Embers Igniting 2016 by Embers Igniting

Embers Igniting 2016

Volume 3

Printed by abqGrafix, Albuquerque, nm Copyright ÂŠ 2016 Embers Igniting www.embersigniting.com embersigniting@gmail.com All rights revert to contributors upon publication.

Note from the Editor What is the most overused word in the English language? I’d argue it’s “love.” We love everything. We love our spouse, we love spring, we love our kids, we love orange-flavored popsicles, we love our dog, we love Breaking Bad, we love God. Why is “love” used so often? Because it’s multi-faceted and can be used in almost any context. It’s bigger than we can comprehend; therefore, our language doesn’t attempt to capture it. We don’t have multiple words to show its many dimensions, to make sure we don’t portray our adoration of chocolate chip cookie dough as equal to our adoration for Christ. But maybe that’s okay. If we tried to express the depth and breadth of love by giving it dozens of names, we’d still fall short, because at its heart, it’s a holy concept. We can’t capture the bigness of God with words, and God is love; it’s no wonder we can’t grasp the enormity. In this volume, we simply present small slices of love in its many forms—in the context of family, romance, and materialism. You’ll see imposters of love, for there are many in this fallen world. It’s crucial that we see through the misrepresentations to its true form straight from Heaven. Which begs the question—do you know love when you see it?

Table of Contents

01 David Liliana Rehorn 02 Sylvan Historian Brian Burlage 03 Sunset Twins Melissa Blakely 04 Be Here Chelsea Warren 05 Allergies Matt Paczkowski 10 Yield Sharon Rhutasel-Jones 11 Evening Plans Chelsea Warren

12 Dissection Liliana Rehorn 13 Desert Lovers Sharon Rhutasel-Jones 14 For the Rush Madeleine Mozley 15 San Pedro Drive Liliana Rehorn 17 We Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Go to Paris Sharon Rhutasel-Jones 18 Return Brian Burlage

David

Liliana Rehorn Even in the darkness I could see the delicate upward turn of his nose, his sly eyes charming and slanted. His teeth, even, were wolf-like, yet soft and enticing, and I thought it would be comfortable to die in his mouth. He breathed lust into my ear, and I offered him my neck like a sheep craving death for the quicksilver romance and the thrill of it. He was a dream of blood and flesh and ease, and under his expert hands I blossomed into something sweet, then under those same hands withered, my worth as short-lived as his desire.

Sylvan Historian Brian Burlage

Fire flickers into being like a lost fold of sheep vanishing into pockets of day all at once with a hiss, only to reappear noiselessly at prolonged intervals. Long colors collide and break apart in stretched rhythm like the fire that flushes its blaze slowly, a sprout that balloons from the velvet absence of sound and pleasure and calculation, a broken hierarchy scanning night. Such whiteness spools from infinity and jumps the moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cradle, daring, draining the darkness of its own immensity. Fire and flock like wooly daybreakâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; passing equilibrium.

Sunset Twins Melissa Blakely

digital photograph

Be Here

Chelsea Warren

digital photograph

Allergies

Matt Paczkowski

Ted tightened his grip on the plastic handle, squeezing the thin bag between his fingers. He pushed open the screen door, stepped into the pollen-ridden air, and stared out at his new back yard. He knew that beauty was abstract—there was no one definition—but, realistically, who could look at this and argue otherwise? It was beauty. Pure, absolute beauty, from the thick, twisting Japanese maple tree in the far corner with its pink petals that had just entered full bloom, which the spring breeze carried down onto Jennifer’s begonia garden like snowflakes, to the rich, reflective grass dripping with morning dew. In the center of the yard rested an aged oak swing set, a hefty piece that the previous residents had left behind. Its two chain-link swings and narrow seesaw served as a reminder that the house had once belonged to others, to a couple whose children had grown up—nice people, now spending their retirement down in Florida. Ted turned and glanced up at the house. The rectangular windows flickered with the reflected light that filtered in through the Japanese maple. He looked back at the swings and squinted. Yes, he could see it from here. A wasp floated around the swing set in precise, calculating circles, a motion that reminded him of the World War II recon missions his father used to tell him about at bedtime. The insect finally landed on a beam and disappeared into the oak. God only knew how many lived in that burrow. Ted glanced at the bag he was holding, at the can of Raid inside, and decided not to use it now. He didn’t feel like starting his Saturday with genocide. He’d take care of the nest with Richie later. Ted reentered his home and kicked off his moccasins. He left the bag on the kitchen table and walked up the long, curved staircase, feeling the varnished wood stick against his bare feet before he entered the master bedroom, spread his arms out, and fell onto the king-sized bed. He lay there with the windows open, his eyes wide, the white curtains catching the wind like sails, blowing them inward, and he sunk his fingers into the cool, white comforter. He squeezed the

