The Subterranean Literary Journal #1 by Tom Brierley

THE SUBTERRANEAN LITERARY JOURNAL #1_The human condition

A GIFT FROM MR CE DICKINGSON

REPATRIATION

ABSTRACT COMPOSITION #2

_Gregory Johnston

_Berit Ellingsen

_Bob Tomolillo

NINETY TWO & COUNTING

THE STRANGER

HEAVEN TOO

_Hal Tartar

_Clayton Rivera

_J.A. Pak

TRANSPLANTED

CONVERSATION WITH THE SELF

A BURNING BATH TO CLAM THE NERVES

_mike Maher.

_T. E Brierley & Liam J. Kelly

SAN BARTOLO

THE UNMATCHE COUPLE

WHY CLIMATE CHANGE CAN WAIT

_Emma Alvarez Gibson

_Dr. H. V. Kerai

_Eugene Yiga

EDITOR Liam J. Kelly ART DIRECTOR T. E. Brierley PHOTOGRAPHY Liam J. Kelly Bethany Armstrong TYPOGRAPHY T. E Brierley

CONTRIBUTORS Gregory Johnston Berit Ellingsen Bob Tomolillo Hal Tartar Clayton Rivera J.A. Pak mike Maher. T.E Brierley Liam J. Kelly Emma Alvarez Gibson Dr H.V. Kerai Eugine Yiga

ILLUSTRATION Abby Butcher Bethany Armstrong SPECIAL THANKS Bethany Armstrong

THE SUBTERRANEAN LITERARY JOURNAL #1_The human condition

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Welcome to the first issue of this independently published literary journal. In December of 2010 we decided that we wanted to start something meaningful, with the potential to help out other writers who were struggling to get published in this modern world of celebrity hard backs containing more pictures than words, glossy magazines exposing more skin than four titty bars in a row and over-zealous, sensationalised newspapers with nothing real left to say unless its to put fear into a nation. Because we still believe in the written word we have spent months editing, designing and preparing content, which has culminated in this physical journal, we have striven to produce something that is not confined to the passing of time and the trends that fleeting moments can create, this journal will hopefully remain interesting and relevant for years to come. Our inaugural issue, entitled â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;The human conditionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, explores the experiences that blur past us on a daily basis, what we see, smell, taste, and we have selected pieces which we feel show genuine insight into ourselves as humans, this is the essence of life, and to reflect upon this can be a beautiful thing. Each story is different, its in our nature, the segment of our lives that one chooses to reflect upon is a defining aspect of the self. From itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s humble beginning as a drunken scheme, we have built a collection of stories and poetry from writers all over the world and have matched these with illustrations from many artists to create something we are passionate about, as for us, reading holds the potential to inspire, illuminate emotions and thoughts, without been a vacuous drain on a society already circling the plug hole. So thank you reader for acquiring a copy of the subterranean literary journal. We hope you enjoy it, as making it has been one hell of an experience. Liam J. Kelly & T. E. Brierley

A GIFT FROM MR C E DICKINSON _Gregory Johnston

A GIFT FROM

_Gregory Johnston It was around 11am, I was probably hung over and a woman with an awful speech impediment spat something incomprehensible in my direction. “Sorry?” I said wondering how someone so elocutionary challenged ended up in a consumer-facing job. “So, what is your name and address?” she repeated and this time I picked up the gist of it. “Steve Brenton” I replied. The conversation continued with her asking pointless questions whilst thumbing the answers into a keyboard in front of her. What else did she want to know? She was meant to be finding me a job not taking a psychological profile. Did she want to know that I fell in love with at least one woman every time I took a train ride, that I had played trumped since I was 8 years old but have grown to hate the sound it makes, that I’m made out of glass and cant take criticism but I get awkward and fumble at even the faintest whiff of a compliment, that I practise everything I say in my head before I spit out the words it but they still get stuck in my teeth, that I’m timid when sober and cantankerous when drunk - No she just needed to know what I had been doing for the last month, she enjoyed drawing out the process and keeping me in this awful place with her as long as possible, the longer each appointment took the busier she appeared and the busier you appear the more important your job is. “How long have you been out of work?” She continued with the questions. “About two weeks” I replied. “What was the reason for the termination of your previous employment?” she said clearly reading the question word for word from the screen in front of her. “I was made redundant, the recession taking its toll on business.” I lied, I had no idea about this ‘recession’, what it meant or how it could effect me but I had seen it pasted all over the front of newspapers and thought it was a relevant thing to say. To be honest I was fired due to trying and failing to seduce a female co-worker and that was also the one of the defining reasons for my first wife leaving me, the losing the job not the pathetic attempt at an affair, she never knew about that. If I had only I had succeeded at seducing her then I would still have a job, as well as two women, but there was no way I could have pulled that off. Now I had nothing. I left the job centre with a pile of papers, each one a pointless menial job they wanted me to apply for. I had planned to meet a friend for a drink on his lunch break but first I had to fight my way through the manic rush that consumed the streets at this time of the day, common courtesy went out of the window in order to save every minute of their precious lunch break. We talked over a couple of watered down pints in a generic bar, the same faux art hung on the walls in every establishment, our conversation was just as unremarkable as we spoke about the things that didn’t matter. Matt had been a close friend for some time but when ever I found myself in conversation, although I was generally happy to see him, ultimately I felt bored with the situation, our friendship rooted in childhood had been whittled down to nothing more than a faded attempt at nostalgia driving us forward, inspiring us to force out even more tedious questions and trite answers, as we searched our absurd words for a fragment of a memory or something. After a several combinations of words something that interested me was contrived.

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“How is your job going?” I enquired as I worked my way down the list of suitable questions. “Oh not bad, I’m working long hours at the moment and it really takes it out of me. I cant seem to help it though, I feel that I’m only happy when I’m working, I mean right now, sitting with one of my oldest friends enjoying I drink I have this awful feeling of guilt hanging over me, like right now I should be working.” He replied. “Well you probably deserve the break, if you’ve been working hard” I said trying to make him stay for another pint, I didn’t feel like drinking alone today. “It’s not like that, I need to work to be happy, I need to constantly create something, produce something I’m proud of and when I’m not working towards that I just feel miserable.” He confessed. I knew what he meant, often when I worked at the office I watched the job consume my co-workers, it was always the people driven to succeed, the people that wanted to move up so badly they devoted everything to that goal and even if they succeeded and had their perfect ‘career’, once the buzz of the drive wore off they felt empty and hungry for the next challenge. I felt bad for Matt but there was nothing that I could say or do that would matter. The conversation quickly moved on and we spoke and drank and watched the clock as his hour lunch break slipped away and the afternoon approached, I remembered that I didn’t really have anything else to do for the rest of the day, the job applications could wait. We left the bar and lit a cigarette, I allowed myself a wry smile as I said goodbye to Matt and walked in the opposite direction down the street. I had the rest of the afternoon to kill and I was tired of walking so I found myself sat on a park bench staring forward at the expanse of green and the cool spring afternoon breeze gust around my feet, it made little circles picking up the dust and the grime and the cigarette buts that were stranded on this concrete island picking up pace as they blew past my feet only to be dropped again as the flippant wind moved on. Two lovers walked past pushing a pram containing, by their tone of voice when addressing it, either a baby or a small dog. Their attention was firmly focussed on the bundle in front of them, all “coochy-coochy-coo” as they rolled through the park, not once did their eyes meet, their love that once was a foundation of their relationship had been put to the side, now they were just distracted, their purpose in life was no longer one of hedonism, the days they spent drinking and laughing were gone, instead they worked in shifts, making sure the life they contrived wasn’t hungry, didn’t need changing, wasn’t tired, and they did it all for nothing in return, they created life but their relationship, just like their baby, if ignored would wither and die. However close people may look I guess everyone is pretty much alone. After a sitting on the bench for a couple of hours I walked down the tree-lined path through the park towards the centre, there was a collection of elderly men gathered around in a circle, walked up to the group close enough to see what was going on but I was careful, I didn’t want to attract any attention to myself, I stood about 4 meters from them as they stood in silence, all focused on their activities until there was a thud, followed cheers and applause. “It’s called ‘Boules’ son, do you want to play?” A voice appeared from behind my right ear. “I’m sorry?” I said as I turned to be greeted by a short man with a gaunt face. “The game… It’s called boules, me and a group of the veterans come down here every Tuesday to play” He

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said, his voice started to shake with excitement. “That sounds great” I said, but only half lying, this activity has captured my curiosity and I had nothing better to do. “Oh yes it is, I’ve been coming ever since my wife died, we used to go to pottery lessons on Tuesdays so I’m fairly new to the group.” “Yes it does look like fun” I said repeating myself purely due to a lack of an alternative. “Well, do you want to play then? You can use my set.” “Ok” I said, not entirely sure what I had signed up for. I spent the afternoon fruitfully launching a metal ball into a smaller plastic one; the group accepted me as one of them as they cheered me on every time it was

streets had made a dramatic transformation since the frantic lunch time rush, the impatient professionals were replaced by over excited teens and midtwenties desperately grasping onto what was left of their youths, they were manic and inebriated as the poured from one bar into the next. I slipped through the crowds unnoticed, stepping between groups like I didn’t exist in their perfect night out. I searched the bars on the main street, peering through the windows, clouded with condensation, looking for a bar with a respectable sized queue, a seat would be nice but not a necessity. I eventually found one that met my requirements so I went inside without checking the name on the sign. I sat down and ordered a drink. I stayed there for an hour or so before it became impossible to get the waitresses attention, I needed a drink so I headed to the bar. “Are you going to buy me a drink then, I know you’ve been looking at me all night” She said and she wasn’t wrong, I had been staring in her general direction but I didn’t think it would have a positive effect. I pulled out my wallet from my pocked and looked inside. £1.62. “No, do you want to buy me one?” I responded. “Oh you’re so funny!” She said laughing hard and grasping on to me. I didn’t get it. She bought the round of drinks and we moved on to a table, we drank and spoke for a while but the conversation was hard to follow. The music was loud and we were intoxicated so each question was repeated several times before any understanding was created. She pulled herself closer, placed her hand on my thigh and whispered that she liked me in my ear, I turned my head to be greeted by her soft lips in contact with mine, she kissed me hard but I knew it was desperation rather than passion. I excused myself and went to the toilet. I splashed water on my face and raised my head to look in the mirror and smiled, I was Steve Brenton and I fall in love with at least one woman every time I take a train ride and I’ve played the trumpet since I was 8 years old, apart from that I had nothing, I had nothing to worry about, nothing to keep me awake during the night, no Sunday evening blues, no sickly anticipation over the next days meeting, no impending awkward phones calls cancelling plans, I was completely alone and completely free, my word had developed into a place where it revolved around my self, I could do what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it, I was completely absorbed by this feeling and the comfort it gave me, for the first time I truly had nothing; and I had nothing to lose. I walked out of the bathroom and out of the bar leaving my drink, the job application forms and the woman I had just met sitting at the table.

