Wayne Literary Review 2012 by Wayne Literary Review

2012

THE WAYNE LITERARY REVIEW The Wayne Literary Review began in 1964 and is committed to presenting the best creative pieces in Detroit, Michigan, with special focus on the work of former and current students of Wayne State University. Editor-in-Chief Editor Emeritus PR Manager Faculty Advisor Readers:

Alyssa Bell Sean M. Davis Caitlin Litz M. L. Liebler Alan D. Harris Shelley A. Wettergren Esther L. Jordan

2012 Edition Wayne State University ď ľ Department of English 5057 Woodward Avenue, Suite 9408 Detroit, Michigan 48202

A heartfelt thanks to the Wayne State University College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, the faculty and staff of the Department of English, and all of our generous Donors. Special Thanks To

Barrett Watten Royanne Smith The Creative Writing Faculty

All rights revert to contributors upon publication.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Cameron Kenneth Nuss a native of northern desires cotopaxi

1 2

Courtney-Sophia Henry less than three letter blood drive

4 6

Alan Dennis Harris The Loch Ness Monster Lurks in Her Bed Language Barrier

7 8

Johanna Berger Trap Door Ă&#x2DC;

20 22

Jeremy Nycholas Cerebral-noise Canceller

Melissa Humphrey Penelope

Ian Hilgendorf The Car Ride; or Jonah Loses to the Whale

Justin Rogers Mud Suicidal (After Patrick Rosal)

31 32

Brian Dougherty Body Bag

Jennifer LoPiccolo Goodnight April

Demetrius Sherman The Murder of Spring

Michael Reeves Haibun 1

Douglas Brian Craig The Liberal Arts

Stephanie Godden straws

Drew Bazini Money Down

Thoren Optiz Poetry Is What Poetry Does

Noor Salim Informotion Motion Picture

65 69

Acquanetta M. Sproule To Brood A Purple Cat for Mama

70 71

Sharon Munson Terror in the Night

Ralph Pullins Burn it Down

Humeshkar Nemala Maya in Detroit

Ricardo Castano Castled

Sharada Sharp Whale Hunter

[Cameron Kenneth Nuss] a native of northern desires

a spiritual design concave, wet leaves and sand drunk rain and hot mist cold, but nice outside among the trees white birches, athenian pillars north collapse at the softest touch sectioned off for warmth later on the night will summon strength of friendship, smooth walking between summer relics so soon I leave, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true that the exhaustion of my travels will not touch my thoughts of this indian north, frontier of northern michigan, collectively a mixture orange, red, yellow, evergreen pine brown whiskey dirt wine, rich earth, sweet smoke, all patterns of my own skin.

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cotopaxi

I am thinking about sitting in a grocery at midnight. These places are often left open for the benefit of a few late night crustaceous looking callused working class survivors, because they can’t make their rounds in daylight. The clammy, weaving lines on the cashier’s face remind me of a frantic chant I was accustomed to shouting at those I noticed in her position don’t do it! stop dying! never mind the line that forms in her row, face after face of what I suspect I am now and what she used to be (or so I believe). See, I am young and active, much like a volcano ready with ideas and ambitions, observations and obsessions, healthy somewhat and determined. But what I see in her is blank and featureless, each passing barcode an inflection, an interruption to the staleness of her existence, marking the gradual movement to her dormant decay. I can see it in the cracks of her lips that she used to venture, alone for many vibrant miles with only her book some food, and the good grace of god amen. The drug induced dilation of her eyes a malignant void accentuating the melancholic divorce; the bitter aversion of her youthful exuberance as she attempts coarse and destitute interactions breaks out and explodes in isle by isle chaos— the gods once broke and suppressed the titans. There is a revolution evident to me as she scans, and scans again.

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Her fried and fraying hair is a thinning apparition, each strand a child she regrets, each split end the child she wishes she had. I am here watching the futility of her bones in the fluorescent light of an electric didactic night working and winding against each other drawing down to a dusty compound, adjusting to each anecdote pushed out through false teeth, watching her sell her soul because we all must know the price of oranges. It is strange that my reflection is in her face, born to erupt in a magnificent rage of price check on toilet paper.

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[Courtney-Sophia Henry] less than three letter

i wish he would write me a letter just once thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m asking not much really when you think about it diamonds lose their shine flowers die but that letter

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would always be mine

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blood drive

“Be Nice To Me-I Gave Blood” (Or Why I Don't Give Blood) there's a blood drive on campus—today. how do i know? all day i’ve been bombarded with saccharine solicitations for societal niceties from self-righteous donors A heart-shaped sticker implores me to be kind to its wearer because —this is rich— “they gave blood today” Oh yeah? i want to say. Well i gave blood too. i want to say. not today but i gave blood just the same in fact, i gave a little more than blood. i gave a husband. the day the casualty notification officer knocked on my door, i was wearing a heart sticker like the ones i saw today but no one was nice to me that day. and now i don’t give blood anymore.

