Embers Igniting 2018 by Embers Igniting

Embers gniting 2018

Volume Five

Copyright ÂŠ 2018 Embers Igniting www.embersigniting.com embersigniting@gmail.com Cover art by James Schlavin All rights revert to contributors upon publication.

Note from the Editor

Madeleine Mozley

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Matthew 6:19 – 21 You don’t want to sleep. It hangs above you, in the darkness above your bed, circling through your room like smoke, snaking through your ears and flowing out from your mouth. It’s sweet like thick nectar, bitter like aspirin. It’s addictive and inescapable. But you don’t want to escape. It grabs you by the throat, and you see nothing but its eyes. You mouth “thank you” and let yourself sleep, content in the knowledge that it will be there to wake you in the morning. “The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!” Matthew 6:22 – 23

Table of Contents Fiction 15 A Blunder of Galactic Dimensions Jenean McBrearty

Staff 26 South End Benjamin Selesnick Choice

Poetry 01 The Place Between Sleeping and Waking S.E. Kesselring 03 Overhearing a Future Conversation John Grey

33 Industrial Excuses S.E. Kesselring

11 Because We Loved Crashing Lucas Hunter

41 The Door MB Dahl

14 Voyage to Another World S.E. Kesselring

51 Anna, Not Annie Laurel Boulton

40 Evening in Apartment 292 S.E. Kesselring

Creative Nonfiction 04 I Have No Gifts to Bring Dominic Laing 23 Faith is a Horse Named Jasper Jonathan Bennett

Visual Art 02 Stay a While Savannah Barth 12 Inner Savannah Barth 13 Two As One Savannah Barth 22 A Chance to Think Ariane Crummer

Staff 32 Ghost Town Choice Clarissa Anello 39 Solitude Wilma Saran 50 Insomnia Ariane Crummer 53 Skeletons Clarissa Anello

The Place Between Sleeping and Waking S.E. Kesselring The world is still at three in the morning. Even the crickets have gone to bed, postponing their mating attempts for the next evening. Apartment faucets rest as my neighbors’ dishwashers and showers have stopped. One squeaky spot in the hallway sounds like a rusty wrench on a stuck bolt. Suddenly, the heater kicks on, a roaring, rumbling, grinding, warmth-giving hum. Toes are easily stubbed as the familiar scratched up coffee table and lumpy couch morph into indistinct living room outlines, blurring into the darkness. This darkness is not pure — ivory moonbeams fall in-between slats of cheap blinds, creating a sky of deep cobalt sprinkled with stars like snow. The world is good for thinking at three in the morning. Deep thoughts are not a requirement — grocery lists and thesis statements receive equal treatment. I sit cross-legged and breathe in slowly, the damp cleanliness of night held tenderly within my lungs. Even the lumpy couch feels a little kinder, the busted spring in the cushion a little smaller. The humming heater pauses, satisfied by its performance. Pupils have finally dilated, fully prepared to absorb the beauty of three in the morning. Fluffy, murky clouds flirt with the yellow, speckled moon. A yawn splits my face, chin moving closer to throat. My eyelids droop, falling over tired, strained eyes. The wordless song of sleep slips through the air, sweet and strong in the stillness of three in the morning.

Digital Photograph

Stay a While Savannah Barth

Overhearing a Future Conversation

John Grey

Streaky. Orange all the way. Like yellow smoke. Narrow, strictly narrow. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m up to my gazongas in parentheses. A black passage. Ronza. Strictly offshore, a real wind slicer. What you need is a little paycheck whiskey. If I can see my way, fog-bod. Lavender, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my crush-ticket. I interrupt them to ask the time. The year most of all.

Have No Gifts to Bring

Dominic Laing

ONE I don’t know how to give good gifts. Because I don’t know how to give good gifts, I don’t know how to tie a bow on top of a Christmas present. I don’t know how to choose cologne or what to spend on perfume. I don’t know how to find popular or new-to-thearea restaurants. I don’t know how to buy a beautiful bouquet of flowers. I don’t know how to take care of myself, shave properly, shower consistently, or iron my shirts. I don’t know how to talk about relationships. I don’t know how to be in a relationship. I don’t know how to tell other people I have difficulty being in a relationship or talking about being in relationships. I don’t trust the palms of my hands. I don’t trust my heart. I don’t know how to stand up straight, clear my throat, and speak up for the love burning in my chest like a fivealarm high-rise blaze because I don’t know how to give good gifts.

TWO “Hey, kid. You ready?” I jolt awake. I blink. I’m in a room, but I have no idea where the room is or how long I’ve been here. I look up, and there’s a man looking down at me. He’s tall with a salt-and-pepper beard. He checks his watch against a sheet on a clipboard. I look over at the clock on the wall, which has two hands spinning out of control. The tall man clears his throat. “Listen, we ain’t got all day. You ready or not?”

“I — I —” “Listen, just come in, let’s get going. We’ve all had a very long day, and I don’t mean to extend it any more than I have to.” From inside the other room, a voice shouts, “Somethin’ the matter?” The man speaking to me turns back toward the voice. “No, Lord, everything’s fine. He’s just nervous is all.” “Well, get him in here.” “Excuse me, sir, I —” “C’mon, c’mon. Let’s go, kid.” “But I don’t know why I’m here.” “Casting session, kid. Didn’t you get the sides?” “Casting? For what?” “Geez, kid. Where you from?” “I — I’m not sure.” “Well, we’ll find out soon enough. In you go.” And with that, I’m ushered from one room to the next. The door shuts behind me. The walls of this room are as blank as the previous room, except there’s livestock in the far corner: an ox, a lamb, a colt, a few chickens. Hay covers the ground. “Aaron, let’s light a few candles in here to help with the smell.” “Yes, Lord.” I look, and Aaron, the man who brought me into this room, digs into a bag and pulls out a few candles. He sets them on either side of a manger, which is tilted up and facing me. A baby rests inside the manger. The baby nods at Aaron. “Sweet. Thanks, buddy.” “Sure thing, Lord.”

The baby turns his attention toward me. “All right, kid. What’ve ya got?”

THREE “Nana, what’s my mom’s middle name?” Grandparents are useful for many things — donuts, play time at the park, movies in the afternoon — but one of the hidden uses of grandparents is as a source of intel on your own parents. See, asking my parents straight up about their pasts was taboo; it was like asking Superman who did his dry cleaning. But with grandparents, it was open season on any and all information regarding Mom and Dad. Because after all, between their own kids and the grandkids, they were always going to choose us. Learning details such as birthdays and middle names were, for me, like getting my hands on classified material. It’s like I was being let in on trade secrets. For whatever reason, when I learned my mom’s birth month, and when I learned her middle name… I mean, Ellen? Where did that name come from? I would look at the baby pictures in my grandparents’ houses — pictures of my parents when they were small, when they weren’t my parents — and my imagination ran rampant. My father was born in Edinburgh, Scotland. He lived there until he was nine, at which point the family emigrated to New York City. My dad went to school in ny — taking the subway all by himself — until he was fourteen, when the family relocated again, this time to California. My mother, meanwhile, was Italian. Fullblooded. Her grandparents emigrated from Italy at the turn of the twentieth century, and her parents were the first generation to be born in the United States. My grandmother’s family is from Sicily, and my grandfather’s family is from Naples. On Christmas Eves, we’d go over to their house and eat ravioli with sausage and hand-rolled meatballs. We’d use sugu (“sauce,”

to the uninitiated), which Nana and Papa would make themselves. The meal was something imparted from one to another with joy and affection: a gift. During meals, Christmas Eve and otherwise, Nana and Papa would speak Italian to one another. Sometimes it would feel like a casual aside, sometimes it would feel like an argument. As a young kid, I was curious about my grandparents’ code. I turned to my mom and asked, “Do you know what they’re saying?” “Sometimes.” I listened, waited. Between plates of ravioli and green salad, a few words from Papa, swatted away by Nana with a wave of her hand and a grin. “What are they saying?” “I don’t know.” During the washing of the dishes, there were words in pointed, combative tones from Nana, and Papa’s raised voice volleyed back words with a sharp tongue. “What are they saying now?” “Can’t tell you.” The fact that my grandparents spoke a language other than English fascinated me. My mother, though not fluent, knew enough to make her a passable speaker. Learning and communicating in Italian, for me, became a goal. On a particular occasion, I was working on a gift for my mother. It wasn’t Christmas, but I don’t remember what the holiday was — my guess is that it was either Mother’s Day or her birthday. I wanted to give her a particular gift, one that showed her I knew her and loved her. I had access to an English-Italian dictionary, and with it, I set to work. I would come and go between my parents’ bedroom and my own, occasionally asking my mom what certain words meant and then filling in the remaining gaps on my own. Throughout this back-and-forth, I gave no hints as to what the finished result would be. When I was done, I proudly entered the room and presented my gift to her: A handwritten translation — in Italian — of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Now, yes, of course it was the worst translation one could ever do, wholly liberated of proper tense use, sentence structure, etc., but I didn’t care about any of those things. After all, I’d written it for her. Because I loved her, Nancy Ellen. Nunzia to her parents. I wanted the gift to be something imparted from one to another with joy and affection. A gift.

FOUR “Who? Me?” I ask. The infant Immanuel smiles. “Yes, you.” “Oh, uh…I don’t think I’ve got anything you’d like.” “How do you know? You might surprise yourself. We’ve had quite a day here. We’ve seen tap dancers, architects, scientists, magicians —” “I liked the rabbit out of the hat,” Aaron adds. “Of course you did.” He turns to me. “Aaron, this guy, he’ll fall for anything.” “Sir?” “Nothing. You’re great. Keep doing your thing.” Immanuel turns back to me. “So listen, we’ve seen a lot of fun stuff, but whatever you got is just fine.” “I’m sorry, I —” “You see, we’ve got people who sang songs, people who dropped off gold, Frankenstein —” “Frankincense, sir.” “Right, sorry, frankincense. And, and —” Immanuel snaps his fingers, as if trying to remember. “Myrrh,” says Aaron. “Myrrh! That’s it. Thanks.” “What’s myrrh?” I ask. “It’s like a perfume or an oil. You can take a hit if you want after your song and dance.” “But I — I’m sorry, sir, I —” “What? What’s the matter, kid?” “I don’t have a song and dance. I don’t have a talent.”

FIVE So let’s say I’m a boy, and I see a girl, and I like this girl, and I want to show this girl I like her — not like, “like” her, but “like” her, like “LLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE” her. What’s a boy to do? How does one manifest and communicate affection in a way that might elicit mirrored feelings from said girl? Why, a gift, of course. If a boy likes a girl, he gets her a gift. Bingo. So in junior year of high school, I liked this girl, Morgan. (Christ. My stomach is already turning.) Our families went to the same church, meaning I saw her on Sundays at church, Monday through Friday at school, and Wednesday nights at youth group. She was tall, thin, great

f a boy likes a girl, he gets her a gift. Bingo. smile, a bit ditzy, but caring. She was popular, far more popular than I was, but she wasn’t like all the other popular girls. She was one of the “cool” popular girls. (Yeah, I don’t know what the above sentence means either, but I was in high school. I can’t apply logic to any of this shit.) So I liked her, and I thought: what do boys in high school do to girls they like? Why, they give them gifts. And, they ask them to dances. I wanted to ask her to jsb, which stands for Junior Senior Banquet — our high school’s version of prom. But in order to ask her to the dance, I had to speak her language. And in order to speak her language, I had to learn what to do when you ask someone to a dance.

First, you can’t just ask a girl to a dance. In no universe would you be permitted to simply walk up and ask a girl you like to the dance. You have to be clever about it. You have to show that you’ve thought about how you ask. If you show how you thought about it, the girl will know you care about her. So I decided to write a poem, which would end with me getting down on one knee and asking her to the dance. (Yep, stomach in full-on tumble mode. Holy God.) Second, I had to pick out my wardrobe. Again, if I care about what I’m wearing, then I demonstrate thoughtfulness and care about the

n no universe would you be permitted to simply walk up and ask a girl you like to the dance. You have to be clever about it. girl. As a result, I wasn’t going to just stroll up wearing any old shirt. I’ve tried to remember what exactly I wore. In my memory, I’ve narrowed it down to either this black / gray plaid shirt or a red short-sleeve collared shirt. (Let’s be clear — I don’t think I met the concept of fashion until some point in college. And that’s a vague point.) Last, and most important, the gift. Buy flowers. I purchased flowers from the local Safeway near school and kept them in my locker until

class. Granted, Safeway has some okay looking flower arrangements. But Safeway’s not, by any stretch of the imagination, the go-to place for flowers. I went there because I had no clue how to shop for flowers. And though I’m willing to bet good money there were some stellar bouquets on display that day, in my panic and not-so-blissful-this-time ignorance, I chose the first halfway decent bouquet I saw and called it good. (Also — and this is totally off topic — but when do you learn to casually hold a bouquet of flowers? Did I miss that class? Walking across the quad with a measly bouquet of flowers that looked nothing like all of the awesome bouquets I’d seen other guys carry, and THEY looked fucking confident. How come I didn’t get invited to that class? “How to Buy Flowers and Carry Them into Class with Confidence.” Did I miss that goddamn email?) Now, the wrinkle in this story is this: during lunch that day, still on track to ask her, I heard a rumor. A senior, Casey Furtado, was going to ask Morgan to the jsb but was waiting until the last minute, perhaps even the day of the dance. And everyone knew that Morgan was going to be asked, even though she hadn’t been yet, even though she wouldn’t be asked until the last minute. Why? Because it was so sneaky and cute and funny and charming to wait until the last minute. So fucking cute and so goddamn charming and so fucking chivalrous, you know? But I was determined. I believed in my cause, and I believed in my affection. Lunch ended, and English class proceeded as normal. Toward the end, I raised my hand, and I asked if it was okay if I interrupted the class. Mrs. Marc, coke bottle glasses and puritan dress adorned, nodded politely. Boom. Here we go. Operation Like-GiftDance-Awesome beginning now… I stand, poem in my left hand, flowers in my right. I read the poem, and so far, so good — it’s got some funny parts, and the class laughs at the funny parts — but now we’re moving into the next phase. Now I lock eyes with Morgan,

and now I go down to one knee, and now all the air goes out of the room, and then — and then — “Morgan, will you go with me to jsb?” I remember Mrs. Marc clapping, as one does at the end of a Broadway show. I remember the bell ringing, signaling the end of class; this annoying ding-dong that was far more “office complex” than “high school.” I remember Morgan, sitting, silent. Not smiling, not frowning, not saying a goddamn thing. Trying not to break. And I remember me — frozen, just like her. Trying not to break.

