Enhance No 14

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ENHANCE

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ENHANCE January 2014

Letter From the editor Dearest readers, writers, and artists:

deadlines are just so demeaning at times. Yet

I love being a writer. I feel that in being a

these writers are in my magazine. Forget it, I’m

writer, having publishing credits, and parading

the most selfish writer of them all. I’m honored

around calling myself a writer is a bit selfish.

to have such wonderful pieces in this magazine. I

Foolish sometimes because I get to do what I

shouldn’t be so lucky, but here I am.

want every day. But, then I stop being selfish and

Welcome to Enhance Number 14. An amazing

think about what it means to be a writer. Being

sample of writer and artist warriors awaits. The

a writer is sometimes more than sitting in your

following artwork, poetry, and short stories have

creative space and writing. Not that I’m knocking

braved the most dangerous adventure to be here

the creation process. That is some serious writer

with us.

business there. But writers that take that first step into

Through the realism and mysticism of the English language, this magazine provides another

publication, say like submitting to literary

insight to what we are as humans. How we feel

magazines. These writers are going into a war

as creative people. And the power that our souls

zone in pajamas. The world of publishing is

hold.

mean, sometimes cold. The horror stories about

Sincerely,

editing nightmares, nightmare editors, and strict

Sopphey Vance

All rights reserved. No part of this magazine may be reproduced or transmitted without permission of appropriate copyright owners. Enhance, On Impression, On Impression Books, and the On Impression Network are entities owned by Sopphey Vance. Visit www.onimpression.com for more information.


T a b l e o f C o n t e n t s

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In the Park, Two Lovers Kiss by John Grey

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Spoiling by Anthony Ward

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The Anachronistic Warrior by Noel Doyle

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Place Maubert by John Ronan

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Massassauga Lighthouse by Melanie Marttila

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The Falls by Brian Furman

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Sun Born by Stephen Mead

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Pillowcase Scents by Elena Botts

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Diane’s Tutoring Center by William Yorkshire

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The Pious Girl by Rudy Ravindra


In the Park, Two Lovers Kiss by John Grey They’re figures in the far corner

The moon rises, one more symptom;

of a Bosch painting surely;

a bird soars, turns into a bat;

they’re not Christian lovers,

an old woman screws her head the other way;

they’re animals; hungry arms

two kids almost vomit;

and lips refuse to close the door

a teenage girl declares that such displays

on accidental spectators;

are only for the movie screen;

some renounce, others merely long

and there’s the fearful blur,

to make them disappear;

one quicksilver righteous man;

one says, if there was a God,

he’s seen all this before;

he’d break open the earth beneath them,

he holds his ground by running.

muzzle their sinful passion with hellfire.

And then there’s someone rushing from the scene who’s sure love is contagious; a plague that yearns for that face full of sores, the oozing, the eruptions; a joyful disease, not just in the saliva passed from tongue to tongue, but swept from eye to eye, preying on the weaknesses of watching.

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John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Pedestal.


Spoiling by Anthony Ward We’re the coolest generation

Instead of wanting to be somebody,

Just getting warmed up,

We will be somebody,

Living the designer life

All mutually famous,

In our homogenous homes

Smitten with self-worth.

Throughout cloned cities,

Not gifted but gifted wrapped all for show.

Plodding after those that strut,

Patented personalities in flat packed realities,

Trying to keep up with their lives

Having no stories to tell-

With superficial contentment.

Just telling stories, Gossiping about nothing

Our idolness leaving us lethargic

As if it were everything,

As we starve for attention,

Pining for those we can have.

Placing so much effort into being remembered We forget who we are, Completely full of ourselves Until we’re fed up, Stuffed to the hilt, Unable to stomach anymore. While verbally vomiting

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including The Faircloth Review, The Pygmy Giant, Turbulence, The Autumn Sound Review, Torrid Literature Journal and Crack the Spine, amongst others.

As we make ourselves sick.

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The Anachronistic Warrior by Noel Doyle With the Cold War no more

Spying’s become quite a bore.

Secret Agents, those cads,

Now research the Want Ads.

Oh, how the times have changed!

No longer are we still estranged

From Poles and Czechs and Buda-Pests--

So hard to tell the “Easts” from “Wests”.

How’s an old Case Officer to face this dawn?

