The Ana Issue #2 by The Ana

THE ANA \T͟ HƏ\·\ˈĀ-NƏ\ PRONOUNCED: AH-NUH (NOUN) 1. a collection of miscellaneous information about a particular subject, person, place, or thing. 2. The Ana is a quarterly magazine hell-bent on redefining art and literature. We act and publish in line with the notion that everyone’s life is literature and everyone deserves access to art.

While all rights revert to contributors, The Ana would like to be noted as the first place of publication.

Cover design by Hannah Keith Typesetting and design by Hannah Keith & London Pinkney Set in Georgia () and Futura ()

Editor’s Note

To paraphrase Doris Salcedo: Art is never on time. We are thankful for our contributors’ bravery and honesty—their work acts as a cornerstone as we transition into a new way of life.

Much Love, LONDON PINKNEY EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

THE ANA

ISSUE # 2

MAY 2020

FICTION 10

To Be 500 Feet Tall | ADAM ZANE COOK

Accidental Confessions of Rage | HAILEY WARNER

The Failures of James Kelly | LANE BOWMAN

The Suitcase | CARLA CRUJIDO

POETRY 8

Birds of Saran Wrap (Images of Chris Jordan) | QAYYUM JOHNSON

(AN)GLO(W)| ROB HENDRICKS

With My Electricity | R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON

The Poetry | STEVEN KENNEDY

Patriarchal Aesthetic Sayonara Testimony | QAYYUM JOHNSON

A Somewhat Involuntary Exploration Into The Color Pink | JENNIFER ELIZABETH

Mistaken Identity | REGINALD M. CALHOUN

My Task For Today Was to Order Pizza and Then I Sat There for Hours | ANA CIELITO

FUENTES 63

Undervest | ROB HENDRICKS

Wallpaper Gosling | ROB HENDRICKS

VISUSAL ART 21

In Space | VIVIENNE ALCANTAR

Idoleyes | LOGAN STUARD

Can You see Me? | ANA FUENTES

A Series: Wine, Bread, Water | SHERI PARK

Deep Blue | LOGAN STUARD

Birds of Saran Wrap (Images of Chris Jordan) Poetry by QAYYUM JOHNSON Flightless they pudge deathward with eager flub gab fed from mummsy: cap, cord, label, bag beak, feathers, eyes web feet shape potential to soar on air empty of land no sight but clear-seeing & everything unravels in almost-forever scale: wrapping tape, meat seal waterproof seam one by many my ‘we’ feeds all ‘them’ with indigestible life preservation technology hours of primordial light crushed millennia made plastic for bologna & almost instantly

eaten by life as entrĂŠe to a bird filled corpse pale faded plastic a dim circle of easy come dark &Â permanent

TO BECOME 500 FEET TALL fiction by ADAM ZANE COOK

TO BECOME 500 FEET TALL is not a common experience. Your first thought as you zoom up past skyscraper windows and countless floors is not one of terror, but wonder. Your rapidly engorging heart flutters. You think, “I will never see anything this uncannily beautiful again.” The view is gorgeous. The sun is high in the sky. You can see the city, the suburbs, and all the way east, to San Bernardino, to where your sister drove in from today to meet you and Bryan for the Magritte exhibit. Were it not for those pesky taller buildings, few though they may be, you could see all the horizon. But still, you can see to the beach. And out to Catalina Island. And you think: Bryan is right. We should get out more. But then you think of the traffic and the money and the people. And you think: No, I am right. Your hands have instinctively crossed your arms, hands on forearms, assuming the pose you use when walking through art museums in moments where you are afraid you will touch things. (Do not touch the buildings.) You do not know if you are the kind of giant who is strong, like in fairy tales, the kind whose mere touch can level entire towns, or the kind who is weak because of science and mass and bone structure, the kind who might be knocked over by a flea. You should stay very still. You are already frightening enough. You see a three car pileup that has just happened on the 101. You see the backup it is causing, the tight queue of traffic already snaking up to the Valley. It will be hell getting home. A two car train takes off near the Staples Center. It is the Expo line, the new light rail, the great unifier between east and west Los Angeles, the one that all those op-eds 10

were written about, the one you couldn’t believe they actually built. From here, it looks like the wooden Thomas trains you used to play with as a child. (And of course there are the people down below.) A crowd of dozens has grown around your feet. And just as many are running in the opposite direction, screaming, down Hill street and 5th Street and 6th Street and Olive. Traffic is starting to back up in all four directions. You are blocking the street. You are causing traffic. But there is nowhere for you to go in this car-bound city, and it’s not clear at this point how you will ever be gone. Up here, there are no trees to hide under. And though there are a few buildings taller than you, they offer scant shade. The sun is mostly on you at 500 feet tall. The wind blows harder Already, your lips are chapping, your skin burning. You did not put on sunscreen before you left, and your chapstick is probably melting somewhere in your car. Thank goodness the air is not thin. You can breathe. You breathe in. You breathe out. You remember the therapist who taught you about calm breathing techniques to help you in moments of anxiety. You are grateful that the techniques work at 500 feet tall, even if not much else from that therapist worked. You breathe in. At this altitude it is not the curvature of the earth that is accentuated, but, strangely, its flatness. It feels like you are on a plane. Not the mechanical one but the mathematical one, where a flat surface on which would wholly lie a straight line joining any two points. You feel alone in space and thought. You feel Elizabethan. You think of those charts from seventh grade social studies that showed the Medieval view of the Universe. A flat earth surrounded by glass spheres of graduating sizes, bejeweled with stars and planets, and the outermost layer labeled, The Empyreal Heaven, Abitation of the Blessed. You wonder if God sees us the way you now see us: as a cracking good Hollywood miniature, the kind they used to build before computer generated images, with detail so fine you might be convinced it had been built by miniature humans. You look with your God’s eyes back at the crowd below. It is hard to distinguish individuals at 500 feet tall. (But then again, it can be hard to do so at a normal size.) 11

DTLA is a densely packed place by Southern California standards. You generally avoid it at all costs. What is visible at 500 feet? You look for some sign of the loved ones you came with today. Is that pink speck there Bryan with his hat? Is that your sister holding your two nieces’ hands? At the very least no one seems to be hurt (though you are unsure, given your distance.) It occurs to you that this is so much better than the view from a plane. Not the Elizabethan one, the mechanical one. You hope the altitude will not make you weepy, like it did that one time on a plane when you watched that movie about the British author who wrote the book about the magic nanny that was secretly about her father and you cried and cried, and then next, you watched the animated movie about the toys, and there was that scene with the boy and his father, and you cried anew and thought: What a softie I’ve become. You hope if you do cry that your tears will not run down your face and drown the crowd below, as they sometimes do in movies about people who suddenly become different sizes. Again, you look for Bryan, your sister, your nieces, anyone, but looking for someone so small is useless to someone so big. You might as well look for tardigrades. So you look for where you live. The city has become oppressive and you want to find a comforting sight. You crane your head to see over the hill to where your apartment complex is, but the newer hotels and the bank buildings block your view. 500 feet is not 1000 feet, and you are not the tallest thing around, even in this earthquakeprone city. You can see around them. You could touch their roofs with your long, freight train arms. (You could smash them down, were you so inclined. You could jump and maybe you could see over the hill, back to your apartment complex where all your books and cooking tools are, those creature comforts that make your home so much better than the outside world could ever be. Though when has the Magritte exhibit ever toured to your apartment?)

You remember the mass of people below. Why did you think to jump? You could have hurt a person, or several people. You forgot about them so quickly. It is easy to be callous when you are 500 feet tall, even if you are not as tall as the new hotels and the bank building. Because you could do it. You are the largest thing around with agency, with mobility, with freight train arms. You have left the small cares of the world behind. For you there will be no more traffic, no more crowds, no more push notifications on your phone telling you about another mass shooting, another rigged election, no more therapists who tell you about how much their other clients bore them, no more arguments with Bryan about how long is too long to let dishes stay in the sink. You could do whatever you wanted. You could jump and see your apartment, twirl around like a child, arms outstretched, battering building after building, turn downtown to rubble with your games. You could run to the ocean, smash the light-rail line, swim to Catalina in ten or twenty strokes, and rest on the isthmus as though it were a hammock. You breathe out. You’ve been holding it in a long time. On the exhale, several floors of windows rattle near you. A few slide out of their frames, fall to the street below. They plummet at their most aerodynamic angle, like invisible guillotines. They strike the street and shatter. A family has turned away just in time and run in the opposite direction. You realize you are a destructive giant even when you don’t intend to be. A small clinking reaches your God’s ears. Something in the clink lets you know it’s for you. You turn your head slowly. You see a woman standing at the window of an office that is right at your eye level. She wears a high waisted black skirt, and a white buttonup. She glares down at you like you are the last thing she needs right now. She sips from an angular, modernist wine glass. Clear liquid on ice. The gin bottle is behind her. It is a brand you do not recognize, and you wonder if were you at a party and talking with this woman—asking her opinion on everything, hanging on every word—if she’d recommend

the gin. You hope if you ever meet again (though why would you?), you will be able to laugh this whole giant thing off. Bryan would know whether the gin was god. He is an expert on such things. There was that one birthday he did the gin tasting for you. He walked you through the different bouquets and mouthfeels. Rye-base, grape-base, cucumber, cassia, baobab. All contained in that translucent liquid you liked mixed with tonic. Bryan made that roast chicken, the one he’d rubbed with baking powder and salt the night before because of something to do with PH levels and the Maillard reaction. You’d been skeptical, but it was the best chicken you ever ate, and you thought: Bryan is a good, smart man, and I am lucky to have found him. Afterward you cuddled and drank too much gin while watching a movie he let you pick. Again, the woman clinks her glass of gin against the window, and points to a crack in the corner, long and rambly, veiny. You mouth, “I’m sorry.” You put both hands over your face. You breathe in slowly. You breathe out slowly. If you could, you would repair it right there. Perhaps you can come back later, when you are smaller—if you are smaller—and repair it for her. You’ll bake her a loaf of bread. You’ll finally hear about her gin. You’ll tell her you’re not usually so destructive. Or, at least, you do not usually have the power to where it matters. The clink comes a third time. You lower your hands, slowly, very slowly. The woman has a different expression on her face. She pulls her mouth from side to the other, bobbles her head a bit, lifts her shoulders. “Shit happens,” she mouths. You carefully nod your head at her. “I’m sorry,” you repeat. She winks back at you. Raises her glass. Takes a drink. The thought comes that the best you can do—given the situation, even if you do have the occasional destructive tendency—is to try and act as a gentle giant might. You crouch down, slowly. You make sure you do not scrape the side of anything, and you are grateful to the mass of people below for making room for your bottom. You sit in the park, near the street, trying to position yourself as far away from the greenery as you can. There is so little greenery in Southern California after all.

