Enhance No 3

Issue No 3 January 2011

1

Table of Contents 6.

—Michele L. Brown

22. Majik Mud —Joshua McCracken

7. I Observe —J. Lynn Stockdale

33. A Woman Undone —Ani Artinian

9. A True Friend —Pamela

34. X —Joi Ong

11. Angels Who Fall —Jessy E. Griffin

35. Drip —Ellen McCoy

14. Giants in the Earth —Allen Starbuck

36. Apple from the Top —Farida Samerkhanova

17. Elegy —Taylor Gould

38. Bed —Patty Kearny

19. Onyx and Diamonds 40. Dragonfly —Michael Johnson —Rebecca Irwin 20. Window —Joi Ong

42. Nana’s Mirror —Priscilla Celina Suarez

49. Insonmia —Josefin Laurén 53. The Field is Dead —Mari 55. Just Care —J. Lynn Stockdale 57. The Helix —Thomas Kratz 68. Infection —Simone Nikkole 70. Doodles, a Compilation —Lee Fitzgerald 72. Ode to My Death —Isabella de Conti 74. The Whole Way Through —E.G. Wainwright

This issue is a symbol of our promise to you: our readers and artists. There will be many issues to Enhance and each issue will have so much to read and enjoy that you’ll forget about the time.

Enhance is an online quarterly literary and art magazine that explores the human’s perception of life through literature and art. Enhance is interested in publishing new and emerging artists as well as the seasonal artist in all genres.

Did you miss the first two issues of Enhance?

Read them for free at www.onimpression.com

MEMBER OF THE

N IMPRESSION NETWORK

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR You have arrived at Enhance No 3, grab a seat, hold on to your toes, and enjoy.

In this issue, you will find a special blend of different topics from people around the world. You will find that some pieces leave you wondering, others compare and contrast, there are giants, there are diamonds, and so much more!

Each work contributes a unique point of view to the perception of life. I want to thank everyone who submitted. Your words, your art, and your meanings have made this issue of Enhance one of a kind. Truly, thank you. I also want to thank our sponsors for believing in Enhance and supporting us through our rough times.

I made a statement about being an editor in the midst editing, proofreading, and designing to one of my friends. I said, “Editing is like cutting a sheet of paper with an icicle. The goal is to make a perfect cut without a) breaking the icicle, b) having the icicle melt onto the paper, and c) freezing your fingers. Editing is challenging, but the hardest part after editing, proofreading, and designing is writing a letter to the reader. To you.

I hope you enjoy this magazine as much as I enjoyed working on it. —Sopphey Vance, Editor

tulips wavering green kissed mute snowcapped hips forge quick brilliant grace —Michele L. Brown

6

I Observe —J.Lynn Stockdale

On the jetty, I sit….gazing upon the ocean….a mild breeze dances across the sand ….the ocean spray gently blanketing my face; my arms in a delightfully cool mist……..seagulls flying overhead….Basking in the warmth of the sun…. to reconnect with nature….

Nature that brings me peace….serenity….a modicum of tranquillity….bliss.

Observing those around me….a young man; playful… running through the sand….Does he not see the mound of seaweed lying near his feet?…..Will he notice? Oops… oblivious to his surroundings…down; he falls….face plant to the sand. I chuckle. A look of surprise… embarrassment; he frowns. I giggle.

Two elderly ladies walk hand in hand; the surf passing over their feet…smiling…jovial…seemingly happy. A fisherman; to his hips in the water, he stands…casting his line….reeling it in…..casting again…..relaxed…. enjoyment evident on his face; though he catches nothing….feeling a smile cross my lips…

Children playing at the waters edge…..sand castles…. shovels and pails….laughing…..happiness….harmonious verbalizations of children at play….brings back memories of a more joyous time….

A man and woman snuggle in the sand….holding tight….a gentle kiss…a kind touch….their eyes fixated upon one another….passionately embracing…a loving 7

exploration….the world stops turning….time stands still….oblivious to those around them…shutting out the world….they see only each other……..Beautiful…is their love….. For a moment I felt happiness creep back into my heart….just a moment; a moment, no less. A voyeur of my world…....I observe……

8

A True Friend —Pamela

A simple friend when visiting acts like a guest A true friend opens your fridge and helps herself and doesn’t feel even the least bit weird shutting the beer drawer with her foot A simple friend has never seen you cry A true friend’s shoulder is soggy from your tears A simple friend doesn’t know your parents names A true friend has their names and numbers A simple friend brings a bottle of wine to a party A true friend shows up early to help set up and stays late to help clean up A simple friend hates you calling after they have gone to bed A true friend asks why it took you so long to call them A simple friend seeks to talk with you about their problems A true friend seeks to talk to you about any of your problems A simple friend wonders about your romantic history A true friend can blackmail you with all of it!

9

A simple friend thinks your friendship is over when you have a fight A true friend calls you after the fight to say “I’m sorry” A true friend expects to always be there for you A simple friend... just always expects

10

Angels Who Fall —Jessy E Griffin

A cloud of silk and light did fall, Breaking down a barrier wall...

A barrier of Heaven and of Earth, Separating them for what they’re worth.

The cloud did land upon the ground, Making a loud, explosive sound.

People did wake from their slumbers, deep, To see the matter that keeps them from sleep.

“An angel has fallen!” a villager cries, While people surrounding cannot believe their eyes.

There lays a lady, young, and scorched, Blades of glass around her, lit and torched.

“Angels who fall cannot be forgiven!”

Yells the village idiot, to whom attention is given.

“And what say you, O blank imbecile?”

Says the town drunk, his voice beguile.

A villager child, no older than seven, Says “The only way she could have fallen from Heaven, Is if she defied our Creator, our God,” And the other villagers only thought she was odd.

They tied up the angel and brought her to a hut, They placed her inside and secured the door shut.

The seven year old who tried not to pout, Pried at the door to get the angel back out.

11

Once the child was inside, she felt disgrace, When she saw all the blood upon the angel’s face.

“What have you done, to be thrown from above?

Do you not want eternal life or Our Father’s love?”

The angel, so weak, lifted her head and she spoke, “I am uncertain, Dear Child.” she said with a choke.

The girl untied the ropes from around the angel’s neck, “Why do you help me, when I am a wreck?”

“Angels who fall deserve forgiveness, too, Be they once demons, or me, or you.”

The angel smiled at the child’s strong heart, “Help me back to Heaven, Child, what is my part?”

“If by part you mean purpose, I do not know, But I know on the right path is where you must go.”

The angel nodded and stood to her feet.

“Please lead me somewhere, so that I may eat.”

The child took the angel back into her home, Her mother and her father where sitting alone.

“Daughter, how could you? She has fallen from God!” “Mother, don’t worry! I know this seems odd,” “But she is a guest in our home tonight, Please sit with us angel. Mother, it is alright.”

The angel sat with the family of three, “I thank you and the Lord for your acceptance of me.”

“I think it is fair if our angel says grace, After I help her to clean the blood off of her face.”

The child, with a smile, wiped the angel’s face clean, 12

“How are you so kind, when others seem mean?”

“Well I am a child, and I guess it is said, That fairness and love are just all in my head.”

The angel smiled and stood to her feet, They walked to the kitchen and sat down to eat.

“Angel, if you please, will you say tonight’s grace?”

Said the young child with a smile on her face.

“Dear Lord in Heaven,” The angel began, “Thank you for nudging me into this child’s hands.”

“I have sinned, I am sorry, please see in your heart, That I will try harder to do my part.”

And a light from the outside shown graciously in, When the angel who had fallen confessed her sin.

“Thank you for feeding me, but I think I must go, The light outside, I believe for me, it is aglow.”

The angel stepped out into the warm, loving light, Being given back her wings so that she may take flight.

The village idiot could not believe his eyes, The village drunk smiled - deep down, he was wise.

The little girl smiled and waved goodbye.

“One day I will join you with our Lord, on High!”

But not for a long time, her parents did pray, And the villagers stood around, chattering away.

“It was the girl! The child was right after all!”

And so it is certain: He will forgive angels who fall.

13

Giants in the Earth —Allen Starbuck

From the airplane window they look like giants in the distance: And there are giants in the earth at this time.

Bloodless giants imposing a strange ecology on the landscape And all organic life in the area.

Built from accident and lust The giants embody our challenge to nature: But nature continues in the cracks between concrete, Mutated and degenerate as it may be.

Isn’t this our ideal?

To remake nature And generate new religions and heresies Minute by minute?

Prostitution and gambling devolve From holy rituals to dirty games.

The city services all passions, And the dirtier they are, The bigger the profit.