Take cloak and dagger in to pawn?

And ponder “clan ops” for a new “Control”

With budget reductions his primary goal?

Anachronistic Warrior! Come in from the cold!

There still are challenges for the globally bold.

Become a “consultant” to some corporate band…. Private espionage is still very much in demand. Noel Doyle is a retired US Army septuagenarian who has been writing poetry for more than 25 years. The pillars of his poetic style are humor and rhyme. He has composed over 125 pieces of verse many of which he self-published in three chapbooks.

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Place Maubert by John Ronan Kronenbourgs and cigarette packs litter the grass,

John J. Ronan is a poet, playwright, movie

Clog the fountain in this sad patch of a place,

producer, and journalist. He has received

Last stop in my tourist attempt to plumb

national honors for his poetry and was

Paris: the Louvre, views, Tower, tombs,

named a National Endowment for the Arts

Finally wine ordered in awkward French,

Fellow for 1999-2000. Ronan’s latest book

Plopping opposite the café on a filthy bench –

of poems, Marrowbone Lane, appeared in

Narrowly causing my ass to be absent from smeared

2009. He is also a former poet laureate of

Continental pigeon shit and Alsatian beer.

Gloucester, MA, and remains committed to

An advertising column revolves La Boheme, Lancome.

the importance of civic poetry.

A couple ascends from the Metro, arm-in-arm. In the April evening, the chaos of rush hour Begins to look more laissez-faire, And when Kelly and Caron assume a Doisneau pose I take a quick, discrete photo, choose By accident the perfect backdrop, Rue Sauton Leading down to Notre Dame and the Seine. The fountain’s lively. Basin lights crystal The clear water as it rainbows over, falls On bobbing cans. I am captivé by the cans, the tobacco – A bent, but unbroken Gauloise. Transporté by Bordeaux. When the lovers stroll naively to the bad end Of the park’s lone bench, I’m fluent, fond: “Discovery of the butt! Lest you affix yourselves!” They smile kindly, fix themselves, and kiss.

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Massassauga Lighthouse by Melanie Marttila

Melanie Marttila’s poetry has been published in Enhance, The Atomy, and will appear in Sulphur in 2014. Her fiction has appeared in Spooky Sudbury, Mouse Tales Press, and will appear in On Spec in 2014. This will be her first published photograph. Melanie lives, works, and writes in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada.

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The Falls By Brian Furman The Falls melt over the edge of the cliff

the sound of a wet pancake hitting wet tile. The

seeming to solidify at the precipice, as if there

sound was transcribed and written for percussion

were massive hands manipulating an orchestra

fitting in perfectly with the symphony already

behind the ever-changing water. It’s music

in progress. As if it had been written for that

naturally ingrained in the molecular structure

moment and that moment only.

inaudible to the human ear. I looked out over the man-made railing

A crowd circles mother, father and me with their arms outstretched, invisible veins of

onto the house size boulders below, the mist

emotion try to penetrate as I leave my body.

disguising tears. It was hard to imagine music

His mother reaching out over the metal almost

splaying the boy on million-year old rocks like a

following her son as I rise up…his father a speck

dirty dish rag left to harden into a fragile, jagged

molting into her and wrestling her back from

shape on the floor.

suicide. Although suicide is the writing on his

His hands were wet bear traps and I touch them in the air, in the mist, in the wake. His eyes

face. This mouth that I have does not hold a word.

were fully open as if they were an extra arm

The music is still there, haunting the wisps of

reaching for me. I coaxed him to hold on. His shirt

water circling this community. The mother

as yellow as his eyes. I asked him to ask God if I

convulses silently into her husband’s man-made

understood this predicament correctly…

arms. I imagine her reveling in watching the boy

The boy, holding back fear, his nerves a steel

grow from baby to child to kid and watching

dam… said with as much clarity and courage as

her thoughts move ever more worrisome as the

a boy can muster: “my momma always said find

world grew bigger around him.

salvation and the world will understand.” he let

His father is a picture of stoic manhood. A

go of my hand as well as his body. He fell with

steelworker, maybe from the Buffalo area, maybe 9


just recently laid off and taking his family on a

They are carried away, trying hard to float so they

small vacation as his worries move toward how

won’t have to think.

he is going to pay for his son to go to college.