Your left calf breaks an abstract fountain, and you feel water running down your leg. You have crushed some of the pavement, and the stairs, but the damage is minimal. You think: hopefully I cannot be held liable for this damage. You remain very still. The crowd stays back. The metro rumbles below. The wind blows down the street corridors. Car horns blare out of sight. You do not see Bryan. You do not see anyone. Or rather, you see too much. The scuffed shoes, the smudged makeup, the small rips in clothing, the places where people could have shaved better. You think that maybe this is how God sees us: a collection of faulty creatures, on the knife’s edge of annihilation, wanting to run, wanting to watch, and unsure, at all times, of whether the decision is theirs to make at all. Bryan appears. He has pushed his way to the front. His pink hat is nowhere to be seen, and his hair is flying wildly in the wind. It is Santa Ana season. (There will be fires. It is inevitable.) Bryan looks at you, wide-eyed, terrified, but in that way where he wants to be strong and not show it. He is beautiful. He is worth coming down to Earth for. You hold out your hand and he steps right into it. He is so light. You bring him close to your chest. Move slowly! Move slowly! And try to direct your breath out of the corner of your mouth to the sky. You remember now that you forgot to brush your teeth this morning. You will tell him about everything you saw later. The ocean. The flatness. The Rage. The woman. The gin. For now, he is safe in your still hand.

(AN)GLO(W) poetry by ROB HENDRICKS We’re so broke I know I shouldn’t, not to have the official curriculum, not the books, but the rack, to want the rack but not to feel shitty scrounging around, not to have the official rack that holds three books, not to inspect the small rack, when I don’t feel well equipped I feel bad, looks at me with interest and an edge of flirtation, looks like I learned something from the criticism, of woman at table with child, of the outside, it strikes me looking back outside, as I was wrapping up a lesson I’d actually taught the day before, at least once, as I leave the line, as I can’t seem to get to the front of the line, in a Goodwill, in a cineplex, such an accusatory and shitty thing she said to me, as I was trying to rent a moving truck, it threw me off my morale for a solid chunk of time, it seems to continue, to continue across several contexts.

WITH MY ELECTRICITY poetry by R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON Your breaths on the back of my neck Your whole hand in the crease of my back, fingers lingering long enough to leave chill bumps where they've paused. submission has never been second nature, i know the difficulties of surrendering the lighting i possess to another, and their yielding it haphazardly. I won't get into the theory of Epigenetics and how it lingers bone marrow deep in gay masculine presenting black men, but Unnurturing love leaves apprehensions of true desire caught up in subconscious activity. Move me out of my thoughts Snatch me by my wrists with your attentions. Let's get back to the point of flirtation; touching on one another like a shopper looking for a bargain in a basement with the blue light on. Like in high school When everything was a open secret. And what we did in secret showed openly on our faces. There should be 17

no words, Only sounds, While you Press on my flesh like you're searchingÂ an avocado for guacamole for 1. Just leave me Paralyzed, seeking siesta from the sweet spot grins & nervous ticks left on my pillow from letting you have your way with my electricity.

ACCIDENTAL CONFESSIONS OF RAGE fiction by HAILEY WARNER

It’s apparent to me that the bad memories stay freshest the longest. The head always looks now like a refrigerator, but with thoughts inside instead of food, obviously. The thoughts that sit around in there the longest are the bad ones. Ripening. Rotting. That little refrigerator in our heads. Even now at this get-together, a few cocktails in, the sour just slides out of me. It’s how I empty the fridge. Something in my constitution won’t let me sit quiet while the shortcomings of others run rampant through my peace. I have to speak my truth. At some point it has to come out, somehow. I’m not a bad woman for breathing life into my dissatisfactions. Everyone does this. Even you. When was the last time you made a casual call? A “well-intended gesture,” the alleged catch up or a considerate hey-how-ya-doin? And not to a fair-weather friend either, although a fair amount of time passed since the last proper conversation, be it over the telephone or over drinks. I’ll make up stories for you. Maybe you were diligent in your work, or otherwise preoccupied with the duties of parenthood. Maybe you were momentarily enchanted, and swallowed whole by some fleeting and urgent desire for domestic revelry. Perhaps it was the inevitable shortcoming of the latter, the failed attempt at the tired endeavor which led you eyeing the phone from the other room, drawn in by an ocular pulse through drywall and rot. Now, think about the call. Which led to the carved out time slot. Which was filled with your very good but very uninformed friend and filthy martinis in a tacky red lit bar. Gin not vodka.

You are alone with an ear. You have an ear and you get to be heard and you get to fill something up for once instead of being drained, you get the ear and the mouth and the martini. The mouth asks you, rather seductively, that bulging, molasses drenched, trap-of-a-question. “So, what’s been new?” All that shit falls from your mouth. Shit spills. Slides out like you’ve been backed up for a week and the MiraLAX and the Marlboro just kicked in. Sweet shit, good god. Finally. That’s just what I needed. I have three children. Yes I have a favorite. Every mother does. I try my hardest to hide it, but like I said, it’s the bad things that are the hardest to ignore. Here it goes.

IN SPACE, VIVIENNE ALCANTAR

THE POETRY poetry by STEVEN KENNEDY

I Open me up Lay me out Let a junior high Science class Dissect me Will they find something As practical as corn? Skinned tomato halves, cans of refried, black & Cuban style beans, boxed ramen for the food drive? Chip away the paint The deep ink Peel back the canvas skin And find rhyme-y words. * The pencil markings in my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand. Little lines, names, dates - I have grown. Yes not much, not more than my brothers, 22

but I am still taller than my sister and taller than my mother, and when I look in the mirror, I see different lines on different mornings and my beard grows differently than it did the other day and yes some days I think I am old, and then other days, I am still young. We all grow to meet our lines is maybe something

poetry to say.

And after that? On to another death Is another something

poetry to say.

II It is warm walking down the hill. I drape my coat on a fence post. Its fabric loses my shape. I forget it there. I wake the next day to find a late snow has fallen. I go out in boots and my coat 23

is frozen to the fence post.

III Eyes gather the world into a conspiracy of silence of well upholstered rooms. This is my plan. Listen to sounds. English people with English accents listing English places. Phone conversations on trains. A dog barks at a scent. Wear sweatshirts with place-names on them. Wear Paris in San Francisco.

PATRIARCHAL AESTHETIC SAYONARA TESTIMONY poetry by Qayyum Johnson We kill computers, we swamp subdivisions we piss on presidents, we cold call police stations In the beginning we sold elephants for leather we rained down hard on the mountains sent our fingers into the forest we burned we cruised side streets looking for castoffs we made molds of molds & tombs of wombs we tapped our straw down deep & sucked. We prostitute for profit, we kindergarten kings we bought the high courts & made the priests of capital sing we bandied tabloids & shamed the hypocrites our epileptic assonance drove the rich to fits. By the middle we painted in palettes brighter than the sun the people’s project was the medium & art was the gun Theo, Vincent, Henri Matisse, Henry Miller’s cock in Greece Theresa of Avila, Kali, Patti Smith & wondrous Alice in space beauty & her beauty bearing paintbrush breasts in cottony lace. Techno-erotic fantasies of cosmological domination significance the touch-tone drone of iphones, paxil & codone moans what fellatio’d fallacy of infallibility induces such a dance? what worms into whose hearts, whose fingers in whose pants? 25

we kill computers, we stopgap lawyers we don’t condone we swamp subdivisions, we piss on presidents we don’t condone. Toward the end it was high heels again & short shirts a lack of cohesion or recognition, a tally of hurts gentlemen’s clubs & lap dogs, pool guys & small fries a whisper campaign hinting at the resurgence of the old ways, the birth days, the free gays, the hopeful lies & wise guys candor ends paranoia, said the bard, working hard we eat our own breakfast bombs for dinner, swallowing hard.

IDOLEYES, LOGAN STUARD

A SOMEWHAT INVOLUNTARY EXPLORATION INTO THE COLOR PINK poetry by JENNIFER ELIZABETH The whole body is a blush Bracelets of bubbles tracing handcuffs around the wrists Flesh a velvet pincushion Fire eats candles like candy Glitter hidden beneath the murk But the suds above the sparkle Cubic Zirconium, rose quartz Crossed legs couldn’t keep grasping fingers out So there’s no point in hooking her knees now The guts are even more plush than the skin Rose opens doors to rose You can sew bows to my brassiere But I am Penelope Unraveling and unraveling As the suitors sleep Dilute any bleeding, we’re looking for cranberry

THE FAILURES OF JAMES KELLY fiction by Lane Bowman “The so called sport of underground fighting is a sick religion; wherein men made in the image of God, are brought down to behave like animals.” -Larry M. Kronkite James Kelly had over the years been able to pick up the good habit of being places on time. The man he was waiting for - , Clayton “Rock Jaw” Bennings, had not. James stood on the sidewalk next to what he liked to call his beat to hell 2004 Toyota, smoking a cigarette and waiting. His brown hair curled up around the sides of his black ball cap, and stayed curled up as he took the cap out of its weak grip to scratch his forehead. As he placed the cap back on his crown he took a look around the neighborhood with bright but aged green eyes. The whole street was quiet. No teenagers skateboarding up and down the street with their friends, no domestic squabbles between lovers who were so infuriated with one another that they didn’t notice their voices slipping through their screen doors and running out into the street, no laughter flowing over wooden fences from children excitedly playing their games, fulfilling whatever imaginary task needed to be done in their make believe worlds. Nothing at all, not even the screech of an owl, or the wail of the bat she might be chasing. “You’d think the whole damn community was on vacation” James muttered to himself as he scanned the sidewalk for any sign of life at all. He took another drag from his Marlboro and released the smoke through his arrowhead nose. He looked down at his size nine work boots and mentally reviewed the evening’s possible outcomes. Few of these scenarios ended pleasantly. The intuition that he’d relied on many times as a detective years ago was telling him that this particular night wouldn’t translate into a good morning. James was no coward, but he was no fool either, and everything in him was telling him to call Lloyd and drop out of the fight. He dropped the cigarette in the 29