Between the steps of giant corporations And the giant buildings that are their homes Are the bare survivors.

Weirdly distorted humans Selling and buying souls.

The gangs start small and get big, 14

And have to be fed on blood and drugs.

Cities of light come alive at night And sink into lassitude And automatic commuting by day.

Are you a gay Latino?

A rapper thug?

A hitman for La Cosa Nostra or another corporation?

You too can be a star And worshipped for your PR. Not because you’ve done anything transcendent, But you’re the next big thing, And nobody who’s anybody Can afford to fall behind.

Long as you take care of your business, Selling yourself as a career, Defending your turf And taking your rivals out, You too can be fly With all the women, money, drugs and bling That are the most important things.

So be a star Cause that’ll save you From ordinary life where no one worships you.

You too can be a legend in your own time, Even if your time is short, If you get 15 minutes, That’s all you can expect.

15

Never mind that fame turns weird corners.

A jones is a jones And you might as well be fly Going down that road.

It’s all about more And of course you get mad If you don’t get your share.

Someone’s trying to take you, And that can’t be allowed.

Pay anything for world domination, Even if that world is gone next month.

And the giants in the earth Look down on the huddled masses Yearning to get to the top of the foodchain.

Another market, another source of blood Obligingly providing the electricity to sell product.

So the giants stand there, Overlooking all, And servicing desire.

16

Elegy —Taylor Gould

There’s a part of me that can’t tell me what it’s thinking and that part of me still thinks about you. And I’m thankful sure for every broken butterfly that’s learned to bat in my gut and all the bats that flutter in my mind. And I’m thankful for the garbage trucks at 3am and the cars racing by on empty streets while children creep through cartoon dreams and run through nightmares. And I’m thankful that it doesn’t have to be 11:11 to make a wish if you believe 3:33 will do. And I’m thankful for the silent side in a whisper if I think to overhear 17

from time to time: “I wish…

I wish…

I wish…

Oh, Nevermind.”

18

Onyx and Diamonds —Michael Johnson

Diamonds flicker upon their onyx field.

Mysterious whispers reach my ears.

Carried upon the eternal wind.

I catch but a little, curiosity ignited, I watch and I listen, going within myself, and out at the same time.

Seeking to balance, man and internal beast.

Calling upon knowledge, known since the most ancient days.

The outer light, with my inner expansive darkness.

Consumed with self doubt, I strive to get better, to hear and to feel.

Seeking to listen to what is to be said.

By the voices carried forth upon the wind.

What lesson can I gain from you, what peace can I find in your whispers.

Solace I seek, and an understanding of mysteries, to which of only rumor.

Have I heard.

When night falls, my curiosity awakes, the sun sinks beyond the horizon now.

To thought I shall go.

To expand my understanding, and knowledge.

Unearth new thoughts, and paths for me to travel.

To finally see, the way that is right for me.

19

Window —Joi Ong

20

21

Majik Mud —Joshua M

Elizabeth Welshstone flashed a thousand megawatt smile and waved as she stepped onto the stage. The crowd roared with thunderous applause and the host, Alice Swanson greeted her with a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. The audience ate it up eagerly, applauding loudly and approvingly. Elizabeth went over the usual routine in her head before acting it out before the eager crowd. Blow a kiss, smile, and sit down. She crossed her legs and leaned forward in the chair, smiling at her host and at the women seated in the audience. After a few more seconds, the applause finally died down and Alice glanced at the teleprompter before she began.

Together on stage, the two women looked so similar that they might have been mistaken for sisters. Both were tall, thin, with straight shoulder-length brown hair, and wore conservative blue dresses. Alice beamed as she looked out over the crowd and Elizabeth made damn sure that she did the same. “Welcome ladies, welcome and thank you for joining us here on the Alice Swanson Show!” The audience knew the routine just as well as the women on stage did. They broke into thunderous applause and Alice’s smile became a wide, cheesy grin that vaguely reminded Elizabeth of a ventriloquist’s dummy. “Joining us today is Elizabeth Welshstone, founder and CEO of BodyLife, Incorporated. Elizabeth, thanks for being with us today.”

“Call me Liz,” she invited warmly, the smile never leaving her face. “Thank you so much for having me. I’m 22

so excited to be here.”

“Well we’re excited to have you here.” Alice reached down to the floor beside her and picked up a small tube of light brown cream. “And this is your newest product, and it’s called Majik Mud is that right?”

She nodded, but part of her cringed. She had more important things to do than banter with a daytime talk show host, especially one as airheaded as Alice Swanson was. She found the idea of talk show promotion distasteful and wished that there were easier ways to market cosmetics than appear on ridiculous daytime talk shows. The name is written on the goddamn label, she thought as she replied that yes, it was indeed called Majik Mud. “I just have to say that I love this stuff,” Alice said as she unscrewed the cap and poured a little dab of the light brown substance onto her fingers. “Now, you rub it into the skin like you would any other moisturizer, right?”

“Just like any other moisturizer, correct.” Elizabeth’s head swiveled up and down automatically, the smile never leaving her face. “You rub it in and you feel the difference immediately, I guarantee it. It tightens your skin without constricting it and leaves your face looking as young and radiant as ever.”

Alice rubbed the Majik Mud onto her cheek carefully, and it was clear to Elizabeth that she had never used the stuff in her life. A genuine smile gradually replaced the one she put on before walking onstage as Alice’s face lit 23

up while the cream worked its magic on her face. For very possibly the first time on the Alice Swanson Show the host’s smile didn’t look like it had been painted on. It had the euphoric quality of someone waking up from a really good dream.

Elizabeth watched her skin shimmer for a few moments as the cream started working and ran her fingers through her hair just to give the viewers at home something to look at. When Alice finally recovered, she could only stare forward for a few moments, not saying a single word. The audience loved it. They sat and stared in rapt attention. Quiet enough to hear a pin drop, as Elizabeth’s mother used to say.

“My God”, Alice said at last. “This stuff’s incredible.”

Elizabeth smiled again, a little more politely. She’d seen this all before. “Thank you Alice, I’m glad you like it.”

Alice shook her head and straightened up to get some of her lost composure back. “God, how did you ever come up with this stuff?”

“Well I didn’t come up with it Alice, not exactly.”

Elizabeth had given this speech a hundred times before.

Last year she had even sat down with a speechwriter to hammer out a spin on the story that made her sound both reverent and savvy, and they had come up with a doozy if she did say so herself. “As you may know I grew up in a really small town which was right next door to an Indian reservation, and—“ “Hold on”, Alice said and raised her hand. “I’ve heard this one before. An Indian medicine man gave you 24

the secret to eternal youth and beauty after you saved his pet coyote right?” Alice laughed at her own wit and the audience followed suit. Through it all Elizabeth only sat there, her lips pressed tightly together in that same dry smile. Laugh it up you little bitch, she thought. It gave her some comfort to know that tomorrow she would be in Paris hocking Majik Mud while Alice Swanson would sit in the same room as she was now, trying to convince women who eat too much that they’re fine just the way they are.

When the laughter died down Elizabeth tried again, silently resolving to maintain a firm grip on the interview from now on. There was no way she was going to be upstaged by a snotty little daytime talk show host. No way in hell. “As I was saying Alice, I lived next door to an Indian reservation. From what I remember hearing as a girl I guess they regarded the spot as sacred and just refused to move no matter how close our town came to them. They were interesting.” She put special emphasis on the last word. “So I started to follow them around, just to see what they were like.” She laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I was reading a lot of Nancy Drew back then if I remember correctly.” The audience again erupted into laughter and the plastic smile on her face became real. In spite of herself, she smiled even wider when she saw Alice’s fade just a little. “But I noticed they kept hanging around this one area of the woods, it was sort of a waterfall, only it was a continuous current of mud.”

“Ick,” Alice said on what appeared to be reflex.

Jesus Christ can’t she keep her comments to herself?

25

Elizabeth smiled sweetly, like a parent trying to humor a bratty child. “Nature is often dirty, Alice.” The audience laughed and applauded again, and again Elizabeth caught her host trying to conceal her annoyance. That’s two points and I’m still on top. “What fascinated me more than anything was the way that their skin would glisten every time they came out of the little pond that the falls emptied into. As you noticed earlier, you don’t need water, you don’t need to wash it off, just put a bit on your face and it soaks right in. I never could figure out why that was and when I went off to IU for college I decided on chemistry. I didn’t know why at the time, but I think that a part of me always knew that I would try to figure out what was so special about that mud.”

“So Majik Mud really is just plain old mud.”

Elizabeth was about to respond when a woman in the back wearing a black veil pulled across her face stood up. “Miss Welshstone?” she asked politely. “I have a question?” Elizabeth decided she must be a Muslim or something like that. Whatever it was, the veil creeped her out.