SIX Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

EIGHT Christ and Aaron turn to face each other, then face me. The Lion of Judah pitches forward. “How’s that?” “I don’t…I don’t have anything to give.” “What about a drum?” “Oh yes, Lord, the drum!” Aaron turns behind him and places a small drum on the table. “Kid, you should’ve seen it — there was a drummer kid, funny little guy. He comes in, tiny drum, tiny sticks, rum-pum-pum-pum, he even did a little Buddy Rich impersonation. He was incredible.” “Yes, incredible.” “What about that, kid? Any drums? Or how about a trumpet?” “A bit old fashioned, don’t you think, Lord?” “Not at all, Aaron. Anything musical?”

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.

SEVEN What a fucking pussy, Casey. If you’re going to ask a girl to a dance, Casey, fucking ask them and get it over with — don’t waste my fucking time with this “last-minute-knight-in-shiningarmor” bullshit, okay? Also, it comes to mind that Casey might’ve turned out to be a wonderful person. Maybe he’s an engineer or a teacher or an entrepreneur, and maybe he lives in a wonderful house with a stone-cold stunner who just so happens to be a supermom who never does anything wrong, and after they’ve put their two hilarious, kind, and imaginative children to bed, they have fantastic, consistently satisfying sex until they pass out in a blur of ecstasy and contentment. Or maybe he’s just like me.

And remember me — frozen, just like her. Trying not to break. “No, Lord. I’m so sorry.” I have nothing to say, nowhere to go. I stammer. “Believe me, I — I wish I had something, I —” The Lamb of God reaches out and places his hand on mine. “Hey, hey, it’s all right. It’s all right.” He turns to Aaron. “Aaron, could you give us a minute? I just want to talk to my friend here.” “Certainly, Lord.” Aaron leaves and closes the door behind him. I notice the giant ox and lamb to my right. “Are they going to leave too, Lord?” “Them? No, they’re fine.”

The ox reads a newspaper. The lamb knits. “Are you sure?” “Absolutely. They can’t hear anything. Can you boys?” Without looking up from their activities, the ox and the lamb reply in unison, “Nope.”

NINE If I had known what kind of flowers to give Morgan Ferrante, this whole paragraph would be different; it would be full of the most vivid descriptions of flowers so detailed and so wondrous, you’d think I was the coolest botanist in the country. I would describe to you the history of each of the flowers, and I would write to you

…if really cared about this person, then the last thing would do is give this person another thing they have to pretend to like. of their arrangement, and why each one is placed next to the other, and what it means to have the particular plants next to each other. I’d tell how this particular arrangement is almost like a floral constellation, and this particular constellation acts as an aphrodisiac, like something that cracks the code of a person’s heart, like I’m the motherfucking bank robber of love, and I’m showing off what it means to know a person’s likes and loves.

Especially when it comes to flowers. Especially when it comes to giving gifts. If I had known what flowers to give Morgan Ferrante, then it wouldn’t matter what Casey Furtado was going to do. It wouldn’t matter whether or not Casey hired a marching band or made a picnic or unleashed a dick the size of the rider logs on Splash Mountain, which sounds unbelievably cumbersome. If I had known what flowers to give Morgan Ferrante, not only would this whole paragraph be different, this whole story would be different. I’d be giving you advice on how to shop for that special someone, and I’d be making it rain with story after story of how I planned, with plenty of time and allowance for change / variation, to give a particular gift to a particular person, because I knew them in a particular way, and I knew they’d respond in a particular fashion to a gift that would secure their affection forever. But I didn’t know what flowers to get her. I didn’t know where to go for flowers, and I didn’t know that Casey Furtado always planned on waiting until the last minute. So we’re here. And I don’t have a goddamn fucking intelligent thing to say about flowers.

TEN Numerous times, I’ve bought something with the intention of giving it to someone — my niece, a friend, an old friend, someone I haven’t talked to in a while — only to renege on the initial impulse because of a fear. Fear of what they’d think about the gift, and by extension, what they’d think of me. I rationalize my choice to withhold the gift in a number of ways — because the recipient wouldn’t like the gift, because they already have something close to it or better than it, because it’s only going to add to the clutter and needless pile of stuff this person already has, and if I really cared about this person, then the last thing I would do is give this person another thing they have to pretend to like.

In this last iteration of rationalizing, I transform my inaction into kindness. Somehow, my personal insecurity has morphed into benevolence. This is how I’ve justified holding onto birthday cards, Christmas cards, gift cards for iTunes and Home Depot, little coin purses from Brazil, tortoise figurines with small colored seashells on top of them (it was one hundred degrees and a gas station in the middle of nowhere), and a batch of cookies. Because I don’t know how to speak the language of love. Because I don’t believe love can be broken down into five “languages” — I think pledging allegiance to the love language that describes you best is horse-shit. Because I’m still cynical about love languages. Because I can look at my hands and see any number of things. Except someone who picks outs, makes, and gives good gifts.

ELEVEN “You know,” says the Son of God, “you remind me of this widow who came in earlier. Had a whole story about how she had this whole performance planned out —” “Sir, I —” “But then she left her guitar on the bus, and she’s in full-on crisis mode —” “Lord, please —” The Word Made Flesh raises his index finger, soft and new, its nail still too small to be trimmed. “And I told her, ‘Daughter, whatever you have is fine. And good. Trust me.’” “Did she believe you?” “No. Not at first.” Alpha leans in close to me. “Son, let’s have a look at those hands.” I look at Omega, still unsure of the infant in the manger. “Son?” “What? You wanna card me? C’mon, show me your palms.” I show Him my empty palms. He inspects them. “So this is what you’ve got for me, eh?”

“I’m sorry, Lord, I don’t understand.” The Lord pushes the drum to the side, and flicks it. BWWWWUUUUUUUUMMMM

Then he flicks my palm, emitting a flat thwapp. “Oww!” I said. “Hmm,” says the King of Kings. “Did that hurt?” “Yeah…I mean, I don’t know.” “It’s okay. You can tell me. I won’t bite. Might strike you dead —” “What?” “I’m kidding.” The Nazarene flicks my hand again, right in the fat of my palm, close to the thumb, then along the rim of the palm, close to the root of my fingers. Thwapp. Thwapp. Again, the drum. BWWWWUUUUUUUUMMMM

The Son of Man looks at me. “Are you sure you don’t tap dance?” Tears form in my eyes. “Lord, I — I’m so sorry.” As I continue to cry and apologize, the Lord blows on both his hands, rubs them together, and then winks. “Kid.” He takes my right hand and holds it open before both of us. “Don’t apologize to me.” Another flick on the fat of my palm and — BWWWWOOOOOOUUUUUUMMMMMM

I go to speak and — THROOOOOOOOMMMMMM

Like an organ pipe and the True Vine flicks my palm again and — BWWWWOOOOOOUUUUUUMMMMMM

I seek to scream but instead WWWWHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO

Like a train whistle and He Who Was Sin For Us SSSSSSMMMMMMIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLEEEEEESSSS

deep and wide and deep and wide. “That’s better,” says the Maker.

Because We Loved Crashing Lucas Hunter Rocks churned against one another like generals. I signed up for infantry, charged into high tide, and never got a Medal of Honor. I just remember war echoes, crushing slams from Pacific Ocean walls, helpless, pinned to the floor. Civilian life was never the same after toe-to-toe encounters with the one thing that made me feel as weightless as faith.

Digital Photograph

nner

Savannah Barth

Digital Photograph

Two As One

Savannah Barth

Voyage to Another World S.E. Kesselring

Book’s gleaming green cover acts as guardian of gems inside. Take a slow, deep breath through the nose — a new life awaits. Paper pages rustle against dry skin, a gentle flop of plot progression. Eyes appear to see inky squiggles, but true gaze sees another world. Take a slow, deep breath through the nose — a new life awaits. Musty pages smell of others’ hands, spilled coffee, old binding glues. Eyes appear to see inky squiggles, but true gaze sees another world. Minds’ nose smells salty breezes and bitter, wet wood. Musty pages smell of others’ hands, spilled coffee, old binding glues. Crackles and snaps spring from the fireplace, warming ears. Minds’ nose smells salty breezes and bitter, wet wood. Protagonist studies a starry expanse, surrounded by swishing, swaying waves. Crackles and snaps spring from the fireplace, warming ears. Clock ticks, numbers one through twelve take their turns. Protagonist studies a starry expanse, surrounded by swishing, swaying waves. Climax brings a pounding pulse — resolution releases a repressed breath. Clock ticks, numbers one through twelve take their turns. Paper pages rustle against dry skin, a gentle flop of plot progression. Climax brings a pounding pulse — resolution releases a repressed breath. Book’s gleaming green cover acts as guardian of gems inside.

A Blunder of Galactic Dimensions

Jenean McBrearty

When Jim saw the lifeline drop, he knew he’d run out of oxygen before he starved. He didn’t have his rosary with him, but he knew the beads: Apostles’ Creed on the cross, the Lord’s Prayer, three Hail Marys, another Lord’s Prayer, and then the decades begin. By the fifth one, he’d be falling into the Big Sleep. He closed his eyes. The uss Seeker was nothing more than a dot among an unending array of dots in the eternal universe. A gentle death was what he hoped for. Eternal life was what he believed in. But it didn’t happen that way. Before he could begin the first decade on the rosary, he saw a spacecraft the size of his wife Janice’s new Escalade heading straight for him. At twenty yards, a side door opened. A spacesuit, its jet pack leaving a thin trail of white smoke, propelled toward him. He fought to stay conscious and keep his breathing shallow even though his heart was exploding with the excitement of hope. The rescuer used his tether line to lasso him and drag him back to the ship. Once inside, the rescuer removed Jim’s helmet and covered his nose with a mask. Jim took in long breaths of what seemed like winter air and felt himself jolt awake. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, thank God!” he gasped. A man was standing over him, but Jim couldn’t see his face. “Is that you, Fred?” “Sendark’s the name. You’ll be fine. Let me help you out of that suit.” “How did you —”

“Find you? We picked you up on our scanner.” He was a humanoid with a half inch of silky hair covering his exposed skin. Must be from a cold climate planet. “You got a can?” The man tilted his head. “A bathroom? I gotta relieve my bladder. Take a pee.” “Oh. Yeah, this way.” The man helped him stand and led him to a door next to the cockpit. When he’d finished, he joined Sendark at the helm. “You must have a million questions for me,” Jim said. “I’m from Earth.” “We’re a very long way from Earth.” Sendark was wearing an i.d. badge on his dark blue uniform. Funny, Jim thought. The philosophers were right. There are such things as universals even if they’re mundane things like I.D. badges. “I’m Major Jim Goodman. u.s. Air Force.” “Sendark Winger. Portman. Central Space Command.” “I owe you my life. Thank you.” “It’s my job. We recognized your insignia as soon as you left your ship. We’ve studied Earth for fifty years. You’re on your way to Mars, right? We went there a few years back. Dreadfully barren place.” Sendark was a friendly looking fellow. Jim could see amiable eyes through his large lens glasses. “You know much about our language, too. I’m impressed.” “Don’t be. We have automatic decoders and translator chips implanted in our brains. Very handy.”

“Very advanced.” “Every species seems to do at least one thing well. We excel at technology and communication devices. The Lineusians are the best farmers we’ve ever seen. Their planet is one big green organic garden five times the size of Earth, and it grows more varieties of plant food than we’ve ever seen. Even its inhabitants survive on a photosynthetic biological mechanism.” “That I’d love to see! Where are you from?” “Argolia. The seventh planet of the Ketteran Solar System. But we share the same galaxy.” Sendark offered him what looked like a wrapped sandwich from a glove-box; it was warm and tasted like chicken. “I have water and soda in the side compartment next to you.” Jim chose a red foil packet with an attached straw and hoped red foil meant strawberry or fruit punch. But it was the water he drank by the bagful as they cruised. To Jim it felt as if they were traveling at about seventy miles per hour. He knew better. The odometer was recording distance in parsecs, not miles. “I’m disoriented. What direction are we traveling?” “According to your map, we’re in the Second Quadrant heading toward the Orion Spur. Away from your Sun. We’ll be in darkness soon.” No sooner had he uttered the words than the ship’s outside monitors went black; the only sign of existence were white dots on the dark field. “Have you been on Earth’s surface?” Jim asked. “No, I’m what you call a second stringer.” Sendark nudged his glasses. “My vision is compromised. I do maintenance on the ship and rescue missions. Gross tasks that require state of the art technology but few fine motor skills. But I don’t mind. I’ve seen many planets and stars from afar that I wouldn’t have seen otherwise.” Jim nodded an agreement. “Our support teams on the International Space Station feel the same way. It’s all about the mission. I’ll bet you even have a name for your rescue ship.” “It wouldn’t answer me if I called it a name.”

He understands literal English, but not cultural English, Jim decided. “Can you let the crew on Seeker — my ship — know I’m okay?” “I don’t have clearance to transmit to foreign vessels. We’ll have to wait until we reach the space station.” Sendark responded to a beeping signal. Jim heard him speak a language that sounded much like the Church Latin he’d heard at a traditional mass. Over the speaker came cheers and applause. Mission accomplished by Space 9-1-1. Sendark gave him a quick salute and turned off the speaker, continuing a private conversation. It sounded like arguing to Jim.