street and twisted his boot down on top of it. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and then stood there, turning the device over in his hand as he looked up at the darkening sky becoming enveloped by clouds. James was neither coward nor fool. James was, however, undeniably broke. Somehow he knew that what they’d planned tonight would go up in smoke. Chances were some people would end up hurt, and some might even end up in jail before morning, but as long as his fighter won and he got his money, he figured he could handle the rest. He came to the conclusion that he’d rather not think about it, punctuating this decision by sliding his phone back into his pocket. He’d been thinking about his days in law enforcement a lot lately, particularly those days towards the end of his career. They were wrapped in clouds of both fondness and regret. As his feet started to dip down into those warm nostalgic waters he was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of a slamming screen door. Clayton Bennings was making his way down the lawn of the rundown house where James had parked. If he hadn’t known Clayton for the last 4 years he would have assumed that the man was reincarnation of Old Testament’s Goliath. Clayton stood at seven and a half feet tall and weighed somewhere over three hundred pounds. His shoulders, like his jaw, were square, and his muscular arms looked like fallen logs. His thick black hair plunged past his head and neck and stopped just below his sternum. “He should’ve been a lumberjack,” James thought, “I bet he could kill a whole rain forest in a week.” James walked over to the driver’s door and unlocked the passenger’s side: When Clayton sat down James gave the car a minute to jostle, then started up the engine and pulled out. “You know where we’re going?” Clayton asked in a voice as smooth as butter and as deep as a southern hollow. James nodded; he knew exactly where they were going. Tonight was the seventh annual Harry O’Farrell Funeral Fight Night. What it really was was a way for Harry’s sleazy brother Shane to make a fortune every year, but as despicable a man as Shane was, James did feel Harry deserved to be honored somehow. Harry O’Farrell had been, in the opinion of James and many others, the best underground fighter in the world. In his entire career, the man had only ever lost two fights, the first was during a time in his life where he was actively trying to drink himself to death, and the second was to a young kid named Keith Cochran that Harry had 30

claimed was probably the best in the world. James didn’t buy it; he believed Harry had taken a dive in that fight in an effort to get the kid some notoriety. It worked too, Keith had caught the eye of the bad men that you always hear about, or read about, or see on the news. One of these bad men had gone crazy and tried to kill both Keith and Harry. With the help of some of Harry’s friends and a few new ones like James himself, they were able to put that whole ordeal behind them and move forward. Over the next few years Harry became like a father to Keith, supporting him when his real father died. He loved the kid and the kid loved him, but one day Harry died. Rumor had it that he had left everything he owned, including his mechanic’s shop and classic car collection to Keith. All that rushed back through James’s mind when Clayton asked where they were going, but instead of answering he asked a question of his own. “What took you so long today?” Clayton reached into his pocket for a cigarette and started to roll down the window. “It doesn’t really matter” he said. James took the cigarette from his hand and tossed it out the window. “To me it does. Last week we lost a lot of money because we didn’t make it to the fight on time, this week we’re ok because I happen to know the location, but if I hadn’t we’d be late for the second time in a row.” Clayton got himself another cigarette. “I need a new manager” he muttered over filter paper. James let an amused smile spread over his face “If I find out you’re using, buddy you’ll get one.” Clayton cocked an eye brow and looked over at the driver. “I’m not late because of drugs” he said through the smoke that wandered out from his lips and nostrils. “Then spell it out for me” James invited. Clayton sighed the way a child does before explaining a poor report card to his parents, “It’s a girl” he said flatly. James laughed and shook his head as he made a right turn. “She’d better be a tree or you’re gonna crush her flat!” Clayton inhaled almost the entire cigarette and released the smoke through the corner of his mouth. “We haven’t done that yet” he muttered. “That’s kind of you,” James replied with understanding, “give her a few months to bulk up.” Clayton tossed the cigarette butt out the window and rolled it back up. “She’s seventeen,” he said while he moved the seat back, “still too young.”

“Great!” James exclaimed with more emphatic sarcasm, “Now I can sleep at night knowing I don’t have to worry about you losing your edge to substance abuse, all I’ve gotta worry about now is you going to prison for having a ‘skins only’ wrestling match with a minor.” He looked over and pointed a finger at the pocket Clayton kept his Camel’s in. “If I were you I’d stop smoking your currency.” Clayton let out a frustrated snort. “Is there a reason for your heightened irritability?” James tapped his finger on the wheel while they sat still at a red light. “There is,” he started as they pulled off again, “but your progress report certainly didn’t help things. Seriously, Man, break it off with the kid. At least for now, if you wanna pick it back up when she’s eighteen it’s still weird, but at least it’s legal.” Clayton made a rolling motion with his finger. “I get it, you don’t like the girl. Now, on to the part about the stick up your—” “It’s the fight” James interrupted. “I don’t exactly know why, it just feels wrong. I keep trying to tell myself it’s because of money. That I’m just not used to making this much all at once, but I really don’t think that’s it.” Clayton shrugged his shoulders. “It’s probably the switch in style” he offered, “I can’t remember the last time I heard of a bare knuckle match that was three on three.” James shook his head. “I’m not too worried about that, if you were going one on three I might be a little stressed, but even then I don’t think I’d be rattled.” Clayton had already lost interest in the subject. “Speaking of the others” he said in a brisk transition, “who are my partners?” James had to shuffle around his brain a bit to find the name, he knew it was something foreign, but he also knew he hadn’t paid full attention when he had talked to the promoter. Once he found out how much money they were actually fighting for he was stuck on that and nothing else for the remainder of the meeting. “Well, the first one is a former Icelandic soldier” he began, plucking whatever details he could reach from memory. “I’ve never actually met him, but Lloyd swears by him, and he’s never steered me wrong. His name was a little odd, it was Niro something…or Nico something…no, wait! It was Nektar I think, Nektar Holly.” Clayton grunted and shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s right” he said “that doesn’t sound Icelandic to me.” James wrinkled his nose and raised a questioning hand. “How in the hell would you know? I’d be willing to bet you’ve never met anybody from Iceland. When we get there you can ask him yourself.” Clayton moved on. “Alright, who’s the 32

other guy?” James scratched his neck and switched on his left turn signal. “I don’t actually know. All Lloyd told me was that he had the perfect guy in mind and that we’d meet him tonight.” Clayton laughed cynically. “Maybe you don’t feel right about this thing because we’re completely unprepared. If I didn’t have so much confidence in myself I’d get out of the car right now. How do you not know who my partners are?” James shrugged. “We’re as prepared as all the others. We’re about to take part in a three on three unregulated street fight made up of six unfamiliar underground fighters. I don’t know how often this happens, but I know neither one of us has ever done it before, and I’ve been in this game for a while.” Clayton was audibly exasperated. “I’m assuming you don’t know anything about my competition either then?” James lifted his index finger off the wheel and wagged it in the air. “That’s where you’re wrong, Lurch, I know who their ringer is.” James waited to say anything further until Clayton breached the silence. “Would you like to share with the class James?” James rubbed his chin contemplatively. “I suppose,” (Clayton rolled his eyes) “do you remember a famous news story that aired around nine years ago about a Russian man that got killed in the Callaway subway station?” Clayton leaned the back of his neck into the head rest and closed his eyes, he could sense that he was about to hear another one of James’ “good ol’ days” stories. “I don’t read the papers and I don’t watch the news.” “I forgot you’re a mongrel” James started, “well anyway, about nine years ago there was a Russian fighter that gained a pretty big underground following. His name was Aeolus Kuznetsov, and he was one of the most successful street fighters in America. He even had a win over Harry O’Farrell, who was in my opinion the best there ever was.” Clayton shifted a little to get more comfortable. “That dog won’t hunt. How can Harry be the best if the Russian put him down?” James had gotten used to Clayton’s complete lack of understanding when it came to the fighting culture. He had his own standards for the field; if you lost you were a loser, if you won you were a winner. Instead of hanging on this, James decided to forge onward. He shook his head and answered defensively. “It wasn’t exactly a fair fight, which I know everybody says when their guy doesn’t win, but Harry was out of shape. He hadn’t fought in a long time, and he was dealing with a big loss. On top of that, he showed up to the fight drunk, but that’s

another story for another time. I’m trying to let you know who your opponent is. Any interest?” Clayton opened his eyes just so he could roll them. “Well go ahead then.” James obliged. “So anyway, one day Aeolus was taking the subway and this guy bumps into him. I don’t know what exactly this guy said or did after that, but Aeolus was pissed. He kept trying to get the man to fight him on the train but the man wouldn’t do it. After a while Aeolus got too hot under the collar and took a swing at the mystery man, who dodged his swing and cracked him in the temple. With one punch, this guy turned Aeolus’ lights out for good. When they pulled into the next stop the guy slipped out in the crowd and disappeared, he became known as The Callaway Ghost’.” “That’s a cute fairy tale,” Clayton said with sardonically, “so you believe the man I’m supposed to fight is some over-the-hill superhero that hasn’t been in the game for the last nine years? Even if everything you just said was true, how could we know that this is the same guy and not some loon capitalizing on the legend?” The truth of the matter was that James didn’t care either way, if this man was shining them on, then the fight would end quickly and they’d get a payday. If he was who he claimed to be there would be a hell of a fight that would hopefully result in a bigger payday. Either way, success. “Some things you just have to take on faith” James replied as they made their last turn. The fight would take place on Lincoln Boulevard at a vacated gym down past several businesses and the run down houses behind them. They turned past the Papa John’s franchise and went around the insurance company that sat on the edge of Lincoln. “Did you grab your tape?” James asked. There was a nasally grunt from his passenger. “Nope, didn’t grab it. I was busy with—” “yeah your girl, I know. Don’t worry about it there’s some in the glove box.” Clayton pressed the latch of the compartment and it dropped open, revealing two rolls of athletic tape and a .45. Clayton chuckled, “you don’t have that many enemies” he said with a smile. “Doesn’t matter” James said, “I like to be prepared.” As they drove through the sundry wooden, brick, and stucco houses the street opened up into a wide cul-de-sac with only two buildings at the end of it. On the right side was a towing company with a large black iron gate that you had to manually roll out 34

of the way if you wanted to enter. The entrance was connected to a ten foot chain-link fence with rolls of barbed wire at the top. When you looked inside you could see the cars of the poor saps who hadn’t called before Frank’s ridiculous closing time of 9:30. On the left was the building they would be fighting in, and the eyesore of the block. Out of a swarm of cars and people stood the large, once white, building. It had a steeple that pointed up into the sky with a crooked needle that seemed to be trying to slither away. The paint of the building had begun peeling off in large stripes and chunks, making it look like the hide of a melting cow. The doors to the front stood nine feet with long iron handles. The door on the left was in much worse condition than its partner to the right; it was badly splintered and had lost almost all of its finish. The door on the right looked strong and sturdy, its polish still looked fresh with the exception of one or two spots and it didn’t creek when opened, but the small stain glass window at the top had been shattered for many years. The parking lot went all the way around the building, James and Clayton drove to the back and parked in one of the farther out spots. They walked through the congregation of other cars and into the vacant section that had been coned off for the evening. On the back of the building a metal blue door stood propped open. It lead into the main hall. James had guessed that the building was probably meant to be a monastery or a church, but somewhere along the line plans changed and the original builders no longer needed it. For the last few years it had been abandoned, but before that it was actually the home of a professional wrestling promotion. As they walked through the main hall they noticed the giant painting of Mike “Feral Dog” Hannigan holding up his large gold belt and baring his teeth at the painted audience. Lloyd, the “event coordinator” walked out and met them. He clapped his hand on James’ back, startling him a little. “How’s it going guys?” he asked, pleasantly enough. Lloyd was most easily described with the adjective sharp. His body from his shoulders down seemed to narrow into a spade-like shape, ending at a pair of feet that seemed too small for. His nose was a right triangle, and his crooked smile was small and rectangular. His head was topped with thick white hair that he chose to spike with gel. His grey eyes sparkled as he addressed the two in the hallway.