It wasn’t the possibility that she might have different religious beliefs than she did, it was that she hated not being able to see a person’s face. As someone who had been raised on a steady diet of Cosmos and Vanity Fairs, a person not allowing others to see their face was almost a sin against their own body. It just wasn’t… natural.

“Actually, please hold all questions until the Q & A segment if you don’t mind,” Alice interrupted. Without a word of protest, the woman sat down and folded her hands in her lap. There was 26

something strange about her, but Elizabeth couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She was sorely tempted to ignore Alice altogether and let the woman ask her question, but she had upstaged the host enough for one morning. “I’m sorry,” Alice said as she turned back to her. “You were saying?”

She stole a quick glance at the woman in the veil, now seated, and cleared her throat.

“Not exactly,” she continued slowly, trying to regain her mental footing. “What you’re wearing is the product of extracts taken from the key elements in the mud. We have always tried to be environmentally responsible about our products, and the springs where the mud was found should be preserved at all costs, is how I feel.” She smiled. Not exactly true, but it worked. The company had been public for years, but even through all of the crappy celebrity perfumes and clothing lines, she had thought only of getting her hands on the mysterious mud. Her lawyers had met with lawyers for the tribal council three times and every time she was turned down.

“It belongs to us; to our people,” they had told her. “You do not understand what you are dealing with.” After this final rejection, she simply went to the grounds herself late one night with a thermos and scooped as much of it inside as she could. “As I mentioned earlier my degree is in chemistry. As a matter of fact I broke down the key elements of the mud myself and simply replicated them in the cream at the same proportions I naturally found them in.”

“Brains and beauty I see,” Alice replied, clearly impressed. “So this is chemical, not organic?”

27

Isn’t that exactly what I just said? “Yes, that’s right.

It really was the only way that we could mass market the product with a minimum ecological impact.”

“This wasn’t tested on animals was it?” Alice Swanson was a well-known animal lover and her voice almost shook when she asked. For a second Elizabeth was tempted to say that yes, the product was in fact tested on animals but decided against it. Private conversation was one thing, but the last thing she needed were animal rights groups protesting the product because the CEO couldn’t help herself. Instead, she only laughed and patted her host’s knee reassuringly.

“Don’t be silly Alice, of course this wasn’t tested on animals. We’re trying to be part of the solution, not part of the problem.”

Alice relaxed noticeably. “Did it work right away?”

“Oh yes, the results were perfect immediately. As a matter of fact we sent a batch to Julia DeMeers shortly before her tragic passing and she had nothing but rave reviews for it.”

“I can see why.” Alice bowed her head respectfully.

For years, Julia DeMeers had been a titan of the fashion industry and Elizabeth was hoping she could count on Julia for a good review in the July issue of Vogue.

Unfortunately all hopes of a review were sent down the tubes when Julia swallowed nearly half a bottle of sleeping pills, washed it down with a bottle of vintage 1926 Cognac and jumped out of her penthouse window on the forty-sixth floor. Though the autopsy results had yet to be released, Elizabeth had heard whispers that Julia had slashed at her face repeatedly with a kitchen 28

knife before she started on the pills. The audience was silent for a long moment; paying tribute to someone they had never known and probably would not have gotten so much as the time of day from if they had met her.

Elizabeth’s hopes for a good review had been dashed, yes, but the death had left a void that she was fully prepared to fill. Once Majik Mud really took off, she knew that was exactly what would happen. It had to.

“Miss Welshstone? Excuse me?”

The woman in the veil was standing up once more, hand raised. Alice turned her head a little too sharply in the woman’s direction and looked at her with thinly disguised annoyance. “Miss, once again, we will answer questions during the Q & A session at the end of the show. Would you please sit down and be quiet until that happens?” Elizabeth glanced at Alice and looked hard at the woman. It was the veil, and it was driving her crazy.

Enough is enough, she thought. She raised her hand to Alice and spoke directly to the woman.

“Miss, I will be happy to answer your question, but only if you promise to take off your veil after I do.

There’s no reason to hide a beautiful face behind a silly old veil, is there?” Once again, here was applause and Elizabeth suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. I might as well have an ‘applause’ sign mounted on my forehead.

When the woman failed to respond right away Elizabeth tried again. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes. Miss Welshstone, my question is do you feel that the need for women to wear things like this is somehow making us weaker as a sex?”

Elizabeth laughed and the audience followed suit.

29

What a silly question, the laughter seemed to say. “Not at all”, Elizabeth answered as the laughter died down.

“I feel that ‘things like this’, as you so eloquently put it are good for us because it makes us feel beautiful and powerful, and isn’t that what every woman wants?”

In the seconds before the woman pulled off her veil there was a palpable rise in tension in the air as the audience members prepared to applaud again. That all changed as the veil fell to the floor and the woman faced the stage from the back of the room. What would have been applause became shocked gasps and a couple of strangled screams. It wasn’t that the woman’s face was ugly, it was that she no longer seemed to have any face at all. Her lips were sucked so far into her mouth that it was little more than a line, and her nose seemed to have overtaken her nostrils to the point that they were mere pinpricks on her face. All that was left were her eyes, which were so heavily lidded that her pupils were barely visible. Even Alice, the queen of her own party, stood up quickly and made a move for the edge of the stage. It seemed to Elizabeth that she was trying to figure out the best way to get off the soundstage without looking like she was running away.

“What if we aren’t all beautiful? What then Miss Welshstone?” the woman asked with a voice that sounded choked with tears, though it was impossible to tell by her face, which seemed far too nondescript to display any emotion whatsoever. The audience members within a few feet of her were recoiling, probably afraid that whatever had done this to her face was contagious.

“Do you remember me?”

30

I don’t think I’d forget a face like that. She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid that I don’t.”

“Courtney Cho.” The audience gasped again.

Courtney Cho was a well-known fashion model and had insisted on being a part of the testing for Majik Mud after a friend of hers told her about how wonderful this new cream was. In fact, Elizabeth had personally given her six months’ supply of Majik Mud when testing concluded. “Just don’t forget us on the runway”, she had told her. As Elizabeth watched, too stunned for words, Courtney reached into her purse. “You poisoned me. You bitch.” She could see a gun in the former model’s hand as she pulled it out but couldn’t react.

There was a sharp crack that always follows the trigger of a gun being pulled. Elizabeth screamed and dropped to the floor, sure that she had just been shot and was now bleeding to death on live television. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alice finally give in to her instincts and run off the stage as fast as her legs would carry her. When she at last summoned the courage to look, she saw that Courtney Cho was now lying slumped over the seats in front of her and the audience members were crushed against each other in a wide circle around her dead body, some hiding under or behind their seats.

Slowly, carefully she got to her knees, then her feet. A security guard started to usher guests away while another pointed them to the door, asking them to wait in the lobby until the police came. Looking a little more closely at the body in the back row, Elizabeth could see that she had shot herself in the face. Audience members filed out, some turning around to get a quick picture of the body 31

on their camera phones as they left.

Elizabeth continued to stare at Courtney Cho’s body until Alice returned to the stage with all the caution of a rabbit poking its head out of a hole to make sure the fox was really gone. She only turned in Alice’s direction when she heard the host’s shoes rushing towards her.

Before she had time to react Alice’s hands were around her throat and she was screaming at her, demanding to know if the Majik Mud, the cream which would have put BodyLife on top once for all, was going to make her like that, too. The two of them flew over the chair Elizabeth had been standing in front of and it took three security guards to pry Alice’s hands off her. As they dragged her away she screamed threats and insults, but they were only so much background noise to her. For Elizabeth, all that existed in the room at that moment was the vision of all she had worked so hard for falling around her like a house that hadn’t been nearly as stable as it had seemed.

A security guard helped her to her feet, but instead of letting her go, he held onto her firmly, even angrily. A police officer approached from the back of the room as two others moved toward Courtney Cho’s lifeless body.

For a moment, she wondered what the obituary was going to look like, but then the officer asked her name and she nodded her head dumbly. He placed a hand on her shoulder and escorted her off the soundstage. The last thing she heard before she walked out of the room was the sound of Alice Swanson, sobbing inconsolably.

32

A Woman Undone —Ani Artinian

If eyes are the windows to the soul Then eyelashes are the shutters, Opening outwards into the world, Long and dark, Fibrous and yawning; My femininity, My flirting devices.

One day I cut them off.

Grabbed a pair of scissors

And cut straight across.

It’s like pricking through

The canvass of a painting, or

A bumpy scar

Where a breast used to lie;

The quickest movement,

The slightest spasm

And beauty comes undone.