fabric and thought of Jennifer. Her warm, white skin. Her full lips, moist with pear-flavored gloss. He wanted her so badly. He wished she would get home so that he could take her here, now, in the bright, white Saturday afternoon with the breeze blowing against their exposed skin. Whoever said that money couldn’t buy happiness had clearly never lived in Manhasset. The poor bastard who first said it was likely still stuck in Flushing, moving his car for alternate side parking, hearing awful languages muttered by the Asians and the Spanish, seeing their foreign lettering scratched onto soiled billboards, listening to the sounds of constant traffic, of horns, of construction, of congestion, of horror. Ted closed his eyes tightly, seeing the dingy apartment with its yellow lampshades and brown carpeting for a moment before shoving the memory far away and telling himself that that life was over. Gone. He’d never have to go back. The promotions, the investments, the hedge funds. Upward mobility. He deserved this. No, he’d earned this. Others might have upgraded right away to a small house out on the Island or a summer place in the Hamptons, but he waited, suffered for years, looking ahead to this place, to this moment. He’d never have to go back to that. There was a fumbling downstairs. Jennifer, home from the mall. Ted stood and hurried down to greet her. “My God, you wouldn’t believe what they charge for this crap,” she said, plopping the bags down and working out a kink in her shoulder. “It’ll be worth it, though. I promise.” Ted noted the satchel of Tiffany & Company dinner plates by the door as he followed her into the kitchen. “Do whatever you need to,” he said, staring at her golden hair. “As long as you’re happy.” “Oh, I’m happy. Or I will be once we blow all this out.” She made sweeping gestures over the dark wood kitchen cabinets. “It’ll let more light in, you know? It feels like a cave in here.” Ted came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her thin waist, and locked his fingers together in front of her belly. “Can’t we go upstairs?” he prodded, and she made that innocent giggle that had made him fall in love with her in the back seat of his Chevy freshman year. Back when they were young and inexperienced and poor. She turned and smiled. “No.” “Please?” “Richie will be home soon.” “Not for another hour.” “No, Ted.” She tapped him on the nose. “Come on.” She hesitated, and he thought she might have changed her mind until she asked, “Do you think he’s happy?” Ted pulled back his arms a little. “Who, Richie?”

