Kiosk 44 Literature

Kiosk Number Fourty-Four

Lit from the Univeristy of Kansas

LIT

Conversation Number 74 Vintage Memories

Miles To Go

Charred

Birthday Candles on a Menorah Isaac and the Father: First Memory

O

Re-Up Generation

The Stars Have Been Waxwing Dead for Years Three Different Views from the The Crime Smoking Porch Street Lag On Tight Intersections

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let’s talk about that night you made orange light move faster than I wanted toward me on the slick black toward rain it fell faster and harder and white and yellow splashed away toward ditches into green and you knew lines that were not there let’s talk red, red the insides of my eyelids and you shook me, your hand shook and showed me in the dome light the speed as we shook down black out there and nothing and no one heard let’s talk chopped tire hum running by small ears that almost heard but did not see us white in moon and glare off rain drying but we shone perfect in that let’s talk that moment we shone perfect while rain dried and moon could glare at us off everything off leaves encroaching black off grass glossed to shine encroaching our car the only dry the only no moon glare let’s talk what we never can let’s say that song, that blown out song through open windows mist encroached, flung up, my face and tears tears dismissed as air pulling my water out to see. let’s talk tears out and shown perfect in that moon and you who know you speed me to dark and stars defy me to close my eyes or cut the lights let’s talk cold streaks behind my eyes dry, dry streaks behind the car and love songs blown out the down windows.

Conversation Number 74

Loren Cressler

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Vintage Memories

By Brittany Pierpoint

Vintage Memories

Brittany Pierpoint

A panorama account

with intimacy at its peak

reveals their coiled anatomy.

Low saturation colors the mood.

A four letter word: noun

distinguishes their kind.

Smelling Earth, they tussled in the grass.

He tasted her intellect.

It was violence on lace.

Holes of light seeped through their green canopy.

She touched his mind in all the right places.

It was jammed with their future stories.

A scent of red was tucked behind her ear.

He inhaled her warning.

It was decorated with beautified skeletons.

Lips join by wild force.

She listens to the unsaid word.

It’s circulating in the orange of his eyes.

Figures made of transparent affection

disturb the silence in each other’s lives.

Four letter word: noun.

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MILES TO GO

ALEX GARRISON

Miles To Go

Alex Garrison

A little man with neat shirts and crisp facial hair told me once, “No problem.”

But it always is.

We’re always giving and taking and walking through rooms so blindly it’s a wonder we don’t die.

But we do, we do it every day; it kills us both to see a blonde little girl walking through blades of grass, and never get cut, with a paper kite.

And it’s not really even a kite, it’s just a piece of paper with a triangle drawn on in washable marker.

Just the rain will kill it.

We saw this together while he was driving me through flat Kansas, on a little state highway that rips across the sky; the only other images available, being homemade posters that said, “Smile, your mom chose life.”

He was taking me home because I had killed my chances at blending into the landscape.

So we rode in a stick-shift pickup truck, letting our friend give us the news on public radio, outsiders, in communiqué.

It wasn’t the first time I felt like washable marker.

So I told him, once, “I love you.”

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“Do you know what microwaves look like?”

The ophthalmologist smirked, jabbing at a magnified, plastic mold: one of those detachable, multi-colored teaching tools. Complete with removable iris, transparent lens, and eyelashes.

Refraction. Wavelength. Spectrum.

Like those words are supposed to mean anything to me.

The toast was cold this morning. There’s a limited window between the removal of bread from a toaster and ingestion.

Wait just a little too long, like today, and you might as well just toss it. Forgot about spreading butter. If there’s no heat, the butter doesn’t melt.

But what about jam?

You mean jelly?

Now you’re arguing semantics.

No, there’s a difference.

They’re the same thing.

Jelly is fruit flavored gelatin. Jam is crushed fruit. Learn the goddamn difference.

The ophthalmologist leaned forward, cradling the model in his palms.

“The problem is here.”

He shoved his finger in the eye.

The disposALL is ravenous.

Spongy chunks of bread, hurried by the rushing water, careen towards the whirring maw.

Toast has to be warm. It can’t be cold.

The butter won’t melt.

Jam is not the same as jelly.

CH

Charred

Evan Mielke

CHA HARRED

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Charred

Evan Mielke

The ophthalmologist fiddled in the mold for a few seconds, making screwing motions with his wrist.

