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Katherine Villari and Sam Beasley || Editors-in-Chief Back cover by Wolf189 info@lalluredesmots.com
Special thanks to... Chisai, for memories of tiny claws on our skin.
We are swiftly entering the season of endless dinner parties and eating more than we wished we had. We have no remedy for this, but, as devil’s advocates, we present you with a dessert recipe that just might bring you to tears. Pour 2 cups of white sugar into a saucepan. One that’s got a good weight to it, and a sturdy handle that feels smooth in your hand. Place it on the stove and heat on medium-high, stirring constantly with a whisk. Repeat the word “whisk” to yourself several times, at various speeds, until it no longer has any relation to the object you are using to stir a pot of sugar with and is only a collection of exciting sounds contained in a single syllable. The sugar will begin to melt, and form ivory-colored stones. Keep whisking. The stones will melt again, this time into a lovely golden liquid. When the liquid becomes like amber, use your ninja-like reflexes to remove the pan from the heat, stir in 12 tablespoons of butter that has been cut into small chunks and then 1 cup of heavy cream, a teaspoon of Kosher salt and a teaspoon and a half of vanilla bean paste, not stopping the whisking until it has become totally homogenized. Consider the true purpose of Kosher salt and wonder if using it incorrectly is some sort of a sin. To whom, exactly, would one ask for forgiveness? Inhale deeply and slowly. Place the pot on a cold burner or a trivet or some other surface that won’t melt/catch fire. Take a moment to sit down. Once you’ve caught your breath, preheat your oven to 350F. Chop up a 3.5 oz bar of high quality chocolate. No more than 60% cacao. Something that comes in a well-designed minimalist wrapper. Ask yourself if it was really worth the four dollars and change you spent on it. Place a shard of the chocolate in your mouth and let it melt on your tongue and become reminded that yes, indeed, it was worth the price. Set this aside, but look at it longingly until you are ready to use it. Put 2 1/2 cups of flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 2 teaspoons of cinnamon, and 3/4 teaspoons each of ginger and nutmeg in a bowl and mix until well combined. If you are feeling adventurous, and of course you are, add to that a few grinds of fresh black pepper. Melt 1 cup of unsalted butter in a large bowl. Add to that 3/4 cups each of white and dark brown sugars. Beat these together, watching the tiny white specks of butterfat disappear into the brown mixture. Crack a lukewarm egg into the bowl, and consider what it is like to be a chicken. Begin to feel omnivore’s guilt creep up on you, but then recall that omelet you had at a tiny restaurant somewhere in the middle of Missouri, the cheese bubbling out of the edges and the onions that were soft, but still had a bit of crunch to them…on the white ceramic plate with the blue floral pattern around the edges, the way
the waitress called you “Honey” and refilled your coffee before you even realized you needed more. Beat the egg into the mixture. A dash of vanilla extract seems appropriate here. Add it. Open a 15 ounce can of pumpkin puree. Wonder if there exists a can opener that cuts through the aluminum smoothly, every single time. Scoop out the orange mass into the bowl and stir. Pour a bit of the dry ingredients into the bowl of wet ingredients. Stir, watching the white powder disappear into the dark viscous mixture. Add a bit more, and stir again. Recall junior high science class. Homogenous mixture–just like brass. Bobby Thornton sat beside you and he constantly drew automobile logos on his bookcover. There was always one you couldn’t recognize…no use trying to remember now. Add the chopped chocolate. Feel a slight burning in your arm. Consider going back to the gym. Realize the unlikelihood of such an occurrence. Remember that drunk asshole who was at last year’s dinner, spewing out all sorts of nonsense about fad diets and yet didn’t feel the need to ease up on the booze. What was it he was allergic to? Tree nuts? Mix in a half cup of chopped pecans. Heterogenous mixture– like concrete. Consider other additions, such as coconut flakes or dried cranberries. Decide against it, because your arm will need a good massage and an ice pack as it is. Spread half the thick batter (or maybe it is a thin dough?) into a greased 9x13 inch baking pan. Pour half the caramel sauce over the top, attempting not to let it all pool along the edges. Carefully spread the remaining batter on top of the caramel. Realize this is best done with your fingers. Place the pan in the oven and set the timer for 35 minutes. Pour the remaining caramel into a portable container. Hesitate before placing the saucepan in the sink. Decide against filling it with water. A swipe of your index finger around the edge results in a coating of caramel. Put your finger in your mouth. Shut your eyes. The buttery sauce will disperse in your mouth; your toes may curl. Remember a past lover sucking maple syrup off that same finger. You placed it in your own mouth afterwards because love makes us anxious to share our fluids. Do it again, and again, and again, until the pan is nearly clean. Fill the pan with water and begin washing all the dishes. The hot water flows over your hands and the scent of dish detergent rises into your nostrils. With quite a bit of time left on the timer, go into the adjacent room and turn on the stereo loud. Something electronic. Something sexy. Something that takes you out of life for a moment. Lie supine on the floor and allow the music to wash over you as the scent of warm cinnamon and pumpkin hovers in the air. It’s okay to weep. When the timer goes off, test the bars to see if a knife inserted in the middle comes out clean. Adjust cook time accordingly. Remove from oven and allow to cool. Admire your handiwork. If necessary, wipe your face with a cool, damp, cloth. When cool enough to handle, cover loosely and bring to your party, along with the container of caramel sauce. Take your time. You don’t want to be the first one to arrive. To serve, cut into squares, top with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and drizzle with the caramel.
If you’d like this recipe in an easy-to-use printable form, go here: www.lalluredesmots.com/issues/issue12/recipe.html
Contents 12 10
Poetry Poetry California Sax Special by BradleyDelivery Mason Hamlin by Marina Kris
13 Splitting Indifference 11 Joining Up by A.J. Huffman by John Grey 29 For People Confusing Young Black 35 The in his with Kitchen Men,Orchid Like Myself, Deer During by Cynthai Staples Hunting Season by Nahshon Cook 48 Penpals: 1 Nahshon Cook 71 by Stagnant
by J. Bradford Flynn 50 When My Eyes Are Closed by Lisa Pellegrini Fiction
26 Song of the Supernova 51 When theMertz Guard Wasn’t Looking by Chelsey by Tony Magistrale 28 Why We Are All Dogs 66 Six Contemporary by Nathanael T. Jones Women by Mitch Grabois 48 Floorboards 68 Cets Mots Pathetique by Oliver Zarandi by Justin Rigamonti 64 Bella 69 The Salesman by Christopher Alan by Justin Rigamonti 82 Posing by Marina Kris
97 loved the same woman 68 We Loneliness Can be Both by Benjamin W. and WildRelieved Confronted by Alan Gawalko Fiction 12 88 Fixation The Intern by Ward by Anthony Jake Brukhman 26 90 Boys Lies They Bring Her Down by Svadto IshtBreak Paratha by Graham Tugwell Artist Interviews 96 Universal Sensation 30 A Ronit Baranga by Yarrow Paisley by L’Allure des Mots Artist Interviews Fashion 36 Oleg Dou 14 the edge of the universe by L’Allure des Mots is at the end of the street photography by Wolf189 84 Anders Krisar L’Allure des Mots 52 by elisaveta photography by Mireya Acierto Fashion 16 it! the reality is... 72 Cool photography photography by by Sam Sam Beasley Beasley 52 Lady VideoJ by Xylux Pier 47 62 photography
directed by Kosuke Furukawa 70 Concrete Jungle photography by Jason Bassett Video 64 Lola Revolver Bill Chen
A.J. Huffman has published five solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Christopher Alan is a philosophy student at ClareHer sixth solo chapbook will be published in Ocmont McKenna College in California. He currently tober by Writing Knights Press. She is a Pushcart resides in Granada, Spain, and has studied literature Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise with Jamaica Kincaid. of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, Bradley Mason Hamlin is an American writer, vetand Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared eran of the United States Navy, and alumni of the in both English and Italian translation. She is also University of California, where poet Gary Snyder the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. dubbed Hamlin “The Road Warrior of Poetry!” www.kindofahurricanepress. Hamlin was born in Los Angeles and currently Chelsey Mertz is twenty three years old and one lives in Sacramento, California with his wife, Nicky day she will be sitting across from Lena Dunham Christine, and their tribe of suburban children and in a dingy coffee shop, writing and cursing over wild cats. He is the editor of Zero Percent Magazine cold lattes. and his latest book of poems, California Blonde, is available from Black Shark Press. Mireya Acierto is a freelance photographer based out of Brooklyn, New York. She travels frequently to Chicago and Los Angeles but has a healthy appetite to visit the rest of the world. W herever she goes, she always makes sure to bring her 35mm camera, her Wacom tablet, several GB’s of storage, and her trusty laptop. Without these necessities, Mireya cannot make the magic she so genuinely loves to create. Her work has been published in various magazines such as Nylon, XXL, Complex, Vibe, The Source, Trace, Chicago Magazine, CS Magazine, Timeout Chicago, Engagement 101, Mass Appeal, Chicago Tribune Magazine and several local newspapers.
