Enhance: The Art of Fiction

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the art of fiction

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Table of Contents 3. Speaking Abilities

ENHANCE october 2013

by Samantha Ley 5. Concerning the Protestor Outside the Complex on 4th and Sanders by Travis Sharp

Letter From the editor Hello. It’s never my intention to steer a magazine’s

10. Dinner at the Macaroni Grill

message one way because of my life events. It

by Jackie Davis Martin

just happens. My hair’s thinning out and I spent

13. Learning to Kill

way too much time battling allergies. It feels

by Barbara Carter

like my misfortune read submissions for me,

16. Circus Act

even designed each page. I read through each

by Denis Bell

submission wondering if it was the menthol or

12. Lonesome Cave by Benjamin Cooper 26. Fiber by Susan RukeysEr 27. The Field Maze of the Ordinary by John Vicary

the submitter’s surreal muse creating ripples with different meanings for each story. But, I didn’t expect any less than a multidimensional experience for an Art of Fiction issue. In fact I’m overjoyed at all the submissions, how they clung to each other like receptors in DNA. The following stories strung along, sung along,

29. Signs

exploded and imploded into the order they sit in

by Lynn G. Carlson

right now. These stories have come together for

30. The Organ Grinder

us to read through and wade in their meanings.

by Bradley Mason Hamlin 32. To Feel

Thank you for reading.

by Alison L. Thalhammer

Sopphey Vance

35. The Visit by B. Lynn Carter 2

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.


Speaking abilities by Samantha Ley

“Hello. Hello. Hello.” On the days when she was alone for too long, she caught herself saying these words— no, THIS word—over and over. Usually, she was walking the dark cobblestoned streets of the village, breathing in the fresh, cold sea air purely to absorb air that was not part of their stale, cramped studio apartment. She was told that in the short summer months, these avenues would be full of life – families strolling in the sunshine, men selling fresh haddock and cod, musicians busking for change, even the occasional street carnival. These descriptions, which she had heard over and over again, felt a world or two removed from the ice, rain and clouds that blanketed the village for months at a time. She couldn’t imagine someone bringing their children outside to enjoy the weather as it was now. Hello. When it slipped out, it had different intonations—sometimes questioning, sometimes

Samantha Ley is a freelance writer and editor.

more surprised, sometimes goofier and more

Her work has previously been published in The

playful, as for a baby. Always happy, though. And

Kenyon Review blog and the Trillium Literary

always quiet, just a whisper if it was voiced at all.

Journal. Her fiction story “A Small Town, Wait-

But it was there.

ing,” was published in the spring 2013 issue of

Hello.

Sleet Magazine and is currently nominated

She would imagine meeting people,

for the Sundress Publications “Best of the Net”

unexpectedly running into someone she knew,

award.

even though she knew no one here. Sometimes 3


she would envision greeting a dog—a big,

Hello!

shaggy, slobbery thing that was perpetually

And yet whenever she realized with a

thrilled, galloping down the street and trying

start that she had been doing it, murmuring

to say hello right back to everyone he saw. In

this worthless word over and over, she felt

reality, it wasn’t normal to say hello here, either

embarrassed. Ashamed, really, because it all

to people or to animals. Everyone she walked

couldn’t be further from the truth. She was happy

past was bundled up, with raised collars and thick

to stay home for days at a time, not needing to

wrapped scarves. Eyes straight ahead, or down.

leave or talk to anyone so long as she had English

Dogs on tired, woven leashes. Everyone gray and

books and some food. Their apartment had a

stony-faced and fighting their own battle with

large window facing the street below, which

the wind whipping off the Baltic Sea.

contributed to the cold interior, but also to her

Hello. Hello.

imagination. She could perch on the window

As she walked, she became the imagined

seat and take note of the comings and goings of

social center of this tiny town. Every footstep

the building and the neighborhood, a captain on

brought her more acquaintances, more

constant watch in uncharted ocean. Her husband

witticisms, more to look forward to around every

would come home from the lab and ask what she

corner. She saw people from the university, her

had done with the day; what could she tell him?

husband’s colleagues and others that she had

They spoke a few words of the language between

met at the international center. She greeted

them, but the idea of even buying bread at the

residents that she recognized from the bakery,

market filled her with anxiety. She went to the

the grocery store, the post office, her own

meet-ups, the ones for other foreigners, but

apartment building. Hello, Mrs. Tzyminsky! Hello,

that’s all it was—a place to meet. She introduced

man next door who is always cooking something

herself over and over and then never saw most

that smells like beets! In her mind, she was

of them again. Hello, hello, with an engineered

pleased to see them and they were pleased to

smile. With families and jobs and travel, there

see her. She even greeted those she didn’t know,

wasn’t time for much more. They were thrown

older women and couples of all ages taking a

together only based on how different they were

stroll down the cobblestone walkway who looked

from everyone else.

like they would be receptive to a nod and a smile. 4


Concerning the Protester outside the Complex on 4th and Sanders

I like that you wrote properly spelled quotes from Sharon Olds poetry on the backs of the signs you hold up, little excerpts from “The Pact” and “Wonder,” though you should know that the one from “Wonder” is taken out of context. Admirable but faulty. Though don’t we all do that? Make things fit that simply don’t? I’ve never had the chance to speak with you. Is it nerves? Fear? A doubt that you’ll understand? I like your hair. How you part it as if it’s law in Leviticus, how it shines from too much conditioner. I like the poster board that you use. I pass by the brand once a week in my local Dollar General. I shop for groceries there. I always told myself I wouldn’t but here I am, getting three dollars worth of Ramen and daring a Spaghettios for a little variety. I have to have food stored away, no matter how cheap. The empty cabinets scream to me as starving children on the brink of devastation. Mom and Dad seemed to think

by Travis Sharp

buying twenty dollars of food would last you, but

Travis Sharp has a BA in English from a small,

they forgot that there was a tomorrow and more

local school you have never heard of and will be

meals in it, like why bother because tomorrow

entering the MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics

could be the Rapture, tomorrow you may be sick

program at the University of Washington this fall.

and not eat anything, tomorrow could be It.

He is rather unpublished, save for a short story

I like your car, and I commend you on being

in Athena’s Web, an interdisciplinary arts and

able to stow all those signs into the back with the

sciences journal featuring undergraduate writers

car seats and the cooler full of bottled water and

that he created and edited while an undergradu-

bologna. Your children are adorable. Your wife is

ate student.

5


beautiful. Was it an outside wedding? I bet

it on the hook in the middle of the ceiling, the

it was. Some person driving by seeing you

one that used to hold the chandelier. There was

protesting might think you strike them as the

a note left on a Post-It, a blue one. The police

kind of man who would refuse a wedding, opting

report said that it was too clumsy to have been

instead for the courthouse route. But I know

premeditated. The police report also said her hair

better. It was all your idea. The cake and the

was blonde and styled “in a male fashion.”

choice between seafood and chicken. You said no

I couldn’t breathe and I was excited. Excited

to the rice because you’ve heard what they do to

like the dog who notices someone notices she

birds and you’re better than that.

exists. The dog then loves the person and wants

But there are some things we should talk about.

to play fetch with them and sleep in their bed. The dog would be there for you forever. I would.

It’s about the speech.