“Every species seems to do at least one thing well.” “Is there a problem?” he asked when Sendark signed off. He knew he was alive, but for how long he wasn’t sure. Fear was beginning to supplant relief. “Admiral Bowland. He’s very conscious of resources spent on foreigners. It’s nothing.” Then why the cheers? Perhaps political problems were universal, too. “I’m an astronaut, not a soldier, Sendark. I’d like to explain that to Admiral Bowland in person.”

Docking the rescue craft on what looked like the deck of an aircraft carrier took two hours. Just like earthly airports, they spent most of the time orbiting in a queue, but Jim didn’t mind. It let him observe equipment and operations and make mental notes. His questions seemed endless even to him: “What’s your power source to cover such vast distances so quickly?

Are we hovering above the planet? What’s our altitude? Do we breathe the same air components? Would I be able to survive on the planet surface? What’s this craft made of? How much weight can she carry?” “I believe you call it warping time. The space station is not a hovercraft. We’re 23.4 million of your miles from Argolia. We breathe similar air. A combination of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide, neon, helium, methane, krypton, hydrogen, and xenon. Argolia’s atmosphere is similar to Earth’s. The rescue craft is made of an alloy of lightweight titanium and a

Three days later, he was sitting in a monochromatic interrogation room, and it made him uneasy. metal we call florium. You do not have it on Earth. In your terms, it can carry twenty thousand pounds. But it can tow a vehicle four times that size if need be.” Jim finished his drink packet and looked around for a trash receptacle. Sendark took the pouch from him and stuffed it into a bag and then into a plastic container labeled bane! “We’re a curious species,” Jim said, “and we’re playing space catch-up thanks to the powers that be.”

“Maybe you have bigger obstacles — no, different obstacles. We’ve been single-minded for most of our existence.” “You’re a real diplomat,” Jim said. “We on Earth have so many distractions. I have a wife, two kids, and a mortgage. What about you?” “I’m unsuccessful in those departments, too.” Another universal. Losers at love. How Sendark’s society was organized, he’d discover soon. “You’ve been a great host. Thank you.” The rescue pod coasted to a stop. “You’d do the same for me if our situations were reversed. You may have to.”

Jim expected debriefing protocols, quarantine with plenty of medical exams, decontamination and, eventually, inoculations. nasa would do the same. Being taken to a holding area under armed guard didn’t alarm him either. He was the new freak in town. Being separated from Sendark did make him a little sad. The human psyche quickly gravitates to whatever is pleasant under stress. Three days later, he was sitting in a monochromatic interrogation room, and it made him uneasy. A table, two cafeteria chairs, and a dorm-room sized refrigerator hardly filled the ten-by-twelve-foot space. A continuous narrow window ten feet off the ground on three sides of the room let in light but was isolating, too. He sat down, tempted to see if there was a six pack of Buds in the fridge but restrained himself. At least he wasn’t in chains. Yet. “I’m Admiral Bowland,” a seven-foot-tall man in a well-tailored blue uniform announced when he entered. Jim stood at attention in the blue jumpsuit he’d been given. “You’re Major Jim Goodman?” “Yes, sir. Earth extends friendship, and I extend my gratitude.” Bowland didn’t say anything but gestured for him to sit. “You’ve been fed, watered, prodded, and probed, I expect.” “I’ve even gotten a few good nights’ sleep. So to speak.”

“Now it’s time we got down to business.” Sendark’s diplomacy had prepared him for Bowland’s minimalist approach to introductions and small talk. It was probably best to be just as terse. “I have no national secrets or nefarious designs. My ship is on its way to —” “Mars. Yes, we know.” “For exploration.” “Your historical records show things didn’t always work out well for the places you explored.” “True. But our present record is stellar, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Bowland gave him the same quizzical stare he’d received from Sendark. “We’re more tolerant now. Older and wiser.” “I meant no judgment, just stating fact. Earth’s scientific endeavors are as boring as they are unremarkable.” “At least you’re honest, Admiral. You must know someone as unremarkable as I am poses no danger to you or your command.” “You misunderstand, Major. I said your scientific endeavors were unremarkable. Your species has other endeavors that are remarkable, one could say magnificent, and that’s why you’re a valuable commodity. And why Sendark believed your abduction was necessary.” “Abduction?” It was possible the Admiral’s electronic translator wasn’t one hundred percent accurate. “Sendark is a master at what he does. He can get people out of precarious predicaments and he saves lives. He also knows how to produce a problem that requires an out-ofcraft solution. His eyes aren’t great, but he can work a laser and sever a tether line at four billion paces.” In the game of space tag, Jim was designated ‘it.’ “May I have some water, Admiral? I’ve a bitter pill to swallow.” Bowland went to the refrigerator and brought back a glass bottle of water. “Vitamin and mineral enhanced for your health. Space travel takes its toll. What pill?” “Never mind. Am I under arrest?” Jim took a swig of the freshest water he’d ever tasted. “Have you committed a crime?”

“I haven’t, and you haven’t answered my question.” Bowland sank into his chair. “You’re not under arrest, just detained until we figure out what to do with you. Hopefully we can make you understand why you were brought here.” Jim sighed. “Why am I here?” Bowland shifted in his seat and leaned over the table. “We couldn’t just pluck a random Earthling off the planet. That tactic has proved fruitless for other regimes who’ve done it. When we learned there was to finally be another space mission from Earth — well, Sendark’s patriotism got the better of him.” “At my expense.” “It seems so. Sendark’s reasoning was sound. An American scientist seemed a good choice. The three of you were outside the craft, and when he heard you speaking, he felt compelled to act. You have a brain like ours. Calculating. Good problem solving skills. The other half of you is not like us. Perhaps it is why nasa chose you.”

n the game of space tag, Jim was designated ‘it.’ Jim put the empty bottle on the table slowly because he really wanted to smash it into the furry sob’s face. “What did I say that made me the abductee de jour?” Admiral Bowland took a folded paper from his breast pocket and smoothed it open before him: Where never lark, or even eagle flew — And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

“That’s not me, that’s John Magee! Sorry, Bowland, Sendark got the wrong guy if it’s a poet he was looking for.” Jim stopped. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw a tear bubble up in the Admiral’s eye. “I, um, memorized that part of his poem when I was in flight school. Magee wrote it in ’41. 1941. He was only eighteen when he joined up with the Brits. Died three months later after scribbling his poem and sending it off to his family.” “But you said those words while you were repairing a loose solar panel.” “Yeah, so what? My best material is always borrowed.” Bowland got a bottle of water for himself. “This makes Sendark’s error colossal. And my job even more difficult. You see, we condemn those regimes who abduct Earth people, although we understand why they do it. Your species is an interesting lot. I don’t know anyone who recites poetry while they’re thousands of miles off the ground because I don’t know anyone who writes poetry. Do you understand? How can someone be so smart and so artistic, too?” Jim hesitated to answer. It seemed Bowland was talking to himself. “Perhaps the same way someone like Sendark can be so technically skillful and exercise such bad judgment. Is he in trouble?” “He’s young and foolish and under house arrest.” It was Jim’s turn to retreat into his thoughts. “That’s too bad.” “It was a galactic blunder. Logistically and morally. We know many of the people who’ve been abducted and returned to Earth have suffered terribly. Nightmares, daymares, not being believed, medicated for stress trauma. The cost never justified the dubious benefits of studying terrified people. You must have been terrified until Sendark got you inside the rescue pod.” “It was touch and go for a while, pal. If he was listening, I’m sure he heard me praying, too. But you were saying how you disapprove of abduction, and yet, why haven’t you returned me?”

“If you’re terrified now, you don’t show it.” “That’s because I’m getting really pissed off. Does your species regularly split hairs?” “You have me at a disadvantage —” “Does the fact I wasn’t on solid ground make kidnapping okay in your ethics handbook?” “We’re wrong to keep you here, I admit. But I’ll also admit you seemed like the answer to our prayers. Now Portman Sendark’s blunder is ours to set right no matter how reluctant we are to do so.” Bowland averted his gaze, looking past Jim as he spoke, as if reading off an invisible prompt monitor. “I sense a big ‘but’ coming. Better skip it. Just get me home, and we’ll call it good. The sooner the better. I imagine I’ve already had a funeral, and my kids must be crying themselves to sleep.” “That reality concerns me.” “Bully for you.” “Just one thing, Major. Please. Look around you. Tell me what you see.” Bowland stood and walked to the wall, leaning against it like a blue totem pole. “I have looked around. This place is a prison. Bleak, dreary, and ugly.” His eyes riveted on his stoic captor. “All our rooms are like this. Our hearts and minds are like this. We’re all clean and functional and climate controlled and as desolate as Mars. Sendark believed you could help us regain what we foolishly destroyed millennia ago. Earth has riches beyond oil reserves and plentiful agricultural products. Ancient arenas, Gothic cathedrals, bridges, canal locks, antiquities lovingly revered. Expertly cared for. Your children hear delightful tales and heroic sagas while ours learn engineering in their cradles. We recognize expression when we see it. We just don’t know where it comes from. Or how to ‘borrow’ it.” “It’s in our dna.” “Or so we thought, too. But there’s more to it than that. What good are trips to other planets when no one enjoys the visits?”

“Not my problem, Admiral. I can’t give you a heritage or a culture. Believe me, you can’t give people things they do not value enough to create themselves. We tried to give people freedom, and they rejected it.” “Sadly, I fear you’re right.” Bowland took the two empty bottles back to the refrigerator. “Follow me. I’ll take you back to your quarters.” It was a short walk, and Jim was now acutely aware of the barrenness that surrounded him. There wasn’t a painting or a photograph anywhere, no ornamentation, nor a note of elevator music. Hell, even Walmart played a good tune once in a while. They stopped at a door stenciled with the number thirty-eight. “If you need anything, just push zero on the keypad next to the door, and someone will answer,” Bowland said as he started to walk away. “Wait!” Jim said. “About Sendark. He may be a fool, but I hate to eat alone.” The Admiral managed a weak smile. “I’ll make him your personal attendant. I’m meeting with my superiors tonight. I suppose if I could tell them you understand the situation — and Sendark — it might go easier for all of us.” “That’s the way it works on Earth, too. I see you don’t have carpets to sweep this under, but the rescue of an alien should get Sendark some brownie points at least.” He got another quizzical look for his remark. The possibility of Argolia’s equivalent to a court martial for Sendark weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had no idea what the American version of a Portman was, but it didn’t bode well for the overzealous emt who believed he could rescue his planet. “This is room thirty-eight,” he said to the operator. “I need some paper and pencils and a pen or two. And I’m really hungry. What’s on the menu tonight? Whatever it is, bring enough for two. You guys know anything about beer?”

Sooner or later, he’d be going home. Bowland and his superiors would figure out a story or

maybe make his return the beginning of diplomatic relations with nasa. I’ve met ET and they are us, he thought. Full of regrets and mistakes. Surrounded by imperfect people and policies. Even mentally gifted people comprehended other peoples’ pain, felt remorse. The Argolians had a moral code that perplexed them as much as any Earthman’s. That was good news. Maybe he would write the gospel according to Jim when he went back. He became an astronaut because he wanted adventure, to do something grandiose with his life. This experience sure fit the bill. “I owe you an apology, Major Goodman.” Sendark looked more like a chastised teenager

“Believe me, you can’t give people things they do not value enough to create themselves.” than an experienced rescue squad of one. Under his arm was a portfolio full of old navigational charts and used stencils. He carried a small briefcase full of pens, pencils, brushes, and pints of black paint. “Yeah, let’s not dwell on that fiasco right now. Let’s eat. Argolian booze is pretty good. There’re a lot more universals than I realized. I think I’m getting drunk.” They ate and drank grosh and finally, Jim eased down to the floor. “Do you want me to help you stand?” Sendark asked. “No, I want you down here on the floor with me.” Jim spread the charts face down on the floor, grabbed Sendark’s hand, and pulled him down. “Which hand do you write with?” “This one.”

“Ah, a southpaw.” As he did with his youngest, Robbie, Jim put a pencil in Sendark’s fingers and covered his hand with his own. “Relax your hand, and let me guide it.” “What are you doing?” Sendark said a little warily. “You’re going to draw a man. A body is a collection of geometric shapes. A circle for the head. See?” He sat back, leaning against the bed. “Now, draw me in geometric shapes.” “What will you do, just sit there?” “Yes, I’ll just sit here and recite more of Magee’s poem: Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of — Wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air… Up, up the long, delirious burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace… This part’s my own, Sendark. And learned that I am not alone, That our dreams of God’s other race Have turned out to be true.” Sendark dropped the pencil and buried his face in his hands. “They won’t take you home! It’s my fault. If you want to kill me, I deserve it. I’m so terribly sorry. Terribly sorry.” When he raised his head, Jim saw blue tears racing down his furry cheeks. It wasn’t exile. It wasn’t exactly life after death except he was dead to his wife and kids. Every u.s. astronaut that set foot on the moon lived to tell his children what it was like. Eventually, America would make its way to

Argolia — maybe in a ship named Argo after Jason’s ship — but he would be long dead. Unless. Unless he left behind signs of himself — pictures and paintings and poems and plays. A legacy like da Vinci, Dante, or Hitchcock. Perhaps a scribble on a rock like the one a wwii soldier wrote: Kilroy was here. He looked at Sendark’s crude drawing and saw he’d drawn a big circle for a head, with circle eyes and teardrops inside. “This is a good start, Sendark. Art is supposed to show others how you feel. I think you have a future as an artist.” Now that he had been born into this world, at least he had a friend.

Janice Goodman settled for the 11.5 million nasa offered an hour before the trial was scheduled to begin. She’d never have to worry about her children’s college tuition, adequate housing, or retirement. Father Wilson delivered an inspired homage to Jim at his memorial service, citing his insatiable desire to explore new worlds and seek out the majesty of God’s creation. He read Jim’s favorite poem, High Flight, and speculated, on nasa authority, that Jim died peacefully. He’d had training for just such an eventuality. “How are you doing?” Father Wilson asked. He’d parked his black Cadillac at the grave site. Sometimes the tight scheduling of pastoral care required easy egress. “I’ll be all right,” she answered. “He wasn’t an ideal husband. Or father. Under those still waters was a drowning adventurer, you know? No, you don’t know. He was part space explorer, part conspiracy theorist, part frustrated artist. If there was a Mrs. Christopher Columbus, I know how she felt. Jim believed in fairies and aliens and angels. Anything that could fly. I’ve no idea what I’ll do with all his paintings. He was no da Vinci, that’s for sure. For all his dreams of glory, his only valuable possession is his autographed photograph of Neil Armstrong.”