Oliver Zarandi is a writer based in London. Follow him on Twitter: @zarandi.
Nathanael T. Jones. Lives in Cardiff. Sometimes does stuff.
Jake Brukhman is a technical product manager at Amazon, working on social tools for their marketing services platform. W hen he is not programming, strategizing product, or engaging in other dark calculi, he indulges his creative hemisphere through photography, art, and writing.
J. Bradford Flynn is a writer from Savannah, GA. He dabbles in film-making and stand-up comedy. His true passion is language, lewd and otherwise, and spends most of his free time scribbling on bar napkins. Alan Gawalko is a word slinger and musician from Calgary, Canada. You can find/follow him online at: www.facebook.com/alan.gawalko
Nahshon Cook is an American poet currently living in China.
Wolf189 loves mathematics, physics, poetry, beautiful women, good people, photography and cinema… among many other things. wolf189.tumblr.com
Svad Isht Paratha is a colored (yes—that is an accept- Kosuke Furukawa was born and raised in West ed classification here) teenager that lives and studies Tokyo, his passion for film and photography comin Cape Town, South Africa. He likes books, a lot, pelled him westward to New York. After graduatand is currently wading through a BA in Mathemating from Tama Art University in Tokyo in 2003, ics and Literature at the University of Cape Town Kosuke continued his studies in film production at You can contact him at svad.paratha@gmail.com. Brooklyn College where he was drawn to the freer, dynamic creative environment of New York. Kosuke has written and directed eight short films including “Getap!” which premiered as an Official Selection at the Rhode Island International Film Festival (Oscarqualify film festival). His recent film, UGUISU, won the award of Best Short Film and Best Cinematography at International Film Festival Manhattan 2011.
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Poetry:
California Sax by Bradley Mason Hamlin
she asked him do you remember what it was like the first time we heard the saxophone together? the beach moon echoed sympathy for her tears as she tore his heart from his chest.
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Splitting Indifference by A.J. Huffman
Caught. In two voids. Bouncing. Aimlessly around space that is not mine . . . First, I am forgotten. Part of the faded walls I left long ago. My open mouth still throws sound, calling the natives to stare at me— blank as brick. Last, I am worse. I am the red scarring the perfect gray. I am the point they show their children. Wrong! they whisper. Then move on. . . . I stand at the cross of circles and hold my ticket into the wind of the empty track.
photography Wolf189 wolf189.tumblr.com model Miss A.
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Fiction:
Song of the Supernova by Chelsey Mertz
She was amazed how they could fall asleep together in the dark, her back curved into his soft stomach, and she could make the absolute distinction when she awoke in the middle of the night that it was Roger she was pressed against. It was the only thing that made sense when she emerged from sleep; he was always the first thing on her mind. She knew that when she would wake up in the morning and the first streaks of dawn stretched across the room, she would turn onto her side to gaze at him. She would study his sunlit face, the dark strokes of his eyebrows, the round curve of his lips. When his wide eyes fluttered open, he would squint in the light and stare at her. She’d open her mouth to say something, anything, but as her lips parted, Roger would sit up on the bed and turn his head away from her to contemplate the view outside the window. After a long moment, he’d slide off the mattress, throw on yesterday’s t-shirt and jeans and trudge downstairs for his morning smoke. He would never say a word and leave her to wonder at what point in the night after she had fallen asleep with Roger that a complete stranger had taken his place. She was perched upon a deck chair on the balcony outside of the bedroom, donned in his white button down shirt and her bare legs curled beneath her. She gazed out at the vast city, its veins still pumping with surges of traffic. Blinking signs were scattered throughout the cityscape, protruding from the side of their businesses like neon limbs and random windows on the sides of skyscrapers were dotted with a fluorescent glow. As she stared at the outline of scattered lights on the faces of the steel buildings, she attempted to create a shape in her mind, like she had done as a child while gazing at the clouds, but found that she couldn’t. There was nothing familiar about those tiny lights. There were no stars in the smog of LA; the sky was draped across the city, a dark quilt, knitted tightly, leaving no holes in the inky fabric. She looked down again at the metallic skyline, at the abstract pattern of lit windows and imagined that they were the closest things to stars this city ever saw. She balanced a cigarette between her two fingers; she still hated the taste, but damn, if it wasn’t the only thing that could soothe her nerves. She lifted it to her mouth and puckered her lips around it. Already she felt a bit better. She guessed that was the crazy thing about addiction: the mere thought of a bad habit could almost be enough to sate you. Almost. If thoughts, if memories were enough to sustain her, then she would have jumped on a plane home to Illinois weeks ago and never looked back, tossing her last carton of cigarettes out the window as she put a thousand miles between what she was working toward and what she was leaving behind. She was trying to light her cigarette with shaking hands when he slipped onto the balcony. Clad in nothing but dark boxers, he leaned back against the railing, arms crossed, watching her as she struggled with her lighter. Her hands trembled when he finally stepped toward her and pulled it from her grasp. He reached for the carton of Marlboros on the small table beside her and lit one for himself, then gestured for hers. He pressed the tips of the cigarettes together and inhaled deeply. She did the same. At his intake of air, the embers of the tobacco burned an even brighter orange and ignited the other cigarette. She exhaled as he handed it back to her. She leaned back in her chair and jumped when he sent the lighter skittering across the glass table-top. He lowered himself into the chair across from her, his eyebrows knitted together as he took another drag of his Marlboro.
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She wasn’t sure how long they sat there together in silence, watching each other in the shadows as they pulled at their cigarettes. “You never smoke,” he finally said. She cocked her head to the side. “I have been for the past two weeks. You didn’t notice?” A singing car alarm captured his attention and his gaze traced the street below. “I guess not.” He met her eyes. “Is it because of me?” “Everything is because of you, Roger.” He chuckled hesitantly and looked down at his hands. It was a painful knife of truth; it was sharp and to say it out loud hurt much worse than she had thought. It cut her deep, made her chest burn. Everything was because of him. Every spare thought, every free second was consumed by him. He was everything. What would there be when she left him? Should I leave? We could make it work. Should I stay? Maybe I should stay. We could change, we could be better. I should stay. I should just“You shouldn’t.” Her whole body started at the sound of his voice. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and she wasn’t sure if it was the sting of the smoke or his words. “What?” she whispered. “You shouldn’t smoke,” he said, running a hand through his matted hair. “It’s not good for you.” She bit her lip and looked out over the glittering buildings. Her eyes fell upon the pinpoints of light shining on the side of the skyscrapers. She squinted hard for a moment, trying to connect them and make a shape with her mind, trying until it made sense. Nothing. There was nothing there. She tilted her head up and regarded the dark sky. There were no stars. “You’re right,” she said after a long moment and stubbed her cigarette out. “I shouldn’t. I want to, but I shouldn’t.” He put out his own cigarette on the concrete and stood, reaching for her hand. “It’s chilly out here. Look at you, you’re shaking. C’mon, let’s go inside,” he murmured. Roger made love to her that night, slowly and purposefully, as though he were memorizing every curve, every freckled constellation on her skin. His hands streaked across her body, leaving behind fiery tracks where his fingers had been. He was so careful with his touches, so gentle. She wanted to whisper to him in the dark, how much she cared for him, so much that she couldn’t bear to stay, but the words died in her throat and were reincarnated as soft cries while he moved within her. He held her afterwards in his sleep, with his arm curled firmly around her waist. Somehow, she believed he already knew.
