Issue 4, June 2012 Editor-in-Chief Craig A. Hart Cover Design Paul Brand
Published by Sweatshoppe Publications 1
The Rusty Nail CONTENTS by Marcus Speh………....Page 32 The Winter Classic Sewer by Joe Bussiere………….…Page 33 The Underground by Kenneth Puddicombe…..Page 34 Room 402 by Janna Vought……………Page 36 Farewell Mon Amie A Writer’s Recipe for Inclusion by Janna Vought……………Page 37 The Birthday Party by Alan W. Jankowski…..…Page 38 Grace and Favour by Roslyn Ross……………..Page 39 Conversation by Robert Graham………....Page 41 Maritime Savior by Alexandra Corinth……...Page 44
Quandary in Chromaticity by Paul Brand………..…..…Page 3 London Eyes Spiritual Green Delight by Amit Parmessur…………Page 4 Who You Were by Janet Sok……..…..…..…Page 5 The Hero Factor by Mike Biggs…………..…..Page 6 Unsupervised in the Supermarket Brown with Blond Highlights by B.J. Jones…………….…Page 8 In Search of Water The Gap by Ann Swann……………...Page 9 Mayday by Andrew Campbell-Kearsey….Page 10 The Florist by Hathaway Flynn……….Page 11 Menace by Jim Meirose…………....Page 12 Artist Feature with Barb Black….……………Page 13 Too Much To Say by Barb Black……………..Page 16 Gypsy The Juxtaposition of a Mending Heart Against a Sadder Time by Barb Black….………....Page 17 Popskull by Eric Boyd…………..….Page 18 The Maple Leaf by Douglas Polk………….Page 22 Boots Prophet by Douglas Polk………….Page 23 Let There Be Light Milk and Tears by Ute Carson…………....Page 23 Parent-Teacher Conferences by Ian Hilgendorf………...Page 24 Bereavement by Michael Groves…..….Page 27 The Scariest Thing by Adrienne Alverio…..…Page 28 On the Porch by Jim Meirose…………..Page 29 Caravaggio-like Love Just Like When Hadrian Wrote Poems by Alessandra Bava……..Page 31 Rimbaud Taught Me That by Alessandra Bava……..Page 32 Five Nightmares
The Rusty Nail Staff Editor-in-Chief Craig A. Hart Associate Editor Dr. Kimberly Nylen Hart Graphic Design Editor Paul Brand Consulting Editor Jacob Nordby
www.rustynailmag.com rustynailmag@gmail.com The Rusty Nail magazine is based in Pocatello, ID.
2
by Paul Brand
Quandary in Chromaticity he bar room in Barfley's Pub was a sea of earth tones. Deep reddish mahogany tabletops varnished to a mirror finish reflected the light from the green-shaded lamps above. The low-burning incandescents washed the ceiling in emerald and the rest in warm amber. As Joey Zetetic allowed his unfocused eyes to sweep the room, he caught flashes of copper and brass from the polished fittings. It was like watching a field on an autumn evening; a blurry one filled with metallic fireflies. Every few seconds, the scene was gilded in silver by the headlights of a car passing on the other side of the big plate-glass window at the pub’s front. “Wow. You look like crap.” Joey looked up. He willed his tired eyes to bend their lenses and provide him with an image he could work with. In a few seconds, he recognized the stocky man standing next to the table. “Walt? Hey, man. What brings you down here?” “Same thing that brought you, I suppose. Beer. Mind if I join you?” Joey stretched out a leg and nudged the chair opposite him out from underneath the table. “Go right ahead. What'll you have? It's on me.” “What's good here?” Walt asked, seating himself. “There a menu around here? What's that in your pitcher?” “Yak Cider. It's just hard cider, but it sure beats the taste of Guinness. Hold on. I'll get you a mug.” Joey crossed the room. As he moved, he cast a whole baseball team's worth of shadows, spread out around him like the blades on the pub's lazily spinning ceiling fans. He watched his own approach in the mirror behind the counter. The bottles, on shelves just in front of the mirror held their own tiny, distorted versions of the room, some deep green, others burnt caramel or raspberry red. He flagged the bartender over and hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the pub's only other customer. The bartender nodded and handed him a clean mug. Walt poured himself some of the pale cider. A pair of passing headlights projected a miniature rippling lake of amber through the pitcher onto the tabletop as he did. “So what's up? That little bit of exercise you got on the walk to the bar didn't seem to do you any good. You still look like crap.” “She left me,” Joey said into his mug. “Who did? Violet? Violet left you? Geez, man, that's rough. Do you mind if I ask why?” Joey sighed. This was always the hardest part. Taking the block of facts from a relationship that seemed to make sense at the time, and trying to grind and chisel away at it until it fit into this new and updated reality. “I dunno. It was so sudden. I guess it was mostly a difference in beliefs.”
T
Continued on Page 5 3
Amit Parmessur: Three Poems London Eyes
Green Delight
Your blue eyes carry cut and repaired stories of torture, in their pristine forms—
On this green, green land in a green, green city dwells a green delight. So green, green, eternal – fertile green and alive!
They have the light to create violent impacts and blind immortal empires, to bring peace in times when jungle birds become mad and shed their feathers.
Like exuberant nature, after the rain, spellbinding every periwinkle.
When I watch your cosmopolitan eyes it is as if the first time I peruse the old expression ‘purely divine’.
O Heavenly magicians, thank you for prettifying, for sanctifying this green doll in that green dress where she has sweetly incarcerated tranquil, melodic patterns of green Ganges.
They are as beautiful as your brave bosom. They have the might to set shy battalions into triumphant motion.
My eyes have long gone on pilgrimage.
Your charismatic, crazy eyes have not been given due credit. They’ve been searching for a London lyricist who can make us all adore them.
On her lips are green hymns too, that may recreate every word— her pious, parted hair may inspire wild, green cascades that fling themselves off green cliffs.
No coldness— surely, not made for lies or boundaries your eyes want to ski on a lover’s skin, speak a worthy language, be kissed and jealously praised.
Her green smile can pierce deadly demons. The space between her fingers— the most honeyed shrine. Wonder whose fingers will fill this green space.
They are as feisty as endless carnivals. They are as pregnant as ancient museums. They are as dramatic as London theatre halls. They are the cloth of my despair, and my safest, wide verandah.
And, her jewels have no value beside the green jewel she is. Her green hourglass figure is timeless.
My heart tries to spend every second, slowly, telling my brain how a woman’s eyes can be the woman herself.
On this green, green land in a green city dwells this green, green Queen, indeed!
Spiritual • • •
If you like me madly you must see the image of my fervent face in invisible mirrors.
Born in January 1983, Amit Parmessur lives in QuatreBornes, in the beautiful island, Mauritius. His poems have appeared in around 100 literary magazines, such as: Ann Arbor Review, The Camel Saloon, Censored Poets, Calliope Nerve, Damazine, Zouch Magazine, Black-Listed Magazine, Red Fez, Poetic Medicine and many others. Nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Prize for his poem Chinese Cicada Slough, he is also published in Swan Morrison’s People of Few Words Volume 1 and selected for Crack the Spine’s ‘best of Winter 2012’. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon.
If you like me madly you must hear my haunting voice in the beautiful songs of mute flowers. If you still like me madly you must feel the reflection of my extinguished presence on grey walls. You must keep me alive, even if I am now so far. 4
was a kid. I can understand that. It took me years to shed my belief, and it wasn't always painless. I mean, I still have the same favorite color I did when I was little, but now I know that I really can't trust it. It kind of hurts sometimes, as you can imagine.” “And she didn't want her kids to be exposed to that kind of uncertainty, huh? Well, man, I'm sorry. But it sounds like she's standing by her old faith, and you gotta respect that.” “No, I don't. But I do.” “What is your favorite color, by the way?” “Red.” Walt tipped his mug back, emptying it. He smacked his lips. “Dang. This stuff really is tasty.” He paused, a mischievous smile lighting his face. “Of course, how could I know for sure that I taste it the same way as you?” “Exactly,” Joey said.
Walt swallowed a mouthful of Yak Cider. “Whoa. You're right. This is good stuff. So what beliefs didn't you two share? I mean, what would be serious enough to split you up? It seemed like, you know, a pretty solid relationship.” “I don't believe in color,” Joey said. Walt put his mug down and frowned. “What?” “It's not that I don't respect people who do believe in color. It's just that I can't make myself go in for the whole thing.” Walt glanced around the room. Green lampshades. Red curtains. Blue neon signs. Brown wood, brass rails and chrome taps. The Rockola® jukebox in the corner was a garish monument to the screamingly obvious existence of color. “I'm not quite sure I understand, Joey. You're not color-blind, are you? What color is my shirt?” Walt was wearing a dark blue button-down with fine white vertical stripes. “I'm not color-blind. At least not that I know of. Which is kind of the whole impetus behind my lack of faith. How could anyone tell? As long as I can distinguish between different wavelengths of reflected light, and learned the words for them, then nobody could. And your shirt is mostly blue. Or at least that's the wavelength I was taught to call blue.” Walt clapped his hands and leaned back in his chair. “That's it then! You can see in color, so color exists. End of story.” “Not quite. There is absolutely no way to tell that the way I see blue is the same as the way you see it. We may both be able to tag a specific wavelength with the word 'blue,' but the picture in my mind may be different from yours. Unless someone figures out a way to let me see through your eyes with your brain, it's impossible to tell for sure. Until then, it's all just hearsay. It also might explain why some people find certain paintings or patterns attractive, and some don't, now that I think about it.” “So that's it? Just because you can't prove that my blue is the same as your blue, you're going to give up on color completely?” Joey brought his mug of Yak Cider to his lips, and held it there. He smiled over the rim at Walt. “Well, I'm more what you might call 'color agnostic'. I can’t prove it doesn’t exist any more than you can prove it does. It's not that I think its existence is impossible, but I do think that it is at least a little unlikely. And it doesn’t really matter either way. I still enjoy what I think of as 'blue' as much as I ever did.” Walt poured himself another mug of cider. “Did you want the rest? There's about half a mug in here.” “Thanks.” “That's why Violet left you? Because you had this crazy view on color? That can't be it, man. She put up with your weirdness for this long without breaking a sweat. Why would something like that push her over the edge?” Joey added the last of the cider to his mug and set the pitcher down. A little bit of foam clung to its sides and bottom. On each of the tiny bubbles' surfaces was an upside-down, hypertensive replica of the pub's bar room, overlaid with a shifting cloak of rainbow. “Kids, mostly. She didn't want her kids raised without faith in color. She said that she wanted them to know of green and orange and red and blue, like she was taught when she
• • •
Who You Were by Janet Sok All the promises, all the hope all the love and all the memories, all my expectations, all my desires, everything put together that made you, Desire pulled me into your warm arms. I was blinded and a fool, but I couldn’t resist. So I reached in to touch you, but instead I swiped at air, all the memories beginning to dissolve. Fear took place, dispersing through my body, all the desires and expectations gradually fading, then Reality took a turn and healed my eyes. Recovery of my eyes then allowed me to see, that all the promises, and all the hope, all the love and all the memories, all my expectations and my desires, just turned out to be that, you were just a mere figment of my imagination.
5
by Mike Biggs
The Hero Factor I was riding Marta (Atlanta’s rail system), and I was sitting next to a middle-aged black woman. She wore a plain outfit with her hair pulled back and she had a bad case of acne. She wore glasses, she had large ears, and I was almost certain she had not won any beauty contests growing up as a child. I’m not judging her. I’m just stating logical facts. She was turned slightly away from me so that she could pretend that she was actually paying attention to the world just outside of the glass window. Her face lacked expression and her shoulders sagged, causing her purse strap to fall down by her elbow. I was unable to completely see her face, but I could make out enough of her expression to know that, emotionally, she was hurting. She didn’t weep, or make any sobbing noises, but I could almost hear a soft whimper in her breath. Although her gaze remained emotionless, she had a look on her face as if she was getting ready to speak, yet she would never utter a word. As the train began to slow and my stop quickly approached, I realizing I was getting ready to speak to this woman. At the ripe age of 27, I had never done anything like this before and my heart rate accelerated as the train began to slow. I was getting ready to speak to a stranger and I had no idea what words my mouth would form, I just knew I had to say something. I turned to the woman, put my hand softly on her arm and said, “You have an inner beauty inside of you that not even you are aware of.” I stood up and began to slowly back towards the door when I saw one single tear roll down her cheek. I turned and quickly stepped out of the closing doors, never again to see her face. I don’t know why I said what I did that day, but I know if I was ‘normal’, I probably would have never even thought to pay attention to what she was doing. Because of my anxiety, I am always extra cognizant of my surroundings. The smallest encounter could have triggered an anxiety attack. If I saw someone get their feelings hurt, or somebody that was sad, or crying, I always longed to reach out and help them. I wanted to soothe their pain. I wanted to fix what was wrong with them. It made me feel better. Focusing on someone else’s pain, allowed me to forget about mine. Even if only for a moment. That is why all my girlfriends were fucked up head cases (no offense, Sheena), but it’s true. It allowed me to focus on them, instead of me. I don’t know whatever became of that woman on the train, but I’d like to think that I did some good in her life. Even if only for a moment. Going through life with a heightened sensitivity level isn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world. As you can see, my powers could be used for good. Years later, as my anxiety, depression, and addiction to Xanax worsened, so did my level of self-esteem. Unfortunately, I used my knowledge of others’ emotional state to my advantage. At that point in my life I was numb. There’s no such thing as a con artist with a conscience.
eing diagnosed with depression, anxiety, or bipolar is both a gift and a curse. The obvious downside to having any one of these ‘disorders’ is the obvious: The highs and the lows. The nerves. The sensitivity. The inability to cope. The inability to breathe. The inability to function. I’m not enlightening the medical field with these words because all of these ‘symptoms’ can be found on WebMD. The side effects that you cannot find on WebMD are the ones that cause you to be unique from the rest of the world. Nobody’s giving seminars right now on how to embrace your super-sensitive side. I don’t see Tony Robbins catering to manic depressants to show them how their powers can be used for good, and not evil (well, at least not yet). But there are good things that can come out of these ‘stigmatas’. The universe gives us these uncanny gifts, yet most of us are scared to tap into them. I’ve discovered several personality traits and quirks that I have that I know make me exceptionally unique. My personal favorite: I call it ‘The Hero Factor’. We’ve all heard or read accounts where a random person jumps into a river and saves a drowning child, or how someone was pulled from the wreckage of a car, or maybe how they even pulled another individual from a burning building. In order to complete one of these random acts of kindness, you must have a certain recklessness about you. You have to be able to abandon care of self, and think of nothing but another individual and their well-being. Easy, right? Shiiiiiiit. Not everybody can do that. Not everybody knows how they’re going to react when put in this situation, because, let’s face it, not all of us have been there. Many people are saying, “OH yeah, I’d definitely try to save this person”, or “....I’d do that to be the hero”, but I don’t think people know exactly what is involved with this process. I do. I have ‘The Hero Factor’. I can’t determine if we’re born with it or not. My research on that data is still inconclusive. However, I do know that you must have certain characteristics in order to have ‘The Hero Factor’. For starters, you must have reckless abandon. You have to be able to stop caring about your own well-being, if only for a few seconds. I think I got that one covered. Anybody who has attempted suicide twice clearly has the ability to put aside his own safety concerns. Reckless abandonment? Check. Secondly, you have to ‘Care’ enough. If you’re selfcentered, insensitive, or shallow you probably don’t qualify. Sorry. We have lovely parting gifts for you once you get to Hell. I’m kidding. Seriously...that was a joke. Nobody’s going to hell. Relax. But you do have to Care. You must feel empathy and compassion (and not just at the moment that the heroic act presents itself). I’ll give you an example of my empathy, and how I’ve tried to change the world (one person at a time).
B
6
the steps. I kept my back to wall and my head down as we slowly ascended the steps and crept inside the attic door. The heat was absolutely blinding. I kept my hand on the back of the old man in front of me because visibility was next to nothing. Blankets of smoke poured past me as we crept in the room. As I peered above, I could only make out orange translucent waves that were rolling across the ceiling. As odd as this may sound, the fire was beautiful. Its heat and ferocity kept me hovering in a low crouch, but I couldn’t help but stop to admire the orange and red artwork that flowed across the ceiling. I kept my shirt over my eyes and mouth and could barely get out the words, “Maria” when I heard a man yelling from the bottom of the steps. The old Spanish man pulled at my shirt and we both quickly made our way back down the flight of steps. I began coughing incessantly as I heard the word, “Maria” repeated several times except this time the concerned ‘pitch’ of their tone was gone. I could only assume Maria had been found as we made our way back to ground level. I ran out of the front door, jumped the four front steps, and landed safely on the sidewalk. A crowd had begun to gather outside the house as I made my way back across the street to my humble abode. I heard a loud crashing noise as I turned around and saw the 3rd floor air conditioner crash a few feet from where I made my safe landing, only a few moments ago.
