The Rusty Nail, January 2013, Issue 11

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Issue 11, January 2013 Editor-in-Chief Craig A. Hart Cover Design Paul Brand

Published by Sweatshoppe Publications 1

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

The Rusty Nail CONTENTS The Hatchback by Kyle Rader, Page 3 O Palestine by Lauren Hoyt, Page 4 Art Work by I.G. Frederick, Page 5 The Youngest Girl at a Comfort Station by Andrew Pei, Page 6 She Turns in Her Sleep by Aaron McCullough, Page 9 Superheroes Still Keep Watch by Chris Nugent, Page 10 On the Third Day by Katrina K Guarascio, Page 11 I Hate Ivory Soap by Ekaterina Lalo, Page 12 Hunger by Katrina K Guarascio, Page 12 Waiting for a Headstone by Keith Moul, Page 13 One Bench, One Afternoon by F.J. Gale, Page 13 The Man in the Attic by A. J. Serrano, Page 14 Me and Ced by Norton MacKay, Page 15 4-6 Weeks to Complete Repairs by Gayle Francis Moffet, Page 16 Dust and Empty Dreams by Wayne Orr, Page 17 Lion’s Teeth by Nathan Alan Schwartz, Page 21 The Check by Jeremy Eldon Hauck, Page 22 Solving the Mystery by Jeff Hill, Page 23 Little Girl Swinging by Jason Brightwell, Page 23 Dragging a Spark-less Heart by Jason Brightwell, Page 23 A Warm Cabin in the Woods by Jason Brightwell, Page 23 Have Silverware, Will Steal by Yevgeniy Levitskiy, Page 24 Dinner by Diane Payne, Page 25 The Man with the Violin by Ania Payne, Page 26 A Different Kind of Servitude by Yevgeniy Levitskiy, Page 27 Leveling Out by Yevgeniy Levitskiy, Page 28 Smooth Petz by Yevgeniy Levitskiy, Page 28 The Bar by Steve Baba, Page 29 Where I learn that it is fashionable to read Bukowski by Chandni Singh, Page 29 Planking Junkies by Rhonda Talbot, Page 30 Chimera by Vincent Salvano, Page 32 Madison the Human Being by Derrick MartinCampbell, Page 33 Before by Denise Falcone, Page 35 First Encounter by Katherine Givens, Page 36 Incontiguous by A.g. Synclair, Page 36 Awaiting Resurrection by A.g. Synclair, Page 36 Unemployment by J.E. Sherwood, Page 37

Happy Hour by Foster Trecost, Page 41 The Collaboration of Light by Gillian Prew, Page 41 One More Round by Wendy Ashlee Coleman, Page 42 Hel's Mud-pie by Maria B. Strong, Page 47 Survive Her by Maria B. Strong, Page 47 White Lightning by Matthew Haughton, Page 48 The American Smoker by Mary Harwell Sayler, Page 49 All The Dancing Bears by Harry E. Gilleland, Jr., Page 49 Beast Within by Harry E. Gilleland, Jr., Page 49 A Voice for Your Voice with Amy Adams, Page 50 A Cemetery for Skating Boards by Tammy Ho LaiMing, Page 53 So Much Forgotten, Too Much Recalled

by Joe Bichl, Page 54 The Letter by Alan W. Jankowski, Page 58 Places Deserted by Anthony J. Otten, Page 59 Losses by Kathryn Lynch, Page 60 Daisy by Vincent Salvano, Page 61 The Watch-Out by Jacob Cooper, Page 62 Mackerel by Fred Johnston, Page 64 The Shortcut by Joseph P. O'Brien, Page 65 The Crossroad by Steve Prusky, Page 69 Every Other Weekend by Christopher L. Irvin, Page 71 Couldn’t Beat Howard by Katherine Givens, Page 72

The Rusty Nail Staff Editor-in-Chief Craig A. Hart Associate Editor Dr. Kimberly Nylen Hart Graphic Design Editor Paul Brand www.rustynailmag.com rustynailmag@gmail.com @rustynailmag

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

by Kyle Rader

The Hatchback P

aul white-knuckled the steering wheel. The weather channel promised light flurries starting at sunset, tapering off into isolated pockets.

Seeing as how the only thing that he could see out of the windshield was white, he assumed, naturally so, that it must have been ‘Opposite Day’, and ‘isolated pockets’ meant everywhere.

The snow was not the nice, friendly and quaint stuff that you see on postcards and in ski commercials. Images of hot cocoa, sledding and attractive young white people gliding over fresh powder appeared in Paul's mind in a sarcastic manner, only to be pushed out by images of his car sliding across the desolate winter road, being thrown about the interior when a patch of black ice, hidden under four inches of white death, caught the tire and flipped the car end over end.

Paul kept his hands at ten and two, the speedometer at a steady thirty-five miles per hour, as he headed for home. He thought of all the what-ifs that set him into this battle against the elements, armed only with a beatup car. If he hadn't been away for two weeks on business, if his wife wasn't alone and pregnant, and if he just didn't want to be home so badly, to hold her again, to pet their dog, and to feel their unborn daughter kicking him through his wife's abdominals, he would have just gotten a hotel and waited.

But, he didn't, couldn't. Two weeks away from those you love and the place where you feel safe from the harshness of reality was too much. Paul struggled to remember what his wife's hair smelled like and tried to conjure the image up as the wheels of his Hyundai slipped against the slick paste of Jack Frost's vengeance.

Soon, it would all be over. His smile, equal parts alleviation and jubilation, relaxed him. The sizable house they had purchased on the banks of the Connecticut River called to him, a lighthouse through the anarchy of the blizzard. From the start of River Road, it was less than a football field to home.

Winter bowed to no one, however, neither mortal nor God almighty.

Paul would have missed the car entirely, if the taillights were not shining into the road, blinding him with intense red glare. Cursing, he swerved around the rear of the vehicle, sending him into a tail-spin. Winter laughed at the man's feeble attempts to avoid wrecking, sending gusts of wind that exacerbated the situation.

Tapping the brakes, he turned the car into the skid, correcting the path with a shudder, saying a quick prayer

to the Michelin Man. Fear claimed his stomach, leaving a pit of tingling as the layers of muscles protecting his organs clenched into a rigid mass.

Mercifully, the car rocked to a halt, pointed in the opposite direction of Paul's destination. His own headlamps, blinded and dimmed from the blizzard, revealed the off-road vehicle to him. It was a hatchback, the make and model, unclear. It suffered the very fate that Paul had just narrowly avoided and was now perpendicular to the road itself. He was reminded of the monster movies from Japan he watched as a child, where the eighty-foot tall monster would spike cars and trains into the ground like volleyballs.

Paul was out of his car before he had time to think. The storm violated him with its wetness, soaking his hair after mere seconds and seeping into the confines of his pea-coat. His cell phone showed no bars, not to his surprise; He knew full well that he did not get service this far off the beaten path, it was one of the charms that they loved about it.

He half-shuffled, half-slid to his trunk, only to discover how woefully unprepared he was for such a situation. A bottle of windshield wiper fluid, a spare jacket, a towel, jumper cables and a flashlight were the only occupants.

Pondering the question as to how many other people drove around without first-aid kits or fresh water, Paul snatched the flashlight and trudged through the snow towards the hatchback.

Looking over his shoulder, he thought he could see lights, dim, but still there. His house. Less than fifty yards away, where they had a working phone, water, and a first-aid kit. He just needed to get back into his car and drive there and he could get help, real help out here in ten minutes.

But, he didn't. Blinking away the wet snow as it fell in-between his glasses, Paul walked to the hatchback.

“Hello? Any survivors?” he called out to the metal carcass, more snow and wind the only reply.

He kept moving towards the downed car. The closer he got to it, the more he realized that he had no idea what he was going to do. He took a CPR course once, years ago, and he had heard that they changed how they did it, so he was probably going to be more of a hindrance than a help to this poor soul who also decided to try their luck against Mother Nature.

The front end of the car was doing a very passable impression of an accordion; the headlights were not obliterated into a million pieces upon impact and shone

He just needed to get back into his car and drive there and he could get help, real help out here in ten minutes.

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against the ground, melting the snow into silver dollarsized puddles. The ditch was steep, too steep and slick for Paul to walk down, so he slid down on his bottom, Winter soaking him to the bone.

Picking himself up, he found himself face to face with the driver's side door of the hatchback. The window was broken, letting globs of snow into it like locusts.

Steeling himself for the inevitable, he thrust the flashlight into the unknown, feeling his heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

The corpse of the driver, lifeless against the steering wheel, showing a grin of broken teeth and crimson, a specter that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, was not there.

No one was.

The interior of the hatchback was empty, save for the increasing snow-drift in the driver's seat and a red manila folder on the passenger side. And, the blood, spattered against the steering wheel and floor resembling finger-paint more than sanguine fluid. While still wet, it clung where it lay, no glisten left to shine off as Paul moved the light over it.

A burning sensation in his chest gave him pause. He feared a heart attack, as the pain grew severe, tightening.

He gasped for air and realized, rather foolishly, that he had been holding his breath since sliding down the ditch.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” he called out to the storm, receiving no human response.

He searched through the underbrush of some nearby shrubbery, but the snow grew waist-deep. Seeing no footprints other than his own, and no long-dead blood cells staining the snow pink, Paul clambered out of the ditch and got back into his car.

He arrived home with no troubles. Winter, seemingly, done playing with him for one evening.

A tow truck came the next day and hauled it out of the ditch. He never learned if they had found the driver or not.

The hatchback, and its wounded husk of metal and rubber, appeared to him nightly in his dreams, as if waiting for him, like an old friend. Sometimes, he thought he would catch a glimpse of the driver's head, rested against the frame of the door, only to vanish in a wisp of flesh-colored smoke into the blizzard when he approached.

Paul never saw the person's face. ●

O Palestine

by Lauren Hoyt are feet slap the hard sand and the only sound is the puffs of panicked breathing. Farah holds my hand, struggling with the harsh grip. We stop around the corner from our house in Basil’s backyard. We were only running an errand for mother, doing something we can’t quite remember anymore. The windows of Basil’s house are caved in, smashed in mercilessly broken in their sills. Farah points up at the sky. The moon is pregnant and swollen-looking, like the fat hump of a camel. The June night is a hot one, and the humidity wipes our faces and reddens our plump cheeks. It would have been a beautiful night for Baba to smoke shisha and tell us stories about the Jinn, it would have been a fun night— Lights flash, Hebrew words push into our ears. Men walk by Basil’s house, around the corner, so close to us.

So close we can almost touch, almost smell his breath, almost taste the words from his tongue. They probably taste like shit and blood.

Kneel here, Farah.

Gun shots. A door is kicked off its hinges.

Wait.

Just a moment more. Breathe. Breathe. Farah looks at me. She’s trying not to cry. She knows we don’t have time for tears.

Now, run.

We sprint towards our house, the house with the beige door, with the smooth brick walls, like all the other smooth brick wall houses, but this one is ours. The outside light is on, the door open, we creep into the house, sniff the air, smell the maqluba, the rice, the radio still playing music, a man humming through the speakers. We ease farther through the door, past the threshold, into the living room, yet no one is there, no one but the emptiness, no one but us, no one but the man on the radio, no one at all, no one at all, no one but the cat.

We need to keep moving. Baba will have taken Mother to Aunt Fatima’s. Farah tugs on my hand. She looks at the cat. My hand pulls her to follow me. She will cry later, but not now, not when we have to look out into the backyard and hop over the fence. Farah has trouble getting her shorter legs over the wooden pieces, she is six, she is small, she is strong, she is young, she will make it.

We pause behind a bush and look for more men, more invaders, more pillagers of homes. The desert is empty, thankfully, and it isn’t far to Aunt Fatima’s. If we are careful, we can be there before long.

We walk over bushes, over rocks, over stones, through desert sand, through the nothingness and the everything of the desert. It is hot, it is moist and the hot breath of the air licks at our faces, wetting our clothes the farther we move. We will make it, we must make it.

Salma, are we close? Are we there? Farah looks pitifully up at me, then at my hand pointing in the

B

• • •

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distance, at the town we’ve nearly reached, the town that looks like twinkling lights. Farah wants to go faster, tugs my hand to move faster, wanting to get there faster.

Headlights blur our vision and we begin to run out of the way of the car. Farah screams, too afraid to cry. She clings to my hand, and my hand nearly drags her behind.

The car stops, pulls over, doors open, familiar voices call out.

Salma, Farah! It’s Hani, I’m sorry. Please, come with me. We need to hurry. Our cousin. Hamdulillah, it is our cousin. We get into the car, the old car, the car that smells of incense, the car that Hani would take us in to race other cars. Now, he races us back into town to our aunt, to our family.

Your parents had just come to invite us to dinner when Basil’s mother phoned. Hani drives recklessly, barely staring at what is in front of him. Our knuckles go white clutching each other’s hands. Soon, we reach Aunt Fatima’s house, untouched, windows intact, perfectly quiet. People are in the dimly lit streets, panicking, leaving, packing their things, running away from the fight, running towards it, running. We go inside, Hani follows, pulling the door shut behind him.

Farah? Salma? Allah u akhbar. She runs up to us, pulls us into her arms, kisses our cheeks, pets our hair, checks our fingers, looks into our eyes, making sure we are still breathing, we are actually alive. Baba joins her, more reserved, yet we can tell he is relieved.

The TV broadcasts the news, yelling about Israel, discussing how they bombed Egyptian soil, a precaution or so the Israelis said to the newscaster. The reporter cries about how they are ripping Palestinians from their homes. Aunt Fatima looks at me, and she sees the realization on my face. She nods at me, solemn.

What is going on, Baba? Little Farah is so young.

She must age quickly, learn fast, grow up.

We are going to Jordan tonight. Baba looks towards the TV to think, looks through it, makes plans for us, for what we will do. Hani loads up the car.

But Baba, our cat is still at home, what about our cat? Farah looks at me and knows. Her lower lip trembles, but she stops when I squeeze her shoulder.

Now is not the time for tears. Not yet. It isn’t over yet.

Our family loads small things into the car: pictures, food, a blanket our great-grandmother made, a teddy bear for Farah. We sit tightly packed together inside, and we drive towards our new home, towards Jordan. The drive is perilous. We see men and women, children and babies, all are crying, are upset, are thrust from their homes. It’s as if it’s thrown into our faces: This is no longer your Holy Land, it’s ours now. We are scattered like fleas, like pests, and we move to infest other countries, to try and find homes somewhere else, anywhere else, anywhere that will accept us. We are pulled over at a bridge and papers are forced into Baba’s hands. It says that we are all leaving of our own free will, and that our land is no longer our own land, the land that was my father’s, my grandfather’s and his father’s and so many more back. The land that has been ours for thousands of years, we must deny it and say we do not love it as our own anymore. O Palestine, my heart. ●

Lauren Hoyt graduated from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas majoring in English, and minoring in creative writing. She grew up in Ras Tanura, Saudi Arabia, but her family is from Baytown, Texas. She is published in HUMID, Theocrit, Linguistic Erosion, and Stephen F. Austin’s Subplots Chair Chapbook.

Art Work

by I.G. Frederick The buzzing needle penetrates my skin.

I can't see the ink, but I feel the pain and grip the metal posts of the chair's back until my fingers cramp. The artist asks me a question which invades the torment that will cloud my brain until endorphins kick in. He shows me another color and dismay requires me to focus and rethink the palette I've envisioned. His devotion to his craft never wavers and my trust in his talent overrides all my concerns. I survive the pain and the indecision, but still I stagger when, after two hours, I stumble to the mirror to admire his bright creation.

• • • I.G. Frederick has written professionally for more years than she cares to admit. Since 2001, she has specialized in erotic fiction and poetry and has sold numerous short stories and poems to various print and electronic publishers. Her novels have received high praise from readers, critics, and other writers. You can read reviews of her work and find links to purchase her novels, poetry collection, and individual short stories on her website: http://eroticawriter.net/

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

The Youngest Girl

by Andrew Pei

at a Comfort Station

A

ugust 7, 1943 was Kumi’s first day at the comfort station, a military brothel located 30 miles northeast of Harbin, China. A small town girl from Sasebo, Japan, she was still ignorant about sex at age of 16. But as soon as the first visitor to her stall undressed himself and told her to do the same, she knew it was going to be bad. She refused to do as told and wouldn’t allow herself to be cajoled to easy cooperation or threatened to submission.

She kept ducking, kicking, and flailing. Her unexpected reaction turned the visitor on as he watched her like watching an amusing show. But as his time was ticking away and his need remained unsatisfied, he applied force to pin her down. He managed to rip her clothes off but couldn’t advance any further. She thrashed in his arms, buried her nails into his chest, bit his hand, knocked her head into his nose, and almost gouged his pupils out. The loud commotion was heard, and two security guards came running. Eventually she was tied up to the bed frame, gagged, and raped.

When he was done, he took her gag out and asked her whether she had learned her lesson. Without being able to get up, she glared at him with naked hatefulness and shouted out all the bad names she could think of.

When he stepped close to stop her, she spit into his face, and mixed in the saliva was blood from her bitten lips.

His face turned scarlet, and he shoved the gag back into her mouth. Instead of smacking her, he took a bottle of beer out of his pocket, downed half of it in one gulp, and poured the rest between her legs. Then with a fiendish howl, as if the demon in him was uncoiled, he rammed the neck of the bottle into her. She bent her head backward, squeezed her eyes shut, bared her teeth, and stiffened her entire body. The pain was so excruciating that her balled knuckles whitened. Her torturer, however, simply shot her one more glare of malevolence, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and stomped out, leaving the bottle where it was. The bed sheet was soaked with body fluids, beer, and blood. Hardly had the next visitor in line entered the stall before he staggered out, running all the way to the front office. The doctor was immediately summoned, and Kumi was carried out on a stretcher.

When she described the entire ordeal to her close friend Minako, Minako’s face blanched. She gave Kumi a serious searching look, wondering whether she had become delirious. When Minako saw Kumi’s stitches, her head began to spin, and her vision went wonky. She would have failed to fight a rising sob if Kumi’s calm voice had not set off an alarm. While Kumi should collapse into Minako’s arms to start a crying fit, her eyes were glassy and her body was unshaken. She was too composed for the situation.

“Kumi, are you all right?” Minako asked in a voice just short of paranoia.

Kumi appeared to be in a trance. Her eyes were blank, and her mind seemed to be drifting away. She heard her friend but didn’t respond. Minako had to cup Kumi’s face in her hands and spin her head to get her attention.

“Kumi, are you with me?”

She looked up right through Minako at the blank space outside the window. Her sadness and rage were palpable, and her hoarse voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not clean anymore. I’m ruined for life.”

“Kumi, don’t say that. I can’t undo what that bastard did to you, but I will be the shoulder you can cry on. I will cry with you.”

“I don’t want you to cry with me.”

“Then tell me what you want.”

“I want you to give me some advice.”

“About what?”

“How can I make him pay?” She asked between gritting teeth and wheezing breaths.

Minako looked straight into Kumi’s eyes and saw nothing but seriousness. She wouldn’t hesitate to help Kumi castrate that monster or bury him alive if they could stand a chance, but common sense told her that she had to persuade Kumi to swallow her pain and forget about revenge.

“Kumi, you are no match for him or any of them. No matter how hard it is, you have to suck it up. From now on we must learn to be smart in order to survive. The only way to protect ourselves under the circumstance is to put up with them to avoid any confrontation. Someday they will all pay for their crimes. Even if they can get away from prison terms, they won’t get away from their guilty conscience.” Minako gave Kumi the best advice she could, yet she was afraid that her best might not be good enough.

Kumi didn’t argue, nor did she agree. She remained silent for a while before she nestled into Minako’s arms.

It seemed that she wanted to confide in Minako something else, but she ended up saying nothing.

“Get some sleep.” Minako held Kumi until she closed her heavy eyes and curled up in a fetal position. Only after hearing Kumi’s rhythmic breathing did Minako burst into huge gulping sobs. She couldn’t wipe her tears away fast enough as more came in torrents. It took her a long time to put her emotions in check and realize that she had to do something beyond just letting Kumi use her lap as a pillow. She first cuddled Kumi’s bruised hands in hers, as if she could instantly erase the rope burns on Kumi’s wrists. Then she combed Kumi’s disheveled raven-black hair with trembling fingers, putting the loose strands behind her ears. Kumi’s 6

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

freckle-free face still looked chubby, and her lips cherryred. Her lashes were long; even the tiny mole on the left side of her nose bridge was anything but a blemish.

Nothing, not even the blood smears, could take away the angelic sweetness of her face. The more Minako looked at her, the more wretched she felt, knowing that her friend had been reduced to a ruined angel who could not survive another ordeal as bad as this. Obviously no one could build a protective crust hard enough to prevent penetration, so unless Kumi would accede to the plea for being smart, she was doomed for deeper troubles.

Minako imagined seeing Kumi’s face bloat up earlier that day, which gave her polar chills. However, the harder she tried to fend off the horror, the faster it entered her brain until she could hardly distinguish imagination from reality. When a sliver of moonlight peeked in, she dozed off in spite of the mounting urgency to stay awake. In her dream, she found herself in Kumi’s stall where she witnessed Kumi being tied up, raped, and wedged. She froze in the doorway, totally subdued by her inability to rescue her friend. She held out her hand, but she couldn’t reach Kumi. She yelled at the top of her lungs, but her piercing voice fell on the deaf ear. She staggered forward only to cause her legs to buckle; she kept crawling toward Kumi’s torturer, but the distance could not be closed. The whole scene drove her completely crazy. Her whole body was shaking so violently that the stall shook with her until the ceiling finally caved in. She screamed only to wake up from her nightmare to look into the terror-stricken face of another comfort woman.

“What did Kumi tell you, Minako?” Her eyes trained on Minako’s; her voice was filled with panic.

“What?” Minako blinked in confusion as she was trying to rub dizziness out of her eyes. Danger signals blared when she suddenly noticed Kumi’s absence. A cold blade of premonition sliced through her, and an overwhelming fear suffused every cell of her body. She swallowed with her heart pummeling in her chest, but her mouth was devoid of saliva.

“Kumi is gone. Look at this.” The other girl passed a note to Minako. With trembling hands, she flattened the crumpled paper. Kumi’s words turned blurry before they became clear. Minako stared at the note with her mouth open, unable to believe what her eyes relayed to her brain.

Dear Minako, By the time you read this, I will be out of here. I’ve gone over what you’ve said about survival, but fake obedience is not in my blood, and I’m too stubborn to change. I am not a coward, but I’m fleeing. Wish me luck. Take care of yourself.

Kumi

Kumi tried to sneak out of the comfort station in the dead of the night, but she was spotted by the watch dogs, captured by the guards, and locked up with her hands cuffed and feet chained. The next morning the station was closed, and all the girls were gathered in front of the office, waiting for the lieutenant colonel to arrive. The sky became lead gray as clouds gathered to obscure the sun. A distant thunder was rumbling. A storm was brewing.

It was a nervous wait for the other girls, a terrifying one for Minako. Her pulse pounded in her temples, her head throbbed with every beat of her heart, and a cold clammy sweat broke out on her skin. Not being able to stop her knees from knocking against each other, she wished she could hole herself in a dark room where no one could see her banging her forehead against the wall and whipping her own flesh.

If only she had watched Kumi with her eyes open, if only she had consoled her more effectively, if only she had promised her to find a way to get even with her torturer, if only she had given her any practical advice regarding how to recover from her trauma, Kumi wouldn’t have taken the risk without consulting her first. Now Kumi’s life was in the hands of the coming colonel. Minako’s brain was busy computing the implications, and each time some ominous images chased through her mind. As her worry seeped into terror, the ground seemed to lurch underneath her.

A jeep sped in a cloud of dust and came to a screeching halt about thirty yards away from the girls.

No sooner had it stopped than the colonel jumped out followed by two body guards. His angular face, high cheekbones, and wide-set eyes added to his fierce looks.

While he was having an exchange of words with the officer in charge of the comfort station, Minako wished she could stretch her ears and attune them to the faintest sound. She knew that the colonel didn’t come to pick a girl for pleasure; he came to chastise one. When he let a wry grin tug at the corner of his mouth and approached the comfort women in big strides, no one batted an eye.

All of them braced for the auspice that was saturated in the air.

The colonel stepped onto an empty ammo box to make his presence completely felt. His beady eyes swept the group before he started to talk.

“Well, we meet again. I thought I could be proud of you for serving the Empire by boosting the army morale, but one of you has disappointed me much too soon. In military, discipline can never be over emphasized. Any disregard of it can mean failure and defeat. I know you don’t have sufficient training and conditioning for it, and the first offense can be handled with leniency. However, it goes against my philosophy. I believe in setting up good examples and showing zero tolerance to bad ones.

The colonel stepped onto an empty ammo box to make his presence completely felt.

His beady eyes swept the group before he started to talk.

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So I’m going to exact the punishment this guilty girl has brought upon herself, and from now on you can choose either to follow her suit or my orders. Bring her up!” He hollered.

Kumi was dragged out of the office. Her mouth pinched tight. One of her eyes slit open, and the other was swollen shut. The wind gusted, and the first crack of lightning flashed across the sky. She took a long inhale of the moist air, shook off the hands still grabbing her, and faced the colonel with a cocked eyebrow. Although he towered over her on the ammo box, he met her cold and mocking eyes that did not knew fear. The two of them locked their gaze at each other as if to see who would blink first. Seconds dilated into unknown measure of time as everyone else held their breath waiting to see the two of them make their next move. Minako issued a mute plea to Kumi, begging her not to provoke the colonel but do whatever she could to save her own life. Kumi couldn’t hear Minako; even if she could, she wouldn’t give in under pressure. She once told her friend that her fearless stubbornness or her stubborn fearlessness was her strength as much as her weakness. She could prevail where most people would fear treading, but she could also plunge into danger where others would back out. It was in her blood, as she put it.

“Number 13, do you know why we are meeting here right now?” asked the colonel. His pupils contracted to thin slits. His gaze held hers.

13 was Kumi’s stall number. Although its association with bad luck was never more conspicuous than now, Kumi didn’t seem to be bothered. She raked the colonel up and down with a scathing eye and kept her contemptuous silence.

“You have been warned about the punishment for escape. Now what do you have to say? Did you ignore the warning because you were too young to understand the seriousness of it?”

“I may be the youngest in this group, but I’m not as dumb as you think.” She licked her dry lips and snapped.

“Then why did you escape?” The colonel yelled.

“To break loose from hell.”

“You ARE dumb. Don’t you know that you have condemned yourself for treason just by saying that?” He ground his tobacco-stained teeth and shot her a swordsharp stare in an effort to break her resolve.

“Did you order your soldier to ram a bottle inside my virgin body? Is that an act of patriotism? Is that what our great Empire allows her soldiers to do?” Kumi raised her chin and slapped him with undisguised despite.

In the unnerving silence, the colonel saw all the eyes train on him. He jumped off from the ammo box, closed in on Kumi, and clipped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you a tough girl or are you pretending to be one? How do you think you can get away with this?

Don’t you know who I am? I didn’t get where I am by being soft.”

“Do you mean you got where you are by being cruel?”

Kumi sneered.

His face turned crimson, and a vein bulged in his neck. Suddenly he drew his sword and pointed its tip at her throat. Kumi flinched; all the other girls found it impossible to breathe. Time froze, and each tick of the clock was like a whisper of death in Kumi’s ear. Against

all her better judgment, Minako broke away from the group with an earsplitting shriek. She dashed toward the colonel like a sprinter, only to be seized by his body guards.

“Colonel, please forgive her. She is only a child. She didn’t mean to offend you.” Words tumbled out of her mouth as she dropped to her knees, knowing that she had to do something before the colonel went for Kumi’s jugular. Minako would have crawled up to grab his legs if his sword had remained sheathed.

“Who the hell are you?” The colonel whirled to face Minako with devil dancing in his bloody eyes.

“I am her friend. We are from the same town. Please show mercy. Please!”

“Well, you are lucky to be unrelated to her.

Otherwise I would punish her for her defiance and punish for your negligence. If a child is guilty of something, it’s the fault of the parents or older siblings.

Now get lost before I change my mind.”

His words struck Minako like the edge of an ax.

Before she knew it, the body guards dragged her up and shoved her back to the crowd. She couldn’t blink her eyes, nor could she move a muscle as the colonel spun around to face Kumi. A trace of peril played on his lips when he uttered “Now you are going to see who I am.” He slapped her hard on her cheek, leaving red welts where his hand landed.

Kumi staggered and yelped at the pain, but she managed to hold her ground without falling. She bit her bleeding lips in a hateful grimace, but she kept her back ruler straight. She would have lunged at him barehanded to knock her head into his face or kick him in the crotch had she not been cuffed and chained.

“Kumi, please…” Breathing in great heaves, Minako couldn’t finish her sentence. She realized with a pang that it might be too late for anyone to save Kumi.

The Japanese flag was snapping in the wind, and Kumi’s hair was escaping from a messy ponytail.

Blowing a hank of hair out of her face, she flipped Minako a brief smile and looked at her with a regal poise that was much too rare in a girl her age.

“Minako, thank you for trying to save me! If I could be reborn, I would like nothing more than being your friend again.”

With that she whipped her head around, raised a tweezed eyebrow to the colonel, spit at his feet, and said in a low voice filled with contempt: “Now you can show me who you are.” ● • • •

8

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Do I? I mouth the question into the empty air. There is no answer back.

Outside, I can see the nearby streetlight, flickering on and off randomly. A loose wire or filament makes the light unpredictable. On. Off. Oooooooon. Ooff. On. Oooooooooooooff. There is no reason or rhythm to the light, and I am entranced by the light, feeling myself dig deeper into my thoughts.

Oooon. That would have been that one girl from high school, who had a wide smile and tiny eyes. Oooooff – the long period of time afterwards, when I realized I didn’t like her or any other girl. On – a nameless girl.

Ooooooooooooooff – the years I spent angry at the world, and myself. I watch each flicker of the light, when it goes on and off, and I realize it matches my own relationship history perfectly. On, off. With someone or without. There is no in between. It’s infuriating to watch. Choose, I want to say. Choose – stay on or off. I feel powerless watching the light, and I know my own family, friends and lovers feel the same about me. How I cannot choose, flickering on and off.

I look over to her slumbering in my – our – bed, and I wonder if the light will go off for us also. It seems impossible during the day, when I can see every crease in her eyes and mouth as she laughs, when I can watch her hand reach out for me, her voice heavy and thick in my ears. But now, in the darkness, nothing seems real or substantial.

The light may be me. I feel the solid, heavy truth in the words as they form in my mind. I control the light, and if it is random, flickering, broken, is it only because I have chosen it to be so. I could change it, to keep the light steady and strong. Or I can simply break it, and leave myself in the darkened solitude. I know how to fix it – it’s not a mystery. My own laziness or hesitancy stays my hand, though – so I could end up with nothing but flickering shadows for the rest of my life. Is this how people choose to finally stay? Is this how people end up married? – they are finally tired of dancing between darkness and light? I don’t believe that – love and relationships should be more than a refusal of something, a reaction to an annoyance.

But what do I know? I’m only a child playing at being adult.

It is easier to slip back into the bed than it was to leave. There still isn’t enough comforter to cover my side of the bed – I don’t know where such a tiny woman could hide so much cloth – but that is all right. I never need as much as she needs. She can take as much as she wants – I simply reach my arm around her thin frame and pull her closer to me, feeling her warmth bleed through her thin sleeping clothes and into me. And even with most of my body exposed, I don’t shiver. All that matters, I suppose, is that she is warm and protected. I can draw my own warmth from her, breathing in deeply from her hair and letting sleep settle my thoughts once more. ●

She Turns in Her Sleep

by Aaron McCullough he turns in her sleep, pulling the comforter with her as she rolls away from me on the bed.

Whatever dream that dances in her head pushes a soft moan from her mouth with her even, slow breathing. Her movement yanks me from the light slumber lying across my mind. It is reflex by now; my eyes look towards her sleeping form.

Her long, black hair is spread all over the pillow, falling over her eyes, her bare shoulder and tickling my forearm where the tips lightly touch me. I brush the thin curtain of hair from her face, unmasking her. She is vulnerability. My heart aches watching her.

The entire left side of my body has been uncovered by her fitful sleep. Late nights like this always bring the metaphor to mind. Our bed is our relationship, and constantly it feels as if she is taking more space, taking more than her share. Her long legs – the legs she so carefully hides beneath long skirts and baggy jeans – are trying to entangle mine, her feet locking with my ankles.

Pleasant warmth emanates from her calves, her smooth thighs. I want to edge closer, to draw her body to mine – into mine – but I am still. Watching, waiting.

If it were morning, if sunlight was peeking through the windows, I would be smiling, noticing how she has hoarded the comforter, pulling more and more of it around her tiny frame. Given enough blanket, she would roll herself into a caterpillar, sort of a reverse metamorphosis, the butterfly drawing itself back to its childhood. But it is nighttime, the deepest part of the night, and I watch her stoically. I am drawing the metaphor out further in my mind, seeing how our sleep mirrors our waking hours.

She doesn’t realize it, but she is always constantly pulling more and more from me. And it has to be subtle, silent, and smooth – her tiny body cannot win in a tug-awar with mine. More time is pulled away, wrapped around her, and she finds ways to invade my area without my noticing. Only now, as I look around the tiny apartment, do I realize how she has found ways to spread all over the place.

Her shirt has shifted during the night and I can see her bare shoulder and collarbone. The skin is flawless – a tranquil pool of pale white in the darkness. I carefully follow the curves of her neck, collar, and shoulder with my finger. I expect to see ripples, as if my fingers would disturb the peaceful purity of her skin. I can almost see the waves of warmth rolling out from her. I draw back my hand, lest I rouse her.

Joints creak loudly as I lift myself from the bed. My muscles ache from the slow way I pull my legs free from her, my arm sliding out from under her head. She is unaware of my disappearance and I stand beside the bed, draped in shadows, the bed illuminated by moon and city lights. It is too dark here in the shadows to see myself. I should return to the bed, to study her tiny face scarred by the infuriating acne that she wages war against every morning. Here, asleep in the bed, she is at peace, though.

It is here that she feels the most safe, the most relaxed.

S

• • •

9

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

leaning fences seem harmless. Lose the light, and you lose the routine. Darkness invites mystery and danger.

These are the hours when Poe writes of Death. When Steinbeck's seas roughen to sink ships. When Hunter Thompson shoots up with morphine to spill his soul out of the pen.

Superheroes Still Keep Watch

by Chris Nugent

I have driven for some miles now and the landmarks passing by in the dark are unfamiliar. I am lost, but not concerned. I long to keep driving, but I know my wife and children will not last forever. I heave the rudder hard over and we turn around at the junction with Gun Flint Road. I had been looking for one of the state wildlife areas, but it must have passed by in the dark while I daydreamed. Picking up speed again, the sides of the road stream past, brown swaths of the visible that then disappear into the ink of the night. There is no one to be blinded, and so I have engaged my dual battery system and lit all the lights on the Jeep, a brilliant firefly flitting through the hills. For a few more minutes I drive until I find a wide open spot in the road with a meadow disappearing into the darkness to the south. The Jeep drifts to the side and rolls to a halt. Clicks of switches in the dark of the cab as the lights go out. Engine stop.

We're here and here is nowhere.

The crunch of the human foot on the good earth is poetry and prayer. My wife mutters quietly to my daughter as the car seat is unbuckled. It’s 11:30. We break out the orange hunting coats to ward off a bit of chill brought with the breeze. The dark is everywhere. As the exhaust ticks in the silence, my eyes are drawn to the only source of light for miles. Above me, a million stars sparkle and shine like diamonds cast out on a black silk cloth. In the middle of the sky, the Milky Way galaxy flows in a great ribbon. There needs to be a cat up there, I muse. A cat to lap up the spilt milk. To the north the Big Dipper leans at a crazy angle, as if some cook had left it leaning on the counter while in a hurry to check an oven full of bread. I see Polaris above it, and farther to the east Jupiter and Venus are rising. Where is the moon? Not up yet, and so Armstrong and Aldrin's dusty trails are safe from prying eyes.

Our eyes adjust and we teach Kivrin, my daughter, about the stars and the planets as we point up at the sky.

Ian, my son, is fast asleep inside the cab. Small talk only lasts a few minutes before we are rewarded with a bright streak through the sky. "There goes one!" I call out. In a few minutes another, in a different direction, passes overhead. Then another. Soon we lose count. We see a satellite whiz overhead, a faint imitation of the beauty surrounding us, and yet an essential part of Man's own artificial galaxy that he has thrown up into the air around his world. I wonder about the men on the space station and I have visions of classic sci-fi stories that play out in my imagination.