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Fiction:
Why We Are All Dogs by Nathanael Jones
Twilight, bats are about and the sound of barking dogs is distant. In the mediocre light sit two men. It is warm outside. Long grass grows through cracks in the patio. In a nearby garden a dog picks up the barking. Relevant or not, the moon is spliced and can be viewed edging its way past a tall pine. The intricacies of a spider web on the washing line have caught seeds. In the gloam two worlds converge in the unsudden-sudden way they tend to. The grasses rattle in the breeze and one of them speaks. Have you ever seen a dog get shot? Without waiting for an answer, continues. If shot say, in the side, the dog, thinking it has been stung turns immediately to snap at the imagined perpetrator. As the jaws close around the scene of the perceived offence they take hold of the intestines which, resulting from the gunshot wound, have protruded through the skin. By bringing its head back to face the front the intestines are dragged from the body. Its death is an act of instinctually assumed personal destruction. The instinct is to consume fear, the act of which leads to a self-consummation, without the knowledge that it was imagined all along. The other man is silent for a while. The pain sensation though, was real. The fear was real. Yes. But the source remained unknown. The truth and the fear do not correlate in any way. And continuing. If a dog is caught by limb in a trap, will it chew off its own leg to escape, like a wild animal? Or will it lie and weep and wait for its master to free it? Survival means killing certain parts of the self. Freedom is having the choice of parts. A light flares briefly as the second man sparks up a cigarette. In the dark, the bats swoop at flies. Something, perhaps a howl.
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Poetry:
For People Confusing Young Black Men, Like Myself, with Deer During Hunting Season: Written in Response to George Zimmerman’s Exoneration By the Florida State Court by Nahshon Cook
1) Last night, I sat in my room like a Mongolian lark looking out the window from behind the bars of its bamboo cage at a sparrow in the tree—and feeling like a flower pot that never leaves the front porch, while I prayed to Erato for a story that would make me human again. She arrived dressed a pair of big, carrot-orange butterfly wings outlined in white, polka-dotted black trim. After I’d grabbed something to write with, she recited this poem for me: 2) I see you, She said, there, trying to look away from the convicting eyes of that nigger dangling from Lady Liberty’s right wrist. The whip that jolted the buckboard forward and caused that nigger’s neck to snap like a twig was the lion’s roar. In India they say: Sometimes the lion must roar to remind the horse of its fear. You won’t be able to stop looking at that nigger until that nigger’s body stops swaying in the breeze. Life is worth more than a price. That nigger is you. 3) Stop running from your demons, She said. Demons are the shit from which angels bloom and heal the refugeed undead exiled in your heart—with love’s true aloe, like a shaman. Goodbye.
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Artist profile:
Ronit Baranga
Ronit Baranga is a ceramicist based in Israel. You can see more of her work at www.ronitbaranga.com.
LAdM: What do you like most about working with clay? Baranga: I love the unlimited options and variety of techniques available with clay. For example, I combine hand sculpting with clay molds, wheel throwing and slabs in one work. In my opinion, clay is difficult to work with. However, once you understand it and gain control, it is an amazing material. I love everything about it; its look, smell, texture and feel – while working and when dry. I also love its ability to surprise and change during the firing, sometimes in ways I don’t expect.
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If your sculptures with mouths could speak, what would they say? I have no idea what they would say… The concept behind my works with mouths and fingers is that useful bowls, cups and plates lose their “usefulness” and begin deciding “on their own”. I believe that if they could speak, they would choose their words by themselves… In an interview with Empty Kingdom, you mentioned studying ceramics “by mistake”. Do you ever consider returning to painting with as much emphasis as your sculpture? The passion I have for sculpting is
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much greater than the passion I have for painting. I don’t see myself returning to paint in the near future.
work. I believe everything we learn influences us, our way of thinking and our art.
Have you sculpted other body parts besides hands and mouths into your work? Lately I’ve sculpted life-size realistic figures, not only mouths and hands.
What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given? At the end of a working day in the studio, always try leaving something unfinished for tomorrow, so you know where to continue in the morning after. This can greatly improve the creativity flow.
If you were a teacup, with the ability to move, would you allow a tea party guest to use you? Of course not... Have your studies in psychology influenced your work? My studies definitely influenced my
What are you working on currently? I am currently in the process of moving from realistic figurative sculpture to figurative body sculpting as a shell
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encapsulating an occurrence within it. Work in-process trials and attempts can be seen on my facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/ RonitBarangaSculpture. What’s the best dream you’ve ever had? What’s the worst nightmare? My best dream was to study art professionally and make art. After my University studies and birth of my 1st child, I fulfilled this dream. Nightmare? I try not to talk about it… What was your favorite story, as a child? As a child, I had many books. One of my favorites was Dr. Seuss’s “The Cat in the Hat”. I tell this story to my children, from the same original book I read over 30 years ago.
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“I believe everything we learn influences us,
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our way of thinking and our art.”
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“Always try leaving something unfinished for tomorrow, so you know where to continue.”
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Fiction:
Floorboards by Oliver Zarandi
I’d been working as a carpenter. The pain in my head, it did not start straight away. It crept up on me. I would wager that it took at least two whole months before it made any sort of impact on my daily life. ~ The house I was working on was an artist’s. The house was mostly empty, save for some furniture the artist had moved in there. A small bracket clock in the regency style, on the hallway table. The clock is wonderful to look at: spring driven with acorn finials and compressed bun feet. As wonderful as it is, as beautiful as it is, I can not help but loathe it with all my heart because it is signifies the passing of time, the present instantly becoming a corpse with every passing second. The house was derelict and the artist said it was haunted. He smiled. I did not. I do not believe in ghosts. ~ The artist’s name was Cleric. He was Swedish, I think. He wore one of those turtleneck sweaters. Every part of his face seemed carved from stone. He had a wife, too, who looked Scandinavian. Blonde hair, red wind‐battered cheeks, a long pencil neck and no tits. She looked at me, closely. I could tell. And he walked me around the house, telling me what needed to be done. The first thing that needed to be done would be the floorboards, he said. We both looked down, see, and you would not dare walk on this floor. For fear of falling straight through. If you peeked closely enough, through the holes in the floorboards, all you could see was darkness. As if the house was built on a black hole, or just plain nothing. ~ I had taken the job because times were hard. This means that I had no money. My wife had just left me and had begun seeing a new beau almost instantly. I knew this because I had taken to following her most days. She was a black haired girl who was ginger. I think she had been changing her hair colour in order to trick me. I am not easily fooled. As I said: times were hard. I was living in a kitchenette at the time. My bed was a single. The sink and the stove were not even an arm’s stretch away. The window looked out on nothing in particular: just a narrow back street with ventilation points from fast food restaurants. Outside: the smoke and the pipes and tiny bricks: it looked more like a film set than reality. A film trying to imitate New York City. Sometimes I thought the sky shuddered. Sometimes I felt as if I barely existed, more mannequin than man, unable to move. Due to the separation, I had become—as a friend of mine opined—decidedly “porcine”. I purchased a pull up bar. I performed one hundred pull ups per day. Nothing much changed. Most nights, I would run. When I ran in the evenings, I would run until I emptied my stomach into the toilet.