My greatest act of heroism was performed while I was living in Trenton, New Jersey. It was about two a.m. and I was sitting on my front stoop, smoking a blunt (cigar filled with marijuana), and talking to a neighborhood girl (that I would later marry). It was the middle of summer and my front door was slightly ajar and I could hear my roommate and a few friends playing Madden, on PlayStation, in the Living Room. I heard a scream. I looked across the street and I saw flames shooting out of the third floor of the rowhouse that was directly across from us. I turned and sprinted inside the Living Room and yelled, “Call 9-1-1, the neighbor’s house is on fire!” I then turned and immediately sprinted down our front hallway and jumped off our front stoop, skipping all four steps. I sprinted past my future wife, across the street, and with one last leap, I was inside the front door of the burning home. Before I go any further, let me give you a little background of where I lived in Trenton, New Jersey. I was one block off Stuyvesant Avenue. For any of you that have ever lived in the inner city or ghetto, you know that every ‘hood’ has a Stuyvesant Avenue. So if your home residence was only a stones throw away from Stuyvesant Avenue, well that pretty much meant you lived in the hood too. The actual street I lived on was East Hanover. All of the houses were rowhomes, and if you were lucky, your tiny little backyard didn’t have any crackheads living in it. I wasn’t that fortunate (to make matters worse, my backyard crackhead had the same name as me.) I had only lived there for a few weeks, and I was the only ‘white boy’ on the street. The rest of the community was made up of either Latino or black people. As I burst through the front door, I was greeted by three Spanish women in their pajamas running down the stairs, with children in tow. I had no idea how many people were living in the house, but just based on my observation the last few weeks, I knew it was a lot. Doors started opening and people were pouring out of every room. Children were running past me with looks of fear and confusion on their faces. I ascended the steps to the second floor and I could feel the heat pouring down the flight of steps leading to the third floor. There were several Latino men running frantically from door to door and, although I could barely understand a word that passed their lips, I began to hear a common chant, “Maria.” It began as a faint yelling outside of the house, but now the two Spanish men on the 2nd floor began to yell the girl’s name, “Maria! Maria!” Feeling helpless, I joined in the chant yelling the girl’s name, as I closed and opened doors, hoping to find the lost tot. As I stopped and came face to face with the eldest of the two men still performing the room to room search, the only word I could utter was, “Donde? Donde?” Where? Where was Maria? “No Se. No Se,” was his only response. I knew he didn’t know where the girl was, but my limited Spanish vocabulary didn’t grant me the luxury of proper questioning. “Mira, Mira” he yelled as he pointed up the smoky staircase leading to the fiery death trap. As I ran to his side, I knew what he was about to do. I looked up at the ceiling and saw a thin film of smoke beginning to form in the second floor hallway. The staircase was illuminated orange and yellow from the billowing flames that were causing severe structural damage only a few feet above. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as to say, “Fuck it” and he quickly started up
As I let out a few final coughs, trying to clear my lungs, I walked back to where my roommate and friends had gathered. My roommate approached me with wide eyes and mouth agape, and blurted out, “What the fuck was that, son?” That, my good man, was the Hero Factor. From that day forward, I was known on my block as ‘Loco Gringo’. Crazy white boy. The same people that, only days prior, would not even speak, were now waving, saying hello, and asking me how my day was. I lived on that block for almost a year, and was given nothing but the utmost love and respect from everyone on the street. I loved Hanover Street. Please know that my words are not an attempt to coerce anyone to don a cape and mask so they can patrol the streets nightly in an attempt to thwart crime. If you’re old enough to read this and you don’t have ‘The Hero Factor’ yet, then maybe you just don’t have it. It’s not something that can be learned or taught, it’s instinctual. But if you don’t have it, then what do you have? If not ‘The Hero Factor’, then what is your gift(s)? If you suffer from anxiety, depression, or bipolar, then you have that something extra, somewhere. It’s the balance of nature. It’s the yin and the yang. You suffer in one aspect of your life, so you’ll have the ability to excel in another. It’s why most all extremely beautiful people are dumb as shit. It’s why autistic people can count their asses off. It’s just how nature works. Stop looking at the depression or anxiety as an illness, and count it as a blessing. Start embracing it by finding out what it is that you excel at. Get more in touch with You and find out what gift(s) you have. I’m still learning mine, and I just added superhuman-writing-ability to my list. What’d you add to yours?
• • • 7
two poems by
B.J. JONES on the floor between my swinging feet.
Unsupervised in the Supermarket Mother is checking her grocery list. I don't think the green grape I pluck is stealing but mom yells, “No! Go read magazines.”
A five dollar bill folded in half, but on the other side of Lincoln is Jesus, along with the plan of salvation. Not monetary but counterfeit Christianity.
Pop stars, athletes, fishers, and Oprah are lined up like new born babies in a maternity ward viewing window, glossy and new but never taken home.
I want to crumble and flush this ambushed evangelism, but instead should I pass this buck to the Smocked One?
At the top, almost naked women beam and pose protectively through clear, plastic wrappers. Nothing pornographic or artistic, just men's interest.
What if he reads the sacred side and the subterfuge actually succeeds? Should I save the sweeper? Nah. Let him go to hell.
I need to climb the metal shelves tier by tier like Jacob's ladder to heaven to feel the crackling, cellophanecovered forbidden fruit.
Brown with Blond Highlights
A cleared throat halts my hand like Abraham's before he plunged his blade in Isaac. A smocked, smirking associate with a broom sweeps at the floor.
Grow me out! Don't shave me away. Let that stubble sprout. Concealing moles, wrinkles and dimples, the cartography of your face.
I climb down and find the cereal aisle. This is for kids. Silly rabbits and scarfed tigers wide eyed with thumbs up assure me that they are balanced for my breakfast.
Grow me out! Long and scraggly like Walk Whitman. Bruised and sweaty like a Stanley Cup champion. Dusty and multi-directional like Hussein in bunker.
A red, blinking, coupon dispenser looks like it's sticking its tongue out at me. I grab a coupon to silence it, but another tongue buzzes into existence. That throat clears again. The Associate with broom has tracked me down like a discount-slicing Spanish Inquisition. My heresy being a handful of martyred coupons.
If you shave me, I'll be a diaspora camped around the sink's rim, trenched in hand soap, barricaded in toothbrush bristles, parachuted into chest hairs, and infiltration of your wife's open lipstick.
“Where is your mom?” He speaks while sweeps. “Up your butt and around the corner,” I sneer. “What!” His broom falls like a scepter. “Chicken Butt!”I yell with a raised fist.
When the hairs on your head thin and clump away, I'll still be framing your face and able to tangle any trimmer.
I drop the paper martyrs and run into a hall with bathrooms. Water fountains separate the genders like a wet neutral zone between urinals and tampon dispensers. Secreted on a toilet seat, I spy something green 8
Flash Fiction Five “I think he was looking for something.” My voice was weak. “Do you think he found it?” I wanted to say yes, but I had to be honest. “Guess not.” In my little cozy bed, I pulled the crazy quilt up to my chin and thought back to the day when he had appeared out of the blue to take me for a walk. Although the public pool was closed, we snuck over the fence, laughing, and sat on the low diving board to talk. It seemed we talked about everything; about nothing; about the last ten years and where he’d been. Then, without warning, he climbed up the narrow ladder to the high board and stood swaying bravely in the September breeze. “Fall is coming,” he said. And a dozen stray leaves took their cue and rattled forlornly in the depths of the bone-dry pool. Pulling the quilt up tighter, I tried to pretend it was still night; but a stiff autumn breeze had blown up outside and our old maple was casting its leaves about like soiled confetti. And the good southern light streaming through my window painted the shape of the tree all across my little bed, covering me head to toe in a shadow-blanket of parched, fall leaves.
In Search of Water by Ann Swann Mama was rubbing a hole in my back, waiting for me to say something because she had just woke me up to tell me my father was dead. I didn’t know what to say. I was thinking it was still summer. At last I said, “I don’t feel so good, maybe a drink of water.” In the kitchen, she watched silently as Hack, my stepfather, wrapped his calloused palm around the back of my neck and squeezed gently. Without a word I leaned into him, letting him hold me up; he smelled of eggs fried in real butter. Must’ve made his own breakfast, I thought. And then the smell overwhelmed me and I stumbled toward the ice box, my stomach clenched into a hard slick fist. By the time I was through drinking, Hack was gone, lunch pail under his arm. He never was one to make a scene. Pushing the water jug back onto the shelf, I wiped the cold dribbles off my chin and turned around. Mama sat at the kitchen table working her hands together in her lap. She seemed to be shelling invisible black-eyed peas. “The funeral is tomorrow,” she said. “You can wear your navy slacks but you’ll have to have a new jacket….” I sat down on the floor with my back against the cool, varnished cabinet, trying to remember how he looked. Mama once said he looked like me. Or I, like him. “Will I go to school today?” Mama shook her head. “Not for a few days, if you want.” She paused. “I hate for you to miss your first week of junior high--” “Is it okay if I go back to bed for awhile?” Her hands stopped shelling. “Of course, but don’t you want a little something to eat first?” I shrugged. “Maybe later.” I started to my room but turned back. “How come he died? I mean, he was okay the other day.” She looked me square in the eye then quickly ducked her head. I saw tears trapped in her eyelashes. “He was found … I mean they found him … in his car.” “Where?” This time she didn’t look at me, just swiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “In his garage.” I nodded. I wanted to go on to my room; instead, I said: “Why do you think he came back? After all these years, I mean?” “Honey,” she said. “I never even knew why he left.” She put her arm around me and would have said more, but I had to tell her what I thought.
This story won first place in The Sandstorm contest, 1993
• • •
The Gap by Ann Swann Though it isn’t bedtime, she closes the front door and turns the knob to engage the bolt. She isn’t afraid; she only wants to shut out the metallic hissing of summer rain. It sounds too much like someone sliding rough hands across smooth silk … or maybe satin. Flipping off the switch, she plunges the room into a darkness that should be complete. She glances around, looking for the source of light. A thin yellow splinter falls slantwise across the blank square of the doormat. It falls from a minute gap between the lock and the solid wood of the doorframe. She places her forefinger over the gap and the darkness is complete. When she takes her finger away, the lock glows. I could turn off the porch light, she thinks; fill the gap with darkness from outside. But instead, she tears a corner from 9
the calendar beside the door and folds the paper into a rectangle to fit the gap. Now July has only thirty days. She takes a bottle of his beer from the six-pack in the refrigerator. Hopefully, it will help to fill the gap that used to be filled by sleep. Now there is an empty slot in the cardboard six-pack. She pours the beer into a glass and puts the empty bottle back into its slot. When she closes the refrigerator door, she leans down to examine the rubber seal. In places, it looks cracked, but since no cold air is escaping, she has to assume it is tight. She wishes she could make the light stay on; it would be good to be sure. She carries the beer into the bedroom. Dead air is trapped between the double panes of the windows. There are slender toothpick spaces around the drawers of the antique dresser. And he left a huge two-inch gap at the bottom of the closet when he hung the new pocket door. Afterward, they both laughed when he admitted he just wasn’t a carpenter. Inside the closet, there is an empty hanger where his good suit should have been. She stares at the empty space, drinking his beer, wishing she had bought him a new suit. But perhaps it isn’t too late; tomorrow she will fill the gap with a brand new suit identical to the old one. Tonight, she will just have to do the best that she can. Squeezing herself into the narrowness of his closet, she slides the door shut with her foot. But she has forgotten about the bedroom light, and all night long, it illuminates the gap.
• • •
Mayday by Andrew Campbell-Kearsey
pressed but geography was never my strong subject. There are thousands of us. We swarm together and create a mist of insects. We adapt to our new wings. Some of the males are such show-offs. Anything to impress the ladies. It’s early in the morning. If I remember my teaching notes, then I have twenty hours remaining. I’d better make them count. I’m not bitter. I’d read several pamphlets on the Wheel of Life. I understand the need to submit to the greater will. I won’t lie to you. I’d hoped to come back as something with a slightly longer lifespan. But I must accept the hand I’ve been dealt. My new body takes a bit of adjustment. Seven pairs of gills on my abdomen take care of the breathing. I’m not quite sure of the point of these back legs. They don’t work. Maybe they’re for decoration. But who am I to question the Creator? My membranous wings are very pretty. I’m very proud of them and love how the light catches them. Pride was severely frowned upon in my former life. I wonder if I’m allowed to feel it here? Have the rules changed? I’m probably the only one who knows what our species is called. There are over 2,500 types. Sure, they all think of themselves as mayflies. But I know we come from the palingeniidae family. Life as a nymph was OK. But now as a fully formed adult mayfly I have a mission. My primary function is reproduction. Having two penises may take a while to get used to. I think that my one day on Earth as a fully-fledged mayfly would have been a disaster if it had been raining. Fortunately, it’s looking promising. Not a cloud in the sky. It’s quite a sobering thought to be so far down the food chain. I have natural predators from above and below. Birds may swoop down and fish may jump up at any time. We must remain vigilant. I’ve always been a loner. The others dance around in large groups and land on any available surface. I see tens of them, maybe hundreds, picked off as they fly too close to the water’s surface. That’s greedy catfish for you. I’m content to sit on this reed and marvel at my eyes. A miracle of nature or evolution; whatever you choose to believe. Each eye contains thousands of individual photoreceptor units. I wish I had somebody to share this information with. They’re all too busy. I believe it’s called checking out the talent.
Why did I listen to her? ‘Come along for a few meetings and see what you think.’ So I sat with her. I was attracted to the calm. Before I knew it I was signing up for a retreat. It was the stillness and silence that I loved. Before I knew it, I was a card-carrying Buddhist. I wasn’t one of the showy ones. No saffron robes or shaved head for me. My belief system remained private. I taught biology at the local secondary school, not theology. Then the accident happened and I ended up here.
It’s noon already. Many of my fellow mayflies have coupled off. I don’t want to sound perverted but it’s quite beautiful to observe. The balletic way the males grasp the females with their powerful front legs is impressive in itself. They then manage mid-air mating. To think that as a child I had trouble with climbing a rope.
• • •
• • •
Throughout my devotions and meditations, I’d learned about the Stream of Consciousness. I never expected it to be literal. I’ve spent almost an entire year underwater. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. It hasn’t been dull. I’ve grown. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve outgrown my exoskeleton . I’ve been surviving on decaying vegetation. I couldn’t quite face the thought of algae. The sight of my brothers and sisters bottom-feeding on sediment turned my stomach. But each to his own. I’m not one to judge. Today’s the day. As I emerge above the surface, I take in my new surroundings. I’d say North America if I were
By judging the sun’s position in the sky I would hazard a guess as suggesting it’s about three o’clock in the afternoon. Many of our number have fallen. Sexually sated, many were caught off guard. Some simply passed away and returned to the slow-moving water. I haven’t got long now. There is moisture in the air. I’ll take shelter under that tree. That’s better. I’m resting on the most fabulous bloom. Its fragrance is overpowering. It’s like mayfly marijuana. I feel positively light-headed. I’ll probably get the munchies soon. Who’s this? I’m joined by a possible mate. She may not be the most attractive of the bunch. Her antennae are of unequal
• • •
10
lengths, but it’s what’s on the inside that counts. She seems content to let me talk. I explain to her about subimagos. I don’t think she comprehends fully. I’m not sure how to make the first move. I’ve always been rather shy. She compliments me on my thorax. I’ll spare you the details, but it was extremely fulfilling for me. I think she enjoyed it too. We sit in companionable silence. It’s like the retreats used to be. No need to say anything. So, perhaps I haven’t met my soulmate. Her conversation is limited but we have a connection. I hear a twig snap. I sense movement nearby. I fly to a high up branch. It’s too late for her. The last image of my lover is seeing her carried away in a glass jar. I hope there are plenty of holes in the lid. She has been collected by a child. Probably for a nature project. I doubt whether our eggs will be allowed to hatch. I won’t be a father. Not in this life anyway.
• • •
Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net
The Florist by Hathaway Flynn People always gossiped about Agnes when they thought she wasn’t listening. Especially in her last years, when they assumed she was mostly deaf. That assumption was, of course, about as accurate as most assumptions people make about the elderly, the frail, and the shy. Agnes was a bit of each, mostly leaning toward the ‘elderly’ side, of course. That was, by the point I met her, a very literal leaning process as her bones had curved and bent with the shifting of the years. Truth is, I didn’t want to work with her at all. I was sixteen then, and I made quite a spectacle of myself when my parents told me it was time to put down the damned cell phone, get my ass off Twitter and start pulling my weight at the Shop. Of course, being that my hair was blue and my face pierced in several places, I was used to waxing dramatic.
My family had owned the flower shop for three generations. I think that Agnes was there when it opened. I thought she’d be there the day my parents finally retired and it closed. God knows I never planned to take over the place and keep it going. I had too many other ideas. Art, love, traveling. The art of love and traveling. For all my Manga/Goth ways I’d secretly read a lot of romantic things over the years, and I wanted to understand what those people felt. I wanted to experience the yearning Keats nursed for Fanny Brawne. I wanted to ache like Tennyson and write like Emerson. I wanted to live, and I was convinced at that young age that there was nothing in the world that this hunchback little hobbit stripping away stem after stem of rose thorns could teach me. Well, except maybe how to clean one without cutting my bloody fingers off. I also assumed that since it was Valentine’s Day, she had no children and (from what I had heard) had never married that she was going to come in to the shop on my first day bitter, and spiteful, and hating the sight of every damned flower she had to arrange. I found instead that when I finally dragged myself in the back door, looking only barely like I’d saved the cat the trouble, she was humming. No, that’s wrong. She was singing to herself, and the song I thought I recognized. It was one of those that a young singer had covered with an ancient singer and the duet between the two of them felt really disgusting. But other people seemed to like it. She drifted to another place entirely as she packed rose after long-stemmed rose into tall green glass vases, bundled Baby’s Breath and greenery along with them when requested. She taught me how to handle floral foam and reminded me gently to use good penmanship on the cards to go with them even though I observed aloud that I thought that not writing out a card yourself on Valentine’s Day took away any meaning that the stupid Hallmark holiday could have, anyway. She said something then that I didn’t expect. “I agree with you, Jaden.” In that moment I cursed my parents again for falling victim to the popular name trap of my time, but I was too intrigued by what she’d said to really care. “What do you mean?” “I agree that letters and cards and all that should be handwritten, where romance is concerned. It takes much more thought to sit down and do that then call up a shop and have someone like us do it for them.” “What about email then?” She snorted. “You can type the words into a machine and send them, I guess, as long as you’re the one doing it. It’s the writing of the thing that matters, not the medium.” She fell silent, began stripping the roses piled high on the table before us with increasing speed. It wasn’t until she had finished arranging the lot, and I began sweeping up the detritus with a broom all around her, that she spoke again. “Who is your Valentine?” My face reddened, immediately, creating I was certain a spectacular sunset effect when contrasted against the ocean that was my hair. I never blushed, but she had really caught me off guard, not just with the question, but by the sudden breach of established, polite silence.
11
“I’m not allowed to have one. At least not the one I want. Or so my parents say.” “Oh.” She bit her shriveled lower lip and held it there, between artificially perfect upper and lower plates. She obviously didn’t seem to want to pry but appeared genuinely concerned. “Wrong side of the tracks?” “Wrong set of reproductive organs.” She set down the roll of ribbon and the shears in her hands and hobbled toward me. She snatched the broom from my hand, set it aside, and took both of my hands in hers. Her eyes were remarkably blue, and twinkled now as she smiled at me with tears like starlight shining in them. “Honey, don’t you let anybody tell you that you can’t love someone like that. You know why I have such strong opinions about letters and Valentine’s Day?” I shook my head, defying the tears burning my eyes not to fall. “Because I had a Valentine once. I wasn’t supposed to love Billy either, but I tell you that I did, with all my heart. Billy wrote me many letters. Even though we couldn’t be together, and it’s been years now since Billy died and any new letters came. Doesn’t matter. Billy and I loved each other and that was worth it all.” She returned to the refrigerator and brought out another armload of roses as I pondered her words. “Billy must have been a hell of a guy,” I muttered, as I began to help her now, in earnest. “Who said Billy was a guy?” Hathaway Flynn is forty years of age, servant to one small domestic American shorthair, and hopes that by the time birthday forty-two rolls around that the answer to the great question of Life, the Universe, and Everything will make itself known.
Our van is acting up—want to come look at it? says the other one. No— Maybe you’ve got a few dollars for gas—it might just be out of gas—want to take a look? No— Yeah maybe you’ve got a few dollars? Come on to the van. Look it over— He’s at the door to the gas station office. He looks over. The van’s off at the edge, in the shadows. The van’s got Florida plates—he’s in New Jersey. The van is dented and filthy. It’s two a.m. A moonless night. Come on help us get it started— Yeah—me and my buddy—come on help us get it started— No. I don’t have time. I got to leave. Why what’s the matter. You don’t want to help us out— Yeah what’s the matter— We’re working men just like you— Yes like you— Their voices turn surly and slow. I don’t have time, he says. I need to leave. He hurries to his car. He drives away. In his rear view mirror he sees one of the men head into the gas station office. The other one just glares at him driving away. Thank God he doesn’t work in the gas station office. He drives back to work. It’s his first job. In the great mile-long warehouse in New Jersey, vacuuming. Towering piles of huge paper rolls stacked all around. Little rooms to hide in, in the piles of paper. He takes breaks in there. He hides in there, every night. Until daybreak comes.