While my wife and daughter huddle near the back tire, I lean against the front bumper. All eyes look heavenward. I see it first. To the northeast a great orange glow begins, lengthening into a fiery ribbon with a fireball at its head. "Look at that one!" This is a good one.

It arcs across the sky, screaming westward. Piercing the heart of the Big Dipper like an arrow, we watch it until some seconds later it fades into the same horizon that

he last vestiges of dusk fade from the sky as the ignition turns to crank this venerable container of six cylinders into motion. The mode of transport? Jeep Chassis Designation: XJ. The Cherokee. A magnificent vehicle of exploration, replete with cargo rack, flood lights, winch, and an intrepid team of wide-eyed space travelers packed cozily inside. Recover mooring lines and answer backing bells; she moves with large lugged tires in a stately grace, eschewing the harboring shelter of a cluttered garage in exchange for the open road. Turning now to maneuver into our main asphalt channel, headlights splash across the mailbox and the order is given: All ahead flank speed.

We are in pursuit of the Perseid meteor shower. My wife questions my sanity as two sleepy children sit strapped into the back seat. They ask when they should make a wish. I tell them the stars favor us and they can make as many as they want. Tonight there are no rules save for the speed limit.

Our course takes us north and west, out of the bright lights of the city. I don’t miss a place sullied and poisoned with an infection of loud music, late-night pub crawls, and directionless vagrants. The moan of tires in accompaniment with the steady roar of the engine and the cold rush of evening wind through the windows make for a comforting symphony. Like many troubled superheroes, the Irish Avenger seeks solace in the simple things, far from urban white noise and the uncertainty of life piled into neatly organized boxes on streets. I seek the dark. I seek the quiet. I seek the mystery. I have no cape, nor winged boots, but the cost of daily miracles in raising my children is stress and a fractured heart. I seek medicine.

Highway 287 is busy for 10:30 pm. I join a long line of truckers heading north towards Wyoming, and we pick up some chatter on the CB radio. Greasy small talk, profanity laced, mixes with well wishes for a safe trip as they pass out of radio range. I wonder about the miracle of American transport. But I do not doubt.

T

Passing Livermore and The Forks Restaurant (an establishment that refuses to die), we slow to make a left turn at Cherokee Park Road. Our heading is two-sevenzero now. Due west. Asphalt gives way to wash boarded gravel, but inside I am smiling because I know out there somewhere the arms of the mountains welcome me once again. There are no more amber sodium vapor lights to show the way. I see dark silhouettes of hills out the windows, and occasionally an outbuilding gets a glancing blow from the headlights. It is so dark. We weave and dart our way up a winding hilly road while a map of the terrain rolls through my mind. I have been down this road before in the daylight, when the graybrown tone of the road is bland, and the grasses and 10

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

consumes sunsets. The bright line of a ghost image dances across the dark hills, a luminous echo inside my eyes. Oohs and ahhs ensue and I ask my little girl if she made a wish. She says she did but she can't tell me. It's okay, I say.

The Irish Avenger, soothed and solaced, stands in the lonely darkness with his family. He has no cape. No winged boots or fancy utility belt. He knows, though, like philosophers and astrophysicists, that the universe has something to teach all of us. It is our choice whether we should feel small, or whether we should feel great. This evening, I feel great. Not great in that soccer-mom, gungho, eat your vegetables and drink your soy kind of great.

Rather, that a greatness exists in me and in all of us. Even atheists can wonder at the machinations of the universe and be driven to weep.

Talons of the night's chill have taken hold in earnest, and it is time to go. We secure our landing party, close the hatch, and prepare to set sail once again. At the touch of a switch, great fires ignite and we are on our way. The bright stars and the Milky Way disappear as my eyes adjust to the incandescent pool of light thrown onto the road by the Jeep. I know they are still there, far above me, and so in my heart I celebrate a little. The Jeep flies down the road as I keep careful watch for leaping deer.

At the highway, a last squirt of gravel from the tires issues a benediction to the night's activities. Quiet has set in as my hardy crew slumber at their stations. I man the helm with a steady hand and guide my trusty mechanical steed towards a home port. The familiar landmarks of The Forks and Ted's Place come into view, buoys of civilization. In this hour, on this day, we have dared to venture into the darkness, and we have returned safely to Earth. Home may be in the city, but I am already dreaming of the next voyage. The last neighborhood streets unwind before us and I imagine a quiet superhero, Celtic of background, hunched with his arms over his knees. He keeps watch, brooding and waiting, on a ridge overlooking the city. There are no winged boots or utility belts, but who needs those when we have the stars and the wild lands?

Easy, now. All engines answer ahead slow as I maneuver into the safe harbor of the garage. Doors shut quietly. Lights go out. Sleepy children pad downstairs to bed. The Irish Avenger doffs his gear; a t-shirt and cargo shorts laden with keys and wallet hit the floor. Soft sheets envelope warm bodies and we drift to sleep while a vertigo of dark roads and galactic clockwork dances in dreaming minds. I cannot wait for breakfast. ●

On the Third Day

by Katrina K Guarascio I let myself bleed and smeared derangements over upturned lips, but you loved me anyway.

Hard, with a fist and a curse word, taking no tenderness with this tear, paying no attention to fresh stitches.

You murked in my puddles as if you were used to the rain.

As if it was nothing new to wipe fresh red from blue vein.

You didn’t let me sleep.

You were up before dawn trying me on like a new shirt, seeing how I stretched around you.

Thin skin over muscle and bone.

How pretty this human suit looks when it is crumbled on the floor, never given a moment to bend into my own shape, easier to just twist around you in the dark.

On the third day you left me for dead, dragged my body to your favorite roadside diner propped me up in a shallow booth, adjusted my arms and face as though they still beat blood paid for runny eggs and burnt toast.

Your treat; your turn.

• • • The Irish Avenger is the online persona of stay-athome dad and free lance writer Chris Nugent. It is a moniker borne of late nights spent in the primordial chat rooms of an infant Internet, during the heady days of his youth. An avid offroad enthusiast, Chris can often be found in the woods refilling his bottle of words when not wrangling his two small children. He lives in Fort Collins, CO.

These sleeves were just long enough to cover the bruises on my wrists, this hair just straight enough to hide the bags under my eyes.

You took a moment to smooth my lipstick, with a tender thumb.

• • • 11

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

I Hate Ivory Soap

by Ekaterina Lalo

I

knew Connor was my soul mate from the day he moved in with me. He came home from work for the first time with a plastic bag from the nearest Rite Aid, only three blocks away from our (as opposed to mine just a day before) apartment building, with a pack of Irish Spring soap, despite the fact that I had five bars of Ivory in the cabinet under the sink.

I hate Ivory soap.

I had been using it for two years, and during nights I couldn't fall asleep, I lay in bed with my arms on the blanket, my nose on my shoulder, my skin nauseously smelling of nothing. Ivory would wash off the sweat accumulated after 30 minutes of running on the treadmill 5.5 miles per hour and give no smell in return.

Leaving me rather bare than clean. Taking me for granted.

The man I was dating before Connor was a fortyyear-old jolly family guy, with a wife and two kids at home, taking a break from them once or twice a week during his lunch hour at my apartment. His name was Mark, and he begged me to get Ivory soap because he was afraid that he would smell of me one day he comes home as though his skin expressed more sincerity than his eyes. Long wearing lipstick and pungent perfumes weren't on my shopping list either, an insignificant fee I had to pay for borrowing a man from another woman.

When I was with Mark in the shower, I'd press my body against his hiding my face in the hair on his wide chest, and he smelled of the same mischief I did, of the no-aroma Ivory that bound us. Being his felt like taking a cold shower: my body responded to his touch immediately, with goos●e pimples all over my skin, but I knew I wouldn't bear it too long.

Still, even six months after I broke up with him, I had my bathroom cabinet stuffed with the same soap bar, a mere thing of habit that tortured me with its absence of smell. I had the pungent perfumes and all lipsticks I wanted, but this still was my scarlet letter, a scar on my conscience I couldn't let go. It was not the guilt of borrowing Mark from his family; it was robbing myself of a warm body snoring by my side with no deadlines and no obligations that haunted me like a ghost booing me for my lack of dignity.

Thus, peeping into Connor’s plastic bag the first day he came home to me was the finale of my soap opera. Not jumping the gun to happily ever after, I opened a box of Irish Spring exploring the liberating smell of aloe.

Hunger

by Katrina K Guarascio In the days of hunger strikes and promises made too easily, I wanted the simplicity of touch and your chest to support my fears.

It’s been years since I scrapped feet against white sheets and standing separate we attempted to rebuild empires weathered to rubble.

But crawling belly to concrete only left fresh scratches that spit slivers of blood strippening our shirts.

In the days of ice and cannibal, you kept me from shivering as the tips of my fingers turned black with bite.

You kissed the armor of elbow knowing it would never be enough but just the same, it was the tenderness you knew, and I was gracious.

There wasn’t enough strength in grasp to pull from gravel, not enough resilience in blood to let scratches scab.

You left me weak and bloody.

I learned then the itch under my skin, could not be scratched by the eager fingers of men.

The most distinct lifelines transform when left to swell and wrinkle in hot water.

I never wanted to be unrecognizable to touch even as time turned copper to rust.

• • •

In the days of sprinkled streets and pocket watches, I grew before you, less like a weed more a tended flower.

Ripening under your gaze.

12

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

You wanted me then and the comfort of death kept body alive.

We slid easily, eager for regression.

We broke twigs and tricks as if our feet were only made to slip.

As if the inevitable was petroglyphed on our bedroom walls.

We were made to feed.

One Bench, One Afternoon

by F.J. Gale The weather-beaten, rickety old bench creaked its inhospitable moan at the weight that ached it.

It was our weight.

Yours and mine.

And the wind attacked the aged trees that surrounded us forcing the branches to sway violently against its power.

Like the relentless ache that beset my susceptible heart pitterpat, pitterpat morphed to thump, thump.

It was your words.

Yours to mine.

It was never a question how we became savage.

• • •

Waiting for a Headstone

by Keith Moul

The familiar smell of your cologne was now foreign and your eyes that turned to me were not your own.

They were stoic.

You were cold.

I looked up to the encompassing grey sky and its minions rushed towards me. Raindrops which were followed quickly by more, more on my face, the place where tears should be.

Tears you caused.

Would I drown?

A man came to my door saying he had urgent words to report from my father’s grave.

I doubted his Missouri accent; I suggested the hour was bad for such talk; I hooked the latch and told the man I couldn’t know him; I asked him to please go before the spiral of time reversed.

The surrounding nature that always comforted me succumbed to my state of mind and offered only hurt.

It was your pain.

You made this.

You laid your hand on me; it burned like a knife's blade.

I saw your hurt, but it couldn't compare with mine.

You'd broken me.

We were done.

Would turn to see You would be gone Because now, you see we were done.

For days I studied his departed face, heard his lasting voice, felt the man’s movements and conjured facts from air as if preparing to give testimony.

The man’s presence compelled me most during loud noises, bright lights, or riot as if his purpose clarified in distraction, or his core demanded peeling his flesh.

Cigarette smoke, beer, bleu cheese, salty cashews and sliced tomato in vinegar: many pungent, past odors blew in the window; tastes I wanted to lose had intensified; flies buzzed suicidally at the screen.

• • • F.J. Gale is the author of several works of fiction, including the action-adventure novel series, Vigilante Justice. She has a passion for the expressive freedom of poetry writing. A web design student, she lives in Toronto with her fiancé and their mischievous bunny.

View some of her works at fictioneye.blogspot.ca

My mother ignored time for two years to buy a headstone, which cemetery maintenance installed on a cold day when funeral goers of my generation, looking more back than forward, sat lonely in colorless rooms, speaking urgent, colorless words.

• • • 13

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

beach who had made the long drive from Wisconsin to Maine so their young boy could see the ocean. The boy would spend his days splashing around in the surf and walking with his father down to the river to hunt for clams. At night, he would stay up long after his parents had fallen asleep and sit next to the open window reading a book by the light of a small lamp and the reflection of the moonlight off the water. A few days later, the family packed up their things and started the long drive back west. A week after their departure, when my dad’s friend walked down to the beach late at night with some neighborhood kids to smoke cigarettes and drink beer, he saw a light switch on from atop the inn and could make out a hazy silhouette looking out from the window.

Some years after, the boy returned with his family to spend another brief vacation at the beach and they continued to do so for the next couple summers, but soon the boy had grown up and had received a scholarship to go to school somewhere in the Midwest. The light continued to switch on at the top of the inn every night well after its other occupants had gone to bed.

The next morning at breakfast, I asked my dad’s friend if it is possible for a living person to be a ghost. He swirled the coffee around in his mug and gave me a look.

“People forget their memories, houses never do,” he said.

When we returned home from vacation I sensed it immediately. There was something different about my room, something foreign. I inspected under my bed, inside the sock drawers, around the bookcase. The man had been in here while I was gone.

That night my brother, sister, and I made a blanket fort in my brother’s room and we all slept underneath our makeshift tent. Around midnight I heard the man’s faint whispering coming from my bedroom and I quietly made my way out of the tent, careful not to wake my brother and sister. When I got to my bedroom door, the room suddenly became silent and still.

I poked my head inside to find the room empty, exactly how I had left it earlier that day. Upstairs the mute shuffling of the man’s feet began to start up again.

Quietly, I made my way over to the corner of the room to my bookshelf before turning to the attic door. A wave of suffocating heat engulfed me as I opened the attic door and trudged up the wooden staircase. Halfway up the stairs I heard the man’s raspy whisper. I closed my eyes and, clinging to the railing, my feet fumbled up the last few steps to the top of the staircase. I could smell the man’s hot breath in front of me but I kept my eyes sealed shut. Slowly, I placed three paperbacks on the top of the staircase. “Here,” I said.

I cautiously moved away from the stinking breath and blindly reached for the railing to start my descent back down the staircase. Each step I took I slowly reopened my eyes. From behind I could hear the creak of his footsteps and a muffled whisper.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and gently shut the attic door behind me. Silently, I tiptoed out of my room and into my brother’s, where I snuck back under the tent, lifted the covers over my head, and fell asleep. ●

The Man in the Attic

by A. J. Serrano

A

t night the man comes to my door and whispers to me while I lay still in bed. I don’t remember how old I was when I first noticed him but every night I hear the shuffle of footsteps on wooden stairs and the creak of the attic door in the corner of my room and I know that he has always been in this house. I sleep curled up to the wall adjacent to my bed and when I hear the man at the attic door I lift the comforter over my ears to muffle the sound of his whispers. His words are mostly indecipherable and distant but some nights I can hear him next to my bed as he whispers my name gently and asks me to turn around. Often I wake up facing the opposite direction, my eyes opening to the image of the closed attic door, and I jolt up in fright.

My younger brother once shared the room with me and we would spend humid summer nights lying on top of the sheets in the bunk bed, talking about movies and dinosaurs until we fell asleep. Sometimes the old house would snap and moan as it tried to get comfortable during those muggy nights but I would lay still and look at the ceiling and imagine the man slowly pacing around upstairs, searching for a small crack in the roof from which he could temporarily escape the stifling humidity.

I would never wake my younger brother to tell him about what I had heard but oftentimes I would strip the sheets off my bed and climb down from the top bunk to sleep on the floor next to him.

When my brother got a little older, my dad disassembled the bunk bed and my brother and I helped him carry one of them into the room opposite my older sister’s. That night, after visiting each bedroom to wish my family a goodnight, I tossed and turned in bed and caught a glimpse of the man’s burnt face peaking out from behind the attic door. Too terrified to move, I stared back at him for a long time. I remember him whispering “Get up” and in a trance I stood up and moved to the center of the room. After a few silent minutes, he closed the door and I heard the sound of his footsteps drift upstairs to the attic. Slowly, I turned back to my bed, stripped the sheets and walked across the hall to my brother’s room. The next morning my brother was careful not to step on my sleeping body as he made his way downstairs for breakfast.

One summer my family made a trip up to Maine to spend the weekend with some family friends. During the day, the other kids and I would scour the beach in search of dried-out driftwood and sticks to be used for the nightly bonfires. We would all sit around the fire long into the night, the children roasting s’mores and the parents sipping wine and beer and swapping stories.

When the activities began to die down my dad’s friend would tell us ghost stories.

“See that window up there,” he said, pointing to the top of the lone seaside inn on the coast.

We all turned to see the lone box of light floating from atop the darkened inn. My dad’s friend explained that when he was a kid he had met a poor family on the

• • •

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Shark’s in West End to get free catfish and talk to his girlfriend who lived at Summit House with him and drove a new Charger and generally, I think, covered the finances of their son, Cedrico. Then after a while we started going other places: a stopover in Druid Hills to get some weed, South Park in Ensley to get more weed, Loveman Village in Titusville (weed) and some guy’s house in Powderly (coke).

We started going to Powderly, so aptly named, I always thought, because Ced said he was tired of Summit House, where he’d been for ten years, being “clean”— that was after Strike II, assault with a deadly weapon, and he just wasn’t going to risk selling coke after that, he said. Ced had all kinds of reasons for why he stopped selling coke and heroin. But the reason he picked it back up is me.

They called me “Punchy” from when a guy was holding up Eazy Cheezy’s and I came in the door behind him after a delivery and he turned around with a gun and I dropped the bag and fucking nailed him in the head without thinking about it. Then they called me “Pun” because “Punchy” was too long and people always asked why they called me that. After a while no one ever said my real name, which was fine. If you were called Norton and trying to make a career as a gangster, you’d be happy to be rid of the whitest name on the planet.

I’m not proud of the two years I was a gangster but I was proud during them. I’d be in the gas station next to Eazy Cheezy’s and some Vestavia-UAB, frat boy types would call me a fag for my clothes and Ced and Junebug would walked in and say “get some Icehouses” and then I’d sell the white kids weed in the parking lot, Ced and Junebug, who’s about 5-foot-7 but could kick Manny Pacquiao’s ass standing behind me while I ripped them off bad since they were too scared to go back. I loved that shit. I loved ripping people off. I loved owning that halfbroke, half-college neighborhood where the hippy kids gave us all their money and the black guys looked at me like, damn, I kind of respect that white guy. And I slept with a million girls that first year it was me and Ced. But the weird thing is that I made less money for a while. I quit Eazy Cheezy’s and told the new, fat white boss to eat a dick and went out and made $200 that night. But for that first fall and the next spring I didn’t make it like that and I spent it all on clothes and food and moving into a better apartment I couldn’t really afford.

Ced stayed put in Summit House “to save some dough,” but really he did that so he could keep buying coke. I started keeping it at my place in case he binged on $300 in two days or something. But I didn’t care that he wasted some of my money. I tried cocaine once but it left me with such a headache that I never went in again. It’s really such a bitch, I don’t get why anyone wanted it.

Still, we mostly sold weed. And then one day we sold some in Loveman Village to a new guy and he mentioned another guy in the apartments below there, Something Gardens, and we got in really good there. Ced said he hated that place because it was all Bloods but I told him that should make it sweeter and those guys never fucked

Me and Ced

by Norton MacKay

W

hite boys in Birmingham always have specific opinions about the Worst Neighborhood. “It’s Ensley,” they’ll say with the certainty of talk radio hosts who don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.

Or once, for instance, a tow truck driver told me he’d take me anywhere except Woodlawn; he’d driven all over Birmingham but he was too big of a pussy to get out in East Thomas. And I delivered pizzas with a guy who quit over a West End delivery, even though it was just to Princeton Hospital. He took up moving furniture or fixing A/C or something and here’s the good part, he got shot in the stomach the next week— right on the Southside, where we all stayed.

I quit delivering pizzas because I got a job selling weed. I was nineteen and making $16 an hour and saving every month—delivering pizzas, I mean. But I was always looking to own Birmingham. I was the first white boy to join the G’s—specifically, the GD’s on the Southside. If you’re not familiar with the Gangster Disciples, they’ve been in Chicago forever and in Birmingham and parts of Shelby County since at least the ‘80’s. It hurt like fuck to get slapped in, but it was worth it since the old guys were all gone and Ced and me could do whatever we wanted.

Junebug had practically retired, which you can get away with outside L.A. and Chicago and New York and places like that, and basically we just played Spades at Summit House and sold weed to the people who came buy and knocked. Ced didn’t want to get into coke again since he’d gotten a bit of a problem with it awhile back, snorting too much, and he said he really loved Jesus and that shit wasn’t good for people: “We could keep a girl for the day,” he said. That’s the kind of shit Cedric said that I just had to ignore or forget right away because I’d start thinking he was kind of a bad guy.

The reason I first started talking to Ced and Junebug, who, remember, was basically retired is that they already worked at Eazy Cheezy’s on 11th Avenue South when I first came in there. They were insiders. That’s what you call the people who make the pizzas. They made shit and I was pretty excited about what I was making until I thought I was never going to make more than that delivering pizzas, and besides, delivering pizzas was not something I was going to do forever . I was bored and ambitious. I started driving Ced places for loose dollars.

Ced needed a driver for two reasons: no car, but also, his foot got stuck in train tracks like twenty years before, when he was my age, and now he walked with a severe and painful limp. At first we mostly went to his cousin’s house in Norwood, where we watched horror movies and predicted white girls’ deaths, with LeShara screaming “shut up” to her kids in the next room. And we’d go to

I quit delivering pizzas because I got a job selling weed.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

with us for two months, which is when they shot up the wrong end of Summit House and we got the point and sold weed at UAB for awhile again. Then LeShara tipped us off to Fountain Heights which is right near Norwood and Druid Hills on the Northside. Fountain Heights is an interesting neighborhood. It has an historic Jewish cemetery. Also, it’s a real shithole and if white people had ever heard of it, they’d nominate it for that racist honor, Worst Neighborhood. It’s got a big hill, hence the name although I’ve never seen the fountain. We got a real foothold when some other Bloods set from Smithfield killed the three guys that mattered from Fountain Heights. And they got caught. So we got this neighborhood with no one to fuck with us and maybe one-hundred crackheads looking for what we had. It was paradise and for the first time in my life I made real money. We started buying more than West End could give us. We worked every day. We met some Mexicans in Shelby County who sold us everything we could buy—and the best part is that they didn’t kill us. Junebug quit Eazy Cheezy’s and he was our enforcer. I made $31,000 in November, 2009.

Those were good times for money and I moved into a luxury apartment that didn’t dent my income. Ced stayed in Summit House. He snorted a lot of coke. And Junebug spent all his money on things for his family. I bought two cars instead of one nice one.

One day in February we took a vacation from Fountain Heights. We ate breakfast at IHOP and met LeShara for lunch at McDonald’s in Norwood. Then I took her downtown and dropped Ced back to Summit House and went back downtown to my new apartment. I took a nap and watched TV. LeShara texted me to see if I could take her back to Norwood now. I ignored it. She called me twice and I ignored it. I was taking a nap. I was too rich to drive people now. I was the one who took Ced and Junebug from broke ex-gangsters to what you’d call hood-rich. Me and LeShara, who didn’t get any.

Ced told me two days later that no one had seen LeShara. A month later they found her in a house in Titusville near where her mother lived. They said she’d been beaten to death, but I heard it was hard to tell too much after so long. I have no idea how the police found her because we didn’t know. Then they said they were looking for an ex-boyfriend and we knew who that was, but the police got him first. I’ve always been secretly grateful I didn’t have to watch them kill him; when she died I was relegated to associate as Junebug went from second cousin to brother. I didn’t envy him. I envied them both. Still, I stopped going to strip clubs to sell coke to single mothers. I stopped hating my fat white boss from Eazy Cheezy’s, who I hadn’t seen in more than a year. Then I stopped dressing and talking black. In another few months I sold a car and moved out to Hoover, in the suburbs. I made friends with white kids who smoked weed and bragged about how cool they were with their dealers. I never told them. Sometimes Ced would call, so I got a new phone. I wore khakis and collared shirts that fit. I kept a pair of white Nike sneakers because they fit okay with the new ensemble.

I don’t know what happened to LeShara’s kids. I saw them at the funeral in Titusville, at that shoddy funeral parlor below the apartments below Loveman Village. I

don’t know what happened to Ced—but I can guess he still lives at Summit House. Junebug’s probably still trying to keep his wife married to him.

That was all an ugly time. I felt bad before every step, then I’d harden to what I’d become and get a little more into being a bad guy. This isn’t a cautionary tale. It’s just my account of that time on the Southside, and the Northside and everywhere else in Birmingham, a fading city in the South. You would have seen me walking between Cedric and Junebug and known that I had seen things you couldn’t. A lot of snapshots. The Jewish cemetery passing on the driver’s side, Ced loading a pistol just in case. ● • • • Norton MacKay is the author of The Admirers, a collection of stories, as well as The First Short Story: Henry Chaucer's 'The Knight's Tale.' Formerly, he served as the Editor-In-Chief of Aura, the literary arts magazine at the University of Alabama at Birmingham.

4-6 Weeks to Complete Repairs

by Gayle Francis Moffet Frustration smells like the hot black tar they’re using to repair the roof of my apartment building sounds like the BEEP BEEP BEEP of the roofers’ truck backing up for minutes at a time feels like the tension headache crawling up my neck and behind my eyes as I try and I try and I Try to scrawl something meaningful at my wobbly kitchen table • • • Gayle Francis Moffet writes fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and comic books. She grew up in Yellville, Arkansas, spent some time in Springifeld, Missouri, and then moved to Portland, Oregon with that guy she married.

She has a Master's Degree, a couch of questionable squishiness, and some publication credits to her name.

When she's not writing, she reads, crochets, and hopes for the day the Sci-Fi channel will release their terrible made-for-tv movies onto Netflix Instant Streaming.

You can keep up with her publishing schedule at gaylefmoffet.com.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

by Wayne Orr

Dust and Empty Dreams M aria Alicia left the little tienda and walked down the dusty road toward her house carrying a bag of groceries. She was slender and graceful. She had full breasts, a tiny waist, firm round hips and buttocks and long slim legs. Her dark eyes shone with happiness.

She had just seen Jorge Rojas. He had driven by in a shiny red car as she was entering the store. She thought her heart would stop when he looked her way and smiled.

He was so beautiful, so guapo. He was far too sophisticated for the girls in Loma Linda and never paid them any attention. Maria had been told that he had nóvias all over Mexico. Many were older than Jorge, and some were married. All were rich and fashionable and lived in big cities. Maria had heard that some of them gave him money or bought him elegant clothes.

Jorge had grown up in the largest hacienda in Loma Linda. It sat high on a hill about a kilometer outside of town. His parents were very rich. They owned a silver mine which employed many of the town’s residents. As soon as Jorge graduated from high school he went away to Mexico City to college. Maria had been told that he was now a lawyer and was working for a large law firm in Mexico City. She had heard that he spent much of his time in New York and Europe. She could not imagine what he was doing in Loma Linda.

The road was dusty and unpaved. Maria walked carefully to avoid tripping or turning an ankle on the large rocks that protruded above its surface. Now, she was walking even more slowly than she usually did hoping she might see Jorge’s car again before she reached her house. She arrived at her front gate and breathed a sigh of disappointment. The red automobile was nowhere in sight.

She had to set the bag of groceries on the ground to unlatch the gate. While she was opening it, Jorge’s car came into view and headed down the road in her direction. She moved the groceries through the gate, set them down again, closed the gate and began to lock it.

Maria did not look at the approaching automobile.

Instead, she pretended not to notice it.

Jorge stopped his car and got out. Maria glanced toward him as though she had just that moment seen him. He walked over to where she was standing.

“Yes?” she said, her voice a question. “Can I help you, señor?”

“Hello, Maria,” he answered. “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, I know who you are, Señor Rojas.

Everyone in Loma Linda knows who you are. But how do you know my name?”

He smiled. “How could I not know you?” The sound of his voice made her tremble. “How could I not know the most beautiful girl in Loma Linda? How could I not know the most delicate flower in this part of Mexico?”

He was looking into her eyes. She was still working with the latch.

“So what they tell me is true.” Her heart was pounding. She hoped her voice didn’t give her away.

“And what is it they tell you?”

“That you are a terrible flirt with a golden tongue.”

“Oh. Is that what they say?” Before she could answer, he said, “Let me help you with those groceries.”

She had just finished securing the gate. He reached down, unlatched and opened it and came inside.

She picked up the bag and said, “That is all right.

They are not heavy.” She walked toward the front door, and Jorge walked by her side. She stopped and turned toward him.

“Is there something I can do for you, Señor Rojas?”

He smiled again. “You asked me that earlier, did you not? Yes. There is something. Let me introduce myself.

I’m Jorge Rojas.” He extended his hand. She could not take it because she had her arms wrapped around the bag of groceries. He took her small right hand in his and said, “You do not need to call me Señor Rojas. Please call me Jorge. And I hope I may call you Maria.”

She smiled. “Yes, Jorge.” They both stood for a few moments, and Maria said, “It was very nice meeting you, Jorge. Now if you will excuse me, I have to put away the groceries.”

“Of course. I did not mean to disrupt your schedule.

But now that we’ve been properly introduced, I would like to ask you something.”

“Yes?” “I’m giving a party at my parents’ house next week.

Do you know where that is?”

“Yes. I know.”

“I would like for you to be my guest.”

“But why? You know so many people.” She almost said girls instead of people. “We just met. We hardly know each other.”

“That is precisely why I hope you will come. Because we are neighbors. We both grew up in Loma Linda. This is our home. Will you at least think about it?”

“But it is so sudden. We have lived here forever, you in your huge hacienda on the hill and I in my little casa here in town. This is the first time we have even spoken.”

“I know. And that’s sad. But there’s no sooner time to change that than now.”

“But we’re so different.”

“Sure, we’re different. You’re a muchacha and I a muchacho. But don’t the French say ‘viva la difference’?”

She blushed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“How are we so different, then?”

“You are educated and sophisticated. You live in Mexico City and travel all over the world. I am poor and uneducated. I have never been but a few miles from Loma Linda. We both were born here, but we grew up and live in different worlds.”

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

“I hope you don’t hate me because of my parents’ wealth,” he said.

“I don’t hate you nor do I hate them. I’m who I am, and you’re who you are. Neither of us chose our position in this life. God made that decision for us. Who am I to question Him?” “You’re a very beautiful woman, Maria,” he said. Her face was burning. She set the bag on the ground and turned to open the door but had trouble getting the key into the lock.

“Let me do that,” he said and took the ring of keys from her hand. His fingers touched hers and it felt to Maria as though a current of electricity flowed through her fingertips along her arm and to her heart.

He opened the door and turned to face her. His lips were very close to hers. She could just barely resist the urge to kiss him. His large gray eyes looked into hers.

Maria hoped he’d kiss her. If he did, she wouldn’t resist.

His face moved closer, and she closed her eyes.

“Think about it,” he said. She opened her eyes, and he’d stepped away. For a moment, she didn’t know what he meant. Then she realized he was talking about the party.

“I work,” she said. “Besides. You haven’t even told me what day it’s going to be.”

“Why don’t you give me your telephone number? I’ll call you when arrangements have been made. Don’t worry about your work schedule. It’ll be in the evening after work.” He went to his car and returned with a pen and notepad. She gave him her telephone number without waiting for him to ask again.

sophisticated and would be dressed in the latest fashions. She was afraid she wouldn’t fit in. Probably the other women would look at her simple dress and laugh.

“I don’t know, Jorge. I’ve never been to such a nice place before. I’m not sure I would know how to act. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

“You could never embarrass me, Maria. Everyone there will be green with jealously and envy.”

“All right. If you really want me to, I’ll go.”

“I really do. I’ll pick you up at your house at six thirty.”

“Thank you, Jorge.” Her heart was singing.

“De nada,” he said. “Don’t forget.” She held the telephone for a long time after he hung up, and then she hung up, too.

“How could I?” she said.

Maria showered, put on her makeup and applied just a bit of perfume. She looked at the clock. It was only five thirty. Still an hour before Jorge was due to arrive. That was all right, though. She did not mind being ready early. It was much better than having to rush around at the last minute.

She left the bathroom and went into the bedroom where her clothes were lying on the bed. Maria hadn’t had any trouble deciding what she was going to wear.

She had only one nice dress. It was black and sleeveless and had a built-in bra. The dress dipped low in the back, but its neckline was quite modest and cut just low enough to reveal the beginning swell of her breasts. The hemline was slightly above her knees.

She put on a pair of black pantyhose and a black half-slip. Then she pulled the dress over her head and looked into the mirror. Maria was pleased at what she saw. She decided she looked all right. Actually better than all right. She looked good.

She was also going to wear her beautiful wrap. Not that the weather was cold, but Maria thought it would make her look more stylish. She picked it up from the bed and put it around her shoulders. Then she looked into the mirror again.

“Hello, you woman of the world,” she said. Her reflection smiled a beautiful smile.

She wished she had a string of pearls to wear with the dress. In many of the stories she read and in the shows she saw on TV, the women almost always wore pearls with their black dresses. Of course, those women did not live in dusty little villages in Mexico. They lived in large glittering cities like Paris or New York and were usually rich and worldly.

She decided she did not need pearls, anyway. She would wear the gold chain with a gold cross that she wore every day. Her mother had left it to her. It was much more beautiful than pearls.

She checked her little black handbag to make sure she had her lipstick, blush and a makeup case with a mirror. They were all there as were a few pesos which she did not think she would need. She looked at the clock again. It was five forty-one. It had taken her only eleven minutes to get dressed.

She decided she would read while she waited for Jorge to arrive. She took her True Love magazine to the couch and sat down. But even though she did her best,

It had been a week since Maria had talked to Jorge.

She had seen his car the next day, but then it seemed to have disappeared. Every evening after work she had waited for him to call, but the telephone hadn’t rung.

He’d probably gone back to Mexico City and forgotten about her. If he had, it was just as well. He was too rich and handsome to waste his time on a simple village girl when the women he usually associated with were so cultivated and elegant.

The telephone rang, and Maria answered it. “Do you know who this is?” a voice asked her.

Of course, she knew. It was Jorge.

“Certainly, Señor Rojas.” she said.

“Señor Rojas?” he said. “I’m not Señor Rojas. I’m his son.”

“I’m sorry, Jorge. It just slipped out.”

“My beautiful Maria. Did you think I’d forgotten you?”

“I did not think anything. I know that you’re busy and hold a very important position.”

“I’m never too busy to talk to you, Maria. You’ve been in my mind constantly since the last time we talked.

How are you doing, my beautiful flower?”

“Quite well, thank you. And you?”

“Ah. Very well. Especially now. I’m calling from Mexico City. I’ll be in Loma Linda this coming Saturday.

I plan to have a small party at my parents’ house at about seven o’clock in the evening. If you recall, I mentioned it the other day. Do you think you could find the time to come as my guest?”

Maria could think of nothing she had rather do. But she was frightened. Everyone there would be so 18

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

she was unable to get interested in the story she was trying to read.

Maria turned on her TV set but paid no attention to what was showing on the screen. She was thirsty so she went to the refrigerator and got a cold soda. Then she came back to watch the program. It was an adventure show set in Los Angeles. It had originally been filmed in English, but Spanish had been dubbed in. It was disconcerting to watch the actors’ mouths as they talked because their lips were not synchronized with the words they were saying.

She watched the program for a while and then began flipping through the other channels. When she could not find anything she liked any better, she turned the TV off and picked up her magazine again. It took her a minute or two to find her place. Then, after finishing a page, she had to read it again because she could not remember what she had read.

She checked the time, and it was four minutes after six. She turned the TV back on but didn’t try to understand what was happening. She just sat watching the action on the screen.

In a few minutes she heard a car drive up. She looked out the window and saw it was Jorge’s car. Jorge got out of the vehicle, came to the front door and knocked.

Maria waited about fifteen seconds and then went to the door and opened it.

“Ah. My beautiful flower,” Jorge said as soon as he saw her. “I hope I am not too early.”

“Good evening, Jorge,” she responded. “Of course not. You are exactly on time.”

When Jorge and Maria drove up to the Rojas hacienda, it looked even more imposing than it did from the village. A dozen cars or more were parked at the edge of the circular driveway in front of the house. Maria knew nothing about automobiles, but all of them were clean and shiny and looked expensive.

“It looks like the guests are already arriving,” Jorge laughed. Maria did not answer him. She was too overwhelmed.

Jorge pressed a button on a garage door opener remote control unit mounted on his automobile’s sun visor. One of the garage doors opened, and Jorge drove his car into the garage. He pressed the button again and the door closed behind them. Maria was fascinated. It seemed almost like magic. Of course, the first time she saw a TV set operated by a remote control unit she had felt the same way.