“These…”

He slowly retracted his hand from the plastirubber mold. He unfurled his palm, five small rubberplasti fragments crossing the crevices of his hand.

“These are cones. They control color processing within the eye.”

The jam.

The jelly.

But they look the same.

“We think that microwaves are to blame. They degrade certain, more fragile pieces of the body.”

What, like LG and Kenmore?

“Like from space.”

Microwaves from space.

The butter.

The toast.

They look the same.

The ophthalmologist spoke metallically.

“Unfortunately, at this point, the damage is beyond repair.”

Why does everything look the same?

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“There are some…”

The ophthalmologist cleared his throat nervously.

“Highly experimental treatment options. The success rate is low, the cost, high.”

Everything’s the same.

The ophthalmologist glanced over his shoulder, fiddling with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry Mr. Green, but unless you’re incredibly wealthy, this is something you’ll have to learn to cope with.”

Charred

Evan Mielke

The jam.

The jelly.

The toast.

The butter.

They all look the same.

It’s okay.

I can still tell the difference.

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BIRTHDAY CANDLES ON A MENORAH - BRENDAN ALLEN

Birthday Candles on a Menorah

Brendan Allen

I was born into a Jewish family, that decorated Christmas trees and lied to me like every good Christian about Santa’s knowledge of my moral fiber.

I’ve seen sepia photos of my pop-pop grinning my grin at his bar mitzvah, but all I got for my thirteenth birthday was two hundred dollars and pubic hair.

My biological grandmother, or my pop-pop’s first wife, (out of four) flew to Vegas with her new boyfriend to read by a hotel pool.

She still lights a menorah every year with rainbow-colored birthday candles.

My other grandmother, or my pop-pop’s third wife, (out of four) never gave birth, but she serves roasted chicken to her dogs.

When we visit her in the city she laughs about the rednecks in Kansas and how they believe in God.

My pop-pop was a lawyer.

His late nights and blood pressure taught me a lot as a child about why I’ll never be a lawyer.

I don’t think he believed in anything.

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MATTHEW TOUGAS

ISAAC AND THE FATHER:

Isaac and the Father:

Matthew Tougas

I

Amid clouds of white so dense they shield The valleys from the mountain peaks; Where light is granted open passage To flood the cities and the streets.

In this blinding, great expanse Two men sit as strangers would In a distant corner all alone To a table made of gopher wood.

II The father asks his child frankly, “Will you drink this wine with me?”

Where creeks of light flood darkened plains,

Then reaches for his hands and begs-

Where earthquakes sound of choirs,

“For your mother then, at least?”

Where fallen angels whiten sand, Where kilns extinguish fires-

“Father, for every sip I take, You take delight in my defeat-

Two sons sit, with each, a father;

To justify the wine you drank

The elder looks above for guidance,

When you thoughtlessly betrayed me.”

“Please my Father, show me pity, I only acted in compliance.”

The youngest stands to walk away, “But how?” his father asks him.

The child’s eyes, like thunderous waves, Or rivers made of boneBeat his father’s eyes to salt, His kneecaps then to stone; “I’ve forgiven you despite what you cannot atone; A father never asks his son To sacrifice his own.”

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first Kelsey Murrell

First Memory

Kelsey Murrell

memory

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First Memory

Kelsey Murrell

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O

Sam Anderson

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Re-Up Generation

Evan Mielke

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His mother never allows him mother His to enternever the room. allowsThe him man to enter does thenot room. breathe.

The man His leather does not breathe. sandals Hishave leather fused tohave sandals the floorboards. fused to the Stealthily, the floorboards.

Stealthily, boy creeps the into creeps boy the room. into the room.

The first time he met her, it The first time met her, was raining.

Hehesensed theit was raining.

He sensed the city’s rhythm as he walked city’s rhythm as he walked down the sidewalk. Water down thecascaded sidewalk.

Water droplets onto the droplets cascaded onto the street. The scent of lilac filled street.

The scent of lilac his nostrils. Breaking stride, filled his anostrils.

Breaking he made quick turn, but the stride, he made a smell had vanished.quick turn, but the smell had vanished.

THE STARS HA V E BEEN DEAD FOR YEARS b r a n d o n r u s c h

The Stars Have Been Dead for Years

Time passes without the recognition of a blink.