• • •
• • •
Menace by Jim Meirose It’s his first job on the graveyard shift. In the great mile-long warehouse in New Jersey, vacuuming. Towering piles of huge paper rolls stacked all around. Little rooms to hide in, in the piles of paper. He takes breaks in there. He hides in there, every night. The corrugated roof. The steel trusses. The gasoline powered vacuum cleaner putters to silence. Need to go get gas for the vacuum cleaner. Drive to a station on Rte 130 at two a.m. He gets the gas, he pays, the attendant goes in the office and closes the door. Two men shuffle out of the darkness surrounding him. Scrawny scraggly looking dirty men with half-closed eyes. You must know a lot about cars, says the tall one.
12
A VOICE VOICE FOR YOUR
An Exclusive Interview with Artist Barb Black
When did you begin writing/painting?
Why do you write/paint?
I have been writing since I first discovered words. I can remember being fascinated as a very young child at the way words work together and the way they can be strung together. I have a distinct memory from my pre-alphabet days of me sitting at the kitchen table and "writing" a letter to my Grandmother. I knew what I was trying to say, but I'm reasonably certain it didn't translate well.
The simplest answer is, "I need to." Back in the olden days buildings were often heated with boilers. The boiler would heat water and the warm steam would be distributed for heat. Those boilers came with pressure release valves that would let of steam if there was too much of a build up. However, sometimes the release valves wouldn't work, so the boiler had to be dumped. Art and writing are my ways of dumping the boiler on what I call my "soul gunk." Besides that, it's just plain fun.
While I've always been creative, I didn't actually start painting until about three years ago. I simply felt a profound need to slap some paint at a canvas and see what happened. Much to my surprise and delight, I found the missing puzzle piece to my need for self-expression.
Is there a main theme in your work? Kind of, but not intentionally. I certainly recognize that I have a certain style when it comes to writing or artwork. Given that those forms of expression are intensely personal, it's difficult not to have a somewhat unique voice.
What does the word “art� mean to you? There's an anonymous saying, "Without art we are but monkeys with car keys." That really speaks to me (and I apologize to monkeys everywhere - no offense intended). Defining art is a ridiculous pursuit because it is so subjective. I'm always amused when people try to interpret my work because all too often, even I don't know what it means. So all I can speak to is what art does, not what it means. What art does, whether we're making it or standing back and surveying it, is evoke an emotional response of some kind, of any kind. It is simultaneously an outlet and an inlet into that deep part of ourselves that so often defies expression.
When writing, whether it's fiction, poetry, or a simple "think about this" blog post, I tend toward pointing out the light that causes the shadows. Having been through some terribly rough spots in my own life, I like to let people know that it's okay to feel your life. It's okay to experience everything. Writing is a fabulous way of sorting those feelings and experiences. My art, on the other hand, tends toward a collaged look. I like pieces, whether my own work or that of others, that make 13
Destination Elsewhere by Barb Black me think and then think again. I like art that takes me down different paths and leave me with several varied destinations.
It’s kind of funny, the first time a friend approached me about buying some of my cards, my reaction was, “Really? You want to pay me for having fun?!” Ultimately, it’s for personal enjoyment. I’ve arrived at a point in my life where I don’t see beating myself up to do something unless there’s some level of passion involved. With that in mind, it is my goal to turn my art and/or my writing into a steady, reliable income.
Does inspiration come easily to you and, if not, how to you summon the muse? I would say that about 90% of the time inspiration comes easily. Part of that is just the way my mind sees things, a sense of aesthetic. As a kid I read all the time and I know that really helped develop my imagination. To this day, it isn't a very big leap for me to go from reality to pretense. Once there, things just seem to unfold by themselves.
Do you think anyone can write/paint? In other words, is it a natural thing or can it be learned? I think the people who are really good at their craft are people who have some kind of natural talent and who have given credence to that talent. I say that because for many years I didn’t allow myself to be an artist because I didn’t think I had it in me. I would go to the craft store and look longingly at paints and brushes, and then walk away without buying anything because I was certain that it was just a goofy dream I had. It wasn’t until I allowed that artistic side of me that things really took off in terms of living a creative life.
When I do need to summon my muse, I usually just have to close my eyes. I envision a word or a phrase (if I'm writing), or a certain color (if I'm painting). Sometimes when I need a boost to write I read the dictionary and wait for a word to jump out at me. Sometimes when I need to paint I just load the palette with paint and start dabbing. The trick is to not panic or get frustrated, because that sends everything into lock-down mode. If I start feeling that way, I find something else to do that will take me outside myself for a while.
That being said, I do think that anyone can learn to write or paint at least to the degree that it will give them some personal satisfaction. And that’s what it’s really about - it doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to feel good. It saddens me that so many people won’t even try for fear of failure or
What is your overall goal in regards to your art? Is it simple for personal enjoyment or is there something larger at work? 14
that they set their expectations too high. It takes time to learn immobility. I sometimes jokingly refer to my studio as The anything and learn it well. I look back at some of my older Rabbit Hole because it’s so easy for me to get lost in it. work and I laugh and wonder what I was thinking. But the important thing is that I tried, that I managed to release some How would you describe your writing style? of that soul gunk. That’s a tough one. Lyrical, I think. It has a certain meter to When I was in high school, my piano teacher - a very forthright it, a cadence. woman - said, “You’re not going to be a concert pianist, but you’re a good player. However, it’s my theory that if you can How would you describe your painting/drawing style? play well enough for your own enjoyment and to maybe entertain a few friends sitting around the living room, that’s It’s a collage style with some surrealism tossed in. I love really all you need.” It was a great lesson that I’ve revisited putting different components and textures and elements any time I question why I’m bothering to do something that, together in a way that maybe makes some mad sort of sense while at the same time (hopefully) challenging that very sense. subjective as it is, can never really be perfect. How often do you engage in the arts? Is it a daily thing Who are your influences? or do you work with individual marathon sessions with Artistically, I’d have to say my greatest influences are Nick breaks in between? Bantock, Marc Chagall, René Magritte, and Wassily It’s pretty much a daily thing. Even if I don’t produce Kandinsky. something that I feel is worthy, I’ve at least kept the thought process limber. But I can easily get lost in a marathon session Writing fiction, my influences are Lee Smith, Amy Tan, (both in writing and in art) and not even know it until I try to Stephen King, but when it comes to poetry, I’d have to list stand up (hours later) and realize how achy I am from Carl Sandburg, and Robert Frost.
The Existential Tourist by Barb Black 15
What is the greatest misconception that people have about artists? That we're crazy, flighty, or pretentious. That we have no sense of responsibility. Granted, the arts have more than their fare share of people who are "out there." But by and large, most of us are almost boring but for the work we produce. Although our work is a way of asking the world to "see" us, most of us are fairly introverted. I know that I'm happiest when I'm in old sweats and a t-shirt. Given the choice, I much prefer to curl up on the sofa and read or watch a movie than go to a party. If you could channel the artistic ability of one great artist/writer in history, who would it be? Artistically it‘s a toss up. I’d love to see things the way M.C. Escher did - his work is so complex. At the same time, I can‘t begin to imagine what it would feel like to hold Van Gogh‘s paintbrush for a day - when I look at his work I can almost taste the colors. As far as writers go, I can’t imagine a more fascinating brain to peer into than that of Douglas Adams. Do you have any major projects in the works that you’d like to share? I have a novel that I’ve been working on and am hoping to complete this year. I’m also toying with the idea of putting together a book that incorporates my artwork and poetry. I’m always doing something new with art, so it’s hard to say what will come out of that.
Red Velvet by Barb Black
Barb’s Contact Information: http://blackinkpad.blogspot.com http://www.etsy.com/shop/blackinkpad blackinkpad@yahoo.com
Too Much To Say by Barb Black my silence is so rarely the voice with nothing to say most often it is a river of words that flood too closely together the volume of the torrent deafening, falling mute upon these stones that weight and trip my saying something or anything
16
Barb Black Poetry Gypsy
The Juxtaposition of a Mending Heart Against a Sadder Time
I have wandered into your land its verdant cry has pierced my soul. Mine are the dust-covered colors of a violent sunset; see my skirts swirl ablaze in the summer wind. My heart is a magician’s cache of tricks and turns – invisible to the eye, startling with their vision. My wit is a dark night cast with stars that shine promise of other worlds. My eyes are a noon sky – have stared too long at suns and moons, have seen days become years. I am deeply ancient. I am tabula rasa. I knew you when you were born, yet discovered you only yesterday. I will always be this curious and wise gypsy woman – dancing in the wind, walking on fire, wading the river, listening for the lush pine grove that whispers in the evening, that sings my soul’s music in a voice that is yours.
if anyone were to ask was there a time when the black umbrellas folded and the reign ended; the crows again flew stark against the Summer sun; the scent of roses threw their stain along the tendrils of the wind; and the quiet of a day no longer stretched itself, yawning like a wound if anyone were to ask when was the moment that gave beat to the measure; what drove the cloud from the lining; which dog ate the marrow, warm and quivering, from the heart of the bone; how gracefully the slumbering giant rolled away from the dew of morning if anyone were to ask what changed it all my response would be it happened as he listened to the unspoken; honored an unshed tear; gave loft to the gauze of an airless dream; held an empty hand until it grasped everything if anyone were to ask I’d have to say these things became fluid as effortlessly and unremarked as the wink of an eye that is the color of the Aegean Sea 17
by Eric Boyd
Popskull teacher, Deiv,' basically." "Ohh okay," I said. "That's pretty stupid. I'm going to my room now."
felt ready. After a long train ride from Pittsburgh, I had finally arrived at the Maharishi University of Life in Fairplains, Iowa a little before 11pm. The next day I was going to learn Transient Meditation before starting classes at the university. I knew nobody in Iowa except Ren, who I had met at the Chicago train station by chance. During the ride he and I hit it off, talking about the government and aliens and September Eleveth as we rode the train deeper and deeper into the Midwest. We talked about all of the goofy shit I never really talked about because nobody was goofy enough to talk about it with me. Were there UFOs? Ghosts? Is there a devil? I wanted to know. When our train reached Fairplains, Ren and I were driven to the campus by a taxi driver paid by the school. The driver seemed upset to be taking us anywhere, and before I was even taking classes I could tell this was a classic situation of the college kids versus the townies. Goddamn townies. Before we were dropped off near the dorms, the driver gave us each notes from the school. "I guess this shit's for you two," he said after he unloaded our luggage and got back into the taxi. He gave us each an envelope with the university's crest on it. "Namaste," Ren said, smiling. What the fuck did that mean? I wondered to myself. "Uh, yeah. Whatever," the driver grunted at Ren, pulling the taxi away as quickly as he could. I opened my envelope and read.
I
Ren was in the same building as me, but he walked all the way around the building to go inside even though there was a door right where we had been dropped off. I picked up my luggage and walked toward the door, but it didn't open. I tried again but it wouldn't move. I went around the building and entered a different door. I was on the third floor, so I started going up the steps, but halfway up I saw Ren was down on the bottom floor, at the end of the hall. "Hey!" I shouted. "Yes?" "How did you know that door didn't open? Did you use to go here?" "No," Ren laughed. "You didn't read up on the Maharishi much before you came here, did you?" "No, why? Did he hate repairing doors or something?" "We may only enter buildings from doors facing the East." Was Ren joking? He didn't look like he was. I decided it best to just nod my head and continue up the steps. As I walked I noticed music was playing all through the dorm. Speakers were mounted at the top of each stairwell, all piping in some Indian raga music. It was pretty enough to listen to, but I didn't know if I'd be able to sleep with it on. My room, 307, was at the end of the hall on the top floor. I liked that; I wasn't below anybody and I was far away from the speakers. Taped to the letter I was given from the school was my room key. I ripped it off the letter and opened the door. Here I was, my first dorm room. Before I entered I thanked Guru Diev for the fact that the university didn't have roommates in the dorms. The room was made of white-painted cinder block, roughly twelve feet wide and sixteen feet long from the door. Old carpet. On the left side of the room, closest to the door, was a standalone wooden closet with a handful of wire hangers. After the closet was a counter/desk, a sink, and some shelves. In front of the shelving area was a twin-sized bed with one pillow. No bedding. The front wall had a large window that opened up and out. The right side of the room was bare.
Fredrick Anderson, wel-come to the Maharishi University of Life campus! We hope your time at MUL will be educationally and spiritually fulfilling. Our goal here at the university is to enlighten both your mind and soul; we look forward to overseeing your journey of selfdiscovery and personal growth! Your dormitory room is #307 in the West building. Please place all garbage in the dumpster out back. Jai Guru Diev, MUL "What's 'Jai Guru Diev' mean?" I asked Ren. "Guru Diev is who taught the Maharishi the meditation you'll be learning tomorrow." "Who's Jai, then?" "That means thank you. It's saying 'thanks to be to our
• • • 18
my breakfast, finished my ice-cold tea, and left the cafeteria silently. I had the distinct feeling that, before attending a single class at the school, I was not liked. Halfway out the door of the student building, I heard someone calling me. "Heyheyheyhey!" he yelled, running down the steps toward me. "Yeah?" I said, turning around, unsure of what to expect. "Great show up there. Really sticking it to the bastards, eh, eh? 'Name's Sam, how the hell are ya?" Sam was short and thin with a strong brow and chin. His hair was a mussed blond that he constantly moved away from his eyes as he spoke. He was wearing torn jeans and a beat white shirt that was probably washed one time before he had bought it. I had no idea what to make of him. "I'm Fredrick. Thanks. I just wanted a cold drink." "Well I've only been here a day, but already I can tell," he said. "I can tell these people are brainwashers. No ice for a fucking drink?! Did we lose a war?" "Well, it is their school," I said. "I don't really care. I don't like hot tea in the morning." "The only person that ever sold me enlightenment was a moonshiner when I passed through Kentucky buying fireworks. You ever have moonshine?" "No," I said. "Well you gotta test it first," Same grinned. "You pour a little on the lid of the jar and light it on fire; if the fire is blue, you can drink it. If the fire's any other color it's bad moonshine. Pure popskull, bad shine'll fuck you up." "I bet. How was the shine you had?" "Pretty good. I brought a jar here," he said. "I might have some before I learn the meditation later." "You think the meditation will work?" I asked him. "Oh I have no doubt the meditation will be nice, but I'm not sure about the med-e-tat-ors, you know what I mean?" Sam shifted his eyes back and forth. He spoke excitedly, but with great diction. And he was on my side, which made him invaluable. It was nearly ten. All of the freshmen who hadn't learned to meditate were due at the Dean's building. Sam and I walked together, discussing what this school seemed to be selling, and what it actually had. "I don't know how I feel about paying tuition to learn how to be enlightened," Sam said. "At first this seemed great, but I'm getting voodoo feelings now." "You probably ate too much scrambled tofu." "Goddamnit, man! This is serious. Once we learn this, once they give us that mantra, we're in. We're in the hive." "What in the fuck are you talking about?" I said. We had reached the Dean's building; twenty or thirty freshmen were inside, I could see them mingling and admiring the art on the walls. "I can sense it already, Fredrick. This place isn't what it claims." "Don't say that shit so loud, man. Let's go in."
That night, I unpacked my clothes and taped a Bob Dylan poster on my wall, the only real decoration I had. Getting tired, I curled into my bed and stared out the window, looking at stars I could never see in Pittsburgh. I wondered what meditation would be like. I didn't have any real grasp on it. Was it even going to work? My mind wandered like that for a while until I fell asleep. The next morning I woke up early, which for the rest of my stay at the university I would never do. That morning I was jittery so I walked to the cafeteria to eat breakfast. Before deciding to attend school at MUL, the school paid me three hundred dollars to cover my travel costs for visiting the campus for a weekend. During the visit all of the prospective students ate at an old cafeteria building that was rumored to be the scene of a murder. The school decided to stop using the old cafeteria, as the 'bad karma' from the murder would be too much to handle. Whatever the case was, the new student cafeteria was amazing. All marble and brick, the building had to of cost a few million, which was impressive for a college with less than forty freshmen students. The cafeteria was on the upper level of the new building, with large stairways on each side of the main hall. I went up the steps and got in line for food. "Your name, sir?" an Asian woman wearing a teal sun-hat asked me. "Fredrick Anderson. First day." "Ohh alright. I didn't think you looked familiar. Welcome, Jai Guru Diev!" "Okay," I said, taking a plastic tray and stepping toward the food. It was too early for this shit, I thought. The university didn't serve meat. At all. All of their food was locally grown vegetarian. That would have been pretty awful, but I had learned that during my weekend trip, so it was okay. I prepared myself and was eating vegetarian for the past few weeks. The food at the school wasn't bad, though; I had heard the head chef used to cook for President Clinton. Pretty sure Clinton wasn't a vegetarian, though. I got strawberries, cereal, and scrambled tofu with pepper. After grabbing all of the food I wanted, I looked for a drink. There was a row of small spigots with different flavored teas, served hot, but I wanted something cold to drink. There was no cold tea though, or even water. Everything was either hot or at room temperature. "Say, where's the cold drinks?" I asked a student in front of me. "Cold drinks?" he said, genuinely confounded. "Yeah, y'know, drinks... That are cold." "We don't have cold drinks here. It's bad for your pitta." "I've had ulcers before. It's okay to tell me where the ice is, really." "There is no ice," he said as he walked away. He was half-right. The university didn't give out ice, but there was a salad bar. I took a cup next to the hot tea spigots and went back into line, scooping ice into the cup. Everyone looked on in horror. There he goes, Fredrick Anderson, the ICE BANDIT! I drank cold rooibos, which was some kind of red tea, with a little milk and sugar. Milk was the only thing kept in a fridge, so at least I didn't have to fight with that. I enjoyed
Once inside, the entire freshman class was given a speech on the special gift we were going to be receiving later on that day, Transient Meditation. After the speech, everyone was broken up into groups and given teachers. My teacher was a tall, thin man wearing a three piece suit 19
"Keep quiet," I said, winking. "Hey you're paying for a meal plan here, what do I care?" "Good attitude, Chris. I'll see you at the big show."
and wire-rim glasses; he looked vaguely like a Japanese businessman. Everyone got a chance to speak with their teacher for a few minutes, and everyone was given a list of things to gather before beginning. In order to learn the meditation, a small ceremony had to be held in which a few key items were needed. At least seven flowers, a handkerchief, at least two pieces of fruit, and a signup form which needed to be filled out. Name, age, etc. Everyone was then told to gather these materials-- which could be bought at the student store for reasonable prices-and come back later that afternoon. I had no money on me and less than two dollars on my ATM card. I folded up my signup form and left the building, pissed. "Did you see that hellhound bullshit?!" Sam said to me as I walked out. "I need to figure something out, fast." "No money for goods?" he asked. "Zero. I'll make it, though. See ya later," I said, walking toward the cafeteria.