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It sure is a pity what happens to the human body over time. ~ The job was well paid. The artist, Cleric, he said the house would also double up as an art gallery. Maybe downstairs could be a makeshift cafe. The wife, she spoke to me sometimes. She said they would grow the vegetables and fruits themselves in the backyard. Make the backyard an allotment. I asked her what kinds of fruit. She blushed when I asked this and walked away. ~ I listened to my wife having sexual intercourse with another man. I knew where she was going. It was a hotel. Cheap, too. She purchased one room. I would purchase the room above her. I would listen to her having sex. The noise came up through the floor. She grunted and he grunted. My ear flat against the floorboards, one hand supporting my frame. Another hand finishing off my own business. I missed her grunting. ~ The floorboards. I ripped them up. The wood was soft and rotted. I had begun replacing the rotted boards with wood that I had fashioned myself. It was a hot day and I had nearly finished. Cleric’s wife saw struggle on my face. My chest was tight. I had been working too hard. She came over and put a hand upon my shoulder and asked if I wanted to have a glass of lemonade. I was pleased she had asked me because I liked her. The kitchen was in ruins with wires sticking out from different cemented orifices. But it looked charming. There was a white garden table in the centre of the room with a jug of lemonade placed on it. I sat on a plastic white chair. She reclined in a teak and rattan steamer chair. She asked me to sit down. I did. She asked me to take a sip of the drink. I did. Before she could ask me any questions or engage in any sort of humane conversation, I began bleeding from my ears. Apparently my eyes rolled back in my head and the weight of my body collapsed through the table. The lemonade jug broke on my head. She did not scream. ~ My love for women is a strange one. ~ After several weeks of following my wife, I had noticed several changes in her appearance.
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She had gone from a dark haired beauty, into a ginger haired beauty. But this one time, I noticed her breasts had disappeared. And her feet had increased in size. And her hair was short, almost balding. Looking closer through my camera, zoomed in on her scalp, I could have sworn her head had been scalded by searing hot water. Or somebody had set her head on fire. The hair was black and clumped together. There did not seem to be any individual strands of hair: just black leafs, layered upon each other, the occasional sign of bubbled scalp peeking through. On second glance, the woman I was spying on was in fact me. ~ Somebody once told me that floorboards were the closest thing a human has to a friend in this object we call a house. It is what separates us from hell. It is a springboard to the heavens. Without it we would fall into oblivion. The person who told me this was crazy. ~ Cleric’s wife told me about her husband’s new work. It’s about burn victims and shrapnel victims she said. War veterans or the victims of conflict. I told her that sounded interesting. She told me about how her husband had been in contact with an elderly gentleman by the name of Arthur. Arthur, she said, had the top part of his lip blown off by a grenade. I asked to see a photograph of Arthur and she takes out a small, leather bound book. Inside are photographs of various injuries caused by explosions or bullets or gas attacks. I saw Arthur. The note below was by Cleric. A quick scrawl. It said: Harelip/cleft palate. Did you know: there was an old Norwegian law that forbade butchers to hang hares in public view. People were afraid that the sight of the hare would cause pregnant women to produce babies with harelips. She asked me what was the matter and I said, sorry, I can’t help laughing. ~ I had reason to believe my wife was sleeping with an achondroplastic dwarf and a seven foot giant, devoid of fat or muscle. I heard the tall man recite a poem to my wife through the floor of the hotel room. My ear cupped to the floor, I listened: Look upon this stringbean spine, this cranelike neck, chest concave, my shoulders convex, There is, within, a hunger for sex, That transforms women into nervous wrecks
~ The floorboards in Cleric’s house were made from timber. He said that I had done a good job. I told him the job was not finished yet. The old floorboards had been piled up outside. The new, timber boards had been placed down. Now all I had to do was use the Stikatak floor cleaner. And everything would be finished. As I was polishing the floor, Cleric watched me like a father would watch a child. A child with a disability such as gargoylism or myoclonus epilepsy or Niemann‐Pick disease, which is chiefly a disease for Jews which is exactly what I am. Maybe he is thinking: look at him, he’s trying. Isn’t that nice?
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I was highly disconcerted by the gaze of this apparent‐Swede. I turned around, of course, and asked what the fuck are you looking at? ~ She tells me it is not really an art project but a space for rehabilitation. A space for reconciliation. Cleric is not interested in helping himself. He just wants to help others. And she went on: some of these people find it difficult to re‐enter the work place because they are still stymied by their trauma. They are physically and psychologically scarred. They need a space where they can interact with each other and work ‐ it doesn’t matter how small the job is, maybe it’s fixing a window pane, maybe it’s mowing the lawn, maybe even walking the dogs—work without the pressures of reality. Sure, they’d have to confront it sometime. But time is needed. You need time. I do not really listen to her. I see my scalp in the reflection of the 42cm bracket clock. ~ There was this one man, she said—a rescue worker—who retreated so far from reality, that in order to divorce himself from the event (9/11) he left his family, his friends and became a spectre of the city. In 2006 he was found atop the roof of Deutsche Bank. He found bone fragments on the roof. He was fascinated and horrified that the city was still literally covered in the film of trauma. He was found hanged in his apartment with a note saying he didn’t feel anything anymore anyway and the paramedics noticed that there were several televisions ‐ cathode ray tube televisions ‐ that were all lined up and were paused on several home made videotapes of the people who jumped from the towers. They were paused in time. The bodies were at slapstick angles. A gymnastic tableaux of arched backs, arms in diving positions or legs spread wide as if on a trampoline. She told me this as I was packing my tools to go home. I asked what the time was and she said she did not know because the clock had been broken for years. ~ I did not return home because I do not think I have one. I did, however, return to the hotel where my wife was staying. I had rented the room above her and listened to her having sex on a regular basis. I had pressed my ear to the floorboard and heard the muffled grunts and poetry recitals of a seven foot ectomorph, as well as listening to my wife doing things with other men and probably boys. My wife is lovely and I love my wife very much and I respect women all over the world. I remember taking out my toolkit and I began to rip up the floorboards. I began punching my fist and kicking my legs and hammering away at the floor and through the ceiling below. I remember looking through the hole I had created and seeing nothing but darkness. And there she is, in the dark, barely perceptible. Her face similar to mine, but askew. As if it were trying to erase itself from earth. ~ Cleric asks me if I was frightened when I saw what I saw—the blackness and nothingness and the face—and I say no: I don’t believe in ghosts.
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Fiction:
Bella by Christopher Alan
He stared at the water, and thought that he should be thinking something. Something important, or something deep, or something silly. Something not about himself. But if he had, he would not have been there in the first place. And so he took off his sandals, and felt the sand beneath his feet (it felt like normal, regular sand), and walked out into the water. The little waves were nice on his ankles. He enjoyed the shallow ones, but it was always coldest as it reached his crotch. Even now the cold stung at him. But he kept walking, until it snuck up below his trunks from the top. He jumped a bit, but it was okay. He had time. He looked up, and saw two seagulls moving around the high sun. And even though it burned his eyes, he would not look away. In fact, he wondered why he hadn’t looked up more often. It was a direction, equal to the others in all true ways. And he realized that, by not doing so, he had missed a large element of all that he thought he had experienced. And then he wondered why, of all things, his biggest regret was not looking up more, and thought himself insane. And so he felt vindicated in his decision. He was up to his chest now, and the moving slush started to slip from under him. Gripping the sand would be harder than he had planned. But he would get something right. He must. “Excuse me?” He looked to the beach, and saw no one. And then he looked up, and to the right. There was a girl on the rock: Fifteen, sixteen and underdeveloped perhaps. He wasn’t sure if it was okay to be attracted to her (he was). It didn’t matter anyways. There was no real scale, no “okay” or “not okay”. So he wondered who read his thoughts and judged him; judged his feelings. It violated his sense of privacy, to think about another. But then, it was only himself. “Yes?” he said. “What are you doing? If you go any further the waves will rip you apart. Didn’t you see the red flag?” “I, um—yes, I did.” “Are you mad then?” “No of course…what are you doing out here anyways? And up on that spot…if you fall, you’ll be done in.” “No I won’t.” “You will. You’ll dash your head on the rocks and stain the whole side of the cliff.” She spit something, gum maybe, and watched it fall. The pink splot fluttered down the cliff face, and disappeared into the foamy blue. “Are you in the habit of describing gory deaths to little girls?” “No,” he said, “I’m sorry, of course not. I—” “Besides,” she said, “you’ll catch me.” The wind was heavy, and he was sure she could fly out twenty yards before he got to her. She’d be nothing more than a dress, floating in the surf. “I could try,” he said, “but I probably won’t. It’s pretty rough down here.” She kicked her feet back and forth.