James stuck out his hand for a shake, “It’s going great Lloyd, thank you, and we’re honored to be here.” Lloyd smiled wide as he grasped James’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Who wouldn’t be? There’s not a fighter alive that didn’t shed a tear when he heard The Great Irish Lion had passed on.” Clayton shrugged and James elbowed him in the stomach. “It definitely hit me pretty hard. Listen, I’m not trying to rush you or anything but Clayton’s feeling a little under prepared. Neither of us really knows what this looks like and he’d feel better about it if he knew who his partners were.” Lloyd nodded. “That’s understandable, I can introduce you to one of them but I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, you remember the man I told you about, the one I said would be perfect?” James knew where this was headed. “don’t tell me-” he started, but Lloyd nodded cutting him off and affirming his fear. “If it makes you feel better he didn’t just bail on you” Lloyd offered “he was picking up some crank with a buddy of his and someone plugged them from behind, they both died instantly.” James shook his head and cursed under his breath, he should’ve known that with his luck this kind of thing would happen. “ok, so what now then? We just go in one short? Clayton can handle it, but if he puts down two guys and his partner only does one he gets two thirds of the pot.” Lloyd shook his head, “no no no, that’s not really how tonight is going to look. It’s going to be less of a brawl and more like three separate fights going on at the same time. I’ll explain better when we have everyone together. In the meantime, James, how about you for the third man? I know you used to fight.” Clayton laughed and James gave him a cutting look. “Are you kidding me? I haven’t had a fight in five years and I’m out of shape, there’s really nobody else you can think of that could jump in last minute? No one that would want the money?” Lloyd opened his hands. “I was thinking about you, If you fight I’ll still pay you what we agreed on, plus the money the other fighters get.” James looked at him bitterly. “Only if I win! And if I lose what happens with Clayton’s fight? Will he still get paid or is this some weird kid’s game where only the team with the best two out of three actually wins?” Lloyd raised his hands in surrender and smiled for them again, doing the best he could with the sales pitch that had just gone awry. “Hey, hey, relax! You don’t have to worry about that, every fighter that wins tonight gets paid ok? As long as this guy is as 36

good as you claim you won’t have to worry about that. All I’m offering you is a chance to walk out of here with even more money than you were promised.” James rubbed his temples. “Fat chance. You really screwed us here Lloyd.” Lloyd sighed and gave a halfhearted shrug. “Look, I’m not anybody’s babysitter, it’s not my job to make sure you guys show up. I book the fight, I take bets, I pay out, but the rest is up to the talent. If you want to blame anybody, blame the kid who got shot. If he wasn’t such a meth head he’d be here in your corner right now. If I were the two of you, I’d work something out quick because I don’t know who else to call and Paul Bunyan here is gonna have to do more work if you’re unwilling to fight.” Fighter and manager looked at each other and had a telepathic conversation. “I’ll fight” James grumbled through clenched teeth. Lloyd’s face lit up like the face of a brat who just got his way. “I knew you’d come around, James. Come on let’s go meet your partner.” As they walked on Clayton tapped James on the shoulder. “I thought you said this guy was a straight shooter?” James turned his head and quietly said “I was wrong. He’s a prick.” The walk down the main hall was quiet for the most part. Lloyd’s employees had been instructed to keep everybody out of the main hall and gym floor until the fighters had been briefed on the proceedings of the night. Even though the distance from where they saw the painting and where the main fight would be held was only twenty or thirty more feet, to James it felt like two or three miles. His palms were beginning to sweat a little and the roof of his mouth was dry. Had it really been five years since his last fight? If that really was the case, could he do this again? He knew he could still fight in a basic sense. If this was any old schmuck in a bar room he wouldn’t been worried, but he had suddenly agreed to tap fists with an unknown, actively training fighter, who was probably younger and quicker without the help of any technical training. The feeling he had before they left was pressing down hard on his shoulders, and this time he couldn’t shake it away. I was right, I knew I was right before I left to get Clayton; I knew it a week before that, but if I’m really being honest I knew it the day I got the call. I’m one dumb f—“James?” the question brought him out of his head and back into the main room of the gym. It was a huge space, much bigger than it appeared to be outside, and it was almost totally vacant with the exception of a fifteen foot by 37

fifteen foot wrestling ring, the ropes of which were not sagging lazily down on every side. “Sorry,” James responded, “I just couldn’t remember if we grabbed our tape.” Clayton took both rolls out of his pocket and held them up. “We have it” he stated. “Good then” Lloyd confirmed. He held his hand to the right, as if revealing some sort of magic trick, and introduced them to the tall red haired stranger standing next to him. “This is Leifer Heimisson, he’s recently moved here from Iceland and has been testing the waters of the underground fighting trade. So far he holds a very promising record.” Leifer leaned in and shook James’s hand. “Hello” he said with excitement, giving James’ hand a firm squeeze that showed the definition in his arm and looking him straight in the eye with his own cobalt blue ones. He was shorter than Clayton but had some height on James; he had to slightly lower his shoulder for their handshake. His years in the Icelandic military had kept him rather slender, but they had also kept him strong. He had already prepared for the fight, so he was only wearing a pair of sweat pants and the tape wrapped around his hands when they met him. His smile displayed an even set of white teeth that seemed to shine out from the forest of red beard hair that had over run the lower half of his face. I wish I could switch bodies with this guy, just for the fight James thought. Leifer nodded, as if agreeing with James’s thoughts and reached over to shake Clayton’s hand. His smile widened, “we will win I think” he said pointing at Clayton with his other hand. “Thanks for the confidence, Leifer,” Clayton said as he turned a superior glance on James. James shrugged and said “you can’t be right all the time.” Leifer nodded, observing the interaction, and replied “I’m unsure what that meant, but I believe we will see victory. Who is our third?” Clayton laughed as Lloyd motioned to James and he raised his hand. Leifer smiled and scratched his chin. “My apologies” he stated unapologetically. “Don’t sweat it kid, I think it’s a bad idea too” James sighed. There were the beginnings of a commotion outside that got louder and louder, marking the progress of somebody’s entrance. Lloyd grinned with genuine excitement, “Boys, I believe that’s the sound of your competition. James’ heart started to beat a little too loudly, sending the sound up into his ears. As he watched the three men enter through the opposite gym door his heart quit being so loud and dropped down into his stomach. His face flushed red as his nerves turned to anger. The first one through the 38

door was a stocky figure wearing a big black hoodie. The hood was deep and covered his eyes and nose in shadow. The sleeves of his hoodie looked like they concealed bowling balls. From the part of his face that was visible James could see grey and white scruff patched around his cheeks. “That must be the Ghost” Clayton stated, but The Ghost wasn’t the one who had really caught James’s eye. The next to enter was a man James had met seven years ago named Griffin Pierce. His hair was the same length it had been when they’d met, short in the back but hanging down the sides of his forehead in the front, but it wasn’t the same thick black as before; silver had begun to work its way through some of the black strands. His face had aged as well, and while his thew may have been fully intact, it was not as outwardly visible as it had been. He was a little shorter than James, but did not have the beginnings of the pot belly that James had grown. The two weren’t exactly friends, but the sight of Griffin was calming to James. After registering Griffin James looked past him honing in on the third man to enter, the real ringer, Keith Cochran. Chapter 2 The fist that clocked Lloyd was not something he’d seen coming, it surprised both him and those around him with the exception of James, whose fist it was. The look of surprise on Lloyd’s face seemed to invite another strike, which James would have delivered if Leifer had not fixed himself between the two of them and held James back. Lloyd held his hand up to his mouth until he could fish the handkerchief out of his back pocket and press it to his lip. “Damn it James, pull yourself together!” he yelled through the thin cloth. “Considering the surprises you’ve sprung on me tonight, I think I’m held together pretty well Lloyd! You booked him and didn’t tell me!? What is wrong with you?” James wasn’t trying to fight past Leifer, but he was leaning forcefully into his chest. This was not a problem for the Icelander, who easily counteracted by leaning back into James. Lloyd took his hand away from his mouth, now holding a red rag instead of a white one. “I didn’t book him James, Shane did!” James responded with an incredulous look as he raised his thumb up to his ear and let his pinky hang by his mouth. “That still 39

doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t get a phone call, you ass!” Lloyd considered for a moment and then submitted. “Ok, ok! I’ll admit that, I should have called you; but what would that have changed? He would still be here whether you knew about it or not, so I thought it was just better to leave well enough alone. Were you really gonna turn down a pay day like this just because Keith Cochran happened to be here?” Clayton fielded this question. “No he wouldn’t.” James turned around and looked at him surprised; somehow forgetting his sizeable client was even in the room. “Right” he said, sounding more like the word had fallen out of his mouth than like something he’d said on purpose. He backed off of Leifer, who nodded and patted him in the stomach before stepping to the side. He would’ve apologized to Lloyd, but he didn’t regret taking the swing. With a start he realized that the whole room had gone silent, like a record after the final track with no one to replace the needle. He turned left to see The Ghost, Griffin Pierce, Keith Cochran, and on Keith’s left arm what had to be the most attractive woman he had ever met in person; Bridgette Cochran. “Hey James, are you ok?” James just stared back at Keith, not answering his question. What the hell was wrong with him, he couldn’t think of anything to say. He hadn’t seen or heard from Keith in seven years. He wanted to say anything and everything, but couldn’t force out a single word. This paradox was building his frustration. “What the hell are you doing here?” he finally blurted out, really just trying to stall until his mind stopped short circuiting from the inconceivable deja-vu he was experiencing. Keith shrugged and shook his head. “I’m just here for Harry. I didn’t know you were going to be here, I would’ve given you a call. Last I heard you were managing. Are you here with a fighter or are you fighting again?” Clayton snickered, “both kid” he replied in James’ stead. “Whoa, who invited the juggernaut?” Griffin asked, pointing a curious finger at Clayton and smiling when the giant responded with a stony expression. Lloyd decided to interject. “Alright guys, Shane is running a little late so I’m going to go ahead and fill you all in on the way tonight is going to work.” He moved into the center of the group and tried to spread his eye contact around equally. “As some of you may know, in honor of Harry O’Farrell we try and switch up the Fight Night every year so it doesn’t get stale. 40