Brandon Rusch

The first time he met her, it was raining. He sensed the city’s rhythm as he walked down the sidewalk. Water droplets cascaded onto the street. The scent of lilac filled his nostrils. Breaking stride, he made a quick turn, but the smell had vanished. Up and down the street he clambered, wading through the smog for a whiff of the subtle beauty.

He is a man, an old man. Memories and imagination escape him. In his room he sits, in the same manner he has for as long as anyone can remember. His family considers him a relic, an antique collecting dust. His name and age are forgotten.

Past a hotdog stand, he picked up the trail. His feet led him down a narrow alley to a weather-beaten door. He knocked. Slowly, the door opened. Soft lips pressed against his agape mouth. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but for him it was an eternity. He removed his sunglasses and

The house was built around him, one hundred and thirty-

opened his eyes. He could see. No longer was he blind. She

two years ago. He sits in a chair, gazing at a windowless

had beautiful almond eyes set in smooth mocha skin. His

wall. It is all he knows. A young boy with black, wavy hair

pale hand caressed her cheek. They were bound by love.

peeks at the man through a crack in the door. His mother

They married.

man’s chair. He makes his way to the front of the man.

He is coated in a thick layer of dust. Their eyes meet. The man looks into the child’s eyes. The hazel rings expand, swallowing the man. He remembers.

walked out the entrance doors. A savvy nurse pursued the couple. He began to run. They ran well into the night.

When they came to a green field, he slowed his pace. The moon was full. He lowered their bodies to a soft bed of grass. There, she rested against his chest as they gazed at distant galaxies. She kissed his cheek. Their eyes met for rolled off his cheek and fell to the ground. They both died

breathe. His leather sandals have fused to the floorboards. no movement. Gaining confidence, he tiptoes behind the

blanket and lifted her to his chest. They smiled as they

the last time. She said goodbye and leaned back. A tear

never allows him to enter the room. The man does not Stealthily, the boy creeps into the room. The man makes

the IV. Standing by her side, he covered her with a wool

He died many years ago. His head had long since been

engulfed in moonlight.

covered with salt and pepper hair. His wife slept on the hospital bed. She was dying. Her illness made her skin appear a rusty gray, and her bones protruded from her gown, yet he had never known anything more beautiful.

He sat in a vinyl chair with his hand resting on her thigh.

A stoic doctor entered the room, followed by a legion of students. In a monotonous voice, he delivered the news.

She would not last the night. The medical staff exited as

His eyes focus as he emerges from the boy’s stare. He does not know the child’s name, but he looks like her. With his first movement in decades, he grasps the boy’s hand. The man’s life is over, but there is much more living to be done.

A cough emits from the man’s throat. His eyes glaze over, and he speaks for the first and only time.

quickly as they entered. The two lovers sat in silence. He avoided her gaze, choosing to stare at the threads of his pants. Finally, he glanced upwards and held her stare.

Her taught jaw released into a warm smile. She removed

“Go play,” he says.

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Waxwing

Ian Cook

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Fog mutes

spring returns

the punctuation

the nudity of trees

of every car’s

a glaring blemish

little red lights of stop signs of the pedestrians and their hands that touch.

Three Different Views from the Smoking Porch

We see the tower’s lights through a nightly haze of smoke.

We wonder where it is and who built it and why.

Brendan Allen

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Street Lag On Tight Intersections

Bethany Christiansen

Hey you in marmalade dress all sticky curves and legs like jam jars.

You, with your pickled plum eyes set deep in sockets, and heavy lidded, with dents for fingers built in to your waistline, your neckline.

Your vee neck, your goose neck, your green bottle neck.

Hey you, handle of whiskey, yeah you, with the convex glass back just perfect

for fitting into others’ hip pockets.

Your cheeks are white butter pats sizzling on a hot pan.

You stink of olives soaked in men’s martinis.

Hey you, with the floral print face, prognosticate and see the string of evenings stretched out before you like trout dead on a wire.

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THE C

The Crime

Feloniz Lovato-Winston

Feloniz Lovato-Winston

CRIME There were five people, but only three were perpetrators. Of

doctor’s appointments, his wife’s legs spread open, her feet in

the other two, one was an enabler and the other a victim. No

stirrups. They had arrived at the house together in an upside-

one else was involved. Not really.

down way, like waking up to a dream, when you just

What happened was this: Number Two decided to draw the

accept what’s happening. They had arrived together

line. Number One was required by circumstance to go along

— just like Number Three and Number Four.

with Number Two, Number Three went along willingly and Number Four ignored the situation until it was too late.