Gregory Johnston is a English writer living in Paris, France. He is currently working on two novels and has several short stories due for publications this year.

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A GIFT FROM MR C E DICKINSON _Gregory Johnston

my turn. As the sun started to decent behind the horizon the group sporadically dissolved, each man talking his turn to shake everyone’s hand before walking off down the tree lined path to where ever they came from. The old man and I were the last to leave as we packed the metal balls into their leather cases. “Did you know these trees were a gift from Mr Dickinson in 1938?” He said as we started to walk down the path. “Oh no I didn’t “ I said, slightly feigning interest in the conversation. We said our good byes and he firmly shook my hand, it was one of the best afternoons I had spent in years but I didn’t think it was acceptable to tell him. I walked back through the town as I headed home, the

REPATR _Berit El 1. He sat in his friend’s rusty car. They were driving up a ramp, chatting. The car in front of them stopped. His friend didn’t see it, he was too busy talking. They were going to crash. But instead of running away from the fear he went towards it. “Finally I will see a crash first hand,” he thought. “Are they as bad as people say?” The sky was wide and blue. It filled the ramp, the car, his friend and himself. The openness swallowed him whole. His friend braked hard. The seatbelt bit into his shoulder, hair flew around his face. They stopped right behind the bumper of the vehicle in front. No one said anything. Then his friend started laughing. “That was close,” his friend said. “Yeah,” he said and laughed too. That night he fell asleep inside the sky of the near accident. In the morning he woke in the same place. 2. He was a married-with-two-kids blue collar yob from Northern England. He played the online game in a small den in the garden while his wife and kids slept. In the virtual world he was a muscular elf in heavy armour. Saturday nights he was drunk and loud, eager to fight the game’s big bosses with his friends and shout over the microphone in voice chat. Afterwards he celebrated by drinking more and talking about his feelings. “Why do you play an elf?” I said. He was inelegant and graceless, not only on Saturday nights. I wanted him to see himself. “I like elves,” he said. “They’re

the best warriors, brave and loyal.” Getting drunk at weekends and talking about his feelings to semistrangers online didn’t match the literary description of elves. But I couldn’t hurt him after all, so I said nothing. I became involved in a childish but interesting power struggle in the group. When I lost I left in anger. Afterwards he listened to my complaints. Weeks passed. I didn’t see him. I joined one of the game’s private chat channels to have someone to talk with while I played. “What’s she doing here?” someone from the old group said. “I’m so glad to see you!” the blue collar elf said. “It’s good to be here,” I said. It was Saturday night. He was drunk and wanted to talk about his feelings, just like a real elf. I listened. 3. He woke carrying the body of a cat instead of a man. Next to him his cat dreamed it had a human body. His hands were gray and round and soft. When he saw that he cried. He propped a ground floor window open with a shoe and fled outside. He ran to his brother’s apartment. His brother was asleep, calling his name. He didn’t know what to think. They had always been very close. His first thought had been to run to his brother. He lay down by the sleeping man. He felt a lot of love, but didn’t know if it was a cat’s love or a brother’s love. He cried some more. When his brother woke he petted him. Then he fed him meat and water while he made morning coffee. They watched TV together and talked. When it got dark, his brother drove him home.

REPATRIATION _Berit Ellingsen

RIATION llingsen 4. He was obsessed with a building below the honeycomb towers. It looked best in white and rosy dusks in the summer. When the conditions were right, he went to look at it. Three of the windows on fifth floor were open, slanting at a narrow angle, the glass darker than in the closed frames. He loved the sight of the building. His heart beat slowly, like it did in sleep. The structure was a six-story rectangle with an angled metal roof. Its ribbed steel walls were rusty and stained. Each floor held a row of windows, cloudy glass in thin frames, mirroring the sky. The wooden door had bevelled panels, retrofitted from a home in the suburbs. The building housed a company that repaired, cleaned and repainted plastic yachts and boats. In the overgrown courtyard stood the stripped shells of several small craft. The building shone inside him. He had taken a lot of pictures of it, but no one described what he saw. He imagined standing behind the glass up there, in the lunch room; inside the smell of old coffee and homemade sandwiches, the kitchen sink matte with grease, bread crumbs on the formica table in the corner. Orange coveralls smeared with white paint and sealant hung in the nook behind the door. Across the street a small figure stood gazing up at the building. He breathed and watched. The warm wind took hold of the curtains in one of the open windows, pulled the translucent fabric out of the gap and billowed slowly through the curtains inside, like a wave over smooth stones. The sight was so beautiful he almost fainted. He watched the curtains move in the breeze for a long time.

One of the copy writers at work, Per, was a published poet. He lived in the residential area to the northeast of the towers but knew the region well. “I really like this building,” he said and showed Per a photo of the structure on his phone. “The picture doesn’t do it justice…” “Last year I wrote an article for the newspaper suggesting buildings for preservation,” Per said. “The plastic workshop wasn’t old enough to go on the list, but I know the place.” He was so happy someone else had noticed the object of his obsession he couldn’t speak. “You know that building you like so much,” Per said at lunch a few days later. “My father-in-law is an architect and I asked for his favourite building.” “Mm.” “According to him your building is the most beautiful and architecturally interesting in the city,” Per grinned. He laughed, feeling completely vindicated.

Berit Ellingsen is a Norwegian literary and speculative fiction author. She is also a science journalist and has worked as a game, film and music reviewer. Her fiction has appeared in The Harrow, Jack Move Magazine, SPLIT Quarterly, OverclockZine and in the SF anthology Growing Dread: Biopunk Visions. Berit admits to pine for the fjords when abroad. Her debut novel, The Empty City, inspired by the wphilosophy of nonduality, is avilable on http://emptycitynovel.com/

BOB TOMOLILLO

After purchasing a coffee and sweet roll ,I grab a seat in a soft recliner next to the window and immerse myself in the latest read.The morning light, streaming in the front window, illuminates the text perfectly, while the clamoring of coffee goers creates an atmosphere of detachment that in some way sharpens my focus. If I’m lucky , I can enjoy an hour of reading ,free of distraction ,an exercise that helps coax ideas for my writing . As I watch the constant flow of people pass, I realize that as they gaze out into the open room each day ,they see me in the same chair reading ,as if I never left the place, and in a moment of stark awareness I fear that I have become one of the odd “coffee shop characters” that I have disparaged in the past . Last Saturday ,I sat in my usual place reading Kandinsky’s..... “Concerning The Spiritual in Art” .On the cover of the book was an illustration of Kandinsky’s painting , “Abstract Composition#2” .It was quiet in there that day ; no bustling throngs with their doubled lined coffee cups and emblem affixed pastry bags, rushing back to their cars to resume their place in the packed rows of highway that led to the city .As I drifted into a morning reverie ,pondering Kandinsky’s theories on color and form ,I caught a glimpse of a slim, sharply dressed ,blonde- haired woman entering the store.A few minutes later , I saw her again as she passed by my chair. “Ah, Kandinsky” ,I heard someone say. I turned around and locked eyes with the woman that I spied earlier as she took a seat in a chair nearby . “I saw a show of Kandinsky’s work when I was in Munich”,she replied ,as she adjusted items on a small table. Impressed by her free wheeling delivery, I responded , “yeah ,Munich was pivotal for his abstract development”. And now ,the inspirational part .

She must be an artist herself ,I thought ,or at least an art lover ,but her enthusiasm made me nervous. Clutching my empty coffee cup, I began to think about my wife and how happy we were; how life had blessed us with good fortune ,and how we worked hard to support each other in good and bad times .But instead of returning to the counter for my refill, I turned back to the woman who seemed eager to resume the conversation. I sat and talked with the attractive woman well beyond what would have been considered proper in my case .It was unusual for me to allow the conversation to advance beyond the regular coffee talk chatter, but something clicked between us that day. Before I knew it we were exchanging phone numbers and made a promise to meet at a small cafe on the other side of town .At the cafe we began talking about art ,but as I sat next to her in the quiet ,dimly lit atmosphere, her knees gently brushing mine, a wave of excitement swept over me that I couldn’t control .The” reason” that guided and controlled my successful life had suddenly become an “ineffective tool” .The “meeting” soon developed into an “affair” and as it turned out ,she was also married . I wish it could have been different ; that it was just a one night fling, but the “change” she effected in me could not be disguised. The next few months turned out to be a “ living hell” , after my wife learned of the affair and locked me out of the house that I had built, stick by stick .My friends started to avoid me ; my kids stopped talking to me, and worst of all was the toll it took on my health and finances, all because of Kandinsky , and a stupid, emotional lapse. And the story continues on for a few more pages. I even work out a surprise ending where the affair never actually happens ,but is imagined in great detail after the innocent Kandinsky comment .After I finished writing the tale it was published in an anthology of short stories . A few months later, I was at the coffee shop reading from the anthology when the very same woman came in and sat down in the chair beside me . This time, she passed by without saying a word, and I burned with a desire to tell her that the comment she made to me months before about Kandinsky had become the inspiration for a story, included in a book , I now held in my hand . Again, the dreams of a broken life flooded my thoughts ,but I was honest ,and because I have control of my life, I went on to tell her about the story that she inspired ,and we talked and talked.

Bob began his career during the burgeoning of the print workshops in the late sixties.He worked at Impressions Workshop in Boston ,R.E.Townsend Inc. and at The Printshop in Amsterdam, Netherlands . He holds a B.F.A. from Umass, Amherst, and an M.F.A. from Syracuse University. A faculty member at the F.A.W.C. in Provincetown,Mass. and member of the Boston Printmakers since 1983 his lithographs are included in collections here and abroad. In 2009 he was the co-winner of the first Dayton Arts Museum International Peace Prize for his digital “Think Peace” poster design. He has written several articles on printmaking with a feature in the Print Alliance Journal “Art and Politics” and recently contributed his writing to Literal Minded, Orange Alert ,Shine Journal ,Askew Reviews, Glossolalia ,Blinking Cursor, Bap Q, Lunarosity, Icelandic Review, Words Undone , Writers Billboard , First Writers Magazine, Milspeak Holiday Post 2010, and South Jersey Underground.

My reply seemed to energize the woman , a slight smile brightening her face as she leaned in my direction . THE SUBTERRANEAN LITERARY JOURNAL

ABSTRACT COMPOSITION #2 _Bob Tomoillo

I have control of my life; at least I believe that I have control of my life; at least I believe that to be true .At an early age I was determined to be independent , that I needed to “do my own thing” . In fact ,I chose that sixties phrase to be the quote under my photo in the high school yearbook .At the time, it conjured up rebellious images of free love and pot smoking parties, but as I look back at the decisions I have made ,it seems that I have lived according to that phrase . Each morning, before I begin work , I start out in “casual mode”, arriving at the coffee shop at the beginning of rush hour when the line of patrons stretch all the way to the front door . I am pained by the obligation of the young servers to remember the size and blend of coffee ,and choice of pastry for each of the usual customers, a technique that often backfires when you suddenly have a craving for the applen’nut oat bran muffin and your regular choice is there waiting for you at the register.Because I think of myself as a modern, forward thinking man, and In an effort to diminish my” carbon footprint”, by undoing a wasteful corporate procedure, I ask the young attendant to forego the elaborate packaging of the pastry ,that involves wrapping it in a thin wax paper, before placing it into a recycled paper bag ,then topping it off with a distinctive label that fuses while embellishing the fold.