This year we decided to do a three-on-three brawl style fight, only it isn’t going to be a brawl exactly.” He held up three fingers. “There are going to be three fights taking place at one time” he said dropping his ring and middle finger. “Any questions so far?” no hands were raised, so he continued. “It is completely up to you who you decide to pair off with, but keep this in mind: you may have to fight more than once tonight.” No one asked any questions but their faces displayed intrigue. “What I mean by that is this” Lloyd continued, “the six of you will split off with whoever you would like your opponent to be and head to one of three locations: the outer parking lot, the display room to the left of the painting in the main hall, and this room here inside the ring.” He pointed over to the dilapidated wrestling ring. “once your fight is over, meaning one of you has been knocked unconscious, has tapped out, or has, for any other reason, bowed out of the competition, the winner of that fight will head into or out to one of the other fighting locations. If the fighter on your team wins, then you will both head to the last remaining fighting location. If they lose, then you will step in and face off with the fighter that eliminated them. Does that make sense?” There were unanimous nods of understanding around the circle as the fighters studied one another and tried to sort out in their minds who would be their best matchup. “Excellent,” Lloyd continued, “As I’ve already stated, it does not matter to us who you match up with, but who you choose to fight will determine your location. What we believe to be the prize fight with take place in the ring, the next best will take place in the showroom, and the last will be in the outer lot.” Leifer raised his hand, and Lloyd nodded, as if passing him the floor. “At the end of these fights, who gets paid? The winning team or the members of that team still standing?” “Stay awake if you want to get paid” Lloyd replied. Leifer nodded, satisfied. Silence followed, and he clapped his hands together in finality. “Great, well then, go ahead and pair off, and I’ll lead your team off to the locker room to get ready James. Your team can prepare in this room Keith. The fans will be kept outside until it’s time to go so the three of you will have some privacy.” James hadn’t taken his eyes off of Keith throughout the entire rundown of the night. He pointed across the circle and brown eyes locked with blue. “You game kid?” he said flatly. Keith nodded, understanding what 41

James needed. “Sounds good” he replied. Griffin and Leifer had been eyeing each other throughout the detailed explanation. “whaddya say Red,” Griffin asked, “wanna try your luck against an aging veteran?” Leifer’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Does soldier equal veteran?” Griffin nodded. Leifer slapped his chest with his hands and thrust them out towards Griffin. “Soldier verse soldier! We are a match!” “I guess that leaves me and The Ghost” Clayton observed amusedly. The hooded figure nodded, and with that the pairs were made. Lloyd took James’ team of fighters out the side door and down the hall to the locker room. James did not take his eyes of Keith until he had left the room. James was as prepared as he could be. His hands were wrapped, and he’d removed his shirt. In the old days, he would’ve brought a pair of gym shorts to change into, but he hadn’t even known he was going to fight until thirty minutes prior. He stood in the locker room, staring at his knuckles and thinking about how quickly this thing had gone to Hell in a handbasket, asking himself why he hadn’t trusted his gut. While he was teetering on the border between brooding and self-pity, there was a knock at the door. Clayton and Leifer were both lying back with headphones in, so James went over and opened it. Griffin was standing in the doorway holding a pack of cigarettes and a green plastic lighter. “Let’s have a smoke” he suggested. They had time before Lloyd would come, so James stepped out and closed the door behind him. Griffin passed him the carton and lit his cigarette when James had it pressed between his lips. “I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty surprised to see you here” Griffin said. James nodded his head up and down and took a slow drag. “Yeah, the same with you” he muttered through an exhale. Griffin took the packet back and placed it in his pocket without retrieving a cigarette for himself. “Keith didn’t know you’d be here either, but I think he was kind of glad to see you.” James shrugged. “Yeah, to tell you the truth I was glad to see him too, but I didn’t do the best job of showing it, huh?” Griffin laughed through a smile. “Why, because you socked Lloyd? I think that’s the best way to re-connect with anybody after seven years.”

They shared a moment of refreshing laughter, the kind James knew he hadn’t had in some time. It produced a lightness in his chest that seemed to lessen the anxiety that had lodged there. “So what’s the deal with the giant?” Griffin asked, plowing on with his conversational motive. James put his hands up over his face. “I wish I’d never met Clayton Bennings.” Griffin’s eyes widened in realization. “That’s Clayton Bennings, like Clayton ‘Rock-jaw’ Bennings?” James slid his hands down to his cheeks. “I’m afraid so, why do you ask?” Griffin repositioned himself on the wall. “Nothing, It just dawned on me that my fight is going to be in the outer lot. Keith has been telling me about some guy they call Rock-jaw for the last couple weeks, but he didn’t say you were his manager, he just said he’d never been toppled. Sorry, continue.” James took a mental measurement of his cigarette (he had about three drags left) before he responded. “He probably didn’t know I was managing him, he’s actually starting to get a little bit of clout but the managers never do. I just happened to be at the bar he used to bounce in and thought he had some promise, so I told him I fought underground and could help him get started if he’d like. He was pretty interested until I got into all the work that actually goes into setting up a fight; meeting with managers, finding a location, talking to promoters, all that. So, he asked me to be his manager, said he just wanted to hurt people; he didn’t want any part in the extras. I might have turned him down but I was starting to slip then and I knew I couldn’t keep fighting forever. It took me all of forty five seconds to get my manager on the phone and terminate our partnership. I’ve been with the freak ever since.” “Now that’s a story,” Griffin said, “somebody should write it down.” James looked at him and furrowed his brow. “I could call it ‘the time I somehow went broke while managing Grendel.’” Griffin disagreed with such cynicism. “I’m just saying, I bet somebody would read you story and it sounds like you hate this scene.” James dropped the butt of the cigarette on floor of the hallway and stepped on it to smother whatever still burned. “This is all I’ve got left Griff. I got fired as a detective, I’m too old to swing my fists full time again, and I’ll die before I get stuck mopping floors or slinging groceries. I’m an old dog. I’m not learning any new tricks.” “That’s a sad statement” Griffin observed. “How’s Keith been, assuming you’ve been around?” Griffin held a thumb up to affirm James’s assumption. “He’s been well; 43

he and Bridgette spend even more time together than they did when we met them, if you can believe that. He’s been a little distracted lately though, Bridgette just found out she’s pregnant, and that’s been really exciting for him.” James smiled with surprised joy, “That’s great!” He exclaimed, “It must be really early, Bridgette still looks damn good.” Griffin ran his hand through his old hair. “Tell me about it, Keith’s the luckiest guy I’ve ever met. The auto shop’s booming; he just bought a towing company, his wife blows every Mrs. America I’ve ever seen out of the water, and on top of that, he always looks relaxed. It’s like he gets all this stuff because he doesn’t care if he has it.” Griffin smiled and James chuckled, and then they both fell silent. “How long do we have?” James asked after some time. Griffin checked his watch for an answer. “We’ve got a little time; I should head back soon though. Do you want to come over and see Keith before you two go at it? I think he’d really like that.” James did want to go see Keith, but he didn’t have the words. “No, I hope he’s not offended or anything, but I just can’t find any way to say the things I want to. It’s like when I’m staring at him my mind goes blank and gets flooded all at the same time.” Griffin could understand that, it was the same reason he wasn’t able to speak at Harry’s funeral; too many not enough words. “Ok, I’ll pass along that you’re glad to see him. Before I go, I’d like to make you an offer though.” James eyes went wide and he grinned wryly. “Uh oh,” he said with over-exaggerated fear, “is it one I can’t refuse?” Griffin pointed a finger gun at him. “I’m managing the towing company Keith bought, and I’m looking for workers, I fired a slob last week. How do you feel about driving a truck and being hated?” James was honestly touched, and a little embarrassed. This is why Griffin had wanted to talk in the hall, he’d seen James and immediately assessed the state of his nothing life. No, maybe that wasn’t it, but why else would Griffin have offered it this way. Was he that pathetic? That his very appearance screamed I’m an old man whose life amounts to nothing? “I don’t know what to say Griff. Uh…can I think it over maybe?” Griffin stood off the spot he’d been leaning on. “Does think it over mean no?” James shook his head and cleared his throat. “No, I just need to, I don’t know, think about things I guess. It’s a good offer and I definitely appreciate it, but as tired as I am I’m just not sure if I’m done yet.” Griffin scratched his chest. “That’s ok I think. Mull it 44

over, but I do need to fill some spots so don’t leave me hanging. Let me know by tomorrow morning alright?” James held out his hand for a shake, and Griffin gripped it hard as he pulled James into a hug. They patted each other on the back a few times, and Griffin headed back to his locker room.

Fifteen minutes later there was another knock at the locker room door. This time Clayton opened it, being the closest one to the knob. Lloyd was standing there beside a man that only James had met, and didn’t like. “Well what do we have here?” James asked sardonically, “Is that Shane O’Farrell or just a big piece of sh—” Lloyd cleared his throat and glared at James, who raised an unkind gesture in reply. Shane O’Farrell was nothing like his younger brother Harry, physically or otherwise. Harry had been Brawny and well built, Shane was Scrawny and weak. Harry’s long red Irish hair was thick and curly, and Shane’s hair was short and thin, more of an ugly orange than a red. Harry’s hands were tough and calloused from working all his life, while Shane’s were soft and dainty. He’d spent his whole life scheming and plotting, stealing from those whose lives were already hard enough and scamming anyone lucky enough to get a break. When James spoke Shane winced, trying to smile, and greeted the men. “Uh, hello James, I can see you’re still my biggest fan.” The joke didn’t land so Shane continued. “I don’t know if Lloyd filled you in on the size of the pot when he dealt with you all over the phone, but the grand total is three hundred thousand, that means one hundred large If you’re whole team succeeds, one fifty if it’s only two of you, and three hundred to yourself if you’re the last man standing.” “What about the manager’s cut” James said in a harsh voice. Shane pointed to James to acknowledge his question. “The manager’s cut will be less than we discussed, unfortunately. This is an annual event that has picked up a lot of traction in the last few years, and people are willing to pay for a show, but sadly sometimes there aren’t as many people as we hope for.” James caught his eyes and held him in a stare. “That or you pocketed the rest of my money” he said in an unsurprised but certainly bitter tone. “We pay for talent James!” Shane snapped, even in his anger appearing uncourageous. 45

