the art of fiction
1
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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