Number Three and Number Four were cousins,

They lived together in a small house in a nameless county, next

practically brothers. It was their job to get water

to a large field full of feral kittens. In the wintertime the field

out of the well. The day before the crime, Number

was barren, in the summertime there were wildflowers. Across

Two had an altercation with the old lady. This made

the field, a quarter of a mile away, stood another small house,

things tense, because the old lady owned the well,

inside of which lived an old woman. The old woman owned

too. So naturally Number Three and Number Four

the field.

felt sheepish about fetching water. The morning the crime was committed, they were at the well, and the

Number Two (the ringleader) insisted that the old woman had

old lady showed up. Number Four gallantly offered

been poisoning her cats. Number Two collected cats; that was

to carry her pail and Number Three was astonished

her thing. “I can’t have children,” she’d say.

— how could he? But they had been raised to carry things for old ladies. Or so they thought.

At the time the crime was committed, there were nine cats living with them, and they all had the same name,

Every conflict, every moment and every happening

Frankincense Amy. Number Five hated the cats.

in their household had a special significance because none of them could quite remember their prior lives.

Every once in a while a cat would die. Its limp little body would

Not clearly.

be found, and Number Two would grieve. Number Two was married to Number One, and all of the cats slept in their bed.

Number Five was the last to appear. He was older than

Number One liked the cats okay, but he often wished that his

the rest of them. He was not old, but there was gray in

wife would stop bringing them home. The house was too small

his black hair and lines next to his eyes. Number Five

as it was, and their bed was even smaller.

always said that he had been a musician in his prior

But he never complained. At night the cats would crowd

life, of middling success.

around Number Two, lay their heads on her chest and look into her eyes. They were remarkably like children.

Sometimes, the other members of the house heard him

Number Two and Number One never had intercourse on

singing, in an off-key voice that was very clear and

account of the cats, it just seemed wrong. Had they ever had

appealing. And there was a guitar in the barren living

intercourse? They weren’t sure.

room. But it didn’t have any strings.

Number One knew that he and Number Two had been

Number Two, the only woman, was beautiful. She

married before they arrived at the house; he was certain of

had red hair with a mind of its own. There was a lot

this. He seemed to remember things like a job and a car and

of it, but it never grew past the middle of her back.

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Number Two insisted that in her prior life, she had

twenty minutes. The old lady sat on her front porch,

Two didn’t know what to do, so she settled for a

come from a family of redheads. No one believed her.

rocking in a rattan rocker, and Number Two got

vaguely familiar gesture — waving her fist in the

down to brass tacks.

air — before turning on her heels and storming back

She did all of the cooking and cleaning. Sometimes she

“Three of my cats have died in the past 24 hours.”

home. She could hear the squeak of the rocking chair

would get angry about this and insist that the others

“Izzat so?”

and the tingly feeling of the old woman’s eyes as she

help out, even Number Five. “Especially Number

“Have you been poisoning my cats?”

walked away.

Five,” she would say. The others would grudgingly

“Why do you keep so many felines? Don’t you know

chip in, but they wouldn’t put their hearts in it and

they should be free, running in the fields?”

But halfway across the field she stopped. Something

finally Number Two would give up.

“That is none of your business.”

little and sharp had hit her in the small of her back.

“I believe it is. I own this field.”

Number Two looked down and saw a tiny brown

It was Number One’s job to find the food. Every day

“You don’t own the house.”

bottle. She picked it up and examined it for a

he would leave when the sun was at a certain point in

“How do you know?”

moment before putting it in the pocket of her apron.

Sometimes Number Two felt like she was

the sky. The town was so far away they had never seen it, but there was a dinky, barely-stocked general store a

Number Two didn’t know. She did know that her cats

the only person in the house who could feel

mile down the dusty road. It was run by a translucent

were dead and she had her suspicions. As for what she

anger. Sometimes she felt like she had a problem

old man. Number One paid the old man with the

didn’t know, that didn’t bear thinking about. It was

that no one else understood.

money from the money box, which was buried in a

what it was.

hole in the kitchen. It was magic, and it never ran out.

“I know what you’ve been doing! I hear your

Back at the house, Number Three and Number Four

footsteps at night, I hear you lift the lid off their bin of

were having a good time. For some reason, Number

That was how they all lived and it worked out

food.”