33

X —Joi Ong

34

Drip —Ellen McCoy

What flows like water when the faculties are tired and no effort is desired washing waving over Being descending little by little one layer under another.

Relaxation sinks in cells opening receiving willing to accept without resistance.

Ever gentle water lays her hands upon your feet working her way up all the way to caress your psyche asking for your troubles as she effortlessly nudges them away.

They drip and disintegrate leaving only peace in her wake.

35

Apple from the Top — Farida Samerkhanova

It was the first time that I was on a blind date. He talked a lot, maybe too much. He mentioned that he could read palm lines. He could also heal people with his will power.

After dinner, we took a long walk. We were holding hands. He wanted me to take off the gloves. I said that I always had my gloves on. I feel secure in gloves. He wondered what gloves could protect from. I said from the environment, for example. He said that no one had ever called him “environment�.

In the car, he hugged me and it felt good. We listened to the music.

The next day he called me five times. His voice made my heart melt with happiness. He said that he always compared women to apples. The tastiest apples always grow at the top. Men mostly do not want to climb up the tree. They are afraid of falling down. Instead, they pick up apples from the ground, which are not as good, but easy to get. Apples at the top think that there is something wrong with them. As a matter of fact, they are flawless and great. They just need to be patient and wait.

He said he was the one who never picked apples from the ground. I thought that I was an apple from the top. I liked him. He was the right guy for me.

He asked over the phone if I could come over. He said they would have dinner together. I said yes and was there in no time. When he got into my car, he found out that he did not have his wallet with him.

36

I said I could pay for dinner. He said he could accept the invitation only if I promised that next time they would go to the fanciest restaurant in town and dinner would be on him.

We had red wine. When the bottle was empty, he ordered another one. We drank Bruderschaft and kissed.

The bill was over one hundred dollars. I added a tip.

I felt happy and drunk. In the car he kissed me. He undid my bra and his hands touched my breasts. I did not mind. He pushed his seat back and lay down. His penis was hard and big. He moaned with pleasure. Then he came. I felt a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment.

I have just woken up and immediately logged on to the dating site. His profile is deleted. His cell phone is off. He got everything for nothing and disappeared. He is smart. I wondered how many women did a blow job in the parking lot after paying for his dinner. I still have that disgusting taste in my mouth. The apple from the top was bit a couple of times and tossed to the dirty ground.

I am going to the bathroom. In the shower I must be careful: Mama should not hear me crying. Then I will put on my robe and come back here. I will delete my current profile and create a new one. Hope dies last.

37

Bed — Patty Kearny

We lay in our bed of Tangled sheets and twisted Dreams as the morning sun Glares through the blinds showing The lie we are trying to hide The faint odor of body sweat And carnal lust floats Like a guilty secret Love has died, it starved To death without a Single cry of pain We strangled the life Out of it. You and I We looked away as It silently begged for help We forgot it, ignore it Turned and ran from it We slew it with our mouths The words that stung Now looking at you Looking at me Know you are thinking The same as me.

How in the hell Do I get out of here?

38

Here without talking Without touching. really Wanting you to just go But not wanting it‌ That moment of goodbye.

The end of us I want to keep the Delusion of happiness Just a little longer, so I slip silently out of bed.

39

Dragonfly —Rebecca Irwin

40

41

Nana’s Mirror — Priscilla Celina Suarez

There is a mirror that hangs up right smack over the stove.

I am cooking a meal, boiling water for my coffee or heating up a quesadilla y a fuerzas—by no choice—I have to look at myself. Whether I feel like it or not.

Sometimes, I am so ugly to myself in that mirror, I know what a shame it’d be to bother pretending otherwise and smile at myself when I definitely don’t feel like it. Oyes1, I don’t think that mirror is there to make me feel so ugly.

Because I know that I am not so fea2. Not to be conceited or anything.

I don’t know why Nana3 says there has to be a mirror in every kitchen, but she believes it is how it should be. Just the way she believes there shtould be a candle burning for the Virgencita4 every night. The way she believes everything that comes told by her own Nana.

Nana says that my great abuela5 Licha will look out of that same mirror to make sure we are keeping up with her wishes. Especially to make sure we behave ourselves and not make the family look bad. It used to scare me when I was a little girl. You know how little kids believe just about anything they are told. I would go to the kitchen to sneak out an extra cookie and then catch a 1 “Oh, Yes.” In Mexican Slang 2 Ugly 3 Grandmother 4 Virgin Mary 5 Grandmother

42

glimpse of that mirror, and forget it, the idea of whatever it was I was up to would vanish that instance.

Just you’d better never take it down and place it another room. Cuz that would be bad. Oh, it would be so bad. That is a mirror that has been with our family for generations. From back before the revolution in the rancho that made us come running to this side. Pues6, almost since forever.

I don’t think it would come true how Nana says that my great abuela Licha, Nana’s mother, will come out of it herself and scratch you to death for moving a kitchen mirror around. That she’d do it just cuz she hates to be confused when she wants to look back out of the mirror, and into the kitchen she had cooked in herself.

Nah, that is not the bad thing I am speaking of. It is something simpler. Easier to believe. If you have an abuela, then you know it is true that my Nana is so into her crazy myths that she would take the broom into her little hands, and you believe me that it’d be not to sweep, but to swap at your behind for not listening. Gees! You know Nana hates to be made a fool out of. And if you don’t listen to her stories well enough to understand she is serious to death about them, then you just as well have made a fool out of her for not believing what she says.

And she hates that.

Can you believe Nana running around chasing you with a broom? Can you believe a cute and sweet little old 6 Well

43

lady running in her chanclas7 and cursing?

Pues, you’d better believe it for your own good.

Pero8 me, I am so dumb, I am so dumb, I don’t think twice about covering up that stupid mirror that makes me feel so ugly. So, I cover it with a towel. The last thing I need is to have to look at myself, at my pale and wretched face, and remember how I have stopped crying.

No husband. No children. No real job. Only a Nana that thinks I am too old to marry now. A father that thinks I am too stupid to start up with the idea of college now. And a mother that has died recently and left me here to put up with those two.

My mother never thought I was a no good like they do. She never made me feel too old for love. Too stupid for having to quit school. Not her.

To ‘Ama9, I was a smart girl. For not marrying too young and giving myself that freedom of a young life without worries. A smart girl. For trying my dreams before giving up and going back to school. She knew I had to try out being something else before all that.

Maybe because I was her baby girl. Maybe because she believed in me.

I am not saying Nana is mean to me. She just doesn’t understand why I do the things I do. She says to my father that I am so lost. That I need to get some help.

That if I had been her daughter, and not my Ama’s, I would never be this lost as I am now. I would not be a good for nothing if I had been her daughter.

7 Sandals 8 But 9 Mexican slang for Mother. It is short for “Mama”

44

I hear her saying this to me as I stand waiting for my tortilla to warm up. I hear them telling me I should be married. I should have children. That that is the only thing that can make me happy now.

I look up at the mirror. But, it is covered. I covered it up with that towel. But this is just my habit of looking up at the mirror. Even when I know how ugly I am. How ugly I will feel myself when I look into that stupid, stupid mirror that my Nana puts up. That her own Nana had put up in this kitchen when it had been hers.

So much family. So much family that has looked into that mirror. At first, when Nana’s Nana was alive, no men captured a glimpse into it because of stupid traditions. Now, even my father, Nana’s own son, looks into it when he heats up coffee for his guests. Even my six-year-old nephews look into it. When they drag a chair by the stove, and reach over the grill to heat up their milk for their corn flakes. Just like Nana teaches them to do for when it is nighttime—and when it is bad luck for children to swallow cold food or drinks at nighttime.

I put the queso10 into the tortilla and fold it in half. I toast it up real good. So good, that it is so crunchy on the outside, but so cheesy on the inside.

And I eat it like that. Without a napkin to protect me from the hot quesadilla. Standing in front of the stove and looking into that mirror that is covered.

I finish it up. And I think how it is not fair how that stupid mirror is covered but yet, I still feel so ugly. I don’t have to look into it to know how ugly I must look.

And I think about how Nana broke one of her own 10 Cheese

45

nana’s myths. About a man never cooking his own meals. She broke it. I am sure that must’ve been a myth of her Nana’s if that lady never let a man, no boy, near the stove.

Why should I keep with the traditions if I don’t believe in them?

It is my kitchen now that ‘Ama is dead. And now Nana has been prohibited to stand over that stove. Her doctor says the heat does her wrong. That standing up does her wrong. That drinking coffee does her wrong.

Ay, pues that basically anything does her wrong.

