14 minute read
Purple Death on White Silk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Helen Ohlson
RobinE.Black
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Robin Black’ s story collection If I loved you, I would tell you this, was published by Random House in 2010 to international acclaim. Her new novel, Life Drawing, was described by the The UK Bookseller as “the nearest thing to a perfect novel that I have ever read. ” .
“Why? Doesn ’t he want to be a daddy?”
It was as if this boy saw the secret human I knew lived inside my dog.
“I’ m sure he would be a good daddy, but he isn ’t one, ” I said.
“How come?” asked the boy, wiping snot from his nose. I stared.
“Some dogs get surgery, ” the taller sister offered. The smaller one nodded. I imagined Murray entering the hospital in a collared shirt, withdrawing his insurance card: “I’ m here — WOOF — for my vasectomy. ” Or maybe he would turn to his doggy wife in bed: “I’ m not sure that this is working. ”
The little boy thought for a moment, his hand resting between Murray ’ s ears.
“We had a dog, but he— ”
There was a slurping sound as Murray licked the boy ’ s face.
The girls decided to conduct an examination.
“He has werewolf paws, ” said one sister. “Yes, he does, ” I agreed.
“Do you think he ’ s a werewolf?” asked the other.
“Probably. ” It was a full moon. Murray stood guard, like Nana with the Darlings.
“Will you come back to see us?” asked the little boy.
“Yes, I live right around the corner. ”
“But will you COME BACK?”
“Yes, ” I promised. “And you can pet Murray whenever you want. ”
The shadows of parents moved on the porch, clinking glass. As I walked away, the boy called out:
“Come back soon! ...And don ’t forget to come back!”
We kept walking.
A white man with a black hat passed us on the sidewalk. He looked at me, but I didn ’t look at him. A black man with a white hat passed us on the sidewalk. I looked at him, but he didn ’t look at me.
Murray barked at a passing pitbull. Did the pitbull do anything? Not that the pit needs to. A bicyclist whizzed by in a yellow blur.
Then there was nobody for a long while.
At a corner in the blue dark, I saw a vintage green Chevy with its wheels embedded in ice. Up and down 47th Street, parked cars slept in a frozen stream, witnesses of a water main break. But the green truck had been parked there for weeks. Some things are forgotten for safekeeping.
Murray licked my forehead as I knelt down to tie my wet shoelace. I remembered a kiss on my forehead, the specter of somebody who never came back.
I decided to concentrate on werewolves: victims of a contagious disease passed on through a bite. Or maybe they were people who chose to dress in wolfskin, self-punishing for some transgression (tax fraud?). Or what if they were only the
Purple Death on White Silk
By Helen Ohlson
I am drawn to the painting Like the cows that are drawn To the double purple flower Of the deadly Jimsom Weed
Drawn onto the painted silk Are the cunning lethal curves of the stem The calyx, long and tubular, swollen at the bottom Surmounted by five sharp teeth
The artist plays her brush like the pied piper Vines rise up to come-hither petals Drawing me closer to the flowing scarf Lured in like the bovine crowd
Helen Ohlson, a retired teacher, is an award winning writer who lives in Arden, Delaware. She is currently enrolled in a Botanical Illustration course with a group of talented artists at Longwood Gardens, where she found inspiration for her poem.
deformed and lonely, hunted down for being too hairy? They undressed for someone they loved and then there was a scream and a silver bullet.
In my mind, the scream sounded like a love poem because love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds neither joy, nor love, nor light and conquers all that’ s stored up for you like an inheritance, a song that only you can hear (I carry it in my heart) and there ’ s scarcely anything else in the world, for each man kills the thing he loves—
I knelt there with my head on my knees, a communion with the slush, feeling the weight of a body. Someone else ’ s body. Now it’ s like an empty house. I prayed to whatever god there might be, by way of C.S. Lewis.
And then I felt that sloppy dog tongue on my face. Not on my forehead, but almost in my nostrils. In places no human would kiss.