Five was spending time with them, and he was really

fine. None of them questioned anything, especially

“Then don’t feed them that food, young lady. That

holding court, regaling them with disjointed tales

Number One, who was always saying “it is what it is.”

oughter fix your problem.”

from his past. “I wasn’t a rock star,” he said, “but I

It was what it was, until their troubles began.

“So you have been doing it! I knew it, I knew it! I’m

enjoyed middling success.”

going to file a complaint with the elders.”

Number Three wanted to know if this “made girls

Their troubles began with three dead cats. It was early summer, and three Frankincense Amys keeled over in

The old lady laughed. The fact that she was so tiny,

like him,” and Number Five smiled. It did seem like

one day. Number Two found them lying on their stiff

with her big nose and wrinkles, only made her more

women had liked him, way back then. He picked up

little backs, one in the bed, one in the bathtub and one

menacing.

his guitar and strummed an imaginary tune. Number Three was impressed. “I wish I could play like that,”

in the front yard, as she went about her chores.

“You go ahead and try. You can do whatever you The previous night, she couldn’t sleep because she

like. Just remember: you weren’t meant to be a mother,

thought she heard the sound of geriatric footsteps

my dear. Ain’t nothing going to change that.”

he said, a fawning comment that earned a punch in the arm from his cousin.

Just then, Number Two stomped in. The two

shuffling downstairs, of wrinkled fingers opening the She rocked and rocked, laughing the whole time.

cousins sat up a little straighter. She didn’t greet

Number Two stood stunned, as if someone had

them, just tossed her hat silently on the broken sofa

After the last little grave was dug, Number Two put

thrown a bucket of ice on her head. The old lady

and walked off into the kitchen. Presently they

on her sun hat and her apron with the pockets and

stunk. Number Two noticed that. She smelled

heard her preparing the evening meal, banging the

strode across the field of wildflowers. It took her

like death: like poison and rotten prunes. Number

lone pot against the only pan. Number Three and

bin of kibbles.

The Crime

Feloniz Lovato-Winston

Number Four looked at each other.

“I think it’s time to go fetch the water,” said Number Four. They grabbed their old pails and slipped out the door. But not before Number Three, his voice filled with longing, said a timid “Hello, Number Two” to his roommate while his cousin looked on with contempt.

Number Five was left holding his empty guitar. Things were awkward between him and Number Two. A few days prior, Number One had come home with a bottle of hooch and a pack of cards, and the night had opened up like a surprised flower. None of them could remember how to play, so they made up their own games, drinking the sour liquor from little jelly jars. Number Three and Number Four, skinny and perpetually adolescent, had segued into sickness almost immediately, vomiting in the front yard before stumbling off to bed.

For the rest of them, the night still held promise.

Number Two surprised them by transforming, through alcohol, from an angry harpy into a pretty good drunk. She laughed, she teased, she remembered jokes.

“Why did the chicken cross the road,” she said, “because orange you going to let me in?”

Number Five and Number One laughed, because Number Two looked so beautiful in the lamplight.

Everything seemed funny and happy. They had forgotten about funny and happy. Number Five refilled Number Two’s glass, and their wrists touched.

Their knees were also touching, under the table.

Eventually, Number One fell asleep in his chair, his head lolling on his neck, and Number Two brushed the hair off his face. He looked so silly

and sweet, asleep like that, and she and Number Five smiled at each other.

Number Five noticed that Number Two looked more beautiful than ever, that she seemed to be glowing.

Number Two was suddenly aware of Number Five’s long legs, of his hands and fingers.

By dawn they had stopped talking and just sat silently, watching morning come through the small window in the kitchen. It felt like Number Two and Number Five were the only people on the planet.

“It’s weird to think that the world is spinning,” said Number Five. “It makes you feel so lost.”

Number Two agreed, but she didn’t say anything.

A few morning birds flew from tree to tree in the small front yard. She looked at Number Five. At his legs, especially. He was so gangly, the opposite of her compact husband. His long-fingered hands rested

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on his bony knees. Soon things would go back to

Literature

And then it really was morning.

normal. The days would resume their bizarre routine.

Suddenly she felt punished.

Things were different after that. Number Two

“I don’t know how I ended up here,” she said.

decided that she really hated Number Five. Suddenly,

Number Five smiled at her. “At least you brought

everything seemed to be his fault. And on the day

someone with you.”

that Number Two returned from her altercation with

“Do you think we’re in Hell?”

the old lady, Number Five just made things worse.