There is an optical illusion that happens with

Maybe to let go of their son is their way to

this water. Just before it hurls itself over the cliff,

salvation. I’ve heard that God works in those

it seems to slow down, like one could jump in at

kinds of ways; however I’ve also heard that no

the right place and stand in the glowing, pulsing

parent should ever have to bury their child.

fluid and conquer it.

Who buries the children with no parents?

The water stops. Like it were glass and you

I am just a silly man who happened to be

were the hammer and you could crash into the

consuming oxygen in this place at that time

energy, collect it in a bag and sell it in a trinket

wanting nothing more than to listen to the

store at the border. You almost want to jump

natural harmonies of churning water. Now on my

in, you almost want to go over….and it’s not so

knees, leaning against a graffitied piece of rock I

much suicide as a union with the creator. You

watch lives dissolve into the spray, including my

want to conduct the symphony.

own. Police show up three minutes after the fall.

I had a conversation once with my mother about salvation, she handed me a Bible and told

They try to talk with me, but my mouth does not

me that all the answers I would ever need to

hold any words. I say to them with my eyes.

know about life were in that book.

“His hands were like jellyfish stinging me again and again and again. His eyes were holding ghost notes…virgins not yet played in the

I said I wanted an Oreo and slapped the book out of her hand. The truth is she was absolutely correct.

symphony. My hands were not strong enough to

Salvation is in that book, and also in that Oreo,

conjure him back. He was already dead when he

and in that fat ladies camera taking a panoramic

met me. “

of the scene. Salvation is a mist in the air, it’s not

The police peel the mother from the ground and I witness the aging, the heartache and

tangible, it’s not real. I look back over the railing and see that the

wonder, confusion and anger. I can see it jump

yellow shirt had turned a slight brownish color. I

between mother and father like a swarm of

wondered how they would pick his body off the

never-ending fleas biting open-ended wounds.

rocks. Am I going to come back in a year and see

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a brightly colored set of bones on said rock? Will that boy slip back into mineral? The authorities had no use for me. The caution tape lifted, random tourists can’t hear the music, yet they marvel at what they see. I stand on unnatural legs, blowing a kiss to the Falls as I walk away to ask my mother if she still has a Bible.

Brian Furman is a native of Cleveland, Ohio where he obtained a degree in English from Cleveland State University and utilized the cities blue collar background to inspire his Fiction. He currently lives in Tampa, Florida with his wife and two children. This is his first publication.

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Sun Born by Stephen Mead

A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short collage-films (YouTube/VIMEO) and poetry/ music mp3s. Much can be learned of his multi-media work by placing his name in any search engine. His latest project-in-progress, a collaborative effort with composer Kevin MacLeod, is entitled “Whispers of Arias”, a two volume download of narrative poems sung to music, http://stephenmead.amazingtunes.com/ His latest Amazon release, “Weightless”, a poetry-art hybrid, is a meditation on the human struggle for perseverance.

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A Prayer to the Earth

A PRAYER TO THE EARTH & ALPHA AND OMEGA by Stephen Mead

Alpha and Omega

According to the Order of Nature (We Too are Cosmos Made)” is a mixed media series of paintings and montages begun in late 2009. Like my Amazon release, “Our Book of Common Faith”, this project may also be a decade-in-the-making. The title refers to all of the laws which weigh against LGBT individuals globally, only this project reverses the persecution, exploring LGBT sensuality for its spiritual roots and profound bonding, more so when people risk their lives in order to have and to hold love.

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pillowcase scents by Elena Botts vanilla minds itself in your skin, and the orange comes down, lays itself across the sheets just in time for lavender, so gently sleeping. you left something, i say, pointing to an empty bed that so easily slips itself downstream like any other craft. just think of all the cheap perfume bottles tipped like bottles with scrolled messages. did their manufacturers ever come to know what they would mean. no, bodies like vessels dipped, out-poured (you turn over in your sleep; already i can miss you) universes. Elena grew up in Maryland, and currently lives in Northern Virginia. She’s been published in over twenty literary magazines in the past few years. She is the winner of four poetry contests, including Word Works Young Poets’. Her poetry has been exhibited at the Greater Reston Art Center. Check out her poetry book, “a little luminescence” at allbook-books.com. Additionally, her visual art has won her several awards. Go to o-mourning-dove.tumblr.com to see her latest artwork.