If I could I would have curled up at the foot of

See, we took the same speech class at the

your bed and fallen asleep.

university last fall, and you gave a speech about

Not that I’m trying to be hasty, but surely you

your mother. You said that you couldn’t end the

felt a connection too. When you walked in the

speech on rubric guidelines because she had

room? I know you felt something because you

been found two days before in your living room,

looked over at my direction. I almost couldn’t

having done it herself with the belt she gave you

contain the urge to ask if you check the ceiling

for your birthday.

each night before bed, or if you act like it never

My mother did it too, only she used the

happened, passing it over in favor of fabricated

apron. The apron hanging on a nail in the

happenings that keep you at a distance from

kitchen. She never actually used it as an apron. It

statistics.

was there for decoration. The police report said

My doctor recommends therapy. It’s not for

she ripped it until it was an appropriate length

everyone, you know, but it could be, he said,

and width and strung it up. It was a miracle

and I understood him completely, the need for

that it held her up, they said, and a voice in my

something that could be nothing. You and I

stomach agreed with them. It must have been

should go together, like couple’s therapy for non-

awkward for her because she didn’t use a chair,

couples, or group therapy. Like AA? I sit in on AA

she stood on the counter and reached over to tie

meetings and pretend I can’t put away the bottle,

6


but the truth is I haven’t been drunk a day of my

which sounds lazier but it’s really not. It’s a more

life. It’s that feeling of not being in control, I think.

comfortable term of endearment, and it takes a

A fear of not knowing. My mother told me not

lot of work to get comfortable around someone.

to get knocked up. I pick up a drink. The alcohol

Some best friends can’t sleep next to one

slides down my throat and I see myself sleeping

another because one of them is a cuddler and

with a man without a name. He doesn’t have a

the other simply can’t handle it. I can handle it. I

face and his voice is a gutter. And suddenly my

need to touch, to grasp on to another human and

clothes are back on, only they’re maternity tees

feel their skin. My mother and father and I would

and hand-me-downs from the plus size section at

throw blankets and pillows onto the floor and

Goodwill. I put down the drink.

gather there, piling in front of the T.V. on movie night.

You might have seen my mother’s face if you’ve ever read the paper. She was the obituary

No matter what I do, there’s no escaping her,

editor for the Times. Not that they show the

even in her death. My nightmares are when I see

editor’s name or face in the paper—bad taste. But

her hanging there and she slides out of it and

they did give her family a discounted rate and we

lands on the floor on her feet, like a cat, like she

bought the largest spot we could. It was at the

had planned to do that. She smiles at me through

top of the first column of that day.

the red marks on her neck and starts making

The picture was imposing, and that was before the resizing. Did you know that the obits are considered advertisements? Really. They’re in the same

dinner. She starts to speak but it’s as if she’s speaking underwater, only there are no bubbles coming out of her mouth. I wake in a blanket of sweat and uncertainty.

department as the classifieds, along with that adoption bit you put in on the 15th of last month. You included your number but not your

But even my fabrications become real. Daydreams turn to stored memories and attempt

name, and I knew so much about you in that

to make something out of nothing. In 2007, my

moment. I don’t get the deal with names. My

mother asks me to clean out the desk in the

boyfriends have all called me Baby, and that’s

dining room. I’d long before stopped trying to

good enough for me. One called me Babe,

ask why bother. She’s the queen of all pack rats. 7


Lying on top of napkins from Burger King and

knew what I would find, that I would have to dial

empty coin rolls are the divorce papers, put there

9-1-1 and answer the questions. Answering them

for me to see. They’d never said anything about

was almost a recitation of past events. Repetition

it. I look at the names signed large and larger on

of a dream. Parroting words from the list of

the dotted lines.

Spanish phrases given on a trip to Mexico: I am

In 2001, the neighbor’s dog gets off its chain

far away from home.

and finds mine in the backyard. It goes straight for my own dog, an elderly mix-breed. It attacks,

I hear my mother in the shower. She always

holding his throat in its jaw until blood came out

took a shower after work, and I’d fall asleep

in globs. I didn’t know it but my mother told me

to the sound as if it were rain pounding the

later that I was screaming murder. And not as an

window. I still hear it. Not that I believe in ghosts.

expression—I was literally screaming, “Murder!

It’s something more than that, like a part of my

Murder!”

memory of her floated out of my brain to rest

In 2009, I have to go back home because I lost my scholarship. I see her face in the window.

someplace in the house I inherited from her, clanging the pots in the kitchen, turning the shower faucets to lukewarm. One time I went

What was your mother like? Was she beautiful

to check to see, and though the shower was

like your wife? Oh, my mother was beautiful. I

turned off, there were water droplets covering

kept the pictures. On birthdays I blow out candles

everything. The T.V. makes those popping noises

to hopes of somehow switching my inheritances

at night and I can’t help but think of the time at

from her body. I got her brain as my figure lies

Thanksgiving, when Dad was watching re-runs

in the tatters of Dad’s family tree. Not that it’s

and she slammed her hand down on the top

wholly relevant, but when I say I inherited her

of it, saying, Could you be bothered to join us

brain, I’m not exaggerating. Her sentences, word

in the dining room? I think of when I saw her

for word, were in my head before she thought

hanging there. Suddenly she looked twenty

to say them. It sounds impossible, but I felt the

years younger. Suddenly she looked like me. I

weight of life on her as she tore the apron, and

kept thoughts of you in my head but they simply

I felt it leave as she jumped off the counter to

became tormenting and suddenly it was me

hover somewhere above hell. Something in me

hanging there, me looking at myself rocking

8


slightly from one side to another, threatening to pull the hook out of the ceiling and the roof and the house and the sky and the universe collapsing along with it. I read the note in my own voice, a birthday present to myself. Clearly that was the intent, like the lover who tries to make their partner feel guilty, only my mother had no lover, so she chose me instead. And she had nothing to lose, so why not go all the way and make the biggest bang there is? I pull the blankets over my head when the shower starts up, louder and louder until the shower is in my room, in my bed. This is not where I want to be. This isn’t home.

9


Dinner at the Macaroni Grill by Jackie Davis Martin

“7:16 seated; 7:22 given water. I’m writing it down.” The man jotted onto the sheet of white paper that protected the tablecloth. The mother never thought of her son as “the man” since she felt he was older than she was. He planned to write a letter to the Macaroni Grill. The waiter poured olive oil into a saucer that overflowed all over the paper. He found an extra linen napkin to place under the saucer. The bread was still cooking, he said. “7:31 olive oil spilled.” “No bread,” the mother added. He smiled. She was playing his game. They had nothing else to do right now. His sister, her daughter, was dead, had died on this day two years before. She told him good things: of the Shakespeare lecture in class, of meeting an author on Saturday. He told her of the contract he’d worked on

Jackie Davis Martin has had stories and essays

last week, the people who were fun, although he

published in both online and prints journals, in-

was again unemployed this week.

cluding Trillium, Midway, Fractured Westt, Flash,

The waiter brought olives and, a few minutes

Flashquake, Fastforward, apparatus, JAAM, 34th

later, a small square of bread, oily and gleaming,

Parallel.and Sleet.com. Her novella Extracurricu-

centered on a board.

lar was a finalist in the Press 53 Awards of 2011.