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“Then why are you down there?” He let his feet come off the sand, giving him time to think. He knew why of course. But it was his moment, the only moment he knew was his alone. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to share it just because she was cute. If she was an older man, he would say “fuck off.” Those words, “fuck off.” But she was not. “…I’m trying to kill myself,” he said. He thought that would give her pause. Cause her some mix of fear, and concern, and interest. Even more than her pity, he wanted her interest. He was pitiful enough without her. But it gave her no pause at all. “Now I know you’re mad.” “I’m not mad,” he said, “I’m a failure.” And he meant it. His body ached, and his arms were tired. Too tired to keep talking. But she was in his moment now, and he would not be the weakest link in his own last minutes. “No one’s a failure,” she said, rolling her eyes, or, rolling her head, which from twenty yards looked the same to him. “My mom says she’s a failure too. She says it all the time. But I try not to let it get to her. I don’t think she is. I’m not such a waste, am I?” “No, not as I can tell so far.” “Thank you,” she said, “for that glowing compliment. Anyways, my mother can’t be a failure, because I am not and she has me. Don’t you have anyone?” “No,” he said. “…Not that that’s really your business. I don’t have to listen to you.” He took another step forward, but the bank started to slope upwards again, so he kept walking. “You do,” she said, “you don’t have to like it. You don’t have to say anything back either. But you do have to listen to me.” The wind gave him trouble, but he though he heard her add, “Someone does.” “What was that?” he said. “You are listening! Good.” “Well that remains to be seen. But seeing as I am where I am, and you don’t seem too keen on leaving, what did you say your name was?” She crossed her legs, and leaned forward, shouting it down at him. “Bella.” “Like from that shit book?” “What do you mean?” “You know, a couple…jeez, I guess more than a couple years ago. There was that big naming boom.” “Would that be a problem?” “No, no. It’s a very popular name.” “You mean it’s common.” She grew silent, and it saddened him. More than he would have expected at this point, but not more so than he came to understand within the moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You are pretty, so I guess it fits.” She remained mute. He strained to see her face. To see what color her eyes were. Her hair was a dark
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brown, with a bright red tint off the sun, and he thought it would be just perfect if her eyes were blue. If she had blue eyes, he might die happy. “…Thank you,” she said. “Bella?” “Yes?” “Can I ask you for something?” “I don’t think I can bring you anything.” “No, that’s not — what color are your eyes?” “What?” “What color are your eyes?” “Why?” “Just…please, answer.” He waited while she thought it over. His neck grew sore, and he realized he couldn’t look up any longer, so he relaxed, and bobbed in the surf. It was a warm day, and he thought, as he floated, that it would be nice to save up enough strength to look up one more time. “Hey!” “Yes?” “What color do you want them to be?” “What? No,” he said, “no, damn it, no! That’s not how it works. Tell me the truth!” “Blue.” “…Are they really?” “Yes,” she said, “I promise, they’re blue.” “Thank you Bella,” he said, “Thanks a lot.” He started walking forward. He didn’t think he wanted to look up again. So long as he didn’t, the lie didn’t matter, and he thought it was a good end to it all. So rarely did he get to end his own moment. “Please,” she said, “come back. You can’t.” “Oh don’t,” he said, “don’t do this to me. It’s all I have.” The water was up to his shoulders, but didn’t want to swim. He wanted to walk. He wanted to run, all the way back to the beach. To go back and hold her up and kiss her like in a romance novel. But if he couldn’t do that, he wanted to walk. “Okay,” she said, “just tell me what your name is, and you can go.” “I can go if I want to.” He wasn’t looking back again. It was his choice. “Just do it.” “It’s,” he sighed, “…it’s Bob, okay?” It wasn’t Bob, but her eyes weren’t blue, and he wanted to let her know that he was wise to her game, and her little sob story, and her stopping him. “Okay Bob,” she said (she saw through it), “If you won’t come back, I’m coming in after you.” “Ha!” he yelled, “I’ll be halfway to Japan by the time you run down here.” “There’s a quicker way.” He couldn’t help himself. He looked back. “You wouldn’t.” Before he had a chance to look up, the water jumped and splashed next to him. He reached forward in terror, and saw a shoe. Soft sole, salmon colored, size six.
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“The other one is next.” She had climbed down, hanging forward off the rock like a figurehead. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he said, “but I couldn’t make it over there. And you’d…Bella, please. There’s no reason both of us have to die.” “There’s no reason either of us have to!” “Well I am and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I don’t want you to stop me. Goodbye. It was… it’s been interesting.” “Don’t!” He drifted out further, too far to stand, and fell beneath the waves. The water was only cold on his face (he had become accustomed to the chill elsewhere). But that moment of shock was enough to force him back to the surface. And in that instant he saw something dive from the cliffs, and enter the water without breaking the crests of the waves. It couldn’t have been a person. It was too light. But he was out too far to see, and fell beneath the waves again. As he struggled for breath, and forgot which way was up, he remembered that this is what he wanted. But he didn’t want her to die, and if she did, would mean he failed. Failed again. And then he was gone. ~ He awoke to flashing lights, and loud noises, and a crowd. He was on the beach, on a stretcher. And having no choice in his view, he desperately tried to move. He wanted to lean forward, and speak to someone, anyone, to ask if Bella was all right. He wanted to ask if they found the salmon shoe, and if her mother knew where she was, and what had happened. And he wanted to know if he was still alive. Why he was still alive. He felt alive, even if he knew it was for no reason. Then he saw her. Her right arm and head were bandaged, and her red hair peaked out from beneath the medical blanket. And her eyes were blue. He figured he shouldn’t speak to her just then. He could learn about her from the hospital. After all, it would take time to find the resources, and the courage, to review that day. And when he did, they could tell him about how she had tried to save him. She would jump from the cliff, and swim against the waves, and her mother would be furious. And she would try to take her own life later that year. And even now he hoped she’d never think herself a failure, because she had him. And he knew he’d never see her again, but that was fine. She belonged to the moment. The water would still be there, and the cliffs would still be there, and the shoe might even still be there. And he could go back and look up at her again, but he wouldn’t. He would die in the back of the ambulance, on a stretcher, staring up at the light, wishing he was thinking of something.