“Yeah. I’m scared he’s not adjusting.” “I was scared you weren’t adjusting.” “I’m not a child.” He released her waist. “Neither is he. He’s fine.” “Is he?” “Yes.” “What about his grades? And those drawings? And what Miss Kendrick said?” “He’s twelve. All twelve-year-olds think about that stuff.” “You should talk to him. He hates it here.” Ted took a breath. How could anyone hate this? “All right,” he said, glancing down at the black and white tiles. She leaned against the island, her back touching the marble. “Now help me drag that stuff in here.” He emptied the shopping bags onto the spacious kitchen table while Jennifer stood behind watching, explaining her purchases: dinner napkins because the monograms were perfect, candles necessary for Wednesday’s charity event, chinaware with those patterns from the eighteenth century, and silverware because the chrome was so lovely. She asked about the bottle of Raid, and Ted moved it from the table. “Your mom thinks you aren’t happy,” Ted said on the ride home from practice. He made sure to look over at his son. “I’m not happy. I hate baseball.” Richie pulled off his glove and tossed it onto the back seat. “Hey, watch the upholstery.” At the light, Ted reached back and put the muddy mitt on the car floor. He brushed the seat off and turned back around. The kid could never be satisfied. Anything Ted liked, his son hated. Baseball? Nope. Wrestling? Of course not. Guitar? A nightmare. And now their new home. Kids used to do as they were told. They learned things from their parents because they weren’t allowed to complain every goddamn minute. “One season, Richie. You don’t have to play next year if you don’t want to. And I’m not talking about baseball. Are you happy here?” There was a pause. Richie removed his baseball cap and curled the rim in his hands. He gazed out the window, expressionless. “Things are different here. Better. The kids, they’re like you. They—” Ted stopped himself, imagining Jennifer’s glare. She always made that accusatory face, as though he was one of her closed-minded, bigoted relatives living in West Virginia. Ted wasn’t racist. He was honest. Richie didn’t belong in P.S.-whatever with the kids in need of government funding. He was different. Ted couldn’t forget that parent-teacher night with those poverty-stricken dialects. Standing in the hallway. Hearing translators talk for the other parents.

Seeing the teachers’ relief that he spoke English. They said his son was doing very well. Of course he was. He came from a good family, from supportive parents. That school, that neighborhood, was fine for the others. Not for Richie. “You’ll have opportunities here,” Ted said to his son, who continued to stare outside. Ted reached over and rubbed a hand through Richie’s hair. “It’ll get better. I promise.” Johnson, A Family Company. Printed just above, a keep out of reach of chilwarning. Ted shook the bottle as he opened the sliding door and walked toward the swing set where Richie sat. Richie had a weekend habit of sitting on that swing—always the left one— headphones in, eyes glazed over, hands clutching the chains, swinging back and forth, back and forth. The behavior concerned Jennifer when they’d first moved in, especially when he sat out there after dark, but Ted convinced her that there was no reason to be alarmed. He’d told her Richie was just relaxing. A kid could do much worse on the weekends. Ted’s loafers pressed into the fertilized grass, and a cool breeze pushed his polo shirt tight against his chest. The soles of Richie’s sneakers brushed the mulch with each pass, leaving two broad streaks in the ground. “Careful, buddy,” Ted warned, thinking of black wasps swarming from the tiny hole at the base of the old oak beam. Ted had wondered how they had drilled such a perfect opening; his Dewalt couldn’t have done better. Left unattended, the others might come in, take over the whole back yard—put those holes everywhere. He’d already seen wasps lingering around Jennifer’s pink begonias. What if they stung Richie? What if he were allergic? That’s the thing about allergies— you don’t know the danger until it kills you. Richie jumped off the swing, and Ted knelt like a coach while he explained how to use the poison. “I’ll let you do it.” He handed his son the metal canister. “Spray it into the burrow like I showed you. Be sure to stand back.” Richie spun the bottle around, checking that the nozzle faced away. They both stepped toward the oak, gazing up at the beam, until they were just a few feet away. The small hole was visible, the darkness obvious. Richie pressed down. A flood of thick liquid shot forth with striking force. At first, it missed the beam entirely and landed almost ten feet away near the tulips, but Richie steadied his aim until the poison penetrated the opening. He pushed the canister closer to the source, and Ted watched his son’s hand shake with uncalculated intensity. The liquid splashed back, forming a small puddle on the mulch beneath the swing. When Richie stopped spraying a few seconds later, they both leaned toward the dripping burrow, squinting. Nothing. And then, movement. Like a tiny mirror within the darkness. And, suddenly, a head. A limb. Wings. One crawled out, sc