“We’re not dead.”

That night, she held a house meeting. The men sat

“How do you know?”

on the old couch and she stood in front of them with her breasts jutting against her sundress. Number

The lamp was still lit, even though the sun was

Three was painfully aware of them, and he wished

coming up. Number Five reached to turn it off and

he wasn’t sitting so close to the other men.

left his arm on the table. Number Two looked at him.

“I want to file a complaint against the old

She placed her hand on one of his long legs. Number

lady.” Number Two looked at them with blank

Five pulled his arm off the table. In that moment,

expectation, a look she got when she wanted

The rules of the house were posted on the ice-box.

everything was quiet. Even the birds stopped singing.

everything to go her way.

They had always been there, written in old pencil on

Number Two stood up from her chair and knelt down

tattered paper. One of the rules was that if you had a

in front of Number Five, her hand still on his leg.

“Why would you want to do a thing like that? Who

complaint about the old lady who owns the field, you

“Should we go upstairs?”

would you even file the complaint with?”

could file it with the elders, who lived in the town. But

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m sorry - this is

That was Number Five, playing devil’s advocate, a

there was a caveat: everyone living in the house had to

probably my fault.”

habit he had. A bad habit.

agree. You could not file a complaint otherwise. This

“The elders.”

was how they knew a town existed. This was how they

He stood up and her hand fell off his leg.

“But we’ve never even seen the town.” That was

knew there were elders, and that the old lady owned

Number Two was silent. After a moment, she stood

Number One. He was practical.

the field.

up too. Her husband was still asleep in his chair. She

“There’s a first time for everything.”

bowed her head, embarrassed and hurt. Number Five

That night, Number Five told Number Two that

coughed.“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to-”

Number Three and Number Four shifted

he did not agree. He was the only person who said

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not that charming. I

uncomfortably in their seats. Number Three felt like

this. Number One looked at his shoes. Number Four

just wanted to have a baby.”

he was been called on to act like a man, and Number

looked out the window. Number Three looked at

Four had a bad feeling about the entire situation.

Number Two with sympathy and understanding.

Number Five looked at her. He wasn’t sure what she

Number Two looked angry. Number Five refused to

meant by that.

Number Five looked at the beautiful woman standing

budge from his position, and Number Two stomped

“I’m confused,” he said. “How are babies made?”

in front of him. “Why are you angry at the old lady?”

off to bed, leaving the men to get their own dinner.

“I don’t know!” said Number Two, and began to cry

“She is killing my cats.”

The world tilted on its axis and night fell again.

beside her sleeping husband. Number Five watched.

“How do you know this?”

Number Two couldn’t sleep. She stood up in her torn

He considered holding her, decided against it, turned

“I hear her footsteps at night.”

nightdress and crept into the kitchen. Her apron with

on his heel, and left the room.

“I don’t think you should file a complaint

the pockets was lying against the back of the chair

with the elders.”

Number Five had sat in, the night they all got drunk.

The Crime

Feloniz Lovato-Winston

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intercepted him on his wait out the door.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s a doctor in town. Number Five is really sick.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“You’ll be fine here; the others are around.”

“Listen to me. I don’t want you to help Number Five.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

As far as he knew, Number One had always been married to Number Two. When he looked at her, he did not see who she was, in that house at that time — he saw how she got there, even though he could not remember the details.

That day, he did not try to find the town and he did not try to find a doctor. Instead, he wandered outside and Number Two felt around in both pockets until she found the little brown bottle. What she didn’t know was that Number Five couldn’t sleep either, and he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen watching her.

The next morning Number Two made porridge for breakfast Towards the end of the day, Number Five developed a fever. His forehead was hot to the touch, and he had to lie down in the room he shared with the two cousins. The two young men tended to him, bringing water from their pails and answering his delirious questions. It was the first time that someone in the house had been sick.

Number One knew of a doctor. The owner of the general store had told him about one. Number Two

stood in the front yard like a statue.

Number Two sat in the kitchen. She had ceased thinking. She could hear the shuffling feet of Number Four and Number Three as they came down the stairs. Presently, the two young men stood in front of her, Number Four staring at the ground and Number Three looking at her perfect face.

“He’s awfully sick.” Number Three was the first to speak. “Is Number One going to the doctor?”