Jorge got out of the car, walked around to the passengers’ side and opened Maria’s door for her.

“Thank you, señor,” she said as she got out.

He led her across the garage floor and into the house.

As soon as he opened the door to go inside, Maria could hear rock and roll music playing loudly. She sometimes heard the same kind of music on the radio or TV. When she did, she always changed the radio station or TV

channel. She preferred to listen to the Mexican music she had grown up with.

They went through the kitchen and into the family room. It was crowded with people laughing and talking.

A table on one side of the room was covered with bottles of wine, liquor and mixes. Two big bowls of punch were sitting on the table, one near each end. There were two more tables in the middle of the room loaded with food.

Maria had never seen a place so large and magnificent. For a moment she felt insecure and out of place. What was she doing there? she wondered. What was a poor little peasant girl doing in a place like this?

Jorge looked at her and grinned. “How do you like it?” he asked.

“It is wonderful. It is— It is — It is beyond description.”

Before he had a chance to respond, a pretty blonde girl saw him and shouted, “Look.

It’s Jorge.”

It seemed like all the people in the room stopped what they were doing and rushed over to greet him. The girl who had seen Jorge and alerted the others of his arrival was the first to reach him. She threw her arms around his neck and moved her body shamelessly against him. As she kissed him, Maria could see that she was using her tongue as well as her lips.

Jorge was kissing her just as intensely as she was kissing him. The sight embarrassed Maria, and she looked away. In a few moments another girl with large breasts and long legs playfully took the blonde’s arm and pulled her away.

“It’s my turn now, Eva.” Eva said, “All right, Rosa. But keep it short.”

Then she said to Jorge, “Later, Jorge” and walked away.

Rosa grabbed Jorge and kissed him the same way Eva had, and Jorge responded in the same way he had responded to Eva’s kiss. Maria stood watching, feeling foolish. Jorge had not yet introduced her to anybody.

A tall handsome man who appeared to be about fortyfive came over to where Maria was standing.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Gustavo Villa. I’m a friend of Señor Rojas. I don’t think we have met.”

“My name is Maria,” she said. “So you’re a friend of Jorge?”

“Yes. And you’re the beautiful Maria he’s told me so much about.”

Jorge disengaged himself from Rosa, saw Gustavo and said, “Oh. There you are. I see that you and Maria have already met.”

“Yes,” Gustavo answered. “And she is even more beautiful than you told me she was.”

“Maria. Señor Villa is my superior. He has done me a great honor by coming here today.”

“You must be a very important man,” Maria told Gustavo.

“I try to make people believe that,” he answered with a smile.

Maria saw Eva watching from across the room. The girl glared at Maria. Her green eyes were cold.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Maria saw Eva watching from across the room. The girl glared at Maria. Her green eyes were cold. Jorge looked toward Eva, and her face lit up with a smile. Still, it seemed to Maria that Eva’s eyes didn’t change.

Jorge said, “If the two of you will excuse me for a moment—” and walked away without finishing his sentence. Maria felt a pang of jealously as he went to where Eva was standing.

“Come,” Gustavo told her. “Let me fix you something to drink. And let us partake of this marvelous food.” He led Maria to the table where the drinks were sitting.

“What will you have?” he asked her. “They have everything here. Wine, rum, tequila. Everything.”

“I think I will just take a soda.”

“Look. They have a blender. I can mix you something cold and mushy.”

“Okay. But please do not make it very strong.”

“Let me see if I can find something in the refrigerator,” Gustavo said. He went to the refrigerator and opened the freezer compartment.

“Ah, ha. Look what I found.” He reached into the freezer and took out a can of frozen lemonade.

Maria was looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face. She had no idea what he was doing.

Gustavo laughed. “I am going to make us some frozen rum daiquiris. You will like them. I can assure you of that.”

He opened the can and dumped its contents into the blender and then filled the empty can with rum which he poured on top of the frozen lemonade. Then he filled the blender with ice cubes from the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, put the top on the blender and pressed a button on its side. Maria watched in fascination as the blender began mixing the concoction.

Gustavo stopped the blender, added some more ice and then started it again. He let it run for a few seconds and then stopped it.

“There is not enough rum,” he told her. It’s not mixing properly.”

“Please do not make it too strong,” she said.

“All right. I should add more rum. But since I am such a nice fellow, I will use water instead.” He filled the lemonade can one quarter full of water, poured it into the mix and turned on the blender again. In less than a minute, the mixture looked smooth and creamy.

Gustavo poured some of it into a wineglass and handed the glass to Maria.

“Taste it,” he told her.

She took a tiny sip and liked it. “This is good,” she said.

“Of course, it is good. Did I not promise you that you would like it?”

He filled another glass with the mixture for himself.

Then he said to Maria, “Now let’s see what they have to eat.”

He picked up a plate and handed it to Maria. She looked around for Jorge, but he was nowhere in sight.

She was holding her plate in one hand and the drink in the other.

“Let me have that,” Gustavo said and took the glass from her hand. The room was so crowded that there was no place in it for him to put their drinks while they served themselves. A set of French doors at the rear of the room opened onto a sundeck. Gustavo took the

drinks through the doors and set them on the deck’s railing.

He came back to where Maria was standing and picked up a plate. “We can eat on the deck,” he told her.

“I do not see Jorge,” she said. “Do you know where he is?”

“Oh. You know Jorge. He is around somewhere.”

“Maybe with Eva,” Maria said.

“Yes, maybe. Or perhaps with Rosa. Perhaps with someone else. You know Jorge. I am sure he will show up sooner or later. He always does. Anyway, let us not worry about our host. He is a big boy and can take care of himself. Let us partake of the fabulous food.”

Maria was not hungry. Her heart ached.

Gustavo began putting food on his plate. Maria did the same, not paying any attention to what she was getting.

When their plates were loaded, they went outside onto the deck. All the chairs were taken so they set their plates on the railing next to where Gustavo had placed the drinks.

A man and woman were sitting at a table a few feet from where Gustavo and Maria were standing. They were leaning forward and looked as though they were intensely inspecting the table’s top. Maria watched them idly as she took a bite of her food. The man was putting some white powder on the table’s smooth glass top.

Maria was shocked. She had seen enough TV shows to know what they were doing.

Maria tugged at Gustavo’s sleeve to get his attention.

As he turned toward her, the woman she had been watching put something that looked like a short straw into her nose and inhaled, drawing the powder into her nostril.

“Look,” Maria said. “They are using cocaine.”

“That is stupid.” Gustavo said. “Right in plain sight of the whole world.”

“I must leave. I cannot stay here.” She began walking toward the door.

“It will be all right. I will tell them to go inside and find a place where they will not be seen.”

“No. It will not be all right. I must find Jorge. I must go home. I should not have come, Gustavo. I should not be here.”

She ran back into the house and hurried through each room but could not see Jorge. Gustavo was following her as she searched. He caught her arm.

“Relax, Maria,” he said. “I will take you home if that is what you wish.”

“Thank you, Gustavo. But I want to tell Jorge I am leaving. I do not see him.”

A young man who was standing near said, “Oh, señorita. Jorge is upstairs.”

“Come on, Maria. I will take you home. I will come back later and tell him you have gone.”

Maria did not listen. She ran upstairs. She heard Gustavo’s footsteps following her, but she paid them no attention. When she got to the top of the stairs, she was standing in a hallway. There were doors the length of the hallway, but they were all closed except one. The open door led into a bathroom. Jorge was behind one of the closed doors, but she had no idea which one.

20

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Maria stood feeling stupid. Her heart was filled with disappointment. Jorge was probably in one of the bedrooms with Eva. She decided she would not bother to tell him she was leaving. She would just ask Gustavo to take her to her house.

The bedroom door closest to her opened. She had a clear view of the bed. Jorge was lying on it naked entangled with a girl who was also naked. Maria could not tell who the girl was, but she looked like Eva. Rosa had opened the door. She was standing looking outside as naked as the other two.

Rosa looked at Maria and Gustavo and smiled.

“I knew I heard some little mice creeping around outside the door,” she said. “The two of you are welcome to join us.”

Maria did not answer. She turned and fled. The sound of Rosa’s laugh followed her.

Gustavo caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs.

“I will take you home,” he told her. “I will take you anywhere you wish to go.”

“Thank you, Gustavo. Please. I would like to go home.”

She followed him to his car. When they were inside and driving toward Maria’s house, Gustavo said, “We should not let the night go to waste, Maria. It is too young, and you are too beautiful. Let us go somewhere and get better acquainted.”

“Thank you, Gustavo, but I would really like to go home.”

“Home it is,” he said.

They drove a few minutes, and he said, “I am so thankful I came tonight. When Jorge told me he was going to introduce me to the most beautiful girl in northern Mexico, I did not believe him. You know Jorge.

You know how he exaggerates.”

“He told you I was coming?”

“Of course. He wanted me to meet you. He said you were perfect for me. I think he was right, Maria.”

Maria was filled with anger at his words. Jorge had lied to her. He had never intended for her to go to his house as his nóvia. She realized how simple she had been. Jorge had brought her as a present for his superior. She felt like asking Gustavo to take her back to Jorge’s house so she could tell Jorge how angry she was.

But it was not worth the effort.

She directed Gustavo to her house. When they got there, he got out of the car and walked around it and opened her door.

“Could I see you again?” he asked her.

“You are very kind, Gustavo. But I think I am too young for you. You need someone much more worldly and sophisticated than I.” “Perhaps I can call you?”

“Thank you, Gustavo. I will let you know.”

“I am sorry Jorge misled you.”

“I have always been told that lawyers do not tell the truth. I should have known not to believe him.”

“Did he tell you he is a lawyer? He is not a lawyer. He is merely a clerk in my office. Our firm had to hire him because his father is so rich and influential. But even his father’s wealth was not enough to get him into law school. He does nothing but deliver papers from office to office. I am sorry he deceived you.”

She laughed. “Do not be sorry. I was a very naive girl with stars in my eyes. I am not sorry he deceived me, but I am glad I found out. I was ready to do something very foolish. Something I am not yet ready to do.”

Maria smiled at him. Then she turned and ran up the sidewalk to her front door. She opened it, turned and waved to Gustavo and went inside her house. Her mother had always told her that experience is the best teacher. Well, she thought, she had certainly learned something tonight. Jorge would never fill a woman’s life with love and moonlight kisses. He would bring her nothing but dust and empty dreams. ● • • • Wayne Orr was born in Amarillo, Texas many years ago. He holds a Bachelor of Journalism degree from the University of Texas in Austin. While he was a student there, he met and married Esther Mata which he says was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to him. They have three girls and two boys and several grandkids and great grandkids. Wayne spent his career writing policy and procedural manuals for the Department of Defense. He is retired now and lives in Alexandria, Virginia and spends much of his time writing and traveling.

Lion’s Teeth

by Nathan Alan Schwartz Being on a date Is like pulling lion’s teeth Nervous smiles Jittery hands Small talk dabbles like white wine Dossiers drown in ice water Opening Pandora’s box Politics on thin lips Drizzled with religion Bitter parsley on fluttered brows Heart drop a thousand tons Stomach a throbbing acid Silence easier to cut than steak Sweet taste of home on glass Emotions stirring like hot soup Heavy gulp of air Anticipation breath Good night kiss • • • Nathan Alan Schwartz is a Film major at Los Angeles Valley College, one of the editors of Enhance Magazine, and Editor-in-Chief of Five 2 One Magazine. He is madly in love with poetry and dedicates his time to her while slowly typing away at his computer.

21

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Mr. Chodovy nodded along meanwhile in agreement with the reprobation. Suddenly Franti turned back to Matt.

“It is an unusual...mmm…request. It would be Mr. Chodovy’s pleasure—no, duty—to continue treating you with respect and hospitality.”

Mr. Chodovy’s brown eyes watched Matt’s face.

From the look, Matt could imagine that he must appear to be softening. Mr. Chodovy must have believed that his brother had spoken well, that Matt was breaking.

But Matt felt unable, even if he were willing, to turn back now. His father had been a gracious, old and important man. A stern man. Matt loved his father. Matt missed him. His father would approve of Matt taking responsibility when he felt he should. "Do the right thing, even if it costs ya," his father had said.

“I appreciate your hospitality, and your intentions.

But in my country, I would feel bad about not picking up the check. Especially since you’ve been treating me for a week. I’ll just get this one and then I'll be happy.”

Franti relayed the message, and the old man frowned. The cousins, brothers and uncles let their glasses wait sweating on the table in front of them. The younger men poked each other and pointed out waitresses at other tables. Matt felt even more uncomfortable. He'd been able to understand so few of the consonants and vowels he'd heard since he'd arrived, and he'd never seen people dress the way they did here.

Mr. Chodovy nodded to his brother. Franti swiftly patted his brother’s bony back. “OK, Mr. Reige ("RYEguh"). It is on you.”

Matt nodded and sat back down at the head of the table, where his fiancé’s family had been seating him at every occasion all week. He wanted to be able to move.

Around the table they resumed drinking and picking at their plates and talking.

Mr. Chodovy’s eyes met his with a shrewd look, both blank and inquisitive. He, too, was a gracious and important man. Martina had told him.

Matt felt like his father’s son, and he felt whole again for the first time since he and Martina had stepped off the plane. He started to think about why that was and at first he didn’t know why. He had demanded and he had received. But an uneasiness lingered; he wondered whether he hadn’t lost something along with his winning the right to pay. He beckoned the waitress, and asked her, in a few Czech words, to bring more beers. When the beers came and Matt proposed a toast, his soon-to-be father-in-law took a sip and nodded. To Matt, it felt like new love, but a love he knew, and which he now realized he'd been craving for many years. ●

The Check

by Jeremy Eldon Hauck att Reige ("REE-juh") stood up from the table. His father had passed away eleven months ago, but days before his father died, Matt had proposed to Martina in the hospice garden. They’d then walked into his father’s room together and stood over the bed, where his father could see, and he’d clasped her hand in his and turned it over so that the diamond could sparkle into his father's open, rigid eyes.

“I have to pay for something,” Matt said. He felt his forehead flush. The restaurant smelled like stale smoke, hops, and sour stews. “I have to pay for something. Let me get the check.”

His betrothed’s father, Mr. Chodovy, sat still in his chair, his wrinkled face uncomprehending. Mr. Chodovy’s brother, Franti, leaned over and spoke into his brother’s ear. Franti was doing most of the translating tonight, having spent five years in Virginia working for a defense contractor.

Mr. Chodovy’s eyes widened like fishnets as the language took on meaning in his mind. “Ne, ne, ne,” he said.

“No.” His gray eyebrows waved like old steel wool as he shook his head.

“He says that he will not allow you to pay,” said Franti, his face grave. “You are joining our family tomorrow. It is important that he take care of every ceremonies.”

In addition to Mr. Chodovy and Franti, four more of Matt’s future male relatives sat at the long table: Martina’s brother and three of her cousins, and then there was one of Mr. Chodovy's friends, too. Bare bones and quarter chickens glistened in the low light down the long table. Copper plates shimmered. Drops of condensation slid down the outsides of glasses full of beer and into the compacted cardboard of the coasters.

“No,” Matt said, rapping his knuckle on the table. He hadn’t planned that action, but he accepted it and rolled with it. “You are welcoming me into your family already by letting me marry your daughter. You have been very generous to me the whole time I’ve been here. I want to contribute.”

Again Franti leaned in, and Mr. Chodovy listened.

They talked back and forth for a minute. The restaurant was near Martina’s parents’ house in the highlands above Ostrava. The waitresses here went about the room topless and wearing olive green skirts. Matt's discomfort ticked up a notch above the constant thrum of culture shock that had been his rhythm for a week now. He was glad that he was with just the men and that the women weren't witnessing this spectacle.

One of Martina’s cousins joined the talk of the old men. From the way he angled his head and his voice slowing and accelerating like a tram lurching forward and stopping through a narrow city street, it looked to Matt that the cousin was advocating for him, but from a position that the cousin clearly felt was unpopular and unlikely to prevail.

Indeed, Franti lashed at the cousin with a flurry of staccato consonants and a voice that rolled up and up.

M

• • • Jeremy Eldon Hauck lives in Philadelphia, where he teaches writing at Temple University. His stories have been published in Penduline Press and TAV. He recently received his M.F.A. from Temple, where he served as managing editor of TINGE Magazine. A native of southwest Ohio, he is working on his first book, an Appalachian Trail memoir.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Smiling earlier, she thought of daisies and kitty cats and ice cream pies.

Solving the Mystery

by Jeff Hill

But now she swings softly waiting on whomever, riding sirens in the distance.

I

would have said something more clever if I had known. But that was neither here nor there. She’s gone now, and it’s too late to sit here thinking about what could have been. What might have been. What should have been.

The days pass by as I drift through meaningless motion after meaningless motion, doing something I hate and not even making enough money to justify it all.

She was always a big believer of doing what made her happy. “Screw the rest,” she’d always say, my never polite, rarely eloquent, but always honest and perpetually beautiful wife that never was.

But I blew it. And now she’s gone.

She never exactly lied about the situation, but I was just a kid. A boy. We mature significantly slower than the fairer gender. I once had a friend who never left puberty.

Just all awkward social ticks and voice cracks and a constant belief that women were and always would be a complete and total mystery.

But I haven’t seen him in years. And the only reason I even thought of that poor lonely soul just now is because deep down, I envy him. He may be pathetic and confused, but at least he can blame it all on ignorance.

Me? Different story.

I wish I didn’t get her. I wish she wasn’t always challenging me. I wish I had been more clever the day she finally made her decision between me and the other guy. But most of all, I really wish I didn’t hate myself for being so clueless all of those years.

So here I am. Alone. Writing in this journal and finally starting to think about why I need her. And how to get her back. ●

Dragging a Spark-less Heart

by Jason Brightwell In a numbing world of freezing stares and empty lives, again I come to you dragging a spark-less heart.

I know that then for a little while I’ll feel some passion, some ardor, however feigned for at least as long as this wad of cash will last.

A Warm Cabin in the Woods

by Jason Brightwell My path is strewn with faded lusts, desires, broken bottle dreams, and muddy garbage hopes.

I look back at an empty life and wonder where I missed my turn.

Which fork should I have taken

• • • Jeff Hill is a writer who graduated from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He is a past participant in the Nebraska Summer Writers Conference and the Sarah Lawrence College Summer Seminar for Writers in New York. His fiction has appeared in Weirdyear, Cuento Magazine, Weekly Artist, Writing Raw, Microhorror, Fiction 365, Flashes in the Dark, Postcard Shorts, Static Movement, Eunoia Review, and The Cynic Online Magazine.

that would have led me to a cabin, warm and full of life, instead of the empty one whose darkened threshold I pass through now.

• • • Jason Brightwell lives in Baltimore, MD, where he finds himself regularly haunted by one thing or another. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including: The Blind Man’s Rainbow, Phantom Kangaroo, Red Fez, Quantum Poetry Journal, and The Battered Suitcase among others. You can find him blathering on and on at www.blatheranddrone.com.

Little Girl Swinging

by Jason Brightwell Back and forth barely, in a grey afternoon breeze the little girl swings.

One boot on and one off, her empty eyes fixed upwards into gloomy swirling clouds.

23

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

tightened around both toes, and Ginger wondered how she had not seen them before.

Ginger looked at her watch. She still had two minutes left, and Hal wouldn’t mind if they diamonds would prove to be real. She sat down on the edge of the bathtub, and held onto a metal rail with her right hand. Mary’s feet had become cold, but that didn’t stop them from being slippery. Ginger fumbled with Mary’s left foot for forty seconds; she had a mental stop watch in her head.

Hal had finished filling up his bag when he noticed that Ginger had been gone. He checked his watch--a little over a minute left. He grabbed his bag and went upstairs looking for her.

Ginger had slipped off the first diamond ring and pocketed it. She started to work her hand around Mary’s right foot when she felt a vibration in the water. Ginger stopped moving and felt it again. It sounded like a cell phone was buzzing in the water, but it couldn’t be. Ginger had disrobed Mary herself and there was nothing in the bathtub when she filled it up with sodium hydroxide.

“What are you doing?” Hal said knocking on the door.

Ginger jumped up a little and said, “Damn it, Hal.” “What?”

“You almost scared me to death.”

Hal tapped on his watch. “Quit fooling around, we got to go.”

Ginger looked at the water again, but it was motionless. Her eyes were playing tricks on her or the smell from the chemicals was making her hallucinate. Either excuse would calm her down.

“Fine, I’ll unplug the drain,” Hal said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight.”

He approached the bathtub, but then turned around.

His eyes widened and his mouth opened.

“Did you hear that?” he said.

“It can’t be. We shut off the alarm system.”

Ear-piercing sirens started blaring outside the house. Red and blue circles scanned throughout the rooms like a beam from a lighthouse. From the unknown reaches of the night, a man’s voice began speaking via a megaphone. ●

Have Silverware, Will Steal

by Yevgeniy Levitskiy Have you emptied the water out of the bathtub, Ginger?” Hal said.

“Not yet,” she said. “Give me a minute.”

Hal stood in front of the mahogany cabinet and ran his gloved hand against the blurry swirls in the wood. It was smooth and delicate to the touch, but not perfect. Little dents coated the surface, as well as fingernail scratches near the glass panels. On the top of the cabinet, the dust had begun to change the texture of the wood, making it rough like sandpaper. This wasn’t the biggest disappointment for Hal. He had seen better craftsmanship than this before. This was a poor neighborhood by his professional standards.

“Ginger, what time is it?”

Ginger was on her knees and rolling up the Turkish carpet. She was good at tasks that required care and precision. Lock-picking, mixing chemical solvents, and administering lethal dosages was her job. Hal didn’t even bother to ask her twice, she was always right the first time.

“A quarter to one,” she said.

Ginger had finished rolling up the carpet. It was equal at both sides. You could barely see the legs of John Mercer III sticking out.

“We leave in ten minutes,” Hal said.

He was pulling silver plates, gold cups and anything else of value off the cabinet shelves. He pushed his hand through the glass figurines and family pictures and discovered three Lalique vases in the back. There were hidden for a good reason. The name Lalique had brought a smile to Hal’s face.

He remembered the first time he stole one, from the funeral home his Grandmother was being displayed at.

While the relatives were busy paying their respects or wondering how blood-draining works, he was fascinated by a small statue of Buddha. The crystal head of Siddhartha “Buddha” Gautama stared back at him, in peace, and all he could think of was stealing it. And he did.

“Be right back,” Ginger said.

Hal opened his eyes and found himself back at Mercer’s house. He watched Ginger walk across the room, her black outfit shaping nicely around her waist.

Ginger climbed the stairs and breathed hot air into her black mask. Her footsteps sounded heavy, but she assumed that it was just the acoustics in the house. She had reached the second floor within twenty seconds and walked towards the bathroom. They were making record time on tonight’s run.

The soapy water in the bathtub spilled over the edge and onto the marble tiles. She stepped into the room and got the velvet tip of her shoes soaked by a splash of water.

She looked around, the medicine cabinet was open. Ginger couldn’t, for the life of her, remember if she had left it like that.

On the other hand, she was thankful that bubbles from the soap had turned thick enough to cover Mary Mercer. Mary’s big toes peeked from under the water.

Two silver rings with a diamond incrusted in each were

“

• • • Yevgeniy Levitskiy has received a B.A. in EnglishEducation from Brooklyn College, and is currently pursuing a M.A. His writing has been published in Hot Summer Nights (Inner Child Press), The Fiction Shelf, Everyday Other Things, and elsewhere. His forthcoming publications include The Books They Gave Me (Free Press/Simon & Schuster), Unshod Quills, and Yes, Poetry. He is currently at work on a middle-grade novel.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

“That’s not a pleasant dinner story.” She orders another beer.

“Sorry. I don’t know why my mind works like that. I remember going out with this woman once and she was telling me how she had dinner with her closest friend five minutes after her friend murdered her young daughter.

The woman stabbed her eleven-year-old daughter then picked my friend up for dinner. They had made dinner plans and I guess she didn’t want to change the plans even though she had just murdered her daughter. Weird, huh? That’s really fucked.”

“Ugh. That’s terrible.”

He laughs. It really is; isn’t it? What kind of mother kills her daughter then picks up her friend to go out for dinner? Really freaked my date out.”

“When did she find out about the murder?”

“Right about after they finished the appetizers.” His laughter drives her crazy. She gets the feeling he’s said this line to numerous people. He continues laughing. She doesn’t. He finally realizes he’s laughing alone. “The husband came home, found the daughter. The murderer mother got a call while she was at the restaurant. Crazy story.”

“At least you weren’t on a date with the mother.”

“You never know, do you? People aren’t always as they seem.”

She tells him about a man she met while hiking. Nice guy. They went to see a movie. Then she told her librarian friend about him and sent her a link to his website. “She noticed his comment about liking Real Dolls, you know, blow-up dolls, and she told me not to date him. I figured there was no way he had five grand for a real doll and that it was a joke, but she got me worried. I told him we’d have to cancel dinner plans with my friend because of the Real Doll stuff and he flipped out and thought I was crazy. Dating.”

“So you never dated him again?”

“No. And he may have turned out to have been someone I would have enjoyed.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I think dating a Real Doll may be easier than dating a real man.”

“Aww, come on. Don’t say that.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

How else should I take it, he wonders.

The food arrives. He reaches over toward her plate with his fork. She pulls her plate away. “Not yet,” she says.

He regrets not ordering beef.

She huddles over her plate and inhales her food. “It’s really delicious.”

She doesn’t even bother looking at him. ●

Dinner

by Diane Payne

I

t’s as if they’ve just met and are on a blind date. But that’s not the case. They’ve crossed paths getting groceries, initially met a mutual friend’s party.

Last week they ran into each other at the post office. “We’ve got to quit meeting like this,” he joked. Her initial thought was why, but she just laughed.

He interpreted the laugh as a mating call response of sorts, and suggested they try out a new restaurant in town. She didn’t want to feel like she was on a date, even if technically it was a date, and said she’d meet him there.

On the night of the dinner date, they once again crossed paths walking to the restaurant. “It’s a small world. No wonder we keep running into each other. We must be neighbors.”

She asked him where he lived. Technically they weren’t neighbors but they certainly lived within walking distance of each other.

“I’ve really been looking forward to this restaurant opening. Few years ago I visited Cuba. Cuban food isn’t like Mexican. Have you been to Cuba?”

“Been to Miami, but that’s not Cuba.” She wonders why she says such stupid things. “I’d love to see a country filled with cars from the 50’s. I guess I could’ve taken a raft over there.”

“Americans can get travel visas to Cuba.” She says nothing. “You knew that, right?” He was hoping she was worldly. Someone who’d want to travel. He always gets ahead of himself.

They see the restaurant up ahead and are relieved there’s not a line.

“We’ve got to try these frituras de malanga. They’re amazing.” The menu thrills him. She orders a shrimp dish with a cilantro cream sauce. “We should share our meals. Do you eat beef?”

She doesn’t.

“How about chicken?” She nods affirmatively. He orders pollo agridulce. “I think you’ll like this also.” He wishes she ate lamb and beef. Already plans on returning without her.

“I think I’ve seen you walking a dog. Weird, I didn’t recognize that person as you. Get used to seeing you in the context of just being you so when I see you with a dog, don’t even recognize you.”

“I know how that goes. I swim. I never recognize the people I swim next to when they’re in clothes.”

He hates chlorine. Can’t swim. Changes subject quickly. “That’s a big dog you have.”

“Yeah. He loves it when we head to the woods.”

“You need to be careful. Did you hear about that woman walking her dog and how they both got shot?”

“No! Not sure I want to hear about this.” She drinks her beer quickly.

“Apparently the dog raced ahead of her and this dude was coming from the other direction. Freaked out. Shot the dog. Woman screams. He shoots her. Someone finds her barely alive later in the day. Dude says he shot dog in self defense, then freaked out when he saw the woman.”

• • • Diane Payne teaches creative writing at University of Arkansas-Monticello. She is the author of Burning Tulips and A New Kind of Music. She has been published in hundreds of literary journals. Her most recent publications include: Marco Polo Arts, Lunch Ticket, New Verse News, and Oklahoma Review.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

melodies on the street corner, he played a concerto in g minor, a key that, to the discernible ear, sounds one note happier than the f minor key. And he played his g minor concerto all night and the lonely women and men who left the nearby bars in the wee hours of the evening stopped to listen to his music, shed a tear, and throw a dollar in the empty violin case by the sleeping girl.

By the next morning, the old violinist had acquired enough money to buy some muffins for the young girl and himself. They ate the muffins in the sunlight, making sure to lick every last crumb off of the wrappers.

“The songs you played last night made me have such sad dreams. Why don’t you play happier music?” the girl asked.

The old man told the girl that there are very few things in life to be happy about, but the young girl continued begging him to play happy music.

“I am unable to play happy music, but maybe you can,” the old man finally told her. She crawled onto his lap for her first violin lesson. The old man gave the girl lessons every day and by the end of the week, the girl could squeak out a two octave a minor scale, a scale that reverberates the sounds of loneliness and tender character.

“But this scale sounds so sad,” the young girl complained. “Why won’t you teach me a happier sounding scale?”

So the next week the old man taught her the b minor scale, a scale sounding of patience and tranquility. The little girl liked the b minor scale a bit more than the a minor scale, but she still was not satisfied, so the old violinist continued to teach the little girl all the minor scales that he knew. The passersby heard these melancholy scales coming from this small girl, and with each strum of the violin she plucked at the passersby’s heartstrings. Their empty violin case began to fill up with money and more people stopped to stare in awe at the five year old making such sad melodies. The old violinist progressively taught the girl scales that were less and less depressing sounding, although all the scales he taught her were minor.

Each night, the violinist played a piece in the same key that he had taught the little girl, and each night his music sounded progressively happier. He began to attract an audience other than the miserable late-night drinkers. Sober husbands and wives out for midnight strolls stopped by the old man’s corner to admire his tunes. His money pile grew and grew. But the old violinist was starting to weaken. He felt his energy draining and the tunes he played became progressively slower because he was physically unable to keep up a tempo faster than moderato.

The little girl and the violinist had adopted each other as family. The old violinist would play music all night while the little girl slept, so that he could look after and protect her in the dark. They developed a daily routine consisting of searching for food, violin lessons, and showering with the hose behind the bakery that sometimes gave them old bread for free.

One morning in the middle of June, the old man ran out of minor scales to teach the young girl. He had no option but to teach her a major scale. His fingers, unfamiliar to these happier sounding scales, felt stiff as

The Man with the Violin

by Ania Payne

T

he man with the violin stood on a street corner in front of the empty Walgreens. He played sad music for the store owners opening shops at six am, for the messy-haired children on their way to school, for the stray dogs scavenging for dropped hamburger buns. His music danced through their right ears, paused to untangle itself in their frontal lobes, and escaped through their left ears. The man’s music made the students drag their feet so that they were always five minutes late to class. His f minor sonatas made the scraggly dogs sit down on the pavement to howl at the moon, momentarily forgetting their constant search for food.

The man with the violin was a part of all their lives, but he wasn’t. The students and shop owners walked past him every day, but they didn’t notice him. They didn’t realize that the reason they were always late to work or late to class was because his music slowed their step. The locals barely looked at him. For tourists, he was a point of reference, like a bird-covered statue. Strolling families who felt overwhelmed and lost in the big city would suddenly hear a faint violin chord and feel reassured that they were heading in the correct direction of their hotel.

Very few people talked to the man with the violin.

Every now and then, a drunken middle-aged lawyer would stumble out of O’Malley’s Pub and saunter up to the violinist saying, “Get a job, homeless loser. You’re just taking advantage of the system. Get a job!” but the old violinist would not even pause his music, so the drunken lawyer would spit at the violinist’s shoes and stumble down the road cursing.

The old violinist remained the only consistent variable in the ever-changing bustle of the big city. The sun would rise and set and the violinist would always be at the street corner. The blizzards would blow and the frosts would melt and still, the old violinist would be playing his sad songs in front of the abandoned Walgreens. Every October, a Salvation Army worker would drape a heavy woolen blanket around the old man’s shoulders. Every July, the same Salvation Army worker would give the old violinist jugs of water. But most of the people in the city took the old violinist’s consistency for granted.

One morning, a small homeless girl approached the old violinist. She looked about five years old and wore raggedy remnants of winter clothes even though it was a warm May day.

“Sir, do you have any food?” she asked, her eyes gleaming bright green beneath the dusty strings of her brown hair.

The old man shook his head and handed her one of his water bottles, which she gulped down immediately.

The little girl handed the old man the empty water bottle, curled into a ball by his feet and fell asleep. The old man opened his empty violin case and set it by the sleeping girl. And he played his violin louder than before, hoping the sound would carry across the four lanes of traffic, the yelling, the sounds of the city. For the first time in the five years that the old man had been playing his sad 26

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

he strummed a succession of major notes. Upon hearing the new D Major scale, the little girl was ecstatic.

“Why didn’t you teach me this scale earlier? This is the happiest sound I’ve heard all summer,” the little girl beamed.

Seeing the little girl so happy made the old man smile. He played D Major pieces all night, his first Major pieces to play in five years. Jubilant groups of friends heading out to the movies smiled and listened to his tunes, throwing five and ten dollar bills in the violin case, but the lonely drunks stumbling from the bars took alternate paths to avoid the old violinist and his cheerful music.

The hot summer air began to take its toll on the old violinist, but the little girl seemed to thrive from learning the new Major scales. The tourists and locals loved the little girl’s happy tunes and the money in the violin case had to be emptied at least twice a day.

On the last day of August, the old violinist taught the little girl the C Major scale, a scale that sounds of innocence, simplicity, and purity; a scale considered the happiest of all the Major scales. His fingers felt weaker than ever as they climbed the eight notes between C and C, but the little girl smiled larger than he’d ever seen her smile before.

“This is my favorite scale of all the scales. I want to play it all the time. It makes me so happy,” the little girl said as she knitted her tiny fingers and bow through the metal strings. The little girl practiced her C scale all day and by Friday of that week, she had perfected the scale.

Her cheeks looked rosier than ever, her eyes had a new spark to them, and her hair had a healthy shine.

Once the little girl fell asleep, the old man picked up his violin to play a piece in C Major, but his limbs were weak and he could barely stand. He rested his eyes and tried to pick up the violin ten minutes later. He stood up, violin in his arms, and played a C Major chord. A lonely drunken man heard the chord and threw an empty plastic cup at the old violinist. He played a C Major scale and a scraggly homeless dog stopped to growl at the violinist before running away into a forested park. The violinist took a deep breath and began to play Mozart’s Violin Sonata in C. As he progressed with the piece, he felt his knees begin to buckle and his breaths become fainter, but he continued to play faster. By the time he was halfway through the piece, the old man was on his knees, unable to stand any longer. He leaned against the dirty brick wall, panting, but never stopped playing the Sonata with vigor. He played this cheerful piece so loudly that even the lonely drunks who were trying to avoid his happy music couldn’t help but hear his Sonata, and they hid behind trees and signs to listen to his music. He played until the dogs ran out of breath and couldn’t howl their mournful laments any longer. He played until the sun began to come out and the shop owners heard his vibrant melodies and found themselves walking quicker and arriving to work early. By this time, the old violinist was laying on the ground barely able to take another breath. As he reached the last note in the piece, the highest C, the old man let out his final breath and closed his eyes just as the little girl opened hers. ●

A Different Kind of Servitude

by Yevgeniy Levitskiy Spiritual loss finds how to perceive and manifest its destiny upon those that seek discounted peace.

The shelves at wholesale warehouses are filled with terminal cancer and diabetes in shape of processed foods.

Heart-unhealthy cereal boxes and pre-packaged gum of unknown origin, but worst of all are the metal food stands serving E.coli and salmonella with every sample portion.

Plastic gloves wrapped around celery, plastic forks thrown into stacks of best-selling books, plastic cups with tainted food that’s swallowed by hungry children.

Fake-fed parents and the vast majority believe shopping is a family affair, bring the kids, bring the old folks, hell, bring the dog, why not?

I’m sure they serve dog food in the frozen section, next to food stands handing out tooth-pick stabbed cubes of beef and cups of bacon bits.

Oh, and your membership has expired. Do you want to renew?

• • • Yevgeniy Levitskiy has received a B.A. in EnglishEducation from Brooklyn College, and is currently pursuing a M.A. His writing has been published in Hot Summer Nights (Inner Child Press), The Fiction Shelf, Everyday Other Things, and elsewhere. His forthcoming publications include The Books They Gave Me (Free Press/Simon & Schuster), Unshod Quills, and Yes, Poetry. He is currently at work on a middle-grade novel.