dren

seemingly comprised of only sharp, black angles. Richie didn’t spray again. They both watched, silent. Its long, narrow wings tried to flap. Barely. Its jointed legs released the beam. It plummeted downward in a movement that seemed to occur in slow motion. Ted watched the thing land on the mulch, and he took a step away. It remained on its back, still moving, antennae reaching, legs shifting slowly, as though it were in an ocean treading water. It was trying to flip itself over. Ted raised a hand to his mouth and considered— But, without warning, a flood of liquid cascaded onto the creature, pushing it back slightly. The limbs twitched faster. Then not at all. Ted looked at his son, who stepped closer with one finger pressed so tightly against the trigger of the Raid can that his knuckle had turned white. There was a barely perceptible smile on Richie’s face. It happened fast. Ted pulled on his son’s shoulder forcefully, and the canister fell to the grass; some of the liquid splashed up onto Richie’s bare leg, and Richie yelled, tripping slightly, falling to one knee, shouting out, “What’s wrong with you?” Ted clenched his fist and held it at his side, staring down at a son he did not recognize. Ted’s breath felt heavy and labored. His hand shook. He’d never hit his son before, and he would never come this close again—not six years from now when Richie would get that Samantha girl pregnant, not in eight when he’d get kicked out of Adelphi for two counts of plagiarism, not in eleven when he’d get that dwi and a license suspension, and not in twenty when Richie would refuse to visit his own mother in the hospital. Ted would never feel the same visceral fury toward his son that he felt now. Richie rubbed at his leg. “You told me to do it!” he said, wiping his palms on his shirt. “You told me to.” He stood and ran inside the house. Ted turned back to the wasp. He crouched down to get a closer look, opening his fist, feeling the release. When he saw that the wings no longer moved, he put his loafer on top of the creature and pressed down with careful precision.

Yield

Sharon Rhutasel -Jones she glances at the yellow light then, hunched over her walker, she inches across the street the anarchy of old age delights me

Evening Plans Chelsea Warren

digital photograph

Dissection

Liliana Rehorn

I will listen to you the way I split open a date to take the pit out, then toss the flesh into a bowl of hot milk where it falls apart like something glad to dissolve.

I think of the pit: an insect, an eager secret buried in the gooey sweet of your eyes

You, my plump, saccharine bruise, are despicably sweet, sitting there across from me begging to be pitted.

around which the flesh surrenders willingly to my fingers with a gentle tearing so easy it’s unfair, almost.

You soften as you speak. While I watch your red, wet tongue flit floridly in your mouth— it’s waited its whole life for a chance to dance like this—

Then that hard part, the seed, the ugly from which the sweet comes, is so easily removed in a gentle but reluctant surgery.

Desert Lovers Sharon Rhutasel -Jones

Rain rarely keeps its promises in the desert Thunder, like a boxcar rumbling north along the Santa Fe line, gets a cursory hearing since everyone knows such talk, cheap as last seasonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shoes, leads to nothing more than dusty spots on windshields But, when a downpour does occur, its drumming on baked earth calls the women to come out Handmaidens of the sun, wary at first, catch the rain in pots for making thick red chile Or sometimes, when the moon is full, they dance, faces turned upward, inviting rain drops to flow in rivulets, holy water inching toward breasts and waiting thighs Rain moves on The sun, certain it knows how power works, appears without warning and travels to the mountain top Tolerant of their indiscretion, he summons his handmaidens The women respond to his beckoning, but when he turns his back they lay aside their gossamer robes and slip into the presence of the moon