Number Two smiled. “No. We decided that it’s best not to interfere.”

“He’s pretty sick. He might… “ “He might what, Number Three?”

Number Four let out an exasperated breath.

“You think he might die?” Number Two laughed before she forgot not to laugh.

The room got quiet. Number Four could feel the

The Crime

Feloniz Lovato-Winston

earth spinning under his feet and it made him dizzy.

her accusations while the other three struggled with

Number Four swore he could feel something

Upstairs, Number Five had asked him for a special

the burial. A new kitten, found just that morning,

“opening up.”

favor. He thought of this favor, he tried not to think

purred on her lap.

“You mean you think we’ll get out of here?”

of anything else. Number Two had removed her

“I don’t know, but something’s bound to change.”

morning apron and Number Three was staring at

After Number One left, Number Four remembered

“You think it’s our fault, what happened?”

her chest. As far as he knew, Number Three had

the promise he had made to Number Five. He went

“It was everyone’s fault. I know that now.”

always been an idiot.

into the living room and picked up the guitar, bringing

“But we were just kids, back then.”

it to Number Two, who sat smiling with Number

“Maybe that’s why we’re still here. Our

Number Two’s cool white hand was on Number

Three on the porch.

punishment wasn’t as bad.”

Three’s face. “Let’s just leave things alone.”

“Number Five wanted you to have this.”

“Really?”

“What?”

They looked out the window. It seemed like the

“Really. It’s none of our business.”

“Yesterday, when he was sick, he asked me to give

clouds in the sky were moving, but it was really

you his guitar, in case he...”

them. They were in a strange place, where they had

Number Four looked out the window. He noticed that

It wiped the smile right off her face. She didn’t take

once done a bad thing, even though it wasn’t their

Number One was looking directly at the sun without

the guitar from his hand.

idea. Does that count?

shielding his eyes, as if he wanted to go blind. Number

Four suddenly felt very tired. His mind went blank,

Number One never returned, and with him gone,

Their only hope was a future somewhere else, where

and he didn’t say anything else for the rest of the day.

Number Two could never find adequate comfort in

the motions of the planets couldn’t be felt. A place

He and his cousin did not go back to the room they

her litter of cats. One by one, she took them out to the

where they had all of their memories, where even

shared with Number Five. They slept on the floor

field and set them free amongst the dying flowers.

their most shameful memories could help steer them

downstairs.

through life.

Her affair with Number Three was brief. In fact, he

That is how the crime was committed. Quietly and

seemed to lose interest in her after she changed — her

with complicity.

skin shriveled up and her hair turned gray. One day they woke up and she was gone. When they looked

The next morning, Number Four walked slowly up

out the back window, across the field, they saw two old

the stairs of the small house and into the room where

women sitting on the porch, wrapped in shawls and

Number Five lay.

rocking in their chairs.

It took a long time for the remaining men in the

The duties in the house changed, with just two of

house to dig the hole in the front yard, the soil was so

them left. Number Three gathered the food.

hard and dry.

Number Four did the chores. It was pretty lonely.

Number Four found that he even missed Number

Number One left after the body was buried. He

Two’s haranguing. It’s funny what you can miss.

said that he was going to file the complaint against

Without the presence of the others to keep them

the elders, now that everyone in the house could

young, the two cousins grew quickly into men —

agree. Number Two had written the complaint on a

because they had to.

scrap of paper with an old pencil, carefully wording

Lit Staff:

Designed, Edited and published by students, Kiosk is a semi-annual award-winning magazine featuring the finest art and literature the University of Kansas has to offer.

The staff of Kiosk 44 would like to thank the Department of English and the School of Architecture, Design, and Planning at the University of Kansas as well as Coca-Cola and KU Student Senate.

Additional thanks to Jane Hazard, Mainline Printing, Diana Rhodes, Andrea Herstowski, Jeremy Shellhorn, and the City of Luxembourg.

Some elements of Kiosk were taken from Deborah Turbeville’s Studio St. Petersburg (1997) and Daniel Wolf’s The American Space (1983).

Kiosk Number Forty-Four

Lauren Schimming

Michael Selby

Jovan Nedeljkovic

Jordan Jacobson

Design Staff:

Emylisa Warrick

Alexis Smith

Sydney Rayl

Dee Hogan

Amanda Hemmingsen

Ryan Fazio

44

Literature from the University of Kansas