I guess I could do what I want to do with this kitchen now. Starting with that mirror. I don’t care what Nana or my father will say. Why should I? They don’t care about what I say. They never listen to me. Not like my ‘Ama would.

I miss her so much. My ‘Ama. I miss her so much.

And I can feel the pain. But at least I don’t have to see what it looks like on me anymore. At least not in this stupid mirror that looks so stupid hanging there over the stove.

But being in the kitchen just makes me feel so sad.

So sad. It reminds me more of ‘Ama. Of her and Nana in the kitchen. And I sorta miss my Nana now too. She never does anything anymore other than to complain like the viejita11 that she is. But how could I blame her?

Having to sit there in front of the TV all day when she hates watching TV. Waiting for me to cook her caldos12.

11 Old woman 12 Soups

46

Sitting in bed to drink her ugly medicinas13. Waiting for someone to pass by her window so she can see something other than her TV, herself, or me that only has arguments for her. Her there on that bed seeing that novela14 where she has to scream at the stupid girl for being so stupid. It is not real life like what she prefers to see. It only gives her corajes15.

How could I blame my Nana for wanting me to have a family and telling me I will be so unhappy without one?

She wants the best for me. I know my Nana. She might be harsh. But, Nana only wants the best for me. How can I blame her for that? How can I blame her for wanting to pass me her own Nana’s myths? They are the only things that she can give me. Why do I forget this?

Maybe I could never believe in them as she does. I am not so naïve. But at least I should appreciate that she tries to teach them to me. Why am I so ungrateful?

I am thinking of this and I walk out of the kitchen.

Thinking that with Nana and ‘Apa16, at least I am not completely alone yet.

I am walking out of the kitchen, and I hear from behind me, “Oyes, where are you going? Don’t you see that I cannot see over there? Can’t you see that I have no eyes into my kitchen? Don’t go anywhere without uncovering me, muchacha tonta17.” I hear the voice 13 Medicine 14 Soap Opera 15 Similar to the English expression “headaches.”

But really, just a pain mixed with anger.

16 Mexican slang for Father. It is short for “Papa” 17 Dumb Girl

47

that is somewhat a part of a dream. From when I was so little, a muchachita, that I had almost forgotten that voice. A voice I did not know I could remember.

I don’t have to turn to look. Cuz I know where it comes from.

From the kitchen. From on top of the stove. From nana’s Nana’s mirror. The one that I covered with a towel. You know, the stupid one that hangs over the stove.

And that voice. It is Nana’s mother, my great abuela Licha’s voice. My long dead great abuela Licha’s voice.

Telling me with that stern voice of hers, much like what Nana uses now, telling me, “Muchacha TONTA. Don’t you dare keep me covered. O veras. Oh, you will see.”

48

Insomnia —Josefin Laurén

from the A Half Solved Riddle Series Time is a funny thing especially if you don’t keep track of it Daylight Nightdark all the same Like that study I read about a long time ago I laughed at it Like so many other things, rhythm of sleep changing without clocks.

Yeah, that’s what it said.

Now I know not to laugh— time is not a thing Time is the space that passes between phonecalls and texts “Are you alright?”

“What are you doing?”

“Want to do something?”

I don’t know I try to explain to them, that it feels like I’m being lied to And they laugh, uncomfortably like I did with that study I wish I could find it again I think it was conducted in hm, a cave 49

My memory might fail me, it’s been such a long time.

At least ten thousand phonecalls ago Like a rebel, with a trust fund I question society’s rules growling Saw a documentary about an artist, he said: “Parades make me sad, I’m such an outsider and this expression of belonging makes it feel worse. Like I’ll never belong” I didn’t laugh this time My cat asked for food I’d never forget to feed them, They don’t care about time.

Still they remind me of it, with their hunger and excrements I wonder if it’d be even worse Maybe without them I’d know how to answer “What are you doing?”

“How are you?”

“Want to do something?”

I’d always answer no I’m not doing anything— 50

nothing I put my mind to I’d really like to find that study.

It irks me that I can’t.

It spoke to the history in me of owning the hours.

Daydark Nightlight Like watching life watching shadows “Going through the motions” it’s not the industrial era not anymore What makes me a better person to be up at dawn?

I am however up with the sun I’m up at any hour It doesn’t matter what time.

It’s not jealousy but a wish to be content A sheer knowledge of my time well spent.

Rebels keeping up with their neighbours I tried that too the house the car the pets the spouse (not the child) It wasn’t all that bad But time is a funny thing Especially when you can’t keep track of mortgages 51

of dinnertime not even the slightest snack Roses on wet petal bow Words I never said Never went to Mallorca or that tax free shopping boat I like words instead Not the perfect ones that’d be so unlike me but those uneven ones Rhyming at times But usually I let them be Watching like is like watching shadows, was it Plato that said so?

I want to see the purest forms Time is waiting for death Best not keep track of it but just be instead.

52

The Field is Dead —Mari

Read the first story in this two part series on Enhance No 2 The field is overgrown; I walk through amazed at how the grass has actually grown high and wild. I’m slowly running my hands through the pasture fighting back the memories that threaten to sneak into my mind’s eye. It’s hard to keep them away, almost impossible to forget that this is the place where we fell in love. I do my best to push them away but they sit there permanently etched in my heart and head, a scar that will live with me forever. This place was always so special to us; it was here where we shared our first kiss. Where I met the woman of my dreams. I sigh, it pains me to see how all of it is now gone, like the wilted flowers reflecting in an all too clear image what remains of our love.

I get to the middle of the place. I can see around me the product of all the rage and hatred, there’s not even a sign of how much of a happy place this used to be. I look up to see the clouds that were once happy and fluffy. I gaze further into the field all that remains is an empty barren place. It’s almost as if it was our love that kept this small paradise in full bloom. I want to continue but something holds me in place. A memory that comes and then fades away.

I hear the thunder boom in the distance, but I know the rain will never fall. The magic and happiness that once made this place bloom and grow is dead and will be lost forever. Do I dare walk around to see those 53

places that will only bring a flood of painful memories?

I have to push forward; I need to be brave. I need to have this closure so my heart can once again heal. I take a breath and walk forward listening to the roll of thunder announcing in mockery the much-needed rain that will never quench.

I walk past the shrunken trees that once used to be glorious onto where the river bend used to be. A magical place where we used to meet, laughing, playing, and splashing the water to our hearts content. All I see is a dry and infertile bank of dust. Memories of our fun games of hide and seek bring a momentary smile to my lips that quickly fades away.

I watch as the wind picks up the dust and I get hit with the dry hot air against my face. I turn away when I remember that like this place our love now is dead, nothing but a distant memory of what once was. I watch as the sky goes grey and stormy. I jump as thunder booms and the lightning crashes all around me. I am hoping as I walk away that the rain will come and bring the same joy and happiness for someone else as it did for us.

I shed a tear, it will never happen. The tears stain my face as I walk away with a scar left on my heart that only time will heal. I trace my steps back to where I came from. Only glancing back to the place I will never come back to.

54

Just Care —J.Lynn Stockdale

Have you noticed how much hostility and negativity is in the world today? People fighting with one another over petty, meaningless, insignificant BS that has no bearing on their lives as a whole; but are so eager to attack another for their views. Death, mayhem and destruction have reached pandemic levels spanning the globe. You pick up a newspaper and see the majority of the stories are negative. It’s all just too depressing.

Soldiers following orders from men behind desks that have no clue what it means to take a life or sacrificing their own, yet have no problem ordering young men; children in the eyes of many; to do that on a daily basis; yet offering very little to these young men to help them with the aftermath of what they have been ordered to do by their countries.

The corruption of officials in all branches of government is overwhelming; politicians lying to the populous to further their own sick and twisted agendas.

The people turn a blind eye to those in need, looking down upon those that are less fortunate than themselves.

Voluminous diatribes of hate and disgust directed at others for their race, religious beliefs and sexual preferences; their choices in life ….

Mass devastation of the resources provided by nature; destroying the very landscape; encroaching upon nature’s realm only to bitch, moan and groan about how nature responds to such acts.

The obliteration of a species in the name of sport is 55

becoming commonplace; seeking nothing more than a trophy to hang on their wall. There are so many species on the verge of extinction; yet very little is being done to preserve them. Humans are thought to be the most intelligent; sentient beings on this planet. Yet are the most destructive beings in existence. Take for example the cougar, the wolf, the snake, the bear, and the coyote.

These animals having lost most of their natural habitat and are searching for food and new territory; doing what comes naturally to them. The human’s response is to hunt them down and kill them for doing what it is in their nature to do. Humans have encroached upon the territories of these animals; destroying their homes, affecting their food supplies, their very existence threatened by acts of humans. And we kill them for trying to survive. How intelligent is that?