Digital Photograph

A Chance to Think Ariane Crummer

Faith is a Horse Named Jasper Jonathan Bennett The priest rumbled through his rambling, disjointed homily. I had come to church after a year of debauchery created by my newly minted status as a young professional living hundreds of miles from home. Though I lived in Chicago, a city of millions of people, with decent friends and plenty of activity, I still found myself drinking too much. I still found myself walking the beach alone on weekend nights. I still found myself chasing vices, old and new, that degraded dignity and body alike. Through my hazy hangover, one phrase shone forth, though I cannot say if the priest originated the phrase or was merely quoting a different theologian, “Faith is a long, decent walk in the dark.” A year before I found myself in that pew, I was teaching in Belize with seven other students from my university. A small group of us signed up for a midnight horse ride through the jungle. I had never been horseback riding, so I was thrilled to chalk up another unique experience to my semester abroad. We arrived at the sprawling ranch just outside Belmopan. The owner gave us a brief summary of techniques we could use to guide our horse before demonstrating his horse’s impeccable obedience. He did so on his favorite horse, who obeyed every demand, even letting a person stand on its back. The horse didn’t even flinch when the owner threw a chair on the ground right in front of him. “These horses are well-trained. They will not lead you astray.”

Fair enough. He had me convinced (like I could even tell how a horse should react). So, I saddled up with this grand fantasy of riding on a gallant steed named “Firecracker” or “Thunderbolt,” holding myself with a king’s regality or John Wayne’s toughness. Instead, I got paired up with a flimsy-looking horse named “Jasper,” who seemed more determined to eat grass than gallop into glory. Nevertheless, I was excited to be on this journey. There was a full moon, softly glowing without impediment. New friends rode alongside, and I was wearing my most masculine pair of jeans. I had a soft, unspoken confidence that I could trot the horse wherever I wished. Surely, a pleasant journey seemed assured. Our ten horses walked at a leisurely pace. The two guides pranced up and down our line with ease. Some of the more experienced riders would trot alongside for a hundred feet or so before they’d zip back into the line. One of my companions rode sideways, her performance culminating by standing on the saddle like she had done in the lodge. I merely clamped the horse’s sides with my legs, hoping to not break my neck. I didn’t realize what a jostle this jaunt would be. When we finally got to the jungle, I could see no discernable path, but the guides knew the jungles like a hazy sleepwalker weaving their way to the bathroom. We snaked through ferns and vines, brushing against the leaves that wished to hold us back. Each branch pulled at our torsos like a hungry arm trying to abduct us

from the path. Various overhanging vines looped precariously, waiting to ensnare us. These obstacles, though somewhat frustrating, made the ride seem like a game. At least, it seemed like one when I watched the other riders. They dodged left, ducked, leaned right. They maneuvered their bodies and their horses to avoid the impediments. I did not. Now, I remembered how to guide the horse. You pull left on the reins to go left. Pull right to go right. Pull up to stop. Kick the sides lightly and undulate the reins to pick up the pace. So after a couple of times of Jasper walking too close to trees, bumping my knees painfully against the bark, I tried to use the lessons given by our guide. I even attempted to coax Jasper with soothing requests. “Turn left, Jasper,” I would say, pulling left on my reins, eyeing the large branch hanging on the right. But Jasper, my faithful steed, paid no heed; I think he even leaned a little more to the right. The branch hit me solidly on the top of my head as I attempted to duck under it. Of course, the branch was just high enough to clear Jasper, so why would he try to avoid it? And so the journey went. Tree! Turn left! Wham — solid knee on trunk contact. Branch! Turn right! Thump — rib on wood collision. I tried a couple of times to pick up the pace when we got to clearings, but when I prodded him to go faster, he would counter by stopping to graze on a juicy patch of shrubbery as if to say, “You aren’t in control.” The first half of the trip was a blur of conflict. I would push, Jasper would pull. I’d want to go one way, he’d go the other. And no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t keep him from slamming my legs against trees. So I was relieved when we emerged into an expansive opening that overlooked a large field that stretched for miles. The moon shone brilliantly, making everything glow. It was, to give into cliché, breathtaking, and only partially due to my bruised ribs.

At that point, we stopped by a premade bonfire, sipped on Coke, and listened to our guide sing songs and share his cowboy wisdom. Some of them shared their stories with the strangers that accompanied us. I stared past the fire. For the time, I ignored my injured body while I nursed my drink and my melted pride. Everyone else forgot about the ride to join in communion. They drank in the fire and the shadows of the forests and fields. They sang and they laughed. I sweltered in isolation and frustration. When it was time to continue, I climbed back onto Jasper, glared at him and said (some-

They drank in the fire and the shadows of the forests and fields. They sang and they laughed. sweltered in isolation and frustration. what sarcastically and thankfully out of the earshot of any human), “Listen up, pilgrim, there isn’t room enough for two in this jungle. You are going to listen this time around.” Jasper turned slightly, then resumed munching on a fat patch of grass. The second half ambled on like the first. Each section of trail brought more bumps and bruises and the beauty I failed to see. I completely ignored the life buzzing and rustling and whistling around me. When we reached the final field, the grounds of the ranch, I turned back to the

jungle and sighed, realizing what I had missed. Jasper, meanwhile, saw his home and kicked into frenzied joy. With a short buck, he leaped into a sprint toward the open field. My heart (and butt) bucked with him. The other horses trotted along while their riders watched, laughing though I yelped in trepidation. The two minute gallop felt like twenty. No longer did I daintily hold the reins. I full-body-hugged Jasper’s back. Through the pounding hooves, I heard the guides shout, “Pull up on the reins.” So, I peeled from the horse and pulled. Jasper’s head shook, and his body slowed. One of the guides moseyed over to our spot (much slower than I wanted, I might add), giving me time to stew in adrenaline until I could dismount onto my trembling legs. I vaguely remember making some pathetic, selfdeprecating joke. Something about checking my pants for an accident. It was only my pride, of course, that had spilled from my stomach and down my legs. I never knew my dependence until I clung to a careening, thousand-pound body. I never imagined the memory of that night would become a vessel that began my journey back to faith.

In church, people were standing around me, mumbling through a prayer, while I sat mesmerized by my memory. I wish I could say that sermon was my come-to-Jesus moment. That wouldn’t happen until I reached one more terrible, rock-bottom moment. A moment that found me drunk, standing on the sand by Lake Michigan, looking at the bright lights of Chicago, feeling incredibly alone though sur-

rounded by millions of people. But I like to think the priest prepared me for when that low point would come. Faith is a long, decent walk in the dark. It might seem that way to the person who is blessed to canter, side-saddled and at ease, through the dense tangle of a broken world. I’ve yet to meet this person, but that’s how I thought my life was and how I thought my life would be. How silly I was, thinking I could strut through on my own. How foolish I was thinking financial independence could secure my soul’s satisfaction. Praise God, he gave me a bumpy year through an urban jungle to jar me to the Gospel I thought I knew after years of Christian upbringing. I’m in a clearing now, in my life, basking in His love and provision. I’ve found it easier to trust Him, even with a herniated disc and a cross-country move. Right now, faith seems simple. But I realize it was not and will not always be so smooth. I realize that sometimes faith is an easy promenade through a moonlit field. Sometimes, faith is camp songs and fellowship. Sometimes, faith is trusting the guides who’ve walked the path before you. Sometimes, faith is a long, bruising midnight ride through the jungle on the back of a stubborn horse named Jasper. From my spot in the church, I watched much of the congregation leave. My eyes lifted to the murals on the wall, where a line of people held large green leaves, saluting a lone rider on a scraggly gray donkey. I smiled and moved to leave so I could give the priest a firm handshake of appreciation.

S t a f f C h o i c e

South End Benjamin Selesnick

Ms. Capper froze in the foyer, her heels wedged in a broken ceramic tile. The window looking in on the front hallway had spider web cracks in its corners, one darting into the center like a lightning bolt. The button to Mr. Forsyth’s apartment buzzer had been broken off. She had to insert her finger into a hole, pressing against its interior until she heard a ring. The sound startled her. “Two minutes.” Exiting the building, descending the steps, Ms. Capper felt the ground rumble beneath her. Down the block, right at the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Columbus, clouds of white steam rushed out of a sewer grate. The head of the T Train would soon emerge. Grass grew between the brick sidewalks, spurts of green scattered throughout the crimson and brown. The building’s door flung open and Mr. Forsyth appeared below the street light. He descended the steps sideways, kicking his legs over the railing like a burlesque dancer. No one was out besides the two of them. He sat down on the bottom step, his trench coat tucked between the stone and his bum. He looked up at Ms. Capper like a puppy to its master. Mr. Forsyth remained proud that he hadn’t let the theatricality of his days at Juilliard become merely a memory. Life should be exaggerated, he once told Ms. Capper, because if it is not, then we only recognize the highs and lows. Ms. Capper had met Mr. Forsyth a decade earlier at mit. They both were enrolled in the linguistics department, sacrificing their mid-

twenties to pursue what Ms. Capper’s parents believed to be a “worthless field of study.” Nine years later and they both taught linguistics at separate universities. Mr. Forsyth wore corduroy slacks beneath his flannel-lined trench coat. His shoes were New Balances, and his hair was greasy, allowing it to be malleable, not concrete. Ms. Capper’s hair looked superb. Her leather jacket, draped over a black cocktail dress, looked superb as well. “I didn’t realize this would be a catered affair,” Mr. Forsyth said. Ms. Capper’s hands plucked at the loose hairs in the pockets of her jacket. She closed her left eye and could barely keep her right open. “What,” Mr. Forsyth dipped his head and twirled his hand between the two of them, “What I mean, or what I meant —” Ms. Capper didn’t speak. She believed that people should speak to articulate thought, not to impress or confuse. “I didn’t know that I was expected to wear anything clean or fancy.” Ms. Capper nodded, sneaking a slight smile on the corner of her face. “You weren’t. I just hold myself to a higher standard.” They walked past a church, a homeless man, and a boutique shop that was closing to be replaced by a chain boutique shop. All charming and alarming in their own manner. Columbus Avenue became a wind tunnel this time of year, and Ms. Capper regretted wearing so little. “What do you feed Mochi?” she asked. “I give him dry food. At first, well, he adored the wet stuff, but he simply couldn’t

keep it down. I’d come home and find puddles of vomit scattered about.” Mr. Forsyth was the only man Ms. Capper had ever met that was pigeon-toed. He was also the first man to ever openly talk about possibly getting a vasectomy. “Occasionally he gets ham, but only occasionally.” The Hedges was a swanky restaurant on Washington Avenue. It catered to Mr. Forsyth and Ms. Capper’s kind: young professionals that made only enough money to afford an apartment in Boston and a rare night spent splurging on overpriced food with people that attempted to be gregarious but were actually shallow. The hostess beckoned to them. “It’s a fifteen minute wait. What’s your phone number?”

Ms. Capper found their relationship to be off-kilter, something of a boy marrying his babysitter. Mr. Forsyth pulled out his phone as if its number would appear on the screen. Ms. Capper gently placed her palm over the face of the phone without dropping her gaze from the hostess. “Why would you need that?” “We can send you a link that tells you where your party is in line. It’ll text you when there’s a table available.” Ms. Capper grimaced.

“That’d be great,” Mr. Forsyth said. He told the hostess his phone number, and the two of them stepped outside. “You don’t mind?” They were walking across the street. On the other side was a church. “Mind what?” “That they’ll have your phone number?” They sat down on the steps of the church. The stone chilled Ms. Capper’s backside. She closed her jacket and held herself tightly. “Not particularly. They’ll send me the text, won’t they?” “That’s not quite what I was going for.” Mr. Forsyth shrugged. It was on Mr. Forsyth’s twenty-fifth birthday that Ms. Capper met his soon-to-be fiancé. They were out to lunch at a sterile-looking diner on Massachusetts Avenue near the southern edge of Cambridge close to the Charles River. Mr. Forsyth put his hand on the bare leg of the future Mrs. Forsyth, who was at that time Ms. Dolden, and Ms. Dolden wouldn’t put her hand on top of his even though he’d made a habit of lathering himself in coconutscented lotion. They looked uncomfortable. He ate with his right hand, extending his left so that it wouldn’t leave her leg. Ms. Capper found their relationship to be off-kilter, something of a boy marrying his babysitter. “How’s your apartment?” Ms. Capper asked. “It looks better than last time, if that’s what you’re asking. But yes, it’s fabulous. We have room for everything we need and everything we don’t. And the walls, Michelle wanted them yellow, look much better than I imagined. It’s so difficult to tell what’ll emanate the feeling you want when you’re looking at a fan of colors.” “What feeling is that?” Mr. Forsyth dumped a pinch of lint from his pocket onto the stone. “Something pleasant. Preferably something soothing. I just didn’t want anything startling. Thank God we didn’t go with my choice. I was fawning after this pale green. It

was like a color you’d find on a tropical flavored Mentos.” “Thank God for that.” “Yes, thank God indeed. How’s your flat? Still attracting squirrels?” A squirrel once crawled through an open window in Ms. Capper’s apartment. Twelve years later, Ms. Capper still had difficulty finding the humor in it. “Less these days. The squirrels that sneak their way into my apartment usually have large egos and terminal degrees. At this point, I prefer the ones with bushy tails and paws.” “It’s better than having no company at all, isn’t it?” “I know plenty of women that would argue otherwise.” Mr. Forsyth nodded and stared at the cars that flew past. The Hedges was located at the end of a busy street on which an outpouring of inner city commuters cut through every night. “Nothing?” said Ms. Capper. Mr. Forsyth lifted his gaze from the street and placed it on Ms. Capper. Her shoulders stretched as wide as his, which wasn’t saying much. Mr. Forsyth had always been a slender man, reaching his peak height and weight his senior year of high school. “Some women agree, some women don’t,” he said. “I expected you to have more to say.” He hesitated. Opened his mouth and then shut it. The breeze gaining, closing his eyes, tightening his jaw, he landed on a neutral response. “I certainly do, but regardless of what I say, I’ll fall in one of the two categories.” “Pick a side.” Mr. Forsyth’s phone rang. Their table was ready. Their waiter mentioned that they’d be serving veggie poutine as an appetizer that evening. Mr. Forsyth ordered it before taking a look at the menu. “You’re the only friend I have that’s married,” Ms. Capper said. “It’s true. The rest are still hunting like valiant warriors.” Mr. Forsyth chuckled.