_Hal T 1. When I was a young lad I was always looking for ways to make a little money. (Remember I was raised during the Great Depression.) I sold newspapers on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. I sold ice cream bars at the Globe Burlesque Theater during intermissions. I was a soda jerk in a drug store. I worked in the locker/shower room at Bershad’s Baths for tips. Mrs. Bershad was nice. Whatever amount of tips I made she would make up the difference to a dollar. I delivered orders on my bicycle on Saturdays at Gordons Meat Market for a dollar a day. As a child I took piano lessons for a few years, and later on studied the violin. I played first violin in the Jr. High Orchestra. I took violin lessons from Bill Madden, who led a string trio at the Traymore Hotel. Later I took piano lessons from Mr. Speciale, who was the music director for the St Michael’s Opera Company. Mother and I sang in two operas there. La Traviata and Il Trovatore. At Atlantic City High School I saw the gal whom I admired from a distance and fell in love with before I even met her. I just knew that I wanted to spend my life with her. All the kids used to go to the hockey games at the Convention Hall on Friday and Saturday nights, and were allowed to skate after the games. My buddy Maurice introduced me to the girl of my dreams, Jacqueline Carmody. We immediately started to go steady. I couldn’t believe it. That was during my ju-

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nior year. We graduated together in 1938. My buddies were Stu Schuyler and Maurice Maymon. We got into a lot of mischief together, like setting off the fire alarm on the corner of the school grounds. We didn’t get caught. The principal called a special meeting in the school auditorium in order to find out who the villains were, but they never did. To regress just slightly, in my freshman year, for a while I went with Evelyn Deverell. I broke that off when she said she wanted to marry me. Well, my buddy Stu liked her, and thought I was crazy when I broke off with her. They started to go together, and they got married right after graduation. My Jacquie, as she liked to be called, and I also got married right after graduation, on August 12th Stu and Evvy and Jacquie and I often double-dated for years.

2. In order to avoid being drafted, I volunteered with the Enlisted Reserves of the Army Signal Corps in October of 1942. I had to study electronics and trigonometry and got to remain home until August 12th of 1943, when I was called to active duty on our 5th wedding anniversary. I was ordered to report to Fort Monmouth, NJ. I did, and was then sent to Camp Crowder, Mo. for basic training.

“Two little boys had two little t Gaily they played each summer One little chap had a mishap, Wept for his toy, then cried with ‘Did you think I would leave yo my horse Climb up here, Joe, we’ll soon b with two. When we grow up w horses will not be toys, and it when we were t

Vignette #1. A little aside here. While in basic training, we were told no passes, and allowed no visitors. I told Jacquie that,, but being somewhat headstrong, she hopped a train, and came out to Camp Crowder. When she arrived, I told the company commander, who became a little angry, but relented and gave me a 3-day pass. We rented a room in town, which was Neosho, MO. While there, I applied for Air Cadets and was denied. I then applied for teletype operator and was denied. I later found out why. It was because I was color-blind. That made me realize why, when I worked at Music Box installing remote

NINETY-TWO & COUNTING _Hal Tartar

Tartar

toys, each was a wooden horse. r’s day, warriors both of course. , he broke off his horse’s head. joy as his young comrade said: ou crying, when there’s room on for you?’ be flying, he can go just as fast we’ll both be soldiers, and our may be that you’ll remember two little boys.” coin boxes with 30-wire color-coded cables, I always got two wires reversed. They were blue with a green tracer, and green with a blue tracer. So I applied for weapons training and was sent to Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland. There I was trained in all small arms up to and including the air-cooled 50 caliber machine gun. I was a PFC when I went there, and was promoted to T-5 upon graduation. (Technician 5th grade, with the rank of corporal. ) I was then sent back to Fort Monmouth. Before being assigned to a battalion, I was required to give weapons instructions to groups of officers. After a while I was assigned to C Company, 3188th Signal Service Bat-

talion as Armorer. When I reported for duty the Company Commander, Capt. Ferrara, he said that since they had no weapons, he told me to report to Supply Sgt. Braconara. Before I could move, he asked me if I took shorthand. I replied “Yes Sir”. (I’d had 2 years of Isaac Pitman shorthand in High School). He said, “Never mind Sgt Braconara, you’ll stay here in my office and work with Corporal Schmidt”. He was the company clerk. The Captain never did dictate a letter. I became the assistant driver on the Captain’s jeep with Elmer Lewis, his driver with whom I became good friends. Elmer was from Trenton, NJ, which he called “The Garden Spot of the World”. Being stationed in Fort Monmouth was good, because I was able to get home every weekend, being only about 2 hours away. I wood hitchhike, and get home fairly quickly. Anybody would stop and pick up a soldier in those days. We were bivouacked out in the woods when the hurricane of 1944 struck. Trees were falling all around us, but luckily no one was hit. I hitch-hiked home that weekend and was picked up by a Coast Guardsman. He said he had gotten no sleep for over 30 hours doing rescue work up and down the coast. When I arrived home I got a big surprise. Our house was located two long blocks from the boardwalk. Well, there right in front of our house right

in the middle of the street was a section of boardwalk about 40 feet long, complete with railing, benches, and lamp post. A large tree that had been in front of our house was lying parallel to the section of boardwalk.

I was assigned to a company that was training recruits in Specialist Signal Corps work, i.e. poleclimbing, telephone wiring, etc. In the spring of 1944 we were assigned our permanent troops with whom we would ultimately go overseas. In September, we were alerted that we would be shipping out in October. We were given 10 days leave plus travel time. Living so close to base, my travel time would be very meager, so I told them I would spend my leave in California with my relatives, Aunt Emma and Uncle Joe Hoffman. That gave me an additional 2 weeks. I called Aunt Emma and asked her to say I was there if anyone inquired. She said she would. It worked out great. Nobody checked. That may have been cheating a little but it was worth it to spend an extra two weeks with my wife and baby girl.

3. In October, after a tearful farewell to my wife and baby, our outfit packed our gear and we were on our way through Hoboken, NJ. and past the Statue of Liberty. We’d boarded our ship, the S.S. Argentina, a

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luxury liner converted to a troop ship. As part of the cadre I was assigned to a stateroom on the Promenade Deck. Most of our troops were below decks with bunks piled 3 high. We were in a convoy, and it took about 10 days to make the crossing. Enroute, we passed the Queen Mary heading west. She made the crossing in 5 days with no convoy. We disembarked at Blackpool, England, and with our trucks, headed to Manchester. We were there about a month before we got on the road , heading south toward Southampton. (Remember, I was riding in the Captain’s jeep). Enroute, our truck convoy stopped. We didn’t know why. Then an officer came walking by looking for anyone who had a license to drive a 2 1/2 ton 4 x 4 truck. It seems that they discovered that a driver on a large truck didn’t have the proper license. I had one but didn’t want to say so. But my good buddy Elmer volunteered me with “Tartar has one”. I wanted to bop him one. And so I became the driver of a 2 1/2 ton truck. The convoy restarted. It was getting late in the afternoon. We’d been on the road all day. As it began to get dark, we turned our headlights on. We drove all evening. Some time after midnight, my headlights stopped working. We stopped, and a mechanic tried to fix it to no avail. They placed an open jeep in front of me with someone holding a flash light for me to follow, and the convoy again restarted. That was fine until the jeep went around a curve, and the flashlight disappeared, I couldn’t see where the curve was. I must have guessed pretty good, because after many curves like that, we arrived at Southampton around 6 AM. The date was December 24, 1944. We were told we would have a delicious Christmas dinner the next day. WRONG! 10 o’clock that evening we were alerted to board ship to cross the English Channel. We boarded a freighter with our trucks and only the drivers. Our troops would be on another ship.

4. We were supposed to dock at Le Havre, but the docks were so crowded that they sent us down the Seine River. That was very slow going as the pilot had had an accident not long before. As we moved slowly down the river, one bright moonlit night, a plane was circling overhead. We were like sitting ducks. Everyone held their breath, but the plane flew off. We were on that freighter on Christmas Day, and my birthday, the 28th. We were on it for 5 days eating C-rations, landing at Rouen on December 30th. We pitched our pup tents on the snowy ground except for some straw I scrounged up plus a bottle of wine from a French farmer. The next day, New Year’s Eve., we were told that our troops had been on the Empire Javelin, and were torpedoed in the English channel, and were billeted in an old castle in St. Lo, near Le Havre. They hadn’t been able to rescue any of their gear or personal belongings. They had only the clothes on their backs. They had been rescued by a French corvette, who wouldn’t take any of their gear. They would toss it in the water if they brought it up because of the extra weight. Capt. Ferrara was with the troops. Lt Tiede, our Executive Officer, was with us. Lt. Tiede wanted to drive up to where the troops were, so he, Elmer and I got on the road heading north, about 200 miles away. We arrived there in the evening of New Year’s Eve. The guys looked so forlorn and bedraggled that I felt so sorry for them, that I gave them my bottle of wine.

I was born shortly after the Armistice of November 11, 1918, which ended World War I. it was during the deadly Flu epidemic. I was around at the start of Prohibition in 1919, the stock market crash of 1929, the start of the Great Depression, the end of Prohibition in 1933, the beginning of radio broadcasting, silent movies, talkies, the beginning of television, World War II, The Korean War, Viet Nam, giant computers, the personal computer, the Gulf War, Iraq and Afghanistan. I may have missed something, but you get the idea. I have witnessed great changes in my time.