• • • 27

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

Leveling Out

by Yevgeniy Levitskiy A shopper in seek of a discount is a retailer’s worst financial nightmare, which is why it is wise to keep a receipt, but just like keeping a secret, you’ll have to eventually say how much you spent.

Smooth Petz

by Yevgeniy Levitskiy

The assistant manager with the porkpie hat tells me to keep the aspidistra flying, but I just want to pay the online price and avoid any mail-in rebates and verbal confrontations.

Tools of any trade can be traced back to their origins, or manufacturer date, inspection officer and quality-control assistant of Suburban Enterprises, Inc in South Jersey made Smooth Petz ™ an interactive toy for children ages three and up, every doll assembled of the finest man-made materials, new plush exterior, lead-based porcelain eyes, questionable wristband with symbol, miniature leather Hemingway-esque shoes.

The employee-in-training ring-rings the aged plastic phone on the counter, and waits for someone to pick up on the receiving end.

After fifteen minutes of tense negotiations with the district manager and keyboard tapping, I’m faced with something out of a Hollywood thriller, the computer is over-ridded and I save two bucks on a package of recycled pens.

Consumer – 1, Corporation – 0.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

The Bar

by Steve Baba i said hello and you said goodbye the smoke on my clothes too much for your nose

Where I learn that it is fashionable to read Bukowski

i smelled of whiskey too but you had vodka on yours the newspaper rustles the blood boils

by Chandni Singh

i lift my glass and praise the rejection that has come my way for too long

I walk into a well-worn bookshop: the kind with geriatric book-people discussing obscure book-things in those jaundiced book-voices; laced with too much coffee and drenched in puddles of yellowing lamplight.

you brush your long blonde hair push your breasts out purse your lips another victim but not me will come soon enough

I ask for Ham on Rye. “A second-hand copy please.”

A deep weary breath and then — “My dear, Dear,” ol’ Gerry says, clucking his tongue as if I had said something quite unfashionable.

“You'd have to have a pot of money to be able to afford a second-hand Bukowski.”

the bartender squeaks the glasses he wipes the sweat off the bar the music is playing on the jukebox another country song i am sick of it

Wide-eyed, I blink an unfashionable-blink, give him an unfashionable-half-grin, and mutter insignificant nothings in that unfashionable-mutter that comes with drinking too much coffee and being drenched in puddles of yellowing lamplight.

the light dims the curtain falls the end of the play • • •

I then walk out with a shiny new hideously bright white-paper-ink-fresh edition of Henry Chinaski’s sorry lifetale.

Steve Baba is 41 years old. He teaches and has taught poetry workshops throughout the US. Steve considers NYC, Santa Fe and San Francisco as his homes. Steve enjoys reading, reading blogs online and hiking. He is currently living in San Francisco and working on getting his BA in Creative Writing.

• • • Chandni Singh is an environmentalist and poet at heart. Currently doing her doctoral research in rural livelihoods, she strongly believes that everyone has stories to share. When she is not listening to them, she likes taking long walks and writing in her journal. She writes regularly on her personal blog (www.bumblingbanter.blogspot.com). She has published her poetry and prose in Reading Hour, Helter Skelter, Red River Review, The Taj Mahal Review, India Ruminations and has a chapter in a book called Celebrating India.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

by Rhonda Talbot

Planking Junkies

T

he day Coral graduated rehab, she was asked to become a counselor. The hours were good, decent wage, and the only requirement was having a valid driver’s license.

“Sure. I love helping people.” Coral actually had little regard for others, but needed the job.

She knew she had blown her opportunities as a registered nurse in one short year after getting caught stealing meds. A darn good job too. But she was programmed in rehab to “not regret the past.” So she didn’t.

Coral was considered a “lightweight” drug user, or a party girl, taking painkillers recreationally with champagne chasers. There was nothing remarkable about Coral’s looks, but the pills and booze gave her a sense of belonging in otherwise out of reach trendy clubs.

After she was fired from the reputable hospitable, and having forgotten to pay her rent for a few months, and after her car was repossessed, her parents flew out from Michigan and drove her to Belle Grande in West L.A., hoping their prized only child would straighten up.

They had spent over half a million dollars on Coral’s education, first a prestigious private high school, then Sarah Lawrence. Her Healthcare major was a big disappointment, intensified by her utter lack of ambition. Coral’s ability to obtain gainful employment softened the riff between them but it did not last. Of course, the rehab sticker price of 40 grand didn’t help matters.

Coral enjoyed the recovery center, and met some colorful characters, “hipsters” that generally would never associate with her on the outside. Musicians, writers, and a few actors on TV network shows. The people were similar to those at the cutting-edge clubs, except now they talked to her, laughed with her, even if communal participation was mandatory. Coral did not mind.

Most of the addicts were entertaining, droll, some quite attractive. Coral felt this was the real reason she had moved to Los Angeles in the first place. Sure, she loved nursing but it was not a coincidence she chose Los Angeles when looking for a job.

Belle Grande boasted a sequestered section referred to as the “hopeless cases,” the junkies, who were kept in their own special ward, sealed off like contagion. She occasionally saw them in the meal hall huddled together like a zombie brotherhood. They intrigued her the most with their Twilight mystery and sexy allure.

Much to Coral’s delight, this would be the group she would be assigned to. Newcomer “techs” were low on the rehab totem pole thus she was relegated to the scourge.

On her first day, Cora wore a tight, black miniskirt, a tank top, heels and black eyeliner hoping to impress the junkies.

She was in the office punching in her employment card.

“Hey. I’m Bobby. You’re counselor buddy.”

“Oh. Wow, really?” Bobby had graduated from the contagion unit just as she was entering the facility.

“I’m in Antioch now studying addiction counseling,” he offered without prompt.

“I’m a nurse. How funny.”

“Not really. Nurses have an incredibly high rate of addiction. I learned that recently.”

“Oh.” Coral couldn’t believe her luck, working alongside a celebrated musician who had jammed with Springsteen, The Foo Fighters, Dylan, Joanie Mitchell, and the Stones! Then came his legendary fall into drugs, rehabs, and relapses. Though she was puzzled as to why he would give up his glamorous life, just toss it away to work toward some therapeutic degree; Coral deducted it had to be part of a plea bargain to avoid jail time.

Coral had an outrageous crush on him. And had for years. Though old enough to be her father, she saw him as a kind of John Mayer plus 30 years more hard living.

Her heart was pounding but she had been trained to slow heartbeats and quickly brought hers down. Breath deep, tense muscles, hold, release.

“We’ll be working with the lowest of the low, the scum. They’ll shoot you for ten cents and stab you for less.”

“What do we do exactly?”

He studied her with his famous hazel eyes.

“First of all lose that stupid skit, wear a bra and don’t wear jewelry unless you want to get shivved. Second, our job is to take them out. Museums, beaches, parks. Places they’ll hate.”

He led Coral to the ward. “Can you believe these idiots trust me with a key?”

“I used to listen to Baby I’m On My Way over and over in high school.”

“I don’t do that anymore.”

Bobby kicked open a door.

“Get your sorry ass out of bed loser!”

There were four beds, all young men covered in tattoos and heavy blankets. “Go away, Bobby.”

Bobby picked up a broom and started poking them one by one, then handed it to Coral.

“Here, you’ll get used to it?”

“I will?”

Coral swept lint off one junkie’s back.

“Yeah, keep doing that,” he moaned.

Bobby grabbed the broom and smacked him on the back of his head.

“Get up! Before the sun goes down. We’re going to the beach.”

They all grumbled and cursed.

“The vitamin D helps with withdrawal.”

Coral was pretty sure this was a lie, but they jumped 30

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up, all fully clothed, most wearing hoodies and heavy work boots.

“Who’s the hottie?”

“She’s a junkie like you, asshat. Now look at her.

She’s going places.”

“I’m not a junkie, Bobby,” Coral whispered. He ignored her.

“Coral was a junked up, near- dead super model.

Runways, magazine covers, the whole shebang. Now she’s got a photo shoot for Italian Vogue next week.”

Bobby winked at Coral to go along.

“Yeah, Vogue.”

But Coral was five feet four in heels, probably 15 pounds overweight and didn’t know the difference between Gap and Gucci.

“Come here, honey.”

Bobby nudged her.

The guy’s face looked like it had been chew off by a wild animal. He was missing teeth and smelled like dead fish. It occurred to Coral the junkies looked better from afar.

“You’re the only reason I’m getting out of bed. What’s your name doll?”

“Coral.”

“You wanna date when I get out?”

“I’m with Bobby now. We’re living together.”

“Okay, that’s enough. We have to get a few more.” Bobby lifted Coral over his shoulder and for a moment she thought maybe this was all real.

Sure he had dated famous actresses and models, but Coral was convinced he was ready to settle on a less complicated girl. He would study, she would get her job back, and they would learn to control their drug use, go to star-studded parties, and maybe have a penthouse wedding at the Soho House.

Bobby drove to a semi-secluded beach and corralled the dope sick addicts onto the sand where he situated them next to each other, a symmetrical pattern of tightly woven cocoons resembling eight body bags.

“Huh. That’s a perfect Instagram.” He took their picture on his phone and shared it on a dozen social websites.

“I mean, like a godmother.”

Coral’s entire body sagged in shame. Of all people she couldn’t have lied about. This potential romance was doomed for good. She thought about walking into the ocean and never returning.

“Anyway, I can always get implants.”

“Coral, you know the rule. No relationships for a year in sobriety. But I don’t think that applies to normies. I bet that girl in the red bikini never took a drug in her life.”

“I’m going to get them some water.”

“Hey, get me a Coke, would you?”

Coral said a silent prayer to a higher power she did not believe in. Though she was told to surrender anything she might want for herself, she instead asked the power to force Bobby to fall in love with her.

She didn’t really want to get water for the junkies; she just wanted Bobby to taken notice of her firm ass as she walked away. She was certain he was looking. She held her breath and turned, but he was still sitting like a little boy staring at those girls like they were rare mammatus cloud formations.

Coral’s plan was to get everyone their drinks then continue into the ocean and drown, but as she approached the body bags, skeletal hands reaching out of blankets, some grabbing her ankles, she noticed one cocoon was deflated.

Coral returned to Bobby, handing him his Coke.

“Jill is not in her blanket.”

“Maybe she’s taking a piss.”

“Did you see her leave?”

“Are you fucking kidding? I can barely keep track of these girls. They must be UCLA co-eds. Jesus. Don’t worry. Jill is probably looking for dirty needles in the sand.”

After coming up empty on Jill in the bathroom, Coral followed her tiny footsteps south. Rickety beach bungalows were strung along the coast, surfboards lining their exteriors. Coral approached a gang of young, buff dudes patiently waiting for a good wave.

“Hey, have you seen a petite girl, all dressed in black.”

“Man, what a head case. Total spinner.”

“Yeah, another Bell Grande success story. She’s working on her fourth step, snorting what’s left of our coke.” They laughed.

“Holy shit!” A perfect swell was bubbling up and off into the ocean they ran.

Jill was sitting at a small kitchen table licking the remains of cocaine from a piece of white paper. Her sleeves rolled up, sweating from the heat and drug detox, Coral noticed a dozen or so slice marks up and down her reed thin arms.

“Hey. Hi. Don’t tell Bobby. Okay.”

“We have to go.”

“I’ll never get better. You know that, right?”

“I tried to kill myself once with a disposable shaver.”

“Now that’s lame.”

Coral gave her a candy bar.

“I remember seeing pictures of you and your mom in

Rickety beach bungalows were strung along the coast, surfboards lining their exteriors.

Once settled, Bobby and Coral sat nearby, Coral’s opportunity to discuss their future, but his eyes drifted off taking in the beach Barbie’s playing volleyball a few hundred yards away.

“Is that natural? Her tits are perfect teardrops. And that ass! Watch her spike the ball. Shit.”

Coral took off her heels, and adjusted her tank top to partially reveal one breast.

“Man, it’s hot. Hey, Bobby, did you know that Eric Clapton wrote that song Layla for my grandmother. She used to tell me to never get plastic surgery.”

“What? Your grandmother was Patti Boyd?”

“Yep.” “Well, that’s odd cause’ she never had any kids.”

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People all the time. I would be so envious. My parents are furniture.”

“My mom is a phony bitch. I’m her show pony and could never talk. It wasn’t fun unless I was high.”

Coral would never understand what it was like to grow up in the public eye, yet feel invisible. But Coral knew what it felt like for no one to see you. No words can fix that wound.

Leading Jill back to the group, Coral began to understand why Bobby gave up the life he had. After a while, she understood glamour wore off, perhaps an impossible dullness sets in. For all she knew, Bobby’s wound was bigger than hers. He was not the answer.

Maybe she bought Jill another day. Maybe not, but there was satisfaction in knowing that Coral had gotten Jill back into the van, to Belle Grande, alive, and Jill possibly might survive another night so that Coral could try and connect with her again. Tomorrow. ●

But silence soon swept forth He reached a field Where the wind sniveled And wheat stalks winced at his presence It was nothing meant to be Nor a fault of his own The boy, with a turn of his cheek Caught sight of himself Staring back from underneath the sodium lamp Ghoulishly, the twin screamed emptiness Hollowing straight through those chestnut pupils He warned of something greater, and Out of the blue, the stems and spindles towered Swallowing the look-alike Still heeding the faint hum of “beware” The boy pedaled in fright But roads only lengthened, narrowing To endless grooves

• • • Rhonda Talbot has spent the last 15 years as a film executive and accomplished writer.

She has sold screenplays, as well as novels and short stories, including A Halfway Decent Girl published in 2003. “Revenge Baby,” was included in the anthology What Was I Thinking, St. Martins 2009. She is currently working on her 2nd book, a comedic memoir.

In addition, she performs comedic routines at a various venues in Los Angeles. A number of her stories and essays can been seen in More, Positive, Salon, Divine Caroline, Huffington Post, The Examiner, Los Angeles Times, among others. Some of her work can be seen at http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com

Street lights dimmed, homes turned to Gray globs on the mind’s pallet His bike brakes crunched at the sight of the strange There, before him, A creature eclipsed any perspective Fluffy, soft, and saccharine Candy buttons hung from the stitches Of its torso But its grin remained sinister With titanic paws, it squeezed the boy In an unhinged embrace There they were One scared, the other loved But here, the boy wished In the darkness That morning would arrive sooner

Chimera

by Vincent Salvano At first the sky was lovely, Days were short, but nights Strengthened in excitement The canary-colored sun peeked Over the vista Nudging at the little boy’s Crusty eyelids So he gallantly followed The serpentine steps Only to be greeted by the Boxes wrapped in ruby-ribbon One by one, he tore open bliss In fool’s paradise The chrome tricycle and teddy bear Called his name Without fear or favor, the little boy Zigzagged down the winding road To the edge Where the moon rose to the cosmos 32

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meekest eyes of all, intelligent and strange and, to Madison, even a little familiar.

The mouth below the eyes smiled, said in a friendly voice, “Hello there.”

“Hello there,” echoed Madison.

The figure checked in the direction of its friends, then, exhaling sensuously, uncurled its shadowy body from the dog-sized pile of dirt and hair it had first appeared to be and instead took the form of a filthy, wide-eyed, teenaged boy. His smooth cheeks were streaked with dirt, his boots were held together with tape, and his wild, dreading locks threatened constantly to push his ball cap off his head, but the way he smiled at Madison made her feel a certain way, so she smiled back.

She was already having more fun than she’d had in weeks.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Looking for something. My homework.” the boy said. “Friend of mine borrowed my homework and was supposed to leave it here for me, but now I can’t find it.”

Madison’s eyes twinkled. She crouched a little behind the fence. “That’s not what you’re looking for.” she said.

The boy laughed, caught, shook his head. “You’re right.” he said, still smiling. He brushed his hands off on his jeans, cocked his hat, raised a hand up for her to shake. “I’m Rabie - what’s your name?”

She giggled at his name and told him her own. She did not shake his hand.

“Well, you’re right, Madison.” Rabie said. “I’m not actually looking for my homework. Fact,” he said proudly, “I don’t go to school at all.”

“I know that,” she said, eyes still twinkling, “I’m not stupid.”

“Course you’re not,” Rabie said, laughing, “no, course you’re not. You’re real smart I bet. Fact, I can tell already, Maddy, I got a real smarty on my hands here. Guess I’m gonna have to give it to you straight, aren’t I?” Madison blushed behind the fence, said nothing.

“Truth is, my friends and I are leaving town tonight, but there are some special traveling papers I need, personal stuff that I have to take with me when we go.

Friend was supposed to stash them here for me, in an envelope, he said ...”

His smile grew wide around his long, yellow teeth.

“You haven’t seen an envelope like that around here, have you Maddy?”

Still she said nothing, saw a spark flicker somewhere deep in Rabie’s eyes. She waited, watched it grow.

“Maddy?”

“It’s not papers you’re looking for either.” she said.

The spark lit a flame. “Where the fuck is it, you little bitch?!” Rabie snarled, and struck a clawed paw out for her, but Madison halted him mid-strike; unfrightened, unflinching, she whispered, “Take me with you.”

Operating almost entirely on instinct (as she had for most of her life), she said to him, “I’ve hidden it away somewhere you’ll never find it. Not unless you take me with you.”

Rabie took back his hand, grimacing, looked away once more to the edge of the light where his friends now visibly waited, crouched upon their hind legs. He pushed his hands frustrated through his hair, pushed his hat off into his hands, creasing it. His lip curled towards a snarl,

Madison the Human Being

by Derrick Martin-Campbell

M

adison found the envelope the night before she met Rabie. Drawn out her bedroom window by the smell of smoke, she found it still smoldering, half-buried in the garbage pile in the corner of her grandparents’ yard, its edges blackened and filled inside with a burnt-up note and six hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. ... se this for the int .... hope you wont have t ... tough times ... luv Kelly, was all she could make of the note, but the twenties seemed fine, still warm as she counted them by the bathroom night-light, seizing still as a cat and peering suspicious over her shoulder every time the house creaked.

She was fourteen years old.

“I see rats in that garbage-pile all the time, vermin, all kinds of who-knows-what,” complained Madison’s grandpa to her caseworker during his visit the next morning. It was a friendly complaining, smiling with his fists on his hips as they stared at the pile together.

“Is there someone who could maybe help you get this cleaned up, Bill? You could hire somebody for cheap, I bet. Maybe Madison could even show you how to go on craigslist ...” Looking hopeful to Madison, he saw her only stare back at him, head-cocked and vacant-eyed and smoking in her cut-offs on the porch. He sighed and turned back to her grandpa.

“Now look, Bill, I bet this can't all be yours. It’s like someone’s been dumping garbage over from the gasstation-side ...”

Madison’s grandparents’ yard backed up against a gas-station parking lot, the switch from grass to asphalt and their ivy-covered old fence the only boundaries separating the two.

“That fence is older than I am,” said her grandpa. He nudged a flattened soda cup with his slipper, turned over some computer innards plastered with last year’s leaves.

“I see rats out here at night,” he said, “raccoons, an opossum and her babies once. My wife says she saw a coyote - could there really be coyotes here you think?” He shook his head, awed at the very possibility The caseworker asked Madison if they’d gone shopping for school supplies yet, received the same response as to the last question. He sighed again.

“You understand they’re not going to let you smoke in school, right, sweety?”

She heard voices that night coming from the garbagepile and, looking, saw shadows moving in the light of the gas station sign. “It’s not here,” she heard an angry voice whisper, followed by a wash of hissing argument. It was barely September and still warm as Madison once more removed the screen from her bedroom window and spidered her adolescent body out into the night.

“-well the little fucker lied then because it’s not fucking-” Peering over the fence, she saw several pairs of eyes look up startled, then bound away for the darkest corner of the parking lot. One pair remained though, looking inscrutable up at her, the largest, deepest, wettest, 33

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then softened looking up at her, waiting, her messy auburn bedhead already evoking his own. With some reluctance, he smiled again.

The yellow sign told the three prices of gas, meaningless, glowed soft and distant above them as the future.

strung-out and sobbing over her sleeping bag, shaking his head like a frightened little boy. He would try to introduce her to people as “Mad-dog” but she would interrupt and correct him, not without conviction saying, “my name is Madison. I am not a dog.”

Only once, as she was being beaten and raped by two men Rabie had introduced her to (men she suspected Rabie of accepting money from), while she had mostly managed to wait out the first man in her usual dissociative state, something about the second, his laughing goateed mouth and his yellow eyes, had flashed an image of her father suddenly before her and she’d panicked, let out a shriek, and exploded into a teaming murder of crows that disappeared cawing off into the night. That was the only time. It was how she left him.

Years later, grown and childless, working at Target and attending NA meetings twice a week in the evenings, she awoke early to the sound of her cat crying terrified and bloody-eared at her front door. The cat dashed between her legs as soon as she opened it and, looking out into the dawn-lit street, she saw a single coyote stood poised there, watching her. It was itself a much-scarred and chewed-up looking thing, almost like a small, sick dog. She looked at it only a moment, then ran for the gun she kept in her bedside drawer, a lowcaliber revolver, then returned to the now empty street, furious and ready to shoot. But he was gone. In a smoldering rage, she scoured the sleepy neighborhood in her robe, surprised at herself, surprised but not embarrassed. She was too angry to be embarrassed. Her hair, grey at the roots now, still stood up wild as a hurricane in the morning before she brushed it.

“You leave my fucking cat alone, you monster!” she shouted at the world, not caring who heard, her teeth set and gun in-hand. “I will put a bullet through your head if I EVER see you again - do you hear me? I fucking promise you—” The stress of the episode remained with her the rest of the day and even on into the week. She went to work, kept a few dates with friends, but still muttered these threats quietly to herself whenever she thought of it, like a prayer, until her pulse slowed again. She bought a litter box and kept her cat inside.

“A bullet in your head,” folding laundry on her bed, the embers inside her still hot as ever, “I fucking promise you—” ●

And so began the next part of Madison’s life, the years she would spend traveling with Rabie, up and down the west coast, as far south as San Diego and as far north as the canneries in Kodiak. Not that they worked much. Rabie insisted the only work he knew how to do without killing someone was trim weed and even this he never managed for longer than two weeks at a friend’s farm once or twice a year.

In their time together, he introduced her to many “friends” and, after only a month, Madison had pretty much learned to tell the difference between which were their real friends, which were the people Rabie had threatened, and which were the people Rabie had lied to.

He lied frequently and easily, often to her, nothing personal, she knew, since that was just how he was.

Among his many promises when they first met was that he would teach her to hop trains, but then the first night they were supposed to, they hadn’t even made it to the train yard before Rabie was too high; then the second she ended watching from the bushes as two bulls broke Rabie’s ribs and hand and then kicked him down a gravel embankment. He turned out to be pretty good at hitching though, since he could talk. And Madison’s being a girl certainly didn’t hurt either.

Many awful things happened to Madison during this time, things she accepted and then waited out as best she could, like a wet person with a long ways to go in the rain.

She was beat-up and robbed many times, worse stuff, often because of something Rabie had said or done, but also just as often because of no reason at all, none that she could see. One horrible night, she held down a drunk old vet in a snowy field while Rabie beat him to death with a bike lock, growling threats she tried to ignore. She was not exceptionally smart and admitted it readily, embracing the fact that the mundane key to her survival was often nothing more than her ability to forget things, to leave them behind. And she left a lot behind.

Perhaps surprisingly, she did not leave Rabie, not for a long time anyway. Maybe even more surprisingly, neither did he leave her. It was because of the money, she knew, the mysterious burning envelope full of twenties that smoldered on forever, money she never spent nor showed him nor even really proved she still possessed beyond the faint smell of smoke, teasing him constantly with that same vacant stare whenever he asked, threatened, begged. But it worked. The envelope bound Rabie to her magically, made a prisoner of him, and he often lamented that he did not possess it, raging in its invisible fetters, cursing and howling and snapping his empty jaws, yelling at her late at night in the streets of many towns and cities, in parking lots and beneath overpasses, yelling and walking five paces off before, huffing and puffing, slowly, stubbornly, powerless, turning around. Once he cut her face while she slept, used her own knife even, and when Madison awoke, tickled by the wetness on her cheek, she found him

• • • Derrick Martin-Campbell is a writer living in Portland, OR. His work has previously appeared in HOUSEFIRE, Metazen, Smalldoggies Magazine, and Thought Catalog. You can visit him online at: derrickmartincampbell.tumblr.com.

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her fries because the cherry coke she downed after being thirsty made her feel full.

She didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know that after Noreen finished eyeing Andy up and down, she would get right back in to talking about John Cobb again.

“He wouldn’t let me touch anything. I wasn’t even allowed to go into the medicine cabinet for a couple of lousy aspirin.”

“He was cheap too.”

“I should have stayed with him. His mother left him that apartment so now he’s out of here, the lucky dog.”

Before

by Denise Falcone

T

he room was dark but he knew the way to the bed. After hesitating, a shadow, he walked over to sit on the edge.

“I worry about you...”

“Oh, Charlie, don’t worry about me.

Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“What happened with the cops?”

“You know, they took me out there.”

“And? Did anything come up?”

She took his hand to caress it.

“Charlie.”

“We don’t start out owning pain,” she said while she and Brian walked back to the car.

“We’re born into it. Pain is inflicted.”

It felt good on her hip to press it against the warm metal.

“And some poor souls just can’t find the way out or to work through it. They keep taking it in and taking it in until the pain becomes a part of them.”

Two red-tailed hawks were gliding high overhead.

Brian was staring out past the buzzing meadow, past the lonely wood, past the haze-smudged hills, past everything.

“The fact that they started out as sweet innocent babies is the tragedy,” she stopped to take a wrinkled handkerchief out of her pocket to dab her eyes, “the real tragedy of it all.”

“They can’t help it! They just want to get rid of the pain! They need to get rid of the the pain!”

A car with a radio blasting sped by, then it was quiet again off the road.

“Ummm,” she let out after inhaling deeply.

Brian noticed deer tracks so he was twisting his body to check the soles of his shoes. It was too hot to be standing in the sun. A clutch of tagged adolescent pines were basking.

“These trees smell like my mother’s Pine-Sol.” He pushed his sunglasses down with his little finger so Stephanie could see his eyes.

“She cleaned the whole house with it.”

They stood on the bank above the sag and looked down no more than three feet into a tangle of brush to where the young girl’s body was found. Brian picked up some remnants of discarded yellow police tape and squeezed them with his fist into a ball.

The first rumblings of thunder began and then a long pause filled with time.

Explosions of laughter were coming from the house next door. Several children were screaming while playing in the wide front yard and the beagle was barking too. A screen door slammed.

From where she sat she could see clips of Charlie pulling the hose out to the driveway, preparing for his Saturday washing of the car.

It often happened when they called her in to a case that the detective, if he was of the sensitive sort, could tap into the process and together they would form a sort of bond.

Brian called a little before nine that morning and woke her up.

“Stephanie, would one more time this afternoon be okay?”

But Brian was a Catholic and Catholics were forbidden to believe in the supernatural. It was gravely sinful for them to put their faith in anything other than God. Perhaps that was why when she saw things so clearly, his doubt would muddy them up again.

Noreen was stirring her coffee without paying the slightest attention to it spilling over the side.

“I can’t believe I could have been living in the city now in one of those high-risers with a doorman instead of stuck here in the sticks,” she said.

“With trees in the lobby. A real nice lobby.”

Stephanie was watching out the window to the parking lot where a group of teenagers who, in spite of their cool clothes getting soaked from the rain, were ganging around. They appeared mentally incapable of doing anything but punch and kick each other while exchanging catcalls and jeers.

“You know that John Cobb wanted me to live with him, right?”

“It was a nice place too. We used to have cold wine and cheese on the terrace and sit and watch the boats go by. Then we’d go to the movies. Or to this old-fashioned bar down the block for fish and chips for dinner.”

The local florist’s Jeep was pulling into the spot under their window.

“Here’s Andy.”

“I think I remember you told me that,” said Stephanie. “You said he was too neat.”

“Cobb? Way too neat. Crazy neat. And everything he owned was brown.”

Stephanie contemplated taking home half of her tuna salad sandwich. She hadn’t touched her pickle or

I trespass into this warning silence a Venetian, born in this lifetime to a house in Cannaregio ...anime dei me morti, aiuteme!

Follow the colors for the passage of time...to a room bulging in auburn darkness, louvered window shut...

Stefania, there are no such things as psychics, only mechashefa who speak the words of the devil to make people do bad things...

But Rabbi, sometimes I know...

Invalid!... would remain in her ears forever.

Down a calle a man is pissing into the canal. The 35

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woman is giggling and taking his picture.

“Hey, stop that!” she yells. She’s a child and throws a small rock, “you stupid ugly tourists who come to my city to trash it!”

In nightmarish pursuit of the Rialto, she gasps in the damp sour air while the echoing tap tap tap of steps and the amplified murmurs of apparitions follow...

“Stephanie,” Brian’s voice was coming through, “Who was Charlie before you met him?” ...the sound of water lapping against the sidewalls while the sick indifference of the milk white hands grip her shoulders to press them hard against the wall... ....the bad breath, the awful punch in the stomach...

“Stephanie?”

And then from below, among the remnants of cuts and scrapes and a glimpse of gold chain not found, she heard the cry.

“Mommy.” ●

Incontiguous

by A.g. Synclair I never told you about the night I died how I left and came back without my coat apples floated in barrels just above the trees the dimming sky shed its winter madness I watched you curl into yourself like a wave in place where assassins bear fruit and scatter seeds where nothing grows.

• • • Denise Falcone's stories have appeared in Turk's Head Review, Antique Children, Kerouac's Dog, The Foliate Oak, Blood Orange Review, 6 Tales, Kitchen, The Golden Triangle, South Jersey Underground, Randomly Accessed Poetics, and others.

Awaiting Resurrection

by A.g. Synclair This is the hell we abide there are ghosts here huddled patiently under naked trees held tightly behind the eyes in a pair of warm pockets the sky is falling all around us there is nothing else to do but slip into the cover of darkness and wait for a long, long snow.

First Encounter

by Katherine Givens Meeting the eyes of a stranger could unveil many possibilities.

After cordial greetings, acquaintanceships, and years of familiarity, this person could be my worse enemy or best of friends.

Whatever is in the cards, the road of discovery begins with a simple “hello.”

• • • A.g. Synclair is the editor and publisher of The Montucky Review, a journal of poetry and prose. He manages to publish his work frequently, despite not having an MFA in anything. Mr. Synclair wishes it would rain more because the sun is clearly trying to kill him. He lives, writes, and otherwise collaborates in southwestern Montana with his partner in crime, the artist and poet Heather Brager.

• • •

36

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by J. E. Sherwood

Unemployment R

amirez came to me on a Wednesday. I had been working lazily on an article for the camping section of The Monthly Angler. I wasn’t fisherman, not even remotely close to a sportsman; I was a writer, and luckily, had an imagination that got me through articles whose subjects I was wholly ignorant of. Nevertheless, when Ramirez knocked on the door to my small hermit’s hole of a hotel room, I welcomed the interruption. I had been trying to create a false world of prize fish and slightly obese anglers from Maine, and was beginning to suspect, that it would get me fired, or sued for libel. I opened the door, surprised to see him, and glad. I hadn’t seen him since we were undergraduates at Cornell and used to trade our shitty short stories back and forth over copious amounts of beer and reefer. He was the only Latino in the writing classes, surrounded by various shades of white and the two black students whose names are escaping me right now—it was twenty years ago. So when I opened the door to find Ramirez standing there, hand poised for another knock, the other wrapped awkwardly around a bundle of papers, and his face more aged, wrinkled, and displaying a look of fright I was eerily glad to see him. It was like a scene from a dream or one of those movies that doesn’t have the patience to explain itself. I was glad for this unexpected reunion. Yet the look of fright on his face, in the moment I saw him standing there, made me feel ominous, made me wish for a quick second, that I hadn’t opened the door.

I tried to shake the feeling and put on the usual “Oh, I haven’t seen you in years!” welcome, but Ramirez would have none of it. He was spooked. I had heard, through the various sources we writers have to keep tabs on old acquaintances, that he had become a copywriter at some ad agency, but still continued to write short stories, some of which had been decently received by the literati of New Jersey, what there was of it. I think I had caught a couple of his poems in the rare magazines and collections I picked up around the city. I had always thought he was a better poet than fiction writer.

I’m surprised that as I watched him wander awkwardly around my room, finally taking a cautious seat on the corner of my bed, I didn’t immediately wonder how he’d found me. After all, I was staying in a seedy hotel room in Brooklyn. Perhaps it had been through the same channels I had heard about his literary misadventures, his own unique story of literary ambition thwarted and put into the service of the businesses and powers we had always railed against as undergraduates.

I don’t know how he found me—something which I still don’t know to this day. I would’ve asked him but as soon as he sat down he began rambling on about the bundle of

papers in his hand. He wasn’t making sense. It seemed that it was some kind of manuscript that had been sent to him personally because the author was a fan of one of his poems. I remember that I asked, ass that I can be: “What poem is it?” Ramirez ended up sending me a copy: Infernal Supermarket We are taking our time through the isles spattered In blood and the fumes of the alcoholic demons straying Through the paths. For it is their home, their humble Sanctuary that we tread upon. This is where we shop, nonstop In eternal devotion to slavery—it’s sold here in pristine Cellophane packaging, crisp and preserved with vinegar And bile-salts. At the registers, served by one lone woman —a suicide who caught half her head with a 35—we do Not pay in coins or gold, the groceries we have tendered Are parts of our own soul, and we have unlimited credit.

The deformed register lady says as we attempt to find money In the sliced pockets of our bodies, “You’re money, sir, Is no good here.”

But it wasn’t the poem he wanted to talk about. It was the contents of the manuscript that terrified him. I thought of asking him the reason why he chose me to come to, but I didn’t even have time for that. He shoved the manuscript on me, which had to be over 500 pages, and told me to read.

Having spent plenty of time as a copywriter and editor myself, I had some skill in rifling through massive amounts of text quickly, especially if I weren’t obligated to edit it. So I read it in this zombie-like way, about a page every three seconds. It seemed to be a memoir. It was terribly written and often opened up to long philosophic or moralistic passages that lasted for pages.

It started, where most terrible memoirs do, with the author’s birth. From then on he talked about his upbringing in a small upstate New York town by his lower-middle-class parents, his time at school, then college (where, like Ramirez and I, he had studied English) and then his numerous failures as an adult. He got fired or ruined everything he did, it seemed. Fired after three days as a bank manger when they had found 37

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out he had lied about his degree; a bookstore he opened with a friend mysteriously burned to the ground two months after opening; a job as a copywriter had went south when he was caught masturbating in a supplies closet, a joint venture with a few Raleigh associates focused on social media ended in bankruptcy; a stint as a manager of Home Depot was over after three months, the reason for expulsion being lewd conduct; a position as a case consultant for a mortgage company finished with a slight rumor of embezzlement, some time in California as a porn producer, the company he had signed on dissolved after a triple homicide; a month as a copy boy before sexual harassment charges had been filed; and on and on. And for all of these failures, the author persisted that it was not he, but someone else, some infernal nemesis following him, that had caused them and expedited the collapse of all his endeavors. Sometimes this nemesis came in the form of business partners, inanimate objects, the weather, or just a feeling. However, it seemed to me as I scanned through the pages, that the nemesis was within the author.

The last occupation he had was as a production worker in a cookie factory. This seemed to be one of the longer lasting jobs he held, but like the others, it was short lived. He was fired for insubordination after arguing with his employer over the metaphysics of leavened bread. It was after this last collapse of employment that the author (who referred to himself in the manuscript as Lucian) took a different turn. The philosophic passages became more pronounced and longwinded. The actual descriptions of events became opaque and lethargic, as if he were relating scenes from the dreams of a feverish man. It seemed that Lucian slowly began to blame all of his occupational woes on the rich and prospering. After the financial collapse of 2008, an event he related in heavyhanded metaphors of fire and blood, Lucian’s life—or at least his mental life—took a turn for the better. His angst over the rich, big business, the government that sheltered it, became a site of opportunity. It was as if he had had a Nietzschean revelation of some sort. His morality, or “philosophical determination,” as he termed it, became more relative; he gave up wholly on the existence of the soul, the essential goodness of humans, and generally all of the Enlightenment ideals he had picked up as an undergraduate. What replaced them, it was hard to decipher. Yet again Lucian’s language became cryptic and full of illogical metaphor and terse similes leading to confusion rather than comparison.