“So it seems. Do you have anything planned for Michelle’s and your tenth anniversary?” Mr. Forsyth wrestled with a piece of bread. It was fluffy like challah, but the butter was stiff. “Hawaii. She’s going to take a week off during winter break. It should be lovely. I got us a suite rather than a room.” “It sounds wonderful, Henry.” “It will be. It’s not often that she and I get to spend much time together.” “Not often —”

“You’re the only friend have that’s married,” Ms. Capper said. “ t’s true. The rest are still hunting like valiant warriors.” Mr. Forsyth chuckled. The waiter came by with their appetizers. The poutine looked like sewage waste but it smelled like an active fryolator. They both smiled at the waiter as he walked away. “Your students are all right this semester?” Mr. Forsyth asked. “Fine, enthusiastic, boring. Half majors, half not.” Ms. Capper stabbed at a plush piece of cheese. “Let me ask, does it ever bother you

teaching the same material over and over? I talk about it all the time with the rest of the linguistics department. My speeches, my mantras, they’re practically second nature at this point. I know the students’ questions before they ask, and I know their follow-ups, too.” He studied her as she ate. Her pale complexion, accentuated by the sharp overhead lighting, revealed how little she’d aged. She didn’t have crow’s feet nor had she developed any ridges on her forehead. Her skin looked milky and was laced with freckles. Mr. Forsyth could see why some of her colleagues mistook her as a student, grad or otherwise. But this was not a trend he saw very often within professors. Age translated to wisdom. Most looked older than they were. Whether this was intentional or whether they’d stretched themselves too thin for too many years, Mr. Forsyth didn’t know. To profess youth, to show it, was looked at with great trepidation. He said, “It does, but I try not to let it. I wouldn’t want teaching to be a chore. It’s how I spend almost half of my day, if you include grading and office hours.” “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just do research?” “In theory, if we —” “I find myself saying that a lot. Wouldn’t it be nice. Doesn’t that sound desperate to you?” “Desperate? No, I —” “Because I know plenty of other professors, philosophy, English, art history, and they don’t look at teaching in the same way. They’re excited. Don’t you remember what it was like to be excited about teaching?” she said. “I still can get —” “Why can’t I spend my day conducting research? Isn’t it ironic that my title is professor, and yet, that title is the appendage to what I actually consider myself?” Mr. Forsyth held his hands in his lap. Ms. Capper had a slice of mozzarella hooked on her fork, and as she brought it up to her mouth, she noticed that Mr. Forsyth wasn’t talking. “Would you like me to say something?” he asked. “Don’t be like that.”

“Fine.” Mr. Forsyth waited for Ms. Capper to take a bite out of the vinaigrette-drizzled mozzarella before he continued, “It comes with the territory. Just try thinking of research as a reward for being a professor. ” Ms. Capper stared at him in the hope that he’d extrapolate, offer a personal wisdom she hadn’t heard yet. But when he didn’t, she smiled. “So, children? You and Michelle.” A fleck of mozzarella leaped out of her mouth and into her wine glass. “Dammit.” She gulped down the rest of her wine. “Are you going to give it a shot?” “A shot?” “Baby, Henry. Is Michelle going to have a baby anytime soon?” He fidgeted. “Soon is a relative term. Would two or three years count as soon?” Ms. Capper tried to look disinterested. She picked at her salad distractedly, glanced around the room. “Soon is whatever you make of it.” “Then yes, soon. Neither of us have had fertility tests, but there hasn’t been a need because we haven’t started trying. But when the time comes —” “Let me know.” Ms. Capper had ceased looking at Henry when she spoke. It was what her mother had trained her to do, albeit unintentionally. When her mother would argue with her father, it was done in ten words or less. Anger and questions were made to sound like unassuming statements, as if the words held no consequence whatsoever. They were also said in moments that implied a particular subtlety. Whether it was sitting in a pew at church or on the sidelines of one of Ms. Capper’s softball games, the stakes were to look as if they were lowered. We’re in the house of God; how could you believe I’d act maliciously? “That’s what I was going to say,” he said. Ms. Capper’s gnocchi arrived a moment before Mr. Forsyth’s veal piccata. “I hope you don’t mind if I begin,” Ms. Capper said. “I insist.”

The rest of the meal was finished with only meager snippets of chitchat interspersed between bites. The waiter dropped the check and slipped away to a couple two tables down. Neither Ms. Capper nor Mr. Forsyth moved toward it. It stood there, looking like a triangle missing its third side, its innards facing Mr. Forsyth. They split the bill. They’d walked four blocks, and there were only three blocks left until they reached Mr. Forysth’s apartment. These homes, the brownstones, hid behind the trees on the sidewalk. Drapes were drawn. Vines that began centuries ago crawled over their front sides. Minuscule yards didn’t have any decorations even though Christmas was only two weeks away. It seemed that the brownstones had done everything they could to hide their elegance, and Mr. Forsyth thought perhaps that was elegance in itself. “Does Michelle ever ask about me?” Ms. Capper asked. “I can’t remember the last time she did.” “Doesn’t she ever get curious?” As they were walking in the same direction, they spoke without making eye contact. “Over you?” Mr. Forsyth asked. “Yes, me.” “Why would she ask about you?” Her mouth opened but it took a couple of seconds for words to come out. “Because, Henry, I’m still alive, aren’t I? Even to satisfy some curiosity or at least as a courtesy, wouldn’t it make sense for her to know how I’ve been?” “I can’t account for what Michelle does or doesn’t think.” “But you,” she shoved her hands into her pockets to hide their shaking, “you must have mentioned me at some point. She could’ve asked a follow up like, ‘How’s Lauren’s research going?’ or something in that vein or, ‘Is Lauren seeing anyone?’ or hell, at least ‘How is she?’” “How is your research going?” “Not the point, Henry. I’m not asking you to pander to me.” Although Ms. Capper didn’t feel that familiar queasiness within her stomach, she wished that she could vomit right then and

there. She wanted to cleanse herself, to puke up her truth, or rather her resignation to the truth, and leave it right there on the sidewalk. “If who we have —” “The role you play in the relationship I have with Michelle is smaller than you’ve led yourself to believe. That’s the last I’ll say on the matter.” He put his hand out in front of her as he spoke and held it there for a few paces after he’d finished. She imagined that his eyes must’ve been closed because to open them would mean that he’d have to acknowledge the recipient of his callousness.

She wanted to cleanse herself, to puke up her truth, or rather her resignation to the truth, and leave it right there on the sidewalk. “When did you become so cruel?” she said. They reached the steps to Mr. Forsyth’s building. What they’d done in recent years was to hug one another at the door and call to each other as they went their own way. Mr. Forsyth recognized his instinct to go through with this process, to repress whatever resentments he’d accumulated toward Ms. Capper and lament about them to Michelle once he stepped inside. But he ignored this instinct and chose to say something he’d thought of years earlier. “I wish you didn’t need me so badly.” “Who said I need you?”

He climbed the first few steps and stopped, turned toward Ms. Capper, and spoke. “And please, for the both of us, don’t spend so much time with your imagination. You’d be surprised how quickly it can turn into reality.” Mr. Forsyth went inside. Ms. Capper told him to keep his silly, ill-begotten advice to himself, but she knew it didn’t matter what she said. Nothing she could’ve conjured up would have kept him outside in the cold any longer. On the train heading home, Ms. Capper sat next to an Asian man and his daughter. There were other passengers as well: a conductor hidden behind a metal gate, a lady with a puppy clutched in her arms, a man holding a tripod and a large briefcase shaped like a camera, and plenty of other people that Ms. Capper didn’t register. The father and daughter didn’t converse with each other, nor did they acknowledge each other’s existence, but they did hold hands above the empty seat between them. The three of them got off at the same time, rode next to one another on the escalator, and walked two blocks up Tremont Street before the man and his child turned left. She stood at the corner, watching them ascend Beacon Hill, eventually turning off of Vernon

Street. Ms. Capper wanted to follow them. It would’ve been reassuring, she imagined, if she could sit in their living room and watch them putter about, the father scooping ice cream into porcelain bowls and the daughter kneeling on the floor playing with an iPad. They could sit beside each other and eat their ice cream with one hand, bowls in their laps, holding each other’s hand above the empty seat between them. Ms. Capper imagined herself sitting on the kitchen table on the opposite side of the room, hair up in a bun, humming loudly the tune of a song whose name she could not remember. She picked up a pack of Marlboros before making it to her apartment. She hadn’t smoked in three years, but she couldn’t think of any other way to delay herself from walking up the three flights of stairs that led to her door, apartment seven. On the steps of her building, Ms. Capper smoked one cigarette after another, throwing the butts into a puddle that caressed the curb, bouncing off one another like sunfish trapped in a basin. She couldn’t help wondering, and then, she couldn’t help speaking. “Do you think we could have found a way to love each other?”

S t a f f C h o i c e

Ghost Town Clarissa Anello

Digital Photograph

ndustrial Excuses

S.E. Kesselring

It has always been my policy that if you need to give someone groundbreaking news, do it in a coffee shop — the other person will be distracted and, hopefully, caffeinated, and things will go smoothly. Everyone is equal in a coffee shop. Across from me, Fiona sipped a latte the color of her short blond hair. She probably knew something was coming because we came to this same coffee shop after I had my first breakup, got fired from my first job, and got my first rejection letter from Harper Collins. The burnt orange walls showcased still life oil paintings, all blocky shapes and dingy colors, while the old chair with dead-leaf green upholstery showcased its espresso and milk scars. She squinted and kept bringing the straw to her lips, blinking. I took a bite out of my blueberry muffin and let the warm sugar tell me that things would work out. “So what’s the news?” Fiona said. She sounded bored. After a deep breath I said, “I am not going to write anymore.” More blinking and latte sipping. A little boy at the pastry window cried over a denied piece of chocolate cake. I started imagining him throwing himself against the glass case, smearing tears and saliva and maybe even snot everywhere. His mother would sigh and wonder why she ever had that one-night stand with… I stopped myself, feeling as if I had to physically turn off that part of my brain. I

wasn’t a writer anymore; I couldn’t just go around randomly making up lives for people. I forced myself back into the real world, where squinty Fiona continued to sip her latte, and I tried to sound positive. “No more rejected novels and essays. No more ignored blog posts or emails.” She set down her latte. “What happened this time?” Another bite of muffin for me, this time one with a rancid blueberry. “I sat around in yoga pants for a couple hours and pretended to meditate. I may have had an epiphany. No more writing.” “You have a deadline with somebody that wanted a children’s poem.” There was a crash and a splash from behind the counter, and a barista screamed about a wasted gallon of milk. I thought of her going home to her boyfriend, his warm lips comforting her as they…and then I stopped myself again. I shrugged, shooing away the imaginary scene. “I’ll cancel it. I’m done, Fiona. I’m finally free.” This girl needed to either put on a pleasant face or invest in wrinkle cream. “Jessica, be realistic,” she said. “All you ever talk about is what you’re writing, what you want to write, and Cambridge commas.” “Oxford commas, and they’re important.” “Sure they are. Last time you wanted to quit because a world that adores Stephenie Meyer will never appreciate you. What is it this time?”

I hated explaining myself, and my words came out angrier than I wanted Fiona to hear. “Everything sounds so good in my head, and then it sounds like blegh when it’s out there. I’m not gonna bother anymore.” Fiona chewed on the end of her straw for a minute. “So what about the places that have published your work? I guess they just lack taste or something.” I nodded. “Yes. And I don’t like writing anymore. It’s a chore, and I’m done.” She stuffed a napkin into her empty cup, her voice sharp. “So you’re just going to throw away four years of work and writing because you ‘don’t like it’ anymore. All of the time you’ve spent stressing and learning how to be a better writer is going to go away now.” She kneaded her forehead with her fist. “Okay, Jess, what are you stuck on?” “What?” “You’ve got writer’s block somewhere. It’s that children’s poem, isn’t it?” My whole mouth tasted bitter, probably because of that stupid blueberry. “That thing was almost done. And I don’t have writer’s block. I hate writing now.” She stood up slowly. “You’re not gonna tell me what’s wrong. Fine. You win, Jess. Call me when you figure out how to get through your story or essay or whatever.” I looked down at my lap and listened to Fiona’s shoes slide across the dirty floor. “Bye,” I said.

“Stupid Fiona,” I said after locking the door to my apartment. “You’re happy for me, right, Flannery?” Flannery, my undersized Russian Blue cat, rubbed against my legs in reply. I walked past the pile of dirty dishes in my tiny kitchen and into my bedroom / writing room. Bedroom because of the futon, writing room because of everything else. Directly opposite the door was my writing space — a scratched up metal desk, stacks of books on the floor, paper and pens everywhere, and a small

computer monitor. The wall above my desk I called “The Rejection Wall.” Letters of all shapes, lengths, and fonts covered a cheap corkboard. Every rejection letter I had ever received was stapled to this wall. My favorite one was from a publisher who said my poetry was too maudlin for their audience — they spelled my name “Jessika Shoeman” instead of “Jessica Shoreman.” All of the acceptance letters I kept in a rubber-banded bundle in the bottom drawer of my desk. I ran my fingertips over the edges of the letters, some part of me probably hoping for a paper cut. Flannery hopped on top of my desk, curled up in a ball, and yawned. In the very center of the wall was the most recent letter,

“Wanna help me tear this down later?” said. “ ’m not a writer anymore.” with a supposedly real signature from the supposedly real editor who read my manuscript. “Dear Ms. Shoreman,” it said, “We would love to see how your work has progressed in a few years. At this time, we are unable to publish your manuscript.” I told myself this was better than the Post-it notes I used to get, but I knew it wasn’t. No means no, however you say it. I scratched Flannery behind the ears, wondering what life would be like if paper were as soft as her fur. “Wanna help me tear this down later?” I said. “I’m not a writer anymore.”