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Diane’s Tutoring Center by William Yorkshire I walked into Diane’s Tutoring Center with my God-awful resume in hand. The center was located in a city between Seattle and Tacoma

I had two weeks to find a job or I’d be sleeping in the streets. I sat down on a small wooden chair that

called SeaTac, and it was the summer between

looked like it was made out of chopsticks. It

my junior and first of two senior years of college.

creaked every time I breathed. As my seat

“Have a seat,” said the secretary, an old bag

played Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony I watched

with a gravelly voice. I sat down on a bench

a student across the room fumbling through a

and looked at the various inspirational posters

book called John Bear Goes to the Store as part

on the wall. The one in front of me featured

of an oral exam, which he punctuated by taking

Einstein babbling about the universe, and had

sips of water from a Styrofoam cup. Diane’s now

been defaced by a student who had taken a black

ex-husband, whose grin widened with every

marker and given him fangs.

mispronounced word until it covered half his

After a couple of minutes someone called

face, administered. When he finally finished the

my name from behind me. I turned around and

45-word novel the kid began sinking his teeth

saw a large woman with barrel-sized forearms

into the cup, covering the rim in bite marks.

and gray hair cropped like a helmet. I jumped.

Mr. McDungal grabbed it from his mouth and

“Hi, I’m Diana, but you can call me Diane,” she

slammed it in the trash.

said, giving me a double handshake. Her hands

After a few more minutes, Diane, who had

were the size of oven mitts. “Hi, I’m William,” I

been in her office gathering papers, sat down

responded. Diana “Diane” McDungal released

and started the interview. As I hunched over in

her death grip and led me to a back table to

my chair she briefed me on the history of her

interview me for a math tutoring position I had

company, beginning with the ill-fated grand

applied for the day before when my dad told me

opening several years before during the WTO 15


riots, which culminated in a crazed mob popping

circumstances was I allowed to talk politics with

all of her balloons, tearing down her Grand

children. “If you do you’ll be packing your bags,”

Opening sign and then lighting it on fire while

she said, staring at my monkey face.

she hid in a closet. Expanding on the center’s

The woman then began belting out questions

rocky start, she started wigging out. As she

at the speed of light. As I bounced around in

explained how expensive it was to acquire a

my chair and bungled my answers she stared at

business license, she narrowed her eyes and

me with her mouth open. After 15 minutes of

gripped her rectangular jaw, which looked like

hearing nothing but gibberish, she ended the

two tectonic plates grinding against each other.

interview and shook my hand with a look on her

While mentioning that one year her “accountant

face like she’d just seen the devil.

with the I.Q. of a coconut” misplaced a decimal

After saying goodbye I headed out to my

point on her tax returns and almost drove her

mom’s 14-year-old Geo Metro hatchback, which

company into the ground, she clenched her fists

had a broken muffler and a driver’s side door

and jabbed the air.

covered in so many craters it looked like the

She went on to explain the details of the job,

moon. I forced open the door, crammed myself

including tutoring elementary school students

inside and sputtered home to my house, which

in math and grading their worksheets, and said

my friends called “the bunker” because it had a

that the pay started at $8.65 an hour but would

metal roof.

increase to $9.00 after two weeks if the tutor

After parking my mom’s crate on the

proved he was worth it. Scanning my resume

street I tromped to the front door through the

with reading glasses that made her look like

monstrosity my family called our lawn, which

an amphibian11, Diane began cringing. Seeing

every summer my dad spray-painted green to

that two summers before I had worked for a

save money on watering. Opening the screen

third party candidate for senator named Gary

door that hung by a single hinge, I passed by a

Gugliatta who ran on a platform that included

withering plant on our doorstep that my sister

diverting money from Medicare to fund a colony

had damaged the previous week when she

on Mars and who ended up receiving 0.3% of the

pulled a Betty Ford and came home drunk from

vote, Diane told me that if given the job under no

the bars and vomited on it. I walked to our living

1 Frog 16


room, laid down on our couch and watched TV

rolled his eyes and scoffed, she grabbed him by

and played with myself until bedtime. The next

the shoulders and started shaking him. His eyes

morning Diane called and offered me the job,

as big as golf balls, he apologized profusely and

which I accepted. (Yorkshire’s Editor’s note: Most

then cleared out of the building.

likely you were the only applicant.)