Hostile actions, angry voices, a proliferation of negativity; and many wonder why society is what it is.

Will it ever change? What can we do as individuals to see a better future for ourselves; for our children and their children? What I offer won’t cost you anything; won’t hurt you to try it, and can bring you inner peace. We can start by offering a smile; a friendly word; a kind gesture; say hello to a stranger; open your heart to caring about others. Walk away from negativity; give what you can to those in need, even if it’s only a hug; say thank you to a soldier. And enjoy nature for what it is; majestic beauty; living art. We can all contribute to a better future. Just care.

56

The Helix —Thomas Kratz

1 The light ebbed through the window pane and fell across the floor. The sky was gray and had turned the sun into a diffused, dull pit that couldn’t shine. Frank was staring over his canvas and squinting at it because the natural light was so bad and hardly filling the bare, drab studio. The painting was only a background so far.

A splash of orange and purple slip streamed across the fibrous plane but the foreground was empty and devoid of any true subject. He had to resist drawing a piss-poor stick figure up front to quell the restlessness that the wide open space summoned in him. He threw a sheet over the frame and went for the door, knocking over the paint spattered coffee can that he kept his brushes inside of.

2 He locked the front door and started down the sidewalk. The air was thick and humid and left a coat of moisture on his skin. The mild breeze was so choked with flickers of energy that it felt like the sky would split open any second and pour down rain.

He passed Estelle in her flower gardens. She was hunched over in the growth, a spade and a bushel of weeds heaping behind her.

Frank smiled at her but she was too deep into the little jungle to notice. She didn’t look up. Not that it mattered though, as his smile was an obligatory one, for appearance’s sake, because Estelle was a second class 57

neighbor. Which was to say, a neighbor a few houses down, one he didn’t know much at all, but well enough that a “how do you do” of some form was required.

Frank kept on.

3 He went to the grocery store.

A little girl roped up with a clanking, heaving donation box wriggled about the front doors.

“Make a donation sir?” she asked.

He was halfway through the doors when he turned back. “What’s that?”

“Donation? To save the Rainforests?”

He stared her up and down a time, fighting with himself, fighting the fact that he really would have preferred to be left alone.

“Okay,” he said. “Let me see if I have any change on my way out.”

He grabbed a hand basket and flowed in with all the other shoppers.

Everyone was moving like sloths, squinting, adjusting their shoulders, staring perplexedly at fruits and packages and sale signs. There was a lot of coughing going on, mothers were yelling at their children, threats of “no treats then,” were being made. He heard a loud, booming woman approaching with her elderly husband.

The isle seemed too narrow all of a sudden and the shuffle and clang drove Frank away. He turned the corner.

He dropped a can of artichoke hearts into his basket.

He always bought artichoke hearts. His mother had 58

always had them in the house.

He continued on, avoiding the occasional mob of flailing, coupon waving wild eyes, and he went scurrying like a sloth himself when he realized that he was doing more dodging than shopping.

He’d drank too much coffee, hadn’t had breakfast, and his stomach was shedding now because of it. His hands were trembling and his basket was jigging and bouncing around so much that it would have been no surprise if the thing started buzzing and flew away. He stood there for some time, listening to the ever advancing clamor of the other customers growling and puffing and growing close. He steadied himself by grabbing a shelf.

He took a long breath and wiped his brow.

“Help you with anything?” an approaching clerk asked.

He did not reply for a very long time. Just walk away, he thought. This is one of those days, so just walk away.

Your cigarettes won’t light, you’ll be fumbling with the buttons on your jacket, the cupboards aren’t going to stay closed. That’s the sort of day this is becoming. Walk away. Go home and sleep and maybe tomorrow you can try again.

He turned to the clerk who was smiling. Frank tried to take his hand from the shelf but his fingers had clamped down on it and they refused to let go.

“What’s the meaning of it all?” Frank asked.

The clerk winced at him. “Pardon me?”

Frank dropped his basket onto the floor. His fingers sprung open. He turned and went for the doors.

It felt as if he were escaping a sinking ship. He 59

staggered towards the exit and the little girl with her Save the Rainforest donation box was waiting for him there.

He looked at her, thinking: What’s the meaning of it all? He fought the urge to ask a twelve year old girl something that he did not know.

He opened his wallet, said nothing to the girl. He fished through his pockets. No change there. He withdrew a twenty dollar bill and placed it flat over the coin slot of the box.

“Thank you so much,” she said, attempting to wedge the bill into the coin slot.

“No,” he said. “That’s for you.”

She looked up at him and craned her neck.

“That’s for you,” he repeated.

She vaguely nodded, and went on ramming the bill inside the box.

“That’s for you. Put it in your pocket.”

He heard the doors opening behind him, wheels and feet pounding, customers rolling outwards.

Frank stepped away and into the parking lot.

Turning back, the girl was frozen at her place, fingers on the tip of the bill.

“Thank you sir,” she said.

“You might need saving too, someday.”

4 He was stammering up the sidewalk.

Estelle was still hunched over in her gardens. This time she looked up.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning,” he replied.

60

He almost passed her yard when the flowers there stopped him. They were orange, brilliant orange, and had petals like tears of tissue paper and stalks like green licorice.

“Lovely flower,” he said.

Estelle raised her head back up from her chore. She turned to the flowers in question. “Oh, those, yes. They should have lost their blooms by now. Maybe it’s the humidity, or the rain this year.”

“What are they?” he asked.

A look of accomplishment glazed over Estelle’s eyes.

“They’re from Thailand. Kottmeier Thrush they call them.”

“That so? Well, they’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Frank moved onward, but he did not get far. He was only a foot or two in his journey when the flowers turned him back.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said.

Estelle raised her head up again. “Pardon me?”

“I’m sorry. Just, they’re really something.”

“Well, thank you,” she repeated.

He smiled and cleared his throat. “Why do you think they’re so pretty?”

Estelle shrugged. “Don’t know. They’re just doing what they’re supposed to do. That’s all it is I imagine.

Best thing there is.”

Frank nodded and clasped his hands together. “Have a good one.”

“You too,” she said.

And then Frank was on his way again, thinking and 61

turning a barrage of thoughts over in his head.

“Doing what they’re supposed to do,” he said to himself. “That’s a good thing.”

5 Frank put the radio on, pressed the cupboard door above the kitchen sink in three times on account that it kept popping back out. He left it alone. He paced back and forth, mumbling to himself. “Do what you’re supposed to do.”

He drank a beer, then a second, and a third some time later, though not as fast as the first two.

He sat in his chair but it didn’t feel right. So he was back up on his feet, pacing some more. He turned the radio off, the television on, then it off, too, and he took the silence in instead.

He threw the blanket off the canvas. There, that gaping blush of colors looked back at him, mixing with one another, scrawling across the surface, as if he would be suffocated by standing too close to it.

He drank another beer and fell asleep with his back leaned up against the front door.

6 Estelle was in the kitchen, pinching beans.

“Mom!” her son called. “Someone’s at the door for you.”

Estelle wiped her hands on her apron and relived her son at his place.

Frank was standing there on the porch in the dark, fidgety as hell. He looked supremely nervous, like he 62

might bolt up and hit his head on the over hang is she so much as whispered.

The crickets had come out and their whirring calls filled the night time.

“Um, hello?” she said.

Frank’s face jerked into a smile. His head twitched.

He blew beer breath into Estelle’s face.

“Hello,” Frank said.

“What going on?” Estelle asked, her back tightening as she pulled the screen door closer to herself.

“Ah, I’m sorry, to, disturb you. Just that…”

“Awfully late, Fred. What’s going on?”

“It’s Frank.”

“Frank. What do you want?”

He moved back from her, bordered on the steps down to the street. Estelle thought he was close to tears. Even in the dark it was obvious. The slouch to his shoulders told it all.

“How do they know what they’re supposed to do?”

Frank asked.

“Pardon?”

“The flowers. How do they know what they’re supposed to do?”

Estelle pulled the screen door a little closer to herself.

“What are you talking about?”

“I asked you today, ‘bout your flowers. The Thrashes.”

“Thrushes,” Estelle said.

“Yes, the Thrushes. You said they were pretty, pretty because they were doing what they were supposed to be doing,” Frank said.

63

“Yes?” “So how do they know what they’re supposed to do?”

As it was, Estelle was close to pulling the door closed completely. This was an uncomfortable meeting. Her husband was on shift work. He wouldn’t be home for another hour. A drunken man was idling on the porch before her.