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NINETY-TWO & COUNTING _Hal Tartar

_Illustration by Abby Butcher

THE STRANGER _Clayton Rivera

THE STRANGER _Clayton Rivera The waitress placed the drink down in front of me, her hands were pale and diaphanous. I thanked her and tipped a coin. She didn’t smile, I knew she wouldn’t, they scarcely could. I came to bars like this every day, the women were indistinguishable, just skeletons’ barely covered with the prevailing trend, chased around by wolves in tumultuously priced suits, exhibiting the latest dissection from an over-priced barbers state of the art razor. I lit a match and set fire to my cigarette. I motioned the waitress over for another drink. Bring me more of these I said tipping my glass, she required an exact number so I held up three fingers. I had been writing for months without a single idea in my gratuitous mind. I downed my glass and shook the ice, a sound as wonderful as it is hideous. The waitress reappeared with a tray, placing one glass down on the table. I challenged her eyes by holding up three fingers and asking how many are in the air. She answered three and I congratulated her. She informed me I can have my drinks one at a time, so I threw back the first and handed her the glass, she then passed me the second tumbler and I swallowed it down, she received another empty glass and I am left with my third, I took a sip and placed it on the table. I’m going to enjoy this one, I informed her I require another one and she disappeared. I was alone for almost ten minutes before she returned with it. I threw her a note and she stared blankly at me. She endowed me with the burden of this been my last drink because the bar was closing. I thanked her and she handed me some change, I said you keep it and she threw the coins on the table, aberrant skirts don’t like charity. I told her my name is _, hers is Suzanne, but people call her sue. So Suzanne how is your day? Terrible, you had to deal with an obnoxious prick all night? And you were a lousy waitress. Oh you best be going back to work, I agreed and she disappeared. I walked home, you could use the exercise I convinced myself, but I really shouldn’t have left the change on the table, a taxi would have been much simpler. Suzanne better pick those coins up. I paced the stairs leading up to my apartment, trying desperately not to throw up on my welcome mat. I made it to the bathroom but the toilet evaded my reach, I’ll clean it up tomorrow. I stumbled to bed and lit a cigarette… When I woke up there was a vacuous burn on my collar bone, again. I poured some cereal into a bowl and gazed at how pointless eating was. I threw the crockery in the sink and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. I took four analgesics and sat on the couch, I only lived four streets away from the bar, but the walk home nearly

killed me every time. I spent the afternoon in front of the typewriter drinking beer and counting all forty seven keys just to see if they were still there. I didn’t write a word. That evening I returned feverishly to the bar, Suzanne would most likely be working and I needed a drink. I only had the displeasure of her serving me for the past week or so, but it helped pass the time and she was moderately easy on the eyes. I sat down in my usual place and she rushed over with a whiskey. “You drink a lot. But you tip generously.” she said. “Everything to excess” I winked raising my glass. She left me alone with my drink. I stared at the people surrounding me, celebrating their love of life and I was concerned about them, I was worried for mankind, the human race was rushing to the finish. I wondered if I would join them, their incestuous love for one another, I could go over and tip my hat, but they wouldn’t like that. After all, it was their evening, not mine. I decided it best to leave the others alone; I beckoned over Suzanne and asked of her a drink. She indulged my thirst and returned with a whiskey. I asked what she does when she is not so miserable. She didn’t say. She asked me what I do to make money. I write. Badly. I explained. She listened and smiled, I hated teeth. She looked magnificent with her eyes like the gilded trunk of a tree, covered with moss with that deep brown skin desperately trying to escape. She asked me to join her for a drink when her shift is through, I accepted, unwillingly and suspicious. We met back at the bar at 10pm, she asked me to sit down, so I fidgeted with the chair. I clambered down onto the stool and she slid me a whiskey. I sat quietly examining her porcelain face, the rouged cheeks, the empty eyes. She looked impatient like somebody should be speaking; I agreed and waited nervously for her to begin. She didn’t so I drained my drink, stood up, excused myself and left. I arrived home before midnight once before and it didn’t end well, I drank heavily, smoked cigarettes and somehow a mirror became airborne out of my window. The police were not amused, or so the overweight fuck who came knocking on my door at 6am said. I awoke the next day feeling ashamed so I drank. I opened the whiskey and poured it into my mouth. I decide the bar scene was for smaller men, so I stayed in drinking alone. The afternoon disappeared without a single occurrence; I didn’t even burn myself as I fell asleep. I awoke at 10.15pm by a knock on my door. Come in I said, it’s open. I was in pain, I had been throwing blood into the toilet from both my mouth and backside, THE SUBTERRANEAN LITERARY JOURNAL

and my skin looked sickly and yellow. Suzanne entered clutching a small brown paper bag; I roll over and glare into her bleak face. She explained that this food would help me feel better; she has seen how ill I am and doesn’t want to watch me suffer. I told her to go fuck herself and she headed towards the door, as she was clutching the handle she called me pathetic and I smiled, I took a sip and she just sat on the floor, whacky broad. After hours of talking she decided she was tired and curled up next to me on the bed. She fell asleep and I lay there brushing the mahogany stands of hair from her face. This is what love feels like, I convinced myself. The fidgeting woman on my right woke up and I rolled over embarrassed. We lay in silence for almost an hour, existing as cheaply as possible, economizing on thoughts, feelings, words and gestures. She doesn’t speak and I don’t move. After the sunlight’s’ glare got too much for her to handle she stood up and began to gather up her things, a little black leather bag that gleamed from its place in the corner. I asked her when she will be back; she merely kissed me on the forehead, smiled in a peculiar bout of misery and left. That mid-day I walked into town, holding what little I had left of self respect in my aching hands, they had been supporting up my head for the entire trip. I watched as the colour and shapes came racing towards me and passed by just as quickly. It seemed everyone had somewhere to go. I leisurely strolled around a rotten forest, admiring the shiny objects that were stacked horizontally across shelves manufactured entirely out of desperation. It concerned me a great deal, this pseudo consumer culture. Culture, now there was a word you would never use to describe a consumer, the kind of man you find wearing snake skin boots in his thousand pound suit, checking his receding hair in every mirror he passes, examining his face to see if he still looks rich enough to land a eighteen year old in his Egyptian cotton sheets. I grew bored of rambling around the jungle and headed over to the bar, when I arrived I saw a small man with overly worked muscles laughing with his friends next to the counter, What I prick I thought. I walked to the bar and ordered a red wine. The over-compensating queer at my side decided to comment on my drink, saying something about wine being for women, as he clutched his cheap watered down lager in his tiny fingers. I informed him that children’s clothes weren’t for grown men and that just because no one respected him; his muscles wouldn’t make it so. Did he hang around the playground picking on people his own size? Apparently not, In fact he was willing to teach me a lesson, as he put it, but what could this idiot teach me? He offered to take it outside and I agreed, he stormed off in front of me, rushed passed the door and when he reached the outside, where he belonged, I slammed it behind him and turned the lock. I walked back over to the bar and grab my glass, Suzanne was smiling at me then, that was the most restraint I had ever shown, but now some large body builder type within the group had decided to dislike me, why did muscle-bound morons stick together? I imagined a poster lining the wall of every gym where they’re all stood together, arms around each other and smiling, with the slogan Gyms friends are for life, or something equally as arbitrary, of course this was out of necessity rather than convenience, if the idiots didn’t have each other then no would put up with their terrible speech impediments and xenophobic tendencies. So Muscles-Mc-Tank-top walked over to me and said don’t treat my friend like tha’, spitting every direction but inwards. I politely inquired to if he thought it was acceptable to be raining on strangers and asked Like what? I came in ordered a drink and he was stupid enough to comment; all these wastes of oxygen were the same. They worked out fourteen times a week, just so they could pick fights with people who didn’t after the first few drinks they couldn’t handle. I asked the rube what he would rather be doing now. Breaking my face? I’m surprised that he wants to do such a thing; wouldn’t it be better to just spend the rest of the time talking to your side-kicks? I mean, is the conversation getting that stagnant that you have to fight to keep things interesting? Why can’t you go fondle some girl on the dance floor like you usually do? Punching me is only going to make you look stupid, I told him. He slowly flung his fist in my direction. All muscle, no speed. I haphazardly jammed my wine glass into his pathetically insolent face. The wine emptied all over the floor and blood starts forming at his forehead and chin, he fell down screaming and his friend’s decided to leave me alone or take him to the hospital, which was all I wanted in the first place,

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THE STRANGER _Clayton Rivera

so everyone was happy and everybody had learnt something. I sat down, my hand bleeding from the corner and I cursed the muscle bound prick for causing the afflictions to my palm. Another wine, please Suzanne, I said, she would not take my money, those guys had been pissing her off for a while now, someone needed to shut them up. She was not impressed by how I handled it, but at least the bar was quiet once again. And I still got to drink my wine. I didn’t stay too long, fearing the incompetent desk clerks would be coming shortly to gather some sort of statement. I wasn’t worried; people who work out every day don’t own the brain capacity the majority of non-idiots call memory, if asked who did this? He would cry some guy twice my size, with much bigger muscles than mine, because that’s what really matters, body mass. I returned home feeling alive and defeated in reoccurring measures; I drank heavily and eventually fell asleep. I woke up in the late afternoon, feeling miserable and ashamed, my hand hurt and my eyes were red. I looked in the mirror and punched the glass. Fearing for my sanity, I poured another drink. I sat at the typewriter and grew increasing appalled at my inability to communicate anything to paper. I had been working on these blank pages for almost a year. I knew I would never find the courage to write a single word. All forty seven keys still sitting untouched, like the wife of a closet homosexual. I decided I did not want to go on, living was merely something that kept you alive, and I had a desire for neither living nor being alive. I opened the drink and took a long, sad gulp. For once the whiskey tasted sweet, the burning sensation wasn’t torturing the back of throat. I swallowed a few pills and placed the bottle in my pocket. Tomorrow was always another day I wouldn’t see. I paced around the streets determined to do something meaningful, I stole a bottle of whiskey from a small shop, without so much as a glance from the cashier, when I left I grew concerned for my soul, so I handed it to the first tramp I saw asleep in the gutter. He didn’t smile, I couldn’t speak. I took more tablets and drank more whiskey, wandering through the town made me glad I wasn’t apart of anything, the streets turned my stomach, the buildings were tall and blocked the sun, the people accepted this as necessary and I hated them for it, without the sun you will all die, I haven’t seen a single tree since I came to this town and if I did now, I would pull it out by its roots just to deprive the inhabitants of that little bit of oxygen. I stumbled to the bar in a daze of medication and liquor; I found a seat and slurred my order to the waitress. She returned with one, I thought it was Suzanne but by then I had no desire to know, she looked upset and I felt defeated. A heavy woman approached my table and asked if she can buy me a drink, I said of-course. She returned with a whiskey and proceeded to take a seat, I questioned what she is doing and she replied sitting down. I asked why? And she explained that she would join me and I had to put a stop to it by informing her that she wouldn’t like me and I had no desire to fuck her, sitting across from you will only make me feel sick and ashamed. With a pointless look across her over-fed mouth, she left to talk to some other desperate loser. I thought about making love to Suzanne in front of an open fire in some country mansion, after we ran in from the storm. It kept me warm but I didn’t feel alive. I drank heavily and began taking pills more frequently, tonight’s the night. people may interpret what I’m doing as selfish and quite unsettling, but quite the opposite, I had nothing to lose and no-one to disappoint, I was free in every way.My vision grew dim and I was short of breath for a while. The last song on the jukebox was Naked as We Came. I think Suzanne would like it...

The stranger is a short story written by Clayton Rivera one of the alias’ of a nameless author who divides his time between writing books, drinking whiskey and using people for his own gain, he has never spoke the truth, he moves around from fictional town to fictional town with his thoughtless notebook, writing down whatever interests him at the time. According to the first book about him, The Stranger is the second of his published short stories.