Leaving the building, I saw two potted plants at each end of the doorway. Two pots of Christmas Cactus with mostly bare stems, but about four purple flowers were hidden in each plant. I picked my seven required flowers and cheerfully marched back to the Dean's building, where everyone stood around and waited to be called by their teachers. Across the room I could see Sam holding a fistful of tulips he had clearly ripped from someone's desk; the roots were still dangling from the stems. He saw me looking at his flowers and smiled. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out three grapes, one white and two red, all wrapped in a McDonalds napkin. The bastard had outdone me, that was for sure. Before too long my teacher called my name, then walked into a dark room, motioning for me to follow. This was it, I thought. The big show. As I walked in the dark room, the teacher took my signup form, handkerchief, flowers, and fuit. The room was only big enough for the two of us and a large mantel where a kind of altar had been set up. At the center of the altar was a picture of someone. Next to the picture was a lit candle and incense. Rice was spread everywhere. In front of everything were two chairs, but there was room for the teacher and I to stand before the altar. The teacher and I sat down. I sat in the chair on the left, closer to the window; he sat on the right chair, blocking the door. Maybe he thought I'd freak out and try to escape? I handed the teacher my signup form. He looked over it quickly, then he turned to me with a warm smile and said, "Very good. If you're ready, we can begin." I was more nervous than I thought I'd be, but I nodded my head for us to start. "In this personal instruction," he said. "You will receive a mantra, or sound, and then the procedure how to use it properly. Once you know the mantra, you should keep it to yourself. "Also the actual procedure of meditation that you receive is to be kept private. For maximum results, all that we learn in private, we keep private. Do you agree?" "Sure, why not." "Wonderful," he said. "Now, please come..." The Teacher rose and stood in front of the altar; he nodded his head toward where I was supposed to stand, right beside him. "Stand here. You would like a flower?" He offered one of my flowers back. What did I want it for? There were plenty more outside. "No thanks," I said. "The student must take and hold it for the ceremony to continue." "Oh! Sorry. In that case, sure." The teacher smiled and looked toward the picture at the center of the altar. "This is a picture of Guru Deiv, the Maharishi's Master, from whom we have learned this meditation." He closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment, then he looked at me from the corner of one opened eye. "Now I'll begin the ceremony, and you just witness." He started singing the prettiest Indian song I'd ever
The student store was in the same, grand building as the cafeteria. I walked in, looked around, considering stealing everything I needed, but decided against it. There were too many people in there, all buying their 'ceremony kits' for about twenty dollars each. Someone would see me, and the campus was too small for a thief to get away with such a thing. I'd be burned at the stake, eaten by the hungry, bloodthirsty vegetarians. At that point, the idea didn't seem that far off. I left the student store and walked up the stairs to the cafeteria. Lunch wasn't for a another hour or so; the door to the cafeteria was locked, but not the door when you left the dining hall. I walked in and made sure nobody was around. Next to the racks of plastic trays were sets of rolled silverware. I unrolled a set and took the clothe napkin. A fine handkerchief, I thought. Then I went over to the salad bar, which still had a few pieces of fruit, so I took two oranges. I had everything I needed except flowers. I left the cafeteria. "Fredrick Anderson, right?" a voice said as I walked down the steps, trying to conceal everything I had taken inside of my coat. I didn't see anyone, though. I looked over the banister of the steps. Below was Chris. I had met Chris at my visitor's weekend. I remembered him because, after the trip, the university mailed me my check for three hundred dollars, along with a picture postcard of all the prospective students. In the picture, I was standing in the center row, of three, at far left; Chris was in the same row, far right. We were at opposite sides. "Chris? You decided to come here after all?" "Yeah brother," he said happily. "That's right. How are you liking it so far?" "That question assumes I'm liking it." "That bad?" he asked. "No, not really bad at all. Just trying to get used to everything. I didn't see you at the big speech earlier?" "I was there," Chris said. "You were taking to that guy, Sam." "How do you like it in Fairplains so far?" I asked. "It's all pretty wild; the town certainly isn't as nice as Miami, but it'll be okay." "Right." "I see you're stealing fruit," Chris said, grinning. 20
later Jimmy's house was caught on fire and he had to move away. My eyes flashed open and my arm continued to vibrate. Why was remembering this? "It's okay, Fredrick," the teacher said. "Just close your eyes and continue."
heard, but he couldn't sing worth shit. Where's Ravi Shankar when you need him? At the end of the song, the teacher sunk to his knees in front of altar while sweeping his right arm, I guess indicating for me to kneel, too. I did. After a moment, the teacher rose, slowly and softly repeating the a word, over and over without explanation. He just kept make the sound again and again. "Repeat this word," he finally said to me. I began saying the word, and after a few times I felt tingly. This must be my mantra, I realized. The teacher stopped repeating the mantra after a while, then made another hand motion for me to continue. He waited for me to repeat the mantra three or four times, then he motioned for me to sit in the chair. "Continue repeating," he said. I did. "Now, close the eyes and continue." I closed my eyes. "More quietly," he said softly. I continued and every few seconds the teacher told me to do it more and more quietly. "Now, mentally," he whispered. "Without moving your lips." At first, when I thought of it, the mantra was very loud in my mind. It rumbled through my skull and made my head hurt for a moment. Then it became smoother. It started to sink into my brain a little easier, then it swam through me. Over and over I said the mantra, and the more I did it, the easier it became. I was warm inside each time I said the mantra, I felt a wave of heat burst from my body, right in the center of me. I had never felt like that before. It was terrific. My body then became very heavy, and I was certain that the chair I was sitting in would break; I felt as dense and heavy as a boulder. But as my body was anchored down, I could feel something pulling away from me. It was my body but it wasn't. It was as if I could my own body was tearing from me. Then I pulled away from my body completely, turned around and looked at me. I looked content. I looked like... Suddenly my arm twitched and I nearly punched my teacher in the face. Immediately I remembered growing up in North Carolina, the time that an old Native American woman had grabbed at my hand and tried to tug me into her house. Her house was old and smelled musty, even from the outside. All of her windows were boarded up and looking in from her open door, it was completely black inside. She offered me candy and five dollars if I would come in, but I said no. That was when she tugged at me. She pulled at my hand and arm as hard as she could, but I wrapped my other arm around the handrail to the steps leading up to her door. After a while the woman became tired and I was able to break away. I went down the steps, ready to run away from the house as fast as I could, but I noticed Jimmy had stayed. Jimmy was a black boy I had met in kindergarten. He lived near my house and he was the only friend I had in the neighborhood. Rubbing at my arm, I told Jimmy to leave. "Com'on," I had said to Jimmy. "Let's go back to your house and play Nintendo." "I want five dollars!" he said excitedly, walking into the house. Jimmy went in her house, and he was never really the same again. I have no idea what happened, but two weeks
As I kept going, my mantra becoming fainter and slower. I dove back into myself. For a moment I thought of absolutely nothing. While my eyes were closed, I imagined nothing except small blue ringlets, like ripples in black water. Then my knee jerked and my leg kicked out violently. I tried to keep my eyes closed, still repeating my mantra as my leg twitched and shook. I thought of how, just before I visited the university for a weekend, I was shot in the knee with a BB gun by a group of small children. I was on my way to work and I always took a dirt road through the woods. The kid who shot me giggled and ran away into the woods. As I thought of this, I began grunting and moaning. The teacher must have noticed and continued to comfort me. "Don't worry, Fredrick," he said. "It's all right. You can open your eyes for now." My leg was halfway up in the air. It slowly sank back down to floor by itself. I was sweating. "It's easy? You feel some relaxation?" "Hell no. I'm freaking out over here." "That's normal. This is what Transient Meditation is about. What you're feeling is called un-stressing. There are bad things from your past that you're recalling, and the stress from those bad things has built up in certain places. When you twitch, that's the stress unraveling like a knot in a rope. You understand?" "Yeah, I guess so," I said, rubbing my knee. "Otherwise, it is good? The meditation is good?" "Yes. I've never felt like this." "And see how simple it is?" he said. "It goes by itself. We don't need to concentrate. Just think the mantra easily and effortlessly. And if at any time you seem to be forgetting the mantra, don't try to hold on. Let it go. If a thought comes, easily come back to the mantra. Now, close the eyes and continue." Continue? I thought. The man must have been trying to kill me. After a minute or two of convincing myself to keep going, I closed my eyes again. Just as he had said, the mantra started dipping in and out of my head. It would become quieter and quieter until it disappeared, and when it came back it would be very low and slow in my mind. I thought of nothing again, and I merely existed for a short time before I started seeing things. Nothing specific twitched or shook; instead my entire body locked up and vibrated inside of itself like bees in a hive. The mantra was gone. Images began flashing through me. Blue and green and yellow disks, like flying saucers, flew across my mind. All of the people I had known during my life who had died appeared from darkness; they said nothing, only stared. On the inside I was thrashing as hard as I could to make the images stop, but my body was stone. Then I saw it. Out of complete blackness came two red, glowing eyes. Before any more of him appeared, I knew already that I was 21
where the speaker was playing. It was a small brown bakelite speakerbox with a tweed grill, a classic piece of vintage hi-fi that nobody knew how to fix anymore. I ripped the speakerbox from the wall and opened the nearest door I saw to throw the thing outside. I opened the door and an alarm went off, loud. I thought I'd gone through an emergency exit but then noticed the sign on the door: 'WEST.' The bastards really didn't let you go through any other door but east. Huh. I walked back to my room, everyone in my hall staring at me. I closed the door, fell into my bed, and slept for about two days.
looking at the face of the Devil. Misshapen, beat horns poked from the darkness, lit only by the glow of the flaming red eyes. Something resembling an ugly, ragged mouth spoke to me, but no words came out, only a low grumbling sound which peaked up and up, reaching terrible, sonic heights. My head blistered and my eyes watered. My body finally loosened and I began convulsing in my chair. My eyes stayed shut as hard as possible, not because I wanted to continued meditating, but because I couldn't stop. Something wasn't allowing me to stop. My mantra began bubbling up past the Devil, becoming louder and faster until I couldn't hold it in any longer. I began whispering the mantra out loud, then speaking it until it became a near-scream. Over and over I repeated the mantra, hoping the Devil would go away. I said it so quickly that it no longer became a repeated word, but one long, unpronounceable chant. "Fredrick! Fredrick!" the teacher said, reaching over from his chair and shaking me. "You can open your eyes now! Open them!" he shouted. I was so scared and frantic; I felt like I going to piss myself. "Open the eyes slowly, Fredrick." My breath became so frenzied and short from yelping the mantra that I blacked out. After a few moments I came to, but my entire body was petrified. The teacher looked at me and said, "It's good? Relaxing?" "No it's not!" I shouted at him. "It feels real good for a while and then I see shit, like awful fucking shit. Do you know what I just saw?"
• • • This story is a part of WHISKEY SOUR, an upcoming collection of short stories. Eric Boyd was born on October 16th, at 3:33AM, 1988 in North Carolina. He briefly studied at the Maharishi University of Management in Fairfield, Iowa. Boyd began writing fiction after being released from Allegheny county jail; his work has been featured in several journals, both online and in print, including the Newer York, the Fourth River, and Velvet Blory. He also has fiction columns in Pork & Mead magazine and Writer's News Weekly. Boyd's first collection of short stories, Whiskey Sour, will be released in the spring of 2012 by Nervous Puppy Publishing.
The teacher seemed very uncomfortable. He didn't seem to know what to say, as if he had been reading from a script that I was somehow ruining for him. "Um, well..." he said. "Frankly, I've never seen someone begin meditation so violently. Un-stressing is completely normal, but it usually happens after a few days, when the meditation has seeped in more deeply. "The good news is that you must be picking up the process very naturally," he smiled. "But the bad news is that you're experiencing bad things on your first day, and that's not pleasant, I'm sure." "Right, right," I said, running my hand through my hair. "But overall, you see how simple it is? Did you feel sometimes the mantra was forgotten and thoughts came? How many times this happened -- two, three times? It's good. Whenever we forget the mantra, we quietly come back to it. It's a very simple, natural process..." He kept talking for a while until he could see I was too bored, strung out, and frightened to listen anymore.
Eric Boyd currently lives in Homestead, Pennsylvania.
The Maple Leaf by Douglas Polk I saved a leaf one faraway day, a maple leaf, Our teacher told us to collect different kinds, which I did, until I spied the maple leaf, when I fell in love, We ironed our leafs in between the pages of the book, their images to live on then, on the book page, captured for eternity in crayon, Now a half century later, I sit in the Autumn sun, as maple leafs too numerous to count, fall from the trees in my yard, I wonder if my maple leaf still held captive, praying and hoping through the years, Someone has set it free.
That evening I walked back to my dorm in a daze. When I reached my room, I saw a small plastic cup with a note taped to it. "SHINE ON." I went in my room and took a sip of the moonshine. It tasted awful so I downed it as quickly as I could, then had a handful of water from my sink. I tried laying down and going to sleep, but I could hear the damn raga music playing from down the hall. I walked down to the center of the hallway, at the top of the steps,
Image(s): FreeDigitalPhotos.net
22
Let There Be Light by Ute Carson It’s the attentive hour when the world dances with glorious fires of sunsets, before darkness extinguishes the last wondrous glow on the quivering horizon. Wise owl, bird of the night, watchful eyes sharply focused, keen ears perked, will soon tune in to whispers of loneliness, shrieks of fear, and gasps of grief. Rapt in terrified awe by the moon’s beguiling glare, we wait for a different dance to move us through the hours of gloom toward a flickering sky, igniting into a daylight candle.
Boots by Douglas Polk boots empty, blood still on the soles, or maybe just dirt, dreams crushed, if not bones, by his fucking boots, not boots he fucks in, The crushing only foreplay.
Milk and Tears by Ute Carson Sprouting from sturdy shoulder blades my arms branch out into huge angel-wings. One wing is bridal-veil white, its feathers dotted with pearls quietly pouring sweet breast milk into the expectant mouth of babes.
Prophet by Douglas Polk
The other wing is black-crepe loudly fluttering in the howling wind, bone shafts filled with tears, spilling over from suffering and loss.
The thoughts flow as if he divinely inspired, a prophet of God, sweaty and reeking of body odor, calling our souls in a voice both loud and shrill, people walk by without hearing a single word he says, the preaching not for our souls but for his, punishment for the sins no one sees, acts he alone knows he commits, in the dark of the alley, he and God, the All-Knowing, All-Seeing, Supreme Being, alive in his mind and soul, the dilemma being, unknown whether the voices in his head, his or God’s.
Now both wings flap vehemently like kites about to soar, and I feel like a great blue heron on spindly legs, gracefully unfurling heavy plumage, then lifting off, trying my best to keep my angel-wings in balance.