There was another person at the table: the

She has just published a memoir, Surviving Su-

mother’s husband, the step-father who, usually

san, and teaches at City College of San Francisco.

bored, ate first and ate most. “Is it sliced?” he

10


said of the bread and the mother carved at it,

The dinners arrived and they were good, too,

squashing it since there was no density. The

but the mother’s wasn’t hot enough. She said

husband gulped the olives, the bread; they’d

something to the waiter who said he was sorry.

each served themselves some, but the son went

“The kitchen,” he said.

on talking, not eating.

The trio of family—such as they were—and

The husband started to choke. He coughed

they were all there were, period—had been here

and sputtered and drank glass after glass of water

before. They’d been here right after the daughter

and dabbed his eyes with the napkin and the

died; they’d been here on the daughter’s birthday

mother handed him some tissues from her purse

although she hadn’t been in attendance, of

and he used those and her napkin and the son

course; they’d taken a picture of them holding a

went on telling of the meetings of last week and

picture of her. It’d been awful but also reassuring

it was hard to concentrate. The husband had also

and they kept coming back to the awful and the

ordered peppers stuffed with cheese, another

reassuring place, but the last time the wait staff

hors d’oeuvre, which the waiter plunked down.

had apologized so much for terrible service from

The peppers were lined up in a narrow little boat.

“the kitchen” that they hadn’t returned until now.

The husband helped himself to those, too, with

The son’s list on the paper table cover was

great difficulty since he was still coughing from

about sixteen items. The waiter gave them

the olives, which he blamed for his outburst.

coupons for next time, ones that weren’t allowed

They waited. They drank water. They never drank wine because the man was in recovery. They just didn’t do it. They watched others being served their dinners, while all they had were the few olives and only one pepper of the six left. The mother

to be opened until they returned. The coupons might contain a trip to Italy. The mother laughed. Well, you could call it a laugh more or less. “Maybe we’ll win a trip to Italy.” The son put the coupons into his shirt pocket,

slid it onto her bread-and- butter plate and cut

and then took them out again. “Oh. We have to

into it and it exploded like a small vomit or sewer

come back in a month,” he said. “Well, maybe we

pipe which she tried not to think about, least of

can do that.”

all state, but it tasted good, like pimento cheese spread, which was a lot simpler.

They knew that none of it mattered anyway. The husband had stopped choking and had 11


finished his dinner—a salad, which he ate with more bread. The mother had eaten every non-hot bite of rigatoni. The man got a takehome container so he could give a few bites of his chicken to his cat. It was their routine. The daughter was not a part of their routine and yet she was the reason for it, a fact that would have surprised her. The mother produced a snapshot she’d brought along to show the son. It was of two children, a boy and a girl, leaning over a cat who was sitting in the lid of a game box, the game board itself fuzzy in the photo. The children were about eight and seven years old and smiling, their hair gleaming, tilted into the cat. The son stared at the small photo for a long time, and then the mother did-- before she put it away. Happy was hard to look at.

12


Learning to Kill by Barbara Carter

She hates killing them, but if she doesn’t they will overrun the house. Her strategy is to place poison where she’s found evidence of their presence. More than killing the mice, she hates cleaning up the black rice-shaped droppings they leave behind. She sprinkles the poison powder on her best saucers, wanting to make their last meal something special. She hopes the poison doesn’t cause them much pain. That they drift off into a peaceful sleep, or drop dead not knowing what hit them. Yesterday morning, she found a body on the living room floor, the mouse on its side, perfectly still, and quite peaceful looking. His mouth had not been torn open in an agonizing grin. He had looked as if he’d been running along and simply dropped into an instant slumber. That’s the way she wants to go, preferably while asleep in her bed. She places more poison around the house

Barbara Carter was born December 25, 1958,

and thinks she might actually be doing them a

and has lived all her life in Nova Scotia, Canada.

favour.

Married with three grown children, one

Even in her china cabinet she’s found

grandchild and another on the way. She’s been

evidence of their night time escapades.

a visual artist, since 1988, an art instructor, along

She imagines how they dance around her

with many other jobs to pay the bills, mainly

crystal sugar bowl, whirling and twirling in

in retail. Now she is finally able to focus on her

the moonlight, in an eloquent dance, like an

writing. She looks forward to where this journey

animated Disney movie, except for the little black

takes her. Visit: www.barbaracarterartist.com

turds flying as they whirl and twirl by. Do they 13


appreciate their pretty surroundings, and what she’s doing for them? Once when she was too tired to finish the

deserves more than a garbage bag. Now she saves small boxes for their coffins. She is meticulous in the construction of their final

dishes in the sink, she went to bed and left them

resting places. Using strong thread coated with

soaking in soapy water. The next morning she

beeswax, to slow rot and disintegration, she hand

found what she thought was a tea bag floating

stitches their linen bedding, stuffed with wool.

on the surface, but when she reached in to pull

A soft, comfortable place to make up for the

it out, she discovered it was the body of a dead

hardships they might have endured while living.

mouse. She screamed and jumped back, then

The inside of the coffins are lined with satin, and

quickly rummaged through a drawer to find

velvet covers the outside, luxury for their final

a pair of tongs to pick the body up with. The

slumber.

mouse had apparently fallen in during the night

Behind her house she has a miniature

and hadn’t been able to climb up the slippery

graveyard, next to the barn and raspberry vines.

stainless steel sides. Eventually the mouse had

Fifty-two tiny crosses made from Popsicle sticks,

tired and drowned.

painted white and stencilled with RIP. She’s sure if

She placed the dead mouse on a piece of

anyone knew about what she does, they’d think

newspaper and stood staring, wondering what to

her crazy. But she can’t just throw their bodies

do next. From under the sink she grabbed a pair

in the field for the crows to eat, especially since

of rubber gloves and pulled the stopper from the

they are filled with poison. Then she’d have more

sink, letting the water drain. She knew she could

death on her hands. Too much she thinks, much

never eat from those dishes again, no matter

easier to bury them. Her head hurts less when

how many times she washed them; she would

she treats them with respect and provides a

no longer see the delicate, floral patterns, but

decent burial.

instead a vision of a soggy, bloated mouse. Into

The first time she killed she had felt like she’d

a garbage bag she tossed everything that had

done something wrong, like it was against God or

been in the sink: plates, cups and silverware, and

something. She had never wanted to hurt them.

the mouse’s body.

But they wouldn’t stop invading her space. They

After she had dumped the drowned mouse she felt awful for days. Every living creature 14

made her angry and she had no choice but to end their lives.