What prevented her from doing so was that she reasoned a drunken man was better than a drunken man crying, which the slouch of Frank’s shoulders ever made more apparent.

She sighed and stepped out onto the porch. “Frank, maybe you should go home, get some rest?

“I intend to,” he said. “And I’m sorry, just, I got to thinking about the flowers, and I was just wondering, you know...”

“Wondering about how they know what they’re supposed to do?”

“Yes,” Frank said.

She shook her head at him. “You haven’t had a very good day, have you?”

“No,” he said.

“Listen, Frank. I don’t know exactly what you’re asking. And I don’t think I’m gonna be of any use to you in what you want to hear.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just answer me anyways, just about the flowers. Don’t worry about nothing else.”

“My husband’s gonna be coming home. He’s gonna want to know what I’m doing standing here talking ‘bout...”

Frank apologized before she had even finished her 64

sentence and he had begun heading down the walk and back to the street. “Have a good night. I’m sorry.”

She went to the steps and called to him. “Frank!”

He stopped, swaggering at the sidewalk.

“Maybe, oh, I don’t know, maybe they don’t know.

What the hell does anything or anybody know about anything?”

She heard a sob bellow out from up the way. Frank began wailing to himself and passed over the road and to the other side.

She footed to the end of the walk and called out once more. “Frank!”

She could barely see him. He was just a dark spot slowly moving away in the darkness between the streetlights. “Frank. They follow a pattern. That’s why they’re so pretty. They’re symmetrical, they’re orderly, they’re everything working together in the same way to make one very wonderful thing!”

She could not tell if he was still standing there. She dropped her head and turned for the house.

7 She was right of course. That was the grandeur of a flower--all the repeating patterns, the exact angles, the ever increasing scale in formation. That’s how one got lost inside of a bloom.

It was some time after midnight that Frank began to realize that she was right, too.

It wasn’t a question of knowing, it was a question of doing what you were capable of doing, of creating a moment that was on perfect scale with moments before 65

and those to come. Symmetry--that was it, in all that one could do. Not in a single thought or a single questioning canvas. Symmetry in all.

He set up before his painting, his background. He butted his head into it, said a reconfirmation, and set to finishing his piece.

8 It was three months later, or roughly therein that Estelle found it upon her front porch. Arthur was on shift work, wouldn’t be home for another hour. It wasn’t wrapped in cloth or paper, it was bare, ready to be hung, just as it was.

She picked it up and carried it inside. She stared it over a very long time. She hadn’t any idea what it was.

Of course, it was a painting, but after that, who had sent it and what was painted upon it she hadn’t a clue.

She thought maybe it had been wrongly placed. She called her son downstairs lest he had something to do with it.

“It’s a helix,” he said, standing on the landing.

“No,” he said in reply to his mother. “Don’t know whose it is. Why should I know?”

“It’s a what?” Estelle asked.

“A helix. DNA. The shit that’s inside us, our genes and stuff.”

“Language, Andrew!”

“We learned about that stuff in school. It makes 66

us who we are. It’s like, a pattern, there’s like, nine gazillion kilometers of it inside us.”

Estelle settled into her chair, the painting in her lap.

“A helix,” she said, staring over the endless perfection, the symmetry of the human with no foreseeable end there before her.

“It’s pretty,” she said, raising her eyes from the painting and out the window, looking into the darkness, looking nowhere, looking down the way.

67

Infection —Simone Nikkole

in a perfect world you infect me as I shower you’re water as it touches every inch a touch like velvet on my skin i am clothed in you nothing but you you engulf me like the stars kiss the sky i feel you with every blessing of the sunrise with every beat of my heart with every brush of the wind i feel you running through my veins we think of each other in hues painting Dali every time michelangelo even wonders of the power of this love your shadows caress me while I sleep i wake up smelling of your cologne you, the ink of my pen i, the beat of your drum as Bomba your soul orders my steps your rhythms become the air I breathe the passion of your stare strips every curve every crevice you fill me up wherever you reside

68

i see you with the perfection of a rose with the strength of a wave as it grows i feel you in me i see you in me only the mirror knows i hope you feel the same 16 – 6–2010

69

Doodles, a Compilation —Lee Fitzgerald

70

71

Ode to My Death —Isabella de Conti

Crimson eyed demons are soaring through my every thought. Death, it makes me want you. It makes me want to cry and long for you in sweet sorrow. In the distance the blaring howls of these demons are deliberately forcing my soul to die. They swarm my nights like a pest through my heart and soul and take over. They have crowned me with a tiara of thorns. These disconcerting creatures bow before me while they torment, they believe I’m the princess of lost souls.

What is this that I’m hearing? What are these whispers in my head? Am I condemned or dying promptly? Will I be able to die at all? A memory of once obscure thoughts struggles to claw its way back to the surface. This rage and anger I taste makes me wonder. Where did my innocence go? How did I become so violent? How do I manage to carry on? Why does giving up seem so much peaceful than continuing on to fight? I feel like I no longer have a cause and this pain is unbearable. I’m only another lost soul aimlessly wondering through.

So when I die, it will be by myself, abandoned, hurt and lonely. Over a lifeless desert lying on a bed garlanded with nothing but dried and wilting roses, the pain caused by their thorns only managing to sink me further down into my own hell. It’s a tragic view over the horizon, my eyes are filled with nothing but graves. I’ll reach out for something, but my mind will slowly lose its grip on all that’s real.

72

A clouded mind with copper flavored thoughts as my once warm skin will turn pale and return to silence, my veins will just bring to a standstill their reason for being. Losing my self, my passion will just lay down tiered, unhurriedly escaping me, the graying skies will turn darker and in a small flash of panic I will wonder the reason why don’t I even feel cold. But then I’ll know it is probably because I was already so cold inside. I’ve already been so dead within. I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long.

I’m going to be all alone breaking the chains of immortality and at the same time I’ll be trying to reach out to that star that once held my dream and who I was.

A bright moonlit sky embraces me, taking me out of bounds. I’ll hum a haunting melody as an Ode to my death. I will feel my heart stop beating, and my lungs stop breathing. My life will flash before my eyes and I will say my good-byes The grave taking me in, turning into my now eternal cradle.

Peace at last.

73

The Whole Way Through —E.G. Wainwright

Despite the rumors, he knew no change was coming.

There had been threats for some time now, but they were never direct, always second hand, pre-chewed, dated, vague. There could be no punishment because there had been no crime. What, after all, had he done? Was he not entitled to his opinion, no matter how strong or what the topic? It was possible that he had said some things he shouldn’t have but he had not been speaking to anyone above him. Yet, something lingered. Some tangible feeling that followed him through his daily routine, an almost unnoticeable weight that, over time, was beginning to unbalance him.

He leaned into his outstretched arm, which pressed against the window. Rain fell in thick, full drops, like beads released from some higher necklace. He could almost discern each one from the next for a brief moment as it existed in the space outside the window. But, inevitably, they were not slowing down for him. They were keeping their speed; after a fleeting encounter with his eye each droplet would continue on to the street below, becoming mingled and lost along the way, so that when each hit the ground and burst into a hundred tiny mirrors, he could not know which he had felt a kinship with and which had simply passed him by.

There was a sound. An interrupting sound. He turned from the window and looked at the flashing light on his desk. He walked toward it and pushed the button.

“Yes.” 74

“Mr. Wilhelm to see you, sir.”

“Thank you. Send him in.”

The tall wooden doors (were they pine, oak, cherry, or cedar… he had never learned about wood) split in the middle, the right side receding into the hall to accommodate the large, well-dressed body of Mr. Marcus Wilhelm.

Marcus had hired him three years ago after an internal power struggle had left the company short a commanding officer. Marcus had made it very clear just exactly what he had expected of him. He was meant to clean house and tie up loose ends, to, in a term, fire people. It was something he had never minded. Telling people that their future was no longer certain was something he has always been good at. He never allowed himself to become emotionally involved nor to feel any sort of power from his situation. Once, when a soon to be ex-employee began to talk about her children, her sick husband, just what was she supposed to do without this job, getting up and throwing a chair with all her strength against the large desk which separated him from her, he had not hesitated. After she had finished her diatribe and the chair sat silently next to the desk it had failed to move, he continued his prepared and well-recited last words of consolation, offering nothing outside of the rehearsed. He seemed both fully engaged and entirely removed at times like these. Because of this situation and many others of similar discourse, he had earned a 75

nickname around the office: ‘The Robot.’ He knew of this name and in a small way, he took some pride from it.

After all, he believed that emotional attachment to a job was the cause of most employee failures. They became too invested; they began to think that the job was like a family member and that it would not betray them.

“David. How are you?”