You can find Ute Carson’s website at: www.utecarson.com
23
Parent-Teacher Conferences by Ian Hilgendorf
“
“Honey, I hate to tell you this but we will look back on these…how did you put it?” “Formative years, Trav. And-” “I know. They are very important. But we will have made mistakes. There’s no getting around that.” I snap the mirror shut and flop back into my seat, crossing my arms over my chest. The scenery outside passes: snow speckled ground, Christmas lights tangled into tree branches. “Don’t be angry,” Trav says. “I’m only saying that no one’s perfect. Even though we are pretty great, as parents I mean. Even if I do say so myself.” “You’re giving me a stomach ache.” “What?” “I’m just nervous is all, OK? Can’t a mother be nervous for her first parent-teacher conference?” He doesn’t reply which makes me feel both grateful and like a total bitch. I know he’s right. No one is perfect. But I can try, can’t I? It’s not the perfection that counts. No one can reach it. It’s the pursuit. We pursue excellence. Which is exactly what I want for Jaime. I want the very best. St. Augusta is a parochial school in the nicer part of East Grand Rapids, a single-storied Episcopalian center of learning that is, in fact, as old as it looks. Real ivy grows along the westernmost wall and the playground, though out-dated by today’s standards, has a very nostalgic appeal that I suppose makes prospective parents-of-students harken back to their days of elementary education. I for one can recall many sunny afternoons spent twirling on a marry-go-round during recess before returning to class and memorizing my times tables. Such memories could have just as easily occurred here, thirty-some years ago. Trav pulls into the small parking lot near the narthex and we bundle up before dashing into the building. The school’s atrium is a glass-encased room with potted plants, a stylized cement slab floor and a corner of densely populated armchairs turned at unique angles around a multi-layered glass and marble coffee table. Hung from the walls are three maroon and silver banners, each emblazoned with the school’s coat of arms and a phrase in Latin. “Seems like the anti-chamber for the Illuminati,” says Trav, whispering his words into my ear. “It doesn’t either, and you had better behave yourself, Travis.” “Yes, Mother,” he croons. I scowl then grab his arm and pull him around a corner and up a small staircase. We pass the school’s main office and I wave to the school’s receptionist (Hi Hillary!), turn down the hallway and around another corner, before encountering a row of classrooms. We pass the opened doors of the gymnasium before wandering into the kindergarten wing, which smells of sterile play-dough. The two classroom doors are slightly ajar, enough so that when we peak in we can hear the out-of-site Mrs. Haversham regaling another set of parents on how wonderful their child is. The other class is
Now I want you to listen to everything Ms. Dana says, and don’t give her any sass.” “K.” “And no watching television once we leave. Do your homework, get ready for bed, and read a chapter from your book. Maybe Ms. Dana has a surprise for you too. We’ll be home to tuck you in.” “K.” He looks at Dana, our babysitter, his eyes full of expectation. She’s smiling, hands in her blue jean pockets. I lean forward and give Jaime a kiss, his cheeks warm, sticky. For a second, I turn to go to the sink, to wet a washcloth and scrub his dirty face, but from the corner of my eye I can see Travis looking at me, tapping his wrist watch. “I’ll take care of it, Mrs. Painter. Not to worry.” That Dana, she reads my mind. Worth every bit of the seven dollars an hour she charges to watch Jaime. On the kitchen counter she has a cookie tin full of supplies to do art projects and by the door her book bag, crammed full of her homework for AP- something. She’s going to Yale next year, the sweet girl already told us. “Thanks, Dana. We’ll be home in a few hours.” “Have fun at parent-teacher conferences,” she says, waiving. Trav shuts the door and shoos me to the car. “Come on, we’re going to be late.” “I know, but don’t rush me. I’ll slip and break my neck.” “You won’t either,” he says, starting the car, backing out of the garage. I flip down the passenger side mirror and give my makeup a once over. My lipstick may be too heavy, I can’t really tell in this light. From my purse I take out a napkin and blot my lips so that they don’t look so whorish. With my pinky finger, I dab at the corners of my eyes. “You look fine,” Trav says, his hand slipping from the gear shift to my inner thigh. I slap his fingers away, not because I don’t want them there, but because tonight is the first step in our child’s lifelong pursuit of higher education. All of the experts say based on a child’s preliminary years in school, you can determine their growth expectancy i.e. what kind of college they will go to i.e. what kind of a career they will choose. Income expectancy, economic demographic, all these things can be charted based on a number of very tricky equations created by some exceedingly intelligent people. “Hey, take it easy,” Trav says. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Jaime is a great kid.” “Do you think?” “What is that supposed to mean?” he says. “Well, you know what I mean. Of course I think he’s wonderful. I’m his mother.” “And Mrs. Haversham thinks he’s wonderful too.” “I just hope we’re doing all we can for him,” I say. “You know. I just don’t want to look back on these formative years and think ‘could we have done things better?’ I couldn’t live with myself if we let him down.” Travis checks the rearview mirror, shaking his head. 24
“This here is Jaime’s portfolio for the fall semester. As you can see, he has a fine sense of spatial recognition and his reasoning skills are really, very well developed.” Mrs. Haversham slides a few pieces of artwork across the table, Trav and I taking them up in turn. She continues, “As far as brightness, Jamie is certainly one of my most outstanding students. He is among the top readers in the class and can already solve basic math problems with and without the aide of props.” “Now what does that mean, exactly?” asks Travis, his eyes still narrowed on a crayon drawing of our family holding hands. “That means that when doing his math work, he often answers questions without having to use the visual aides we provide to help engrain the theory into the children’s minds. For instance, a math problem might be ‘You have four pennies, but you decide to loan two pennies to your friend, Paul. How many pennies do you have left?’ In this case, the prop, or visual aide, would be either real pennies, or more likely, some buttons. “Most of the children still require the buttons to help them solve the problem, but Jaime does not rely on the props to help him come to a conclusion.” I feel myself swelling with pride, and Mrs. Haversham notices, giving me a broad and eager smile. “You should be very proud of your son.” “We are,” I tell her, keenly taking Travis’ hand again, feeling more and more assured our son is on the fast track to greatness. “Now, having said that, there are some things you may want to consider working on with Jaime at home.” “Yes?” “For instance, his level of creativity.” “In what way?” I ask, a bit deflated. For a moment it feels as though she is going to reassure us that nothing is wrong, that her suggestion is more of an off-the-cuff observation made by an educator in a few fleeting instances. She stands. “Why don’t you follow me,” she says, circling round her desk in a few brisk strides, leaving Trav and me to catch up. Across the room, she stops in front of a black, felt covered board with a planetary-themed border and the heading: OF WHAT ARE DREAMS MADE? On the board are pinned the drawing of her students, most of them too ravenously carried out to decipher. “This was an assignment we did last week about our dreams. The children were supposed to draw a picture representing what it is they want to do when they grow up. Afterward, each student stood up and told the class their dream. As you can see, most of the pictures are, to say the least, a bit convoluted.” Trav and I chuckle to ourselves as we examine the scribbles and nonsensical shapes that plaster the wall. “This is always one of my favorite lessons of the fall semester because I think it gives real insight into how the child is cognitively processing their hopes and ambitions. For instance, most kids say things like ‘I want to be a pilot’ or ‘I want to be a dinosaur chaser’. That was not the case with Jaime.” She points to one of the pictures, a clearly drawn stick-like figure in a suit with glasses and a tie. The character
attended by a Mrs. Burr, a woman I have never met though understand to have blackish gray hair and looks like a wet dog. A pair of miniature folding chairs are opened against the wall and Trav takes a seat, his rump no more than a foot from the floor. “Would you get up? You look ridiculous.” “What? They didn’t set these chairs out for show.” “Of course they did. Now stand next to me, won’t you? I think I hear them finishing in there right now.” We both lean toward the door, a regular Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. The classroom inhabitant’s voices grow, their footsteps preceding them, and we paint ourselves against the wall while applying our best looks on nonchalance. Mrs. Haversham opens the door, lets the other parents out, issuing them away with a handshake and a wave. She smiles, hands clasped in front of her as she gives the other couple a few more moments of her time. When they have coated themselves and taken a number of steps down the hallway she turns to us, and puts her hand on my arm as if we are old friends. “Reghan, it’s so nice to see you,” she says, giving my bicep a squeeze. She reaches across and shakes Travis’ hand. “Won’t you both please come in?” She asks us, which I appreciate, as if this were more of a social visit and she was prepared to offer us more than just a reporting on our son’s behavior. Her stride is confident and slow, and she leans back a little, like she’s being supported by a stiff breeze. In a practiced move, she spins and, walking backward, arms outstretched, introduces us to her classroom. “As you can see, we have lots of areas set up for the children to maximize their learning. Over here we have the waterworks area where the kids can learn about sea life. And on this side of the room we have the sand box, Jaime just loves playing in here. In the back we have our story corner, play house, dress-up clothes, and through that back door is where the kids take their backpacks and coats. They each have their own numbered hook.” The room is immaculate, impossibly clean for having been the space for a horde of five-year-olds. Along a muraled wall is Mrs. Haversham’s desk where she leads us tour-guide-style to a pair of cushioned chairs before taking her place behind the desk and steepling her hands. “Your room is wonderful,” offers Trav, his head turning in every direction. “Thank you,” she says, hands falling to the desk as if she were showing off her manicured nails. “Now, this is your first parent-teacher conference, isn’t it?” she asks. We both nod. “Good, good. Well then, let me start off by telling you a bit about me. I have been in education for twenty-two years, the last thirteen here at St. Augusta. I just love teaching kindergarten. A few years ago I got my masters degree in non-profit administration and also serve as the school’s vice principal. I’ve spent my entire tenure here as a kindergarten teacher and enjoy the rest of my time at home with my husband and two dogs.” She shows us a picture on her desk of the little family, two golden retrievers curled around her and her husband. “Now,” she continues, “lets us talk about…Jaime.” She turns in her swivel chair to a drawer which she opens and removes a manila folder. 25
Mrs. Haversham, sensing our unease, stands up, as if she is assuming her role as teacher, and we are her students ready to learn. “Please, I don’t want you to be overly concerned,” she states, apostle-like. “As I’ve already said, Jaime is a wonderful student and exhibits a very bright future. He simply has some weaknesses that could stand more focus and investigation.” “Weaknesses,” I say. “Mrs. Painter, do you want what’s best for Jaime?” I nod my head, already seeing myself accepting her word as gospel, devoting hours to cultivating my son’s creative mind by encouraging him to “fib” from time to time. “Yes,” I say. “Then I suggest you give our conversation here tonight some real thought. Your son’s future is at stake.” We shake hands and put our coats and scarves on, leave the room and are back to the car before my thoughts return to me. A numbness has replaced the fear I felt before, much like the aftereffects of Novocain on a soar molar. Travis remains silent; his eyes steady are on the road, hands at ten and two. We’ve been gone for only an hour, but it feels like much longer. On our way home we pass a Wal-Mart and I ask Trav if we can stop for a few things. I get some milk and a copy of Better Homes and Gardens. We go to the toy section, each unprompted by the other, and find a spaceman’s helmet, a present and educational aide for our son, who will probably go to a state university and partake in recreational binge drinking. Instead of going out for dinner afterward, Trav and I go straight home and find Jaime at the counter with Dana. He’s wearing his green pajamas and coloring a picture of a horse and a cowboy. “Were you a good boy?” “Yeah, except I didn’t read my book like you asked.” Trav leaves the room, unable to say a word. I smile at Dana, hand her some money and offer to take her home.
holds a briefcase in one hand, and what appears to be a mug of coffee (steam lines included) in the other. “Jaime’s drawing, though much more precise than the other children’s, lacked the creativity that is often demonstrated for a child with his intellect.” I feel my eyes furrow and try to tell myself to remain engaged. Do not get snippy, Reghan. Do not do it! “Instead of drawing a picture of something like, say, an astronaut, Jaime said what he wanted to be when he grows up is a tax attorney.” Trav snorts, shakes his head. “Trav...” I whisper, my concentration shattered for a moment before glancing back, crossing my arms and nodding along. Turning my words to Mrs. Haversham, “And that’s a bad thing?” She clasps her hands behind her back and leads us away from the drawings. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just not typical of a child as smart as Jaime. At this age we expect a certain carelessness, or rather, a lack of precision when it comes to evaluating their wants, desires etcetera. Again, Jaime does not possess this intrinsic carelessness.” “I’m not surprised,” says Trav, the dimple in his chin flexing and un-flexing. “We are pretty strict with him at home. We really try to emphasize a very realistic grasp on the world around him. We’d like him to display a certain level of… concentration? Is that the word?” “That brings me to another point, actually. To be honest, most kids with his intelligence find this class a bit boring. It is, to be fair, geared more toward children of modest, perhaps slightly above average, intellect. Jaime exceeds this, yet, never exhibits any signs of boredom or waning attention.” Trav and I exchange glances. “But, isn’t that a good thing?” Trav says, his voice a bit more curt than I would like. Mrs. Haversham clasps her hands together, smiling with her lips alone. “Mr. and Mrs. Painter, I’ve been an educator for a very long time. I’m not trying to upset you. I simply hope to give you an accurate appraisal of where your son is at academically.” I squeeze Trav’s hand under the table and feel him relax some. “We understand,” I tell her, hoping that she is still on our side. “Please continue.” “What further interests me is Jaime’s unequivocal honesty. Never before have I had a student that simply refuses to tell a lie.” Trav runs his fingers through his hair, a giveaway of his that I understand to mean he is loosening up again, letting go. “That’s a relief,” he says. “Well… yes and no,” says Mrs. Haversham. “You see, a child’s ability or inability to expound on or exceed the truth is an early indicator of cognitive development and is, again, a demonstration on their level of creativity. Creativity is strongly linked with abstract expression and reasoning which is typically one of the most important differentiators between above average students and those that demonstrate an exemplary educational aptitude.“ “I….we….”
• • • Ian Hilgendorf lives and writes in Grand Rapids, MI. He has had poetry and fiction published or is forthcoming in The Molotov Cocktail, Forge Journal, Eunoia Review, Bread Crumb Scabs and Wayne Literary Review among others.
26
by Michael Groves
bereavement I saw belinda yesterday and she talked for the first time about ‘coercion’— and as I am typing this I do feel sadness for my young, nearly newborn man, deprived. She says, “you only want to understand your behavior,” I think so; but maybe I was only a young man having girlfriend troubles, but not for the same reasons other boys do. I saw her in a mirror yesterday, the one we’ve been looking for, doing the same thing I was doing. No really, I was sober as a churchmouse, not from soulless video, she was, like from Jung, the imprint.
Aliquam dapibus ipsum vitae sem. Ut eget mauris ac nunc luctus ornare. Phasellus enim augue, rutrum tempus, blandit in, vehicula eu, neque. Sed drawing me into the glass, she might as well have said, consequat nunc. Proin metus. Duis at mi non tellus “c’mon Daniel, do what I’m doing.” (123) 456 7890 n’— ‘coercio Mom.
27
The Scariest Thing by Adrienne Alverio
Everyone is scared of something different May it be the boogieman, drowning or the dark? The scariest thing for me is opening up the now rusty walls of my heart. I made my name known by being aggressive, not needing anyone, not feeling any emotion except anger I am the girl guys come to talk to about their girl problems, hang out, play sports I’m one of the guys; friend zone is where I always am. After the last time I got my heart broken I promised myself I would never let it happen again for a guy who wasn’t worth it. Securing my heart and feelings were at first by choice Now it’s just a restriction I have not let myself feel anything for any other person in such a long time that I come off as heartless When did I shut off my feelings completely? The thought of someone getting so close they make my walls break down scares me My first defense is my bitchiness and sarcasm Once all else fails I run. I refuse to let myself be the first one to fall; I refuse to even acknowledge what I may feel Acknowledging and trying to explain what I feel is the scariest thing for me. I just can’t seem to let someone else see who I really am The scariest thing for me is opening myself up again and setting myself up for the same devastating pain I once felt. I made my name being the girl who doesn’t care what people think of her, or say about her The girl who could take care of she and never gets hurt The scariest thing for me? Opening myself up once more and breaking the fragile heart I spent years putting back together Just so in the end I’m left there alone trying to put myself back together and trying to forget the love I have in my heart…
28
her but they seemed not to take notice of her and Xavier couldn't imagine why they weren't taking a stab at having a conversation with her, to try to pick her up as they say, but they all seemed calm and comfortable at the bar drinking quietly and slowly under the dim overhead light. They were all older; old enough to be her father. The bartender came by Molly with his washrag wiping the top of the bar and he raised his face to Molly and brightly asked her a question. What book are you reading today Molly? She raised the cover to him and he said Oh, yes, that one, I understand that one is very popular right now. And she said brightly Yes it is, once you pick it up you can't put it down, and she laid the book face down on the bar and picked up her drink and held it before her face, the way a priest held the gold chalice before his face while saying the prayers of the mass and of the consecration, and she spoke in low soft tones to the bartender as fervently as though praying to change the wine into the blood of Christ. The bible lay before her spine up. That was the only thing that was wrong. The bible should be face up. Xavier frowned. Molly said You know I'd like to get out of this town some day, I'd like to go someplace different but you know, when I think of that I can't imagine where I'd rather live. Do you know what I mean? Do you feel that way? The bartender wiped his hands with the rag. No, he said, I never think I'd like to get out of this town—this is home for me—say, where are you working now Molly, asked the bartender, in a the same warm bright tone he had used when asking about the book, a tone that sounded like he was really interested. She shifted on the round wooden dark barstool as she answered. Down the drug store. Oh really? Fox's? The Rexall store? he said, eyebrows raised. Right, she said. He wiped the bar before her and asked her another question. The washcloth swiped across the edge of the book as he spoke. How is Fox doing these days? I haven't seen him around lately, he used to come in here for a meal once in a while I bet he's getting old now eh Molly isn't he getting old? I suppose he is, she said. She sipped at the edge of her tall frosted glass and swallowed small swallows of the beer and she looked the bartender in the eye. Xavier watched from across the barroom, wondering what they were talking about. I wonder if his boy Frank will take over the store when he retires? said the bartender, to Molly. I don't know, she said. You ever see Frank down there? She lifted her glass. He works there part time. She took a drink. Doing what? The washcloth swished around the bar top. Back in the pharmacy. With his Dad. There you go, said the bartender, waving the rag. That means he's learning the business from his father. You know Frank used to come in here once in a while too, sometimes with his dad and they'd sit over there in the booths having hamburgers— The bartender glanced at Xavier as he kept on talking to Molly and Xavier saw the bartender look at him and saw his
On the Porch by Jim Meirose
O
nce when Xavier Florentine was a young man, he slashed to ribbons with a utility knife a heavily gilt framed painting his father had gotten out of the garbage and hung in the garage. The painting was of an old man with a long grey beard and Xavier had hated it, really hated it, just as he'd hated his father that day for some reason long forgotten, some big meaningless argument between them, and he had come out to the garage and wielded the knife as one possessed; he had been blistering burning mad at his father but today for the life of him he couldn't remember why, and now there was something about the way his house had looked with the cellar windows all vandalized and painted black that made the same kind of anger well up in him, so that he thought he should have gone around the foundation of the house and smash every black window, using his longhandled shovel to do the job, and that would hurt whatever vandal did the spray painting the same way he knew he had hurt the artist who had painted the painting in his father's dark cluttered garage. The artist who painted the picture had felt pain with every stroke and slash of the knife, Xavier knew; somehow it had come to him that this was so; and the person who spray painted the windows would feel pain with every window that was smashed with Xavier's wide bladed long shovel. Each strike of the blade would crush the face flatter, crushing flesh, splintering bone. But that would be foolish. He would only be hurting himself as well, he knew. The windows would all have to be replaced and that would take time and money. Xavier went onto his shaky wooden front porch to get the mail from his yellow tin mailbox and down the street twenty something Molly Crockett came across her bare dirt front yard and went to her orange car and opened the door and got in with a slam. Xavier perked up at the sight of her; he had always liked the look of Molly ever since she was a small child playing in the yard three houses down, the short time she'd worked for him at the dollar store a few years back, and right up to now when all he saw of her was when she went to and from her car. He imagined where she might be going in the orange car as it pulled away in a light cloud of blue smoke. To the store maybe. To work maybe. God knew where Molly was going as the small car moved down the street and stopped at the far stop sign with its right hand red blinker on and turned and disappeared around the corner. Xavier stood there staring where the car had been. He stood there remembering when he'd seen Molly downtown in Findon's bar on the corner of Washington and Main Street once when he had gone down there alone to get a hamburger and he had sat in one of the cushy leather covered booths to the side in the back where it was dark, all alone with his hamburger and his coke and his bottle of ketchup and Molly sat at the bar in blue jeans with a tall drink in front of her, reading a thick black covered book. The book made Xavier think of the bible. Molly might have been sitting there reading the bible with men sitting at the bar all around 29
Oh sure, she said, as though coming around from some kind of trance. I worked at your dollar store stocking the shelves, sweeping, that kind of thing. Right—and I remember when you were small. You'd come around at Halloween and I'd have to guess who you were—you know the way Halloween used to be years ago when a big group of costumed people came to the door and the game was to try and guess who they were and once you guessed who they were you would drop a candy into their bag? And they'd all stand in the back porch kitchen door and he kept on talking to Molly as he thought he didn't mind Halloween for some reason, on that one day people weren't really strangers and he didn't think any of them were thinking look at that Xavier, how foolish he is, look at the furniture he's got in his kitchen look how stupid his kitchen looks no they didn't say that and Xavier was seldom able to guess their names so he had to put extra candy into their bags because he had failed and he wondered if they were judging him for how badly he'd failed or if they were laughing inside at how pathetic his attempts to name them had been. But he had always been able to name Molly and her brother Gulf. And they were just about the only ones whose parent's names he didn't know, he must have been friendly with their parents once a long time ago but he couldn't remember ever having conversations with that man and woman, who had been in a blazing crushing car wreck, and passed away. God bless their souls. It had been a terrible car accident—an awful way to die, to burn to death like that—but it was fitting that they died together like they had—because whenever he saw Molly and Gulf's parents out in town anywhere or in their yard they were always together and suddenly Xavier stopped talking to Molly and she left the booth and went back to the bar and once more he gazed at her back and her hair falling down her back and the bartender had moved down to the next patron, and then went on to the next, wiping the bar and making small talk to all of them. Eh Tom good to see you today. Jim. So. How are the kids. How's fishing George. Rennie--want a refill on that beer? Xavier watched Molly slowly turn page after page and he sipped at his coke and ate his hamburger slow because he wanted to keep on watching her. It felt good to watch her from the darkness like this. It felt good when the bartender wasn't looking at him. He went on slowly eating and drinking and watching and thinking and then after a while he finished his hamburger and it was time to pay the bill so he got up and went right up next to Molly; right next to her; and he paid the bartender for the hamburger and the soda and he acted as though Molly weren't even there, but he felt her warm nearness as he stood there paying and he turned away without looking at her--heaven forbid she should catch him looking at her—and he shakily found his way to the door of the bar and went out and walked home. The houses and trees and fences and hedges flowed by him on his way up Washington Avenue and he wondered why he had never gotten married again since his wife had died, why he had never been able to find a woman to again make part of his life, like for example Molly—what would it be like to be married to Molly and live in the same house with her and to sleep in the same bed with her and to do all the things a man and wife do in bed and out of bed and in all the time spent
lips continuing to move and he was suddenly sure the bartender was saying something about him, and normally he'd get angry if he knew this, normally he'd get up and go over and find out what was on the other man's mind, feeling much the same feeling as when he'd slashed his father's painting. But this was different, the bartender was talking to Molly Crockett and Xavier imagined how he'd feel if in fact the bartender was talking about him and she suddenly turned to glance at him too, then he'd be sure they were talking about him, yes that will be the test to see if she turns around and looks at me too, but she just sat there with her drink before her and her long hair hanging down her back over her short sleeved purple shirt. I guess he must have gone to pharmacy school then eh Molly? said the bartender. Who, she said, lifting the glass toward her mouth again. Frank. That's who we're talking about, is Frank— Oh. Right. Frank. Yeah he probably went to pharmacy school. The bartender leaned on the bar with his hands. That was a wise move. It's a good business to be in— She pushed her empty glass out to the bartender and he put down the washcloth and took her glass and the wooden floor creaked as he went over to the tap and filled up the glass and came back and put the glass in front of her with a light tapping sound onto the bar and she picked up her book and once more began to read as the glass sat before her ready to be drunk from. Praying from the bible with the full chalice before her, thought Xavier in the far booth, watching—and all this while the bartender was talking; it wasn't important what he was saying but he was saying it; small talk. Xavier took a bite of his hamburger and watched the bartender talking fast and loud and he'd seen Molly pick up her book and the bartender just kept on talking with Molly nodding politely. The bartender began working his way away from Molly wiping the bar down and he stopped at the man sitting two stools down from Molly and he spoke to this man too, without even taking a break from his talking to Molly and he smiled and laughed softly and glanced at Xavier again and for a moment their eyes met and Xavier quickly looked away. Xavier didn't want the attention of the bartender and the look they had exchanged was one of coldness and hardness and without any feeling, at least that's how it seemed to Xavier, like the looks when strangers eyes meet always are and Xavier wondered how it would feel if Molly were to turn around and look at him too and see him in the booth over here and what kinds of words would come between them if ever she came and sat at the booth across from him even though she never would, why would she; he was old enough to be her father. Molly, he'd say. Molly Crockett. I haven't spoken to you since you worked down at my store. You know I remember you when you were just this high. He stretched his arm down to his side with the hand up as if measuring. That's funny I don't ever remember having spoken to you at all, said Molly, gripping her beer. Oh yes, you worked at my store for a while. Don't you remember?