“It doesn’t take talent to manage, it takes talent to fight. You’ve been offered a chance to do that, you actually stand to make more money than—“ That’s a load of bull” James interrupted, “what’s my cut!” Shane clammed up and his face went pale, then he confessed. “You get twenty five James, which is more than fair considering—” James kicked through one of the rusted locker doors and advanced on Shane. “Twenty five!? Are you kidding me? You crooked little fink, I ought to bash your scheming head in!” This time Leifer and Lloyd both got in front of James, while Clayton watched, curious as to how this would go. Shane backed against the door and almost crouched down totally seized with fear. He fought this reflex, and once he saw that Lloyd and Leifer had James under control he stood back up, thrusting his chest forward to display confidence. “Alright James, if you want to behave that way we’ll make it fifteen instead of twenty five, how do you like that? We don’t have a contract; I don’t have to pay you! But, out of the goodness of my heart I wanted to offer you something for your troubles, and you decide to spit in my face. In fact, let’s make it ten, or maybe even five! How does that sit?” James managed to tear free from the others and Shane bolted out the door in a flash. James couldn’t tell who he was more upset with, Shane or himself. It was a good play, they promised him seventy five and then made fifty of it disappear. They hadn’t booked another fighter, knowing James needed the money and would have to fight, especially when he found out what he’d get for his managing fee, and since it’d been years since he fought anyone they banked on him to lose. Wasn’t it a little strange that Leifer hadn’t been standing there with a manager of his own? This group was told three hundred, he’d stake his life on the other’s getting a lower number; and even if his team succeeded, things would get fudged somehow and the number would be less than promised. Shane was a crook, through and through, but he was right, there was no official contract. He could pay them whatever he wanted to pay them and they had to take it. Lloyd put his hand on James’s shoulder. “I’m sorry James, it’s just—” James rolled his shoulder, shaking the hand off. “If I ever see you again after tonight, I’m gonna beat you so bad you’ll be unrecognizable” he said with his eyes fixed on the open door. The room was quiet for a moment, and when the moment passed Lloyd doled out 46

the assignments. “Clayton, you’re in the main gym, you and The Ghost fight in the ring. James head to the showroom, and Leifer you’ll be in the outer lot, Griffin’s already waiting for you there. Wait to fight until you hear the buzzer, it’ll ring out from the gym but we’ve got speakers connected in the other two locations.” The room cleared and the men separated, all but James eager for the night to really begin. When Leifer arrived in the outer lot there was a circular throng already gathered and waiting impatiently. They cleared the way for him, and he walked into the center of the circle to see Griffin there shadow boxing. When Griffin noticed him he turned and saluted. Leifer did likewise, and as soon as the buzzer sounded, they got things started.

Chapter 3 As James stood across from Keith in the dingy little showroom, he realized he hadn’t had butterflies in five years. The two waited in the center of the space, walled in now by the crowd of onlookers who had congealed around the edges of the room. The room wasn’t impressive. It had been gutted and torn down to bare bones. The wine red carpet was coming up around the edges and the white walls were full of nail holes and empty shelves where anything really could have been hung. Belts maybe, or medals. One thing was certain, nothing was there now, and it was looking around this empty room before the fight that James realized his time in the game was over. After tonight it was time to move on. The two men stared at each other waiting to hear the starting buzzer to tell them it was time to fight. Keith looked James over, taking in the new accessories like his growing gut, the abandonment in his slouched shoulders, and the restlessness in the bags beneath his eyes. James had changed quite a bit, and it was all for the worse. Keith wished the two of them had kept in touch after everything that happened. Whether it was awkwardness or just the constant pulling of life’s that had kept them apart, he wasn’t sure, but standing here now and looking at the broken man in front of him he knew he’d give almost anything to change the silent past.

James examined Keith in a similar way. He searched all over Keith, trying to find the slightest change, but the resemblance he held to the kid James had met seven years ago was astonishing. He had the same bright eyes, the same confident posture and laid back demeanor, the same firmly muscular appearance. It was as if Keith and Bridgette had somehow been frozen in time, and happened to thaw back into the real world earlier this afternoon. The only thing James could find to convince himself he wasn’t trapped in some weird dream was a tattoo Keith had gotten on his left pectoral muscle; a lion, appearing meek and calm with a four leafed clover underneath it. On anybody else James would’ve hated that tattoo, but Keith somehow made it look good. They weren’t exactly sure how much time there was before the war horn that would launch them into battle, but James wanted to say something before things came to blows. Just to show he still cared. James raised his chin. “Hey kid” he prompted. “Yeah James” Keith responded. James lowered his chin and scratched the back of his head. “I should’ve reached out after he passed, I wish I had, you know?” he said. Keith showed one of those cool relaxed smiles James had always been a little envious of. “I’ve got thumbs and a working phone James, I could’ve called too.” That comment landed in James’ stomach like a brick of led. Keith wasn’t the type to pass blame on to anybody. James both loved and hated that about him. He flashed Keith a weak smile. “Don’t go easy ok?” Keith nodded. “You either, Detective Slugger.” They smiled at each other, the way you do when you see someone you know for the first time in a long time. Just like that, the smile they shared killed whatever inelegant thing that had stretched itself across their past. The buzzer sounded, bringing them back into the harsh reality of the night they were living. They shared one last nod, put their hands up, and headed in. they drew in close, and immediately James went on the offensive. He jabbed with his right, and then twice with his left, then another two jabs with the right, but none of his swings landed. The difference in their fitness levels was almost laughable. In short, Keith saw every move James made the way a ship sees the glow of a lighthouse. James tried to pick up the pace, not only increasing his speed but switching his style as he went, throwing hooks, crosses, jabs, and any combinations he could remember or throw together in his mind’s eye; all to no avail. Keith sidestepped, 48

ducked, parried, countered, he moved with the elegance of a dancer and the presence of mind of an engineer. After two straight minutes of trying every trick in his book or any other he’d ever read, James was exhausted. He got slower, and slower, until eventually he backed up and leaned down to rest with his hands on his knees. Keith stood in front of him, politely waiting as James caught his breath, slipping his fingers down into the pockets of his jeans an resting his thumbs in the belt loops. James looked up at him. Both grateful and aggravated. He took a full breath in and stood up straight, motioning an invitation with his hand. “Ok kid, are you going to hit me or wh—“ Looking back on this moment all James could remember was thinking wow, good shot! Before fading into a sea of dark warmth. When the lights came back on, and his brain regained the ability to focus, he could feel a soft hand, stroking his head and occasionally running it’s fingers through his hair. It was small and warm, and as his cranium became increasingly more useful he realized it was the hand of a woman. It was time to see if his eyes worked too. He opened them and looked up at Bridgette, who was smiling sweetly down at him. “if this is what I get to wake up to, your husband can put me down any time” he said, returning a fatigued smile. She giggled a little, and put her arm under his as he slowly tried to balance him. “You know your form looked good, you just need to start practicing again. You’re not too bad for an old man” she said, playfully sprinkling salt into the bloody mess that was his pride. He laughed a little and winced. Any movement of his head caused it to twinge in pain. “Tell that to ‘one-punch’ Cochran. Where’d he sneak off too? Hell, where did everybody else sneak off too?” he just now noticed that the room they were in was vacant, minus himself and Bridgette. “He went to check on how Griff and ‘The Ghost’ are doing, you’ve only been out for a minute or two, the other fights are still progressing. He actually wanted to stay here with you and make sure you were ok, but I told him I’d watch over you and sent him out with the crowd in case one of the other boys goes down. He said you’d like the view better that way and did as he was told.” James chuckled again, regretting it every second. “You could tell Keith the sun is blue and he’d fight anybody that told him it wasn’t.” She shrugged, “It’s not my fault that I always know best” she said with a wink. He felt steady enough to stay upright on his own, so the two walked out of the showroom, each body responsible for its own balance. 49

“What are you going to do now James?” He looked at her, about to lie and say something like what does that mean? Or find another fight, what else? But the look in her eye denied him the privilege of a lie. She’d seen the recognition of conclusion on his face in the seconds before the match began. He exhaled heavily. “Honestly Bridgette I have no idea. I-I—” he had to pause, fully taking in the reality of all this being over. He knew it was over earlier, but now was the moment when it was actually sinking in. he shrugged his shoulders and made a bitter joke. “Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to die or fade away.” She eased her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “You’re not going to die James, you’re not going to fade away, and you’re not going to pity yourself either.” He raised his eyes to meet hers, and when he opened his mouth to speak she raised a forbidding finger. “I know you probably got screwed by Shane tonight, and just judging by your looks I can tell that life hasn’t been kind over the last few years, but losers sulk. If you want things to get better you need to man up and try to fix them.” James smiled tiredly, “I’m not trying to sound like a sulk, but Bridgette I swear I don’t know how. Any thoughts mom?” she smiled at him and looped her arm in his as they continued to walk down the hall. “You could start by taking Griff’s job offer.” James hung his head in a peaceful surrender. “Ok, I’ll do it. This trade’s dead for me anyway.” She squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek. He turned his head and smiled at her. They walked down to the main event together, leaving his last fight and his darkest days far behind them. For the first time in a long time, James Kelly was getting a win.

CAN YOU SEE ME?, ANA FUENTES

MISTAKEN IDENTITY poetry by Reginald M. Calhoun Love kept In the crook of your elbow *dancing on rocky shores* Will never grow And will never ask Above its pride “why was I caged, and not planted?”

WINE, SHERI PARK

BREAD, SHERI PARK

WATER, SHERI PARK

MY TASK FOR TODAY WAS TO ORDER PIZZA AND THEN I SAT THERE FOR HOURS

poetry by Ana Cielito Fuentes I sit in a windowless office, counting the hours till five so that I may be able to walk freely to the BART to ride to Del Norte to sit squishedinacornerasotherbodiespressagainstme. I sit and I wait for my thighs to get smaller, so I could feel less men press their pelvis against my hips holding them in movie theaters calling me their baby, claiming me with their fingers, indenting my skin. I type on a computer so that I may earn enough to go to school to graduate to decorate my cap with flowers with bible verses to say (to ask) did I make you proud? Am I an ideal enough woman like you born me out to be? I am scared to leave this office for fear that they will see me as an impostor for using UC Berkeleyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s library, for not being smart enough, for not remembering the quadratic formula, for my English not being betterer than my peers. Fear that the Athena head will suck my knowledge through her nose, swallow it and spit it out towards another Asian. Fear that I am an inadequate person, too less, not enough. I hide behind my employee ID. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what I am doing. I am a blob in this office. A pink formless blob whose head grows into a giant papaya without seeds for its brain. My weight crushes the seat, my limbs knock over the printer, I inflate into a giant balloon and roll out of Etcheverry Hall full of the coffee and pens that I stole from my boss. (Peace out, homie) 56