There is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek.
AimeeLaBrie
Aimee received her MFA in fiction from Pennsylvania State University in 2003. Her short story "Ducklings " was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Aimee taught fiction workshops for Philadelphia Stories and writes a regular column for the magazine and website.
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I wished I hadn ’t majored in women filling their pockets with stones and sticking their heads into ovens.
Maybe tomorrow the pinhole would widen and I would want to be a marine biologist.
But there was a van stalling behind my dog in the darkness.
I stood up. My foot was asleep. Murray teetered, confused. The sliding door to the van was open. A man crouched on the upholstery, watching me.
He looked too small to be holding that gun.
Was I supposed to give him my money? I didn ’t have any money. There was a peppermint in my pocket.
“Give me the dog, ” he said. “Put him in the van. ”
The barrel of the gun seemed to be pointed towards my elbow. I was supposed to give him my belongings and run. But Murray wasn ’t a belonging. Maybe if I stood very, very still, the van would go away...
The streetlights stared at me.
I remembered a night in a different city. I had stepped off the train into the dark and into the open lot. Even with a sunburn heating my skin, it was cold and the world seemed crowded with shadows. I had walked quickly towards the newspaper dispensers at the corner, feeling the weight of the buildings surrounding me. A rat had scuttled in front of me on the sidewalk and I had started to run. I’d run past the garage that housed the big trucks, the fenced-in homes with all their lights off, the greengated yard where I’d been kissed, once. I’d run past a possum with red eyes, a man pissing on a doorstep, a playground where someone moaned and wailed. When I’d finally made it to the apartment, I had clanged the metal gate shut behind me and climbed the stairs to that warm wooden door. He ’d pulled me inside. I’d said I’d never live alone in the city.
“Give me the dog!” The man yelled. There was a clicking noise.
I pictured myself giving him the dog. I imagined them screeching away with Murray in the backseat, me standing in the street alone. By myself. Murray gone. Giving them the dog.
Murray began to snarl.
Here was the pinhole. It looked like a full moon. I was pressed up against the side of the box and I could see outside. This man couldn ’t put me in the box because I was already in the box. He sat motionless, staring at me.
I remembered the wooden door opening two hundred times. A laugh into my collarbone, two coasters and two mugs. What kind of math lets the present day trump all that came before?
This was a different city.
He wasn ’t going to get my dog.
I remembered a key turning, a brown plant in the window, an empty refrigerator. He ’d been twelve and then he ’d been in college and then he ’d come to pick me up from the train. He ’d washed my hair when I was sick. He ’d wanted two boys and two girls.
What was it that he ’d said, sitting there? He ’d recoiled. He hadn ’t looked me in the eye. His face was a thumbprint on a glass of milk. I could remember his smell but not his mouth.
What was it that he ’d said?
“Don ’t touch me, ” I growled.
We turned to walk away.
JonathanMaberry
Jonathan is a New York Times best-selling and multiple Bram Stoker Award-winning horror and thriller author, comic book writer, magazine feature writer, playwright, content creator and writing teacher/lecturer.
BethKephart “Happy anniversary to the fabulous Philadelphia Stories!”
Beth Kephart is an author of non-fiction, poetry and young adult fiction for adults and teens. Kephart has written and published over ten books and has received several grants and awards for her writing..
A graduate of Swarthmore College, Kat is the Assistant Director of Marketing and Communications at Moorestown Friends School. Outside of her full-time position, she works for the Health for America Fellowship Program and supports The Chester Fund for Education and the Arts. Kat volunteer teaches at Mighty Writers and lives in Philly with her dog, Rory.
MITCHELL SOMMERS
F I C T I O N E D I T O R
When he ’ s not practicing consumer bankruptcy law in Lancaster, PA, Mitchell Sommers is busy at work writing short stories, novels, and op-eds. If that’ s not enough, he is also the Fiction Editor here at Philadelphia Stories and a member of the board of directors. With the recent ten-year anniversary of the magazine, we thought it would be interesting to hear about Mitchell’ s experiences so far, as well as, his insight on fiction writing.