30
together. But Molly was much too young for him. He had never had a date with a woman his age since his wife died, he had never lain with a woman since either and he didn't think he ever ever would again, but he could imagine. Like he could imagine the shovel swinging against the faces of his neighbors as it swung smashing the blackened cellar windows and flattening those faces and slashing and slashing and slashing at that painting; as he walked up to his house he remembered the black windows and he thought, who would have done that to me—who would have dared do that to me—and he wondered if the blue clad policeman had really gone out and tried to find who in town had bought black spray paint and he thought to call the police and ask if the investigation was moving along. He would go in his house and pick up the phone and ask them and give them the what for if they didn't know anything yet; and as he slashed at his father's painting with his utility knife he again imagined what pain the artist must be feeling, in his hands that he had painted the painting with, and he imagined what pain the person who had painted his windows would have if their wonderful funny stupid bad work of art was being smashed with a shovel, he pictured the culprit sitting up in bed suddenly and put up his hands and scream in pain with every swing of the shovel. The pain would be sharp and hard and would bite into the hands that had done this to him; and then he would know who had done it if only he could have been God and been able to see everyone tucked into their beds tonight, he'd have been able to see which one sat up in pain and he'd have been able to say Aha! Gotcha! I see you, it was you! After Molly's car had turned the corner and disappeared he went into the front door of his house to his dog Hound and patted Hound on the top of his head and he put the mail down on the kitchen table and let Hound out onto his chain in the back yard, off the back porch, and when he came back in he glanced at the phone, knowing there was someone he had meant to call, but who, who, he couldn't remember who, and feeling like he had just been someplace, but he couldn't imagine where since he had been home all day since he rose this morning. He shook his head and felt mildly confused and felt as though he had been watched half the day, but of course this was nonsense, he'd been alone all the time.
Just Like When Hadrian Wrote Poems by Alessandra Bava
hidden in the Maritime Theater - his room of his own - quill in hand on the artificial island surrounded by waters rich in carps, reflecting the marble colonnade, fighting his sporadic moods and talking in Greek and Latin to his two Muses, skipping the occasional stone on the pond of his writing, reflecting on life’s end with the lucidity of his ink. Animula, vagula blandula Hospes comesque corporis Quae nunc abibis in loca Pallidula rigida nudula, Nec, ut soles, dabis iocos… It’s that flow of his writing I feel today waking in me amidst the yelling cicadas and the twisted olive trees in his Villa in former Tibur, among the statues mirroring themselves in the Canopus. Mars on the warpath, shield in
• • •
hand. Winged Mercury ready to soar with the blue iridescent dragonflies. Headless Venus winking her eye to Antinous’ head drifting along
Caravaggio-like Love by Alessandra Bava
the currents of the Emperor’s thoughts. Hadrian writes his best known poem again today over the island for me to hear.
I’ve been walking barefoot. I lie on the bed now craving for you, my feet are as filthy as those of the pilgrims
Little soul, you charming little wanderer, my body's guest and partner, where are you off to now? Somewhere without color, savage and bare; You'll crack no more of your jokes once you're there.
in Caravaggio’s canvas. All I know is that our love is redder than Mary’s scarlet velvet dress. 31
okay, the camp just wasn’t meant for her. Nobody smiles around here now, no one looks away.
Rimbaud Taught Me That
Four Freaks They’re freaks in one world, miracles in another. One is a big foot; he jumps, hulkily, higher than tree tops, and quickly races to the end of the world and back. Two is a goat with the face of a man, who’s famous for his sexual prowess and sings beautifully with strange, inhuman sounds. Three is the headless man, who smiles with his whole chest: he’s never figured out why anyone makes such a fuss about having a head. Four is the boy with ears falling down to his hips, who is absorbed by listening to his own hair grow; sometimes he forgets to eat and drink, because of the symphony of aches and rattles, the juddering and the whistling that emanate from his body. He wishes he could replay these sounds as music. The people who see them cross themselves against the devil. When the four had enough of being stared at and being cursed for their otherness, the went far, far away to a place in the woods where they lived in a house on a grassy knoll, working wonders only for their own pleasure, from time to time returning to humanity in the shape of a nightmare.
by Alessandra Bava poetry – just like writing— is what makes the soul’s bulkheads sway.
• • • Alessandra Bava was born in Rome in “the year of the barricades.” She holds an MA in American Literature and manages her own translation agency. In 2010 she had a cathartic encounter with a SF poet laureate and she is currently writing his biography. Her works have appeared and are forthcoming in several journals, such as elimae, Poetry Quarterly, The Anemone Sidecar, Zouch Magazine & Miscellany. Her first bilingual poetry chapbook, Guerrilla Blues, is due for publication in 2012.
The Tongue Collector
________________
The general came from an old family of warriors who collected the tongues of their enemies. He preferred to claim the tongue when the victim was still alive. “The longer he’s dead the more precarious the constitution of his tongue,” he lectured. “You don’t want a stiff or a blue tongue. They’re just right when they’re fresh and pink.” We wanted to know, before we killed him, what he did with them. “They’re spiced and dried,” he said. “The drying process is akin to mummification. My Egyptian slaves, who trained with priests, perform it. It’s a ritual worth watching, because the tongue seems to come alive, as if it contained the soul itself. Whatever it is, it hangs on and writhes wildly. The tongue slips through the fingers of its handler, and when it falls to the floor it tries to get away, like a snake.” We were impressed. “You must think me a terrible barbarian,” he said, “but even if I wanted to, I could not stop severing tongues from the bodies of my antagonists. It’s in my blood.” When he saw that his last hour had come he began to talk quickly, like a madman. His last wish: he wanted to know how it felt to have your tongue cut out when you’re still alive and well. We didn’t do him the favor because we were trying to end the hewing, stabbing, impaling and other bad non-Christian habits. We didn’t judge him, we only wanted him gone. However, on the next day, we were told that the general’s body, when they lowered him in his grave, did not have a tongue. It was gone and with it his entire collection of hundreds of shriveled up glossae. Taken, we presumed, by one of his many relatives. To us they’d looked like stiff, fat slugs, but perhaps the general had been right and the tongue was the last station of the living soul before it went wherever souls go.
FIVE NIGHTMARES by Marcus Speh
Le Sucre Brun This is what I heard, okay? The camp hadn’t been built for women like her, women who smiled and averted their eyes. When they took her hair, she smiled and looked down. When they took her clothes, she smiled, looked away. When they took her necklace, a simple chain with a heart-shaped ruby, round like a kind thought, she smiled a strained smile, held onto it with long fingers used to pen and paper, said: Do you really need this? It’s my mother’s. They took it anyway. She still didn’t look at them. One of them gripped her head with hard hands and bent it upwards: look at us. She closed her eyes: I can’t. Why not, they said. Because, she said. There was something in her face that made them stop. Instead, they brought her to the commandant, who had tweezers in his drawer. When the commandant pried her lids open with steely thumbs, she screamed. — Later, they found six scorched men, five soldiers and their commandant, on the floor, baked brown like chocolate-colored cookies. The woman was nowhere to be found. This is what I heard,
32
Boboli Gardens
THE WINTER CLASSIC
On the second day after I regained my consciousness, I opened my eyes in that soft bed. I suddenly remembered that I’d been a boy from birth, not a girl, and that I had grown up to be a man. But why was I wearing a fluffy pink dress and a ribbon in my hair? Also, I could not move though I was not chained or tied to the bed. My limbs simply would not obey me so that I could not even remove the duvet to check for that part that would settle my confusion. Though, as I said, I wasn’t confused inside any more at that point, only confused about my situation. — In the evening, a man came to me. He sat in a rolling chair which was not a wheel chair and he silently operated a great number of levers. The levers were apparently somehow attached to me, because as he was applying himself at the apparatus, I moved, got up, walked, thrashed around the room, sat down, just as he pleased. I was so surprised that I didn’t even think about asking him any questions. After he’d had his druthers with me for a while, he sighed satisfied, brought me back to bed and went away leaving a smell of burnt rubber behind. He had not used my genital, so that I was still unsure if I actually was a man or a woman or if I only thought I was a man but looked like a woman. Oddly enough I could not remember anything else than the most elementary facts of my life. A long, long time before my waking up in the room dressed like an oversized doll stayed blank, as if whitewashed or covered with some opaque mental material.
by Joe Bussiere
there's a cello between my legs it is not nice to smash cellos over people's heads if you have a cello I would prefer you not to smash it over my head also I would prefer not to be murdered I catch myself thinking about fucking this girl I wanted to fuck when I was drunk surrounded by sweaty bodies and loud music I walk past the man selling coffee The sky is blue the trees have no leaves I would like to die of cancer when I get old and dumb old people can be very dumb young people can be very dumb George Carlin I think said think about how smart the average person is half of all people are stupider than that
SEWER
In The Deep Woods
by Joe Bussiere
He lifted the body. It was heavy. When he heard footsteps, he hid. He threw her over his shoulder. At the bridge, he turned around. Everybody was asleep now. He slowly walked towards the woods. There were no thoughts on his mind. His stomach hurt. He had to eat. Under an oak, he found acorns. They tasted bitter, but they were filling. Suddenly, the dead woman sat up. The moon and the stars were just right. A miracle had happened. She got up. She looked at her wound. She took his hand. He thought her skin ice cold. She wanted to smile and couldn’t. But the miracle was short-lived. When clouds obscured the moon, she died again. Once more he shouldered her body. He went deeper into the forest.
poverty injustice marriage in Arabia in the desert in the mountains on a tiny street the place I like to sit some people think about food surrounded by darkness reciting voice minds price versus taste additionally, pizza can be interesting to look at day of judgment of food the gods of food send messages when illiteracy creeps in memorize shapes when my catalogue of revelations grows evidence to sing to bank robbers and bankers I'll put on socks and shoes the smashing of the idols could fuck up the economy the television talks to belief is economy when drone is not music when me too I am finding alternative bases too we don't like you we wanna hurt you in gradual eyeballs earspirals bloodcells glowing neurons hands fingered fingers fingerprinted take my picture put it online in several places laws handed down there must be other ways but people can always find ways to sleep with less expensive options available
• • • About Marcus Speh - I'm a German writer who lives in Berlin and writes in English only. My short fiction has been published in elimae, Mad Hatter’s Review, kill author, PANK and elsewhere. First published in 2009 at Metazen, my work has been nominated for a Micro Award, two Pushcart Prizes, two Best of the Net awards and two Million Writers Awards, and was longlisted for the Paris Literary Prize. A staunch supporter of penguins and maitre d' of the legendary Kaffe in Katmandu, I blog at marcusspeh.com.
Joe Bussiere is a poet in NYC. windbagstove.blogspot.com is his blog. 33
to pay the billions in fines imposed by the courts. It took another five years for the anti-smoking lobby to convince the government that additional legislation was needed, and smoking had been completely banned. The few manufacturers who refused to quit went underground. Beverley leaned closer to Tom to get a whiff of the smoke that he was exhaling. In the glow of several thousand cigarettes, there was a distinct blue haze overtaking the entire tunnel. The latest trend was the mixing of tobacco with marijuana and this had been well received by those who were against the ban. At times, Beverley couldn’t figure who was the more addicted of the two of them. She’d come from a family of non-smokers but had picked up the habit more so to rebel against the growing interdiction, than from the fulfillment of a craving. Tom had started even before he turned ten. He’d come from a family of smokers and it had been a real challenge for him, especially after they passed the law outlawing the tobacco companies and smoking became a prohibited act, punishable by a fine for the first infraction, rehabilitation for the second, jail for subsequent offences. “How did you manage to get released?” Tom said. “It wasn’t easy,” Beverley said. “Son of a bitch Wong put me through the ringer, wanted to know where the latest underground was located, and names of the people who went to them.” “What did you tell him?” “Nothing. The new Aromaless cigarettes help. They can’t detect smokers that easily these days.” “Won’t be long before they come up with something to counter it, though. Must have been a real battle of wills between you and Wong.” “It was. How did you escape? I thought for sure they had you cornered.” “I gave them the slip and went down a back alley.” It had been three days ago when the underground they were in –an abandoned tunnel that had been started to connect Centre Island to Toronto, was raided by SAS –the Anti Smoking Squad. Beverley and Tom had made their way to the back of the tunnel and escaped by climbing a ladder leading up to a manhole. In the early days of the movement, hundreds of people were picked up easily and it was only after emergency exits were built in every new tunnel that flight from the SAS became possible. But, on this occasion, just as they emerged through the manhole cover, they found the squad waiting for them. She was certain that someone had squealed, not only about the location, but about the emergency exits also. In addition to having to worry about people in the movement squealing to gain favours, they also had to be on guard for vigilantes –armed squads of roving citizens on the lookout for smokers. There were reports circulating about a few smokers being shot on sight. “You were lucky,” Beverley said. “I know. It’s getting tougher and tougher to evade them with that heat and smoke equipment they’re using these days.” The technology had changed radically over the last decade, some of it for better. Sure, diabetes had been virtually eradicated with the introduction of engineered pancreas. Body parts could be bought off the shelf: there were manufactured kidneys, livers, pancreas, all coded with the
The Underground by Kenneth Puddicombe
T
he tunnel was packed all the way to the rear, much more so tonight than Beverley had ever seen on previous occasions. Even though she and Tom had arrived late it wasn’t long before they were pushed and compressed further into the dark, dank underground sewer, one of several that had been sanctioned by the committee. The sewer system had quickly become the last resort for those who were determined not to surrender to the smoking ban, and the stench had proved effective in avoiding detection, so far. Beverley shivered. The only comfort against the biting cold came from the cigarette they were sharing, that and the heat generated by the other bodies. There were many groups sharing, people passing a cigarette from one to the other. Based on the size of the tunnel, she figured that there had to be several thousand people. With more than fifty much larger venues still undetected, she thought that the movement was still on the increase, despite all efforts by the government to track and eliminate them. Beverley took another drag on the cigarette. “This is good shit,” she said. “Where did you get it from?” Tom shrugged and took the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and the glow from the cigarette lit up his face enough for her to see the amount of pleasure he was experiencing. He looked like a kid locked in a pastry shop, someone who can’t believe his good fortune would last forever, and so he has to make the most of it. It was more than a minute before Tom exhaled and responded. “Same as all the others,” he said. “Bought it on the black market.” Cigarettes had been taxed heavily back in the 2015 budget when the government was desperately looking to fund the growing demand on the health services. Governments had always raised a significant portion of their revenue through Sin taxes, but this time the levies became so onerous that several companies went out of business. Ten years later, those that remained were successfully sued by governments and many had to declare bankruptcy, unable 34
recipient’s genetic code for implantation. Cancer had decreased by over eighty percent. AIDS and the common cold had been eradicated with the discovery of new antiviral drugs. These were all things that had helped to raise the life span to nearly one hundred and twenty-five years. And people never looked and felt better. Baldness drugs were now available for both men and women. Artificial skin was now transplantable and they lived in a society with no wrinkles. People never suffered the discomfort or embarrassment of dentures –teeth were replaced by implants. But, with the improvement in health had come growing government intrusion in the lives of its citizens, something that the underground movement was formed to combat. “You can still outrun the best of them,” Beverley said, with a certain amount of admiration. Tom shook his head. “There’s coming a day, though, when I won’t be able to get away from them.” Tom had always been able to outrun SAS. He was one of the Bionic athletes, people who had artificial knees, ligaments and muscles. Olympic rules had been relaxed to accommodate them since many athletes worldwide had found ways to utilize the technology. It was at the 2024 Olympics in Cape Town, the first in Africa, that she’d met Tom and they’d started living together a short while after. Beverley shook her head. It was the uncertainty that got to her most of all –they never knew where it would end. It was like pulling a loose string from a quilt and having no idea about the actual length of the thread. “I’m so tired,” she said. “I feel like I could sleep for a year. Why can’t they just leave us alone to carry on with our lives?' She hadn’t been allowed to sleep for two days and nights during Wong’s interrogation…
tion that there was no data available. If SAS had any doubt that the cure had worked, you were shackled with an electronic monitor that tracked your movements and filtered the air around you, sending back messages to SAS. “You have nothing on me,” she said. “You have to let me go.” Wong sat down across the table and accessed an electronic tablet he’d been toting around. He had a way of parting his lips and opening his mouth wide, and when he did, his even, white teeth were on display. He was obviously not a habitual smoker. He was someone who only took pleasure in it to show that he had the power to do it. Here was a man, she thought, who would actually like going to the dentist, someone who liked the feel of the drill, the shaking, rattling, whirring, buzzing that creates a sensation that he would actually get high on. “Give me more,” would be his thought as he sat in the chair. “Why are you giving me a hard time? I can take good care of you, if you let me. We have a lot in common, you and me,” Wong said, as he scrolled down the tablet. “I doubt that very much.” Wong continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “We’re both cut from the same cloth, so to speak.” “What do you mean?” “I see that your great-grandparents came from Guyana, in South America.” “So?” “Mine did too, around the same time, back in the nineteen sixties. They were all coming here to give their children a better life. It’s what we’re trying to do here, now. Why don’t you help us?” Beverley laughed. “That’s funny. I heard that they left the old country because of a brutal dictatorship, and now we seem to be going down the same road here.” Wong ignored the remark and looked at his tablet. “Says here that you applied for a child permit twice and you were rejected because you didn’t pass the means test.” He had to be accessing the government’s central database. What other information did they have on her, she wondered. It was rumored that they knew everything about you these days, right down to your smoking habits. Wong would also know that Tom had been a sperm donor before he was sterilized in his early teens. His sperm was now held in a central bank, monitored and doled out by authorities, to be used in artificial placenta and vitro fertilization, a process that regulated childbirth from conception right down to delivery. Beverley sniggered. Means Test: it was an oxymoron for a process to determine whether you were fit to be a parent. The Department of Conception developed a dossier of the applicant, no doubt with information from the central database. Based on a number of different factors ranging from your ability to provide for the child to your psychological profile, you were deemed eligible for parenthood or rejected outright, with no explanation provided. The Freedom of Information Act had been abolished long ago and no one could access government information, but Beverley was sure that smoking would have played a major part in the decision. “I can fix things so that you have that permit,” Wong said. Beverley shook her head. “No deal. It’s a bit too late for that. Either book me, or let me go.”