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Fiction:
Loneliness Can be Both Confronted and Relieved by Alan Gawalko
What pain is this? What kind of life could this be? When we learned to speak is the moment we learned of pain. Our bruises and our aching joints cracked, wicked after an afternoon spent playing ball with our dads or our moms and our brothers and sisters. The scrapes on the tarmac outside of the school. But what pain is this? It is not the pain of an absent minded fall on the gravel pit or a stubbed toe and there is no one there to cradle us or to kiss our bump telling us it will be alright as we rush off to rejoin the fun. What pain is this? We ask ourselves. We will toil and burn our minds out scratching the itch as we search and scrounge for a meaning to the pain that we know but cannot describe. What pain is this? It is a Thursday afternoon and we have just returned to our house from a recreational baseball tournament. I am tired and I sprained my thigh when I slid into third at the bottom of the sixth inning. Rachel says that she will head to Shopper’s and buy some gauze bandages that I can use. She also suggests a hot water bottle. I am limping and my thigh hurts. I will flip on the television and sit there, glazed, until she returns with the bandages. The television will holler and scream and try to sell me things and I will grin and smirk at the stupid, tedious commercials and actually contemplate buying a shitty, fucking Ford Explorer or a Suzuki or some other type of car, or think that that Cheerios commercial was charming or how people in commercials are just as commoditized as the products they’re trying to sell. The shameless vapidity of my culture and my thoughts and my aspirations conflict with my ideals and I begin to think and think until I will turn off the television to focus on the pain in my hamstrings and my swelling thigh. Maybe my thigh will swell up so much that it will look like I was bitten by a wasp or that I’ve developed an anasarca or an infection or maybe a malignant tumour. “Yeah, I’ve got a tumour growing in there, and the docs think they’ll have to suck it out with one of those medical vacuums. It functions like a Dyson, but with the power of one of those protovacs from the 50s,” is something I could say over imported Mexican beer (maybe Dos Equis or Corona) to some friends. Rachel is back now and we are eating supper. I made rice and kimchi. I try to talk to her about the commercials and how people themselves act like products in the context of marketing, but all Rachel wants to talk about is the weather or her sister’s wedding or how we should get a dog or how good the kimchi is or how I should get some rest because I have work in the morning. or maybe how I should call in sick to work on the count of my slowly swelling thigh. I try to talk about maybe buying a Ford Explorer or a new suzuki but Rachel wasn’t too enthused about Ford. She wants a Malibu or an Impala because if we’re going to have kids one day, maybe she wants a family car. I interject that the Explorer is a suitable vehicle for those purposes but acquiesce that she is right, maybe it’s a bit too big for kids. I am finished my kimchi and rice and pour out some Strongbow for myself and Rachel pours herself a glass of wine and we watch Big Brother. The house is in an uproar and the fans are engrossed in the drama caused by the rampant, microcosmic racism that some of the houseguests are inflicting upon their fellow contestants. Rachel loves this, and I try to ask her why she’s so absorbed by the obviously dramatized and edited play for ratings, and she says that it’s interesting because it’s a representation or a sample or something of how the real world deals with bigotry and hatred and racism. I think it’s just a bunch of stupid people playing
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“house” like kids did in preschool and just a vapid facsimile of real life, but I guess I can see where she is coming from. We are in bed now and Rachel is sleeping and my thigh is throbbing and I am considering calling into work tomorrow. I lie in bed and think about how maybe I should take a look at the Impala and maybe I should call into work tomorrow. It’s probably a good idea to do that. I am staying home from work today, Rachel is going to work today. We sit at our breakfast nook and eat our banana muffins. Rachel loves baking. I am always hesitant to eat yeast, because, you know you’re actually putting some kind of weird bacteria into your stomach. That shit grows too. What if my stomach acid or intestinal bacteria can’t digest the yeast. What if the yeast is some kind of superyeast and grows in my stomach until I swell up like that girl in Willy Wonka. You are too much of a hypochondriac says Rachel as she finishes her coffee. I limp over to the counter to pour myself some more and I also pour some coffee into a travel mug for Rachel. Two creams and three spoonfuls of sugar, because she can’t stomach the taste of black coffee. It’s like doing a shot of liquor she says. I can do black coffee, but I like mine with milk, it gives it a smoother taste that’s reflective of my smooth demeanor. Not really. But the milk gives it this coating that makes it easier on the esophagus and more than probable, the stomach too. I used to be heavily into health foods and “healthy living”. It was my attempt to obfuscate my own sense of disillusionment in my own mental acuity. If I can’t be the smartest, I’ll be the healthiest. Yeah! Yeah! Übermensch, that’s me. Ahoy ahoy, yeah! I hand the travel mug to Rachel, and she kisses me on the forehead, which is a bit condescending, but sweet, sort of motherly. Contextually it makes sense, with me being ill and my swelling thigh and those things. Maybe I was giving off some “babying” hormones, or maybe she was giving off some “mothering” ones. Whatever. I liked it, it fit the morning, even if it was a syntactic and social grammar nightmare. Weird feelings in my mind and butterflies in my stomach. I am sitting on our porch now and I can see our neighbours watching television and eating chips and apples and drinking beer or Coca-Cola. I want to see what they see and feel what they feel. Are they the same as me as I am right now? Can they see the colours I see and feel the feelings I feel? Does accidentally closing a finger in a door hurt as much to them? Am I as real to them as they seem to be to me? Is there someone else watching me on my porch right now thinking these same thoughts and doing these same things. Is there someone else who seems to be confident and aware and self assured but is really just going through the motions that were assigned and mediated for them from birth? Are we all really just thinking about the weather and which car we should buy or how we should pour coffee for our respective significant others in order to do something nice for them which is ultimately a subset of gaining pleasure from someone else’s pleasure as an outcome of our neurotic compulsions to be recognized or loved or cared for or maybe even just accepted? An entire species driven to be accepted even when our own biology depends on our self interest and isolation and our need, requirement, to reproduce and spread our genes into the universe, to overtake all other life and achieve dominance. Save a little room for food sources like the grains and plants to make the chips and the apples and the cows to make the Big Macs. I retreat to my office and try to start work on a new story idea or on my novel. I’m obsessed
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with ergodic literature but I don’t want to seem pedantic or pompous. It’s hard to, though. Althusser said that all intelligentsia become machinations of the “petty bourgeois” and Lenin said that the only way to escape being a mouthpiece of the bourgeois is to make ideology revolutionary. My goal is to make art a revolutionary, revelatory thing, but all that stuff seems to get lost under trivial mundanity and garrulousness. I. JUST. WANT. TO. TELL. STORIES. Blah de blah de blah babump DA BLAH. There once was a young man named Travis and he sat in his office trying to figure out how to open his own god damn fucking novel or nay, even just his stupid insignificant speck of a story. Travis likes to take walks along the river and look at people biking, walking holding hands, laughing, speaking, staying silent, motionless and just staring at each other. The odd time he will nod or speak to someone, but these instances are few and far between. Mainly Travis sequesters himself to the southeast side of the riverbank and writes in a Moleskine notebook, glancing occasionally at the hummingbirds or the ducks that gather around the bird feeders or the people sowing bird seed on the lawn of the public park. Sometimes he will sit on a bench. When he does this he feels uncomfortable. The benches aren’t maintained properly and act as a sort of minor irritant. The edges are gnarled and cracked and dig into his jeans like cat scratches. Just a shit experience overall, so he prefers to get grass stains and dirt and shit in his pants rather than having to deal with perennial discomfort. See what I mean? I go from these grandiose thoughts on life and stuff to the minute details of a park bench while throwing the occasional pejorative just for emphasis. It’s like I’m trying to tell the reader “See, I can philosophize with the best of them, I’ve got ideas, man, but y’know I’m still your buddy, here’s a little shit and piss and some fuck to make up for my dumb meandering, friendo”. I wish I could write like Hemingway or Barth or even Tod Robbins. But those guys are too stylized to mimic and anything I did that way would be criticized to the fucking moon and back. I can hear the garage door opening and Rachel is soon inside the house and this time it is her turn to make dinner. I help. I make the buns. I slice them in two with a butter knife. Rachel scolds me and mentions that she has repeatedly told me to use the serrated knives to cut things with. I smirk and make a callously worded joke about being a serial killer and that using those knives would give me the URGE TO KILL. She doesn’t think it’s that funny and punches my shoulder and I repeat the URGE TO KILL line and this time she grimaces so now I know that the joke is alright and maybe I will repeat it during dinner. Now we are sitting down at the table again, but tonight we are just having water with dinner because we are both afraid of being alcoholics because my brother Charles is one and isn’t too nice when he’s been drinking heavily and her father was a lush too and verbally abused Rachel and her mother when she was growing up. When we got engaged I had to give up my occasional binge drinking because Rachel would get upset and cry and those types of things when I would do it, so I wanted to CHANGE! Tralalala and be a good husband and potential father and make her proud of me, so I gave it up, except that sometimes when I am out I intentionally come home late, after she’s gone to sleep and have a few more drinks than I should before I go into my study and write a few pages before passing out at my computer screen. This is one facet that composes my shame of being a human being because it is a lie and if she found out I would probably betray her trust and maybe it would put a damper on our marriage but I need it to write stories sometimes, and in that context it is a good thing even though I am poisoning my body and my mind. Right now we are drinking water. That is a good thing and we are good. We are both good and bad simultaneously and that is good. I sip my water and think about that Impala and those people in the commercials and that bench and my fucking thigh. Right now we are are drinking water and it is good.