Back in the beginning, before she was able to

finding a mouse not dead, but with only his leg

kill, she’d once found a mouse in a plastic waste

caught, a mouse very much alive, struggling to

basket, trapped and unable to climb out. She had

break free. Finishing the job wasn’t easy. She

carried the basket to her car. Propped it up with

wasn’t into clubbing the creature to death with a

cushions to keep it from tipping over, and drove

hammer or a piece of firewood. Sticky pads were

miles down a dirt road. Just to set the mouse

even worse. The mice never ended up dead. She

free. Far enough away, she had hoped, the mouse

had to pick up trap and all up and toss both in

would never be able to find its way back to her

the garbage where the injured mouse waited to

house.

die of starvation or the fate of being crushed in

The next thing she’d tried was making deals. If they stayed in the basement, she wouldn’t kill

the garbage truck. She hated looking in those frightened little

them, if they lived in the shed she wouldn’t kill

black eyes. All she wanted to do was hold and

them, but once they bravely pranced all over her

cuddle them, not kill them.

personal space, she did what anyone would do:

Poison became the easy choice for getting

defend their property, grounds for killing. The

the job done. She likes their death to be hands

mice were to blame. They forced her to kill. If

off. If only they had stayed away and not invaded

they would respect her boundaries; she would

her space, if only they wouldn’t eat what doesn’t

leave them alone. They are the aggressors, not

belong to them. “I’m not to blame,” she tells

her. They had eaten her rice, flour, crackers,

herself, “It’s not my fault. They make me do what

cereal, and pasta, and forced her to put these

I do.” She sleeps better at night knowing at least

things in metal and glass containers that they

she gives them a nice final resting place. What

couldn’t chew through. Every time she’d reached

more can any creature ask for?

in her cupboard, she’d been disgusted, knowing

She peers over at her aging mother sipping

their dirty little feet had been traipsing all over

her afternoon cup of tea and thinks maybe death

everything. God only knows where those feet

by poison isn’t such a bad way to go.

had been, and what germs they carried. The mice had backed her into a corner. Traps had been the first method of killing them. She dreaded the snap of spring traps, and 15


Circus Act by Denis Bell

“I knew this was a frigging mistake.” Luanne was sitting on the couch in their apartment reattaching a pair of black stockings. Jerry was standing in front of the couch staring at a smudge on the wall. “It was your idea this time, Jerry. Remember?” “Yeah, right.” “I don’t know what you expect me to say.” “I understand the go-to response is something along the lines, ‘Don’t worry sweetie, we’ll do it another time’ or, ‘It’s not your fault, it’s mine’”. “Whatever.” Jerry launched a kick at the coffee table. Luanne’s second favorite lamp crashed to the floor and broke. Neither of them made any effort to pick up the pieces. “Way to go, Jerry. Real mature.” “That’s me all over. Mr. Mature.” “Break a few more things, why don’t you? Or take a swipe at me. Maybe you’ll be able to get it on then.” “Spoken like a true whore.”

Denis Bell is a Mathematics professor at the University of North Florida. He was born in London,

“You know, I’ve just about had it with this crap.”

England some time ago. In addition to writing

***

fiction, he en joys hanging out with his family,

The first time they spoke was in a Starbuck’s

watching football (soccer), and surfing (the web,

in downtown Memphis. She was sporting a white

that is!). 16 16

tee shirt with the slogan ACROBATS DO IT BETTER


emblazoned on the front in big red letters. The position of the letters seemed designed to draw attention to her breasts but it was the slogan rather than the breasts that Jerry noticed. Jerry was a tall languid man in his early forties, receding slightly on top. He supported himself by writing articles about art and popular culture for a local magazine. The woman was evidently in a mood to talk because after he’d introduced himself she said, “Tell me a little about yourself.” “There’s not much to tell. I write for The Star. Live alone, lead a very quiet life.” It seemed necessary to come up with

heard of.” Jerry had noticed the ring that Luanne was wearing on her left hand. “Anything else?” “Well, I did a stint for H&R Block in Boston before moving down here.” “Huh.” He couldn’t stop staring at the tee shirt. “Oh, and I was a trapeze artist once with the circus.” “A trapeze artist.” It seemed unlikely, to say the least. “Uh-huh. Loved it. The thrill of danger. The cheers of the crowds. It’s something you never really forget. Never once used a safety net.”

something more – dynamic. “I grew up on a farm

“You do look ... supple. Why did you stop?”

in Iowa. Oldest of five, outdoor plumbing, two

“The trapeze? Health reasons. My doctor

mile walk to school in winter through snowy fields.”

advised me to give it up.” “Then we have something in common.”

Jerry was the only child of an Industrial

“What, giving up on things we love?”

Engineer and a homemaker, and a city boy to

“As I said, I lead a very low-key kind of

boot. He recalled the words of an old high school

existence. Hardly even leave the house unless it’s

teacher to the effect that lying about oneself is a

absolutely necessary.”

sign of an inferiority complex. “I always wished I’d lived in the country. Did you have horses when you were young?” “A few. Anyway, enough about me. Your turn.”

“Perhaps you ought to get out some. Try to meet somebody.” “Now you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“Let’s see—two cats at last count, an older

***

sister named Sheila and an MBA from a small

“I wanted you so bad.”

college in Massachusetts that you won’t have

“When?” 17


“That night after the movie.”

“Interesting, how?”

“You seemed so distant. Closed up. It would

“I don’t know. Different. Things you said, the

have felt like … intruding.”

way you smiled when you looked at me.”

“Am I that hard to read?”

“I lied to you.”

“These days my short range vision isn’t too

“People always lie to each other, even when

good.”

they tell the truth.” ***

A month or so after that first meeting, they

*** The two of them were walking in Centennial

were sitting in Ruggerio’s Italian restaurant on

Park. A young mother was pushing a stroller. A

34th Street. The waiter had just taken their orders

man was throwing a stick for his dog. Parents

for drinks—a glass of white wine for her and a

were starting to gather up their children. There

dry Martini for him. The tension between them

was a storm coming in from the east coast and

was quite different to before. Jerry kept fiddling

the sunset had painted the sky in swirling bands

with the collar of his jacket and conversation was

of purple and gray.

in short supply. Luanne felt the need to create some. “Why did it take you so long to ask me out?” “I figured that you wouldn’t be interested. A woman like you. I thought you might be … you know ... husband … kids.” He pointed to the ring. “Oh, that. That’s just for effect now. Effing effect.” She looked down at her hands. “Bet you never heard anybody say that before.” “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

you ever live with a woman, Jerry?” “Other than my mother? I shared an apartment with a girl once. And three other guys.” “Not exactly what I had in mind.” “I had a little sister growing up. She left home when she was twelve and joined the circus.” She gave him a would–you–be–serious–for– once look. “Want to give it a shot?”

“It’s been over for a while. No kids.”

“Living together?”

Jerry took a minute to study his menu.

“Might be interesting.

“What did you think of me that day in the

“I’d be grouchy. You’d get bored with me.”

Starbucks.” “That you seemed an interesting man.” 18

Luanne cast a quick glance at the sky. “Did

“Probably.” “To be honest, the idea is a little scary.


An arrangement like that could get …

she liked to meet with on a regular basis. One

claustrophobic.”

night she called late into the evening to say that

“It wouldn’t be a marriage. We’d each be free to explore other interests.”

she’d had a little too much to drink and didn’t want to drive home. She’d stay the night at the

“I don’t have other interests.”

friend’s home. It seemed odd—as far as Jerry

She looked dubious.

knew she wasn’t much of a drinker—but he

“Each other, then.”

didn’t ask any questions. He had no right. They’d ***

They were leaving a movie theater in the university district after seeing (an hour of) a Hungarian film.

agreed on the rules. *** As usual, Jerry waited until Luanne was asleep before he entered the bedroom. He listened to

There was a scene in the film where a

the sound of her breathing, watched the steady

husband was visiting his wife in the hospital. The

rise and fall of her chest. Jerry was a connoisseur

wife had attempted suicide after being forced

of art. He loved to watch her like this. The shape

by the husband into getting an abortion when

of her eyes. The set of her mouth. Black hair

she became pregnant with a third child that the

splayed against the white pillow.

couple could not afford. Luanne had become agitated and insisted that they leave. “Why did you take me to see that?” she demanded as they were getting into his car. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t… It won an award at Cannes.”