• • • He’d come into the interrogation room time and again. Just as she was about to nod off, he’d return and wake her with more questions. “Tell me where the next Smokevention is and I’ll let you go,” Wong said. He carried around his short, rotund body with an agility that defied his size, bobbing around the room in his uniform and constantly stopping directly in front of her to blow smoke in her face. The irony of what he was doing could hardly escape her: here was the man in charge of eradicating the institution of smoking in Canada, and yet was using the very act to torture her. “You know we’re going to get all of you, sooner or later,” Wong said. “Why don’t you make it easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know. I can make it worthwhile for you.” She was intrigued. “How are you going to do that?” Another puff of smoke in her face, followed by: “Unlimited cigarettes in payment. You’d never have to worry again about satisfying your craving. Or, we could put you through the program, if you want.” The program –she’d heard enough of that to know that it was the last thing she wanted. Those who participated were pumped full of drugs containing a cocktail of Nicontrolic, Nicofin and Nicototrelief. It either killed you or cured you but the government had refused to release information and Statistics Canada had been so emasculated as an institu35
thankful for the kind gesture. I hate the wallpaper, lady finger pink and little boy blue.
• • • Beverley stirred. She’d been sleeping on Tom’s shoulder. The tunnel had grown even more crowded and the noise level had increased substantially. A few people had fallen into the actual sewer and climbed back out with the help of others in the group. Tom was still smoking. She’d thought it was the only one he’d had and was surprised to see another cigarette between his lips. He seemed to have a secret stash that he was not sharing with her, something that was unlike him. Sooner or later they had to leave and go out again, hoping to escape detection. It was growing much more difficult in the city than the rural areas that were facing a prolonged dry spell. Forest fires had already wiped out thousands of acres of prime forest. The government was unable to detect smokers there, as much as they were unable to control the fires raging out of control. The tunnels in the city had become the last escape for smokers, and all around she saw nervous people coming to the end of their community cigarette. Tom was no different –he looked like a bird that had grown accustomed to the security of its cage and was fearful that if he left he might meet some unknown peril and not know how to deal with it. A sudden calm rippled through the entire tunnel. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane. Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened. “Do you hear that?” Beverley said. Tom shook his head. “Don’t hear anything.” “Yes, it’s coming from the direction of the entrance.” It was where everyone’s attention was focused. “You’re imagining things,” he said. ”There’s nothing back there.” But people had already started to head for the escape tunnel in the rear. “We should go,” she said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Tom said. “Wait here with me. I will take good care of you.” Wong had told her the same thing: that he would take good care of her. She ran with the others. The last time she looked back, Tom was calmly puffing away on his cigarette, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
How do I escape the fire that runs wind sprints across my stern? I thirst for water; they bring me ice, frozen glass that tears my nerves. Pack my night gowns, burp cloths, and my good mother books. I know their refrain. I pray she doesn't turn blue. She can roll over at four months, sing "Mary had a Little Lamb" when she turns two. If she can't, what will I do? Will I recognize her? I never asked her name. We are strangers, though I can trace the pattern of her elbow, knee, her plush head. We shake hands across a plane paper thin. Does she hear my voice? I talk to her in the dark when sleep toys with me. Can you please tell her that I love her? She might not know. I confuse her when I weep dehydrated tears, or yell to quiet her fears. Can I unlock her cipher? I need a cryptologist. Will she resent me if I feed her from a plastic teat? I asked you to come, but it wasn't a good idea. Stop by later in the month, or year, or never. Keep her a while longer. I'm not ready to obey physics. I can defy gravity. Is she ripe? Is she ready? Has she clung to my branch too long? I am brutal to leave her inside. She sleeps in my bloated house—safe. Rock-a-Bye, don't let the bough break. Do I spread my wings and let her fall? Sever the string that tethers her to me.
• • •
Room 402 by Janna Vought When will you come? Time is apathetic to my misery. It crawls along the wall as it searches for a decent program to watch at four in the morning. My belly blisters and groans. Her soft fingers brush my womb, like a feather strikes the wall. I say Amen to her introduction,
Please come soon, or not, if you choose. I wait in room 402. 36
Farewell Mon Amie
A Writer's Recipe for Inclusion
by Janna Vought
by Janna Vought
I'm sorry, dear friend, for my apathy and indiscretion. Shadows crawl from my mouth, eclipse your smile. Wet air hangs limp as the acetone laundry left to spoil in the sun. You ran when butterflies fled in drunken flight from my cruelty.
Take my words and break them in two. Scramble them about with forked sarcasm and biting remarks. Wear an apron to protect you from the bloodshed that is my slaughter. Extract any meaning; blend in your own meditations. Rinse clean my character in scalding water that blisters. Measure restraint with precision, careful not to choke on the velvet dust. Flatten my voice with your mallet; pound it paper thin. Assure I go
I apologize for my neglect. I forgot the garden in your absence. Where you blossomed, weeds infest, wrap their spindles around my vacant home. Your laughter twisted from you like a ribbon on April's breath. You watched the children play hide and go seek, camouflaged by clouds. I made you come inside my bitterness.
unremembered in this place. A pinch of my tongue provides a dash of truth. Knead your vacant text. A drop of mottled language stirred into
I caged your joy. You lie alone in your limestone cell while I cry my crocodile tears. I drank wine as your gashes festered. My edge sank into your chest. Joy spilled. I consumed the remains.
the milk- white curdle. Cook inside a gas chamber the ideal size for my head until half-baked, an oozing unformed middle— outer edges dry and crisp. Frost with thick paste that bridles the unbroken spice. Where's the flavor? Like a green apple drips, tart and refreshing, in one
Forgive me for my misguided hand. I touch your face upon my looking glass. It peers out with mirrored eyes exact. I lie in our bed, lonely for your company. Papayas and cocoa butter rest on your pillow. I sent you far away, where the rooster crows Hosanna, praise be.
glorious crunch—savored. While you're lost in the presentation, the food grows stale and molded, rotting on your forged golden table. It's flat and dead, no rise. No one wants to consume your bland and insipid bread.
I betrayed you. I guided you where God extinguished the stars. Please return to my reflection. I am but an aching memory without you.
• • • About Janna Vought I am currently an MFA graduate student at Lindenwood University in Saint Charles, Missouri. My literary interests include feminist literature and paranormal and occult works. My nonfiction work has been published in Imperfect Parent Magazine and my poetry was featured in The Eagle Literary Journal. I also have two short fiction works featured in Tough Lit V published by IdeaGems Publications.
37
The Birthday Party by Alan W. Jankowski
S
until my mom announced it was time to eat. Sandra and I followed her into the kitchen and helped her bring the various pots into the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. As I entered the room, I could not help but notice the four place settings with my mother’s best china placed carefully upon the white table cloth my mother reserved for special occasions. There was a polished silver candlestick holder squarely in the middle. Four chairs were arranged carefully around the old rectangular wooden table, and after Sandra and I finished bringing out the food I helped seat my mother proudly at the table’s head. Her dog Sammy made himself comfortable at her feet. I helped my wife dish out the stew, and then my mother led us all in prayer as she blessed the food. As dinner got underway, my mom reminisced non-stop about the “good old days” and how she had met my father at one of the dance socials that were popular in her small town at the time. She must have repeated about ten times how meeting my father was “the best thing that happened” in her life. When dinner was over I helped Sandra clear the table and we brought out the cake and served it. My mother again led us as we all sang “Happy Birthday.” When we were done with the cake, my mother got up and went into the bedroom. I knew this part of the evening was coming as she did it every year, and it always made me uncomfortable, though I knew it was harmless. Sandra and I waited in silence as she returned with an old photo album. She sat back down and started slowly turning the tattered pages. As she stopped at every page, she would reminisce, and her reminiscing was accompanied by stories told so vividly you would have thought they were happening at that very moment. Perhaps in her mind they were. When she was done going through the photo album, my mother turned to me and asked if I would go into the living room and put on the radio. It seemed like an innocent enough request. When I returned, I was a bit taken aback by what she said next. “Your father and I want to dance,” she said calmly. “But Mom,” I started somewhat excitedly. My wife reached over suddenly and put her hand on mine. I thought quickly for a moment. “But Mom,” I continued, “I really want this dance with you. I’m sure Dad won’t mind.” The music wafted in softly from the other room as I danced slowly with my mother in the small dining room. As we danced, I wondered what was going on in my mother’s mind these days. She was approaching eighty herself, and her mind was not what it used to be. She seemed to remember details from the distant past so vividly, and yet the present often seemed a blur. I wondered sometimes if she even realized my father had been dead almost nine years, and yet it seemed she never once forgot his birthday. Afterwards, my wife and I cleaned up the table and put
he did this every year, so the call came as no surprise. In fact, I had been expecting it for the last few days. The only surprise was that it took so long. I was sitting with my wife having our coffee after dinner when the phone rang. As I got up to answer, my wife gave me a knowing glance but did not say a word. It was as if we both knew instinctively. “Hello.” I started into the phone, “Oh, hi Mom. Yeah, I’d been expecting your call.” I talked to my mother over the phone for several minutes while my wife Sandra sat quietly at the table staring down and clutching her coffee cup. “Yes Mom,” I said into the phone, “Sandra and I will both be there this weekend. Yes, I know it’s Dad’s eightieth birthday.” I said my goodbyes to my mother and hung the phone back up on the wall. Quietly, I rejoined my wife back at the table. We both sat in silence for a few minutes as we sipped our coffee. “She wants you to make one of your pistachio cakes, she says it’s Dad’s favorite.” My wife let out an audible sigh. “Just do it,” I added, “It’s only once a year.” When the weekend arrived my wife and I got in the car and started the two hour drive. Sandra looked good in her pretty blue dress as she sat silently in the passenger seat with the plastic cake container on her lap. We were both a bit apprehensive about these yearly birthday parties my mom threw for my dad. We should be used to them by now, yet you never knew quite what to expect. When we got to the house, we parked the car and walked up to the door. I rang the doorbell as we both stood motionless outside. “Coming.” I could hear my mother shout from inside. I could also hear her dog Sammy barking on the other side of the door. I knew my mom would take a while to reach the door, as she had been using a cane these last few years. After what seemed like a long eternity, my mother answered. She was dressed in a floral print dress of pastel shades suitable for any party. Her dog Sammy was jumping at her feet barking. “Oh you brought the cake,” my mother said with a big smile, “your dad will be so happy.” She led us in to the simply decorated living room and I noticed the same ‘Happy Birthday’ candelabra on the mantle that had been brought out every year at this time and placed carefully next to the framed portrait of my parents. There were also fresh cut flowers in a clear glass vase on the coffee table in the center of the room. My mother instructed us to put the cake in the kitchen and as I walked through the house the distinct smell of my mother’s beef stew wafted through the air. I knew it was my father’s favorite. We all sat in the living room making small talk for a while 38
everything away including the uneaten piece of birthday cake from in front of my father’s empty seat. Sandra and I did the dishes, and then joined my mother back in the living room where we made small talk the best we could for another hour or so. At the end of the night, we said our goodbyes. My mother thanked us repeatedly for coming to the party. “It means so much that you kids could come by,” she started, “it gets so lonely here for us sometimes.” As I kissed my mother goodnight and said goodbye, I felt tears forming in my eyes. I told her I’d call her soon, and that she should keep in touch. I realized there was nothing else I could really do for her. All I could do for her was keep in touch, and show up at my father’s birthday party next year.
stab of fear. What if her mother should call through the door and say she could not go? The living room seemed to stretch before her, dark and empty, a no-man's land. She had been tip-toeing and now she ran, not caring how much noise she made, wanting only to be out of the door and onto the verandah before her mother could call and demand that she stay. Everyone was in the car waiting for her. "Hurry up, Jo or we'll leave you behind," her father said, half joking as he lifted her across his lap to sit beside John, who was huddled, half asleep in the back seat. He was a wiry boy, John, although some would have said scrawny, and his pale skin was heavily freckled. He had an unruly mop of bright red hair which earned for him the nickname of Blue, but only in the schoolyard, since neither the teacher nor John's parents approved of the name and therefore it did not follow him into the classroom or home. Jo was in the same class and, although she did not know John well, she liked what she had seen of him. He was a quiet boy, serious and shy and remarkably good at his school work. They both sat up the back of the classroom; Jo because she thought that such a position made it easier to avoid the attention of the teacher and thus she would not be called upon to answer questions and John simply because he preferred to sit somewhere that he could watch everyone and everything that took place. He didn't look very excited, thought Jo, as she moved in beside him. In fact, he looked as if he desperately wanted to be anywhere but where he was. "Are you okay?" she whispered. He nodded. "Yeah, just a bit tired," he replied, burying the words in the thick woollen scarf which he wore around his neck. The night was cold and the words arrived in a frosting of breath. The beads gathered on the window and Jo watched as John traced his finger through the misted glass. She giggled as he quickly wiped away at the icy letters B-U-M, taking a quick, guilty glance at her father as she did so. He had not noticed. He was drinking from a bottle which Mr Nelson had passed over from the front seat. John rubbed at his trousers with the wet sleeve of his coarse-knit jumper. He gave Jo a conspiratorial grin. He was beginning to look more cheerful and she was glad of that. She felt as if she had a true and noble companion on this night of great adventure. She turned back to look at her father, hoping that he was not still drinking from the bottle. She did not want him to drink, not tonight and yet already the sour smell of beer was rolling from his breath. His eyes glittered in the silver light. She turned back to look through John's window instead. The night was black, but the moon was full and the stars shimmered in an icy sprinkle, high up, on the roof of the world. Along the side of the road, trees like ghosts, stark and straight, the bark silvered by the lunar light. The gums hung twisted arms across the road and, from time to time, a flash of quick-bright eyes and a fluttering of shapes, as the birds rose and re-settled, disturbed by the lights from the car and this unexpected passing. The voices grew louder. Jo was glad to see that her father had passed the bottle back to John's uncle. The men were taking about the last time they went hunting...retelling past times, past lives.
• • • Alan W. Jankowski is the author of well over one hundred short stories, plays and poems. His work has been published online on various sites, in e-Zines and print since 2009. 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
Grace and Favour by Roslyn Ross omeone was shaking her, calling her name, "Come on, Jo, wake up. It's time to go." It was her father, his face fleshy, alternating from shadow to a blurred yellowing in the moving glow of torchlight. He helped her into thick trousers and a heavy woollen jumper. She always hated the feel of wool on her bare skin, but she could not find her shirt and he was in a hurry to go. The jumper was far too big for her and each sleeve needed to be folded back twice. Grandma Blackman had knitted it for her sixth birthday, with plenty of room to grow. She was now seven and she seemed to have done very little growing. "Hurry up and finish," her father said, "and meet me out the front. The Nelson's are already here...I just heard their car. It's after one already." She had begged to be able to go rabbiting with him for so long and today he had said yes. Bill Nelson's son, John, was coming along, her father told her, and he was the same age as her...they would keep each other busy so they did not get in the way. The house was in darkness as she walked up the hall. The door to her mother's room was tightly closed, but she knew she was awake, lying in the middle of the bed, her head resting against the veneered back; listening. There was a sense of adventure to the moment, a joyful turning of excitement in her stomach, replaced for a moment by a
S
39
a world of spectral shapes and blinded eyes, of small pounding hearts and sudden death. The rifles cracked in short, hard blasts. Jo hid her face in John's bony shoulder. When she raised her head again, hands crushed over both ears, she could see, over the rim of the door, a flash and twinkling of small, red stars, scattered across the shadowed night and then, for a moment, something new, a yellowed narrowness, larger than the other eyes, still for a moment, as if watching, waiting...then gone in an explosive instant. "Got him!" roared her father. "I'll bet that's the fox you boys have been after!" "Smart bugger, that one," said John's father. "He's had a good run though, done his fair share of damage. Bit of good luck, him choosing tonight to chase bunnies too!" When the car slowed and both men pulled their rifles back through the window, Jo knew it was over. She was glad. She would not ask to come again. It wasn't much fun, at all. She didn't see why her father liked it so much. They retraced their path, collecting the carcases as they did so, pushing them into a large hessian sack, which had been fixed to the side of the car. It took them a while to find the fox...it was not where they had expected. It did not die instantly, but had managed to drag itself almost to the fence, despite the mortal tearing in its belly. As it lay, folded onto the dry, barren earth, lit by the glow of the lantern, it seemed, thought Jo, as if it were asleep. A black, wet lingering trailed from the soft and lifeless body and disappeared beyond the pool of light. Jo had not felt sorry for the rabbits, she knew they were a nuisance to the farmers and, anyway, she liked to eat them. But the fox, that was different, she did feel sorry for the fox. It was the first real fox she had seen, apart from the one around Great-aunt Sisi's neck, but that didn't count, she told herself, because it had no insides. This one had insides, but it was just as dead. The small, pointed teeth shone bright sharp and she wanted to reach out and touch them...but maybe it wasn't really dead, maybe it was just fooling and, as soon as she reached out, it would bite her. She stepped back, hiding just a little behind her father's leg as he reached out and picked up the fox by its tail. But it did not bite, not even when it was shoved unceremoniously into the sack. It must really be dead, she said to herself, even though it hadn't looked like it. It wasn’t such a big hole in its belly and nothing was falling out...she didn't really understand why it had to be dead. She hadn't realised it was that easy to be dead. When the last, warm, soft body had been gathered, the car pulled off to the side of the paddock, near a small but tenacious scrub of trees. Jo and John were sent to gather wood for a fire, while the men set up extra lanterns and polished their skinning knives. The fire lit, the billy set to boil, Jo sat with John on a log pulled close to the warming flames and watched as the rabbits were skinned. The knives shone, moon-sharp, sliding through the shadows; a tearing and wrenching and then, the limp, pink body thrown to one side onto a damp hessian sack, the still fur-dressed head, lolling open-mouthed. The men worked quickly, stopping only to stir the tea and then to pour it into chipped enamel mugs. Jo held both chilled hands around her mug, even though it was almost too hot to bear. Despite the fire which blazed and crackled at her feet, she felt frozen, all the way inside.