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Poetry:
Stagnant by J. Bradford Flynn
The leaves dance with an invisible spectre, some unseen force that leads the dead into a waltz with only the illusion of life. His breath is cool, and he moves with the sporadic fluidity of a man with whiskey for blood. The deathly dance snakes across to the man, frozen by centuries of sloth, who sits on the patio alone save for the empty cans of beer and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. Exhalation gives the ghost a face. Twisted, gnarled, ghastly. It bears no similarity to human shape or form. A swirled gray line weaves into the looming horror of living palisades, naked as they came, swaying in song as their coverings rot upon the floor. What once was oak or pine stood as redwood, stoic beings watching, waiting, wanting, loving but never touching what they see. A voice whispers. “Ça va bien? Ça va bien?” “Non. Je suis malade.” The sun retreats behind the treeline, and he wonders where the beauty goes when it is done with the marshlands. It seldom lingers. This is a land in perpetual dilapidation, and yet there is a certain type of beauty in decay, because the decay itself begs rebirth, but to achieve requires the death that has been stalled for so long. The wind dies down, and the ghost throws its dancing partner on the ground, and with that, the embers of the cigarette are stamped out forever, and the man walks away, unchanged and unharmed, but still imprisoned by the thought of what could have been.
the\ \re \ a ty\ li \ \ is\ photography Sam Beasley (sambeasley.tumblr.com) makeup Awaka Green model Vanyce @ Michele Pommier
L’Allure des Mots || Winter, 2013 || Issue No. 12
photography Sam Beasley (sambeasley.tumblr.com) makeup Awaka Green model Vanyce @ Michele Pommier
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Fiction:
The Intern by Jake Brukhman
The sun began to reach for the horizon over the Avenue of the Americas and the people of the factories spilled out onto the streets in uproar and delirium. On the way to their transportation they raised up like dust the hum and tumult of the streets, the shuffling of teflon shoes and rusty breaks and the high squabbles of the Manhattanite radio trottoir. Having just left the factory there was now nowhere at all that I was needed, nor did I wish to be seen, and so I walked following my own gaze and strolled through my city, whatever fate befell me. The public grazed me, and elbows periodically knocked from my hands what thoughts I was carrying. They all fluttered past and past, regretfully, as if running late for Hell. In the creases and folds of the masses one looks for faces to satisfy his curiosity and vanity. On a familiar walkway, the eye seeks the small differences within the routine and spies the imperceptible aging lines of a building’s sandstone. Bankers and beggars dance hopscotch, holding hands and exchanging handkerchiefs, but the signs are always there, the staples who fly head hung peering into pavement amid flashes of pinstripe and pink feather and turtle shell. Soon the folds of my crowd shifted. Some distinguished gentleman fell away, another turned on heel, a blonde Polish family stopped dead. They were circumvented by the stream of pedestrians and left before me a sizable clearing across which one can momentarily observe the short-term horizon before himself disappearing into it; there at once I became aware of the back of Eduard Valentinov’s head. There was no mistaking that head, that crew-cropped thirty-nine year old head, for it was something out of the Ukrainian Navy, a navy that has limited access to the sea. I had seen the head many times before when in a previous employment we were colleagues, and at that, of deeply uncertain relative status. No telling whether to compete or commiserate. But it was certain that I was pursuing Ed, and I soon noticed that next to him in tandem was walking a pretty little girl, perhaps a colleague but so very young and fragile. Indeed, they were talking, unquestionably bound together in the throng of people, grouped unevenly with towering Ed nearly cupped around her, leaned in with his burly hands about and illustrating away. It seemed altogether incongruous. Big Ed of advanced age and experience walking next to this scared little thing. But her eyes were beautiful and bright. They shined innocently with the early evening sun, reflecting happily in their sleepy black pupils all the parade of sons of bitches that were homeward bound this rush hour. I quickened to catch up, at the risk of breaking character and seeming a hapless fool to the keepers and observers of the sidewalk. Sidling up to the right of Ed while the girl walked left flank I saw that she was throwing him short polite nods of understanding as he unraveled something of utmost importance. No doubt the woes of the shoe manufacturing process in the factories of Italy. And really the ethos of the whole affair reeked suspiciously of Ed moving in on this poor destitute girl, crushing her with all his stinging weight and filling her nostrils with the stench of his windblown stories. Ed the married late-thirties professional, of loyal wife and son, heading hurriedly home to be with them again but nevertheless harboring an unextinguished pooling longing inside of him! This scoundrel Ed piping and plotting to break off a piece for himself, certainly with nonchalance, under the guise of the
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chivalrous incidental guide to the bus station, but meaning to break off a piece for himself to be sure. She was lucky that he was so unlucky, that he had always been such a schlemiel, and that they would not be passengers on the same bus. In that self-same darkened cabin Ed would shake and pant and transform into someone other. He would pounce upon her like a starved and voracious bear, a bear given consideration and first opportunity. If she didn’t have the sense or the time to refuse, then one could see clearly that in a millisecond his dewy paws would be on her and his red snout palpitating to the nervous pitching of a dim elephantine pupil. Ed knew what he was onto, and she the tiny intern also surely realized what the upside-down gargoyles hanging cockeyed above the avenue could plainly see. One had merely to teeter a few snarled paces behind, to say nothing of the self-involved tones of their discourse which themselves were, like a kangaroo stew, gamy and suspicious. Knowing everything, we watchers are mum and walk straight and narrow and make way for the precious elderly. We are all just happy sons of bitches taking a fortuitous little stroll down the Avenue of the Americas, past the Alliance Bernstein, past the International Center of Photography, past the great granite foundations of Bryant Park, lovely half-creatures in the shadow of momentous architectures laid along the wet streaks of soured detritus, tripping over mounds of broken bread crumbs, twisting through the braille of the passerby and the lonely blinking of the lampyridae, trapped, feverish, and alone; and all with such dire and telling parsimony! And so when I placed my hand on Ed’s right shoulder, he jumped just about ten stories in the air and nearly pulled out a knife from his unguarded satchel. For an instant, his face rattled with such gnawing horror that his half-closed eyes became as wide as two miniature Grand Canyons, his mouth bowed to the hollow subterranean inferno below us, and without delay he started to explain that Lyudmilla was simply the intern, and that in fact, as fate would have it, they accidentally ran into each other on their daily route to the bus station.