“Fine, fine, thank you. And you?

“Good, good. Not too busy I hope. Not interrupting am I?” “Hardly, I was just watching the rain.”

It was uncertain from his facial expression whether Marcus understood this to be the truth or merely an attempt at humor. If, in fact, David had been watching the rain every day of his career it had never showed in his work and perhaps he was all the better for it. Marcus made a mental note to look out his window when he returned to his office. He had, after all, always respected David and what appeared to be his mercilessly pedantic lifestyle.

“Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?”

“No, no. Just popped down for a moment.”

As David moved to a position behind his desk, subconsciously drawn to his place of control and comfort in the room, Marcus pulled himself down into one of the two identically set brown leather chairs (he choose the one on the right). There would have been a rather uncomfortable moment of silence were the rain not still available and making a half-hearted attempt to break itself against the wide set windows.

“Seems we need to have a bit of a chat, David.”

76

So it was going to happen after all. David felt a small tinge of excitement stream through him when he thought of Marcus, alone in his grandiose office, preparing his speech. Too few times in his life had David been on the receiving end of one of these lectures. He wondered what would be said, but already the excitement was turning to boredom when he thought of his own place in the ‘chat’. He would have to be submissive, understanding, and passive even. It was not a role he enjoyed nor one he found particularly easy to move inside. He sat down in his chair and placed a look of concerned interest on his face.

“The other day, David. When you were in the office kitchen. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

Indeed, David knew exactly what Marcus was talking about. He knew the conversation verbatim. He was hesitant though, unsure if Marcus wanted to talk about what had been said or simply the reaction to it.

He sat silently in his chair, maintaining his troubled expression.

“I mean, Jesus, David, it was only her first week. We don’t want to come across that way to new employees do we?”

There it was. The ‘we’ that David had been waiting for. The ‘we’ that came along with the company. Though as a member of the company’s upper caste, David was at least a part of the ‘we’ that mattered. He was not a part of the ‘we’ who used to work for the company or the ‘we’ that still worked for an hourly wage, or sorted mail, or performed any number of unenviable tasks that helped the company to run. For the first time in his tenure here, 77

he felt happy to be included in the ‘we’ that Marcus had given to him. It meant comfort, stability; it meant, above all things, that this conversation was going to be nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Marcus proceeded but David could not hold his concentration. He knew that he should continue listening, that he should not begin to drift. This discipline, however weak, should be tolerated and obeyed, as it was no doubt deemed necessary by those above even Marcus. And yet, anxious and involved facial expression not withstanding, David began to wander.

As he looked at the deep, handsome face across from him, its mouth moving in a strict fashion to release words of ill-impression, he began to catch only fragments, half sentences, last words, first syllables. By the time Marcus claimed that it was “ok to call a spade a spade but…”

David was in a small cabin. There were several men staring at him in anticipation. The room was hot and it smelled of sweat, smoke, and vodka. He knew that he had won. He put his cards down in a neat row and sat back with a triumphant smile, not even bothering to rake in the money which was lying idly, ignorant of its value, pleased with the simple presentation of the hand that luck had put together for him. Then a knife was in his face and the old man with long braids had his arm outstretched like a worn and rusted pole and was standing behind it yelling at him. The euphoria that had been surrounding him since he had been dealt that final black card was being interrupted by the sharp (and convincing) tap of stainless-steel against his cheek.

Surely, there had been some mistake. No, he had not 78

cheated, could not cheat, had no idea how to cheat. But the eyes behind the knife were red and blurry with a long night of losing and blood was starting to tumble in thick raindrops to the floor. Now the other men were getting involved and there was shouting on all sides and the knife was pressing against him. David, in an act of survival rather than one of clear thinking, quickly raised his arms and the knife was knocked first upwards and along his face and then out of the hand that was holding it and into the hot clouded sky where it seemed to disappear for an instant before coming down, dark wooden handle first, with a loud crash on the table where it then bounced and dove, blade first, toward the murkiness of the floor and into the aged and angry foot of its owner. A scream lurched out of the stunned man and the room stopped to investigate. David made for the door. The degree of cold reacted with the blood on his cheek almost instantaneously and had anyone been watching David at the moment he ran from the cabin to his truck they would have sworn on oath that he had indeed, despite all odds against it, been crying tears of blood.

This had been in the Yukon, when he was young and had needed money and had taken a job as a pipe wielder’s assistant. Assistant meant that he spent most of his time carrying copper pipe from one area to another in sub-zero temperature. The money was extremely good and it was the only reason he had taken the job. Most of the men he worked with were twice his age and as they joked, had not been imported from some southern region as David had. They spent nine months of every year standing on frozen tundra connecting piece after 79

piece of arctic pipeline. At night, when the sun was still shining, they gambled and drank and cursed every second of every day of their lives. David spent the night in his truck, parked four miles away, praying that the gas would hold out until morning so that he wouldn’t freeze to death before it was safe enough to return to camp.

The next day, the new scar already forming cleanly, a scar that he knew, later in life, lent him an air of mystery he did not fully deserve. He showed up for work and everything went on as usual. It was not until the day had ended that he remembered the towering pot of money, which he had left behind so promptly as he raced for all his life into the cold night air. ‘Jules used it to pay for his foot. Drove himself in last night. Drunk as hell all hundred and ten miles. Used his left foot. You ever try that. Damn harder than you think.’

Of course, this memory rushed through him much faster then words can be spoken and Marcus had barely finished his sentence about spades before David was back in his chair, back from the Yukon and a challenge he still saw he had somehow failed, even with thirty years to look back. He would not stay long though. A reference in Marcus’s next sentence would take him away again to another night not much warmer than the first but, also, inevitably a failure.

He had been traveling with a friend through Europe and they had stopped for a few nights in a small town on the Amalfi coast. They had met two German girls at a bar and his friend had walked off into the night with one of them leaving David alone with the other. They had spent as much time as they could over their drinks 80

and conversation but both knew that without the others returning, there was only one way the night was likely to end. However, when they arrived at the cheap hotel and sat on the bed together and David had begun to kiss her she had pleaded with him to stop. She told him that she had a boyfriend waiting for her. After each kiss, she would coo softly into his ear that she wished him to stop.

At first, this of course only encouraged David because, although she was saying no, she was also kissing him back. But the game ended there and she became quite serious when he tried to re-position her on the bed. He remembered her dark hair, her small umber face that seemed to blend into the dim light of the early morning.

He held her, on the small bed, and they fell asleep for a few short hours until David’s friend returned alone and, seeing them still clothed, asked what he was still doing with her.

This was said and done before Marcus was beyond his sentence about David’s use of his ballpoint pen as a sort of maestro’s baton to conduct his small pontification.

Because of his lack of concert knowledge, the word maestro had always made him think of Italy before anything else and David knew that he still looked involved, that Marcus could not help but feel that he was really taking this talk seriously. The rain was still falling outside and David began to count the number of drops that hit against the pane. Rain was always dying, he thought. Even when it collected somewhere, it was still dead. It’s life was in the fall. Did it matter where it happened?

He was at one thousand, three hundred and thirty-six 81

when the expression on Marcus’ face turned from one of stern determination to a more relaxed and reflective tone.

David knew that the meeting was all but over now.

“Of course, Marcus, I understand all of this. My actions were highly inappropriate and I will not conduct myself in such a way ever again. I hope I have not done anything unforgivable.”

“No, of course not David. We will move past this. No public apology is necessary but a memo will circulate to those concerned stating that this meeting took place and that I am confident in your regret.”

“Yes. Certainly. I understand. And I hope the young woman was not too taken aback?”

“I don’t suppose we’ll really know. She left a few days ago. Her mother apparently became ill quite suddenly and she had to return home. It was the others in the room who made the complaints.”

There was a short silence as both men seemed to reflect on the idea of a sick relative somewhere with the same polite concern that two men anywhere, in any circumstance, might share for a stranger in peril. A feeling at once both natural and humane but altogether meaningless just the same.

They shook hands and David walked Marcus to the door. There was a brief, firm handshake and Marcus said, “tell Jessica I say hello” and then he walked out of the office, his smart black suit showing just the first signs of wear.

For years, David had kept a diary which he purposefully left available for his wife to intercept so that she did not worry about him. She had never suspected 82

that he knew she read it, or what’s more, that he counted on her reading it. He was unsure if he would mention his meeting today. If he did, it would only be to say that Marcus had stopped by to have a chat. But he would mention the rain. After all, if someone were to ask him tomorrow what had happened today, he would say simply, and without thinking, “it rained the whole way through.”

83

84

O

All Original Works Belong to the Authors —Magazine Design Copyright Sarai Oviedo 2011