When did you first become involved with Philadelphia Stories?
My first involvement with Philadelphia Stories began when I submitted a story to them, called “The Marshak, ” based on my time representing parents in the Lancaster County court system who had their kids taken from them by Children and Youth. I later found out that Carla loved it, but she was outvoted. (Not to worry. It did find a home with my college alma mater, Franklin and Marshall College ’ s literary magazine: http://www.pageturnpro.com/Franklin-and-MarshallCollege/ 51728-Alumni-Arts-Review—Vol-1, -Spring-2012/index.html#92
Four years later, I submitted another story, called “Bando, ” which dealt with mortgage foreclosures at the start of the housing crash. This time they published it. Shortly after, I was asked to join the fiction board and the board of directors. I remember rumbles of the sort, “We really could use a lawyer around here. ” And so it went.
Would you say that there is any particular style or type of writing that tends to get published?
I hate to do the “ we want strong writing ” dodge, but that’ s kind of true. Our two Pushcart Nominees for 2013 were stories that didn ’t have a conventional narrative structure, “One out of Ten Fish are Afraid of Water, ” by Che Yuen, and “Einstein ’ s iPod, ” by Stephen Graf. But one of my favorite stories this year has been “The Worm of the Heart, ” by Ilene Rush, which was conventionally structured. So, we ’ re back to “ write strong stuff. ” Yeah, I know. Totally unhelpful.
What role do you believe Philadelphia Stories plays in the local arts community?
We bring writers and readers together, not just through our publication, but through events such as the Push to Publish conference. And the work we do goes out, not just in the Delaware Valley, but all over the East Coast.
Here ’ s an example. I was recently at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, working on a second draft of my novel at a Starbucks (yes, the cliché is noted) when I overheard two people talking about writing-related things. I introduced myself and the one person said she ’d submitted to us, and that a friend of hers had a novel excerpt published by us this year, that being
“Holy Day ” by Anne Colwell.
Did your passion for writing begin before or during your career as a lawyer? And what affect, if any, does your career have on your writing?
I always loved to write. I constantly wrote as a kid. When I went to Dickinson School of Law, they, like most law schools, carefully looked for any trace of creativity in my writing and proceeded to beat it the hell out of me. From graduation to the mid ‘90s, my writing consisted of things that contained the words “Plaintiff” and “Defendant. ”
Eventually, I spent a few years at a writer ’ s workshop in Lancaster County. From there, I got my MFA in the low-res program at University of New Orleans.
As to the effect on my writing, obviously the work I do gives me stories to tell. But I think the more interesting thing has been the effect that writing creatively has had on my legal writing. I’ m more conscious of building a narrative structure in letters and in legal pleadings. Advocacy after all is telling a story.
Do you prefer to work in any specific genre?
I’ m all over the place. I say that my home is literary fiction, but I’ ve had things published in the creative non-fiction category. I’ ve also dabbled in playwriting. I used to be active in a playwriting group although it’ s been a few years since I’ ve been active. I also used to be a regular oped contributor for the Philadelphia Inquirer. I currently contribute opeds for the Lancaster newspapers.
Who are some of your literary heroes?
I have to give a shout out to two of my professors at University of New Orleans, Joseph and Amanda Boyden. They are amazing people, amazing writers, and amazing teachers. Joseph Boyden isn ’t as well known in the U.S., but in his native Canada, he ’ s very renowned.
I’ ve also always loved Michael Chabon. Ditto Dave Eggers. I kind of swiped my structure for the novel I submitted as my MFA thesis from “The Wonder Boys. ” There. I busted myself.
Are you currently working on any projects?
I have one novel in the pipeline for PS Books. I am also working on a historical fiction novel. And there ’ s always all those short stories in need of revision…