Then suddenly the section ended (titled “Volume One,” at some 200 pages).

I set down the manuscript and looked over at Ramirez who, it seemed, had been staring stolidly at me the entire time I read. I looked at him for a moment, seeing the fright still under the surface of his sullen stare, then said something like, “This is trash.” I remember

that he nodded slightly then made a graceful gesture with his hand which, it was strangely apparent, meant that I should continue reading. I noticed immediately that “Volume Two” was much different than the first section I had read. The language was (and this seems to be the only word for it) violent. Not so much the actual words or the content, but just the manner, the style, was violent—like he was sadistically beating the pages, writing with a skinning knife, and using his words like bullets to be shot into the reader, not placidly taken in. I later convinced Ramirez to let me make some copies of the second volume. So instead of rattling on about my perceptions and expounding in literary euphemisms about the manuscript, perhaps I should let you read some of it directly: “Certain mornings, after the burn off of fog and the night’s preceding dusk which stutters out of existence like a weak homeless man relinquishing bread for drugs, I come alive.

Truly alive. Unfettered from the mundane presences of my sleeping self—bursting forth in pure consciousness…” And so on. As can be seen, the tense had changed. Lucian was no longer speaking about the past, but instead seemed to be writing a diary or journal, though the structure was still one of a memoir. For the first 30 pages or so Lucian kept on in this manner; never really relating anything other than personal feelings of power and “unbridled magnitude,” as he (or she, as I later pointed out to Ramirez) put it. Then I came on a passage—which I would find lasted the rest of the memoir—which chilled me. It seemed all of the strange and overwrought pages had only been a preamble for the fright and horror the remaining pages held. As I read through them I looked up at Ramirez with a face that said, I presume, “What the fuck?” who simply nodded again. I could explain what I read in the pages, but I don’t think it would be adequate, and, in all truth, I’m not sure if I really feel up to paraphrasing it. So here it is, verbatim: “It was after these reflections that my new source of income came to me. Or rather, I should note, it found me. I had been up late, doing what is of no consequence, when I decided to go for a walk. The city”— I should briefly interject to mention that Lucian never clearly defined exactly which city he lived in—“was dark despite the streetlights, cars, and buzzing signs of motley colors. I remember a stiff breeze swarmed through the streets, hitting one face-on no matter which direction one went. I started north and it blasted me, I turned west and found it forcing itself against my chest again, I’d turn south and yet again it would still be there in front of me.

Though I suppose this is all a type of conjecture, a remolding of events through the scope of memory and revelation. But as I walked through the ethereal streets with no destination and no real wish for one, my unbridled magnitude seemed to grow. When I clenched my fist the buildings bent down towards me in

“It was after these reflections that my new source of income came to me.

Or rather, I should note, it found me.”

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benevolence, when I raised my head they shied away from my glance like gargantuan gnomes, mischievous but empty of courage or mettle. There were people about.

They felt like ghosts, the sparks of life that were in their chests as they scuttled past me seemed insignificant to the fire raging in my own. I could have passed my hands right through them like mist, or so it felt. I had turned down an alley, a shortcut I thought; little did I know where it would lead me. As I strolled through, the wind blasting me in the face, a man stepped out of a doorway, a pistol in his hand. I stopped and almost wanted to laugh at him. Not only because I had no money—in fact I did not have anything on me besides my ratty and discolored clothes—I also wanted to laugh because there was an absurdity to the whole thing. It was like one rat threatening another with a toothpick. He addressed me, and I will say he was rather polite, asking for my money and promising me that I wouldn’t get hurt if I complied.

I looked at him a moment. He was young, perhaps twenty, had a pale complexion and expensive clothes.

Then I did laugh. He became nervous at this. But the absurdity, the utter stupidity of what was happening was overwhelming. A rich man robbing a poor man? Then it hit me: it made perfect sense. Weren’t the rich robbing the poor the world over? Perhaps not at gun or knife point, but in a much more dishonorable and backhanded way. They stole the poor’s money and their lives through small acts of attrition, like slaves brainwashed into thinking they are free. While I mused the man became perturbed. Finally he resorted to violence and pushed me awkwardly against a crumbling brick wall. He began shouting now for the nonexistent money. Then my occupation dawned on me. It was right here in front of me; this man, this flesh, was income. Like the businesses that squeezed their profits out of people, so too would I. But I would do it honestly, with no malice or trickery. I managed to steal the pistol from him. It was rather easy, to be honest. Fear creeps down like a rotten snake on most people, and the recognition of this fear makes such actions easy. As he began begging for his life, I shot him three times in the chest. He fell to the ground and after some convulsions, died. I then was quick to search his pockets, take his expensive clothes, and returned home.

The next day I exchanged the clothes, gun, and other items I had found on him for cash. Taken altogether I made 2,000 dollars off of this first act of my new employment.

So I continued on. As I stated before, there was no malice to the people I killed—instead, it might even be looked at as a charitable act. After all, I was dealing with these people truthfully. I was taking their lives which were already being taken by forces both monetary and malignant, but I was taking them directly. On average, off of one person I would make a few hundred dollars.

Eventually, I began to reason that I was wasting funds.

In a way I was being unproductive and needed to find a way to be more productive. Organs. There was a whole cavity full of dollar-signs sitting in the center of each person I dispatched of, being untapped, left to rot. Well, strange as it must sound, it isn’t so hard to find buyers— markets, as every good economist knows, are everywhere. Once I found the proper market, my dividends increased dramatically. I concede the fact that

the workload increased also—the dismantling of the bodies like scrap was laborious—but I began to make upwards of 20,000 per body, at least when I could find traders to purchase my wares.”

I’ll stop quoting here, though the manuscript went on at some length describing Lucian’s “employment.” I can say that while I read through these passages— passages often full of detailed accounts of his grisly work—that I was thoroughly chilled. Throughout all of Lucian’s explanations there was no hint of the serial killer, the deranged maniac who is meticulous and obsessive about their killing. Instead, as he himself wrote, it seemed a sincere form of employment to him.

Each murder was related as one would relate a day’s work to a wife. Here and there he would, as he had the entire manuscript, burst into philosophical explanations for his “employment.” Besides his false justification concerning the “honesty” of his actions and the inherent “morality” of direct murder instead of, what he termed “impersonal and drudging financial slavery,” he also had an almost religious explanation. He turned to evolutionary biology, a shaky understanding of physics that bordered on metaphysics. The horror of these passages I imagine to be similar to the scientific treatises the Nazis had prepared as rationalization for their extermination of the Jews. Yet all along Lucian’s predominant rationalization was economic. He truly saw his murders as a form of employment. Not as a hit man would—not as some kind of mercenary or avenging gunman—but instead like a factory owner. The world of people, innocent, flawed, and bogged down in their own lives, trying to eek out an existence, these were his raw materials; he was…he felt that he acted as a refinery, taking peoples’ possessions and their bodies as if they were fabric and turning them into profit.

There was never any mention of the authorities directly, instead he referred to them as a type of “overhead”—an expense and intrinsic risk that he had to invest against. I took this to mean that he bribed the police, but, as I’ve read it over again multiple times, I have found that there is not enough explanation of his “risk management” to make any solid conclusions.

Either way, he kept “risk” away and made considerable money. In his own meticulous accounting that more and more took up whole pages of the manuscript, he was posting quarterly profits in excess of $300,000. On average, he figured, he would make some 2-3 million per year. Reading over these accounting tables and the clear excitement over money Lucian had as he discussed his finances, I’m not sure what made me sicker: his actual demonic murders, or the fact that he had become a rich man doing them—that it was evenpossible for someone to become rich in such a way.

Volume two of the manuscript ended just as abruptly as the first had. Clearly, it was an unfinished work. When I had finished reading I set down the stack of papers and stared at Ramirez. He still sat there on my bed looking at me numbly. He had his hands clasped in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees. I could see that he was still shaking slightly. I imagine I shared the same look on his face as I stared back at him, not sure what to say, or where to begin. I almost felt a strange anger towards him, as if he had made me an accomplice to this horrible 39

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manuscript, to Lucian’s deeds. But at the same time, I was extremely worried about him. After all, Lucian had sent the manuscript expressly to him. Finally I managed to ask: “What do you plan to do with it? Go to the police?”

Ramirez, as if waking from a dream, blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes and lay back on my bed. “Well, there’s no sense is there? I mean that didn’t seem like a confession to you did it?”

No, it certainly wasn’t a confession: “But you can’t just let this slip. I mean if this Lucian is out there, doing these things, then someone has to stop him. You have to at least tell the police, just in case.”

Ramirez sat up and stared at me blankly. “Well there’s a lot to consider. Number one; perhaps this entire thing,” he grabbed the stack and dropped it savagely, “is a work of fiction. A mock memoir. After all, he wants me to have it published, right?”

I had thought of this possibility too—that the entire thing was a fiction. The character of Lucian, just that, an invented misanthrope, his despicable deeds, only the tongue-in-cheek imaginings of some writer with a black sense of humor. Yet, after reading over the portions of the manuscript Ramirez let me copy, after analyzing and pouring over the damn thing, I find no trace of artifice. If it’s fiction, it’s damn good fiction.

“Well are you going to send it to a publisher?” I asked Ramirez.

“Hell no,” he said sharply, “What if they think I wrote it?”

“Burn it.”

“What?” Ramirez looked at me seriously, a bit shocked but more confused. I remember that the idea to burn the whole damn thing had come to me quickly in that exact phrase—“Burn it”—as if someone else had crept into my mind and told me it. Looking back, it’s probably what we should have done.

“Burn it and pretend you never received it. Just imagine it never existed, that you never read it.”

“Could you imagine that you’d never read it?”

“No, I suppose not.” I thought for a moment, while Ramirez lay back down on my bed. “Write back to him.

Tell him that it’s unpublishable.”

“How? It was left lying outside my apartment. Do I just write a letter and set it outside my front door and hope he picks it up?”

“You should at least move. Start writing under a pseudonym or something so he can’t find you again.”

“Thought of that. I don’t think it would matter. Do you think he really means me harm anyways?”

“No,” it at least didn’t seem that way.

“Hell, it’s all probably just some stupid fucking joke,” Ramirez said dryly, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

We were silent for some time again. I have no idea what Ramirez was thinking. But I was still thinking of some action to take. Something to do with the stack of papers that would somehow neutralize their horror, something that would negate the sinking feeling in my chest, some action to exorcize Lucian’s story from my mind and leave me alone to write shitty articles and copy for magazines and companies I didn’t give a hell about…

But then, looking over at Ramirez, my original perplexity came to me again.

“Ramirez,” he looked at me without sitting up or moving his head, “why the fuck did you come here? Why did you share this thing with me? After all these years?”

“Because,” he replied, sitting up and looking at me quizzically, “you’re the best writer I know.”

A little while after, Ramirez left. We had nothing more to say to each other—no solution to the manuscript, and no words to make either of us feel better. So when he left there was no reunion, no happy parting of ways, no signal of friendship between us. He simply left with a promise to mail me the portions of the manuscript I requested. Two weeks later they came. I have been over them again and again, as I stated before.

And where has it led me? Nowhere. Maybe I became so obsessed with Lucian’s story simply because my own life was banal, is still banal. Sometimes there are things that make life seem bigger, whether that enlargement bends toward the horrible or the divine. We feel we are a part of something larger and more confusing and, in the end, unknowable, than we had ever known before. And whether it’s just an illusion or a wish, we still seem to cling to such things, because, like Ramirez sitting on my bed that day, we all feel small and alone.

Two months ago I happened to read on the Internet that Ramirez had died. Apparently he had been on the highway in his crappy used car when the brakes locked up; the tractor-trailer behind him couldn’t stop in time and smashed into him, he died instantly. In the obituary, or article, whatever it was, they had called him a poet. He would have liked that I think. I debated whether or not to go to his funeral, and finally decided to.

After getting lost in New Jersey for two hours I finally found the cemetery. I was late. The only people still next to the fresh hole were Ramirez’s mother and a few random people who chatted quietly. It was, strangely, a beautiful day; sunny, with a lukewarm breeze and the smell of pollen or flower petals in the air.

I introduced myself to Ramirez’s mother, explained my relation to her son, and gave my condolences. She was distraught, not only because her son had died, but because he had died penniless and with massive amount of debt. She said that she planned on going through his papers and trying to publish what she could in an attempt to try and pay off some of his bills. I left wishing her luck and offering my condolences again.

A while later, I heard through various sources that an anonymous person had come forward and paid all of Ramirez’s debts in exchange for all of his manuscripts. I didn’t think about it too much. I was too busy looking for work. ● • • • J. E. Sherwood is a writer originally from Western New York. Besides attempting to be the Managing Editor of The Fat City Review he is working on a novel and multiple other projects. His stories have appeared in You Stumble in a Room Full of Poets, a Londonbased literary magazine. He currently lives in Boulder, Colorado.

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Happy Hour

by Foster Trecost

W

e were in the car more than anywhere else.

Two or three days driving, then two or three days to get back home. Family vacations, the minutes crept by and so did the miles.

My father chose the hotels and the cheapest would usually do. It didn't matter how run down a place looked, if the price was right we stayed the night. Until a marquis advertised free champagne at the five o'clock happy hour.

Something free, even if it wasn't really, but it was labeled free and the dump next door, fifteen dollars cheaper, suddenly seemed too cheap.

We checked in at four forty-five, fifteen minutes to spare. He disappeared into the bathroom and emerged as someone we didn't really recognize. He had slicked his hair back and it looked stiff, like it might crumble if he ran his hands through it. He had shaved so fast, red nicks dotted his neck.

In the lobby a few others had gathered, but not many.

He grasped his glass as though his hand was accustomed to the shape and took small sips, not because he thought he was supposed to, but because he wanted the wine to last. A goofy grin settled on his lips and he walked to each of the others, toasting them like privileged members of an elite club. We watched him from a corner, but unsure who we were watching.

I knew his glass was empty when he tipped it vertical and tapped on the bottom. He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head in an “Oh, well” sort of way--one glass per guest, no refills. His music had stopped, but it didn't go gently; the needle scratched across the grooves telling him it was time to go. He set the glass on a table and walked right past us. During dinner he smiled in an unfamiliar way, just a hint, but I could see it and I'd never seen it before. The next day it was gone. We crammed into the car and so were we.

Years later I told this story to a small group of men, each holding a glass of wine. Free wine. I told them my father would've wanted it this way, and to enjoy because life doesn't give refills and neither did I. They seemed to understand and tipped their glasses toward the casket. I thought more about that happy hour, and wondered if it was the only one he ever had. ●

The Collaboration of Light

by Gillian Prew I breathe out of prejudice.

E. M. Cioran Stumped, by the hollow word.

The distracted blood, and not daring to move - as if we might catch sight of ourselves.

How often can a man describe misery without perceptible scars?

Sampling the explosion of meaning by dying; thinking out of the shadow of I, and forever (or only the span of breathing), being a brute where the lines permit. Wishing for the consolations of philosophy or the life of a troubadour with all the voices.

I, like a slow thaw in the garden where all this started under the sun yesterday (or years ago) There is a simmering vitality that permits persistence, that allows healing and the adoration of wounds.

• • •

• • • Foster Trecost started writing in Italy and now writes from Germany. His stories have appeared in Elimae, Pequin, Metazen, decomP, and Dark Sky Magazine, among other places.

Gillian Prew lives in Scotland and is the author of two recent chapbooks, DISCONNECTIONS (erbacce-press) and In the Broken Things (Virgogray Press). A previous self-published book, the idea of wings, is also available via Amazon. Her poems have been published widely online and in print, including Danse Macabre du Jour, Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Glasgow Review, Red Fez and Fragile Arts Quarterly. She has twice been short-listed for the erbacce-prize. She likes cats, crows and Dylan Thomas. Her website can be found at http://gillianprew.com/ 41

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

by Wendy Ashlee Coleman

One More Round

“

Baby…I’ve got all day,” the young, heavyset black woman says with a kind but firm voice to the old, silver haired man who looks like he’s in his seventies but is over ninety years of age. He stares down at his November themed dinner with dread as his bald-head reflects the fluorescent lights, easily shining through his thin mane.

He gulps reluctantly at the task at hand as his eyes scan the two pieces of dark turkey breast; turkey so dry, it seems to suck the moisture from his eyes just by glancing at it. He then sighs and shakes his head at the thimble amount of brown gravy that hasn’t been poured but squirted from a bottle in two long, thin lines like ketchup on a hot dog.

The man looks over and watches the black woman stubbornly pull out a Koontz novel while giving him an intense look as she fingers a dog eared page and begins reading.

He picks up his fork and slowly begins mashing at the dollop of cranberry sauce that still retains the shape of the tin can it came from. He catches the woman’s eyes non- discreetly peeking over her book for just a moment, but then diving back into Koontz.

He forks off a piece of firm cranberry sauce, too firm to actually be real cranberry sauce and puts it in his mouth. As he chews, he can taste a hint of tin that still is detected amidst the over sweet, highly processed bullshit. To get the over-sweet taste from his mouth, he forks off a piece of turkey and puts it on his tongue. The salty, dry meat makes him reach for his beverage in a mad panic as if he’s choking, quickly drowning the bite with a gulp of water to get it down. The salty aftermath is so bad he begins to consider another sweet bite of tin sauce to counteract his over-salted experience.

“Just eat ya damn food.”

“It’s a salt lick,” he says with a mind as sharp as fifty year old but a body of a starving prisoner.

“It really that bad?”

“Here…taste,” he says putting a bite up to her lips.

“Get that outta my face,” she says shoving the fork away from her.

“So you admit…it is gross.”

“I ain’t admittin’ nothin’.”

“Taste it then.”

“No.” “Taste it!” he repeats obnoxiously.

“No, John, I said ‘no.’ I know ya ain't deaf!”

“Why not?”

“Cause I'm on a diet.”

“A diet?” He says while flashing her a big eye gaze that screams absurdity.

“What?”

He shakes his head and laughs while picking up an apple juice box and trying to get the straw poked through the hole unsuccessfully.

“What? She says defensively.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah…but you thinkin’ it.”

“Thinking what?”

“You know…” She says resting her head on her hand.

He laughs a little and shrugs while still trying to wrestle the straw in the cup.

“Tryin' to get skinny again are we?”

“You don't know what ya' talkin about” she says shaking her head waving off his negativity.

“You couldn't do it the last four times ya tried.”

“Two times…it was two.”

“Ya ain't gonna ever be skinny. “ “I don't wanna be skinny. Did I say I wanna be skinny? I just wanna lose some damn weight…be a little healthier…that ok with you?” she says as he just shrugs again quietly.

She just looks at him for moment watching the old man wrestle with his juice box.

“So why couldn't I ever get skinny” she says not wanting to drop the subject.

John smiles.

“Same reason a minnow I’ll never be a shark, I suppose, but it don't matter…you don't wanna be skinny…right?”

She sighs and angrily grabs the juice cup from the old man and stabs it with one shot before slamming it down right in front of him making it spill and splash a little in his face.

“You got some in my eye,” he says as he stuffs the shirttail of his sky blue pajamas in his eye socket and twists.

“Good,” she says.

“Yeah, well it burns.”

“Good,” she repeats with no remorse.

“I wasn’t tryin’…”

“To be rude? Well you are. You're bein’ very rude.” she says, interrupting him.

“It’s just that I noticed Y’all seem ta have…well…pretty hearty appetites.”

“Y’all?” she says shaking her head not understanding.

“Yeah…colored folks,” he says blatantly, making her raise her eyebrows and shake her head.

“And you know what? That’s alright. That’s the way God made ya. And if that’s the way God made ya, then that’s ok in my book.”

“Um hm.”

“Let me give ya some advice, child…don’t go out there and start pickin’ fights with mother-nature, cause 42

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

believe me, when ya do, you’re just wrestling with the wind. Big girls got big appetites. That’s just the way it is.”

She glares at him with hateful fumes steaming from her eyes that she tries to hide with her book.

“Personally I’m not a fan of gluttonous behavior even if it’s more natural for some,” he says while sipping on his juice.

“But the good Lord says judge not or thou shall be judged,” he says as he slowly scoots the plate of food to her.

“What are you doin’?” the woman says looking down and watching him slowly push the plate of food right under her nose.

“Listen, I’m just gonna look the other way and, well, if my plate gets cleaned, then, I guess I was real hungry today.”

“John.”

“You look hungry, Nike,” he pronounces like the shoe.

“It’s Nikkia. “ “Nicky?!” he says again struggling to pronounce it.

“Mr. Crowl…eat! Now!” she says putting the fork in his hand.

John looks at what’s left of his plate and gulps as if it were a ten-mile run.

“Stop for a minute… what are we forgetting?”

He keeps doing it.

“Dad! Stop for a minute!”

He gives him a blank look.

“The ‘on’ button, dad,” the son says pushing it and lighting up the control panel.

“Hmm,” John says looking down.

“Now, before you run…”

Immediately John interrupts his son again and hits it in reverse accidentally running the back wheel over both of his son’s toes.

“OW! .FUCK!!!! “ he says hobbling all over the place.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…ow!”

“What!? What?!” John says.

“You ran over my damn toes.”

“Oh…oh damn…I’m sorry…you ok?” he says with real concern but with a little chuckle and a laugh that follows.

“No.” “I'm sorry” he says but with a smile.

“It's not funny dad…..God damn.” he says grasping onto his toes.

“I’m sorry, son, but you’re wrong. It was funny,” he says, making his son’s wife laugh.

“Thanks for the encouragement, babe,” the son says as he rubs his injured big toes.

“What….It was funny!” his wife confirms with more laughter.

His son just sighs while massaging his toes with a wince.

“It’ll feel better when it quits hurtin’,” the old man says as he hits it forward and rams it into the side of the bed, spilling over a cup of water.

“Whoops…”

The wife just keeps laughing as she watches her old father- in- law try to maneuver the electric chair.

“Piece of shit!” the frail old man yells as he continuously knocks things over in his room driving his electric scooter as if it was a bumper car at the fair. The wife’s laughter is now at an almost inaudible high pitch, laughing so hard she cannot breath, while the young man continues to sit down and rubbing his feet feverishly.

“It’s real simple, Dad…there’s forward…there’s backwards…left…right,” a tall handsome man says as he maneuvers around in a wheel chair demonstrating its operation and moving in the direction of his called out positions.

“You think you got it?” the younger man says to John who lies in bed with sleepy eyes and a steady stream of oxygen running up clear lines that lead into his nostrils.

The old man looks on at his son with grumpy annoyance and sighs.

“What’d ya mean, ‘do I got it?’ Of course, I got it,” he says with a weak sigh as he looks, only with his eyes over at his son’s wife, a beautiful brunette that is holding onto a sleeping newborn.

“Dad, I was just…”

“Does he talk down to you like this?” he says interrupting.

“Sometimes,” she says with a smile.

“You know, I told him, ‘Jimmy, I’d sure love to have some grandkids someday,’ and what does he do? He waits till I’m ninety-one. Ninety one!”

“It’s called waiting for true love.” His son says.

“Mhmm,” The old man rolls his eyes and groans.

“I’m gonna be dead before my granddaughter sprouts her first tooth,” he says sitting up.

“You’re gonna live to be a hundred, Dad” “I’m gonna die on the toilet, son.”

“Here, come try out your new wheels,” he says with a smile as he helps him sit up.

“I got it, I got it, I got it,” he says, pawing his son’s arms off as he strenuously sets himself up.

“Ok,. . . now remember your controls,” Jimmy says as John aggressively starts yanking on the joystick like controller and it does nothing.

“Let me guess…made in China.”

“Ok, Dad, stop for a minute.”

“Hope ya didn’t pay over a nickel,” he says still aggressively shifting.

The old man sits in his chair and watches the rain smack against the dirty window and rinse off the thick layer of dust that has hampered his view all season. The window cries in streams as its dirty sadness pools on the window seal and the cloudy bay melts away, revealing a clear transparency that makes him doubt his own cataracts. He stares at a young maple swaying modestly from side to side and watches the tree with a zombie like stare as it valiantly battles it out with the stout late fall storm with strength and flexibility. Little flashes of bright light supersede the crashing thunder that make a couple of elderly men playing backgammon jump up in their seats a little, startled but happy and appreciative of the much needed shot of life. John sits completely still, reaction-less to the violent storm that bows and flexes the windows, as the angry heavens strike the ground with a white fire that demands respect. Yet John gives the turmoil in the sky not even a blink, as he sits and lets the bright glowing clouds illuminate his corpsed eyes like a warm death whose heart beats but spirit sleeps.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

“It was a long time ago.”

“But you do remember.”

The old man pauses for a moment then subtly nods his head.

“Yeah.”

The cop looks at him expecting a response.

“He was an asshole.”

The police officer bursts into laughter.

“Yeah ….. you’re right, he was….. But…. in his defense, he felt the same about you.”

“That’s because your mother never got over me.”

The cop looks at him and his smile dissolves.

“How is Rebecca doing these days?”

“She’s dead.”

“Hmm,” John says shrugging.

“Mr. Crowl…if you hit anyone again, I’m gonna take ya in.”

John smirks.

“Go ahead…think I’m kidding. I don’t care if it’s your birthday and you’re turning a hundred,” he says as he then leans in and whispers into his ear, “I’ll lock your cranky ass up with two big horny ol’ skinheads that just love soft, old squishy prostates,” he says with a sadistic smile.

“An apple sure doesn’t fall far from a tree, huh?”

John says.

“Just telling ya how it is, old man.”

John puts his head down as the officer walks away.

John sits across the table with an old woman whose hand shakes off the piece of blueberry dessert from her fork.

John walks over to her side of the table and sits close to her left.

He says nothing while cutting her a new piece of butter crusted blueberry cobbler and feeds it to her.

She smiles at him.

His hand gently pins hers as they sit in the commons area and watch Wheel of Fortune.

“GREENICH VILLAGE, NEW YORK,” She says proudly, moments before the host repeats her.

John smiles at her smile.

All of the sudden the TV switches channels to the weather.

“Hey!” John says turning around and staring at a tall man around the same age manning the TV remote.

“It’s ok, it’s almost over.”

“No, it’s not ok,” he says as he walks up to the television and changes it back.

Before he can get back to his seat the channel is switched back.

“Ok,” John says walking over to the man.

“Can you please turn that back? We were watching that.”

“Your sweetheart ova there? Yeah…she been watchin’ two hours of game shows,” he says with a thick, Bostonian accent.

“So?” “So it’s time ta share.

John walks back over and turns the TV back to the channel and the man quickly switches it back with the remote. John switches it back to the channel again and the man switches it back with a laugh.

John walks over.

“Give it,” he says signaling with his hand that he wants the remote.

“No,” the man says as a couple of his friends laugh with him.

“Now.” “Or what?”

John punches him square in the nose.

John sits next to the older woman whose deathbed has remained warm for days now. She looks at him and flashes a little smile while the meds keep her eyes sleepy and without pain.

“Am I dying?” She asks.

He looks down at her and nods his head.

“How much longer?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wesley,” she says with a whisper looking at John with glassy eyes, “I’m not scared.”

“You shouldn’t be.” John says as he embraces her.

John sleeps on the couch next to the old lady and is awaken by the sound of the door opening and a woman and her husband walking in.

“Oh!” she says startled by John as she goes around the corner, “Oh, god…you scared me,” she says, grabbing her chest.

“I’m so sorry.”

The woman looks at her mother and immediately comes over to kiss her unresponsiveness while John just stands there.

“And you are?” a tall husband says.

“I’m John,” he says as he looks at the woman who strokes her mother’s hair blocking everything else out.

“She…she didn’t want to be alone.”

“Of course. You sound like a good friend.”

“Not as good as she deserved.”

They share a moment of awkward silence, “Well, John I sure appreciate ya,” he says extending out his hand, “I think we got it from here.”

John looks at the man’s hand and then nods his head in acceptance and shakes it.

“Mr. Crowl, do you know where the remote is?” a police officer says to John, who sits in a chair with his head down and his right hand wrapped up in ice.

He shrugs.

“Mr. Crowl, that remote is not your property. If you have it, it means you have in your possession stolen property,” the police officer repeats frustrated.

“I don’t know where the damn remote is.”

“Do you know what assault charges are?”

John laughs.

The police officer looks at him irritated by his bullheadedness.

“Of course you do. You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Lieutenant?”

The old man looks up at him a bit surprised.

“You worked with my father…Matt Stacker,” the police officer says.

The old man just looks at him.

“Remember?”

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

“We got a lot of family comin’ in…I hope you understand.”

“Sure,” he says in agreement.

The daughter looks up at the John with tears rolling from her eyes.

“May I?” John asks the daughter for a final goodbye.

She nods.

John looks down at the old woman and strokes her face a little and gazes at her skin coated eyes. He reaches down and gives her a deep passionate kiss on the lips that lingers. He kisses her not like a friend, but a lover.

The daughter looks on in a bit of disbelief, as does the husband.

John finally breaks away his kiss, looks down at her once more and then leaves. The couple stares at the man a bit stunned as he walks out of the room. He shuts the door but stares at it closed for a moment. He puts his head against the door and brings his shaking hand close to the doorknob. His eyes are glassy with pain as he then clenches his hand tightly, resisting the urge to open the door. He takes several deep breaths, wipes his tears and then walks away.

weight. He walks away and towards his grown boy who consoles him with an arm drape as they walk back to the car.

“You sure you don’t want anything to eat?” his son says pulling up to the assisted living community.

He shakes his head.

“You haven’t eaten anything today, have you?” his son says, disappointed.

The old man puts his head down sighs while rubbing his face.

His son sighs a bit, annoyed by his father nonexistent appetite but keeps it to himself.

“I’m so sorry about your friend, Dad,” he says as he looks at his old father with remorse.

The old man begins nodding his head.

“She was…” he says choking up and cutting off his sentence as he bites his quivering lip and pausing for a moment regaining his bearings. “She was my woman,” he says as he looks at his son with waterlogged eyes.

His son just looks at his father a bit surprised but still remorseful of his pain.

The black woman spoon-feeds John who sits in a chair and stares away. He opens his mouth halfheartedly making the grits leak out of the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I see how it is, . . .you gonna make me work for my money, today, huh?” she says with a sweet smile as she gently wipes his mouth. Oxygen cords wrap around his face and into his nose as he sits in his wheel chair and she brings a cup of water to his mouth.

He looks at the black nurse and smiles.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baby” “My sweet nigger-child,” he says putting his old shaking hand over hers. “Are you my angel?” he says, his red-eyed tears streaming.

“Angels don’t wear make-up.”

“I’m tired,” he says with sad eyes.

“I know.”

“I won’t make you eat any more, but I’m gonna fetch you some more water…and you gonna drink it…all of it or I’m gonna hafta stick ya…Ok?” He looks away.

“Hey,” she says grabbing his chin and pulling it in her direction.

“Ok,” he nods meekly and watches her walk away.

He gazes at the fireplace across the dining room and into the commons area where people play games and watch television. He focuses in on the flames of the large wood burning stove and watches as they flicker against the blackened glass and begin to drift him to sleep. His eyelids feel like anvils as they begin closing.

“And this is our commons area,” the sound of the deep resonating voice of the Meadow View South head manager’s sales pitch radiates through the room as he talks to a young couple who escorts an older woman with a porcelain, sun starved skin and long grey hair that looks strong, thick and heavy like millions of mini strands of steel. The old man’s sleepy eyes open a bit as she walks around with a beautiful smile that displays teeth as white as her flawless skin. He watches as she greets some of the tenants with kindness but a bit of shy

We gather here today to remember Ginger Ann D’sol,” a well-dressed, black suited minister says in an outdoor graveside ceremony on a bright but windy day.

“Ginger was born in Fayetteville, Arkansas on October 31, 1919 where she lived until graduating with honor from New Cherish Catholic high school in 1934,” the minister says as he fights to keep his speech notes intact with the podium as the wind flips their corners up, just begging to abduct the yellow paper notes.

John sits in the far back chair with his son as he looks around at the few hundred plus attendees.

“The youngest of eight siblings, she was the only one to attend a university where she became a school teacher and met her husband, Wesley D’sol,” the minister says as his tie flips and turns across his face in response to another chilly gust. “They were married in 1937 and were together for 56 years until her husband’s passing. An avid humanitarian and philanthropist, Ginger was very active with her church’s community outreach projects and even served as director for four years after retirement.” The grey haired minister says as he gives a sorrowful smile to the front row of loved ones who loved her most and show it with cries and gentle dabbles to the eyes with wadded up Kleenex.

“Ginger’s life will be remembered most for her kind and self-less actions as well as her optimistic attitude.

Ginger is survived by a legacy, four sons, John, Jacob, Jesse, and Bill as well as nine grandchildren and four great grandchildren.

John stands close to the now desolate graveside and looks down at his old reflection in the waxy surface of the closed casket that is surrounded by Easter, spring colored flowers. His son remains in the background with a sweater draped over his arms as he gives his grieving father some privacy. John looks at the picture of Ginger; a young picture, not a picture of the Ginger he knew. He reaches into his old, out of fashion sports coat and pulls out the television remote. He rests it on top of the firm fresh cut flowers that don’t even budge beneath its 45

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

reservation as the young couple that are apparently impressed by the facility tour, shake the manager’s hand.

“I have some papers for you to sign,” the manager says to the couple as he leads them to his office.

John takes notice.

John looks at a picture of Ginger and strokes the silver frame with his old hands. He smiles and then places it on his nightstand along with the framed images of four other women that are carefully positioned on the wood stained surface, the staggered frozen memories displayed in no order of time and no preference to one another. He slowly slips on a pair of white-as-snow classic sneakers and stands up on his own; his legs straight and stiff and without the slightest wiggle.

The black lady forks a piece of broccoli and puts it in her mouth, chewing it with strain and struggle as much as she can before washing the mouthful with a bottle of Mountain Dew. John stands in the doorway with nothing more than a thin cane aiding him.

The black woman looks up and smiles at him before clapping. The rest of the breakfast regulars turn around and clap as well giving him a much-deserved recognition.

“Alright, alright,” he says with a blushing smile, waving off his celebratory entrance.

The woman looks on and watches him eat his food without effort. John looks at her and smiles as he finishes the last bite.

He wipes his mouth and stands up.

“Way to go, John,” she says smiling.

“Eat your broccoli,” he says smiling back and walking away.

John sits in a dark room gazing at the television but not watching it as the whistling sounds of his oxygen pushing air into his nostrils sound louder than the television. His eyes window a soul that seems paused in time as they remain fixed open and glassy from the blink- less stares of exit, his lips crusted with dehydration, cracked like droughted ground.

A young man in a military uniform smiles at the beautiful young brunette woman draped in wedding white as he places a modest silver band on her finger.

With encouragement from the minister they kiss with passionate class.

John’s eyes begin blinking more than they have in weeks as his tongue begins watering his desert lips. He sits up a bit from his slump and rolls his neck making it sing with pops and cracks. His pulls the breathing tubes from his nose and immediately falls short of breath as his shallow, weak inhales do nothing to satisfy his old, spoiled, lazy lungs. He clenches his fist in struggle and grits his teeth as he forces his chest to rise, forces his stiff lungs to expand. He continues this painful process until his face is red and a thin coat of sweat begins to appear on his old, spotty skinned forehead. Soon his breathing becomes more rhythmic, smoother as his clenched fist begins to relax. With his bare toes he pulls the footrest peddles up and places his feet on the ground. With all his power and with quivering arms he pulls himself out of the chair and stands half way up, his legs wobbling from gravity’s strain as he then falls, crumbling back into his wheel chair in an exhausted state. Wheezing and gasping for air, he closes his eyes and once again takes in three or four deep breathes and stands. He stands up on his weak shaky legs and sits back down and repeats in sets of six before resting and repeating.

He strolls by the hallway and sees the silver haired woman exiting a large SUV. Not half way out she is swarmed by a gang of young sons that help her exit the vehicle while an even younger looking group of grandsons begin unloading the vehicle of many pieces of luggage.

John looks on and slowly sips his coffee with determination.

John lies on his back with his eyes closed and face frozen and still with his mouth open.

A nurse walks in.

“John?” the nurse says.

He doesn’t respond.

The nurse sighs a little with anxiety.

“John!” she says again. He gives no response.

She finally walks up to him and shakes him.

“John!”

His eyes open and she jumps back a little, startled that he actually woke up.

He flashes an ornery grin.

“John! You no-good piece a shit!” she says hitting him with a couple of pillows as he laughs.

“You were more scared that I actually woke up,” he says blocking the pillow beating.

The black woman looks on in shock as John devours his dry meatloaf, shoveling it in like a growing teenager.