For the Rush Madeleine Mozley

digital photograph

San Pedro Drive Liliana Rehorn

I hadn’t noticed how silent neighborhoods could be on a Saturday afternoon until I had walked through enough that were not my own. The weather was good for the first time since winter, the sky cloudless and so enormous and blue that it made everything else feel hollow. One neighborhood had a wide street with no curbs and sidewalks covered in gravel that made a hot, echoing sound underneath my shoes. Occasionally, I saw cats run by, and if I had time, I would stop and pet them before moving on. I would hear children’s voices in the distance, and as I passed houses, I sometimes heard clattering plates and pans and the smell of cooking. Besides that there was little evidence of the people who lived there. Everything was small and wrapped up and private. On the way to Arizona Street, I walked past a dead crow on the side of the road, lying as if it were a stuffed animal a child had dropped. I almost expected to see its belly rising and falling in slumber. It lay delicately but with its eyes open, head crooked, flies buzzing greedily around it. I looked away quickly. Over the next couple of hours, I spoke with several people from their doorways, explaining that I was there to talk about health insurance and make sure that they were covered. I was often struck by their kindness, by the way they would smile and say, “Oh, yes, yes, we’re all covered here, thank you.” Some offered me water, and one man even hurriedly shoved into my hands a granola bar and a juice box before I could say, “No, thank you.” Another time, a woman invited me into her trailer, told me about her husband and children, and spent five minutes searching through her purse to give me a coupon for a thrift store in case I were to ever go there. Often, before I left these houses and the people would turn again into silhouettes behind screen doors, they would look at me with concern and say, “Be careful out there.” And I would laugh and say that I’d try and continue walking, thinking how kind people can be.

On San Pedro Drive, I stopped by a box-like building that had a gaping hole in the wall next to a man working quietly on a rust-red truck. I asked him where I might find Mary. He looked at me simply and called to the woman named Mary. She came to the window of a cylindrical tower of a house, and we had an unproductive, yelled conversation about health insurance before I gave up and moved on. What I remember of the next cluster of apartments is gravel. Hot, hot gravel, and a feeling of emptiness. The apartment buildings were skewed and crooked, almost as if each was trying to hide behind the other, with black, jagged spiderstairs leading to doors with chipping paint and worn edges. I debated whether the empty complex was worth wandering through and was about to move on when I heard a man’s voice crying from a window several meters from where I stood. “You don’t know what it feels like—this bad taste in my mouth—it’s fucking vinegar in my blood!” There was silence. I realized he must be on the phone. I stood frozen. “You don’t know what it’s like from this end. You’re over there in your happy house, and I’m here sleeping on the floor in an apartment with two people who don’t give a fuck about nobody!” I started to move away but hesitated, afraid and in awe. This man’s voice was sweet and smooth despite his pain, and I thought how beautiful it would be if he were ever to sing. His fist pounded the wall, and I could nearly feel the ground shaking beneath me. He choked out sobs. “Nobody, nobody, nobody!” His voice rang like bells, red and raw and black and blue, and I only wanted to make it better, but I was gone before I heard anything else. I continued visiting people’s houses. I talked to them about health insurance; they became silhouettes again, and I moved on. The sun began to set, the sky still an overwhelming blue, flushed skin-pink around the edges. Cats with wide, clock eyes watched me indifferently from behind fences, the shadows casting long, black stripes against the reddening earth. I heard a rustling of wings as black birds flew over me, and when I looked up at them, they felt like breath—they felt like awe and sunset and envy. Speckled against the sky, they filled my eyes with black and blue.

We Didn’t Go to Paris Sharon Rhutasel -Jones

I didn’t take you along when I crossed the Seine, walking to Notre Dame I slipped your last love letter into the back pocket of my jeans, the one you used to put your hand in whenever we ambled along, talking about nothing much, marking the time of days to the finely etched patterns fallen leaves make on water, to the softest cadence of distant music audible to just us two I buried God alongside you after you slipped away, leaving me alone in your hospital room I didn’t go to pray in Notre Dame Supplications die on lips left cold by the end of days filled with the simplicity of entwined being when hands trembling with longing held water for a baptism so filled with our desire The cathedral’s broken stone faces couldn’t negate it as I stood staring sideways across solitude, across time