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Fiction:
Lies by Svad Isht Paratha
In formation, five Egyptian Geese fly over. Shankar watches them. “Lies! I know nothing about birds. Nothing! Even my bloody father says that. The geese have always been here, so why should they suddenly affect me today? Who told me to look at birds? Where did I read that bird watching is a worthy thing to do?” A couple is making out in the park. He stares. “Lies! Lies! Only my stupid pigeon-eyes were distracted. I don’t let movies, and advertisements, and other people enter my mind! My desires must emerge naturally— spontaneously—without force. But my pigeon-eyes are distracted by skin.” He kicks a stone. “Lies! Lies! Lies! That was a dance move; a performance! Come here everybody— there’s an angry young man on display! He’s got fiery, passionate, angsty thoughts and emotions, and any moment now—right here—he might do something edgy and impulsive. Look: he kicked a stone. Maybe he’s heartbroken? Maybe his family is holding him back? If I wanted to kick anything, I should have tried harder on the football field.” He hums the female vocals of “The Great Gig in the Sky”. “Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Humming is what birds do. I am lip-syncing for my imaginary audience! Yes—they must know that deep meaningful ruminations on death are on my mind, and that these ruminations have effortlessly, serendipitously, mysteriously manifested themselves in the form of a Pink Floyd song! What banality: I can’t even follow a thought to its completion. Instead I instinctively retort to pop music to eat up my time.” There’s traffic moving in both directions, but he runs across the road. “Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Runs? No—instinctively, daringly dashes—like a fifth-class hero. Look at my middle finger motorist—I’m showing it to you—what a rebel I am! And yes you too old lady—I see your disappointment—do you see my devil-may-care attitude? Today I stand for youth, and for pedestrians! Look how urgently I need to get to the other side.” He gives a beggar two Rand. “Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! I have bought two Rand worth of conscious points. With this Good Samaritanly action accomplished, I can walk around with a spring in my step. Thoughtlessly I spend eighteen Rand on a beer, but I am conscious of giving two to a beggar. Good job. Great job. Wonderful job. Shankar—you are number one at self-deceit. Now go forth and champion such small-acts-of-charity at a party. You buffoon!” “Where did you go? Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘He walked until Alma and took the subway under the station?’ Or are things too frightening already? What happens as I ‘hurry along,’ to the station? Has time declared four minutes worth of losses? Has thought stopped? Or am I occupying myself by thinking about the future? Does the present tense even exist? Don’t give up coward!” ~ He is using the subway under Rosebank station. “Lies! I trotted down the stairs like a happy-go-lucky teenager. I raced past everyone in the subway. I gave dangerous looking people dangerous looks. Then I ran up the stairs two at a time because that’s how you must emerge into the light.” The cat sitting on the station gate scares him. “Lies! Lies! You were close. For a moment, maybe even correct. But after that it was just laziness. Not fight-or-flight. Walking away from a cat? I might as well ejaculate every time I see a hot chick. Forget greatness; forget pureness. I have even lost rationality. My pigeon-eyes and pigeon-legs are such an ineluctable part of me!”
L’Allure des Mots || Winter, 2013 || Issue No. 12
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Having turned, he walks back through the subway. “Lies! Lies! Lies! I’m wallowing in the existence of this subway. It’s my subway now. A subway for changing my mind—a subway to pass time in by thinking about the previous time I used the subway. Rubbish word association—I think of food. I’m hungry. Not hunger—this is fifth-class eroticism. I want to feel a sandwich—put it in my mouth—consume it—rack up its potential calories. This impulse isn’t even interrupting anything; it’s filling up a void.” He walks to the college bus stop on Romaine Road. “Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! I am flocking to the bus stop. That is where people are going, so like a pigeon I shall follow them to have something to look at—some stimulation to substitute for own lack of initiative. Come, mediocre mind—let us descend upon fellow commuters!” He waits in line. “Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! Waiting for what? Like a hawk, I have selected the attractive girls, and am slyly looking at their bodies. This is where my imagination kicks in: she and I meet-alone-ina-bus and spontaneously undress? Puffing my chest out, holding my chin high, I’m staring down the other men. What is this animal mentality? And there—I sneakily adjust my underwear. All in a minutes work, the whole spectrum of basic instincts. Who am I kidding? I am a pigeon!” He is travelling up to campus in the bus. “Yes. Motion always calms me down. I’m not distracted, I’m observant. Now: there is a noise to be heard in every moment, with every breath.” ~ He gets out of the bus. “Lies! I move because of the movement around me. The hiss of the door, rustling coats, loud footsteps: some inner nerve has been touched, and anxiously I stand up. What subservience!” He walks to class. “Lies! Lies! I am joining the grand delusion! Look—we’re all so busy, with our coffee and our bags and our nice clothes. Other people doing nothing: what a vile security they give me. Nine o’clock lecture—that’s something to do—somewhere to be—some place to walk up the stairs to, fill the register, and that accomplished, sit down and unload your pet frustrations with the like-minded (‘minded’ that is perfectly ironic here!) at.” The lecture begins. “Lies! Lies! Lies! It doesn’t begin—we sink into it. In the same way that we numbly watch a football match. Look at me students, for I may not put my hand up and say something today. But don’t think that things have changed! I’m right here, and my thoughts are still chained to this stupid lecture, and how stupid I think it is, and how superior I am to all the pigeons around me scrolling through their Facebook feeds, or taking worthless shorthand notes. Don’t worry—I am not slacking on my job as ‘literary enfant terrible.’ Today’s just a quiet day. Today banal self-consciousness has overpowered a banal thirst for attention.” The lecture continues. “Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies! It’s being consumed, like a drug. It’s allowing me to be part of something, to do something. Look—there’s the open door, but still I won’t leave. There’s a piece of chalk—but still I won’t throw it at the professor. I have checked the time. Time! How does that matter to me? Nine-thirty—so what? I need a clock to make me feel less scared, to give a comfortable shape to my empty day? And I feel it again—sexual arousement—yes, I’m a proud member of the animal kingdom.” ~ After class, seeing her get on a bus, he runs across the road, gets in that bus, and sits next to her, “Yes.”
“You cut your hair?” he asks, acting normal. She frowns, “No—it all fell off.” “Well, you definitely look like a lesbian now.” He thinks about holding her hand. “Lies! You make me think that! All of you—I try to kill you everyday– but like a chorus of vultures you keep singing in my mind— ‘You can’t wait too long before making a move man.’ ‘Never give the girl the upper hand man.’ ‘Girls like manly guys; they want to be swept of their feet.’ Please leave me. At least during my waking hours?” “Why are you rubbing your hands?” He replies, quickly, “It was itching. So a guy tried to convert me to Catholicism this weekend. Apparently benefits include an eternity in heaven, and the end of all your worries regarding death.” “Really?” she asks, suppressing giggles, “I should check that out. Do they have an issue with people who look like lesbians?” “Never. But, if they’re worth anything at all, they will oppose—on aesthetic grounds—that book your reading. A guide to Understanding Yourself. Having an identity issues Katherine? You can always talk to me; you know that right? There’s nothing in the world—nothing I like more than discussing people’s feelings with them. Other than self-help books of course. Self-help books just makes me weep. ” Hitting his stomach, which he tightens in time, she says ,“Shut up. It’s for a psych project. How are you?” “You know I hate that question. Tell me what you’ve been up to.” She’s replying, and he thinks about kissing her. “Lies! I think about having the instinctive urge to lean in and kiss her, and take her by surprise, and charm her. Who created this fantasy—where did I purchase it? And now, if I ever actually want to kiss her in a bus, it’s going to be impossible because of this memory!” “So, any ideas?” “Sorry,” he asks her, looking at his phone, “what?” “You didn’t listen to me.” “Sorry, my phone distracted me. Do repeat the golden words.” Turning towards the window, “Nevermind. What else?” “Come on Kat,” he says, awkwardly touching her shoulder, and then retrieving his hand, “just repeat what you had to say. You can now rephrase sentences and sound cleverer than you would have the first time.” “It’s fine,” she says, sounding irritated. “How are your classes coming?” He thinks about letting it go. “Lies! I care—I actually want to hear what she says. But she’s going to think I’m pathetic—you’re going to think I’m pathetic. Leave me vultures. Please.” “They’re life-changing as usual. Tell me something: what is your plan for the day?” “I have work until two,” she replies, rather formally, “and then I’ll probably study.” “Let’s get drunk at the gardens? We can discuss Catholicism, self-help books—anything you like.” “Text me.” The bus reaches Faremont, and he still hasn’t remembered that she didn’t reply to his text the last two times this happened. Is this delusion? Is this hope? One can’t tell, because even after she’s gotten off, he remains unconsciously smiling. ~ But it wears off, by the time he’s back on Romaine Road. “Lies! Nothing has worn off. I have returned. The pigeons know better—they stick to their job—they fly. But I get off the bus.”
L’Allure des Mots || Winter, 2013 || Issue No. 12
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Henry Bean
Aimee Bender Ryan Bloom Scott Bradfield Cecil Castellucci Saehee Cho Antonia Crane Dayna Dunne Arielle Greenberg Tara Ison Doug Matus Tom McCarthy Joe Milazzo Jeffrey Moskowitz
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image: Brooke Fredericks
Erin Brooks Worley Published by California Institute of the Arts in Association with the MFA Writing Program
92
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