With a mouthful of oatmeal grain and beef, he kills the final sip of white milk before wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“Thank you,” the old man says to the surprised woman who gives no response back as he backs his chair up and rolls away.

In his room with a towel draped around his neck he stands up from his wheel chair and then back down again, finishing a set, this time of twelve, with a white towel forehead wipe and exhausting sigh before doing it again.

With a walker he moves up and down the hallway with legs showing less wobble but with arms that still struggle as he recovers and rest his arms by leaning against a wall. Without stopping, a tall, black orderly walking by, puts his hand up in the air. John gives him a tired but motivated high five as he wipes his dripping face with his sky blue pajama sleeves and goes down the hallway again.

John leans against the wall of the shower and lets the hot water cook his back red as the smoking liquid rolls across his face and drips off his lips as he stares at the water swirling the drain.

He sits in a chair with black dress socks up to his knees while squeezing on a hand gripper, his plump old veins pronounced as they swell against his thin blotchy skin. He puts on a pair of solid black dress slacks that look slick and wrinkle free and a white button up shirt.

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In the mirror a blood red tie flips across his face as he creates a perfect Windsor knot with no effort before draping on a matching black sports coat that fits his medium frame like a glove. He coats his thin grey hair with a dime size dollop of pal made, slicking it back with a red comb that messages his scalp. He slips on some shoes that shine black like a freshly waxed Mercedes and grabs a blood red rose that matches his tie.

Hel's Mud-pie

The silver haired woman sits quietly in the commons area drinking coffee and listening to Martin and his friends flirt obnoxiously with a Yankee dialect, a sound that makes the woman discreetly grimace behind her friendly smile.

John walks in the room completely on his own, with the confidence of a General and the look of a mafia leader. The woman takes notice as he walks right up to the table making the three other guys stop their conversation and look up in fearful respect.

“John.” Martin says.

“Martin.” John says as he stares at him hard.

John subtly nods with his head and two of the guys meekly stand up and leave.

Martin holds out for a moment, but without his friends, John’s aggressive stare seems too much as he deflates.

“Reva,” Martin says shaking her hand.

“It was lovely meeting you, Martin,” the woman says with a deeply lingering Southern drawl, one that makes John grin.

Martin leaves while flashing an evil eye at john who no pays attention to him.

John sits down and hands her a rose. She smiles while smelling it.

“Reva,” he says with a confident grin.

“John,” she says with a grin back, stretching his short name out with her dark southern tone. The waitress sets a hot cup of already customized, two creams, one sugar coffee right in front of him.

“Here you go, John.”

“Thank ya, child,” he says to the waitress as he pulls out a silver flask and pours a bit of liquor in the smoking liquid. She looks on for a moment before slowly pushing her shallow cup of coffee over to him. He poisons hers as well.

“You know…My momma always told me, ‘Reva, baby, . . .trouble’s never gonna stop knockin’ on your door.’ I guess she was right, huh,” she says with a big smile.

“Does Trouble always put a smile on your face?”

She laughs a little before nodding and taking her spiked bit of warm coffee down with one quick shot.

“Perhaps one more round,” she says sliding her empty porcelain mug next to him and gazing with vulnerability.

He nods his head.

“Perhaps,” he says with a smile. ●

by Maria B. Strong That's right students One merely shapes the plaything like so And decorates with what lies Grown nearby Now leave it to harden, leave it to crack Fear not ~ this form Shall never die ~ it's eternally gifted To all the unsatisfied :)

Survive Her

by Maria B. Strong And so disease of beauty hits another Thinning stocks with timed deflection Divining with its rusty shears That wasting award of decapitation Or morsel service for feasting gods How often the stares before each platform Step high among the fairest of all Ranking insides until they reverse A wretch reveals their rotten throne And all is seen who watch it swing O premature lie, you snare the choice Stealing splendor before time takes its hatch I hate your ruse and sense your folly With eyes avert to alter your course Like an unkempt hen whose general blend Safe-keeps progeny from predator I remain, ever grateful to be plain • • • Maria B. Strong was born in Pascagoula, Mississippi. She earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literary Studies with honors from the University of Delaware. She has spent a great deal of her life editing legal documents and caring for her husband and son. An avid birder and nature observer, she is finally branching out to share her poetry and has learned - at last - to accept her state of perpetual

• • •

ambivalence.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

of a good friend.

But, I always admired your dislike for nostalgia, so maybe its best we’ve given each other space in this life.

I trust things down there are treating you fine, I get this image of you in my mind, coming back to your place after a day’s work and a night of picking, maybe coming back from some Honkey Tonk, where people still go to listen to live music.

The Knoxville street lights flicker, you always understood that at 3AM the world sounds so much better, when George Jones’ “White Lightning” rolls out from your driver’s side window.

White Lightning (a letter to my best friend in absentia)

by Matthew Haughton This morning I caught George Jones’ ‘White Lightning’ on the radio.

This got me thinking of your old Ford pickup, how you’d give me lifts to school in the morning, early enough to park out behind the Hills Department Store so we could sit and talk awhile.

And those years after — how that truck served you in getting from one place to another.

You always kept your guitar tucked behind the driver’s seat, so as to seize those moments when a song might find its chance into your mind.

Rolling up the driveway, you’d be listening to dubbed cassettes of The Cramps or George Jones, depending on your mood.

We haven’t spoken since you moved down to Knoxville; God knows I’ve been through a lot in that time, and I have to apologize for writing this note when really I should’ve dug through my notes, and given you a call.

The way this world’s become, and this time in our lives, surely speaks to the need

• • • Matthew Haughton is the author of the book "Stand in the Stillness of Woods (forthcoming, WordTech Editons 2013). His chapbook, "Beecoursing Box" (Accents Publications) was nominated for the Weatherford Award for Appalachian Poetry Book of the Year. His poems have appeared in many journals including Appalachian Journal, Now & Then, Still, Stirring, and The Louisville Review. Haughton lives in Lexington, Kentucky.

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The American Smoker

by Mary Harwell Sayler gets overtaxed to pay for Washington's spiked tea; gets heavy advice about the air from heavily perfumed people; gets hassled by Health Police; gets the last copies of once wholesome biographies about Native American traders, Walter Raleigh, and colonizers of a country periodically known to be free, known to spark hope, yeah, like a match, known to glow with goodness no matter how dark it gets or how much every overtaxed cliché aims to get you, the American Smoker, unchained from smoking cigarettes and onto something else, something worse, something that patches you up with nicotine and poisons your system but clears your lungs and makes your minty breath smokefreed.

Beast Within

by Harry E. Gilleland, Jr.

• • •

Guilt and shame have sent it away.

The beast retreats.

Mary Harwell Sayler is a poet, freelance writer, and author of 25 traditionally published books of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. For over 10 years she has served as poetry judge for the international writing contest sponsored by Writers-Editors.com. She also provides writing resources for other poets and writers through The Poetry Editor blog and website.

The idea grows in the mind.

The beast stalks.

No! I can resist. I won’t do it.

The beast waits.

One won’t hurt, I guess.

The beast approaches.

Boy, that feels so good.

The beast pounces.

All The Dancing Bears

Maybe I’ll do only one more.

The beast sinks in his claws.

by Harry E. Gilleland, Jr. The dancing bears perform their joyless act daily.

They dance to the music, dancing by rote, dancing to the cue of their trainers, dancing not for the love of dancing, but to ensure food and comfort, to survive,

Okay, another, then that’s it.

The beast takes a bite.

And all the while they dream.

They dream of living free, dream of enjoying life, dream of following their hearts, dream of finding fulfillment, dream of escape.

Why did I give in? I'm worthless.

The beast laughs.

Oh, well, I’ve started now.

The beast roars.

I might as well enjoy myself.

The beast consumes.

• • •

Then the whistle blows, and the shift changes, allowing these dancing bears to drive home to their families, to their loved ones, their loved ones who are the very reason they must not give up their life as a dancing bear.

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A VOICE VOICE FOR YOUR

An Exclusive Interview with Amy Adams Where did you get your inspiration for “Book of Love”?

a very profound and vivid occurrence took place: it felt more real to me than anything I had experienced in my life to that point. Here’s how I describe it in the book:

My inspiration came from surrendering to a process that was attempting to occur within me where all that was false was being burned away and The Truth of Who I Am was making Itself known. The catalyst for my writings was what I have come to call a “tried and true ‘Dark Night of the Soul’ experience.” As I began to align with the Joy that lies on the other side of the ashes of despair, poetry began pouring forth from the depths of my Being. Before I knew it, the poems began forming themselves into what I knew was becoming a book. I joyfully cooperated with the process as writing brought such healing and release.

Sometimes the poems came out of nowhere and simply planted themselves in the center of my forehead. Other times, I would hear a word or phrase, and a poem would start forming itself in my mind. Still other poems were inspired by whatever it was I was experiencing in my own life at the time. Ultimately, I was writing (and still do) for the simple Joy of it. There was a deep, felt sense of Aliveness and purpose, and following that within myself meant writing the poems to the book’s completion.

An image appeared, and I was part of it. It was a vague image, almost more of an understanding or a knowing of what was occurring than a visual witnessing of it, but, ultimately, it was both: me talking to me—two women, standing, facing each other—and a beautiful introduction . . .

The voiceless voice said, “Have you heard of Humaira?”

And that was it.

When I awoke, I was in a state of complete and utter peace. Whatever had occurred for me in my sleep state came into my conscious mind immediately upon waking up. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I knew it was good, benevolent and somehow right; too, I had a sense that something had shifted and that, as a result, I was headed in a whole new direction—unknown, uncharted territory.

Tell us about your pen name, Humaira. How did this come about?

I’ve read various explanations for what this encounter may have been, and I share some of them in the book. At this point, I’ve come to see Humaira as the fifth-dimensional aspect of myself. Therefore, from a Soul perspective, she is a part of who I am. It felt like I had been named by God. What occurred seemed so precious . . . even tender and sweet. At first, I thought I might actually

This process has been a true death and rebirth for me. I would go so far as to say I died and lived through it. At one point along the way, I asked God before going to sleep, “If I am not Amy, who am I?” While I was sleeping 50

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choose to be called by Humaira . . . and I still may. For now, though, I simply choose to write under both Humaira and Amy Adams. In that respect, Humaira might be considered my pen name and/or my poetic voice. In the book, I describe my relationship with Humaira in this way, “I’ve come to know Humaira as a very clear and wise aspect of my Being, one who is not censored but who lives naturally, simply and from a place of Aliveness.

When I align with the Humaira energy, a co-creative synergy seems to occur, and it is magical beyond even the words.”

Tell us about your writing background. When did you start writing?

I’ve actually written on and off all my life, but my writing style has changed drastically within the last few years.

When I was younger, I wrote poems that rhymed. Often, they were inspired by something in nature or written as a gift to somebody special. I still have many of those poems. Throughout much of my life, I’ve kept a diary or a journal of some sort. I loved English class in high school and college, particularly when we did creative writing assignments. I even considered becoming a journalist. Deep down, I think I always knew I would be a writer. My grandmother predicted long ago that I would one day write a book, and I knew she was right.

Several years ago, when I was coming out of the darkness, I began writing my story, and I planned to enter it in a spiritual book competition. As much as I wanted to move forward with that project, I intuited the timing was not right for me. I surrendered to what Life had in mind and shortly thereafter woke up with a poem in the center of my forehead. The poem was “Eternal Embrace,” and it is included in my book. From that moment on, words began pouring through me from what seemed like an endless wellspring of Creation. I continue to write to this day and will do so as long as writing is what’s in front of me. Before my walk through the “Dark Night of the Soul,” I approached writing intellectually. Now, I experience it as a creative, inspired endeavor where I step aside and allow what wants to come through me to do so.

Why do you write?

I write because it’s what The Joy That I Am compels me to do. More often than not these days, I follow the direction of Aliveness. Writing is Alive for me. I write for healing, fun and release. I write as a creative outlet and to clear my mind. I write because often times there’s nothing more I’d rather do. I write so as to invite people in, to offer validation, to expand our collective frame of reference, to extend comfort and solace. I write for all of these reasons and more, but . . . mostly . . . I write because it’s what Life asks me to do.

What would you do if you suddenly couldn’t write? How would you deal with this?

If I suddenly couldn’t write, deep down I would know that the time was not right for writing. I am not saying I wouldn’t experience a sense of loss as writing does feel like Life to me. However, I have come to trust what Life has in mind more so than my own idea of how things should look and be. If writing is what Aliveness has in mind for me, then I shall write. If it’s not, then I will not argue. Instead, I will ask, “What then shall I do?” Like anyone whose passion has been suddenly stripped away, I hope, after grieving, I would come full circle to acceptance and openness to whatever else it is that Life has in mind. I do believe that when something is “taken” from us, it is because Life is making room for something better for all involved. It might not look and feel that way at first. But, always, from a Soul perspective, I believe this to be what is true.

What is your overall goal in regards to your writing? Do you intend to persuade, inform, or entertain?

I wouldn’t say I have a goal necessarily. My intention is to step aside and become as pure a channel as possible for the Divine to live through me. From my perspective, we are all divinely human and humanly divine, and I think my writing speaks to that. As I’ve shared, I write because it’s what the Joy in me moves me to do. From there, I trust that my writing will take on a life of its own and touch whomever it is meant to touch. That’s not to say I don’t promote my book and/or utilize marketing strategies and the like. If I am moved in that direction, that’s where I go. I believe that what I’ve written wants to be shared. From the depths of my Being, I know the 51

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timing of my writing is exquisite in terms of the enormous changes currently being visited upon us in our individual lives and the life of the Collective. So, it’s less of a goal and more of an intention. It is my pure intention to share what wishes to be shared, to follow each next right step and to allow The Ripple Effect to take care of the rest. For me, the darkness invoked my biggest Blessing, and I feel that’s the message I am here to convey. From my own personal experience and through my writing, I invite people to consider the possibility that what appears to be a tragedy is actually the catalyst for igniting our Soul to Life.

enjoyable even for those who don’t consider themselves a writer. Probably, for some of us, writing comes more naturally than it does for others. I just don’t think we should let our inner critic get in the way of a potentially fun and beneficial experience simply because we don’t see ourselves as a natural. Having said that, I do believe writing can be learned as well. Bottom line: if you wanna write, write! I’m a huge proponent of allowing the uninhibited, uncensored Creator within us to shine—through writing or elsewise!

Who are your influences in regards to writing?

Ultimately, my writing comes from the depths of my Being, from the Divine and from how I have come to experience the process of dying to myself and Awakening to Truth. Additionally, there have been several authors who’ve touched me deeply and who’ve named and validated many of my experiences. So, to answer the question of who influences me in regards to writing, I have to respond with the names of those who’ve influenced me in regards to Life. Numerous authors set the stage, so to speak, for my Awakening. Still, when the real deal was upon me, none of what I had ever read meant anything, at least not for a long while. As I came closer to the Light of what was, for me, a long and necessary dark tunnel, much of what I had read to that point began to take on a deeper and truer meaning.

I realized the insights that were being gifted to and through me were the same insights received by those who had come before. It seems death and rebirth are experienced similarly by all of us—the true death and rebirth that is. So, when we attempt to put words to what has taken place, we are somewhat limited in terms of the number of ways in which it can be described. I share mostly in the form of poetry, and many of the poems are characteristically similar while others are quite different from one another. I’m not sure to whom I’d liken my writing style, but some of the authors and poets who’ve affected and inspired me most are Neale Donald Walsch, Em Claire, Eileen Caddy, Jed McKenna, Caroline Myss, Byron Katie, Gary Zukav, Eckhart Tolle, Wayne Dyer, Marianne Williamson, Khalil Gibran and Rumi. There have been many others as well. Their words came to me at the exact and perfect time, some before, others during and still others after my own transformation and subsequent writing. It is my hope and knowing that the words that come through me will reach others in just as timely a manner.

What type of themes do you explore in your work?

I write about Life. Some might call it Spirituality, but I have come to believe that either everything is spiritual or nothing is. Said another way, either everything is Life or nothing is. For me, Life is Spirit and Spirit is Life. As I came out on the other side of the darkness, it was as if Life started writing me. I was compelled to write about Aliveness, our Divine nature . . . and our human side as well. And I write about these things only because Life inspires me to do so, not because I am following some intellectual process happening within my mind. I make a conscious choice to align with The Choice that has already been made. Having said that, the following are the titles of the sections in my first book: Into the Abyss; Death Gives Birth; The Sword of Truth; Rise and Shine; Seeds of Doubt; Solace; Jesus Stops By; Essence Revealed; You Go, Girl, Sacred Snippets; Love Affair With God; Playing in the World of Form; Nature’s Bounty; Love Manifested; Mothering With Big Love and Prayers of Gratitude. I’m halfway through my second book which is another book of poetry, and I just love the newness and freshness of the poems: they are reflective of where I am now on my journey. On my blog, The Dancing Pen, sometimes I write about how I have come to view Life. Other times, I write about more personal themes. Almost always though, I bring the writing full circle to what Life seemingly wishes to convey through me. I’ve written thirty songs in the past few years as well. The songs are very comforting and uplifting and explore themes such as touching the place within us that cannot be harmed, conscious partnerships and following what ignites us.

I write about Life.

Do you think anyone can write? Is it a natural ability or can it be learned?

How can people contact you? Do you have a website?

I suspect everyone has a writer in them. That’s not to say everyone is drawn to expressing through the medium of writing. Moreover, there are those who very literally are not physically or mentally capable of writing. There’s no right or wrong way to write, just as, from my view, there’s no right or wrong way to dance. If we’re writing for the simple Joy of writing, what can possibly go wrong? I think writing can be very therapeutic and also incredibly

I do not have a website yet, but I will soon. In the meantime, people can contact me via email at amy1111adams@gmail.com.

I can also be found on Twitter at @amy1111adams, facebook.com/HumairaAmyAdamsPoetWriterFacilitator,

humairaamyadams1111.wordpress.com/ and 52

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lightworkersworld.com for regularly contributed articles.

Where can readers find your book?

Readers can purchase my book in several ways: through me at amy1111adams@gmail.com; through Xlibris Corporation at 1-888-795-4274, www.xlibris.com or through Amazon at Orders@Xlibris.com; www.amazon.com and through Barnes and Noble at www.barnesandnoble.com. Eventually, it will also be available on my website via Paypal.

A Cemetery for Skating Boards

In addition to offering my book, I offer a mobile service called Traveling Light Poetry and Dance: A Moving Space To Carry You Home. Through this service, I am available for poetry readings, songwriting, phone sessions, playshop/workshop facilitation and more—all related to coming Home to our Selves and shining our Light to the world and beyond.

by Tammy Ho Lai-Ming I had a dream last night that I was walking home through a city which was part Macao, part Hong Kong, part London and part English country village. At one point, I hitched a horse-drawn carriage for some of the way, which dropped me off by the ocean just after dusk. I jumped off the carriage into sand, landing as if I was an excellent long-jumper. A sickly young Irish boy complimented me on my landing and the marks my small feet made in the sand. He claimed to be dying and said he would like to accompany me home. When we started walking through a kind of sea resort, he looked awful. However, he slowly grew more attractive and healthier as we walked our way through a number of romantic comedy clichés – an ice-cream van, a fairground, a cemetery for skating boards, a tree house, even the mysterious man clutching balloons.

We walked through the streets of a place that does not exist in real life and it got later and later. We got close to my house and stepped into one of two giant outside elevators to nowhere. I chose the second, because my boss was heading into the first. Instead of showing which level you were on, the elevator had a display showing that I had been made a temporary employee and would lose my job in six weeks. My office was on the way home, my boss and a colleague were also walking down the street there, so I stopped by the office. My boss was just rolling down the shutters to what looked like a theatre staging Stoppard's The Real Thing. I waited in line behind the colleague I had seen earlier and another employee. They were arguing with my boss, as they too would soon be losing their jobs. The dying boy was still there, and while I waited, he suggested that we sleep together. When I said I could not sleep with him, that I was not actually interested, he angrily claimed that I had led him on. Just then I saw a girl from my high school who I had not seen in a long time. I momentarily thought about leaving the dying boy to say hi. ●

The playshops/workshops contain opportunities for healing, fun and expressing The Joy That We Are through poetry, writing and dance.

I’d like to thank Craig and The Rusty Nail for the opportunity to share a bit about myself and my book. Further, I’d like to acknowledge you, the reader, for your interest.

I wholeheartedly believe in the message the book contains and the power behind the words of each and every poem. I am grateful and blessed to have risen from the ashes so as to joyfully collaborate with The One Who Breathes Me. The words I have been given are a gift to me, and it is my hope and pure intention that they serve the world as well. ● • • •

• • • Tammy Ho Lai-Ming is a Hong Kong-born writer currently based in London, UK. She is a founding coeditor of Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and the poetry editor of Fleeting Magazine. More at www.sighming.com 53

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by Joe Bichl

So Much Forgotten, Too Much Recalled

P

eter Kale had always been self-conscious when he danced. Women, he was all but certain, pitied his awkward gyrations, and men snickered at him for a fool. But his wife, Claire, and his daughter, Primrose, loved to dance around the house, and with this last week of practice, Peter’s own dancing felt more assured, and he looked forward to tonight's session.

After work he stopped at the florist to pick up flowers. He did this a couple of times a month—he knew they loved having flowers around the house, and they were always appreciative.

“Thank you, honey!” “Thanks, Daddy!” He loved it.

The Kales shared a cul-de-sac with eight other homes, and Peter felt a rush of pride as he turned onto his street. It was just the sort of quiet, safe, and dignified neighborhood Peter and Claire talked about living in one day. Claire initially expressed concern about the advanced age of their neighbors—almost all were retired—but she grew to appreciate them. During the first week of their arrival, the Kales were frequented by well-wishers in the neighborhood who lavished baked goods and casseroles on them while the Kales set up their kitchen and got their house in order. Janie McCallister from across the street invited Claire to the country club, where Claire took to both bridge and golf. And with the sponsorship of the McCallisters, the Kales soon found themselves members.

Peter parked his Range Rover in the driveway as far from the street as possible. He climbed down from the vehicle and walked quickly up the brick path that led to the front door, clutching the flowers to his chest. He glanced at the news vans parked on the street and sighed.

He avoided eye contact with the woman holding the microphone. He saw the McCallisters sitting in their front yard with their martini pitcher sweating on the table between them, Wayne McCallister chewing on a fat cigar.

“Running late, Peter,” Wayne called out.

Janie McCallister waved and smiled. “Hi, Honey,” she said.

Peter smiled and waved back and unlocked the front door. He noticed the Pierces next door standing on their front stoop like statues. A car filled with teenagers slowed as it drove by. Peter turned to get a closer look.

The car sped up and honked, and he could hear their youthful laughter dying away. Probably friends of Prim’s, he thought.

Peter retrieved the mail and added it to the pile already stacked on the kitchen table. He returned and locked the front door.

“Claire?” he called out. He looked around for evidence of Prim, a note, perhaps, but found nothing.

The house was quiet, the air stuffy and warm. He turned

on the air conditioner and set the flowers on the kitchen table.

He took the steps up to the second floor two at a time. He burst into his bedroom. The bed was unmade, the curtains still closed. The air was stale, lifeless. Was it his job to make the bed and draw the curtains in the mornings?

He quickly changed into shorts and a t-shirt. He tied his sneakers over a pair of white socks. He went to Prim's room. The room felt empty and still. There were no socks or magazines on the floor, no clothes hanging from the back of her desk chair. Her bed was made. He quickly removed her iPod from its charger and left the room.

He walked up another flight of stairs and opened the window that led out to the roof. A stereo was set up next to the window, clumsily rigged with extension cords and speaker wires gnarled like a rheumatic’s hands. He placed a speaker in the open window, slid the iPod into its holder, and adjusted the volume so he could hear it, but not loud enough to upset the entire neighborhood.

He pressed the shuffle key, and thought, “Surprise me, Prim.” The music came on.

He took a deep breath and crawled out the window to the roof. Voices rose from the street, amid scattered cheers and boos.

“Yeah, Peter!”

“Get down, Peter!”

“Day six of this strange saga continues …”

“Jump!” someone shouted.

He flinched from the news vans’ lights, but tuned out the rest—the reporters, the sheriff's car pulling up slowly, the voices. He faced down the street, arms akimbo, and breathed deeply. The crowd below stilled.

Peter began moving his hips to the music, slowly at first, then a little faster, as the tempo of the song increased. Just pretend you're using a hula hoop, he told himself. He heard scattered whistles. Someone shouted, “Get down, Peter!”

Since Peter Kale started his bizarre evening ritual, the McCallisters had set out chairs and a small table for snacks and drinks for the gathering that started promptly at six o’clock. No amount of shouting or cajoling could get Kale down. Hub Watson, who lived in the house next to the McCallisters, went up on the roof a few times to guide Peter to the ground, but Peter would only end up back on the roof the next night. He's a grown man, Hub had said after a while, and he stopped crawling up there.

Tonight, Janie had set out a cheese tray and a small platter of raw vegetables with spinach dip. Wayne mixed a strong batch of martinis and Hub brought over three cold beers hanging from their plastic rings.

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Janie poured herself a small martini and took a sip, wrinkling her nose. “Good heavens, Wayne, this is all gin,” she said.

“You have to be anywhere tomorrow?” he asked.

“Have you ever thought to make a lighter version?”

“Why don’t you have one of Hub’s beers or an ice tea?”

As the show began, many of the neighbors were in their front yards, some feigning yard work yet surreptitiously keeping an eye on Peter’s house-wondering if this would be the night he tumbled off the roof--while others huddled solemnly in groups, bewildered by the spectacle.

Janie glanced down the street. “Looks like a big crowd tonight,” she said.

“Seems like they hide until his car shows up, then it’s ‘Night of the Living Dead.’” Wayne lit his cigar. He leaned his head back and blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the sky.

“Sheriff's here tonight,” Janie said, pointing at the squad car.

“I see him,” Wayne said.

“Peter’s starting,” said Hub. They turned to watch as Peter held his arms out.

“Like Christ on the cross,” Wayne said.

“I always think he's going to dive off when he stands like that,” Janie said in a low voice.

“He hasn't yet, knock on wood,” Hub said. “I may be in good shape, but no way can I catch him if he falls.”

“Maybe we should strategically place a mattress or a large trampoline beneath the roof,” Janie said.

“He'd find a way to miss,” Wayne said.

They watched Peter slowly gyrate his hips to a moody acoustic guitar intro. His eyes were closed and he looked transported, a dreamy smile playing on his lips; he moved in an almost sensual manner – at first slowly, his hips swiveling, then grinding, as the cadence picked up, his arms still held aloft. He quickened his pace and bent his knees forward, then moved side to side. He brought his arms down and made forward punching motions with his fists, first the right, then the left; soon they were thrusting like pistons and he began shaking his head back and forth in time to the song’s anguished refrain.

After a while he slowed, as the song retreated to its moody beginning, and Peter finished like he started, with only his hips moving, his arms out; he slowly brought one leg up, and became still, like a flamingo, until the next song began playing.

Shake, shake, shake, Shake, shake, shake, Shake your booty.

Peter turned away from the crowd, and did as the song directed. He moved his ass to the beat. He kicked one leg out, then the other, and clasped his hands together over his head, and shook them in triumphant fashion, like an athlete celebrating a championship. He spun around and continued to scattered applause and a wolf whistle.

“Good Christ on a bike,” Wayne marveled.

Sheriff Stone joined the group.

“Busy evening,” he said.

“Busier than usual, sheriff,” Wayne said.

“Looks like,” he said. “We’ve got the news crews, I see.”

“Slow news day,” Hub said.

Looking up at Peter, Sheriff Stone shook his head.

“He doesn't phone it in, does he,” he said “He’s a little wild tonight,” Janie agreed, offering the sheriff a small plate of cheese and a glass of ice tea.

“Thanks, ma'am.”

The group grew quiet as Peter continued to dance.

Peter placed his hands on his knees, then crisscrossed his knees while switching his hands from knee to knee, to a brief burst of applause.

“That old chestnut,” Hub said, chuckling. Janie nudged him and giggled.

“Who's to say how any of us would react if we were in his shoes,” Sheriff Stone said after a while.

“Don’t know until it happens,” Wayne agreed.

“We can't let this go on forever, though.” Stone said.

“Every day I get more complaints. Just talking to some of the folks here tonight, this is coming to a head, I’m afraid.”

They watched as Peter did a quick pirouette.

“He’s likely to fall and break his neck,” Stone said.

“It’ll fizzle out.” Hub said.

The sheriff glanced at Hub. “See those news vans?

You’re going to see more and more of them. This story has wheels if this keeps up.” The sheriff looked up and down the street at the people idling about. “We may have to start blocking off the street if the crowds get any bigger,” he said. “I'd consider keeping an ambulance ready in case he falls, but Mayor Fitz would have a fit at the cost.”

Wayne looked carefully at the sheriff. “What does old Fitz think of all this by the way?”

“He thinks Kale needs help.”

“Brilliant. He have any ideas?”

“Only that I should escort him to the hospital if he won’t go himself.”

Wayne considered this, and said, “Psych unit.”

The sheriff nodded.

“Mayor wants him down, committed involuntarily if it comes to that,” the sheriff said. “I spoke with Claire today. She agrees with Fitz.”

“How is Claire?” Janie asked. “I haven’t been able to reach her at her mother’s.”

“She’s taking it as best as she can. You may want to drive over there, see if she’ll talk.”

Janie sipped her martini and peered at the sheriff and then at Wayne. “Can you do that, sheriff? Just lock him up?” she asked, a sharp note of disapproval in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s your take, sheriff?” Wayne asked.

Sheriff Stone sighed. “Hell, I don’t know. But I don’t necessarily disagree with them. Hate to have to drag him there, though.”

They watched as Peter grabbed his right ankle and pulled his right leg back. He hopped on one foot and started to slowly spin around.

“But let's face it, folks, we need to get him some help.”

Peter now moved his head forward and back, stretching his neck in the manner of a chicken. His hands were on his hips, his elbows jutting out.

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“An intervention of some kind,” the sheriff said.

“How much time do we have before you haul Peter off to the booby hatch?” Janie asked.

“Now, Janie…,” Wayne said.

The sheriff frowned. “I suppose I can hold off for another day or so,” he said. “That enough time to talk to him, Wayne?”

Wayne nodded and sipped his drink. “If he'll listen,” Wayne said.

“What if he doesn't listen?” Janie asked.

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” the sheriff said.

“He's a reasonable man, owns a successful business.”

Stone thanked the group for their hospitality, wished them a good evening, and started walking slowly back to his car. He turned back and said to Wayne, “You’ll talk to him soon then?”

“Yes, sheriff. Tomorrow.”

“You need me there?”

“If I do, I'll call you.”

The group broke up shortly after that. Hub left to get his grill started. The rest of the neighborhood, sensing an anti-climactic finish, returned to their houses for a late dinner. Since the excitement of Peter’s evening dancing, many in the neighborhood had adjusted their dinner schedule for an hour later than they were accustomed.

Wayne sat down next to Janie. She lit the candle. He relit his cigar. They watched the news vans leave, one right after the other.

“Don’t come back,” Wayne said.

Up on the roof, Peter still danced. His hair expelled a spray of sweat when he shook his head.

“How does he do it without a break?” Janie asked.

“Grief’s got a hold on him.” Wayne said.

“Maybe he thinks of this as his penance?”

“Maybe.”

“What a horrible thing,” she said.

one night and finding him up on the roof. The only argument he could offer was that it made him feel a little better.

Peter crawled back through the window into the house. He switched off the stereo and closed the window.

Everything was dark and still. Using his right hand for support, he carefully walked down the narrow stairs to the second floor.

He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He walked past the master bedroom and stopped at Prim's room.

He quickly returned the iPod to its charger. He backed out of the room and went down to the main floor. The air was chilled, and Peter shivered, the sweat on his skin replaced by goosebumps.

He turned on the kitchen light and noticed the flowers still lying on the kitchen table by the pile of mail.

He heard a soft knock at the back door.

“It’s open,” he called.

Janie McCallister walked in, carrying a plate covered in foil.

“Hi, Peter, we had some leftover chicken. I thought you might be hungry.” She put the dish down.

“Thank you, Janie. I am a bit hungry.”

“Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“I've had to fend for myself before,” he said with a chuckle.

“Of course.” She stood uncertainly, her arms folded across her chest. She looked around the kitchen. “It's freezing in here,” she said.

“I turned on the air conditioner,” he said. “Was kinda warm in here when I got home.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, walking to turn down the thermostat. On her way back she embraced Peter, catching him by surprise, trapping his arms to his side.

“You okay, Janie?”

“Would you like me to help clean up a little?”

“Yeah, no thanks, Janie. That's sweet of you, but I've got a system,” he smiled.

“Well, call us if you need anything.” He could see tears on her cheeks as she turned and left. She closed the door softly.

Peter went to the sink and took a coffee cup from the pile of dishes. Misshapen though it was, barely a cup really, with “World’s Greatest Dad” unevenly painted on it. He rinsed it out and pulled a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet, poured a light splash into the cup, and set it down.

Memory was a powerful, sneaky thing, and could be set off by anything—a scent, a woman's tear spilling down her cheek, an unexpected embrace. Some nights his dancing would tire him enough so that his mind would stay blank, and he could sleep a few hours; other nights, it offered little protection.

He was powerless over which memory would serve him. Would it be Primrose hanging from a rope in the garage, still breathing – but so weakly – her breath smelling of gasoline, and finding an empty glass knocked over, dribbling the last of the liquid?

Or him standing by Prim's gurney as she whispered that it was a mistake? “Help me, daddy,” her eyes pleaded. Or Claire weeping next to him as they watched their only daughter die before their eyes, clumsy and helpless to do a thing?

The sun was down, and Peter stopped dancing. He wiped his face with the front of his t-shirt and looked up at the stars—so many tonight. He glanced out over the neighborhood. Empty now. Only the McCallisters were left, sitting on their lawn chairs, a candle burning on the table between them. Peter sat down on the roof. He wondered if he would sleep tonight. He waved to the McCallisters, and Wayne returned his wave.

“Beautiful night, Hon,” Janie called out. Peter smiled.

The night was quiet, save for the soothing sound of crickets. A gentle breeze freed his sweat-soaked t-shirt from his back. Peter smelled the lush neighborhood foliage, the freshly barbered lawns, a few still-burning charcoal grills.

Four months ago, after the incident, he and Claire had walked around the house like two polite strangers.

Each giving the other the space they thought they needed. Peter could hardly meet Claire's eyes for fear he'd see the same loss and blame that he felt. They spoke of grief counseling, and even talked about going away for a while, a few weeks, a month maybe, and went so far as to sit at the computer, side by side, to look at where they might go to heal. But inertia kept them from following through on any plans at all. Paralyzing, stultifying, griefinduced inertia. Finally, Claire left for her mother’s. She told Peter the final straw was coming home after work 56

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Or maybe the one where he breaks down as his daughter is being eased into the ground? Peter, usually the strong one, sobbing until his body shuddered with great horrible cramps, being held up by Claire and her mother; Peter asking that please God please let them change places, his girl didn’t deserve this.

Some nights, like tonight, he hit the trifecta. He pressed a cold cloth on his forehead and took a sip of scotch. When he began to sob, he could feel the muscles of his rib cage pull and spasm. He sobbed into the cloth for he didn’t know how long—ten minutes or two hours?

Long enough at least that the cloth had grown cold. But after a while he calmed, and drank from Prim’s cup.

Turning the plate around, he massaged its back side. He vigorously rubbed at anything still crusty, and then rinsed thoroughly, letting the hot water sluice away the soap and grime. He placed the plate in the dish rack and began on the next one. After these were done, he attacked the sauce pans caked and filmy from his hamburger and egg binges. Now it all looked like plague samples. With steel wool, Peter hacked and scrubbed.

He laid out the utensils one by one and drizzled soap over them and sprayed them with the sink’s retractable hose until the soap was gone and the utensils shined. The glasses proved the most difficult, as he couldn’t reach the film at the bottom of the taller ones with the sponge or the steel wool. He dug around under the sink and found a long-handled dishwashing brush, which he used to scrape the scum from the glasses.

He then dried each dish carefully, flicking off the occasional piece of crud he’d missed and returned the dish to its place in a drawer or cabinet.

Sweat poured from his forehead and he dried it with a used towel.

He sat down with the mail and wrote out checks for the bills that had accumulated. Some were even second notices. And then he responded to the condolence letters. As he finished, he noticed that the sky had lightened and it would soon be dawn. He stamped the envelopes and placed them in the mailbox just outside the front door.