Was she happy with their arrangement? It seemed the wrong question. She moaned in her sleep. Her eyelids fluttered and she mumbled something unintelligible. What was she dreaming about? He wondered if she was keeping secrets from him.

They didn’t speak again the rest of the evening.

*** Jerry found himself awake. He glanced at the

Later that night she came to his bed. She

clock on the bedside table: 4:32 am. He clicked

didn’t seem to want anything—just to feel the

on the light, climbed out of bed and walked over

warmth of another human body.

to the bookshelf. Picked out a book and opened

***

it to the photograph of his favorite work of

Luanne had an old friend from college that

sculpture. He’d seen the real thing once as a 19


young man, with his mother on a trip to Paris.

and anyway the beach would be cold in May, but

The sculpture had repulsed and embarrassed

he had persuaded her. They were decked out in

him then. Supposedly it depicted a scene from

bathing suits, about to take the plunge. Luanne

Dante’s Inferno. Two lovers locked in an embrace

stuck a big toe in the water and shrieked. Just

at the gates of hell.

like a woman, he drawled in gravelly Dylan style.

He was suddenly very tired. He replaced the

Showing admirable upper body strength, Luanne

book on the shelf and turned around, ready to

wrestled him to the ground and pinned him as

get back into bed. The room had acquired a

they rolled around in the wet sand, giggling.

greenish hue. Luanne was standing there. She

There, now we’re married, she said.

had tears in her eyes and looked much older,

“Where would you go?”

around the age that his mother had been when

“Find another circus, I suppose.”

she died.

That, again.

It didn’t occur to Jerry to ask why she was

“Why?”

crying. What he did say was, You’re so beautiful.

“It’s what I do.”

Rodin would have wanted you as a model.

She spent most of the afternoon on the

Luanne turned her face away and replied in his mother’s voice, What did you take from me? *** Jerry picked up a piece of the lamp. “Perhaps can we fix it.” They were eating breakfast. Each in their own

couch, avoiding eye contact and hypertexting somebody. Or whatever they called it. Exploring her options, no doubt. Jerry sat opposite, ostensibly reading a book. Finally the silence became too much. “Don’t.”

little bubble. Luanne was stabbing at a piece of

“Don’t what?”

sausage on her plate. She shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“Leave.”

“Will you leave?”

“What is it you want from me, Jerry?”

“I don’t know, Jerry.”

Last night she came to him again. They both

Jerry thought about a trip they once took to Biloxi, a short while after she moved in with him.

did. They were whispering to each other and looking at him.

It was a six hour drive down there and Luanne

And laughing. Or so it seemed.

said that was too far for a three day weekend

“A straight answer, for one.”

20


“Better be careful what you wish for.” At time such as these, Jerry was willing to gobble up any crumb of comfort that rolled his way. At least she wasn’t packing up her things.

21


Lonesome Cave by Benjamin Cooper

I remember how I used to get the chills after pushing the doorbell at my grandfather’s place. A majestic gong would reverberate from the inside, and eventually my grandfather would answer the door. I hesitated to venture over to his house because he sometimes scared me. Not in the way a bully would, it was a different kind of scary. It was the kind of scared I’d get before reading a book report in front of my entire class or the dread of losing my parents in a crowd. One particular sunny afternoon I waited abnormally long for the bell to be answered. What felt like minutes passed before the solid wood door creaked open. Sunlight cut through the screen door and enveloped the darkness of the foyer. Squinting through his glasses, my grandfather motioned for me to enter. He wasn’t a very big man, but I was only eleven and he seemed to tower above me like a giant. After closing the door, the darkness returned. The unique and somewhat unpleasant smell that could only be found in a grandparent’s home, assaulted my nose. As my eyes struggled to

Benjamin Cooper is a writer from Naperville

adjust to the dim lighting I silently followed him

and studied creative writing at the University

into the den.

of Iowa. He writes fiction of all kinds. His

“My boy, my boy,” he croaked, the words

works can be found on his website www.

barely escaping his hoarse and crackling throat.

MindofBenjaminCooper.com for complimentary

Falling back into his recliner, he gestured for me

viewing or download.

to hand him a lone glass on an end table. Once

22


I handed him the drink, he spent several more

with every spoken word. His constant gesturing

moments squirming and adjusting in his chair

did little to enhance his long-winded story. I

until he finally was in a position that satisfied him.

wondered why he kept it so dark in there. No

He coughed a couple of times sounding like my

wonder his eyes were in such poor condition.

cat coughing up a hairball. He sipped his drink,

“The point is not that it was a bad job, it is

and droned, “My boy, you have come to see me,

that I gained valuable experience.” I nodded in

this I know. What you don’t know, is I used to

understanding. I waited to speak. I knew through

work at a butcher’s shop. You hear me, boy?”

experience it was better to let him speak his

“Yes sir.” I figured I couldn’t go wrong with a response like that. My grandfather rambled on about his job at the butcher shop. My mind drifted, and I gazed around the dreary room. A collection of cheap vases, collecting dust, lined

mind before interrupting him, even during long pauses. He was lonely, I understood. “What brings you here, boy?” he asked as he sipped his cheap bourbon. “Umm, grandfather, I came to invite you to my

the top of a wooden bookshelf. A cliché painting

little league baseball game on Saturday. We’re in

of a sail boat navigating choppy seas was the

the playoffs, you know.”

only artwork on the wall. What the room needed

“Splendid, splendid, my boy. I’ll be there,” he

was some vibrancy. Maybe a few potted plants

responded, as he smiled for the first time since I

or flowers. The room seemed cluttered with

had arrived. After my grandmother had passed

a couple chairs, sofa, and some bookshelves

he rarely left the refuge of his house. I was happy

littered with encyclopedias and novels that no

he was so thrilled to leave the desolate, dark cave

one had touched in years. A single candle was

which lumbered around in all day.

lit upon the nightstand next to my grandfather’s

An uncomfortable silence followed. I wasn’t

worn recliner. The light from the candle lit up the

much of a conversationalist, especially with him

left side of his face, while the right side remained

in the room. It seemed like he was just sitting

distorted and shadowy through the scattered

there watching me, analyzing my every move.

dim light of the dead room. Open the blinds!

My brow began to dampen, my palms sweating.