The following day the chief blew another

Right away what Diane made as clear as

fuse when, after failing a science test, a disturbed

the vodka my aunt pours in her coffee every

student jumped on my flabby coworker Malcolm.

morning was her intolerance for misbehavior. A

Jolted out of his usual obliviousness, Malcolm

couple of hours into my first day, as I attempted

began pawing at the attacker to get him off, but

in vain to teach Ben and Pablo Clarke how to

failed like everything else he attempted in life.

count by twos, the two brothers began slapping

When the kid started choking him, Malcolm let

each other. The louder I counted the harder the

out an unearthly howl, more like a wolf than a

Brothers Clarke slapped. Seeing chaos brewing

human.

from across the room, the chief slammed her

Hearing his wolf call, Diane launched herself

hand down on her desk and shouted, “ENOUGH!”

like a missile into the fight from her swivel chair

I leapt out of my chair.

with broken wheels. Her massive Frankenface

A couple days later Diane’s 17-year-old son

crimson red, she turned to the kid and began

Derek shuffled into the office asking his mom

carrying out her own version of the karate chop

for money so he could go to the movies. He had

as one student laughed so hard he shed tears.

come straight from the barber, and looked like

After three or four blows she managed to loosen

he had just inserted a wet finger in a light socket.

his grip and peel him off like a banana. She then

Diane, touching his quills, replied, “Yeah sure, do

lugged him to the back room, planted him on

you accept credit card?” and then exploded in

a beanbag and called home and told his mom

laughter, slapping her knees. When her hooting

to pick up her demon spawn ASAP. Mom sent

died down the sea urchin asked again. She

Grandma, who showed up 20 minutes later

ignored him and went back to emailing a parent.

with curlers in her hair. Malcolm pulled himself

When he said rudely, “So can I have some or

together and went back to work, but with crazy

not?” she got up, beckoned him to the back room

eyes.

and yelled at him for his “insolence.” When he

Diane realized my first and only opening shift 17


that getting me to the office by the ungodly

threw on a collared shirt, stuffed my feet into

hour of 7:30 AM was like teaching my dog Henry

my 500-year-old grandpa’s leather shoes that

who had red fur and a head the size and shape

he wore in the 1950s while he campaigned for

of a bowling ball how to sit: hopeless. At 7:35

Dwight Eisenhower, got into my mom’s beater

on the Friday of my first week, Diane called and

car that sounded like machine gun fire when it

asked my mom where I was. I was passed out in

started and bombed it to work.

my bed, an old mattress on the floor with plastic

While hydroplaning on the freeway I honked

springs shooting up through the fabric. Coming

at other drivers with a horn that sounded like a

into my room and seeing me hibernating like Rip

wet trumpet. A guy driving a rice rocket flipped

Van Winkle while my alarm buzzed at full blast

me the bird. To make it to the roof level of the

eight inches from my ears, my mom jumped on

parking garage where the center’s parking spaces

my back and cried, “COCK A DOODLE DOO!” Half

were located I floored the accelerator and grated

asleep and discombobulated, I unplugged my

up the ramp. 30 minutes late and afraid for my

alarm clock and asked what we were having for

life, I ran inside sweating like Mark Zuckerberg at

dinner. She shouted, “Get up you idiot!” I placed

a social event. Diane went ape.

a sheet over my head. She left, but came back

I spent my six-hour shifts grading

a minute later and dumped a bottle of beer on

assignments and answering math questions from

me. As I called her every name in the book she

seven-year-old cretins as they slogged away at

grabbed my elephant legs and dragged me out

worksheets handwritten by the chief five minutes

of bed, spilling ash from her cigarette all over my

before they arrived. During the one legally

shoulders.

mandated 15-minute break I got per shift I would

Hungover from drinking too much Miller Lite

go to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet next door

at my friend Gordon’s party the night before in

owned by a guy named Peter Chan and wolf

celebration of his parents going out of town for a

down as many plates of slimy noodles and agent

week to visit his dad’s brother who was dying of

orange chicken as possible. I would then hobble

lung cancer, I staggered to the bathroom, placed

back to the center in pain and spend the next

my enormous cranium in the sink to rinse my

three hours holding my stomach and moaning. I

hair and face, staggered back to my moldy room,

sat in an old aluminum chair tilted at an angle so

put on black pants with an elastic waistband,

that when I left work at the end of the day I had

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a bent spine and a lower body so numb it felt

evening Boyne, clocking in at a grotesque five

like I had spent the previous six hours sitting

foot six, decided to go for a swim. After reaching

on a concrete block while a doctor injected

the edge and ensuring there were no employees

novocaine into my arse.