He picked up the flowers next and looked for the familiar vases that Claire and Prim favored. He couldn’t remember where Claire kept them so he settled on Prim's coffee cup. He filled it with water and unwrapped the flowers and tried to fit in both bouquets. The long stems and weight of the flowers almost tipped the cup over. He swore to himself.

Having no idea how to prepare a bouquet of flowers for display, he began a search for scissors to cut the stems down. He pulled out drawers, looked in cabinets.

In frustration, he reached for a butcher's knife and a chopping block.

Laying the flowers on the block, and marking where he should cut them (measure twice, cut once), he raised the knife and brought it down. He realized too late that his aim was off, and he cut the stems too high, rendering the flowers useless.

“I’m not you, Claire,” he said. His hands shook as he tried to stuff the flowers into the cup.

“Fit, dammit!” But they wouldn't fit, and he pulled them out and threw them back on the chopping block.

Peter chopped again and again, hacking at the stems, shredding the flowers like lettuce, mincing them, pestling them into powder. Sweat stung his eyes and strands of hair sprung loose over his forehead.

“Goddammit, Claire!” he said.

He chopped until his breathing became wheezy and labored, until his forearm burned and grew weak with the effort of chopping, until he sliced off his left forefinger just below the first knuckle and a gout of bright red blood spattered his shirt and face, until he

It was past midnight when Peter walked into the kitchen. He felt a tightness in his calves and thighs. Turning on the overhead light, he looked at the piled dishes, the unopened mail, the flowers still in the florist's wrappings. In the overhead light, the kitchen, a room he'd seen every day for over a decade, looked unfamiliar.

Peter took the plate of food that Janie had left and stepped out into the backyard. He pulled a chair from the table on the deck and sat down. A lilac breeze washed over him, and he considered the soft glow of the moon and stars as he unfolded the foil from the plate. He looked at the inground pool project that had been shut down. Now unmovable mounds of freshly shorn earth sat like pyramids, and half the yard was still cordoned off.

Peter returned to the house with the empty plate, and, though it was late, and he was tired, he was suddenly determined to clean the kitchen. He filled the kitchen sink with hot water and soap and eased the dirty dishes into the water to let them soak. They sank slowly to the bottom like old well-travelled ships. Crumbs from the plates and pans that weren’t soldered on by neglect floated at the top of the hot soapy water like the bodies of sailors from the old ships.

Next was the garbage. Breathing through his mouth as he leaned over to tie off the garbage bag, he lifted it out of the can and carried it out to the curb. He couldn’t remember when garbage pickup was, but he was not going to suffer its stench another day.

Back in the kitchen, he surveyed the mail pile and threw out the junk. He laid the bills and letters neatly to the side where he would go through them after the dishes were cleaned and put away. Having reduced the pile by three-quarters, he turned back to the dishes.

Peter drained the sink and turned on the hot water.

He drizzled dish soap over a wet sponge and kneaded it until the soap oozed through the sponge’s pores. He held it under the hot water and closed his eyes. Claire always used gloves to wash dishes, but he liked the tactile feel of the hot water and creamy soap as well the plates and pans on his bare hands and forearms.

He started with the plates, scrubbing in a circular motion, soaping until the suds hid its floral design.

In the quiet that followed, Peter heard the doorbell.

How long had that been ringing?

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screamed in pain and heaved the knife against the kitchen wall where it stuck and shimmied.

“God damn you, Primrose!”

In the quiet that followed, Peter heard the doorbell.

How long had that been ringing? He spun toward the door and saw an old man he didn't recognize, someone looking in, shading his eyes with cupped hands to see better. Daylight streamed in through the living room windows.

Peter’s face was a rictus of pain, as he held his bleeding hand against his t- shirt, trying to the staunch the blood. The bright red grew and spread into a Rorschach blot.

He walked stiff-kneed to the door, his face spotted with tiny dots of blood. His eyes had that feverish look of fresh madness.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Peter, it's Wayne,” the old man said.

Peter peered through the window. “Wayne?”

“My God, Peter,” Wayne said, pushing the door open and entering the kitchen. He looked at the confetti of chopped flowers sticking to the walls and to Peter’s face like glitter.

He looked at the blood stain spreading across Peter’s t-shirt. It looked like one of those test images, something that could either be an old woman or a young woman, depending how you looked at it. It might have been a dancer – or a vase of flowers. ●

I opened another bottle of wine.

I sat pensively for some time, Just watching the flames dance Upon the logs in the fireplace.

Amidst the crackling of the timbers, I picked up the envelope.

I stare down at your name upon it.

I take another sip of wine, And remove the letter.

As I begin to read it again, I am reminded of everything you’ve ever done.

All the hurt you’ve caused, To myself and my family, Comes back again over three pages.

My blood starts to boil again, And my palms start to sweat.

There is a damp thumbprint on the page, And the edges of the letter are damp and frayed, From holding it tightly in my hands.

I lean back in my chair.

I know I am not ready to forgive.

I don’t know that I ever will be.

And God knows I will never forget.

In fact, I hope you rot in Hell, And if I could deliver you there myself, Lord knows, I would.

But, I can never stoop to your level.

I can never stoop to your level.

I sit for some time just watching the fire.

In a while, I pick up the letter, And walk over to the fireplace.

I toss it upon the flames.

I sit back down and sip my wine.

And as I watch the letter burn, The sparks cackling, And the black soot fall upon the logs, I know I can never stoop to your level, But, there’s a part of me that says to myself, “God, I wish that letter were you.”

• • •

The Letter

by Alan W. Jankowski I poured out every thought upon the page, Filling it up with all the rage and anger, That you have instilled inside me.

My pen literally quivered, As I held it in my sweaty hand, Yet the words flowed swiftly, As venomous as any snake, And almost as deadly.

As I poured the last of the wine into my glass, I reviewed my handiwork.

Three pages of anger.

Three pages of hurt.

An expression of all you’ve done to me, As best as I possibly could.

I carefully folded the letter, And stuffed it in the envelope.

And with quivering pen, I wrote out your address.

It was late, and I’d post it in the morning.

I went off to bed that night.

The next day I spent quietly around the house.

It was cold outside, And it was warm by the fire.

In the afternoon,

• • • Alan W. Jankowski is the award winning author of well over one hundred short stories, plays and poems.

His stories have been published online, and in various journals including Oysters & Chocolate, Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, eFiction Magazine, Zouch, The Rusty Nail, and a few others he can't remember at the moment. His poetry has more recently become popular, and his 9-11 Tribute poem was used extensively in ceremonies during the tenth anniversary of this tragic event. When he is not writing, which is not often, his hobbies include music and camera collecting. He currently resides in New Jersey. He always appreciates feedback of any kind on his work, and can be reached by e-mail at: Exakta66@gmail.com

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by Anthony J. Otten

Places Deserted F or a while she dabbed with wisps of Kleenex, blood-stiffened shreds, waiting to see if the possibility of denial would linger. When she at last admitted the third was lost, she left the bathroom and turned off the coffeemaker halfway through its dawn perk and stood in the naked, crinkled glow of the apartment’s kitchenette, trying to decide whether crying was the acceptable response. That was how the bureaucratic gears of emotion tended to turn for her, like airport security—each feeling x-rayed in her brain before clearance for departure into the sunny skies of words spoken, glances given.

Something had ended with this one. She felt as if the heartbeat had been a corridor she was tiptoeing down, and someone crouched at the hallway’s end had yanked the rug from under her. She’d clutched at this one long enough to have a right to anger now, too. Holding it close to her chest like a moth whose beatings she felt against the capillaries in her fingertips.

She scraped a shriveled rune of blood from the countertop with her fingernail. Earlier, her nerveless hands had groped around that same spot for the washcloth she forgot she’d thrown out last week. The grocery list tacked to the broken apple-clock over the sink commanded its replacement.

She shoved on gym shoes she’d known longer than him. No time to pack, and she owned little beside her skin anyway. She stuffed her purse with Vaseline and tampons and pipe cleaners, useless things that would seem premeditated to someone just emerging from the cobwebs of sleep. Wonder if he would think she’d called her mother. She wanted him to believe she at least had the dignity to plan. She could tell herself all of this was only for now, but that was how people fooled themselves, and she was of a mind to forgo today’s illusions.

She took his shoes and belt from the closet and left them in the stairwell’s grimy, submarine dark, in case he woke up feeling like he could run.

Friday-night clothes on a Monday morning. She’d come to see him as a walking patchwork, a clock with its cogs exposed. Once you saw a thing as its parts—a cheerful intersection of brain, spinal cord and lungs that disliked tomatoes and couldn’t stay quiet in the car—you could never go back to the old way of seeing, of knowing its wholeness. What that had been for him, she couldn’t even remember.

They’d bought a crib this time, even while they were living on what he called their “value-menu” budget.

They’d bought a crib and started tossing change in a mason jar with a jolt of Scotch tape on its rim marked college fund, as if this would insure against a repeat failure. And he’d started singing again. Shyly, to himself, when she was vacuuming and he thought she couldn’t hear. Hymns from his blushing-choir-boy days.

Certain places, she’d discovered all her life, possessed a rich fullness when they were deserted, her heartbeat all alone to itself. These places carved her out and made a dark violet space in her. Backstage at a school play, after dark. A merry-go-round bobbing in twilight at the end of summer. The interior of a car driven by someone who knows exactly where she’s going: nowhere. Because nowhere is the universal destination, everywhere at once, the whole world.

She used to think his restraint the mark of a gentle soul, but after the second, she believed it a kind of uncertainty coating him, as if he were a charcoal sketch someone’s sleeve had brushed, blurring him at the edges.

The car thrummed and slowed, still going only in her mind. The window rolled sleekly down and she looked into the ravine that fell away outside the door, smooth as a tombstone and pebbled with dew. Self-importantly she thought, The Earth is grieving.

Thunder overhead, like God clearing his throat. She leaned her neck out and caught the sky’s first nectar on her tongue. An amphibian, bayou taste. She got out, wondered whether locking the doors made sense. The silence stuffed her ears, smothering even itself, and she hesitated for a while, listening to the one stubborn heartbeat that still remained to her, the only one that never seemed to leave. ●

The color of loneliness, she thought, was the slick gasoline-gray of highway asphalt, the emptiness ahead of a car. The expressway’s periodic yellow bandages zipped beneath the Civic, the road spooling away like a dark yarn endlessly replenishing itself. She hadn’t stopped to wash those sheets she’d dumped in the hamper, she recalled. Red scarecrow-looking shadows staining the cotton, already flaky.

• • •

He’d been cemented in sleep, hadn’t even turned over when she pulled the webbing of warm covers from around him. His cheeks torched faintly with red dreams, eyelid twitching under the dull smack of sunlight bleeding through the blinds. Hair that smelled like

Anthony Otten's work has appeared in a dozen or so periodicals, including the Louisville Review and Short Story America. You can find him posting links to interesting articles on fiction and publishing, and following the Rusty Nail, on Twitter: @AnthonyOtten.

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two bills. Each would take a bill into different banks and ask for change. If the bills were counterfeit, or if they appeared on a stolen bills list, they would slip into “Old Lady Mode”, playing dumb, upset, and confused. They would claim receipt of the questioned bill from another bank where their Social Security checks were deposited.

In preparation, each would first withdraw a one hundred dollar bill from their accounts, so the stories would check out.

By late afternoon, it was done. Each had five, new twenty dollar bills. The old ladies were certain that the money would pass freely. It was probably gained from some illegal activity, but neither the money nor the hand would be traced to them.

They were in business!

Losses

by Kathryn Lynch

I t first glance the old ladies appeared to be twins because they were so alike. Both were uncommonly tall. Time had added too many pounds to their frames, and slowed their gaits, so they walked with canes. Both shared a love of reading, music, pets, and making fun of themselves to make the other laugh. They were retired now; one from years of teaching, and the other from the practice of law. Neither had been married, so in their sunset years, they enjoyed each other's company, even while doing the most routine tasks. The old ladies were not twins, sisters, or even related, but they had been friends for more than 50 years.

A

IV The work of cleaning the money was tedious.

Washing the bills without soap on the permanent press cycle, the old ladies bantered back and forth about the concept of “laundering” money.

Each load of newly washed bills was transferred to the dryer. Neither had ever seen so much money as that circling around before their very eyes. It delighted them to think about the changes all of this cash would make in their lives because each now lived on a Social Security retirement check. They would be talking about this for years, if only between themselves.

When a load was dry, the bills were somewhat wrinkled. The old ladies laid them out on the kitchen counter covering them with books to press them flat.

When finished, the money was neatly stacked and placed in a new box they had secured for that purpose.

After two days, they were done.

The excitement of counting the money surged through them as they dragged the box over to their favorite chairs. They counted $188,300.00! Unable to believe that they had counted correctly, they counted once again. There had been no mistake. They were rich!

Dreams of the good life filled their thoughts...

II Early one morning, on their way to the grocery store, they caught sight of a large box, swaddled in tape. It lay by the side of the road, rain pocked sides leaning toward the ditch. Curious, and excited at the prospect of “free stuff”, the old ladies pulled over into the bike lane to retrieve their find. The box was surprisingly heavy, but with effort they managed to drag it to the car and lift it into the trunk. After some discussion, they decided to drive to a quiet area behind the stores in town, where they could open it in relative privacy.

The old ladies parked by a dumpster intending to dispose of anything they couldn't use. The top of the box was heavily secured by the tape. Using scissors from the glove compartment, they opened the carton cautiously, totally unprepared for what they would find. A human hand, covered in blood, lay on top of a pile of blood smeared papers. Closer examination revealed that the papers were $100 bills. The contents of the box smelled of death.

Using paper napkins left over from a fast food meal, the old ladies grabbed the hand, tossing it into the depths of the dumpster debris. They didn't know if the hand would ever be discovered, but they were sure that its owner had come to a violent end, and they did not want to be connected with it in any way.

Stuffing the napkins inside the box, they headed for home.

V The problems began slowly; small disagreements over whether or when the money should be used to pay the monthly bills. After the bills had been paid, the old ladies were quiet for several days, speaking to each other only when necessary.

One thought they should purchase new cars. The other argued for a trip around the world. They raised their voices frequently, then brooded in silence. During an afternoon, one old lady lost $200 in the slot machines at the casino. The other screamed and shouted, calling her “wasteful”, “greedy”, and “addicted”. The hollered response was that her companion was “petty”, “stingy”, and “close-minded”. They did not speak again for four days.

While both loved to eat, they could not agree on the purchase of expensive steaks, or how often they should eat in restaurants, let alone how much they would spend on a meal once they were there.

The arguments took a toll on their health. One old

III The first order of business was to dump the cash into plastic bags so that they could burn the napkins and the box, piece by piece, in the wood stove. The old ladies worked silently, fatigue soon overcoming them both.

When they were finished, they sat down to rest, breathing heavily, their old hearts straining to keep up with their endeavors.

After much discussion, they decided to wash and dry 60

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lady ended up in the hospital for three days. Once there, she demanded that half of the cash be brought to her room. That done, it was pointed out to her that the money might easily be stolen. Only then did she allow the funds to be placed in the hospital safe. The other old lady drove home in disgust.

As the days passed, most of the money remained in the box, largely unspent--in the box because both old ladies knew that large deposits of cash into a bank would draw unwanted attention to themselves and unspent because they could not agree on the most basic expenditures.

By the end of the first month, the music had gone silent. New books lay unread on the coffee table. The old ladies no longer found humor in every day living. Each began to speak about taking half of the remaining money and moving away...

It was never determined how the box with the money made its way to the side of the road.

The surviving old lady went to live with relatives, where shortly afterward, she was disabled by a stroke.

She babbled constantly to anyone who would listen about a bloody dismembered hand, and how she used to be rich. Those who heard these accounts dismissed them as the rambling, confused thinking of a demented old woman. They avoided her whenever possible.

The other old lady was buried quietly in a pauper's grave. Wildflowers grew in abundance around the stone and on the gravesite, a telltale sign that the landscaping fees had not been paid. No one ever came to visit. ● • • • Kathryn Lynch is 74 years old, disabled, and a retired Attorney. She is the Old Lady in all of her stories, living life in her imagination.

VI In the middle of the night, two foraging rats slipped under the house in search of food. For a time they dug in the earth for seeds ungerminated in the darkness. Driven by curiosity, they nibbled on the wires hanging down from the structure.

Freed from their insulating bonds, two star-crossed wires sparked and ignited the insulation under the floor.

The fire started slowly, festering like an open sore before spreading to the joists, creeping the length of the structure before burning through the floors.

Both old ladies awoke to the screeches of the smoke alarm and the sight of flames climbing the walls and claiming the structure, as the fire became more intense.

Opening the front door, they were about to flee to safety, when one cried, “The money!” It was then that they argued for the last time--before one old lady headed for the box...

In a matter of moments, the home had collapsed inward, rubble falling down to ground level. Winds blew around the foundation, coating the surrounding area with a layer of ashes.

The other old lady watched silently from the safety of the trees, mourning what she had lost. She was consumed with thoughts of the money and the amenities it might have purchased. There would be no new car or trip around the world. She would not be eating steaks or gambling in casinos. The music collection and all of the books were gone. She was poor again...

Thoughts of her friend did not enter her mind.

Daisy

by Vincent Salvano Along the wayside blossoms My cherished daisy I loved it for its sweet splendor Its elegant hue Beneath the sunbeams it flickered A warm welcoming Its unsullied scent dazed me With musical memories Of apple meadows and fresh laundry Frolicking in tuneful harmony Moving in rhythmic merriment Fond and joyous of summer days But I should have known The last rendezvous Would surely have left me Tongue-tied and shaken with sour regret Our love left in the sun Fated to a withering My sanity hangs on the fringe Do not pout, dear daisy, but It seems I have wilted like An elderly Cobb salad Tainted by a dressing of Sorrow too real, too vivid

Epilogue: A garbage truck driver caught sight of the hand as it plummeted from the dumpster into the bed of his truck. Using a digging pole, he brought the appendage to the surface and called the police.

Fingerprints identified it as belonging to a local drug addict who peddled dope in exchange for keeping himself loaded.

The dealer who supplied the addict was tried and convicted of murder. He was, in fact, guilty. For years he wondered, but never understood how the hand, which was the chief evidence against him, ended up in a semipublic dumpster.

I’m just a stigma to her now Oh daisy, you have since turned monochrome Drooping by the roadside, lackluster But I can only hope That when she passes by to Glance at you, she thinks of me

• • • 61

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Simon, though, worried about working a job in such a busy area of town — the store was one of many in the shopping center that formed an upside down “L” with a movie theater at the top end — but his spirits rose at the sight of a single customer to contend with; however, his insides were twitching like they always did as the watchout. He prayed this would hold them over long enough to find steady work; Simon didn’t have the stomach for this line of work — he knew it, and so did Jack. Simon wished they could find work together, maybe open up a mechanic shop or a small-town discount store, but he feared that Jack would never settle down. Jack didn’t like to be attached to an area. Halfway around the first lap, heading directly towards the movie theater, Simon noticed a nondescript black SUV. This was the kind of detail he was responsible for as the watch-out. He tried to visualize the plaza from the past two nights, but he couldn’t place the vehicle. If only I’d paid more attention instead of talking about Callie.

“Don’t screw this up,” he mumbled to the empty truck. Something didn’t feel right about the SUV, but Simon decided to hold course until obvious aggression by the vehicle.

After the first pass, Hell’s bearded angel was still the only customer in the store, besides Jack, and stood alone at the cash register. Simon tried to picture Jack — the calm and quiet out-of-work laborer who named every bird and flower (cardinals, daffodils, irises, blue jays, ivory-billed woodpeckers) when they parked on a gravel road to unwind — convincing the cashier or her manager that he’d do something if they didn’t empty the registers.

Simon suppressed a smile. If I get custody of my daughter, Jack Calvert is the first person we’ll visit. He’s harmless. Jack always has everything under control.

The storefront and the white-bearded man disappeared as Simon turned left and began his second lap across the bottom of the inverted L-shaped plaza. The plan, the motorcycle man, and the black SUV were the farthest things from his mind.

The bar had been dark; Simon didn’t know what he had expected. He’d never been the type to drink, much less frequent bars, but he couldn’t face anyone yet.

Simon sipped on a light-colored beer, which he didn’t even like and felt guilty about wasting because knew he wouldn’t be able to afford it the divorce was finalized, and tried to reason things out. He had worked for weeks putting together their daughter’s birthday party, calling family, friends, and entertainment. And to think Callie had the nerve to leave him after such an exhausting, emotional day, whispering lies about going on an adventure like Peter Pan to their three-year old daughter Rachel. I’ll show her Never-Never-Land; I’ll send her to — that’s when a hand fell on his trembling shoulder.

“Don’t worry yourself too much. Tomorrow brings its own troubles,” the man behind the touch said, calming Simon’s exhausted body.

It was almost supernatural the way Jack had appeared, seemingly materializing behind him in the empty bar that night, Simon remembered. But that was Jack’s gift: knowing where to be and what to say; Jack knew exactly what was needed in every situation.

Simon slapped the steering wheel. He was upset with himself: he had never seen the signs. He would never

The Watch-Out

by Jacob Cooper

I

’m the watch-out, Simon thought, watching Jack Calvert glide across the gray puddles in the nearly empty parking lot as horizontal sheets of rain continued to fall. Here we go. The young cashier, who Simon had watched sing karaoke at a local bar on Friday night, scrunched her face in visible frustration and left the cash register as a white-bearded man in motorcycle chaps entered the discount store ahead of Jack. It was the same disgusted look she had when Simon wandered in ten minutes before closing-time a few days ago. Simon and Jack had rehearsed the plan repeatedly since, but Simon still lacked faith.

“How long have you known me, Simon?” Jack had asked before jumping out and following the bearded man inside. Simon tried to hide his fear, but he knew Jack sensed his doubt. Simon understood the real question: He’d known Jack for a couple of months, so why did he trust him enough for this? Because Jack Calvert was the first person to console him after his wife left. But it didn’t really matter why now because it was too late to turn back.

The stealing had started small, a means of survival while Simon tried to rebuild his life. He was forced to start over with a little over $500 and a pickup truck that used too much gas. These days Jack paid for most their gas and food, occasionally coming out of gas stations with a snack or paperback book for Simon. Jack didn’t talk about himself much, but Simon knew he had never been married and had left home when he was fifteen to work on-and-off in commercial construction, drifting around Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, and Tennessee before arriving in Arkansas. Sometimes they just drove aimlessly, shooting the shit, which comforted Simon because he needed somebody to listen. Simon had questioned his wife’s loyalty before the separation, usually feeling guilty afterwards because he never had any proof, but her abrupt departure this time confirmed his assumptions: she was having an affair.

“Irreconcilable differences, my ass,” Simon would say ceremoniously. “What does that even mean?” His partner — that’s how Simon came to think of Jack — always listened, but Simon figured Jack wanted him to forget it and move on. Jack Calvert didn’t like riding in the truck much anyway; he didn’t have to say that. Simon could tell by the way Jack slouched and rubbed his temples like he had a migraine when they were on interstates or highways. Once they had a target and a plan, Simon would explore the rural areas of the town for gravel roads. It was on these bumpy, dusty roads that Jack talked the most, and Simon learned what little he knew about his partner.

I’m just the watch-out, Simon reminded himself, noting the neon-green 7:45 on the dash of his truck. Most of the jobs they worked didn’t take more than a few minutes. Jack’s timeline had them out of Northeast Arkansas and into the Missouri Bootheel before 9:00 that night. Drive around the block twice, pull-up to the storefront, and drive away. The plan was simple.

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admit that to Jack, but Simon suspected his partner knew more than he let on about these things. Their marriage had never been perfect. They had too many credit cards, years of college loans, and a thirty-year mortgage, but they’d had each other and their daughter.

Simon told Jack everything he could about Rachel — the light scar on her left cheek from when he’d left the iron plugged in and she’d pulled it on her face (Callie had almost left him for that mishap), the sandy brown hair she inherited from her mother, the pinky-pale skin that burned and peeled constantly during the summer, and even her difficultly pronouncing W’s and R’s that she inherited from her father. Callie could go to NeverNever-Land with Peter Pan, but Simon wanted to be a part of his daughter’s life.

The rain began to pound the hood of the truck, imposing upon and muddling Simon’s thoughts. He hadn’t always lived up to Callie’s expectations, like dropping out of graduate school after they were married to take a full-time job in a factory. He had sacrificed his dream for insurance coverage and to pay the bills while she finished medical school. He’d done what needed to be done. She hadn’t seen it that way, even after finding out she was pregnant with Rachel a few months later.

The late hours put a strain on their marriage, but they were surviving, which was all any young couple could ask for, he thought. They’d even made it through other — “What the — ” Simon shut his former life out of his thoughts; he couldn’t afford to drown out the present — Shit, you’re the watch-out, Simon, concentrate — and what he thought he’d heard. Simon quickly identified the rain beat on the roof, but would have sworn that he’d heard a distinct pop underneath the pitter-patter, like a muffled firecracker. Two. Three. Four seconds passed.

Then two more firecracker pops. Blue lights erupted from the dash of the black SUV at the movie theater.

Aggression enough, Simon thought. He broke course and headed at a 45-degree angle across the L-shaped plaza, weaving in-and-out of parked vehicles. You’re always getting in the way, Callie. With a quick glance he calculated that he had about seven-second head start to get in the store, find Jack, and make a getaway before the SUV arrived and whatever came with it.

The truck skidded to a stop beside the white-bearded man’s motorcycle. Simon jumped out of the truck, leaving the truck running and the door open, and splashed through the puddles inside. The front was empty: a pack of cigarettes and Gummy Bears lay on the checkout counter. He saw all this in a glance as he raced towards the back. Come on, Jack.

“Jack.”

He heard a small splash — for a second, Simon felt like he was sinking — and the smell of burnt flesh rammed his nostrils. He traced the puddle to the whitebearded man’s body on the other side of the middle-aisle shelf. Here all kinds of liquids mixed into a black mess.

There was a hole in the bearded man’s chest — his leather chap breast pocket read AVIDSON. Simon felt his lungs drop into his stomach. He nearly vomited.

How long have you known me, Simon?

“Jack!”

Simon staggered to the back, scanning each aisle, and through the EMPLOYEES ONLY! door into a foggy

room filled with boxes stacked on boxes stacked on pallets. All the boxes and familiar brand names made him dizzy. Or maybe it was the sensation of sinking that he couldn’t shake. Simon dropped to his knees, head spinning. I’m just the watch-out. He tried to focus.

Where are you, Jack? Then two more bodies, lying perpendicular across one another, got caught in his peripheral vision. Simon recognized them immediately — the Karaoke Cashier and her manager.

“Over here, Simon,” Jack said, appearing from behind a mountain of boxes. “Don’t be afraid.”

Typical Jack. Always cool. Always on top of things.

“There’s an undercover cop, Jack. He was right behind me in a black SUV. I spotted him earlier, but—” “—Come on. It’s okay.” Jack lifted Simon to his feet, guiding him back through the EMPLOYEES ONLY! door. Blue light from the black SUV’s dash flooded the room as Jack ushered them towards the front. AVIDSON still lay by the middle shelf; Simon tried not to look, but the smell overpowered his senses. The front windows were fogged over — Simon imagined the stink of death sticking to the windows. Jack didn’t speak but continued to usher Simon along. Simon could hear sirens, shouting, slamming doors, and the pitter-patter of rain.

They stopped a few steps in front of AVIDSON. Simon thought he heard the cliché “Put down the weapon! And put your hands in the air!” charade, but his mind was too clouded to be sure. Of all people he imagined the actor Clint Eastwood waiting outside, rain accentuating his clenched jaw.

“There goes my custody ca—” An arm clamped across his chest and the warm muzzle of a gun jammed into Simon’s back before he could finish. He could feel Jack’s breath against his neck.

His body went rigid and he pissed himself. He was too scared to react. He wanted to ask Jack the plan. Is there a plan? No one is going to fall for this.

I’m just the watch-out, he wanted to scream.

“Who do you think I am, Simon?”

“Ja-Jack. Jack…Jack Calvert.” At first he couldn’t find his voice, but he finally forced the words out. “Mymy partner.”

“Yeah, partner. Do you doubt me now?”

Everything was happening too fast. Simon didn’t know if Jack was using him as a shield, as a ransom, as a diversion, as a sacrifice. Blue lights pulsated strobe-like across the shelves. The lights were getting brighter, the noises more intense; everything was muddling together…Simon heard a crack in the distance. And another. He felt something scrape down his back and right calf. White light exploded and engulfed everything.

“Jack?” Are we in prison?

“Who’s Jack?”

“Cal-Callie?” Where am I? “Yes.” He could hear her voice, but he couldn’t find her in the darkness. “What were you doing in there? You could have been killed.”

“Trying to help Jack.” Wait. Why do you care? Is Jack okay?

“There wasn’t anyone but you…alive in the store, Simon. They just ran photos of the victims on the news.

No one named, uh, Jack.”

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“Where’s Rachel?” Maybe I’m dreaming.

“I didn’t want her to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“You’ve been in a coma for three days. They didn’t know if you were going to make it.” This time he saw her through the snowy haze. “I didn’t want her to experience this, this — she’s too young, Simon.”

His head was spinning again. How long have you known me, Simon?

“Experience what? Where have you been? What has she been experiencing?”

“Forget it! I didn’t come here for this. I thought it might help you…you—” “Then why did you come?”

“Simon, I’m not fighting anymore. I just wanted you to know you can see Rachel when you’re better.”

She caught him off guard. What did we do, Jack?

“I’m sorry, Cal.” When she didn’t reply immediately, Simon concentrated on the two beats he could identify: the soft rhythm of the rain and the shrill buzzing of technology around him.

“You were brave, Simon.”

This time he didn’t reply but pretended to sink into sleep, or into a coma, or wherever he’d been before he’d woken up. ●

or the lovely 'Maestro,' whom I took to bed, once, and loved, to a degree.

It all happened long ago. The café where I met 'Medallion' for coffee and he handed me the date for the Soviet mawling of Hungary is demolished now, a block of flats: I handed him a file full of misdirections and made-up contacts and they shot him, quietly, in Leipzig.

Memoirs? No. Out of the question.

There are many questions to be out of and nothing's like it was. It wasn't back then, either, come to that.

• • • Fred Johnston. Born 1951, Belfast, Northern Ireland.

Novelist and poet. Recent second collection of stories, 'Dancing In The Asylum' from Parthian (UK). Eight poetry collections published. In 2004, writer in residence to the Princess Grace Irish Library, Monaco.

Director of the Western Writers' Centre, Galway, Ireland. (www.twwc.ie)

• • •

Mackerel

by Fred Johnston My job, most of the time, was to report things that weren't there, create files that were always empty and photograph young lovers fucking in a park.

It's all done by fat-arsed computer people these days, none the less a lie but without the risk and the drinker's tedium, though out of the rain.

It rained in Danzig (as was) and in Berlin we drowned in doorways in the dark dried out in cellars under silly names, but it was fun with an edge.

My name was 'Mackerel,' someone else was 'Shoal,' he handled drops lines on rough copy-book pages, such as 'Grandfather is in the library.'

Alcoholic schoolboys, most of us retired on pensions, sometimes called in to verify or lie about some half-truth or other, in secret, naturally.

You won't have heard of 'Budgerigar,' a sanctified typist, who went over 64

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by Joseph P. O'Brien

The Shortcut W

e were eating lunch, not yet sure what to do on our day off from school, when I told Kevin about the shortcut. According to what Chicky Silverman told me on the bus the previous Friday afternoon, his older brothers found a shortcut to Madonna Heights, the notorious boarding school for bad teenage girls, and it led to a point at the back of the campus where there were no fences or security.

Everyone at school knew about Madonna Heights, but nobody ever seemed to be closer than three degrees from it. All the stories we heard were about a cousin’s friend’s cousin, or some kid from summer camp’s aunt’s stepdaughter. No families from our town ever sent their troublesome daughters there, that’s for sure.

Apparently, Madonna Heights was run by deranged, hard-ass nuns, even though it wasn’t technically a Catholic school, and those nuns were assisted by a staff of belligerent crackheads. Allegedly, each girl got one uniform that she could wash just once a month.

Supposedly, the girls’ meals consisted of two cans of cat food a day, although if a girl was exceptionally wellbehaved for a whole week and then went to church on Sunday morning, she might get a third can of cat food on Sunday night. Reportedly, the white staffers called all the black girls monkey-fuckers and the black staffers called all the white girls cracker-ass cunts. Ostensibly, all the girls were medicated within an inch of their lives, and every night the staffers forced them at knifepoint to do all kinds of lesbian sex stuff. Rumor had it that several girls died every year when nuns hid rat poison in their cat food, but those deaths were made to look like suicides or drug overdoses.

Chicky also told me, and I foolishly told Kevin, that when Chicky’s older brothers found that shortcut they met a couple girls who later gave them blow jobs behind the softball dugouts. Even my gullible 13 year-old self, who believed all those third-hand tales of cat food meals and knifepoint orgies, had a hunch that those blow jobs never really happened. But Kevin was much further into puberty than I was at the time. His cock was much beefier than my pinky-prick, and his pubes were far thicker and darker than my translucent peach fuzz, even though he was only an inch taller and I was six months older. So after hearing about Chicky’s brothers’ purported blow jobs, Kevin smirked and his eyes gleamed like I just bought him a brand new dirtbike.

Then he insisted we take the Madonna Heights shortcut as soon as we finished our Hi-C and frozen pizza squares.

My pinky-prick had never experienced an orgasm yet, and I had no idea what I would’ve done if some delinquent girl offered to blow me behind the softball dugout. But I never defied Kevin, so I said fine, we’ll go.

It was a cloudless Columbus Day, just warm and

sunny enough for T-shirts, shorts and baseball caps.

Kevin and I both sported nearly-identical Islanders caps with orange letters on a blue background, along with nearly-identical gray Stussy T-shirts, light blue jean shorts, and black Adidas Sambas. From any further than 20 feet away we would’ve looked like the exact same white suburban teenage dork.

I told my grandma we were going to the park, then Kevin and I snuck off to my across-the-street neighbors’ backyard. We hopped over the black vinyl-coated chain link fence at the property border and hiked up a small, steep acre of woods, crunching through the bed of dead maple leaves, dried polly-noses and fallen pine needles.

When we came across a patch of poison ivy we raised our feet high above it like it was a hurdle, since we somehow fell under the impression that the plant’s itchy toxins could infect us not just by direct contact but also by leaping several inches into the air and latching onto our shins.

A minute later we got to Essex Court, an uppermiddle-class cul-de-sac which was nothing but a grassy hill only three years earlier, back when the new wave of late ’80s development sprouted around the original postwar suburbs. Some of the homes on the street were so new they didn’t even have owners yet. The whole block was a parade of ersatz post-modern architecture where ranches stretched out alongside modest split-levels and three-story behemoths, all painted in bold shades of grayish blue, pinkish tan, brownish white and purplish red, and constructed with aggressive asymmetry. Some had roofs like upside-down check marks; some had Lshaped 2-car garages; others had lopsided V-shaped porches that thrust themselves into the middle of the front lawn.

We headed for house #22, as per Chicky’s directions, and on our way there we saw two girls bouncing around the street on neon pink pogo-balls. As we approached, I recognized the girl closest to us as Melanie Sternbach.

She was two years younger than us and not nearly as mature as she thought she was, so normally I would’ve avoided her company at all costs. But I quickly recognized her playmate as Jessica Weinroth, object of my affection since 3rd grade, with her electric yellow braces and galaxy of Jewish freckles, like a highlighter and exclamation points for her already vivid smile. I knew at that moment that Kevin had no interest in talking to any girls who weren’t likely to blow him anytime soon, but I stopped to say hi to Jessica anyway.

The girls kept on pogo-balling; they must have been up to like 200 bounces in a row. Jessica asked what we were up to but before I could come up with a good lie, Kevin told her the embarrassing truth, or at least what he truly, embarrassingly believed would be the truth. He said it like it should’ve impressed the girls- deepening his 65

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voice, squinting his eyes like a bad male model, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jean shorts: “We’re gonna go to Madonna Heights, hook up with some chicks.”

Melanie did the thing she did practically every time she heard a boy say something dumb, which was click her tongue and shove out a quick sigh that started with a ‘K’ and scraped the roof of her mouth. Then she added, “Gross.” Jessica giggled and asked if we were serious. I laughed awkwardly and told her of course Kevin was kidding. Then I planned to rush the conversation somewhere else, like the Islanders game last night, since another reason I was so smitten with Jessica was because her devotion to the New York Islanders was even more die-hard than mine. I started rehearsing the talking points in my head: Isn’t it a relief that they finally won one this season, even if they needed overtime to beat the freaking Mighty Ducks? And don’t you think Pierre Turgeon’s gonna have an even bigger season than last year?