Please let in some real light! I thought. Still, my

I started to fidget in the faded lime-green

forced smile did not waver.

armchair. What if I said the wrong thing? What if I

My grandfather’s weathered face wrinkled

asked to leave, would he explode in a furious 23


rage? His wrinkly face frowned at the floor as he stroked the sleeve of his red flannel shirt. Suddenly, he broke the silence, and remarked,

and spotted my parents and grandfather, each in separate lawn chairs, waving supportingly. I wondered what my grandfather would say to

“Boy, if ya like the game, play it. Play it as long as

me after the game if I struck out. I would feel so

ya can, because you’ll never know how long you’ll

ashamed.

be able to.” A long speech on the corruption of

The batter hit a soft popup to second

the American pastime followed. He then began

base. I could feel their eyes on me as I slowly

ranting that modern day stadiums lacked the

walked to home plate dragging my bat behind

homey atmosphere of the old ballparks. Finally,

me. I prayed that I wouldn’t strikeout. Taking

my patience wearing thin, I stood.

in a deep breath, I stepped into the batter’s

“I’m sorry, grandfather, but I got to go eat dinner. I’ll be late.”

box and eyed the pitcher. The first two pitches were balls way outside the strike zone. Trying to

“Go on then, boy. I’ll see ya on Saturday

maintain my composure, I stepped outside the

for your big game. Thanks for stopping by, and

box. Even though there were two outs and no

say hello to your folks, will ya?” I nodded, and

one on base, it was the hardest at bat I’d ever

cursed my mother under my breath for making

had. Thinking I could get by with a walk and still

me invite my grandfather to the game in person.

retain my dignity, I took the next two pitches.

I knew she ordered me here because he was just

They were right down the middle of the plate. My

a lonely old widower who needed a visit and

father yelled for me to swing at the next pitch.

that constant interaction with the outside world,

I carefully listened for my grandfather to say

but I hated doing it, I just hated it. As I left the

something, but he was quiet.

room my grandfather opened the blinds. “Ahhh,

The next pitch came in hard and to the

that’s better,” he uttered, as the evening sun

inside. I swung at the ball like my life depended

crept through the darkness. I left without a peep,

on it. All I wanted was to make contact. I swung

careful to not attract his attention.

a tad early, and with a crack of the bat the ball

At Saturday’s game I felt more nervous

darted towards third base. As I sprinted down

than usual. As I stood in the on deck circle I could

the first base line the third baseman caught the

sense my grandfather watching me, analyzing my

grounder and bobbled it momentarily. Finally he

practice swings. I glanced behind the backstop,

got a hold of the ball, and launched it across to

24


the first baseman. With a final lunge, I stretched

Several weeks later after my grandfather’s

for the base. My foot hit the bag a split moment

funeral I was riding my bike on my way to the

before the defender caught the ball. The umpire

park. I rode past his house, and noticed the For

gestured safe with authority.

Sale sign in the lawn. I felt a sharp pang in my

My grandfather rose from his chair,

stomach. My eyes began burning, and when I

cupped his mouth, and hollered, “Way to hustle!”

went to wipe them I realized I was crying. Right

With a sigh of relief, I removed my batting gloves

then, it felt strange that I couldn’t talk to him

and stuffed them in my back pocket. That at-bat

anymore.

was my only hit of the game.

That was to be the last time my

grandfather left his house. He became seriously ill a couple days afterwards. It was hard for me to see my grandfather sick, lying in his bed, barely having the energy to move. The life seemed to be draining from him. No longer was he so intimidating.

My family visited him a lot during the

week he was at the hospital. My grandfather and I never did talk much during those final visits. When he wasn’t sleeping my mom talked to him most of the time. I was young and really didn’t comprehend the seriousness of the situation. I don’t remember much from that week, but I vividly recall when he said good-bye to me. That’s when I began to see what was happening to him, and it hit me; my grandfather was going to die, and I would never see him again. Never again would I have to walk in his dark, dingy cave-like house. 25


Fiber by Susan Rukeyser

“I’m an artist,” Sid whispered in the café selling his three-dimensional fiber works, bright against pale walls. It felt brave to say it aloud, like when he confessed he liked men. Nothing sold. Susan Rukeyser writes stories because she

He was an artist, but failed. Sid worked a

can’t stop. Believe it, she’s tried. Most of them

desk, used the degree he fell back on. He’d been

are fiction. Her shortest work appears in or

reprimanded for knitting on the job.

is forthcoming from Star 82 Review, Boston

If he didn’t, his fingers burned.

Literary Magazine, Short Fast & Deadly, and

Kevin, with his kind shoulders, just wanted Sid

Stone Highway Review. Longer work appears in

to be happy: “Quit trying to sell, just create and

The View from Here, SmokeLong Quarterly, and

we’ll keep them.” But Sid craved response. He

elsewhere.

was practically mute, except in yarn. He would be

Find her here: www.susanrukeyser.com

heard.

26


The Field Maze of the Ordinary by John Vicary

The painting over the mantle was my favorite. It had hung there for almost a year before I’d thought to ask you about it. One day we were curled in front of the fire, eating pistachios and filling in the Sunday crossword when it again caught my eye. “It’s our home,” you’d said. “Here.” “But that house is yellow. And on a hill. We live in a ground-floor apartment.” My brow had probably been furrowed in an attempt to reconcile the faulty physics. “It’s how our home feels,” you’d said, laughing, with no further explanation, but that was just your way. “You know you like it for a reason.” And you were right, even if I didn’t quite understand how. You were the artist, the one who saw things in a slightly skewed way. A better way. The way of silver in shadows and glitter in the rain. There was magic all around us, you’d insist. Once in awhile, when you’d smile, or when the sun would shine down through the curtain of your hair … then I could see it, and I knew you

John Vicary is an author/editor from Michigan.

were right. But those moments were fleeting, and

He has been published in various poetry anthol-

as soon as your head turned or a cloud obscured

ogies, art journals and short fiction collections.

the brightness, I couldn’t quite see the sparkle

He is a ten-time winner of Brigit’s Flame and is a

in the world that had been there only a moment

featured author at The Petulant Poetess. You can

before.

read more of his work at keppiehed.com

“It’s there, hiding,” you would say. “Don’t 27


try so hard.” You’d take my hand and I would

brick apartment that smelled of sour milk and

hear your laughter, and there! I could see the

unwashed bodies. If I had whimsy left, it was that

mushrooms transform into toadstools and

I could taste dying dreams instead of salt in the

snowflakes become a fairy ballet. I’d been blind

soup I reheated every night.

without you to guide me through the field maze of the ordinary. You closed your eyes to magic the day the

I left you on a day just like any other. I looked for a sign, something to make me turn back, but the signs were all gone. The sun was merely

baby came. For weeks I returned to the house

shining and the sky was only blue. There was not

upon the hill and found you where I had left you

enough magic to unshutter your eyes or mine to

hours before with the child’s misshapen skull

a life better than the one right before us, and that

still cradled in your arms. You didn’t look up.

life didn’t include yellow homes on hills. Those

You didn’t seem to be able to see anything at all

lives existed only on canvas.

beyond the bundle you held. I don’t think you

I am at the park where we met, and there is

even knew I was there. “He looks like a sprite,” I

an essence all around that is reminiscent of you.

tried. “Our own little elf to look after.”

I can even see a small boy flying a kite. It’s easy

You said nothing; you just hummed that

to imagine that he would be about our son’s

nameless tune and kept stroking his head even

age now, but I am no apt judge of children, so

though he’d never look to the comfort of your

perhaps that is my own fancy at work. I can see

smile or reach for the sun. He would always just

him running, trying to keep the kite afloat, but I

lie there, needing and growing, but nothing more

let my gaze trace up the string and rise into the

than that. He was a shell without an egg. He

air to watch the colorful canvas instead. It dips

was the rain without the glitter to keep me from

and swirls and there is no mystery at all to how it

remembering what love ever was.

glides. I have given up the luxury of wonder long

You didn’t paint after that or talk of silver

ago. The painted rhombus bobs for a while and it

linings or how a sunshower portended good luck.

seems for a blissful instant that it might soar, but

Your eyes became dark as bruises and that was

then it begins to fall, as all things must.

all I could see when I looked at you. I got lost one night coming home until I realized that the place I was searching for didn’t exist. We lived in a tiny 28

I take my leave before it hits the ground.