“No, Mom,” I yelled into the phone later that evening, “I’m not wasting anything. Writing was a phase, and I’m done with it now.” She screamed something about me never finishing what I started and how did I think I was going to feed myself? I told her I would work in a zebra rescue in Africa and hung up. I wondered if working at a zebra rescue really would be a good idea since there might be a cute veterinarian, but I gave up once I started imagining said vet’s hairstyle, because he would never make it into a story. I threw my phone on the futon and banged my head against my desk, sad that it didn’t give me a concussion. Flannery sat on a pile of papers next to my computer monitor, cleaning a paw. The screen pulsed gently, my

imagined myself as a medieval martyr, sitting on top of a twenty-foot pole, serene and happy… inbox wanting me to know that bras were two for $65, Fiona wasn’t done talking, and I, too, could “perform better in the bedroom with affordable penis enlargement.” You’d think spammers would be smart and send me something about breast enhancement. Then I might actually open their email and download their badware or whatever horrible sickness they normally gave computers. I opened Fiona’s email because reading her message didn’t mean I had to write back. She wanted to know if I could proofread her pro-

posal for her management team before the impending presentation. Instead of emailing back, I picked up my phone and called her. She answered on the second ring. “Fi, I love you, but the answer is no. Proofreading is like writing, and replying to your email is definitely writing,” I said. “Oh, come on, Jessica!” She groaned. “You’ve got to stop this nonsense. You can’t not write.” I imagined myself as a medieval martyr, sitting on top of a twenty-foot pole, serene and happy, while dirty villagers waved quill pens and ordered me to come down and write. I shook my head and reminded myself that deodorant didn’t exist back then and I should be happy I lived in an age of hygiene. “Why do you care?” I said, poking the palm of my free hand on the edge of the desk. “Should I not be concerned that my best friend is having an identity crisis? This is worse than the time you put rainbow stripes in your hair after Phillip Draper refused to kiss you in seventh grade.” It was my turn to groan. “You need to forget that.” “Anyone who saw it won’t be able to forget it.” She paused, and I didn’t have anything to say. “Jess, please tell me what’s wrong. These guessing games are getting old.” I looked at Flannery’s paper perch. I couldn’t see past her fuzzy body, but I knew the first page said “Industrial Excuses by Jessica Shoreman.” Thinking about those words brought up bubbling hot sauce in my stomach. Fiona’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Are you still there?” “It’s what I told you earlier — writing exhausts me. I don’t have any fun. I’m moving on.” Another minute of silence. I poked Flannery’s side until she nipped my finger without breaking the skin. “I don’t buy that. Last week you were telling me what a fiendish delight it is to rhyme clue with flu, and the greatest thing about the word delight is that you really feel light when you say it.”

I made a mental note to find a best friend with a crappy memory. “There’s more to writing than just writing things down.” “You mean the part where you try to get other people to read what you wrote?” she said. The hot sauce from earlier rose into my throat. “No,” I said quickly. “There’s all sorts of things, and they’re like weights in my head.” Fiona sighed. “Why do you always do this to me? Things get hard, you have some sort of crisis, and you can’t get out of it until I help you. I can never tell if you’re serious. Maybe you can get better on your own.” “If I didn’t need help, I wouldn’t talk to you,” I said, but she’d already hung up. I looked at Flannery and put my hand on her flank. “That was probably karma for hanging up on Mom earlier.”

The next morning, harsh knock knocks against my door interrupted a perfectly good dream where I was jabbing lousy editors with a pitchfork while they boiled in alphabet soup. I checked the peephole and decided not to change out of my oversized T-shirt when I saw it was Fiona. When I opened the door, she walked in without saying anything and headed toward my room. “Don’t blame me if there are thongs or something strewn everywhere,” I called, stumbling. The ridiculousness of my statement struck me as soon as it left my mouth, because what kind of person throws their underwear everywhere? I hurried into my bedroom before I could start imagining just what kind of person would do that. Fiona stood in front of The Rejection Wall, arms folded across her chest. With her black, knee-length skirt and blue, fluttery blouse, she looked like an hr rep about to launch a lecture. “What is this? I thought you were past this. ‘Sorry, we cannot accept your work at this time,’ ‘We will not be publishing your poem,’ ‘Please enter our contest again next year.’ This is depressing, Jessica!”

Flannery, standing on the desk, batted fuzz filaments floating in the air. “You know what they are,” I mumbled. “But why are they on display? You need to get over this masochist thing.” She knocked dirty clothes off my futon and sat on it. “You have five minutes to explain what’s going on before I tear that thing off your wall.” “Nothing’s going on.” I sat down on the floor and hugged my knees to my chest. “Fine.” Fiona got up and yanked the most recent letter — the one with the fancy signature — off the wall. “I’m tearing this in half.” “Stop!” I yelled, using the desk to pull myself up.

“Tenth draft and they don’t want it.” Fiona pointed to the stack of papers by the computer. “What is this? You haven’t told me about Industrial Excuses.” I looked at the floor and nudged a loose carpet thread with my toe. I spoke quietly, hoping she wouldn’t hear me, or that she would at least misinterpret what I said. “It’s just a dumb collection of short stories.” Unfortunately for me, Fiona had perfect hearing in addition to her perfect memory. “Why aren’t you trying to get it published? Is it a first draft?” Fiona put the letter on the desk. The hot, bubbling sauce in my stomach finally erupted in a stream of high-pitched, gurgling sounds. “Tenth draft and they don’t want it.” The volume rose. “They don’t want it, Fi. I’ve been working on some of these stories since college, and they aren’t wanted. That letter in your hand is a really polite way of saying I suck and should give up on four years

of headaches and bleary-eyed work. No one wants the stories I really care about. No one wants me.” She sat on the futon and read over the letter again. “Try a different publisher. Try submitting the stories individually.” My empty stomach closed in on itself, making me feel like I needed to puke up air and bile. “I can’t do it again. Do you have any idea what it’s like to regularly have people tell you that you’re not good enough? And they’re always so polite about it, as if that makes everything okay. Fiona shook her head, and we stayed quiet for a long time, staring at the floor. Finally she stirred, looking at me, then at The Rejection Wall, and then at me again. “Why do you display the bad letters? Why not the nice ones?” I pulled the loose thread in the carpet. “The bad ones tell the truth. I don’t believe the other people.”

“Why do you always do this to me? Why won’t you let me give up?” “That’s twisted.” Fiona’s eyebrows twitched. “You need to stop mentally punching yourself. You’re not going to be happy doing anything, working anywhere, if you automatically assume you suck.” “I can’t help it.” I still whispered. “I want everything to be perfect.” “Name one book that got perfect reviews from every single person who read it.”

I sighed loudly. Flannery came over and butted her head against my calf, rubbing kitty snot on my skin. “You’re going to try again,” Fiona said. “Whether it’s in a week or in a month, you’re going to come back to Industrial Excuses.” “No.” I picked up Flannery and hugged her to my chest. “They’re not tearing me to shreds again.” I buried my nose and smarting eyes in Flannery’s silky neck fur. “They can’t have it.” “Do your acceptance letters you have make you happy?” Fiona lowered herself to the floor across from me. I shook my head, causing some of Flannery’s hairs to go up my nose. I tried not to sneeze on her. “If you love those stories as much as you say you do, I’m sure someone else will love them, too.” She reached out and stroked Flannery’s spine. “What if they hate it?” I said. “What if they love it?” For a minute, the only sound in the room was Flannery’s purring and faint car engines outside. Part of me regretted sitting on the itchy, worn carpet with bare thighs. “You’re going to try,” Fiona said. “You’re not going to give up, Jess. And you’re going to send in that children’s poem, too.” “Why do you always do this to me? Why won’t you let me give up?” I wound a lock of split-end-covered hair around my finger. “Why do you always tell me if you know I won’t let you quit?” Fiona retorted. After another minute, she said, “Do you remember what happened the first time you said you wanted to quit?” That had been our freshman year of college, and I remembered it very well, but I shook my head. Fiona smirked. “A week after quitting, I found you scribbling away in a notebook, muttering to yourself. You said it was a journal entry, but when I read it, it was a story. I made you finish it, and the next thing I knew, you enrolled in more writing classes.” I didn’t say anything.

“I won’t let you quit because you never let yourself quit. You can’t help writing. It’s a waste of time to keep quitting and restarting,” she said. In the stubborn corner of my mind that nagged me about the health dangers of caffeine and sugar, I knew that she was right. I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll give my manuscript one last proofread and —” “No,” Fiona borderline shouted, cutting me off. “You’re not going to start hating your work again. You’re printing a clean manuscript and sending it out this afternoon.” I started poking my finger on one of Flannery’s claws. “Anything else? Do I need to take you out to dinner as a thank you?” “The Rejection Wall is coming down.” Flannery jumped out of my arms and crouched under the desk. I stared at my beautiful wall of despair and papers, some of them yellowing with age. Fragile, rip-like wrinkle marks covered a few pages due to my crumpling and re-smoothing them. I looked at Fiona, and the hard lines around her mouth softened. I made my best puppy eyes face. “Can I keep some of them?” Fiona blinked a few times. “You look like you’re going to have an aneurysm. Stop that.” She stared at the ceiling for a minute. “Three,” she said. “But they have to go stacked beneath the happy letters.” I stood up and grabbed the letter with “Jessika Shoeman” on it first. I took the letter about Industrial Excuses, the paper new enough to have a bitter, chemical smell. Then I started

gently pulling papers from their metal staple bonds, letting them fall unorganized on the floor. They fluttered to the ground with a soft flapping sound, like the flocks of birds Flannery liked to watch. The more I pulled, the older the papers got, and those made crinklier sounds. Fiona stood up and pulled a faded, mangled letter from the middle of the board. She handed me my first rejection letter. “This one didn’t stop you from accumulating more letters,” she said, kicking some of the papers on the floor. Flannery stretched out on the white pile and rolled around, summoning a new chorus of crinkly noises. She rubbed her cheek against one piece of paper and swatted at others that apparently offended her. “You’re going to put some clothes on. You’re going to pick a publisher, and we’re going to put your manuscript in the mail,” Fiona said.

I did what Fiona said, and within an impossibly long and unbearably short amount of time, I received a response from the publisher. “Your work does not suit our needs at this time.” No signature, just a standard slip printed out a dozen per sheet. It didn’t even smell like anything. I folded it neatly in half, in half again, and threw it in the trash while Flannery rubbed against my legs and purred.

20" x 30" Oil on Cradled Wood Panel

Solitude

Wilma Saran

Evening in Apartment 292 S.E. Kesselring Sitting on a small balcony, dusky light tendrils dance with pine needles. Hummingbirds flit and chirp — small, erratic. My muscles release as the sun sinks into the earth. Winding cigarette clouds waft upward, bitter smoke stings the inside of my nose. A shout from below, “I hate you!” The glass door beneath slams, rattling my chair. The murky puffs become skunky, nauseating, but the screaming stops. The hummingbirds zip away for sweeter nectar. Now the air is purple and periwinkle. First star appears through spiky September trees. I plug in white Christmas lights woven through green, iron rails. Parched blue paint peels in jagged curls under bare feet, laughter from the identical balcony next door floats over me and twirls through smoky sky.

The Door

MB Dahl

A thin, white, wooden door separated Will from his new bride. He stared at the crystal rosette door knob. Just one twist, and he would know. Just a quick turn and her secret wouldn’t be hers alone to carry. The sound of sweet humming drifted from the other side. He ached for her. They’d made love less than an hour ago, and he wanted her again. Maybe if he knocked. No, she’d made it clear. No contact once the door was shut. “This is crazy.” He said it under his breath. The music stopped. “Will?” The scent of her body spray drifted to him around the edges of the door. She didn’t sound angry. He swallowed. “I…I miss you.” The door creaked from the other side, and he reached for the knob. “No. Don’t, please,” she cried. He stopped. “I just. I love you, baby.” “Me too.” She was so close. “It’s better this way. Just trust me. Tomorrow, I’ll stay with you all night. I promise.” He pressed his hand to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning before I leave?” “You bet.” Her voice sounded breathy. “I’ll wake you up at sunrise.”

Will waited as Danny ordered another beer and watched the waitress walk away. Same frat boy heart as always.

“Yeah, what were you saying?” Danny’s eyes were still on the waitress. Will hesitated. “You know, it’s really hard to have a serious conversation with you.” He took a deep breath and plunged in. “It’s about Rosalind.” “Trouble in paradise?” Danny grinned. “You’re doing better than me. You guys have been together for what? A year now? Married and everything.” Will nodded. This was hard, but someone else needed to know the secret. Danny waited. Now or never. “We don’t sleep together.” Disbelief and crazy prankster collided on Danny’s face. He stayed silent, so Will continued. “Occasionally she stays with me the whole night, but I know it wears her out. She doesn’t rest well. Says it’s better if we sleep apart. It’s driving me crazy.” “You two have —” He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows, “had sex, right?” Will nodded. “And I thought waiting for the wedding night was weird, but I gotta tell ya, this is even stranger.” Danny’s honesty didn’t help. “Why? What’s she doing?” “That’s just it. I don’t really know.” Will poked at his fries with his fork. “Drugs?” Ever the optimist. “You have met Rosalind, right? She doesn’t even take vitamins. There’s no way she’s doing drugs.”