But before I could swallow my nerves and change the subject, Kevin butted back in: “No we’re totally serious. We should get going too, we don’t wanna keep those chicks waiting.” Then without saying goodbye or looking back at me he walked on, heading straight for house 22.

I told Jessica that Kevin really, truly was only kidding, that we were just taking a shortcut to the park, and maybe I’d see her later. She said good-bye with an enthusiastic wave that started all the way down at her elbow, never once losing control of her pogo-ball, and as my heart quivered I ran to catch up with Kevin.

Once we got far enough into the woods behind house 22, I asked Kevin why he had to tell Jessica all that stuff.

He knew how much I liked her. “Trust me dude,” he said, “she’s totally jealous right now.”

I said, “No, she’s totally grossed out is what she is.”

“Dude, just trust me on this,” he said. I didn’t trust him on this, but I let it go at that.

The woods behind house 22 led to a narrow field of waist-high grass, home to a row of tall powerline pylons.

We crossed the field to yet another patch of woods, and after we checked our shins and forearms for ticks, we headed northwest, directed by the little compass on Kevin’s Swiss Army knife. We stayed the course for about a mile until we saw, between the trees, slivers of patchy grass, pale brown softball-field dirt, and farther in the distance, the off-white concrete walls of some dreary institution. Kevin’s careful steps turned into little hurried leaps until he reached the edge of the woods.

“This is it!” he whisper-shouted.

A sign nailed to a tree on the boundary warned us: DANGER, in bold white letters inside a bold red rectangle. Below it, in equally bold red letters over white background: NO TRESPASSING. That was all. No mention of whether violators would be prosecuted to the fullest or any extent of the law. Not even a hint as to what

kind of DANGER waited for trespassers like us.

“You ready?” Kevin asked. This became the part where, even though earlier I was reluctant to go on this little escapade, I suddenly felt prickly with excitement and grateful that I had Kevin to lure me out of my wussshell every couple weeks or so. Like the time he convinced me to set off an M-80 inside the fingerhole of that bowling ball we found in the dumpster behind The Sports Authority, and it got blown to smithereens in the middle of the dirtbike tracks. Or the time we snuck onto the big hidden estate on Sixpence Place and he dared me to do a flip off the high-dive board of the swimming pool.

With those priceless memories in mind I smiled at Kevin and ventured onto the grounds of Madonna Heights.

It sounded like Madonna Heights had been silent for centuries. All I heard was soft autumn wind and our sneakers fluffing through the fading grass.

Nobody in sight. The few windows we saw were too dark to reveal anything.

The buildings were a bunch of brick and concrete blocks, just like every school we’d ever been to. The wear on the softball field implied the girls used it biweekly at most.

Between the field and the buildings there was a craggy blacktop with a handball wall and two basketball hoops, neither with a net and one with a crooked rim.

“What now?” I asked. “We supposed to wait around, hope some girls come out and offer us blow jobs?”

“Yeah let’s just hang around for a bit,” as if that was our most reasonable option. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the blue rubber ball he usually carried around. “Wanna play some handball?”

“You fuckin’ stupid? And make all that noise?”

“All right, well what then?”

“Might as well pop a squat over there,” I said, nodding toward the area behind the third base dugout.

“Why would we want to take a dump?”

“What are you talking about ‘take a dump’?”

“You said ‘pop a squat.’”

“Pop a squat doesn’t mean take a dump, it just means sit on the ground.” “‘Pop a squat’ means take a dump.”

“Whatever yo, let’s just sit on the ground over there.”

So we did.

Before too long Kevin got bored and started bouncing his blue rubber ball against the back of the dugout. I told him he was being stupid making so much noise, and he told me I was being a pussy and besides he was bouncing the ball quiet enough that nobody could hear it from inside. He kept it up just long enough to prove that he didn’t have to listen to me and he’d damn well bounce his rubber ball if he damn well pleased. Then he stopped.

We sat around for a short while, mostly in silence, until we heard some rusty hinges creak just a few dozen yards away. We sprang to our feet and peeked around the dugout. Three girls came outside, definitely high-

We sat around for a short while, mostly in silence, until we heard some rusty hinges creak just a few dozen yards away.

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schoolers. One girl was runway model-tall with stringy peroxide-blonde hair. Another was average height, with dark brown hair, light brown skin, and slightly pudgy.

The third was short and ghostly pale, with Goth-black hair and big baby bunny eyes accentuated by thick rings of dark eye shadow. The girls wore identical white blouses, black vests, black skirts, and white stockings, all of which looked pretty well-laundered from where I stood.

The pale girl propped the back door open an inch with a small brick, and then each girl lit a cigarette. They all moved with a frazzled and defiant kind of grace, as if they had blossomed very young and had somehow suffered unfairly for it. Not that any of them seemed traumatized or anything. Just frazzled and defiant.

The girls had barely finished exhaling their first drags when without warning, Kevin popped out from behind the dugout and approached them. For a moment I considered staying hidden, but that moment didn’t last long, and I popped out as well.

They obviously noticed us but didn’t say anything.

Kevin came to a halt about twenty feet from where they stood, and I stopped just a few steps behind him. Kevin tried to break the ice with a simple “Hey.” None of the girls acknowledged his greeting, but they did keep looking at us, the way leery natives might look at boorish tourists. Kevin took this as a good sign. “Any you girls got an extra smoke?” he asked. Not that he smoked.

The slightly pudgy girl said simply, “Nope.” The pale girl said something privately to her companions, then the peroxide-blonde mumbled something back, and they all giggled.

“So what’re your names?” Kevin asked.

“No thanks,” said the peroxide-blonde.

“Come on, what are your names?” Kevin asked, like they were merely playing coy.

“I’m Whitney. Whitney Houston,” said the peroxideblonde. Pointing her cigarette at the pudgy girl, she said, “This is Julia Roberts.” The pale girl identified herself as “Amy Fisher.”

“All right, let’s go,” I whispered to Kevin. “They’re obviously not-” Kevin wasn’t listening. “That’s cool, that’s cool, I get it,” he called to the girls. “I’m, uh, Dre, and this here’s Beavis.”

“Congratulations,” said Whitney Houston. “Bye now.” She didn’t even wave. The girls whispered among themselves.

“Any you ladies wanna take a walk with us?” Kevin asked. “Behind the softball dugouts?”

Now the girls were completely ignoring us.

“Well we tried,” I shrugged. “Why don’t we go back and see if Jessica’s still around?”

That’s when Kevin reached under his T-shirt and unbuttoned his fly. He pulled his jean shorts down to his knees and unleashed his cock. It was all unfurling before me in slow motion and yet I was too shocked to do anything about it.

“Hey ladies,” Kevin shouted, much louder than before. “You sure none o’ you wants a taste o’ this?”

The girls turned their heads toward him and he twirled his cock like a pinwheel. All three girls erupted

into delirious cackles, but that didn’t faze Kevin. He just kept on twirling like he was the world’s most irresistible male stripper.

I barely had time to blush before I heard a bold, brawny voice shout, “HEY!” From out of another doorway stepped a muscular man in a white polo shirt and green shorts that appeared to be some kind of staff uniform. From where I stood he looked like Evander goddamn Holyfield. He ran a few steps before I unfroze and ran myself. Kevin was still pulling up his jean shorts and buttoning his fly as he caught up with me. The girls were still cackling as we crossed the edge of the woods.

Kevin got a few steps ahead of me and he was checking the little compass on his Swiss Army knife. I prayed he remembered that we needed to head southeast to get back to the field with the powerline pylons, but I didn’t want to call out to him and make any more noise that might help Evander Holyfield track us down.

The two of us ran like hell, neither saying a word nor looking back, and we tore through the waist-high grass of the powerline pylon fields, right on to the next patch of woods, no time to stop and check our shins and forearms for ticks, and we bolted through those woods to the backyard of house #22 and then to the street on Essex Court, our sneakers slapping furiously on the pavement, until we came back to Jessica and Melanie, who were now equipped with tennis rackets and volleying a fuzzy yellow ball, and finally we stopped to catch our breaths.

Jessica lobbed the ball to Melanie and asked, “What are you running from?”

I was much more winded than Kevin, so he answered. “We were…just about…to hook up with these chicks…at Madonna Heights…and then this security guard…he came out…and chased us…”

Jessica asked, “Was he a black guy in green shorts?”

We turned and saw him. He was a few hundred feet away, standing on the front lawn of house #22, pausing to catch his own breath. But once he saw our faces he broke into a run again. So once again we ran like hell.

I was running on fumes. The only sport I actually played was baseball and I’d never run for so long in my entire life. Kevin, the starting power forward on the school basketball team, had plenty of gas left. He left me in his dust, disappearing into the woods that led to my across-the-street neighbors’ backyard, and he never looked back.

As I neared the end of the Essex Court cul-de-sac I turned my head, even though I knew it would cost me a few steps. Evander Holyfield was definitely gaining on me. Surely he’d get within grabbing distance well before I got to my house. I knew I had to try some kind of evasive maneuver, even if it was incredibly reckless and would very likely blow up in my face.

When I noticed that house #38 still had a FOR SALE sign spiked into the front lawn, I ran down the driveway and hooked a sharp left into the backyard. I figured the real estate people would’ve locked all the doors, so I didn’t get my hopes up, but wouldn’t you know it, the glass door on the back patio slid right open and I got into the unsold house no problem. Once inside I clicked the lock, just seconds before I heard Evander Holyfield furiously yanking the door handle in vain.

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I sat on the carpeted stairs to catch my breath, gulping down nostrilfuls of a new-house-smell that included French Vanilla, Windex and sawdust. But I barely had time to recuperate before I heard Evander Holyfield try to open a window. When that window didn’t open he tried the next one. For a moment I considered checking the rest of the doors and windows but a second later it was too late anyway. A doorknob jingled and turned, then a set of brand-new hinges squeaked ever so slightly, sending me tip-toeing up the stairs as fast as I could.

At the top of the stairs a short barrier attached to the banister gave me something to crouch behind. I didn’t want to trap myself in one of the bedrooms, and I assumed that if I heard Evander come up the stairs I could easily hurdle over the barrier, zip down the stairs and flee out the door before he knew what happened. It all seemed perfectly logical at the time.

What actually happened was this: after searching every room of the downstairs level, Evander stomped to the top of the stairs, at which point I tried to hurdle over the barrier. Instead I stumbled and lost my grip, and I would’ve broken my neck if Evander hadn’t snatched me, sinking his fingers into my left armpit.

Up close, he looked a lot less like Evander Holyfield.

He was nearly ten years younger, his skull was pointier, his skin was a few shades lighter, his eyes were wider and farther apart. Of course, he still looked like he could hospitalize me with one punch if he really wanted to.

“You think you hot or somethin?” he asked, his hand now clamped around the nape of my neck. “Flappin your dick at those girls? The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“It wasn’t me,” I said.

“Yeah right. And I’m not DeVaughn Pierre-Antoine.”

I looked for a name embroidered on his uniform shirt, and sure enough, it was right there over the left breast pocket, and sure enough that name was “DeVaughn Pierre-Antoine.”

“No I swear,” I said. “It was that other kid, he’s the one who flashed those girls.”

He released his grip on my neck and folded his hands. “Now see, as far as I’m concerned, some kid about your height, your hair color, your skin color, wearin a gray T-shirt just like yours, short blue jeans just like yours, blue and orange baseball cap just like yours, basically matchin your description exactly, trespassed on the grounds of my institution and flapped his fat floppy dick in front of three teenage girls. Three very troubled teenage girls. Girls I’m supposed to protect and provide security for. And a kid who does that on my watch can’t just get away with that kinda thing.”

“But I’m not the one who…I don’t even have a fat floppy… you know…I haven’t really…had any puberty…yet.”

Unintentionally, my voice cracked on the word ‘puberty,’ and DeVaughn Pierre-Antoine laughed. “Is that right?” he asked.

I looked down and nodded.

“OK. Prove it.”

My guts rumbled and my ears got red hot. I couldn’t speak so I just looked at him and with my face I asked if he was joking.

But DeVaughn Pierre-Antoine was definitely not

joking.

“Prove it,” he said, “and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened.”

When I got back to my house Kevin was in the driveway playing handball, slapping his blue rubber ball against the garage door. After I got close enough I snatched the ball from the air.

“You get lost or something?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“You get caught?”

I looked down at the blue rubber ball, then I threw it as hard as I could at Kevin’s face. He didn’t have time to block it. It popped him right in the eyeball. As he brought his hands to his face and grunted I ran up and booted him in his fat floppy dick. He fell to his knees, coughed twice, and puked on the pavement.

“Now we’re even,” I said, then I went to get the hose. ● • • • Joseph P. O'Brien mostly writes short fiction based on true stories and numerous big fat lies. He also writes about storytelling at PopularFiction.wordpress.com, and about music for 10Listens.com. You can read his bemused, occasionally cranky tweets @JosephPOB. He lives in Brooklyn, New York with his lovely wife Ashley and their adorable dog Sprocket.

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The Rusty Nail, January 2013

by Steve Prusky

The Crossroad S

am’s crossroad was a swirling urban nether world in the slummier part of Detroit. This intersection never evolved. Instead, it became an admission free museum of relics from a past Mob wars and the “Fix” once ruled. Layers of graffiti swathed the granite exterior of the gargoyle trimmed late Nineteenth Century bank building--now a smut store--opposite Sam’s cramped second floor flat.

The first floor Roaring Twenties style diner in his building served stodgy Blue Plate specials from 6:00 PM until midnight. The noisy bar directly below his room on Calumet Avenue attracted as many cops as criminals.

Fourth Street bellowed shotgun groans of semi trucks engine braking, wailing sirens speeding to a crime a fire or another smack back drug fiend sprawled face down in the shadows of an abandoned wig shop near the corner.

Progress relegated this decrepit part of the city into an obsolete narrow pinch point cross-town traffic must pass through en route to other blemished parts. Its final function was as an overused heart fighting congestive failure, yet it still struggled to pump lifeblood through its worn arteries to the distant appendages of the greater, equally unhealthy urban whole. Stark inner-city existence reigned on Sam’s corner of Calumet and Fourth.

Sam prospered as well as a real estate agent trying to sell empty shacks in a ghost town. He kept a low wage night watch job at a shoe warehouse in the antiquated industrial district near down town. He managed well enough to stay only a few hours ahead on his weekly rent.

The roach infested tenement he occupied; its sluggish toilet, weak stream lukewarm shower, radiated steam heat suggested the Great Depression never left his building while the rest of the world moved on. The thin lumpy mattress of his twin-sized hide-a-bed suited him fine. The one-man galley kitchen, a dripping faucet, chipped porcelain sink loaded with a week’s worth of unwashed pans and dishes kept his roaches busy and strategically located in one place rather than aimlessly drifting throughout his entire flat for nourishment. The coffin-sized closet housed two pair of jeans, undone laundry, a few tattered tee shirts and a hill of twice read paperback books; the literary ghosts of his limited college education. His flat was a warm womb that cloistered him secure with a front row view of the energy flowing steadily below him on Calumet and Fourth.

Sam lived on this squalor-ridden corner by choice, not for an initial lack of ambition. The GI Bill funded his college. Sam aggressively pursued a degree. He became an established institution on the dean’s list, a legend among professors that were convinced he was on the literary path to a PhD. Sam dropped out the last semester

of his junior year; Smack and Wild Turkey coaxed him to their university; they became his intellectual heroes rather than John Donne or Mavis Gallant. Drained cerebrally dry Sam pulled the plug on his future to earn his street degree. He shed his soul for dark moonless, starless night.

Heroin and a steady supply of sour mash whiskey fulfilled his simple needs. Emotionally exhausted, excessive compulsive, unable to vent his inward anger without violence; he adopted the lifestyle of a socially withdrawn recluse. He sought anonymity in bars swam in the wet warmth of an occasional nameless woman. He relished a no holds bared fist fight simply based on the wrong word said. Sam blamed his condition on the insanities he took part in during a war the previous generation dumped on his. He faulted his failure as a compassionate, loving man on all the women he allowed near enough to know him intimately. When string of lovers discovered how abnormal and self destructive he truly was most all of them surrendered to their inability to change him packed their make up kits and left. He credited his excessive alcohol abuse to his dysfunctional upbringing: an alcoholic wife-beating father, a blank eyed heartlessly cold as death mother. He blamed his off and on smack habit--a left over vice from his close proximity to the Poppy fields in Thailand during the war--for his inability to succeed. He placed the burden of his failures on anyone or anything but himself.

Ten years had passed since college. During that period, Sam blundered and tripped through a litany of offenses: assault, resisting arrest, possession of drug paraphernalia. He followed the backwash of lost humanity to this derelict dead end urban crossroad.

Those instances he temporarily kicked ‘H’, he drank until his tracks healed, then predictably relapsed and anxiously pounded on his connects’ door. He was a marginally functioning alcoholic when he wasn’t smack back. When playing with the needle and spoon, he was a waste of a human life.

Sam’s bellicose boozy neighbor, Doc, was a retired dentist. Doc meticulously cultivated black creeping vine like hairs stubbornly protruding from his nostrils. His turkey neck and jowls wobbled when he talked or shook his head yes and no. Doc’s unshaven wrinkly face and grey tainted stubble mirrored the flesh and blood image of an odometer that had spun too fast, turned over at least twice indicating it was more the miles Doc put on than age that made him appear twenty years dead and still standing in line for burial. Doc and Sam were friends of convenience with a consistent thirst for anything 100 proof or above in common. Although Doc disapproved of Sam’s erratic heroin habit, he let it go convinced Sam 69

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was more honorable than most, less dramatic than others.

Doc came by with a fifth of Brandy. “Let’s drink and philosophize,” he slurred. Doc had a head start on the bottle.

“I’m good with that,” Sam said. “We’ll go down to the bar when this bottle is gone.”

“Done,” the old man said between swigs. Doc and Sam sat in the kitchen and propped their feet up on the table. They quietly observed the dregs of life pass along the opposite side of Fourth Street from the permanently stuck shut nook window.

Hookers with one foot in the gutter and one on the curb flagged down tricks. The corner rock dealer alertly stood by leaning against the liquor store facing Calumet with a baggy full of product ready for business.

His granite eyes darted constantly in every direction for trouble or a sale. He always had a preplanned route to take for a quick flight from the cops. Sam conjured an image of Prohibition Era crime boss Sam Gianolla stuck at the traffic signal on Calumet and Fourth fifty years ago, relighting his half-smoked Cuban Diplomaticos cigar, impatiently fidgeting in the back seat of his chauffeur driven V-12 armored limousine.

Inside of fifteen minutes, Sam and Doc emptied the fifth and stumbled down stairs.

The neon darkness inside the bar below welcomed them to a simpler world of less. It was an alcoholic toilet.

It smelled of anything drinkable that could possibly grow stale; everything drunk from that remained unwashed; everything that a wet, mildewed mop tucked head up in a corner near the men’s room could soak up; spilled beer, vomit, urine, soured wine. Sam and Doc were regulars, caste in stone drunks--no denying it. The bartender addressed them by first name. He fed them drinks on credit until Sam’s payday or Doc’s Social Security check came in. They drank Jack Daniels shots with tap beer chasers, at times laid a bet on a game of eight-ball and studied the aesthetics of the world floating by the opened bar room door. They closed the place often on Sam’s nights off. Tonight was Sam’s night off.

By the seventh round the old dentist bravely slurred, “What in the fuck are you lookin’ at?” to the tattooed, buff, bullish two-time felon staring at them from across the bar. Sam stood up ready to defend Doc, yet subconsciously weighed what mysteries may lay beyond his own death. The felon stood up and laughed.

“Nothing,” he said grinning. He admired the inebriated hump backed old man‘s courage and recognized the dread in Sam’s owlish worn eyes. Joey was also perceptive enough to spot Sam’s ‘I don’t give a fuck’ ready to die fighting posture. “I’m Joey. Let me buy you both something.”

Joey’s first conviction, after many previous misdemeanors, judicial warnings and probation, was Trafficking in a Controlled Substance--fifteen years. His

second was Assault with a Deadly Weapon--ten. “All I did was pistol whip a guy for beating me out of my money.” Joey said. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt with a pocket for his Pall Malls, scuffed black biker boots and tattered jeans. Joey’s tats were all prison cell ink, including Arian Brotherhood thunderbolts under his upper left arm and a rose-colored serrated knife blade wrapped in grey barbed wire on his upper right bicep. His forehead just above the left brow cast the pinkish silhouette of a 4 inch poorly stitched scar. Joey was 6’ 4” tall and weighed in wet at 250 pounds. His shoulder long hair was streaked grayish white. His thumb length beard was moonless night black. Joey’s friends were friends for life, as were his enemies. Sam did not think a name like Joey fit a man with so threatening a presence. He imagined a handle more brutal, bruising, intimidating, disarming; something Italian like Rocco, or Latino--Marco, maybe Irish--Brogan; not Joey. The three palled up and got drunk while a zoot suit clad combination pimp pool shark behind them practiced his game alone.

Joey turned round on his stool and watched the pro caress the table as authoritatively as he did his whores.

The player caught Joey attentively watching him swiftly manipulate the angle of each shot with nonchalant grace.

The pimp was a master of the game. After some teasing and badgering, Joey accepted the shark’s challenge at five dollars a ball. The con neatly lost all his money. Sam played him with the same result, losing all his rent money. Doc gave it all up too. Between games, while the losers racked the balls, the shark excused himself and sneaked to the can to take a few hit off a rock pipe. After he sunk the last game winning eight ball, the smug shark sauntered up to the bar taunting, “Now, you boys look me up when you want some lessons on the proper way to play eight-ball. I’ll charge you a nominal fee.” He peeled off a bill from a fist-sized wad of twenties for a double gin and tonic.

“That’s our God damned money you’re flaunting,” Joey said. “A friendly sportsman like shot or two from you won’t put too much of a dent in that roll.”

“It’s a hard life.” The shark sneered. “It’s harder if you’re stupid.”

Doc jumped at him first, then Sam got up ready too brawl, confidently walked to the scuffling pair, got Doc off the pimp, slung the player over his shoulder and slammed him hard flat back on the pool table. His head thumped the slate like ice cracks. Sam got hold of the pimp’s lacquered, in-laid Mother of Pearl custom-made cue and threatened to pummel him senseless with the butt end of it. Joey stayed on his stool, ordered another shot and said, “You got him Sam. You got him dude, “almost doubled over with laughter, slapping his knees,

The neon darkness inside the bar below welcomed them to a simpler world of less.

It was an alcoholic toilet.

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chuckling at the violent comedy. Sam took their lost money, the pimp’s bankroll and his pool stick too.

Joey turned to the bartender and said, “Any problems with this?”

“Nope, never did like the son of a bitch anyway-- bad for business,” the shuffling bulldog face old man said.

Now get the fuck out a here.” He yelled to the shark.

“You’re shit canned from this hole for good.” He turned to the heroic threesome for approval and said, “This round goes on me.” They drank free the rest of the night and the bartender got drunk with them.

They closed the bar at 2:00 A.M. Sam tipped the bartender sixty dollars and split the shark’s money evenly with Joey and Doc. Although Joey lost the most, he was too impressed with Sam and Doc’s character to complain; the monetary loss was worth making two rare friends in one day. Sam, Joey, Doc and the bartender wobbled up to Sam’s flat. Doc and the bartender passed out on Sam’s fold out bed. Sam and Joey stayed up, sat down at the kitchen table and gazed out the window.

They peered through the night shadows on Fourth Street. Sam leaned forward, clutching the shark’s cue stick upright between his legs as if it were a phallic growth. Thickening pre dawn traffic maneuvered through the crossing from all directions. The four-way light flashed its colors like cardiac valves sequentially passing the appropriate doses of plasma through each asphalt vein feeding distant extremities of the city their daily dose of life. Joey pointed out the jonesing pool shark they beat floundering across the junction like a lost lamb in a snowstorm anxiously searching for a benevolent dealer who might front him a rock so he could get a grip. “Look at that asshole tripping over himself to get hold of a free rock,” Joey said. Sam snickered and then refocused back from the street to his own reflection in the glass as if reading an incomplete rough draft narration of his directionless life. The paltry kitchen decor behind his glassy eyed face portrayed a blurry portrait of the bleak reality he refused to trade up for. ●

he forgot. He stared at the emptiness until a fuzzy outline of a person appeared. He blinked with a start and it melted back into the murk.

Time slowed to a crawl until light from a passing car stole his gaze. A baseball bat and glove, wrapping and stickers still attached, lay in the corner next to the door.

He was a big boy now, his father had said. In the Spring, his father had said, they would play catch and he'd teach Daniel how to swing a bat like his favorite player, Big Dan Jackson.

Daniel took his blanket and climbed out of bed, letting one foot drop and then the other onto the soft white carpet below. He kept the bunched up blanket around his face, taking in the comforting smells as he crept, tip-toeing towards the dark hallway.

He stood in the doorway listening. A dying nightlight flickered like a candle in the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

The door to his sister's room opened, the slow scratching of wood moving over the woolly carpet filled his ears. He stared wide-eyed as a tall figure quietly left the room, taking care to pull the door shut in silence.

“Dad?” Daniel muffled through his blanket. His father held onto the knob of the door. The night-light licked across his rose colored cheeks and slick temples but his eyes were two dark pits.

His father shivered, remembering how cold the house got at night.

“Can I have some water?”

His father smiled. Daniel stood as his father unplugged the expiring night-light and spent some time in the bathroom. He emerged after a deep exhale. Daniel pressed himself against the wall.

“Let's get you back in bed, Champ.”

His father hugged him tight in the covers. Daniel pulled his blanket close to hide from his father's damp stubble and pungent smell that clung under a soapy exterior. His father kissed him on the cheek and then walked out of the room, creaking steps marking his path, leaving the door ajar.

Daniel fell asleep in the gray snow, listening. ●

• • • • • • Christopher L. Irvin scribbles about the dark and mysterious and dreams of one day writing full-time.

His fiction has been featured twice in the University of Maine at Machias Binnacle Ultra-Short Competition.

He lives with his wife and son in Boston, Massachusetts. www.HouseLeagueFiction.com

Every Other Weekend

by Christopher L. Irvin

D

aniel pulled the comforter from over his head, letting his eyes wander the shadows while he lay rigid, not daring to move even an inch. The soft light of the moon blanketed the small bedroom - his plastic workbench with tools strewn about, his backpack and stuffed rabbit that had fallen off the bed during the night - it looked as if someone had left a window unlatched, inviting the winter to coat every inch of the room in a dusting of cold gray snow. But it was the open door that caught Daniel's attention. So ominous it looked like it lead anywhere but the hallway. He began a muffled cry for a cup of water and then realized he was spending the weekend with his father, the trips becoming so infrequent that sometimes 71

The Rusty Nail, January 2013

by Katherine Givens

Couldn’t Beat Howard he moment had finally come. It had been ten years since I began this expedition and now the crowning achievement of my career was to be realized. I could hardly wait as the pot-bellied Arab hammered at the seal of the tomb.

One crack appeared and then another. The man’s fat hand twisted and turned the chisel, muttering curses under his breath. With one defining whack, he broke the seal. The slab was heaved away.

Air that had not been tainted by the outside for nearly three millenniums slowly seeped out. I pushed aside these men and placed one foot into the tomb. I gagged at the musty air and held a cloth to my mouth.

The Arab who had broken the seal handed me a light.

After thanking him for his dedication, I ventured further into the tomb’s first room. Empty. I studied the walls of the tomb. They were not decorated. There were no other slabs or seals leading to deeper parts of the tomb.

What treachery was this? Where was Akhenaten’s tomb? And what had I stumbled upon?

The Arabians and few English fellows who were brave enough to join my search months ago shouted at my back, curious as to what our team had found. I could not in good conscience turn around and tell these men, my friends, that this search was for naught. But what other choice did I have? I could not deny my failure, for how could I conceal such a lie?

I slowly turned to face their eager faces. Those closest to the entrance scanned the barren room. Their eyes struggled against the weakening flame to see if anything lurked inside. Realization dawned on them once they saw the disappointment in my face. The others still touched by the desert sun had yet to learn the truth.

“There is nothing here,” I shouted.

The pot-bellied Arab, who still stood by the entrance, said in his native language, “Not even another sealed slab? Or a hidden passage?”

I shook my head. One of the Englishman, whom we called Jonathan, asked what the Arab had said. My answer was, “He asked if there were any hidden passages.

As I said, there is nothing. Nothing but four gray walls, a gray ceiling, and a sandy floor.”

“We came all this way for nothing!” Jonathan shouted.

“Keep your voice down. This is disappointing enough,” I said.

“I will not. You promised us a tomb. You promised us Akhenaten’s tomb! And all we found was, well, whatever that is!”

“Jonathan, please.”

“No! You shall not silence me. I left my country home in Derbyshire for this? What a waste!”

A few told Jonathan to keep quiet. He shrugged off their insults and demands.

“I am leaving!” Jonathan shouted, slashing the air in front of him with his hand.

“Alone?” I asked.

“How else? I am certain that you and most of these other fools will continue on a wild goose chase for the next quarter of a century. These devoted puppies of yours can follow you to the ends of the earth, but I am going back to mine in England!” Jonathan whirled around and began to march over to a camel, stumbling every now and again.

Knowing the dangers of the desert, we began to shout after him pleading with him to stay. The Englishmen said that he would miss out on the adventure of the lifetime.

The Arabs said that he would get lost in a sandstorm. I shouted out apologies. Nothing stalled his progress. At least until the earth swallowed him whole.

We all stood in amazement as Jonathan’s form sunk right into the sand. There was no plausible explanation for this phenomena. There was no reason for such a vanishing act. Unless, he stumbled into something.

The Arabs began to shout that it was a deserved punishment sent from Allah himself. The Englishmen shouted in unison, “What the deuces is happening?”

It was not Allah, nor was there a reason to blame the devil. What happened was wholly natural. There was only one explanation for that slight melodrama, and it seemed as if I was the only member of the group to have put two and two together.

As I ran to the spot that Jonathan had disappeared, warnings were thrown at my back. I ignored every one of them. Every Arab and Englishman. Every theory of mysticism and godly intervention.

I neared a hole in the desert sand. Curses and profanity rose from the pit. I approached cautiously, so as to not join Jonathan’s number. Peering in, I saw him sitting on a stony surface. His left hand rubbed his nose. This human reaction caused the halfwit to smear blood all over his face. In all honesty, he deserved a broken nose.

However, that is not what demanded my attention.

Right behind Jonathan’s crumpled figure was a painting.

A painting that covered the entire wall. A painting that was adorned with hieroglyphs and colors. A painting of Akhenaten’s slouched form, rounded belly, and effeminate features sitting on a throne with the hands of Aten’s rays touching his face.

Looking away from the mural on the wall, I hurled an insult at Jonathan, “Serves you right, you bloody halftwit!”

Still clutching his nose, blood dripping through his fingers, he countered with, “I would not be in this damnable mess if it were not for your dull sense of direction!”

“Or your hot-blooded nature!”

Jonathan shrugged, as if he could not deny the comment. His gaze broke from my eyes and scanned his surroundings. He furrowed his brows and asked, “Where the devil am I?”

T

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I sighed and recollected my complacent demeanor.

Taking charge of the situation, as any natural born leader is destined to do, I instructed, “Look around the pit. That is, if it is a pit. However, I believe we might have discovered a tomb. Perhaps you are not as useless as you appear to be.”

Before Jonathan could spit out an insult of equal measure, I turned my attention to the group behind me.

The fat Arab had already guessed my unspoken commands. He waddled over with a rope ladder and a doctor by the name of Hubert scurried after him, carrying bandages and ointments.

The Arab came to my side and lowered the ladder into the hole. Hubert descended into the pit with the agility of a squirrel. In his native tongue, the fat Arab said, “We shall care for the Englishman. The others in the group are too afraid to approach, so they shall remain in the camp. I assume you would like to explore, well, whatever this is.” He motioned towards the entrance of the pit.

“You have assumed correctly. I shall need a candle to test the air. Then, I may use proper lighting if there is nothing dangerous.”

The Arab nodded in agreement. He returned to the camp to fetch all that I had asked for. In the meantime, Jonathan’s protests and yelps of pain rose from the pit.

A deliciously evil smile crossed my lips. Allah and the devil might not have delivered Jonathan into what I suspected was a tomb, but God certainly did use him as an instrument for this discovery.

I crawled down the rope ladder. As the doctor treated Johnathan’s nose, he flashed a look filled with pure disdain in my direction. The temptation to stick out my tongue like a five-year-old boy was very strong, but I had to remind myself that I was the leader of an archaeological expedition. I could not act like a child.

I struck a match and lit a candle to test the air. Confirming my suspicions that the air did not contaminate anything hazardous, I called for proper lighting. The fat Arab gave me as I requested.

I immediately went to the mural I had spotted earlier.

Studying the relaxed pose of the human figures and the hint of realism in the artwork’s objects, I was certain that there was a connection to Akhenaten. After deciphering a few lines of hieroglyphics, I was even more determined to explore every inch of what Johnathan had stumbled into.

Abandoning the mural, I began to scan the other walls. All were decorated with murals of similar technique. A tinge of excitement trickled into my soul.As Johnathan whimpered in the middle of what was a room, not a ditch as I said earlier for the purpose of technicalities, I noticed a pitch black corner. Shining my light on that region of the room, I found the doorway to a passage.

Making my way to the passageway, I thanked my lucky stars. I was certain that I had found Akhenaten’s tomb. A superstitious part of me held my tongue in check. Boasting could lead to a jinx.

The passage was narrow. The walls were decorated with scenes of Pharaoh Akhenaten on his journey through the afterlife. Only fate could tell if his ka, or his soul, made it to the Hall of the Forty Judges. I did not care if his soul made it to an Egyptian afterlife, the mol-

ten depths of hell, or Nirvana. All I wanted was to explore what had taken years of my life to find.

Navigating through winding passages and running into a few dead ends, I quickly came to a few treasure rooms. Various chariots of different sizes and proportions took up much of the spaces. Golden thrones inlaid with lapis luzi, emeralds, ebony, ivory, and numerous other precious gems lined against the walls. Chests exquisitely crafted by dead master artisans were filled with precious treasures. Chairs, beds, and tables made from woods and metals were cluttered about. Here and there laid blue crowns, nemes headdresses, and double crowns. Necklaces and scarabs were scattered about the various treasures. Statues and statuettes of the pharaoh hunting, with his children, and of him sitting watched me as I passed.

I could cry from the beauty these treasure’s possessed. I could cry from joy of my discovery. I could cry just recalling these memories. However, as I walked from room to room, all I could do was contain my excitement. My first objective was to find his mummy.

After pacing about for hours, I finally found what I lusted after. The coffin of Akhenaten. Hieroglyphs were inscribed in the lustrous gold. Once translated, the ancient writing depicted spells, curses, and warnings. Precious stones and metals were inlaid in the coffin. The pharaoh’s likeness showed that of a man with a narrow face, almond eyes, feminine lips, and a long nose.

I slowly approached the coffin, as if I were coming upon the lost Ark of the Covenant. To be perfectly honest, this discovery was even better. I ran my fingers over the likeness of the pharaoh, thinking of how long I had waited for this surreal moment.

After a slight retreat from my daze, I pushed the lid of the coffin with a supernatural strength. Taking the light, I shined it on the inside of the coffin. Empty. No mummy. Not even the trace of a wrapping, scarab, or resin.

My face turned red. My hands twitched. My body quaked. My nerves nearly snapped.

My discovery was ruined! Howard Carter was to laugh in my face, for he had found a completely undisturbed tomb a few years prior. I, on the other hand, was close to bottling perfection but it all blew up in my face because the mummy was not there! The only explanation was that tomb robbers must have stolen the mummy centuries ago. Blast and damnation!

As it would turn out, my discovery was much appreciated by Egyptologists from around the globe. After all, I had found the tomb of the father of Tutankhamun’s father. My only regret was not finding the mummy. I was so close to finding a perfectly preserved tomb, but I had failed. Since I could not boast of the perfect discovery like Howard Carter, his name ended up in the history books. His legend shadowed my success.

As to the mummy of Akhenaten, it has yet to be found. To this day, I sit in my London townhouse puzzling over charts, maps, books, translations, and documents. One day I will find the blasted body. Even in my old age, I will beat the odds and find Akhenaten’s withering corpse! ● • • • 73