in sight, she leapt in the air, turned herself into a

The center’s reading tutor, Laurie Boyne, labored full time earning $9.25 an hour with no paid sick days or vacation (see: Slave). She

sphere and exploded into the pool with a sonic boom, almost breaking a child’s neck. Another time at Chuck E. Child Molester she

played Jesus music on the side to supplement

twisted her knee slipping on a slice of pizza.

her fourth-rate income, and the previous

Bellowing at the top of her lungs, she gimped

winter had released an album with a cover

to her car and then careened to the hospital,

photo of her bowing to her then-fiancé, who

where the first thing the nurses did was give her

dumped her three months later. The album

a drug test. She was then thrown in a wheelchair,

sold zero copies. She stood out among her

rolled into a back room and X-rayed without a

younger coworkers not for her physical age

lead shield. After absorbing more radiation than

(34) but her mental age (9). Even though I

Nagasaki she piloted her chair down a ramp to

was only 21, we dated. (Yorkshire’s Editor’s

another room, where Dr. Quack wrapped her

note: Please mention your mental age as

knee in the most expensive brace he had. The

well.)

irradiated woman had to pay in installments

After work we usually ate dinner at

because of a lack of health insurance, and

a nearby Chuck E. Cheese, Subway or

when she went back to Chuck E. Cheese a week

Grandma’s Pizza, three of her favorite zero-

later with her hospital receipt to explain what

star “restaurants.” Meals were often followed

happened and get reimbursed, the manager

by a stroll in a neighboring park, with people

laughed in her face.

walking in the opposite direction looking

In late August I had to head back to college a

startled as they saw me (pasty white, plump)

thousand miles away on a Greyhound bus for my

holding hands with her (older, a bit loopy).

first crack at senior year. A week before I left, my

Even though the height limit for the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese was four feet, one

parents finally found out I was dating a woman with two decades on me due to my friend22 2 Steve 19


telling them. Furious, my mom threatened to make me pay for my ticket if I didn’t break up with her immediately. There being no love between us anyways, the following day Boyne and I went the way of my cousin John and his wife after he caught her in bed with the milkman. On my last day of work at Diane’s Tutoring Sweatshop Boyne gave me an autographed picture of John Lennon, which I later found out she forged; I gave her a $10 iTunes gift card. Diane gave me a book on how to become a better teacher, which I later sold on eBay; I gave her nothing. When it was time to go I shook my coworkers’ clammy hands and walked out the door. The chief never gave me the 35¢ raise. William Yorkshire is a 34-year-old unemployed barbecue mechanic who spends his days reading comic books, eating Hot Pockets, listening to Michael Bolton and writing essays about his misspent, rapidly fading youth. He lives on a couch in Brooklyn for $175 a month.

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The Pious Girl by Rudy Ravindra To be quite honest I do think about Geeta

each other, enjoying conjugal bliss, we did

from time to time. There was really no love or

take some time to explore the misty hills and

anything like that. It was pure, unadulterated lust.

mountains, the lush scenery, and the verdant

Geeta was great. Simply superb, that girl knew

valleys. We enjoyed our walks around the tea and

how to please a man. Even now, after all these

coffee plantations and conversations with local

years, when I think of her tender ministrations,

people.