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_J.A. Pak When Dillon got to heaven, it wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He seemed to be outside, on a sunny day, standing on a meadow, part of a flat plane of land which seemed to stretch for ages. People wandered around, preoccupied with their own thoughts, naked and hairless, their bodies strangely similar, like prototypes, vaguely male, vaguely female. Yet recognizable. If he saw someone he’d known on earth, they’d greet him warmly, briefly, before returning to their preoccupations. There was no day. There was no night. Just an unceasing sunlight that contained no heat. Not that he was cold, or hot. Not that he felt an absence of day and night. Was he even feeling his own body, his feet on the ground, his hand touching his face? Each sensation seemed to be a mimic, perhaps lagging memories associated with bodies. He still had his memories. But his body, this new body, was a prototype like all the others and it was only loosely connected to him. And yet, it was his body. He was still Dillon. Then a face appeared. Ducking behind other faces. Watching him, but avoiding him. Hostile. “Do I know you?” he called out. “No. But I know you. We’ve never met. I’m Kate’s godmother. Nicola.” “Kate’s godmother! Kate — how is she?” “She’s fine. Just fine. What about you? Finding your way?” “Not really. Where are we?” “Triage.” “Triage?” “That’s what it seems to me. It’s sort of a holding pen. You come here right after you die. To get over the shock of your death probably. And after you’ve done that, and you get used to the idea that you’re dead, you spend some time getting over your life. And when you’re finally

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HEAVEN TOO __J.A. Pak

ready, you leave, either to be reborn or to join the great spirit in the sky.” “The great spirit? I don’t understand.” “It’s as much as I understand. No one tells you anything here. You don’t get a pamphlet. No reception. No info desk. No pearly gates. I’ve just been here so long, these things have just come to me, cobbled together somehow. See, you come here and kind of detox. It’s not quite that but I’m using the only language I know. Then you have this choice. You can go back, be reborn, be human again. Reincarnation. Or you can give up being human altogether and just release yourself.” “To be what?” “Just energy, I think. Just a life force of some kind. No body. No soul. No memory. No form of any kind. This, again, is purely my own speculation. But I feel that this is true. Somehow.” “So there’s no God, no angels?” “No Satan, no bogeyman.” “I was looking forward to heaven.” “Doesn’t sound very appealing, does it? Just being some energy signature. I’m going back myself. Back to earth. Be human again. I want to be human again. To be alive again. To have my own life.” “And you decide?” “It’s totally up to you. No one cares what you do. No one cares what you decide. There’s no one watching over us.” “That’s depressing.” “It is, a little, isn’t it? Not having a creator with a capital c. No mommy or daddy telling you what to do. You’re your own boss. I suppose that should be liberating. The idea that what you do is totally up to you. But really, who wants that kind of liberation? You just want to be a naughty child, don’t you? Always know that no matter what you get up to, there will always be someone to reign you in. Tell you you’re right or you’re wrong. I guess, in the end, humans need to be judged. Told if they make the grade or not. Otherwise it’s totally subjective. And what good is that?” “How long are we here? In this place?” “For as long as it takes. For you to be ready to make the decision.” “How long have you been here?” “Awhile.” “How long are most people here?” “Varies.” “How long is awhile?” “Awhile. I still have some things to take care of.” “Are we stuck here? I mean, can we go back to earth? You know, to visit? As ghosts or something? See what’s happening there?” “No. You have to keep moving. Keep moving, Dillon.” Nicola’s voice was fading. Dillon was becoming preoccupied. Kate. He wanted to go back and see Kate. He had to see Kate. There must be a way. What was the way? He kept asking, until he suddenly found himself on earth, walking from place to place, geography not making much sense. He was in his own time and space, wandering through the mountains of Tibet one moment, a lost village in a desert of Africa in another, touching vast quantities of ocean, clipping one city after another. And then he was next to Kate. She was outside a store, looking at a window display. “Should I buy it? Should I buy my dress?” she was asking herself, over and over again. He seemed to be able to hear her — not her voice but what seemed to be her desires. “Buy it. Go ahead,” Dillon said in her ear. “Buy it.” In the next thought, Dillon was in a restaurant, sitting with Kate. Sitting, without a body, without a chair, self without skin. And yet, he felt wholly corporeal. Wholly in love, shifted years into a younger self, the self he’d been with Kate. Kate was much thinner than when he’d known her. That was fifteen years ago. She looked different, and yet, he felt she was the same, nothing about her changed as nothing about him was changed, the intersection of their selves the only defining element.

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“What do you think?” she asked. Dillon turned to see the man Kate was greeting. Standing straight, confidant, everything that intimidated Dillon. “I like it,” he said. “Did you just buy it?” “This afternoon,” Kate replied. “I’ve been stalking it for weeks. It was so expensive. But this afternoon, I was staring at it, wishing, and I heard this voice say, ‘Buy it.’ It was so strange.” “Some stranger told you to buy it?” “No. It was a voice in my head. But it wasn’t my voice—I wasn’t talking to myself. And it was so real, like someone was right next to me, talking in my ear. What was so strange was that it was a male voice. A familiar voice.” Dillon’s, she thought. All afternoon she’d had this feeling, this feeling of Dillon. “Hmmm.” The man sat down opposite Kate. They were dating. Dillon knew they were dating because the man had that possessive, comfortable air thrown around Kate. “Isn’t that really odd?” Kate said. But she wasn’t talking to the man. She was talking to herself (Dillon felt that she was really talking to him). “It was probably my voice,” the man said. “Telling you to buy the dress. I certainly would have told you to buy it if I’d been there with you. It looks amazing on you. You look amazing. But you always do.” Dillon laughed, awed. “I can’t compete with that,” he said. “No, you can’t.” It was Nicola. “Come on. Come with me.” They were back in the holding pen. “Stay away from Kate,” Nicola hissed. “What?” “So you were the reason. The reason I’ve been waiting and waiting here. The reason I was so stuck in this awful place,” Nicola accused Dillon. “The reason I couldn’t move on. You’re the unfinished business. I should have known. Look, I’m Kate’s guardian angel. I’ve been protecting her all her life. I won’t let you near her. Not again.” “Then you...?” There had been odd coincidences. One night he’d been so full of love he’d rush out of his apartment ready to declare his undying passion for Kate. But on his way to the bus stop, he’d run into an old girlfriend. Sam. And he was taken back to three years before, how crazy he’d been about this girl, how he’d never been quite sure about why they’d broken up — and Kate was back in the margins, again a possibility among many possibilities. He was with Sam another six months, remembering the entire relationship all over again. Not that he ever stopped thinking about Kate. And then she moved, a new job, a new life. He couldn’t live without her, talking to her, seeing her every day. Okay, long-distance relationships didn’t work. So he could move. Or she could move back. Back to his place. They could live together. Get married. He loved her. He had to see her face to face. So he could say all this to her in person because on the phone there were these hesitations, which always seemed to work against them. Short of cash, he took the train. There was a freak snow storm and the train stopped midway. Blizzard conditions. The train was diverted back to point A. Who was he to fight against Fate? They slowly lost touch. There had been other things, other loves. He became occupied with another life. “Look, if your feelings for Kate had been real, I couldn’t have stopped you,” Nicola continued. “I only put up a few obstacles.” “My feelings for Kate were real,” he said. “It’s just that —” Why had he had this feeling that with Kate, he’d had all the time in the world? That the road would lead back to Kate but just in its own time? “You didn’t really want Kate. You just had a fantasy. Why didn’t you

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HEAVEN TOO __J.A. Pak

just go keeping it to yourself? Then I wouldn’t have had to get involved. It’s too late now. So just leave her alone. Her life is going just the way it should be going. She’s finally over you and she’s found someone so perfect for her, I couldn’t have planned it any better. Stay away from Kate. Don’t you see? You were never right for her. She has someone now. Someone who is good for her. You aren’t good for her — don’t you see? With him, I don’t have to worry, see? I can let her go now. Just move on. Have my life again. Why can’t you see? You’ll find another Kate. Your kind always does.” Had he hurt her? Dillon didn’t want to harm Kate. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. And in thinking about her, he was with her, lying beside her on her bed, together as she slept. As if he’d taken that other road. Nicola tried to wrench him back to the holding pin. “You’ll get stuck here,” she warned, unable to move him. “Get too involved and you’ll never be able to leave. You don’t want to be a ghost for eternity. Get away from her! You don’t love her!” “I’m not going to let you interfere anymore!” Dillon shouted. It felt fantastic. To finally take control. Not be so easily cowed and swayed. “You’re not God! You’re nobody’s angel! Get out of our life!” There was a shocked look on Nicola’s face. Nicola disappeared like a rabbit in a magic hat. Dillon forgot her immediately. Here and now, there was only Kate. They talked, in and out of sleep, without the cushion of vulnerability that had always existed between them, that boundary which had kept them from physically touching each other, except in accidental moments, too quick, cascades of missed opportunities. “We were too much alike.” “Too quiet. Too eager to be nice. To understanding. Too shy.” “We should have screamed and shouted. Tipped the boat right over.” “Like that couple we saw, cleaved apart, screaming from opposite sides of the street, their anger like molten lava caving the street. We were so in awe of them.” “I didn’t want to — ” “Neither did I — ” “I just wanted to be together.” “Always.” “You’re the other life. You’re that other self I wanted to be.” They talked, nothing between them. And then she resisted. “You got married, Dillon.” He had. And he’d had children. A life full of anonymous contentment. The regret was here. “Why do you feel so real?” Kate asked. “Like you’re right next to me? If I could just see you, really see you — I haven’t seen you in such a long time. I miss you. I don’t want to, but I miss you and I want to see you. See you now.” Kate was walking down the street, Dillon in step with Kate. His presence occupied all her senses. She crossed the street without seeing the world. Dillon saw the car. He was about to push Kate out of the way, but he stopped. Kate was killed instantly. Chaos swirled around her and Dillon waited patiently. Finally, Kate was awake to him. “Dillon.” “Kate.”

J.A. Pak’s work has appeared in a variety of publications, from Split Quarterly to Art/Life, Kartika Review to Everyday Genius. More can be seen at www.ja-pak.com.

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RAPHUS _mike Maher. CUCULLATUS OR EVERYTHING TURNS AWAY

Adolescent Flaubert announced that he wanted to spend the rest of his life in an abandoned castle by the sea. It’s at times like these I can’t say I blame him, or that I wouldn’t want to join him, be his neighbor, maybe even share a moat, spend the day arguing about what Madame Bovary might have been like in the sack, sending teasing letters to Julian Barnes about the real colors of that parrot, or talking about dancing bears and pitying stars. I want to be named after a star or at least have a hurricane named after me. “Tropical Storm mike Maher. Bombards Cuba.” “Hurricane mike Maher. Breaches the Levees.” Maybe Flaubert just didn’t fit in, like my cousin in seven schools in seven years, like most birds in Northeastern winters. The Jersey shoreline doesn’t go anywhere when snowfall comes because beaches don’t die in winter; they come alive. She breathes easier with no one stepping on her lungs, no flat-footed children or beach chair-wielding parents, no Ken doing Barbie behind the dunes. Solitude at last, minus the grizzly old fisherman and his Labrador, but they aren’t unwelcome. The man stares at a motionless Ferris wheel coming into view on the pier. The Lab finds the ruins of a forgotten sand castle. Moon still visible in the morning sky. A horseshoe crab washes up.