Signs by Lynn G. Carlson

Sign on lawn: SOLD. Sign on fence: GARAGE SALE. I zip-zag through the items splayed across tables and driveway. A basket of floppy silk flowers stops me. Yesterday I marked the sticker on it at five dollars. I finger the petals, then scoop the basket up and take it inside. Cars pull up and park. The shoppers dig in piles. One man resembles the guy who until just recently shared my bed. I retrieve the flower basket and mark it fifty cents. A lady I know from church jogs by and stops. “Moving out?” she asks. “Moving on,” I say.

Lynn G. Carlson lives and writes in Cheyenne, Wyoming. She finds that the genre of fiction gives her plenty of room to roam – through images, into and around insights, and deep into memory.

Every other Wednesday, Lynn leads the In Our Own Words writing group at Chrysalis House, a residential addiction treatment center. She and eight other women sit around a table, put pens to page, and dig for their authentic voices. 29


The Organ Grinder by Bradley Mason Hamlin

The organ grinder stood on a street corner in West Los Angeles, turning the crank, reeling out that hypnotic circus music. He was fat, dressed in old “Gypsy” clothing, smelled badly, chewed on a short cigar, hat torn, sleeves torn, shoes worn, but he smiled in spite of himself. He had a spider monkey perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, wearing gypsy clothes as well, shiny and bright as the currency collected by the passers by. Our eyes met, the monkey and I, and I wanted to touch him, wanted to reach out to him, this odd creature in the wild west of L.A. I dug in my blue jean pocket, pulled out a brand new 1981 copper penny, and offered it up to the monkey’s paw. He put the coin in his mouth, bit, but didn’t like the taste, and threw the money in the gutter. Then he grabbed my finger and tried to bite that too.

Bradley Mason Hamlin is an American writer, veteran of the United States Navy, and alumni

The fat man laughed. “Davy Jones,” he said, “like silver & gold.”

of the University of California, where poet Gary

“I thought monkeys preferred bananas,” I said.

Snyder dubbed Hamlin “The Road Warrior of

The organ grinder laughed harder. “The price

Poetry!” Hamlin was born in Los Angeles and currently lives in Sacramento, California with his

you pay for bananas is too high.” I looked at the monkey and he looked at me.

wife, Nicky Christine, and their tribe of suburban

His eyes seemed human, sick and desperate, a

children and wild cats. His latest book of poems,

slave’s ransom to be paid.

California Blonde, is available from Black Shark Press: http://mysteryisland.net/californiablonde 30

The grinder leaned over and coughed up some phlegm.


Seeing my chance, I gave the monkey a 1963 silver dollar from my birth year, a gift from a friend I had been saving in my wallet. He stuffed the treasure in his little pocket before the master could see. Davy Jones winked at me and gave me a little bow. We had an understanding. The monkey and I. I too was in service, and soon traveling down south to Sand Diego for Navy boot camp— working pushups on hot August asphalt they call the grinder. We live in a world full of absurdity and far too little treasure. That much is sure. Davy Jones stood up straight. We saluted each other, and the organ grinder turned the crank.

31


To Feel by Alison L. Thalhammer

I don’t feel funny. I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel. Sometimes I feel ew. I feel yuck. I feel ick. I feel bla. Today, I feel fat. “Those aren’t feelings. You can’t feel fat,” she tells me. “Fat isn’t an emotion. It’s an adjective.” “So is pretty,” I say. “Can you feel pretty? There is an entire song about feeling pretty. Are you going to tell me Stephen Sondheim is wrong? Because I bet there are millions of people who would disagree.” “Okay. Let’s get to the root of that, then. What makes someone feel pretty?” “Being pretty,” I say. “I bet pretty people feel ugly sometimes. So, that can’t be it.” I sigh. I know where she’s going with this; I go along because I’ll have to face it one way or another. I don’t feel like doing it the hard way today. “Fine. You feel pretty when you’re happy or

Alison L. Thalhammer is an artist living in Los

have high self esteem. Or get a haircut.”

Angeles. Originally from Chicago, she thrives

“And what makes someone feel ugly?”

mainly on sun, laughter, and creating. Her flash

Being ugly, I want to say, but I know she won’t

fiction has been featured in numerous issues of Fiction Brigade. She is a sucker for wordplay and candy. When she isn’t writing or performing, she can usually be found doing yoga, playing badminton, or dancing to David Bowie. 32

appreciate that. “Low self esteem. A bad day. Not working out. Being bloated.” “These are all good insights. Do you feel like you relate to any of those sentiments?”


I feel like I am done discussing this, I think.

negatively to something my body instinctively

But, I say, “I think I misinterpret my feelings.”

needs. I’m always chasing myself. The reward

This makes her stop writing and look up at

registers as a punishment. The punishment feels

me. “Go on.” “I think I attach thoughts to feelings that do not coincide.” “This is really good,” she tells me. Yeah, I know, I think. You’re eating this shit up. “Can you give me an example?” “Sure. Like when someone uses sex as a way to feel loved. They feel like a physical act implies an emotion. I had a friend in high school that slept with a lot of guys ‘cause it made her feel wanted since her parents didn’t give her enough attention.” She stares at me, searching. “Right. Good. How about a personal example?” I can tell she thinks I’m about to have a

like a reward.” She watches me closely, cautiously. “That is really great that you can recognize that and were able to communicate it.” Shut up. Don’t patronize me, I think. But, I know she’s not. “So, what do you think you should do?” That’s your job, I want to say. That’s why I’m here. Fix me. But, I really don’t have the energy for that fight again. “You’re not broken. You don’t need to be fixed,” she insisted the last time I tried to imply she wasn’t doing her job. “But, I feel broken,” I spat back, more out of

‘breakthrough’, but I’ve already known what I’m

frustration with myself than anger at her. I’m

about to say for quite some time now.

sure she was used to that sort of response. “How

“Well,” I begin slowly, “by not eating I feel in

about that? Broken. Can I feel that adjective?

control. And being in control is the goal. So, to

Are you going to tell me I can’t feel that either?

achieve that goal and sense of success, I must not

Because I think I can feel however I want to feel

eat. Inevitably, I will need to eat at some point.

or however I choose to feel or however I do feel.

And when that happens, I’ll feel as if I’ve failed.

I’ll feel however and whatever I want.”

It will be depressing. I set myself up for failure

I was clearly choosing to act in a mature

because I can only succeed for so long. It’s a

manner that day. And it wasn’t true anyway.

vicious cycle. I’ve tricked my brain into thinking

I wasn’t feeling the way I wanted to feel. So, I

something it needs is wrong. My mind responds

continued my visits. 33


Today, instead of taking the easy defensive

in a store window. I look fat, I think. That’s what

road, I quietly say, “I don’t know,“ because I

I’ll tell her next time I have the urge to fight.

feel lost. I don’t know what else I can say or do

Maybe you can’t feel fat, but you can look fat. She

anymore.

can’t tell me my vision is wrong.