“You sure? Because she seems way too happy all the time.” Will tossed his fork onto the table. “She is happy. And kind. And thoughtful. And the most beautiful person I’ve ever known. And she loves me; she thinks I’m this great guy.” Danny winked at the waitress as she set down his drink. “Maybe you should just leave it alone. When she’s ready, she’ll tell you.” He took a bite of his burrito. “She’s been good for you. I really didn’t think you’d ever find anyone — not with how you were always after girls outside your league.” “What?” “You know what I mean. The girls you chased were way too hot for you. Rosalind’s a good mix. She’s pretty. She suits you.” It felt like a putdown, but Will kind of thought it was true. He had dated out of his league before. Rosalind matched him well. They fit. He should probably leave it alone. If she needed her space, that was fine. She made up for it in other ways. “But you know,” Danny lowered his voice, “if you really want to know what’s going on in there, you could set up a camera.” He nodded to a group of women a table over. “It is your house.” “Spy on her?” Will rolled the thought around. How much trouble would that get him in if she found out? “I don’t know.” “You could try talking to her. Let her know it’s not working for you. What is it they say? Marriage is a two-way street. A little give, a little take.” “Great.” Will plunked his credit card down on the tray. “Now I’m getting marital advice from the biggest playboy in the tristate area.” “Hey, I do what I can.” Danny wrote his cell number on the back of the ticket and put a twenty down.

Smiling, Rosalind slid the parmesan onto the table as wisps of mousy brown hair escaped her ponytail and fell across her cheekbones.

“You hungry?” She tucked the hair behind her sweet ear and returned to the stove. Will nodded. His tense stomach said otherwise, but he didn’t let on. “Anything new at work?” Boiling water spilled over the edge of the cooking pasta, and Rosalind blew on it and turned the burner down. “No, not really. Just a normal day.” She shot him a look. It was hard to hide stuff from her. She could see him when no one else did. “I met Danny for lunch.” Maybe that would throw her.

“Spy on her?” Will rolled the thought around. How much trouble would that get him in if she found out? “Oh, I haven’t seen him in a while. How’s he doing?” “Good.” Will’s thoughts wandered back to the room, and her, and the discussion he didn’t want to have. Rosalind placed a steamy plate of spaghetti in front of him and sat down. “What’s up, Will? I can tell something’s bothering you.” She put her hand on his. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m here.” Her blue eyes sparkled behind her thick lenses. He ran a finger down her soft, rosy cheek, took a deep breath, and made up his mind. “I want in.” Blurting it out didn’t make it sound as thoughtful as he meant it. He backed up. “I don’t like us having secrets, and it feels

like you in that room every night and me not allowed in is a secret. I don’t want that.” The scent of lilacs mixed with the spaghetti conflicted his thoughts. Allowing her this one request wasn’t really hurting him. He did want her to be happy. He watched her face for some hint that she understood his demand. She sat back. Unreadable. “I understand.” Silence. He needed more than just an I understand. “Do you? Because it’s killing me not to know what you do every night.” “It’s not every night, and it’s not killing you.” Her round face took on a sharper glint. “It’s better this way. Why can’t you just trust me on this?” “Because it’s a secret, and married people shouldn’t have any secrets.” He had her now. “I’m worried about you. What are you doing? Is it drugs? Porn? What?”

“…it’s killing me not to know what you do every night.” “Oh, please.” She jumped up and went to the cutting board on the counter. Will stayed silent as she pulled the serrated knife from the block and sliced the bread. He couldn’t read her so he waited. After a few minutes of silence and a completely sliced loaf of Italian, he joined her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “C’mon, Rosie. What is it?” “I don’t want you to get hurt.” She felt warm against him, all lilac and wonderful. He kissed her neck. Setting down the knife, she turned and kissed him hard. Sweet and hot and perfect. Touching her made him want to forget

his request. As long as she was happy, what was a door and a few hours apart? Pulling back, she looked him in the eye. Tears glistened in hers. “Please, please just give me this one thing. I promise you I’m not doing anything bad, and eventually, one day, I’ll show you. I promise. But it’s too soon still.” She cupped his face with her hands. “Please. Don’t push this. I don’t want to lose you.” He pulled her tight to him and kissed her again. They melted into one another, lips, caresses, and heat. Nothing else mattered. If she needed space, he would give it to her. He would give it to her and watch from afar.

Only a little part of Will thought maybe he shouldn’t turn the cameras on. That little part kept him from watching the first few nights. Rosalind had been so intense when she’d asked him to let her have her closed door and solitude. He’d told himself he’d only use the cameras if he thought she were in some kind of danger. After three nights and with life settling back to their weird norm, he pulled out his smartphone and punched in the code. Just one quick look, and he could settle the matter of her secret. She could have it, and he would wait until she was ready to share. Just one look. The screens popped up one by one. Five tiny cameras positioned around Rosalind’s room flickered to life. Where was she? The room was empty. Light coming from the bathroom put him at ease. She’d said goodnight thirty minutes ago. That should have been enough time for her to feel unguarded and free to do whatever it was she did behind that closed door. A creak in the hallway made him toss the phone on the bed. He slipped to the doorway and peered into the darkness. Only a sliver of dim light glowed from the crack under Rosalind’s door. It brightened, and he slinked backward, closing his door and switching off his lights. The glow of his phone guided him back to his bed. Movement in the cameras.

Swallowing, he stilled himself and turned the phone upright. Rosalind had emerged from the bathroom rubbing a towel on her wet hair. Her back was to him. Something looked different. She wore the silky robe he gave her on their wedding night, but she had it cinched at the waist, tight, revealing her curves. Had she lost weight and he not noticed? She dropped the towel and ran her hand through her hair. Blonde and fuller. He checked the settings for color contrast. When he looked back to the camera display, she’d exchanged her robe for a spaghetti strapped nightie. It crisscrossed in the back. Her movements were the same, but something was off. Maybe it was the blonde looking hair. Pressing the screen, he switched to a different camera angle. He caught her as she slipped into the chair in front of the vanity mirror, rubbing a washcloth on her face. She didn’t have her glasses on, and he realized he’d hardly ever seen her without them. The brightness level flared and washed out the picture. Will checked the settings again and darkened the contrast, and that’s when he really saw her. His heart raced, but his body froze. The vision in front of him wasn’t Rosalind. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “What the —” He flicked to a different angle. Was he seeing someone else’s feed? No. The woman moved like Rosalind, but her body, her face, everything about her glowed with an overwhelming kind of beauty. Intense. Perfect. Powerful. Like a drug. He dropped to the floor by the bed and cradled the phone in his hands. “Rosalind?” He petted the screen, and it flashed to the home page. “No!” A growl rumbled in his throat until he got the picture back. He sat there watching her until she crawled into bed and turned out the light. Even then a soft glow rose from her pristine skin. He wanted her. He wanted to touch her, press those perfect lips to his. Without warning, the desire propelled him to her door. “Rosalind. I need to see you.” His voice shook. He checked the camera feed.

Her light switched on, and she grabbed the robe, tightening the belt around her tiny waist and stepped to the door. “Please, I need you.” Desperation poured from him. “Just give me a minute, I’ll be right there.” She ran into the bathroom. Sliding down the door, he turned off the surveillance app and slid the phone into his pocket. It felt like hours before she came. The door jerked open, and he fell into the room. Rosalind dropped to his side. “What is it? Are you okay?” She was the same lovable, plain Rosalind she’d always been. No fierce beauty. Just her mousy brown, bespectacled self.

The vision in front of him wasn’t Rosalind. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Will touched her face. “Will, what is it? You’re scaring me.” The robe lay open over a pink pajama top and plaid shorts. Her legs looked larger as she knelt beside him. “How? What?” It didn’t make sense. He looked past her to the room. No one else was there. It was her, but it wasn’t. How could that be? He pulled back, the accusation building, the growl growing from losing something he’d never had. But he stopped himself. No. Not yet. Pulling her close, he drank in the scent of her. “I’m sorry. I had a bad dream.” “Oh, Will. It’s okay. I’m here.” “Come stay with me, please.” He nuzzled her neck, her soft skin, and closed his eyes

embracing the memory of what he’d seen. “Just for a little while.” “Of course.” She followed him to his room, and he drank her in — the picture in his head — never opening his eyes.

The restaurant hopped with people, and Danny was late. Will fondled his phone, not turning on the recording, but knowing it was there. It made him feel good to know it was there. “What’s up? What’s so urgent?” Danny slid into the other side of the booth. “I ditched a lunch date for you. This better be good. Whoa, you look terrible.” Will took a sip of water to cool his throat. “I haven’t been sleeping.” “Is it because of the door? Just talk to her, man. People have weird crap all the time. Just

“She’s mine. Back off.” tell her what you’re thinking and get it out.” He ordered a soda and dug into the untouched chips. Will pulled out his phone. “I did what you said. I put up some cameras.” “You did what? Are you crazy? That’s not going to instill a lot of trust.” The recording came on, and Will paused it. “Well, she’s not really giving me a lot to go on. I had to do something.” “Okay, what did you find out?” Danny stopped munching. Will pushed the phone toward him. “See for yourself.” Danny pressed the screen and watched. And Will watched Danny. His friend’s eyes grew large, and he leaned closer to the screen. Admiration. Or was it hunger? Will had ob-

served Danny leering at women a thousand times, but that’s not what he saw. He didn’t recognize the look in his friend’s eyes. “It’s Rosalind?” Light dawned over him. Will kept a hungry eye on Danny’s face. “Yes. That’s my wife.” “I don’t understand.” He slid the still playing video back across the table. Will snatched it up and tucked the phone into his shirt pocket. “She’s mine, and she’s gorgeous.” “And you’ve never actually seen her like that?” “Not yet. I’ve been giving her some space. Do you think that’s wrong? Maybe I should push her more. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.” Will’s heart pounded, and he rubbed his sweaty palms on his three-day-old pants. Danny looked serious. Too serious. “That’s weird. How is that even possible? Makeup? A mask? How can she go from plain Jane to that? ” “I don’t know.” Will took another sip of water. It didn’t help. “I don’t know. I want to ask her, but I can’t. I don’t want to spook her. She might not do it anymore.” Silence fell between them. “Can I see it again?” Danny held out his hand. “No,” Will snapped. People looked their way. Will lowered his voice. “She’s mine. Back off.” Danny held his hands up. “Chill out. I didn’t mean anything like that. I just wanted to see if…I don’t know. If maybe it was some sort of trick.” “It’s her. I know it’s her. You know it’s her.” Will pulled the phone from his pocket and clicked the video on. “It’s her.” He watched it until she turned out the light. “I had to turn down the contrast because when she’s out, the whole room glows around her.” Danny nodded. “I don’t know what to tell ya, buddy. But maybe you need to get some help. You’re looking a little crazed.” Will felt the growl rumble from that deep place within him. Danny was jealous — he couldn’t be happy for him, not when Mr. Frat

Boy was the one who usually got the gorgeous girls.

Dinner smelled delicious, but Will couldn’t eat. He wanted to be done with dinner and get to his room so he could watch. “Honey, are you okay?” Rosalind ran her hand down his arm. Her warm touch fueled him. The video feed. Her glowing beauty. “I’m fine.” She wanted to chat about their day and talk about the weather, and he couldn’t get her to be done fast enough. He forced a smile. “You ever thought of getting contacts?” “No.” She giggled. “I kind of like my glasses. They give me character.” “Yeah, but you have such beautiful eyes. Sometimes other stuff gets in the way.” “Other stuff?” He shrugged. “Never mind. What about your day? Anything exciting happen?” “Not really. Same old thing. Oh, except after work I ran into Danny.” She lifted the water glass to her perfect lips. “Danny?” Cold rage flared inside Will’s pounding heart. “Where’d you see Danny?” “At the market. I didn’t even know he ate anything that wasn’t made for him by some girl he’d just met.” Pushing away from the table, she reached for Will’s plate. “You finished? You hardly ate.” “What did he say to you?” He lifted the plate. “Oh, nothing. We just chatted. He asked about you and how married life’s going. That’s all.” As she finished clearing the table, she hummed. Happy and hopeful. Will knew the look. Danny worked his charms well, but he wouldn’t steal Rosalind away. That playboy wouldn’t win this time. As Rosalind finished with the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, Will paced the dining room, constructing his plan and assuring himself he would be able to protect his Rosalind from greedy, cheating friends.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Danny wore his Braves ball cap, a white T-shirt, and jeans. Will motioned for his friend to come in and keep quiet. “Rosalind’s sleeping. I just thought we could talk.” “About what? I never come over here. Nice place, by the way. I like the way Rosie exchanged your beer bottle collection for decorative plates.” “Rosie?” Will swallowed. Stay calm. “Yeah.” He plopped down on the sofa. That wouldn’t work. “Um, I thought we could talk in my room.”

That playboy wouldn’t win this time. Danny cocked an eye and stayed put. “Why?” Deep breath. “I’ve got the monitors hooked up in there. I thought you’d want to see this.” He grinned, his guy grin, hoping to hook his ogling friend. “I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong. She’s amazing.” He slowed. “But I’m uncomfortable with your whole video thing. It’s even weirder than having Barbie pretend to be Raggedy Ann. I almost told her about it when I saw her the other day.” “You saw her?” Will kept his charade in place. “At the market. I was cooking for Gina, the waitress from the restaurant. Me. Cooking. I guess you know it’s love when you find someone you’re willing to shop and cook for.” He spread out on the couch like he was putting his arm around someone, holding them, taking them.

“I didn’t know you were dating someone seriously.” “Yeah, for about a month. You’ve been out of touch for a while. I didn’t want to go on about my great love life while yours is rocky.” “Mine’s not rocky.” Will walked around the couch as he spoke. Time to get things moving. “We’re working things out.” “So, you told her?” “Yeah, sure. Kind of. Listen, I just want to show you this one thing. Are you going to come or not?” “Whatever.” Danny pushed off the sofa and followed Will down the hall.