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CONVERSATION WITH THE SELF _mike Maher.

Wake up, your name is a false cognate, your entire life one ambiguous, drawn-out away message. You bent down to tie your shoelace and looked up, fifteen years later, only to feel the other one loosening. The not-so-fine line between clarity and ambiguity is the self. Dogs have no true ambitions outside of belly rubs and people food, and, much in the same way, the self’s only ambition is clarity of the self with sweet Eden apple-esque exterior ambiguity. mike Maher. is nothing but an unbalanced pile of less-than-third rate Ars Poeticas that are a few bags of Quikrete short of a walkable sidewalk. And he says so to his dog, but all she thinks to herself as she jerks her head upwardly sideways is I wonder if he’s talking about people food. He spilled fruit loops last night, and really, fruit loops at his age? What’s so wrong with a conversation with the self or the self’s dog? “It depends on the setting and the context,” Sarah says, and Gregg says, “It’s usually better to keep such conversations to yourself.”

_mike Maher.

mike Maher. is the founder and editor of Sea Giraffe Magazine. He currently reads, writes, edits, and walks his dog in Pennsylvania’s Pocono mountains. His poetry, fiction, and personal essays can be seen in several publications, including The Smoking Poet, Hippocampus Magazine, Ham Lit, Calliope, The Ofi Press Magazine, and Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure. While earning his BA in English from East Stroudsburg University of Pennsylvania, he served as the Vice President and Forum Editor of The Stroud Courier, winning the Jim Barniak Award for journalism twice during his time there. He is also the recipient of the Martha E. Martin Award for poetry. THE SUBTERRANEAN LITERARY JOURNAL

PART

A BURNING BATH TO _T. E. Brierley 1 Matthew Duchamp The wine was on offer in this place, at only £6.99 a bottle. I had no idea where they might have gotten it from and frankly I didn’t care, I’d like to class myself as a moralist but the fact I was probably drinking a stolen, watered down, anti-freeze ridden, gut-rot inciting, excuse for a bottle of wine didn’t bother me in the slightest. Why would I care? I was just drinking it to get drunk but I was certain that this was sold off in thousands of restaurants round the world to unsuspecting victims come pseudo-sommeliers citing the description on the back of the label to impress what ever cheap girl they were dining with.

cided that we were too good to listen to the rest of the people playing so we headed off to Wetherspoons for a cheap one. I ordered a double Sailor Jerry’s, which was my favourite rum and Will got a Guiness and another Jamison’s. We sat in the upper area in the seat near the window that I always find myself in. I read the menu as I always do and commented on that they had changed the design again, these poor designers working for Wetherspoons must be so bored that all they can do is redesign the menu’s. We went out for a cigarette, had the same drinks again and then headed over to The Goose.

Anyway the £6.99 was defiantly worth it as I decided it was a good idea to get up onto the makeshift stage and play my new song. The spotlights were shining down on me and it was quite a contrast from the dark corner we were sat it so it took my eyes a while to adapt. I started to play a few simple chords when I realised it was defiantly not loud enough, there were people talking in the room and I could hear their moronic voices over my guitar. I signalled to the guy running the night to turn it up and he gave me a strange look. This was the best fucking song they’re ever going to hear; I was doing them a favour. I finished my song, an over sensationalised melodramatic yet beautiful tale of love, loss and then some more loss. I stood up and placed the guitar back down again and walked over to the bar, I gave the Will a smug grin on the way past. I ordered two Jamison’s on the rocks and smiled at the girl stood near the bar. I walked over to her and asked her if she liked my song. She responded in such a way that made my skin crawl and I had no idea what she was saying, She had a ‘University accent’ one of those accents where every sentence she said was made into a question. I was desperately thinking of ways to get away, should I just walk away or make an excuse? I decided on the first and walked back to where Will was sitting, I looked back at the girl at the bar and she didn’t seem to care. Shame, she wasn’t bad.

We were bustling down the streets of this drunken town exploiting what we thought was freedom, but it was just shadows, shadows of our past and our childhood, a worriless time, without work, without money a time when we were truly free. We strived for it back but the innocent pleasures were replaced by the dirty ones and we were gripping onto the last fragments that remained and what we had left wasn’t freedom, it was a jaded copy, yet we still searched through the night looking for something. We both knew we were locked on this path, which was certainly going nowhere, but we didn’t have any alternatives. I was hungry so I convinced Will to go for some ‘Fine’ Indian cuisine, so fine in fact that it was open at 2 am in the morning and would serve us more alcohol.

I sat back down at the table and Will was smiling, I wasn’t sure if it was the effect of my song or the fact that I had bought him a Jamison’s. I gave him the drink and held mine up and said, “Here’s to my musical genius”. We had an egotistical conversation about how there was no way we wouldn’t be musical legends and drank another bottle of the gut-rot wine. We de-

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2 William Rouke After drinking heavily for most of the night, Matt wanted to have food and I needed a place to rest my head, so we went to an Indian restaurant that served alcohol until the early hours. On entering the ‘fine’ looking establishment I motioned the waiter over and ordered two beers, I turned to matt and said ‘fucking idiot’ and he just smiled, I’m not sure if he thought I was taking about him, or the waiter, and to be honest neither did I, so we laughed, it was one of those laughs that meant absolutely nothing to the casual observer. The beers arrived at our table, warm, flat and absolutely disgusting and we drank them down like it was a great tasting wine, the beer made my stomach upset, my

O CALM THE NERVES

_Liam J. Kelly 3 Matthew Duchamp heart sad and my throat ache. Matt was looking through the ridiculously over-done menu for a place of this calibre and turned to me and said ‘chicken madras’ in a questioning manor and I nodded, although I wasn’t sure why, he motions the waiter over again and ordered two dishes off the menu, I held up my glass in a fillthis-up fashion. The beers came first, then the food, then all the shame that occurs when you mix stupidity and alcohol. I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to look or smell the food without being violently sick so I went to the toilet; I looked in the mirror and splashed lukewarm water on my tired face. I looked at the wet bit of hair hanging over my eye and thought to myself, you need some sleep, then I ran towards the toilet and vomited into the bowl, barely getting any on the floor. When I returned to the table I told matt I was going to go outside for a cigarette, he said the food would arrive soon, ‘exactly’ I muttered, I grabbed my drink and I wandered out, after throwing £10 on the table to cover my bill. I went and sat on the slightly cold steps of the restaurant and smoked cigarettes, sipping my drink and waiting for matt, I knew I couldn’t go back inside without damaging what was left of my weak stomach. After my first cigarette a drunken young woman of about 19 approached me and asked me for a lighter, I handed her my box of matches… “I’m Lauren, are you having a good night?” she questioned like an idiot. Why is she talking to me, I’ve given her a light, surely she should leave now, I didn’t know what to say, so I just gipped and leaned to the other side and a little sick came out, by the time I looked back up, she was walking down the street, but what a magnificent sight to behold, if I’d have known she looked that good walking away, I wouldn’t have even given her a match. After lighting my second cigarette of the evening and finishing my flat beer, ning out of the curry house, shouting mutterings at the top of his lungs as the arm.

this portion of matt came runun-intelligible he grabbed me by

I knew straight away that Will wasn’t coming back. He had a habit of disappearing and there was a good chance he was probably in a taxi home already. I walked over to the waiter and asked him if I could cancel our order, he looked at me like an idiot, which pissed me off, and said it was already been cooked. I couldn’t be bothered, or I was to drunk, to argue with the man so I ordered another beer and sat down at the table again. The place was painted a sickly green colour and the lights were bare bulbs projecting a harsh glow that laid an almost aluminous film over the kitsch copies of eastern furniture and plastic plants that looked like they could do with watering. I immediately started to feel sick so I went down stairs, that I almost got stuck to, and entered the toilet. The toilets were disgusting with half of the taps hanging out of the sink and the only one cubicle in there was soiled with sick. I ran straight back out of the door. Just as I returned to my seat the waiter brought our food over, as he placed them down the table I had no idea which one was mine, they both looked like off cuts of chicken floating in oil. I thought I might as well sit in here for a while and eat as much as I could, besides Will left more than enough on the table to pay his bill with some left over and it would be an insult to him if I didn’t invest this new found fortune on some more beer. I asked the waiter for another pint of what ever they had on tap. I downed the drink and ate the naan bread as I though it was the least likely to give me food poisoning. I sat back in my chair staring straight forward outside into the dark, lit up randomly by a few amber spots that were blurring together. I suddenly felt very drunk and was certain that my neck couldn’t hold the weight of my head much longer. I closed my eyes and rested my elbow on the table and propped my head up, only to find myself falling towards the floor. “Hey mate, you gonna clean this up” the waiter shouted towards me. I opened my eyes and realised that I had knocked a table full of food over. “Fuck off” I replied as I stood up and went straight for the door. I ran out of the door and saw Will was outside, I grabbed his arm and pulled him down the street being chased by the waiter, Will soon caught on and being a few inches taller than started to gain a lead in front

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A BURNING BATH TO CALM THE NERVES _T. E. Brierley & Liam J. Kelly

ONE

of me. After a while we had decided we had ran far enough and couldn’t see the waiter behind us. We stood in the entrance of a shop that smelt of urine and smoked our last cigarettes while complaining that we felt like we were going to die after the recent exertion. We decided it was a good idea to stay away from that area of town for now and that we would continue drinking at my place as I had a few bottles of wine left. As we walked over to the taxi rank we started talking to a couple of girls that looked awful and cheap but it didn’t stop us trying to bring them back to our place, it didn’t stop us failing either. The taxi ride home was silent as we both concentrated on trying not to be sick. When we got in I opened a bottle of wine and poured Will a glass and I took the bottle to bed.

4 William Rouke At 7.48am I awoke on matt’s couch with the bright summers morning ruthlessly pouring in through the open curtains that I was too drunk to shut last night. My head felt as through there was a small man inside trying to get out, other than my personality. I headed towards the ‘medicine’ cupboard, which was really just a regular cupboard filled with painkillers and caffeine pills. I took out 3 codeine tablets and 4 caffeine pills; I swallowed the whole lot with a half drunk beer I found on the kitchen surface. I knew I couldn’t wake Matt up, as he regularly slept in until noon and was grumpy as hell in the morning, I didn’t need the hassle, so I hit the switch on the kettle and began pouring coffee into a mug, along with too much sugar and not enough milk. When the kettle clicked I added the water and stirred thoroughly with a dirty spoon. I walked back to the couch that had doubled up as my place of rest last night and switched on the over-sized television in the corner of the living room. The news was the first thing that was on; farmer hangs himself in his own barn, the new cure for cancer was fraudulent and a mild morning leading to a slightly warmer afternoon. Things were looking up, my headache had gone, and my stomach was keeping the coffee down and cancers still incurable. Matt, eventually, what felt like a whole day woke up at 11.48am, still holding the bottle of wine from the previous evenings nightcap. He poured me a glass and took a long sip from the bottle; I could tell he was in a bad way. “You want some breakfast?” I asked, hoping he’d say no, because I couldn’t be bothered making any. “No, I’m too sick” Thank god for that, good job his hangovers are as bad as mine. We spent the rest of the morning listening to the commentary on some game of golf on the television, opening bottles of wine and trying to remember why matt’s’ shoes were covered in a yellow oil like substance.