“If I knew how to make this better, I would have already done it on my own. A long time ago.” Then I just feel alone because her eyes are sad and she doesn’t say anything. And, I think, we both feel like crying. I look at the clock. “Well, my time’s up for today’s session.” I stand to leave. I feel her concerned eyes still on me. I’m used to feeling those type of eyes, watching me. “It was a good breakthrough today though,” I say, to make her feel better. She nods and smiles at me with her mouth; her eyes are still not smiling. She’s pretty in a plain sort of way, like the girl that could be gorgeous if she just wore a little makeup or knew how to dress for her body type... I wonder if she’s ever tried to look prettier. I wonder if either of us believe she can help me. I exit her tidy office; fluorescent lights in the waiting area make me squint. As I enter the street outside, the sun instantly warms my face. I catch a glimpse of my reflection 34

I know she’ll explain, instead, some crap about it being my perception. Fine. My perception is askew. I know that. That’s why I come here. I hadn’t eaten all day. I felt strong. I bet she feels ugly for the rest of her day.


The Visit by B. Lynn Carter

I feel that presence . . . again. Across the room he sits quietly studying me. How long has he been lurking? No matter, I am not really concerned about how long he’s been here or how he came to be here. There is no fear of this apparition. This is, after all, how he appears to me every time, suddenly, unannounced, uninvited. Still, it’s been years since my little brother last visited me. I thought he’d lost his way or maybe had decided to finally go and rest in peace, at last. He sits across the room very still hands folded in front of him large glassy eyes staring. I wait for him to break the silence, maybe state his purpose. I have never quite understood why he comes to me this way, always his message unclear. “You look well,” he says. What do I say to that?

Born and raised in the Bronx, I graduated The

You too? It’s been a while? How’re things going

City College of New York with a B.A. in creative

on the other side? What?

writing. Currently I am enrolled in the Writer’s

“Thanks,” is all I can manage.

Institute at Sarah Lawrence College in New York.

“My presence disturbs you?” he asks.

I am the founder of the “B•X Writers,” which came

“No,” I say, “not really. I would like to know

out of The Bronx Writer’s Center that is affiliated

why you’ve come.”

with The Bronx Council of the Arts. I’ve had short

“I’m restless,” he says, “can’t seem to rest.”

stories published in Ascent Aspirations and The

“Oh,” I say. “How can I help?”

Blue Lake review online magazines. As well as,

“I have questions,” he says, “I think I could rest

one impending in The Drunk Monkey on line publication.

if I had answers.” “Okay. I’ll do my best.” 35


“Yes, you always did do your best . . . your very best.”

decades. It was because it was cheaper, wasn’t it? Just burn-up what was left of me so everyone

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

could be done with me and get on with their

“Only that you were the perfect little good

lives.”

girl, good student, went to college, never slept on

“That’s ridiculous! Yes, it was the least

the subway, a park bench or lived in a box. A bit

expensive option none of us had much money

of a control freak; don’t you think?”

back then. Yes, it was the practical thing to do. If

“Seriously? Are you here to re-hash that same old argument? How many times do we have to go around and around this thing,” I say, my voice rising. “No, I didn’t drop out of school! No, I didn’t do drugs! No, I didn’t throw my life away! If that

it makes you feel any better I plan to be cremated when my time comes.” “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know when that will be; would you??” Ignoring my question he says. “Why didn’t

makes me a control freak, then control freak I am!

you help me?” calmly at first but then he lets

There are a lot worst things I could be called!”

out an unearthly howl that rattles the windows.

“Like a low-life bum. A loser. A stinking junkie.”

“Heeelp! I needed heeelp!” “Help you? I tried to help you! No one tried

“You made your choices.”

to help you more than me! You refused to be

“Did I? Did I really have any choices?”

helped!

“We all have choices,” I say.

“When did you ever try and help me?”

I suddenly have no appetite for this fight.

“Are you kidding? What about the time that I

This fight that we’ve had so many times before. I

took you into rehab.”

pause take a breath, trying to push the bile back

“I went to rehab a million times.”

down into my stomach.

“Yes, but this time I was there to pick you up

“Anyway, where’s the question in all this? You said you had questions.” “Why was I cremated?” “What? Cremated? Is that what’s bothering you?” “I’ve been thinking about it for a couple of 36

when they released you; remember? I took you home with me. I took you to school with me, kept you with me everyday, every minute.” “Yeah I do remember that. But you gave-up on me.” “The first time I left you alone in the college


cafeteria, I came back to find you talking to the

“Yeah,” he says. “You treaded water

campus pusher. It was as though you had pusher

while negotiating the terms of my salvation;

radar!”

remember? There I was fighting to stay afloat and

I am recalling that day. I recall realizing then that Kyle needed more than I could offer.

you wouldn’t come near me until I promised not to grab you.”

I recall realizing that he needed to go into a

“But I’m not a strong swimmer. I was afraid

drug rehab program, one that did follow up,

that you’d pull me down with you. It didn’t make

maybe a halfway house and some job training or

sense for both of us to drown. Anyway I did

something.

manage to push you to shore from behind.”

“I arranged for you to go into the Phoenix

“It would’ve been better if you had let me

House. It took some doing too. There was a

go that day,” he says. “At least it would’ve been a

waiting list. You didn’t even meet their criteria.”

dignified death.”

“Yeah, I remember you dragging me down to that place.” “I actually had to agree to go out with the director.” “Yeah,” he says. “I was so impressed. My

We both fall silent now, thinking about which death would have been better. Would it have been better for him to have died there in the Bronx, in the murky waters of Orchard beach? Better to die as a young boy and never to have

goody-little-two-shoes sister willing to give it up

lived the painful degrading life that he lived as a

for her baby brother.”

young man?

“Yeah well, he was cute and it was the sixties,” I say. “But you purposely screwed up the interview. Why did you do that?” “I needed heelp! Why didn’t you help me? You gave up on me!” “I tried to help you! You kept robbing me!” “I needed heelp!” “I always tried to help you! What about that

“I needed heelp! Why didn’t you help me!” “I tried to help you!” I cry. Tears now streaming down my face “You left me! You saved yourself and left me!” He screams. “I wha? What are you talking about? I never left you anywhere!” “You saved yourself. After she married him.

time at the beach, we swam out to the buoy. I

You left me there! I had no other way out! I took

saved you from drowning; remember?”

the only way out that I could!” 37


His words send an electric charge through my chest. I cringe. I am brittle, fragile, about to crumple and break. He is dredging up memories that I have pushed deep, deep down, back into the past. With cotton forming in my throat, I croak. “Kyle, I was only sixteen! I had to get away! I couldn’t even take the dog! Forgive me, I did the best that I could!” “Did you?” he says sounding strangely calm, satisfied, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. “Forgive me! I love you! I miss you! Please, please Kyle forgive me!” I sob. “I do forgive you,” he says. “I came to forgive you. Do you?” “Of course I do!” I cry. “I forgive you!” He smiles an eerie smile as he begins to lift, floating slowly towards the ceiling. “I forgive . . . me . . . me,” I whisper. He is leaving . . . leaving. I can feel it. If he was ever really here, now he is leaving. He is smiling, rising, shimmering, vibrating, turning to mist . . . lifting. He blows me a kiss just before he dissipates altogether . . . and now he is gone.

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