I get goose bumps. Those were the glorious

Although Sunita got a visa to America, she

days. Talk about youthful indiscretions. When I

couldn’t travel with me as she had one more year

look back at that fateful period of my life, I am

to complete her degree. It seemed a shame to

somewhat amazed as well ashamed. Amazed at

let the three years she spent at college go waste,

my audacity, and ashamed at my infidelity.

to sacrifice all her hard work. We made the right

I was a graduate student at Michigan State,

decision, she remained in Bangalore to complete

getting used to the campus life and adjusting

her degree, and I came to Michigan. We both

to a new culture. I got married as soon as I

were quite sad to be apart for so many months,

completed my undergraduate course at that

particularly after we had tasted the fruits of love.

elite engineering school—Indian Institute of

It was a gut-wrenching separation and I was very

Technology (generally referred to as IIT), and was

sad, very lonely and very grumpy all the way to

ready to fly to U.S.A.. Sunita and I were married

Detroit. But once I was in the university campus, I

in a traditional Hindu ceremony and we went

had no choice but to get into the swing of things

on our honeymoon to Coorg, that beautiful part

and get to work on my courses.

of my great state of Karnataka. We had a great

*

time for about a week and returned home. Even

After my morning classes I went to the

though we spent most of the time discovering

cafeteria for lunch, and got two hot dogs and 21


a soda and looked for a table. I was about to sit

student in Psychology.” She had a well-

at a table where it was a little quiet so that I can

modulated voice, like one of those newscasters,

read Sunita’s letter in peace. But when I saw that

very clear and crisp.

the table wasn’t all that clean, I tried to sit at an

I knew vaguely that such subjects existed,

adjacent table and just then a dark-haired girl

and we engineers looked down on those ‘soft’

also tried to sit at the same table. I immediately

faculties. It was my impression that only those

looked around to see if I can get another table.

with less IQ went into those subjects. But, of

She looked at me, “You can sit with me. I don’t mind.” I really didn’t want to bother interacting with a stranger, and also I was quite eager to read my dear wife’s love letter. Those days we had to wait almost two weeks for our letters to reach one another. No e-mail of course. And the telephone

course, I didn’t let my disdain show, and feigned interest. “Oh. Really? What do you plan to do after you get your degree? Teach?” “I think I will get my masters and work as a student counselor.” I ate my hotdogs and pushed my plate away

was prohibitively expensive. I really couldn’t shell

and took a big gulp of my milkshake. Then, after

out two dollars per minute on a call to India, and

I was satiated, I took a good look at her. She was

the connection was almost always erratic, thanks

a dark, petite girl with long black hair reaching

to Ma Bell. But I was tired and hungry after the

down to her shoulders. She wasn’t by any means

morning classes, and didn’t want to wait any

a beauty. But to my lonely eyes, she was striking

longer to sink my teeth into my food.

and attractive.

I looked at her, “Thanks. I am Dinesh Singh.” “Glad to meet you. You must be at the engineering school.”

I had some free time in the afternoon and as she appeared to be in no hurry, we talked. Actually she did most of the talking. I learned

I was surprised. “How do you know?”

that her father was a professor of Physiology at

She smiled, showing her sparkling white

the medical school at Ann Arbor and her mother

teeth. “Oh. Most Indian guys who come here are

was a realtor. That she had an older sister who

enrolled at the engineering school.”

was married. That she had an older brother who

22

“And you are studying?”

was studying law at Yale. That her parents were

“I am Geeta Matthews. I am a graduate

originally from Kerala and her father moved to


the States in the fifties. That they were Catholics,

*

took their piety seriously, went to church

I met Geeta after a week or so and we again

regularly, volunteered their time to church-

had lunch together. I liked being with her as she

related activities. In between she asked me about

was witty, well-informed and quite sophisticated.

myself, and I told her about my bride in India.

From time to time I did commit some gaffes, like

I looked at my wrist watch, “How time flies when we are having fun. I better get back to my lab. I am supposed to meet my advisor at three. See you next time then.” She got up too, “It’s so nice to run into you.

saying that I passed out of IIT with honors. Geeta laughed. “Oh. My God. You are hilarious. Passing out, ha..ha..ha.” I didn’t know what was so funny. “What’s the matter?”