5 Matthew Duchamp I must have been asleep because I found myself staring at the TV and it took me about 10 minutes to figure where the hell I was. We had finished of what was left of my wine over the afternoon and now we were drunk and hung over and the afternoon’s activities weren’t doing much to keep me awake. I have always been a bad at napping and if I went to sleep for even a few minutes in the afternoon I woke up confused and disoriented, I guess the wine and the sickly hang over didn’t help either. The telephone rang that was conveniently placed right next to me so I didn’t have to move, I put it to my ear. “Hi Matt” said the telephone. I wasn’t sure who it was, I knew it could be one of about 3 of my friends but I couldn’t distinguish the voice “Hello” I replied.

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A burning bath to calm the nerves is the beginning chapters of a story written by T. E. Brierley and Liam J. Kelly, it was written over three years, with each alternate chapter being penned by one of the authors and the characters they created. Written as an examination on perspective, it will continue to run in The Subterranean literary journal in its entirety through a vast number of issues.

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A BURNING BATH TO CALM THE NERVES _T. E. Brierley & Liam J. Kelly

“Were off out tonight if you want to come along?” either Nick, Dean or Al asked. “Ermmm…” I stalled. I looked over to Will and asked if we wanted to go out tonight and he nodded. “Sure why not, We’ll meet you guys at 9” I confirmed, hung up and then put the phone down next to me on the arm of the chair. “Who was that?” Will asked me, I shrugged and he looked confused. We both searched the house to find any left over bits of alcohol for us to drink but all we got our hands on was the dregs of a bottle of gin. I said I’d go up to the shop and Will gave me what was left in his wallet and told me to get as much alcohol as possible with that. I threw on a coat and took the gin for the road. I was half way to the shop walking up the main road when the gin ran out. I launched the bottle as far as I could into a field and must have pulled something in my shoulder. The wind had picked up and the dust from the main road was blowing up and stinging my eyes, I had a hard time seeing on the best of days but right now it was impossible. I started to think about if I actually wanted to go out tonight, I had some sort of idea who was going and knew that the majority of the people would be of no interest to me, no one to lock into a conversation, nothing to get excited about and discuss with fury and intensity, fuelled by alcohol and burning the night just firing forward, flippant. I knew that wasn’t going to happen, it was much more likely that I’d sat in a room drinking overpriced watered-down sprits with flat mixers at a desperate grasp on serenity waiting for the night to burn out so I could go back to bed. Either way we needed more alcohol so my plans didn’t change. I walked towards the shop and there were a selection of our finest youth outside, I had no idea what they were doing, it looks like they were showing off their new dog. I slipped between them and felt their stares in the back of my head. Inside the shop I considered counting Will’s money but instead I just mixed it up with mine and bought two bottles of the cheapest vodka and some coke to mix it with. As I got to the checkout girl serving smiled at me with something that was probably pity, but what ever it was, it suddenly made me feel very alone, I tried to smile back but it probably just looked like I was having a stroke. I grabbed the alcohol and ran back out of the door without even noticing the group of people outside. I cant remember the journey home as I couldn’t get that girls smile out of my mind, it had been some time since I had any real connection with a female and that brief encounter had made a mark on me. I defiantly had to find someone tonight. When I got back Will looked pleased to see me or pleased to see the vodka. We made ourselves a strong one and got ready for the night.

San Bartolo

_Emma Alvarez Gibson

She is crying, lying in a huge bed in a room with crumbling walls and the impermeable smell of decay. Her tiny blond brother sleeps next to her, so she turns to face the wall, careful not to shake the bed. She can’t explain, doesn’t want him to sense this wellspring inside of her. Earlier that evening, holding his hand, she’d led him down to the plaza where the games and rides were. The streets were lined with makeshift booths selling plastic toys, purses for little girls, wooden combs, engraveable fake gold rings. They headed to the merrygo-round where brown children, and a few pale ones with dirty blond hair, jumped on, grinning, clinging to the decaying metal that wouldn’t pass a safety inspection anywhere else, save another country like this one where children were a dime a dozen. She and her brother bought tickets from their allowances. She watched as the more wretched local kids formed their uneasy bonds with the carneys’ children. Lower than the poorest kids of this poor ghost town, these kids were the ones who slept and ate on blankets underneath the wooden counters that housed the trinkets that make their paltry existence possible. They took turns, two or three at a time, leaping onto the carousel, shouting and laughing until the ride’s operator barked at them, pulling at their skinny arms and calling them terrible names. The kids would scatter with no visible trace of the mortification she felt for them. In a few minutes they’d be back, and then a different team of two or three would jump on while the others kept watch for the dark-skinned man in charge. A couple of boys in the pack eyed her; one curiously,

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the other with contempt. He was maybe two years older than her, but with the shrunken-leather look of malnutrition. Their eyes met for a moment. She blinked, recoiling from his silent and bitter accusation, and from the weight of the grand, mean-spirited joke to which she was suddenly privy. She couldn’t deny a thing. At home, they sometimes can’t afford to have milk, but here, she and her brother are golden-tanned, light-haired kids from El Norte. She was wearing her best dress, blue and white, with black buttons, and her patent leather Mary Janes; her braids were tied with pretty blue ribbons; she is well fed and clean. She lives in Los Angeles. She is only here on vacation. Like her father has told her over and over again, she is fortunate enough to be able to go to school. She has never begged, and her parents bought her way onto the carousel. She had wanted to tell the boy that her friends from school were not allowed to visit because no one wanted their kids in her neighborhood. That when her parents fought it was her job to shush them and remind them that they had children who were trying to sleep. That she was constantly explaining things to them as best she could, making up what she didn’t know, to fill in the cracks. That at night she would grind her teeth and developed headaches during the day. That she was running to stand still, all the time, and she didn’t know how to make it stop. The boy had glared at her for an instant before taking up his mask of boredom again, and turning away. What did a girl like her know about reality? She cries until she’s exhausted. Then she has to pee. She sits up, brushing her flip-flops lightly with

She tells herself other things that aren’t true. Like this: the kitchen, with its creaky metal screen door that can be heard from the street, does not stink – it’s a good, cozy smell. The bathroom, located outside, behind the kitchen, is not weird or gross, even though its only door is an old shower curtain from the 60s, and the toilet only flushes when you pour a pail of water into it. She doesn’t really need friends here that she can relate to, because she is popular by default, by the lightness of her skin and the country of her birth. She should like the girls here - girls who will only play at cleaning or cooking, girls who do not run, girls who do not yell - because her father wants her to like them. She should be like them. The sadness that presses down on her from every direction in this town, in this country - it’s not sadness, just a different way of living. The shrill-voiced, red-cheeked midget that is always at the door of the butcher shop, is just a human being like you and me, not proof of how sometimes you are born and bad things just happen to you automatically, and you have no say over them. She gets back into bed. Her brother stirs and she pats his curls softly. When he’s asleep again she pulls the blankets over her head, tells herself they smell familiar and soothing, and wills herself to sleep.

Emma Alvarez Gibson lives in Los Angeles. For more, visit emmaalvarezgibson.com

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SAN BARTOLO _Emma Alvarez Gibson

her feet to make sure there are no scorpions lying in wait. After putting them on, she reaches under the bed for the white tin chamber pot. It makes a loud, screeching sound on the ancient tiles as she pulls it toward her. Grimacing when her bottom touches the cold rim, she tries not to look around in the dark. This house scares her tremendously. It was old when her father was born in it, and no one has taken care of it in who knows how many years. Every summer she plays a game with herself, telling herself she is not scared. Not of the ancient red Louis XIV-style sofas, where her mother lost a bobby pin between the cushions and pulled out a stiff dead mouse by mistake. Not of her aunt’s bedroom with the high, high ceiling and a skylight, where someone could look in on you while you’re sleeping, and where the sheets in the extra bed always feel like they’re filled with sand, no matter how many times you shake them out. Not of the windowless library, filled with books dating back to the eighteenth century, books written in Latin and covered in leather so old it looks like human skin. Books that belonged to her grandmother’s brother, who was a priest and has been dead now for years, the way it seems all the important people are.

A young woman of about twenty-two, together with a miserable-looking older woman, entered my clinic consulting office and politely sat on the patient’s chair. She complained of her ailments. She had been married to a well known C.A. two years before and since then she had had several problems with her health. She had seen her health deteriorating day by day after her marriage; her mother-in-law confirmed this. The mother-in-law went further: “She gets tired after doing a very little household work. She feels pain in her entire body, with severe itching now and then. She has developed bad headaches, which bothers her more during the night and when she is lonely. She complains of loss of appetite and colic pain, even if she takes only a little light food. She also suffers from gastric and constipation problems. “She sleeps now and then at short intervals and dozes while reading or viewing TV. At times she is seen dozing during a family discussion. She does not get sound sleep at night. Sometimes she is frightened by nightmares and weeps for some time. She is unable to concentrate for long. Sometimes she seems to be absent-minded. She is not just the store but the go-down of problems. “She has consulted three doctors for her ailments but to no avail. At present she takes medicines for gas, acidity, constipation and headache. She eats very light and non-gaseous foods and