Return

Brian Burlage

It is winter now. Dawn is anticipated. I dawdle through these neighborhood streets a stranger. It has been many years since my last visit home. Heaps of snow have stained the concrete beneath masses of snowmen, have imparted black medallionsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the chill of December circulates boldly still. It is not for me to know these fresh domestic double-crossings committed in white afternoons. June dances, freshly peeled from summer bloom, swinging, still reverberating among snow-capped trash lids and newspapers left to rot in the waves of heat. Ah, those azalea Junes! Brimming with midday raptures of lethargy and journeys to the park across the fields and over the embankments still cursed with dirtied microbes, between the pines and past the farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s windmill that plays kindred hosannas. The same Junes set to reel me from my course and tug at my eyes at last, out of greed, trying to taunt me with high hurrahs. How strange it has all become. We created games in the grassy gaps outlined by sidewalks when it was too late to call the gang. We adopted feral animals in these streets, glossed over the names on their blue and red collars, pretended to be heroes of canine empires. We played baseball in the cul-de-sac down the street from the neighborhood boys who never went outside. Red apples bumbled down polychromatic trees in autumn, were blanketed by snow in winter,

were resurrected with the rains in spring. They showed no mercy when we consumed their bacteria, their unassuming seasonal insignia. We plotted ways to light fireworks where they were banned. With every cricket’s crescendo, as fireflies floated and flickered their embers through the darkness, we released our screams in rounds of bottle rockets. Late summer dares launched us toward new maturity— accidental lessons in shame. Bags of candy plundered, obscenities scrawled on middle school walls, rocks chucked at haunted mansion windows— they dared me to place an exploding snake within a mail box; it sent the mailman round on his rear. The same chills that had swept away that confused stench now impinge carefully upon my memory; I stop in front of the old house ablaze with holiday light, and I kick the snow into shameless ruts in the yard. Pinched aromas wander through the chimney still emblazoned with smoke and gray ash. All through the neighborhood, silence recalls province. My frosted breath ghosts toward the halo wreath of stars. Farther into the darkness, a lone snowman stands chilled and naked, facing the empty cobbled street. Scraggly branches extend from his gut, and gray rocks stare at the other men along the block. I take the scarf from around my neck, warm it up, and loop it below the cold, uneven face.

Contributors M e l i s s a B l a k e l y is an Albuquerque resident who enjoys writing true stories about real people and taking pictures of beautiful things, particularly flowers. She spends her days pouring tea, and her hobbies include feasting on decadent chocolates, devising globe-trotting travel ventures, and meandering through intriguing books.

B r i a n B u r l a g e currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. M a d e l e i n e M o z l e y is a desert-dwelling word junkie. She loves writing fiction in all forms, and is currently working on a post-apocalyptic sci-fi series. She lives in Albuquerque with her husband and son, where she spends time gardening, dabbling in photography, and playing with her critters.

Ma t

t P a c z k o w s k i is a fiction and creative nonfiction writer from Long Island, New York with an mfa from Hofstra University. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals including Spittoon Magazine, Devilfish Review, and Narrateur: Reflections on Caring. He teaches English and Composition at Globe College in nyc.

L i l i a n a R e h o r n is a student of foreign language and literature finishing her last year at unm. After graduating, she hopes to begin teaching yoga and move to France. She enjoys traveling, reading, and the outdoors.

S h a r o n R h u t a s e l -J o n e s is the author of two memoirs, Living by Ear: Memoir of a

Wayward Teacher and The Teacher Who Learned from Cats. She is currently working on a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s book of bilingual haiku. She and her husband Larry live in the village of Los Ranchos de Albuquerque.

C h e l s e a W a r r e n currently resides in Northern California with her husband, Jeremy, and

her daughter, Cecily. While keeping busy as a stay-at-home mom, Chelsea enjoys running, photography, and exploring new places. Through her hobbies, such as photography, she hopes to show others the vast world we live in and encourage them to keep exploring.

Special Thanks Our staff would like to thank: Our kick-ass contributors. This volume is short, but because of you, it’s rock solid in quality. We’re grateful to present your work to the world. The kind folks at abqGrafix for their printing prowess. Our loving God, for giving us grace in this crazy year of 2016. We’ve seen career growth, a new home, the start of a marriage, and the birth of a precious baby. Now we get to add a new volume of Embers to the list. We’re able to do this only because of You.

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