There would be others — others who would come for her. Monitors lit up the darkened room. Will had hung five thirty-inch monitors on the wall opposite his bed, making sure to always keep his door shut. Perfect observation. “What the —” Danny floated to the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on the prize. “She’s even more beautiful, isn’t she?” Will straightened the plastic covering his bed. “I adjusted the contrast and the color. This is as close as I can get to what I think she’s really like. Something about the camera doesn’t like how she glows, but I think this does her justice.” Rosalind took off her robe and climbed into the bed, her sheer pale blue gown clinging to her perfect form. Will waited to see that look in Danny’s eyes. The one that followed every gorgeous girl he ever set his sights on. It didn’t come though.

Danny swallowed and looked away. “I think you have a problem.” Concern darkened his blue eyes. “Will, this isn’t healthy.” “No.” Will closed the gap, even more certain of what he must do. “You’re the one with the problem.” He thrust the knife into his friend’s abdomen. Danny swung hard, but Will jerked the knife upward. His friend’s weak attempt fell limp. Will guided the body onto the plastic. Within three flickers of the screen, Will maneuvered the plastic over Danny’s head, and by the time Rosalind switched off her lamp, Danny was dead. Will curled up on the bed next to his best friend’s body and watched Rosalind’s shape in her bed. In the soft glow coming from her sleeping perfection, he wrapped up his friend and faced the ugly truth. There would be others — others who would come for her.

Thump, thump, thump. Rosalind’s incessant thumping started as soon as he got to the hallway. Tossing his briefcase onto the bed, Will clicked the monitors to life. Rosalind looked like Rosalind, not the pretty one. He went to her locked door and pushed an energy bar through the slit he’d cut to give her food. “I brought you something.” She came to the door, her lips by the slit. “Please, Will. You’ve got to let me out. You can’t keep me here.” “It’s for your own safety, sweetheart. You know that.” “Please don’t do this.” She shook the crystal doorknob. “You can’t lock me up.” He checked the bolt he’d installed. “You were right about being in the room. I understand that now. It’s okay. You’re safe.” Will braced himself against the wall. It had been days without a glimpse. She hadn’t changed at all since he locked the door. “Just relax. Be yourself. Your whole self. It will be okay.” Maybe he could coax her out. He needed to see her. He craved it — his time with the screens, watching her.

Silence. And then she spoke, “No.” One word, and he knew she knew. His blood sped through his arteries — his body yearned to see her on the screens, but he waited, pleading in his mind for her to change. “I told you to wait,” she whispered. “You didn’t though, did you? I kept the door locked for your protection, not mine. I would’ve let you in eventually — when you were ready.” Part of Will wanted to protest and tell her he was more than ready to behold the real Rosalind, but he stayed silent. “How did you do it? How did you know?” Her voice drifted away from the door, and Will ran to his room. It took her two minutes to find one of the cameras. Her eyes flared, and he caught a glimpse of the Rosalind he wanted. He held his breath. “C’mon, baby.” His hand touched her face on the screen. “I told you to wait. It was for your own good.” She backed away from the camera. He leaned toward the screen. “C’mon.” “Is that what you want? Do you want to see?” Bending over in a flurry of angry movement, she ripped away the frumpy wife he’d settled for. And then there she stood. The one he craved. The one he deserved. He fell to his knees in front of the monitor. He could breathe again. “William.” Her face glowed. Her face glowed, and he drank in the sight of her. A strapless white gown fell around her body as she moved. The material shimmered, almost the way her skin did. The sight of her intoxicated him. His mouth went dry, and his knees felt weak. “I loved you.” She sounded sad, but her flawless face dawned with awesome perfection. “I wanted to trust you. For things to be different. For you to see me for who I really am and love me the way I deserved to be loved.” “I do.” He could barely speak. His fingers crackled against the static of the screens. “Then come to me, my love. Come.” With a sweeping motion she waved toward the door, and the sound of the lock sliding and the door opening echoed down the hall.

Will didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to run to her, attack her beauty, take full possession of it, but then there was something else that caused him to hesitate. Just for a second. Something he thought he remembered. Something she had said that made him falter. He checked the screen again. She waited. Awesome beauty right within his grasp. “Close your eyes,” she whispered to the screen. “Yes.” That would be good. He closed his eyes and felt his way down the hall to her doorway. He felt her. The light of her warming his face.

“ told you to wait. t was for your own good.” “Wait,” she whispered again. Her voice songlike, silky. “I’m ready for this.” He took a deep breath. “I deserve this.” “Yes, you do.” The scent of lilacs wafted over him. Heat. She touched his face. “I loved you.” Her dress rustled, as she put her mouth to his ear. “I told you I didn’t want to hurt you. That it was best for you. I’m sorry it has to be this way.” He couldn’t take it anymore. Having her so close. Finally. Everything in him reached for her, and he opened his eyes. For one long second, he stood in the presence of magnificence. Awesome perfection, but then the heat of what should have been the summation of his adoration hit him. The fury of her flawlessness. It cut him. Dropping to his knees, he gasped for breath. She fell to his side and held his hand, but he pulled away.

Choking. Nothing. What should have been inside of him, the hope and appreciation and the love heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d once felt were gone, and the gaping void that had become his life opened

even wider. It consumed him. Her beauty towered above his pit, and he could not grasp it. She was too much for him, and as the lights faded to black, he heard her whisper, â&#x20AC;&#x153;I told you to wait.â&#x20AC;?

Digital Photograph

nsomnia

Ariane Crummer

Anna, Not Annie

Laurel Boulton

The lines on the asphalt raced by like broken Morse code. As I watched the road, each dit and dash disappeared beneath my lower lids. I felt wetness on my cheek, and I dragged the coarse fabric of my sweater sleeve across my face. It stung. There was no one to see me cry out here on this empty back road at a quarter to seven. I tightened my grip on the wheel. The trees were tall here out in the country. The scent of pine drifted through the open window and smelled terribly like home. The summer sun was late to set, and in the growing dimness, a shape on the side of the road caught my eye. I slowed to a stop and put the truck in reverse. Parking on the grassy shoulder, I hopped out of the vehicle. In the bed of green sat a rocking chair. The chair was old, and the cracks in the wood looked like wrinkles. The flaking paint was mostly gone now, but I could tell that at one point, it must have been a bright, emerald green. Somewhere beneath the grime and the patchwork skin, I could see a reflection of what the piece once was. There was expert craftsmanship there, wrapped up in delicate ornamental carvings and precise woodwork. I stared at the chair and imagined it was staring back. It seemed like an older, distinguished woman — once quite grand, but now disheveled and beaten down by a weary world. “You were once the talk of the town, weren’t you?” Glancing at my rusty pickup truck, a relic from before I was even born, I judged the space in the bed. It was all full of ‘bits and bobs’ and

‘here and theres’ — a paint can, a sheet of metal, pieces of splintered wood. But there was room. Kneeling down, I wrapped my arms around the chair. It was large, its shape ornery — not bulky, I decided, but sturdy. Tightening my grip I hefted it up, my knees buckling beneath its weight. “All right, all right,” I groaned as I maneuvered it into the old Ford. It hit the truck bed with a loud thunk that echoed down the empty street and into the forest. Brushing the flecks of paint off my clothes, I observed my handiwork.

The midday sun seared the grass, and each blade was beginning to go brown at the edges. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky to herald hope of new life. It was blue, though, a deeper blue than any nice and breezy day could boast. The cicadas droned sharply on, unperturbed by the especially parched dry season. Although the porch shielded me from the sun’s furious gaze, I could still feel its effects. The air was sweltering and suffocating all at once, and the combination was a powerhouse that the feeble standing fan couldn’t stand against. I could barely feel its breath as it hummed along, oscillating idly. The heat didn’t seem to bother my sister. I looked up to see her poking at the cat with a stick. The cat lay still and sighed, too hot to act bothered.

“C’mon, Fursworth,” my sister said, “don’t you want to play?” “Leave the cat alone, Millie,” I said above the grating noise of sandpaper on wood. “Okay, Annie,” she retorted, knowing it bothered me. “Anna,” I corrected calmly. Every now and then it was good to take a page from Fursworth’s book. An overblown reaction would have only encouraged her. I eyed the piece of sandpaper in my hand. The grit worn down, it had outlived its usefulness, and I tossed it to join the pile of other sandpaper husks. I looked up at the rocking chair I sat beside, examining its progress. I had mostly relieved it of its flaky green skin, and it was already looking all the better for it. I ran a tack cloth across the newly worn surface, brushing away the dust from the sandpaper. “What do you think of the chair?” I asked Millie. “It’s…okay.” I rolled my eyes. It was mostly busywork, anyway. My mind, when not busy, tended to settle on less pleasant thoughts. At least it was honest work — this fine old lady of a chair deserved restoring. Millie stood up, stepping away from the cat. He rolled onto his back, returning to his peaceful snooze. Millie fidgeted, looking for something to do, and I marveled at her energy. She remained unwilted by the punishing heat, and I felt a tug of envy. I missed being that young and untroubled. She bumbled over and plopped herself into the chair. It rocked back and forth, and I

pulled my hands back just in time to keep them from getting crushed beneath the rockers. Glaring at her, I shook my fingers out. Sighing, I let my gaze slip out into the distance, over the parched grass, the drying-up pond, and the slowly rolling hill. “He was a jerk, you know,” Millie said. Blinking, I realized my eyes were moist. Lost for words, I muttered, “Is that so?” “Yeah,” she huffed, rocking the chair. “I hated that guy. You’re better off without him.” I shrugged my shoulders and peeled off the top of the can of wood finish. I dipped a brush in and moved it toward the leg of the chair. “Hold still.” “Momma almost called the police, you know,” Millie continued, “Twice.” “Oh…” A moment of silence passed between us, and the sound of Fursworth’s snoring harmonized with the buzzing of cicadas, like some strange, interspecies opera. I brushed the wood finish against the chair, leaving the grain a dark, mahogany color. Millie wrinkled her nose at the smell and got up from the chair. She gathered up the cat in her arms, and he snuffed in dissatisfaction, his slumber disturbed. Walking toward the front door, she balanced the cat in her arms. She pushed the door open with her foot. “Besides, it’s nice that you’re home,” she said before disappearing through the door. Suddenly left alone, I sighed, “I guess it is.” Turning my attention to the rocking chair, I told it, “C’mon, let’s get you all fixed up.”

Digital Photograph

Skeletons

Clarissa Anello

Contributors Clarissa Anello Ghost Town, Skeletons Clarissa Anello graduated from the University of New Mexico with a bfa in studio arts. She loves exploring various visual mediums to tell stories and evoke emotion. She loves storytelling, as well as creating images for viewers to spark their own stories. Savannah Barth Inner, Stay a While, Two As One Savannah was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she resides today as a local artist and an art student at the University of New Mexico. She believes that art is the window from the mundane, and it is here to awaken our perception of the life around us. Jonathan Bennett Faith is a Horse Named Jasper Jonathan Bennett is blessed to be in Christian education, where he can serve God and talk about great literature. Besides writing and sharing the Gospel with youth, his life is spent with his wonderful wife and precious daughter. Laurel Boulton Anna, Not Annie Laurel Boulton is a freelance writer and designer from South Florida with an interest in the visual arts. Her work focuses on an intersection of art and nature and how both influence the human psyche. Ariane Crummer A Chance to Think, Insomnia Ariane is from Westchester, New York. In 2013, she began studying at the University of New Mexico, originally majoring in exercise science. Ariane never dreamed of photography being more than a hobby, but after taking photography classes, she will receive a bfa in art studio and a ba in psychology. MB Dahl The Door mb Dahl is an award-winning author who believes in the power of a good story. She has written everything from dramas to full-length novels. Her stories seek to take readers on a journey of discovery and hope.

John Grey Overhearing a Future Conversation John Grey is an Australian poet, u.s. resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One, and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal, and Midwest Quarterly. Lucas Hunter Because We Loved Crashing Lucas is a student at the University of Tennessee. Winner of the university’s Michael Dennis Award for Poetry, Lucas plans to pursue an mfa upon graduation in spring 2018. Lucas’ Gospel passion is discipleship and raising up young men for the Lord. S.E. Kesselring Evening in Apartment 292, Industrial Excuses, The Place Between Sleeping and Waking, Voyage to Another World s.e. Kesselring can typically be found reading, doing needlepoint, or daydreaming about cookies. She thinks that writing fiction is more fun than writing bios. Dominic Laing I Have No Gifts to Bring Dominic Laing believes storytelling acts like a campfire; it invites and illuminates. By the grace of storytelling, we know and become known to one another. Dominic lives in Portland, Oregon. Editor Note: The poem excerpt in part six of I Have No Gifts to Bring is from Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer. Jenean McBrearty A Blunder of Galactic Dimensions Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University and taught political science and sociology before starting her second career as a writer. Her novels, poetry, and collections of published works can be found at lulu.com. Wilma Saran Solitude Wilma Saran’s love of nature, wildlife, and the beauty of God’s creation inspires her to capture her feelings in paint as she experiences what she sees around her. At times, man-made power elements are included, adding their own type of beauty. Benjamin Selesnick South End Benjamin Selesnick is a student at Northeastern University. His work has appeared in Literary Orphans, The Cantabrigian, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Remembered Arts, and Spectrum. He was also the runner-up for the 2017 Stony Brook Short Fiction Prize.

Special Thanks We would like to thank… Our talented contributors. It’s easy to obsess over your work. All of our supporters from day one. This is our fifth volume, and it’s hard to believe we’ve been doing this for five years. Thank you to our families for your enthusiasm for the pursuit of showing Christ in our art, for feeling our passion and adopting it as your own. Thank you to everyone who identifies as creators with a higher purpose, called not to settle for subpar craft to reflect an eternally complex and dazzling Creator. Thank you to everyone who prays for us, responds to our content, and reads this volume. Above all, we thank the true and ultimate Artist for His grace and the gift of sharing His glory.

Read, Share, Submit If you enjoyed this volume, we ask that you do our contributors a service and pass it on â&#x20AC;&#x201D; share your hard copy or share the online version. Just share. If you would like to submit your work for the 2019 volume of Embers Igniting, go to our website www.embersigniting.com and click on the Submit page to learn how.