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avoids spices and sour items in her diet. Still, if she does not take her medicines even for one day, she is congested with gas and her headaches become unbearable.” The parents-in-law, especially the mother, were very much worried and scared by these problems with her young, beautiful and the only daughter-in-law. According to her good knowledge, her daughterin-law had none of these problems before her marriage. Everything bad started after the wedding. She treated her daughter-in-law with respect. The family was wellto-do, with every convenience to hand. There were two domestic servants and a driver. The mother-inlaw did most of the cooking. There was nothing obvious to cause such a situation. In fact, the young woman’s circumstances had been much improved by her marriage. The family doctor was available to visit when required. Still, the health of the daughter-in-law did not improve. The doctor referred the case to some expert physicians. Numerous tests were done. But all in vain. No doctor had found the right treatment. Expensive medicines worked only temporarily. Mrs. Indiraben, the mother-inlaw, had heard of my clinic solving such problems. She knew about my strictness over diet control. She had talked the matter over with her daughter-in-law, Shanta, and she had brought her to my clinic only after she had agreed to abide by the course set by me. Shanta was tired of her sickness and the regular use of medicines at such an early age. She was ready to try the Ayurvedic treatment. I asked Shanta about her food, stools, urine, menses and her mobility. She had some problem with the menses, which was believed to be the result of gas and constipation. I took her blood pressure, temperature and pulse. All seemed to be a little higher than normal. She was being treated for these when necessary. She said she was very weak and could not bear even a little load or do hard work. She was taking vitamin tablets and a tonic for that. Her blood tests showed no abnormalities, although her weight had gone down to 51 from 59kgs. Her urine report showed an excess of pus cells and albumin. The stool report exposed bacterial and undigested particles. However, none of these could explain her malaise and the treatment given by the specialists would surely have dealt with them

by this time. The physicians consulted were not ordinary doctors. They had vast experience and had used the best medicines. Their expenses were met by the family. This was not an easy case. My talents in Ayurved and Naturopathy would not help me much in this particular case, I was sure. I had to use psychological theory. I asked Shanta about her personal life with her husband and about her sex life. I could see from her wet eyes and the tears rolling down her cheeks that I had asked the right question. I persuaded her to speak her mind and not to hide anything from me. If she could pour out her heart to me, I assured her, that would lead to a cure for her problems. I asked Mrs. Indiraben to sit in the waiting room, as it was not possible for Shanta to clear her mind with her mother-in-law there. I offered her a glass of cool water before she began. She started from the honeymoon night. According to her, she had had no sexual relations with her husband from the first night of the marriage until now. He did not even sleep in the same bed. When they were alone, they never spoke together, only talking in the presence of the parents and other family members. They had hardly gone out alone as husband and wife. There was always somebody from the family with them when they went out for an occasion. Her husband had hardly touched her body, never mind sexual touches or kisses. Nobody else knew about this. Shanta had never tried to talk over the matter with anyone, as she thought it not wise. She was hopeful that it would be sorted out sooner or later on its own. She would find out the reason for her husband’s attitude and she would adjust to the situation. She was pretty enough to attract any man. Her nature was also very gentle and co-operative. She was a good cook, too. So what made her husband stay away from her, especially at night? She was ready to serve his sexual pleasure at his wish and to his satisfaction. Now and again she tried to talk with her husband while alone in the bedroom but he would speak only if it was demanded and to the point only. She even tried her best to tempt him to sleep with her but without success. He ignored all her attempts to allure him and even

ly as a wife from then onwards; he would never overlook her requirements as a woman. He assured me of his co-operation. I thanked him for that as he had helped me to cure Shanta, his wife and my patient. He thanked me softly and asked me to forgive him for what he had done and agreed to come with her for her next visit. The couple visited my clinic twice a month. Every time they came each had a smiling face and a bond of love shining in their eyes. I gave Shanta treatment as necessary and soon her health improved. When she was recovered, a lady teacher was employed to teach her what was required. A music teacher and a dance master were also seen at her home. Shanta was trained in the use of computer and learned fluent English. In no time, she was going out to parties and other functions with Jeetu. She turned out to be a good singer and dancer. It did not take long for Shanta to become the proud mother of a bright and lovely son. Today, Shanta and Jeetu are regarded as one of the happiest couples in the area and several others are envious of their contented family life.

Dr.Kerai was born in India in 1940, educated in Kenya and India. He outshined as the National leader in Kenya in between the period of the years 1982 to 1995 and as a prominent Social and Religious worker in India since then.

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THE UNMATCHED COUPLE __Dr.H.V.Kerai(Ph.D)

dared to tell Shanta not to do this, as he was not interested in any sexual commitment to her. Eventually she had lost courage. She considered herself much inferior to her husband as she was poorly educated and her husband was well qualified academically, with a good reputation. But that should not be the cause of her husband avoiding sexual relations with her. She possessed all the qualities necessary to be a good, loving wife. She had seen uneducated wives living very happily with highly qualified husbands. Hers was a special case. At last she came to realize that her husband was avoiding her just because she was not educated. He had married her because he had been forced to do so by his parents. He felt he needed a wife who had enough education to accompany him to parties and other gatherings of educated and civilized people. He wanted a modern wife who would join him in his business while also taking care of the home. He had discussed this with his parents, who overlooked his choice and found a good-natured but uneducated wife for him in Shanta. The parents thought that every thing would turn out well once their son, Jeetu, was married and living with Shanta, who, they thought, would attract their son with her good nature and charming outlook. Neither of the parents bothered to look into the matter after the marriage. No one ever asked Shanta about her life with Jeetu. Since neither husband nor wife complained about each other and were always in good terms in the older couple’s presence, they had no reason to suspect a problem. Shanta had never allowed them to know about her difficulties, so the matter continued as it was. They were not aware that Shanta’s illness was the consequence of their son’s behaviour towards her. In reality, Jeetu was the main cause of his wife’s long lasting sickness. She was literally sick of her husband’s attitude towards her. She had no other problems in the house at all. I had no choice but to talk over this matter with the mother-in-law, who was not only surprised but also shocked to learn the cruel fact. She was worried as to why Shanta had not talked over this matter with her or with any other reliable person from the family. Indiraben knew her son had chosen differently, but she had never thought that he would ignore a pretty and good-na-

tured young woman like Shanta. Had she known the truth earlier, she would have done her best to find the solution. However, she promised to bring the matter under control and try to make Shanta happy. I advised her to tackle the matter gently and be sure not to provoke or annoy Jeetu, who might react badly and divorce Shanta. Fortunately, Indiraben knew how to play her cards positively, so that her son would surely come to a compromise on her advice. The son respected the mother very well. I offered her my services if needed as a mediator. I proposed to Indiraben that she should discuss the problem with Jeetu and try to bring him to my clinic in the next week. Not the next week but the next day, first thing in the morning, I found Mrs.Indiraben with her son in the waiting-room. Jeetu, who was a well-known business tycoon in the area, stood with a gloomy face reflecting his guilty feelings. I asked them to take seats and I tried to learn the nature of the person who had ignored his attractive and well-behaved wife just because she was not highly educated. Mrs. Indiraben went outside immediately after introducing her son. I talked about Shanta’s sickness in detail. I did not tell him the real cause of her illness, but talked to him about the personal tension underlying her problem. I asked Jeetu to co-operate and look after her as a responsible husband, otherwise the sickness could worsen and ruin the poor young woman’s life. In the present circumstances, medical treatment would not help much. Her husband’s presence was required, especially at night when she was alone and was frightened of nightmares. I also mentioned his wife’s good character but said that certain things were out of reach for her because of her illiteracy. I stressed that she was his wife and it was the duty of a husband to look after his wife at all times. Education, or lack of it, should not be a barrier between a husband and wife. After all, what was the use of education in family life? Shanta already possessed all that was required to make for a happy life. If lack of education was the only deficit in a good- natured and pretty wife, this could be remedied after marriage. An educated woman can’t always be a good housewife, but a good housewife can become an educated woman after the marriage if her husband wishes her to be so. Jeetu listened to me politely and agreed to look after Shanta proper-

WHY CLIMATE CHANGE CAN WAIT

_Eugene Yiga

“THE GREATEST BATTLES OF LIFE ARE FOUGHT OUT EVERY DAY IN THE SILENT CHAMBERS OF ONE’S OWN SOUL.” - DAVID O. MCKAY Man, the world has problems. Fifty years from now, society will look back at our generation and forever shun us for three things: curable diseases, avoidable wars, and reality TV. How could they let those things happen? How could they have actually stood by and let those things happen? Having grown up in post-apartheid South Africa, it’s a question I’ve always asked myself. How on earth was that allowed to happen for so long? Didn’t the rest of the world realise what we were going through? Didn’t they care? That question became increasingly relevant in daily varsity life. I recall a general sense of despondency among my classmates towards the end of our degree. I guess we’d all grown a little tired of the dreary world of studies and what looked set to be rather dreary professional lives. And being reminded of that fact five days a week wasn’t helping. Everyone dealt with that in different ways. Some convinced themselves (rightly or otherwise) that a career as a corporate automaton, working twelve-hour days plus weekends, was a prospect they were excited to pursue. Others simply decided that after almost four years, it was a little late for second thoughts. They might as well accept their fate. And then there were those who did something else altogether. They decided that enough was enough. They wanted out and they wanted out now. They chose to bypass post-grad and either take a detour overseas or head straight into the wonderful world of work. They

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There’s a lesson in there I’m finally starting to understand. Yes, the world has problems, but all those can wait. The biggest problem we have is letting problems become problems in the first place. The biggest problem we have is allowing small concerns to slowly morph into crises; so much so that we’re constantly caught off-guard by what we thought would never happen. All around us, the evidence is clear. We pretend the problems we have don’t exist. We sweep them under the rug to deal with another day or engage in just enough “quiet diplomacy” (um, oxymoron?) to assuage our guilt. We take part in flash mobs or water balloon fights on campus even though they were barely passing their courses. They pretend to be happy in their jobs or in their relationships even though they were secretly dying inside. But of course it’s okay because the last thing we want to do is change. We do whatever we can to cover up the pain because feeling uncomfortable is something to be avoided at all costs. Sometimes it’s necessary to laugh at our problems, but sometimes it’s not. Sometimes we don’t want to see the fuzzy panda bears at the end of the every news bulletin or have the good guy win yet again. That’s just not the way life is and it’s time we came to terms with reality. This world can be quite a dark place and believing otherwise is the most dangerous thing we can do. We all have problems and we all have pain. But instead of ignoring what makes us uncomfortable, we need to embrace it. Instead of reaching for the medicine cabinet or putting Band-Aids over flesh wounds, we need to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty. The pain is telling us that things need to change. It’s telling us that ignoring the issue will only make it worse. Deal with it.

I have been an active writer for well over a decade and published my first book in August 2007. This marked the start of Varsity Blah, a personal development blog that has now received over 250 000 hits from almost 130 countries worldwide. The best entries have been compiled into my latest book, which was reviewed on Authonomy.com: “This is some very insightful stuff… The way the book is structured, paired with your capabilities of drawing great narrative, leads this on the right path. This cleanses the mind.” I share my love for reading by publishing book summaries and reviews every week at eugeneyiga.com.

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WHY CLIMATE CHANGE CAN WAIT _Eugine Yiga

chose to do the unthinkable by listening to that inner voice in the hope it would lead them to brighter days.

firstly we would like to thank all our contributors, as without them this inaugural edition of the subterranean literary journal would not be possible. with special thanks to Bethany Armstrong for putting up with us printing the issues and preparing them in her home, as well as contributing and helping us out greatly along the way. the content in this issue has been a pleasure to review and we hope to keep contact with the writers we feature and wish them all the success they deserve. hopefully, you will have derived that same pleasure in reading it as we did producing it. the themes will change and the writers may vary, but we aim to continue producing the subterranean literary journal as it is for as long as humanly possible. after months of hard work, research

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and labour we are relieved to be able to present our finished publication. it has been a great experience working with so many amicable writers and artists and we would love to perpetuate this as far as possible. we will be looking for contributors for our next issue, which will be out between three and four months. hedonism is the theme of the next issue, (as the journal seems to be searching for what objectively makes us human?) please visit www.thesubjournal. co.uk if you would like to submit any work to our publication. once again, thank you reader for obtaining this issue of the Subterranean literary journal we hoped you enjoyed it.