THE SUITCASE

fiction by Carla CRUJIDO She arrives at the doorstep of their fading love affair wearing a tomato red dress and carrying a basil plant that perfumes the air around her. For pesto and protection, she says when he opens the door. Interesting choice, he says, as he takes the plant and ushers her inside. Run, she hears the basil say. A tour? he asks. He takes her through his new set of rooms. There are seven. In each the boxes are neatly stacked to throat level. Theirs. May I help you unpack? she asks. Yes. You start here. And I, he says pointing in the direction of another room, will start there. She opens the first box and finds that it is filled with rage. Red velvety yards of it. She folds it into squares and tucks it into a dresser drawer. In the next box she finds selfpity. It is squat and rough and withered. She arranges its fruit-like pieces in a bowl and sets it on the table near the record player. It reminds her of a still life. Dutch. She opens the box marked envy. It flies out, flaps wildly around the room, tangling in her hair. Another holds a heap of regret, which is dingy and sour. This she tosses into the laundry basket and sets by the door. She thinks of her own broken emotions. How they unnerved all but the most fearless of men. The March Thursday, when the pregnancy stick twined pink and she left the man who planted the truest of loves inside of her. The Friday she drove to her parents’ house, pulled a white vintage suitcase of her mother’s from a stack in the garage, crowded it with all of the broken emotions she carried from one love to the next. Sent it off to Paris. A one-way ticket. She imagined it being stolen from the luggage carousel of the Charles de Gaulle airport. Her broken emotions set loose on the streets of

the Marais where they could languish in surrealistic splendor. Pout in existential angst. Roam free under gun metal skies. She charms and is charmed by men who are as damaged as birds whose wings have been loosed from their bodies. Help me, they plead. And she does. She sweeps sadness, hangs self-doubt, slips misplaced dreams into drawers. If their closets or cabinets are full, the broken emotions spill out onto the floor, where they will be stepped over or kicked aside, but never picked up. Never tossed out. Men who read or paint will often place their broken emotions across the tops of unopened books lining their shelves or smear them onto unused palettes. Soon she will get used to the presence of their broken emotions—accept or ignore them—but as she stares around the room at the stacks of boxes lining the walls, she has an inkling that may never be the case with this particular man. She unpacks box after box until a wave of exhaustion pushes her onto the bed. Sleeps until he wakes her for dinner. Pesto linguine? she asks. It is her favorite. Pot roast and mashed potatoes, he answers. Casts a disparaging glance at her nap-wrinkled dress. My favorite, he adds. When she returns the next week, she finds that the basil plant has been stripped of its leaves and its stalk is drooping. Where are its leaves? she asks. I ate them, he answers. Made pesto linguine. You ate them? Made pesto linguine? she says. Confused. The basil plant was for me, wasn’t it? It was for us, she says, but he doesn’t hear her. He is already bent over sanding the arm of a chair. Look at this beauty, he says, running a calloused hand over the wood the way he once ran it over her. She feels faint with disappointment. I am not feeling well, she says. Perhaps, I should go. And starts for the door. Perhaps, you should, he says. I can’t afford to be sick. I have work to do. She steps out the door. Don’t go, she hears the basil plant say.

She returns the next Friday and the one after that and the one after that. She unpacks box after box after box. Regardless of how many she empties, there always seems to be an endless supply of more. She goes into the bedroom and sits among his collection of broken emotions. Dating was so much different than these weekends of dreadful domesticity, she thinks. When she takes breaks from unpacking, she spins records and fills milk bread-white pages with loops of black ink. Most of all, she wonders if she will ever be a woman he puts his hammer down at 3:00 o’clock on a Friday afternoon for. Six Fridays pass in this way. Their 43 hours together become a pattern of predictability. She drives across town, he greets her, and disappears back into his work. She repairs to one of the rooms to unpack. When his day’s work is done, they eat, watch TV, argue, and have unsatisfying sex in the dark among the archeology of his life. Why do you keep going back? her sister asks one Tuesday over tea. You are settling. And for a pocket-sized man with a colossal ego. A liar. A cheat. Loneliness is a strange drug, she says. No excuse, her sister says. Then glares at her in that sisterly way she has. On the seventh Friday she disappears to a city that spoons a bay called Elliot— where the light dances silver on its surface and alabaster octopi sway in its aqueous depths. In an apartment that lies between the water and the tower of the typewriter king, she walks down an ill-lit hallway and falls into an instant ramen sort of love. Fast, satisfying, delicious. He is a man who hides his broken emotions under the ink on his skin, the paint he layers onto canvas—but she can see them rippling under the waves of color. He—unlike the man who is hunched over a piece of furniture three hundred miles to the east—enchants her. His is a heart song she heard before she arrived. Before they met. You are a gem, he says A cracked pearl, she says. He laughs. 59

I’m serious, she says. On the eighth Friday, she returns to tell the man she does not love that it’s time for her to go. As she waits, she opens the last remaining box. It is labeled Artistic Failure. She slices the tape with a box cutter, pulls open the flaps. Inside she finds scraps of papers scrawled with scorn, a palette crusted with rejection, pages torn from sketch pads filled with failure, remnants of anguish, the blunted ends of shame. At the bottom lies dented metal tubes of broken emotions. She unscrews the cap of anger and slicks it onto her lips. Catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and feels enlivened by the slash of power it adds to her ever diminishing self. She rims her eyes with lost hope and is astounded by how it illuminates her skin. The sweep of discontent across her lids accents the black of her hair, the brown of her eyes. After two deadening months with him, she is imbued with flickers and flares and flashes of feeling. She walks into the living room, stands on its edge. Says his name. We need to talk, she says. What is on your face? I opened the last box. There were tubes— she started. How dare you! Those are my broken emotions and they are for my use only! He turns back to the six o’clock news and leaves her standing there. Ignored. Now there is broken emotion she remembers from the last time she tried to make their sham of a love affair work. It lashes her. Hatred. Each time a broken emotion landed on her shoulder or tried to ease into her mouth, she brushed it away. Spat it out. Swept it out the door before he could see it. But as her broken emotions became larger, more dense, she dropped them into drawers, hung them in the backs of closets, tucked them behind the spices on the shelf. She goes back to the bedroom, stands on her tiptoes, pulls a marbled-pink suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. A layer of self-loathing tumbles down, musses her hair, makes her sneeze. Hey, I know you, she says. She opens the suitcase. It smells of dust and is perfumed with anguish‚ now as faded as the woman who she imagines left the suitcase behind. She moves around the apartment opening cabinets, cupboards, and drawers collecting all of the broken emotions she’s secreted away. She arranges and 60

rearranges her collection in the suitcase until they fit. It isn’t easy to lift, so she drags it down the hall to the front door. I am leaving now, she says. Where are you going? he asks. Barely lifting his eyes from the television. I’m going away, she says. For good, she adds. This gets his attention. The red of him starts to rise. It colors his neck. His ears. The bulb on his nose. You? Leaving me? His voice fishwife shrill. He looks pointedly at a spot near her feet.

What is that?

She follows the line drawn by his eyes. A suitcase, she says. What’s in it? he asks. Spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. You came without a suitcase. You told me you sent all of your broken emotions to Paris. I did. Ages ago. I found this one in the closet, she says. Waves her hand in the direction of the bedroom. I’ve gathered so many new ones since I returned, I can’t possibly carry them all without it. I want a woman without a suitcase of broken emotions. I want a woman who doesn’t have a suitcase at all. That is why I chose you. His arms flail. He teeters. She smiles an ersatz smile and begins to drag the suitcase out the front door. The latches pop open and the broken emotions spill out over the floor: the ennui, the disappointment, the loneliness, the humiliation. As she crouches and tries to gather and pack them away, she realizes just like the woman who left the suitcase behind, she can too. These aren’t broken emotions that she needs to carry with her into the future or even out the front door. These are broken emotions that can live here with the man who crafted them. They can stay where they belong. She steps over the suitcase and out the front door. His metallic whine follows her down the sidewalk. Come back here, he calls. Come back, the broken emotions echo. What about us? She doesn’t look back, doesn’t second guess her decision. Instead, she walks into the deepening blue of twilight. Her arms swinging. Her hands empty. Free. 61

DEEP BLUE, LOGAN STUARD

UNDERVEST poetry by Rob Hendricks Only so much time for accommodations? They mug you in the night cafe? They mug you, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t they. Only so much time until the jailer comes to walk me down the hall. Mudflap darlings scare up a taste of somnambulism. To get ogres in the hatchback, only so much time, these breezes ineffable, what else, unprofitability in its riggings, scabs, nip slips, crepey skin, glycerine tears for love to freshen the crumbs from your eyes, or jaundice to inflict its nuances along your lime-candy arms, rose muffins, completism sideways, the voluble patient, fatalism backwards, ancestry tourism.

You thought all cauldrons were black? You got the pot to call the kettle quack? You thought all cauldrons were black. And silver and gold immortal, scattering untended laurel. Only so much time for The Black Cauldron and its snack bar principle, and our hunchbacked lady of Lourdes, the miraculous turf. And of The Blue Angel, and Blue Island, and The Island of the Blue Dolphins, only so much time. This has been Rob Hendricks, down here in marinetown.

WALLPAPER GOSLING poetry by Rob Hendricks On all your devices, unfledged twee gaggle surging the leafy grounds, bag of dates near bottom of rabbits’ hutch, succession of turbulence, registering last minute for eyelash, to run together parallel in pairs, like to cross each other, waste themselves tangentially, popping periodically, torqued productionline automation, interlaced datastream caught in method. Cooing warm, subtle, socks evergreen in velour, golden hair alights in lace. Naked atop each other in an alcove looking out on the green, Timothy laying face-down on Matthew, who’s laying face-down. I’m naked, too, laying off to the side. Out on the lake, a couple rows in the gloaming, Actually, a man rows from the boat’s thwart, a woman sits in the bow facing him, hands folded in lap, baby-blue A-line dress, pearls, lipstick. His hair and beard shaggy, it begins to pour 65

down rain like you’ve never seen and she joys in it, laughing, as he keeps rowing vigorously lightning shreds the vast horizon, now they scream at each other, both angry, she stomps off and then marches back while he hauls the rowboat up onto the dock. They keep shouting then finally he pulls her to him with one hand from behind her neck, mashes his wide open mouth into her cerise lips. Singing Juice by Lizzo again, it’s a swipe in denim subsumed like a honeybear truly. Light gets out like sand under silk curtains. A safe person, meticulous, caring with sundried objects, able to provide dreamy purple in the most static or nutritive bedtime stories. “You will have to go through me first, do the heavy lifting.” By threadcount, lumens, plight uniformed, uninformed, nonsuch risible, to touch invisible. See those hanging from the eaves? I think those are lilacs. (I hate them.) A man in cement fluorescent-lit cove watches children encircling a birthday cake. A woman speaks a blessing and they all blow the candles out together. He looks on from outside. Lights go on. 66

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a holodeck. The children are gone. The woman comes out toward him but always on the other side of a convex glass partitions. They sit down together while she scopes him. The sadness in her eyes and face suggest bad news. He looks a bit forlorn, though his haircut looks great. He looks worried. Bends over and puts his head in his hands for a moment, then jumps up, kicks over his chair and walks out. The hiding emptiness and the bed uncosmetically damaging and dirty, and something mechanical outside, something in the roof or the wall, can sense my mind reaching out towards it, and it responds by wobbling out of its loop, it goes off-balance, starts to squeak and vibrate. Where is the receptor?