Let me give you my phone number. If there’s

She controlled herself and wiped her eyes,

anything that I can do, anything at all, please

“You know, Dinesh, passing out means becoming

don’t hesitate to call me. Like a ride to the

unconscious. I know you meant that you

grocery store, you know, stuff like that. You

graduated. But here in America, we don’t say

probably don’t have your wheels yet.”

passing out. It’s probably a common usage in

“Okay, Geeta, Thanks. Gotta run.” When I went back to my apartment late in

India. Don’t worry, it’s no big deal.” That incident brought us closer, and instead

the evening, I thought about the day and sat

of feeling insulted, I began to respect her for her

down to write to Sunita. I wrote her almost three

frankness. Someone else might have ignored my

times a week and I also received her letters

quaint vocabulary, and I would have never known

quite frequently. But something kept me from

my mistake.

mentioning Geeta in my letter to Sunita. I wrote about my advisor, my courses, the type of food I ate for my lunch and dinner, but I omitted my

The next time we met, I asked her, “There’s a movie that I would like to see. Can you take me?” She looked at me mischievously, “You mean

meeting with Geeta. Maybe I didn’t want to upset

drop you at the theater and pick you up after the

my new bride. Those days, people in India had

movie is over?”

a very low opinion of American women, and thought they were brazen. I didn’t want to add

I was embarrassed. “No, it’s not like that. I didn’t mean it like that. Okay, let me rephrase.

unnecessary fuel to a non-existent fire. 23


Would you like to accompany me for a movie and

into her inviting hot embrace. When Geeta and I

dinner afterwards?”

were together, we were like two animals fulfilling

“Sure. Why not? You must be feeling lonely being all by yourself, poor baby.” I ignored the baby part, as by this time I was used to her way of speaking, using terms like honey, sugar, and baby quite excessively. That’s the way she spoke. She picked me up promptly and we went off to the theater. I don’t remember the movie. Actually we didn’t see much of it. Because as soon as the lights were dimmed we held hands

our primal urges. But we were also friends, understood each other well. In another time and another place, if I weren’t already married, I might have proposed to her. One day, after our rendezvous, Geeta told me, “Dinesh, I am afraid that I can’t see you anymore. I am going to get married soon.” “Wow. This is a big surprise. I didn’t know you were dating.” “No, I am not. My parents have arranged my

and I started to kiss her and she reciprocated.

marriage. My fiancé is a scientist working at a

After a few minutes, we walked out and went to

pharmaceutical company in Philadelphia.”

her apartment. Once inside we ripped off our clothes and made love on her living room carpet.

“Congratulations. So, are you going to continue your studies in the East Coast?”

I took her with all the urgency of a starving man, and she was equally passionate. Thus began our affair which lasted for quite

“Yeah. First I want to be a bride for a few months, cook for him, do things that a wife

a while. After Sunita joined me, I didn’t meet

should do. Then after we settle down, I will

Geeta that frequently as Sunita began to cook

continue my studies at U. Penn.”

and gave me my lunch box everyday. So there

“When is the wedding?”

was no reason for me to go to the cafeteria. But

“I am not sure. Some time, in a month or

every once in a while, Geeta and I arranged to

two. The last time I went home, I met George.

meet at her apartment for an hour or so. The

He seems like a nice guy, soft-spoken and easy

moment we were together we lost ourselves in

going. He is a little bit short. But then I am not all

passionate embraces. I did feel a little guilty that

that tall either. His parents live in Poughipsee in

I was cheating on my bride. But those feelings

New York state.”

evaporated rather quickly when Geeta took me 24

“How did your parents find this guy?”


“Oh, the usual way. Through family contacts. In our community, everybody keeps track of single boys and girls and try to match them up. Just like it happens in other Indian communities. We have these annual jamborees where all the Kerala people meet at one of the big cities and talk and exchange information about each other. I went to one of those with my parents when I

committing adultery, I don’t want to go to confession, Father Saldana is a bad man.” Rudy Ravindra attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop (Summer 2012). His prose has been published in Yellow Mama, Story Shack, Southern Cross Review, Bewildering Stories, Gravel, Blazevox, Nazar-Look. He lives with his wife in Wilmington, North Carolina.

was in high school.” I was jealous. “How did your parents find this George? Did you kiss him and all?” She said. “Oh, no, no, no. Not before marriage.” I was sorry when our affair had to end. But at the same time I was relieved that I didn’t have to cheat on Sunita any longer. I remembered a strange thing that Geeta used to do after our date. After she got dressed, she used to kneel on the floor and mumble something for a few minutes. I ignored it for quite some time, but one day my curiosity got better of me. After she was done, I asked her. “What did you just do?” She looked at me very innocently, and said, “I was saying my Hail Marys, to absolve me from the sin that I just committed.” “But why do you think it is a sin? We are not hurting anybody.” “That’s true. But in God’s eyes we are 25


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