Albuquerque area and owns Studio 3130, which specializes in glamour portraiture. Her artwork is strongly influenced by Renaissance painters and their use of symbolism to portray religious ideals.

Tr av i s P e r ry

has contributed to a wide variety of short story collections and written one novel. An army reservist who deployed for the Gulf War and later to Iraq, Afghanistan, and Africa, his writing reflects his lifelong interest in science fiction and fantasy, his military background, and his strong Christian beliefs.

Karli Rhind

is a musician and secret poet from Phoenix, Arizona. She studies viola and violin at the University of New Mexico, attaining a masters in string pedagogy. Music and poetry are her greatest interests, which were always a large part of her childhood and are now things she pursues as a career.

Ja m es Sch l av i n

is currently a student at the University of New Mexico working toward a bfa in drawing and painting and a bs in signed language interpreting with a minor in English literature. He wants to continually explore the world through these avenues, finding beauty each and every day. Soli Deo Gloria.

R a n d i Wa r d

is a writer, translator, lyricist, and photographer from West Virginia. She earned her ma in cultural studies from the University of the Faroe Islands and is a recipient of The American-Scandinavian Foundationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Nadia Christensen Prize. Ward is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in Asymptote, Beloit Poetry Journal, Cimarron Review, World Literature Today, Vencil: Anthology of Contemporary Faroese Literature, and other publications.

C h e l s e a Wa r r e n

is currently a graduate student in Chicago studying theology. In her spare time, she likes to run, read, and explore the city with her husband.

Special Thanks Our staff would like to thank the following: Our contributors for taking the courageous step of sharing their work. We’re so pleased to offer it a home. The awesome folks over at abqGrafix who again enabled us to see our magazine in print. Anyone who has prayed for this publication and the mission behind it that drives us onward. Every person who opens this volume—without readers, we’re just talking to ourselves. If you enjoyed this volume, we ask that you do our contributors and us a kindness by passing it on to someone else. Only in this way will art continue to live on.

If you would like to submit your work for the 2016 volume of Embers Igniting, go to our website www.embersigniting.com and click on the Submit page to learn how.

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