WITH LOVE, THE EDITORS

The COVID-19 Pandemic has changed everything about the way we interact with one another. In these times of distress and isolation we want to personally connect with our reader â&#x20AC;&#x201D; commune. Each of us have different lived experiences and have our own host of challenges. Now is not the time to ignore it, we need to come together. We hope our work offers you comfort, distraction â&#x20AC;&#x201D; whatever you need. WITH LOVE, THE EDITORS

CARLOS QUINTEROS III, POETRY EDITOR

During these times of stress and suffering, we have once again proven that we will prosper through anything. Every day I see family, friends, and friends of friends expressing themselves through different forms of art. We have been given an opportunity to get a taste of the time we deserve, even when things are back to ‘normal,’ to pursue our personal priorities. This pandemic has served as a reminder and as a catalyst for our enlightened communities that when we come out of our homes, not only will our swords be sharpened, but we will once again have each other. Please remember our submissions may not always be open, but we are always listening. This poem is dedicated to everybody I know, for we have all been strangers once before.

You are the one who has been sprinkling seeds" to grow into weeds of grief or pansies of joy onto the soil of my soul in the garden bed behind the house of my subconsciousness. You are the one who has been spying on my dreams, 70

daring me to love against logic, misjudge at first impression, and experiment with the spectrum of pleasure. How you vanish in and out of the unknown as one or as many theys, hers, and hims taunting my blind eye with the gift of sight guiding me by placing my hand over your heart. No longer do my screams into the void echo back in agony.

Precious stranger, passing stranger, steer me through the unknown.

OLI VILLESCAS, POETRY EDITOR

SANTOS ARTEGA, FICTION EDITOR At five in the morning, I silently remove myself from under the blankets and stand in front of the window, peeking out of the curtains. I watch as garbage men with gloves and face masks haul our garbage bin, then our compost bin, and finally our recycling bin. It makes a loud clanging sound from all the empty glasses of gin, tequila, and wine. Ours is always the loudest on the block. I take silent pride in it, trying to find a sort of purpose or meaning among the increasingly blurry days and nights. One of the garbage men looks my way and I get startled at being noticed, so naturally I hide. I peer back out and see the church across the street and remember how stupid I felt when I first moved into this house. I’d purposely walk across the street on my way home from work just so I could get a closer look at what the gathering was about, despite the cross above the building and the poster of Jesus on the windows. I had this weird, silly fantasy in my head that the congregation wasn’t for God or Jesus, but for recovering alcoholics. I would imagine some older man with a name like Robert coming out of the gathering to stop me, white paper cup in hand and all, to ask if I’d like to join. Then I’d say, What’s this about? And Robert would say, It’s for recovering alcoholics. I’d say, How would you know I’m an alcoholic? And he’d point at the bottle of Seagram’s gin poking out of my bag. I’d laugh and feel stupid, and we’d become great friends and I’d tell him that I live across the street and I’d have him over for dinners and he’d disclose to me that the reason he stopped drinking was because he killed his daughter while driving drunk and I would weep for him and tell him I’m sorry. The church has been vacant for the past month. I wish I could have the chance to feel that stupid again. Next door is an endodontics. I don’t know what that means, but I know it has to do with teeth because inside there’s a bunch of those dentist seats that bend all weird and those dentist lights that they adjust to see your teeth clearly and blind you at the same time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone in there, even before the lockdown began, but I do remember hearing the drill. I was walking home from work one day when I caught a whiff of that stale, plastic fluoride smell leaking from the windows, and then I heard the 74

whirring of the drill. It made my molars hurt and my mouth salivate. I try hard not to mix alcohol with soda. I’d rather damage my liver than my teeth, but sometimes ginger ale is all we’ve got at home. I often think about the people living above the endodontics, whether they own the building or if they just live above it, and whether that affects their rent. I would never live above the endodontics, not even for a San Francisco low of seven hundred a month. My teeth would surely rot. The garbage truck is down the street now, just a few blocks away. I can still hear its bangs and clangs, but only faintly. Surely there’s another recycling bin on the street with more glasses, more noise, more sorrow and uncertainty. But on this dreamy morning, I’m the victor of our block.

TREVAUNGH MALIK ROACH-CARTER, FICTION EDITOR "Art is a wound turned into light." When times are hard, and we are in distress, it's only natural that we turn to art. Either making or viewing. It may not fix things, but it can make us feel better, less alone, change our outlook, or give us a deeper understanding. I have always found street art to be incredibly captivating.

Stay Safe, @ponywave

Butterfly (2009) @pobel.no

@subset

Fear and Love, @the.rebel.bear 78

Frontline Heros, @mauriciopaints

HANNAH KEITH, MANAGING EDITOR Even when so many things seem to be going right, sometimes I still wake up feeling sick. And the only reason I have for feeling sick is that I’m awake. 2020 hasn’t been what anybody thought it would be. Some expected a fresh start, others have been saying the world is going to end since 2012. I didn’t have a goddamn clue what to expect going into the year. But I definitely didn’t expect worldwide disease with millions of deaths and months of quarantine. Things happen so suddenly sometimes that it feels like whiplash. You may think you know how something will be, but who knows. Fifteen years ago I thought I would be an artist. Ten years ago I thought I would be a fashion designer in Paris. Five years ago I thought I would be a journalist in New York. Four years ago I thought I would be dead. Three years ago I thought I would graduate college in San Francisco with a journalism degree. Two years ago I thought I would never be able to get my head straight. One year, ago I thought I would be graduating with at least some type of degree. But it’s okay that I’m not who I thought I would be. I write this while sitting on the couch in my apartment that I share with three other girls in San Francisco. I’m a college dropout, the bassist in a not-so-successful band, and currently identify as a slug more than as a human person. I start too many projects and never finish them, even with months of being forced to stay at home with nothing else to do, I have a laundry list of vices, and I constantly daydream about what I would be doing in that moment if I chosen some other path. But it’s okay.

It’s okay because some days I will still wake up feeling sick with no reason other than being awake, and I will still be me. I will curse myself for drinking so much so often, but I will still have accomplished what I have accomplished. We will find strength through this quarantine together from a distance, and we will survive. The world may not be how we thought it would be, but it’s okay. None of us are. It’s okay that you’re not who you thought you would be. You just keep on being.

LONDON PINKNEY, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF With social distancing comes touch starvation. Here is a playlist of tunes that make me feel held, comforted. Embraced. More than ever I need to be reminded that I have a body, and that body deserves more than to deal with seemingly-never-ending stress. I hope this playlist can be a source of comfort for you. And if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re lucky enough to be hunkered down with others, may this playlist be the soundtrack to your next dance party. You have the time, might as well dance. Much love.

CONTRIBUTORS ROB HENDRICKS'S poems can be found in Seen and Heard, Transfer Magazine, and The Phoenix. He's the author of OPPRESSORFACE (Fourteen Hills, 2019), and the editor of OmniVerse, an online journal of Omnidawn Publishing. QAYYUM JOHNSON has recently transitioned from managing an organic vegetable production farm at a Zen Buddhist temple in California, where he lived for 12 years. He now makes art from materials while emptying the barn at the home of the Art Monastery (a radical non-profit arts collective) along the banks of the Long River in unsurrendered Abenaki ancestral homelands.

REGINALD M. CALHOUN was born and raised in Richmond, CA. He earned a B.A in Mass Media Arts, with a concentration in Public Relations, from Clark Atlanta University in 2016. He has served as Managing Online Editor and Editorial Assistant, having written for the Burton Wire and LiveLifeLite.com. Reginald currently works as a Media Buyer & Digital Strategist in San Francisco, CA. ANA CIELITO FUENTES is a writer and artist residing in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her writing and artwork has been published in Navigating The Maze and Transfer. She is currently working on a collaborative Graphic Novel. STEVEN KENNEDY is a MFA candidate at San Francisco State University.Â JENNIFER ELIZABETH has been writing since she was seven, but since then her focus has broadened past Maximum Ride fan-fiction. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been on the staff for a few small magazines, and works now as a freelance editor, devoting the majority of her free-time to embroidery and discussions of the cultural impact of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

ADAM ZANE COOK received a BA in Creative Writing from UC Riverside, and an MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. His work has been featured in Foglifter, Inlandia, and Mosaic. He co-hosts the film review podcast From Oak 2 Oak. He currently lives with his husband in historic Thousand Oaks, CA HAILEY WARNER is a reader, so inevitably, she is a writer. She attends San Francisco State University for English and Creative Writing. She believes the human connection is the only thing in the world that really matters and that radical softness is a virtue. She likes to dress, she likes to drink, and she likes to meet folks with good stories. If you have any good stories hit her up @bitchpungent on Instagram.

CARLA CRUJIDO is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts. She is currently at work on a short story collection set in 1930s Spokane.. LANE BOWMAN is an up and coming author who lives in Escondido, California and works with the Youth at his local church. He has held various jobs including but not limited to: working at a lumber yard, a local grocery store, driving for Door Dash, and assisting an auctioneer. He is mostly indistinguishable from the rest of the authors out there who are just trying to make it. He has a high school diploma and no degrees whatsoever. He has won nothing, published nothing, and been printed no-where else, so far. He is an avid reader who loves a good character-driven story and it shows in his writing. SHERI PARK (she/her/hers) is a visual artist that also writes poetry and sometimes dances. She was born in the Bay Area and is currently pursuing an MFA in visual art at SFSU. She enjoys grapefruit, running after her dog at the beach, and making spam musubi with her spouse, Peter. Instagram: sheriparksheripark / Website:Â sheripark.com LOGAN STUARD is a 21 year old abstract artist from the San Diego area that enjoys art in all of its forms. He finds inspiration while creating by listening to musical artistsÂ like Post

Malone and was inspired to start creating by the legendary abstract expressionist, Mark Rothko. Logan's greatest escape from life's anxieties is his art. He creates in the hopes of better understanding the invisible and intangible thoughts inside his head. He is only finished with a piece when he can honestly look at it and say that the image he illustrated is entirely representative of the feelings he felt. Most often, Logan's art chronicles heartbreak or sadness of some sort, but this does not mean he is a sad person. These two emotions are some of the strongest that can be experienced and he uses his art as a way to conquer these otherwise overwhelming feelings. Creating art is one of Logan's greatest joys in life, because it allows expression on levels that spoken and written words cannot replicate. Logan can be found on Instagram at his artist page @redeye_notebook and at his personal page @loganstuard. VIVIENNE ALCANTAR is a 22 year old graphic artist from the Bay Area. She begin making graphic art using design software earlier last year because she needed a quieter creative outlet. In other words, making music at midnight didn't sit too well with her landlord. Regardless, she's discovered a newfound passion for visual arts and has continued creating new work since then, and leaves making music for the daytime. Vivienne creates art that is a reflection of her feelings which she hopes people can relate to. Her pieces have reflected her passion for women's empowerment, setting emotional boundaries, the ups and downs of relationships, and more. She hopes to continue creating art as an expression of herself to share with others. Vivienne's multimedia art page can be found on instagram at @v4riations and her personal account can be found at @very.viv. R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON is a native of the Eastbay. An award winning poet, playwright, spoken word artist, actor, educator and father of Wordsi2i.org. He is described as a vivid

story-teller creatively framing and displaying some of the best and worst details of relationships, religion and sexuality. Â