"Can you find the saucepan?" John whispered. She leaned across him, staring into the glittered black, but the shape eluded her. "There it is...see," said John, pointing across the top of the sleep-humped hills. She followed the line of his finger: "I see it. I see it!" There was a sense of wonder, as always, in finding some meaning in the stars. "That's what God cooks in," she said to John. "Don't be silly," he replied. "God doesn't eat!" Jo began to feel distressed at the thought of a hungry God. "Why not?" she asked. "Because he doesn't need to," John replied, in the tone of voice he usually reserved for his much younger siblings. "He's God and he can do anything he wants, so why should he eat?" Jo was not prepared to let the matter slip quite so easily. "Well," she said, forming her words carefully, "If he did want to eat...then, well then, he could cook in the saucepan...if he wanted to. It's there, just in case he needs it!" she finished, with a triumphant edge. "Guess so," said John, conceding defeat in the face of such logic, although sounding more than a little uncomfortable about the outcome of the conversation. It was then that the car turned off the sealed road and drove onto a bush track with a resounding thump. They began to bump and slide, with an ominous rolling from side to side, the dust rising in a thick belching outside the windows. The men were all laughing as the car wallowed and drifted in the soft dirt, throwing up rocks and stones which clattered beneath them. Jo felt frightened. She looked at John...he was frightened too. His freckles stood out, sharp-edged and solid against his pallid face, and his lips had all but disappeared, clenched as they were between his teeth. "We're going too fast," Jo whispered, trying to sound unconcerned and hoping desperately that he would contradict her. "My dad always drives too fast. He likes it. I don't," John replied, hugging his arms ever tighter around the rough wool of his jumper. Both children sighed when at last the car came to an abrupt halt. "You two stay here," said John's father."We're just going to load our guns and open the gates to the paddock." The men set up a spotlight on the front bonnet and then took their rifles from the boot, loading and checking them in the light of a portable lantern, before returning to the car. "Now for some bunnies," said John's father, as he drove off the track and into the paddock. “You two keep to that side and stay quiet," he added firmly. "With any luck, you'll have baked bunny for tea tomorrow night." The car lurched across the open paddock like some wild beast trying to break free. John's uncle and Jo's father leaned out of their windows, rifles cocked and ready, waiting for the flash of bright, red eyes...caught for an eternal moment in the glare of the spotlight. Jo felt John's arm creep around her and slid her arm around his waist at the same time. She was glad that she had someone to hold on to. The car heaved and thudded across the roughly cleared ground, tearing its way between the great, dry sods of fallow soil; the wind screamed bitter cold through the open windows, biting and chewing at her face. It was like riding some great, groaning monster, rising and falling on the swell and the surge of the earth's wild waves. Through the front window she could see the phantasmal world which had been stolen from the night by the cruel brilliance of the spotlight; 40
They had had a good night, the men said, some three-dozen rabbits, some for eating, some for selling. The skins would be sold too, hung first on the wire fence at the farm to dry, crisp and hard on the flesh side, while the fur remained grey, silk-soft. Jo wondered if they would skin the fox. She hoped not. She didn't want to see that happen. Because her father had shot the fox, it was his to keep. The pelt was valuable, she heard them say, and this fox was a good one, not like the usual moth-eaten pests which hung around the place. This fox had fur that was rich and titianthick. Jo began to doze, falling against John's shoulder as she did so when she heard the men begin to laugh; she looked up and saw her father, standing on the edge of the glowering firelight, the body of the fox draped around his neck, a trickle of blood dribbling between the pointed teeth onto the front of his shirt. He began to dance, wild and taunting, around the rise and reach of the red-gold flames, laughing as he did. She could hear the bright-burned crush of leaves underfoot; the thin, brown scales of the shedding gums. He twirled and turned like a woman dressed in long, swirling skirts, raising the tail of the fox to rest coyly beneath his eyes. Jo watched his face. This was no-one she knew. He seemed unaware of the blood, which continued in a slow, black drip, down the front of his clothes. "Come on Charlie, you're making a mess of yourself," said John's father, after taking a quick look at the stricken faces of the children. "The damn thing is bleeding on you. Get it off and stop larking around." With a quick sweep of his hand, her father swung the fox by the tail, onto a blackened tree stump and within a few flashes of the knife, had raised the shining red-gold pelt, high into the air. "What a little beauty!" he roared. "That deserves another beer." The carcase, raw and naked, lay across the stump, until John's father walked over and chopped it into pieces, ready to take back to the farm to be fed to the dogs. Jo felt as if some sacred violation had taken place, but whether it was because of the fox or because of her father, she was not quite sure. She looked up at the sky, fearing the wrath of the gods, but the night had no frown for the face of the moon.
Conversation by Robert Graham I can hold a conversation and that’s something women appreciate in a man, though I wouldn’t argue with anyone who said it did me no good with you. Until you slipped into the room, the party we met at was an unpromising affair. There were a few people I knew but didn’t really want to talk to and one or two I would have liked to have approached but didn’t have the nerve. Bottles of wine decked the drinks table when all I felt like was beer and the nibbles weren’t tempting me: tortilla chips and Bombay mix. (Did anyone ever like Bombay mix – even in the past, when it was novel?) Feeling downcast, I was staring at the carpet when I saw elegant legs moving my way. Fine shoes. An elegant ankle. My eyes followed the beautiful form that turned out to be you all the way up to a face that was smiling at me. Smiling, or were you laughing? ‘Don’t you hate parties?’ you said. ‘In fact I do,’ I said. ‘Why?’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘Why do you hate parties?’ ‘All that having to make conversation with people you don’t know.’ It was only when it was out that I realised this might not have sounded very friendly. ‘I see,’ you said. ‘I love talking to strangers. I just don’t think a party is a good place to do it. Too crowded, too noisy.’ I studied your face, devouring the details like a man who could live just by savouring good looks. Your dark eyes. Your high cheekbones. Your plump, signal-red lips. ‘Maybe I should have said it depends on the stranger.’ Your left eyebrow pricked up. ‘What?’ ‘You mean that if the stranger were me, you’d be prepared to make an exception?’ ‘Ha,’ I laughed, one short exclamation. But, not wanting to offer you too much of an advantage, I made no reply. (Ironic. Later I gave you the advantage at every turn.) You smiled. ‘This is the wrong place. Too crowded – ‘ ‘ – too noisy.’ ‘Exactly.’ You burrowed in your bag and produced something: a business card. ‘Here. Call me and we can find a quiet spot and make some conversation.’ ‘Okay. I will,’ I said and accepted the card. ‘Just the two of us, strangers together.’ You placed a light hand against my elbow for a moment and smiled. Then you turned and left the room, and, as far as I could tell, the party. A business card. Nobody had ever given me a business card before. It said your name and told me that you were a chemical engineer. In the past, I had never really mixed with scientists. Scientists weren’t exactly from Mars, but they were…well – strange.
• • •
41
‘Do you tell lies?’ You looked earnest, staring up at me from under your eyelashes. ‘No.’ ‘Never.’ ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Good.’ Even at the time, it seemed a peculiar punctuation to our kiss.
When I phoned you, I got your voicemail, so I left a message. Later, you might just have ignored it and I would never have heard from you again and would have been spared a lot of grief. But a couple of days passed – was that strategy? – and you returned my call. You suggested we meet in the cathedral. ‘You mean in the café? I said. At the time, I had never been to the cathedral. ‘No,’ you said. ‘There is no café.’
We settled into the rhythms of a relationship. We ate sometimes at restaurants, in town or in the country, out towards where you lived. (I did start to notice though, that you weren’t inviting me to visit you.) We went to the cinema. I was a bit more arthouse than you, but at home – my home – you introduced me to the pleasures of DVD box sets and we slowly worked our way through 24 and Lost, as well as Third Rock From The Sun. You liked to walk and I was happy to do more of it than I might have done in the past. We went for days out in the Lakes, in the Peak District and in Yorkshire. You had a thing about walking in woods, so we drove out and found forests I had never heard of and strolled over rusty pine needles in the shade and the cool. I knew one of these forests was only a few miles from where you lived, so I wondered if you would invite me back afterwards. You didn’t. Whether out of pride or a wish not to embarrass you, I decided not to mention this.
We sat in a pew a few rows from the front. It was a weekday. There weren’t many people inside. None near us anyway. ‘If you sit at the front, other visitors assume you’re praying,’ you whispered. ‘Even if we’re talking?’ ‘The trick is to look as if we aren’t talking.’ But I didn’t want to seem not to be talking to you; that would have meant not looking at you and looking at you was what I wanted to do. At that time, I was wondering what my life would be, I was wondering whom I might end up with and maybe I believed that if I looked at you long enough, I would know if it was you. However, as I murmured questions and listened to the answers, I played the game the way you wanted me to and looked at the back of the pew in front or the stained glass windows above. It turned out you lived in the country, over thirty minutes’ train ride away. I think I was flattered that you had traveled in to see me. I found out you had a sister and a brother – one older, the other younger. Your mother was dead and you didn’t get on with your father. You said you hadn’t spoken to him for a year. You had studied at Durham. People said Durham was for those who couldn’t get into Oxford or Cambridge. I didn’t know if that meant you were cleverer than me or not. After half an hour you said you had to go. You didn’t say why and I didn’t ask. ‘But this has been lovely,’ you said. ‘Maybe we can go for a walk next time?’ ‘Okay, great. When?’ ‘I don’t know. Text me.’ Thinking about it now, that was twice in a row you had asked me out by telling me to ask you out.
We didn’t go to the theatre. You said it was one thing you couldn’t stand. But we weren’t short of things to do together. We also found that we both liked art, so it became a little tradition if we were seeing each other on a Sunday to visit one or other of the art galleries in town. Of course, we slept together. We were in love. And then we broke up. It took the spring out of my step and weighed my heart down more effectively than a breezeblock. It was a humanitarian disaster. The BBC sent Fergal Keane in to be empathetic. But I slogged on. I wasn’t the first guy to get jilted. IN time, friends told me, I would get over it. It was autumn again, though, and every time I left the house there were reminders of those days when we started going out. The longing was intense, pulling and pulling me towards someone who was no longer there. I deleted your details from my phone. Winter came, Christmas was glum and winter went. Spring, obviously, is when nature comes back to life, so perhaps something of that affected me. I began to think I might get up again, move on again. I thought of plans I could hatch to help that happen. I wondered about a holiday; a break could be the answer. Or maybe I needed a new job in a new town. But somehow, getting up and moving on never happened. In the summer, a friend of mine ran into you with a woman you introduced as your mother. ‘But her mother’s dead,’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘That’s what she told me.’ ‘Look like she’s had a resurrection.’ I thought about what this could mean and all I could see was that it meant you had lied to me. I wondered, too, what might be behind you never bringing me to your house: if you
The circumstances were ideal the first time we kissed. It was autumn, so the ground was covered in leaves that were bronze and yellow and red and there was the scent of autumn, too – that marinade of decaying vegetation which is somehow suggestive of medicine, even if it’s actually the smell of nature dying. And we were in the grounds of my favourite stately home where the design – the elegant buildings, the exquisite walled gardens – rivaled creation. With the autumn setting and the grand buildings in the background, we only needed a jazz soundtrack to make it a Woody Allen film, and for sure you were as cute and astute as Diane Keaton. The low sun gilded the trees and warmed our faces as our bodies pressed together comfortably, as we enfolded each other easily, we kissed and the kissing was snug and complete. ‘Do you ever lie?’ you asked as we drew apart. ‘What?’
42
good opportunity to do something I never got to do with you. As it turned out, it was an especially good performance. I had forgotten how funny it was and enjoyed the exuberant relish with which Ernest pursued his double life in the city and the country. This friend and I stayed on for a drink in the theatre bar afterwards and we were just trading favourite moments from the show when I looked over his shoulder and saw you just as you spotted me. It was as if lightning flashed all around your head. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to my friend and walked over to you. ‘This is a surprise,’ you said brightly. ‘I thought you couldn’t stand the theatre?’ ‘Well I may have said that, I may have said that in a particular moment… ‘ And your voice trailed off. A man I had never seen before appeared at your side and put his arm round your shoulder. You were looking right into my eyes. All expression drained form your face. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Paul, my husband,’ you said. And then, as cool as a thief, you introduced me to him. I think I was too shocked to say anything. ‘Paul’s the director.’ I almost said, Of what? But then my mind started working again and I understood. I understood a lot. The pieces all slotted into place. Why you would want to avoid taking me to the theatre. Why you couldn’t bring me to your house. And, obviously, why you couldn’t accept my proposal.
were lying about your mother, what were you hiding out there? I took up running. I avoided going anywhere near your part of the country. (Although if I had had your address, I think I would have driven straight to your doorstep for a stakeout. I weighed myself for the first time in ages and found that I had lost a stone. The summer passed without me going away. What would have been the point of having all that time to myself? I might have been heartbroken, but I had no urge to be self-destructive. I miss you. It came in out of the blue and knocked me over. You were no longer in my phone, so the text was unidentified, but I recognised your number. I didn’t know what to do. For days, I stalled. Friends, most of them, advised me not to respond. ‘You’re just beginning to get over her,’ one of them said. (Was I?) One or two suggested I give it a go, try again. We wouldn’t be the first couple in history to have broken up and then got back together again. Such things happen. Okay. Let’s meet, I texted back. As I pressed Send, my heart was ticking in me like a time bomb. When I saw you again, you said it again: ‘I miss you.’ I had never seen you look so vulnerable. ‘Me, too,’ I said. And we clung tightly to each other. ‘Let’s never break up again,’ I murmured over your shoulder. While we were getting back on an even keel, I didn’t want to risk asking why I couldn’t come to your place. Maybe I didn’t want to know the answer. We went back to the things we used to do, but there were also new distractions. You would sometimes join me when I went out for a run. You would sometimes cook for me when you stayed over. (I don’t know why I never noticed that this wouldn’t happen more than once a week.) And I was so grateful to have you back that I tried to spoil you. I started to lay on special breakfasts. There would be good orange juice and butter croissants with Bonne Mamon jam. I would either make a fruit salad or scrambled eggs and maple cured bacon. You would look like the cat that got the cream and I would drink my coffee and watch you, watch you, watch you, unable to believe you were back, here in my kitchen, and warm myself before you as if you were the first sunshine of the year. Not many weeks went by before I knew I wanted to say it and not many days after that I did: ‘Marry me.’ You blinked, looking at me and looking away. It seemed a long time before you spoke. ‘We’re doing okay the way we are. Let’s not rush it.’ I tried to frame a response. You said, ‘We’ve only just started going out again. We need time to bed in, to grow back together.’ I nodded. ‘Come here,’ you said, and took me in your arms. ‘I do need you, you know.’ ‘Yes.’ And you pressed your lips against my neck. It wasn’t long afterwards that one of my friends offered me a spare ticket to see The Importance of Being Ernest. Unlike you, I quite liked the theatre and this seemed like a
After that, I didn’t answer when you rang, I didn’t reply to your texts. I was as miserable as a person could be. And angry. Weeks, months, years passed. There were one or two women, but my relationships didn’t last. And one day, out of the blue, you texted again: In a forest in Scotland, so I thought of you. I often do. It was like a child’s Christmas arriving early. I replied straight away – Hey, what a surprise – and I told you my news. (What news?) Of course, I thought there would be more, a text conversation at least. Nothing. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, except that a few months later another text came out of nowhere and like a fool I replied. Maybe I thought you had just been too scatty to reply, I don’t know. As before, I heard nothing back, and I don’t suppose you’ll be in touch again. But you might.
• • • Robert Graham grew up in and around Belfast. His short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies and on BBC Radio 4. He is the author of How To Write Fiction (And Think About It) (Palgrave, 2006) and other books on writing. His first novel, Holy Joe, was published by Troubador in 2006. Salt published his short story collection, The Only Living Boy, in July 2009 and his chapbook, A Man Walks Into A Kitchen, in 2011. He teaches Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. 43
Maritime Savior by Alexandra Corinth
She yanked the veil from her tangled roots, ripping guiltless strands from her scalp. The delicious stings of self-destruction fueled her rage, her blind determination to collapse. It was over. Everything she had built in two years of lust, no love yet (but it could be, someday, if she worked hard enough), two years of faith and trust and safety and certainty that she had never questioned – gone. Wrecked by a shoe-box of letters spanning lifetimes longer than the 730 days of their agreement. To the day, she thought bitterly. To the fucking day. Her blue shirt turned grey as the salty brine licked the hem. She began to blend into the cloudy sky, the swelling sea, as the veil stretched from her fingertips into the air. Gulls nipped at the tasteless fabric, squawking as they swallowed thread instead of food, and the wind tugged at the holey mesh. There was so much salt and water in the air, she didn’t feel the need to cry – it was like the atmosphere had already wept for her. The undertow wrapped slender fingers around her ankles and she stumbled soundlessly. A low rumble of thunder threatened to the west. The tide would rise soon and she’d be swept away, cast away by the life that had rejected her but accepted by someone new – someone who wanted her. I could be a mermaid, she told herself, closing her eyes as the ocean knocked her fragile body to its knees. I could grow a tail and speak with fish and admire this stupid race from an ignorant distance. I could, I could, I could… She whispered affirmations as the veil escaped her grasp. The bridal white was lost among the silver skies as a single cry pierced the air and the scorned was swallowed, captured, saved. Alexandra Corinth is a twentysomething poet, blogger, and aspiring young adult novelist. You can find her at http://alexandracorinthwrites.wordpress.com or as @gloriouschaos on Twitter.
44