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[Alan Dennis Harris] The Loch Ness Monster Lurks in Her Bed

The evidence is compelling but tabloid friends and so-called relatives have gone on record stating sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s an unreliable witness Yet, she can hear him growl at night and catches his scent in the bathroom She feels the waves he makes in her family She has heard the children cry She has seen the teeth marks imbedded deep into their souls The only photograph she can produce is ancient and yellowed We can barely make him out as he kissed the bride

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Language Barrier (excerpt)

CHARACTERS, in order of Appearance:

Matt Boles (Peter’s personal bully) Dad (Peter’s father) Shelby (Peter’s 14 year old sister) Peter Kogut (15 year old boy) Mark (Peter’s best friend) Mom (Peter’s Mother)

ACT I –Scene 1–The first scene opens in the living room of Peter Kogut’s home, early in the morning as everyone prepares for their school and work day.

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ACT I Scene I – [The Kogut family living room is center stage. A teenage boy in a long black coat passes the front of the house(front of stage). He peers into the window before he moves on. The father is seen getting ready to leave for work. His tie is draped over his shoulders, not yet tied. He finds an umbrella then looks out the window and sees the young man in the black coat walk off. They exchange glances.] DAD It’s raining cats and dogs…and creepy kids. It’s definitely a raincoat day! [ Shelby and Peter enter the room] SHELBY C’mon! Ya wanna? PETER You’re my little sister. Leave me alone. It’s too weird. SHELBY Chicken…Peter’s a chicken! [She looks to her father] Dad, Pee-ter’s a chic-ken! DAD Give it a break, little girl. You’re a gymnast, he’s just a hockey player. He lifts pucks over the net, you lift your body-weight. It ain’t fair. But at least he can out-skate you. SHELBY And I can beat him in arm-wrestling.

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DAD Hell…you can beat me in arm-wrestling. [He shakes his head and turns to his son] I’m sorry to admit to both of us, kid…but my daughter has the athletic body I always wanted. [Phone starts ringing] DAD: [As he straightens his tie, Dad answers the ringing phone.] Good morning, America! MARK: [Stage right. Mark is across the street, calling from his condominium] What’s so good about it? [Thunder clap] DAD: It’s a beautiful day, young man and/or woman. MARK: It’s raining like H.E. double hockey sticks, Mr. K…and yeah, I am still a boy (deepens his voice) ah…man…young man. It’s me, Mark! Can I get a ride to school with Peter and Shelby? [Peter slips on his school backpack] DAD: [Hands the cordless phone to Peter, with one hand covering the speaker-end, not the mic-end] It’s that strange boy across the street, the one who talks funny. He wants a ride to school.

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PETER: [Grabs the phone from his father’s hand, upside-down] You must mean, Mark…duh…my best friend. Would it kill you guys to be nice to my friends? [Shelby puts on her raincoat] SHELBY No way! No freakin’ way! PETER: (Speaking into the phone) Sure, Mark…you can ride with us…as long as you bother my sister. DAD: [Opens front door to leave, trench coat on, laptop case and umbrella in hand.] Sounds like a plan. Tell your mother to warm up the rug-rat mobile. [He looks at the darkening skies.] You’ll all need a ride today. [Dad exits stage] [Mom, dressed in a pantsuit, walks around corner into the dining room] MOM Good morning, sweet peas! SHELBY [upset] What’s so good about it? [Peter is smiling, enjoying his sister’s temporary misery]

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MOM [patting Shelby on the top of her hooded raincoat] In every life a little rain must fall, my dear. There’s nothing wrong with it. SHELBY There’s everything wrong with riding in the same van with MARK! MOM If Mark needs a ride, Mom’s taxi service has an extra seatbelt. SHELBY Why? MOM Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. SHELBY That boy will never do nothin’ unto me again! MOM [concerned look on her face] What did Mark ever do…unto you? SHELBY He gave me a Valentines’ Day card! [sticks finger down throat, demonstrating the universal command to vomit] MOM [giggling to herself] How dare he!!!

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SHELBY And he doesn’t know how to talk. I can’t stand him. He’s a dickhead! [a cold silence fills the room, until the thunder rolls again] MOM Young lady! Shame on you! Where’d you learn to talk like that? [Mom slowly turns her head towards Peter, casting an evil eye]

SHELBY Daddy says it all the time. You never scold him! Mr. Henderson across the street is a dickhead, so is the mailman. MOM It seems your father rushed out the door too soon. [with arms folded, she takes the evil eye off Peter, and casts it out the window towards her husband’s escape route] I’ll take care of him, later. SHELBY He also said his boss is a douche-bag. [Mom looks closer out the window for her husband, but sees instead the young man in the long black coat working on the Condominium sign across the street]

Welcome to White Birch Condominiums Wayne Literary Review

MOM Who is that? [Shelby and Peter both look out the window] PETER I think I see Mark coming. MOM No…that’s not Mark. Who is the young man working on the apartment sign…in the rain? SHELBY I know him. PETER You don’t know anybody. SHELBY Fat Boles…That’s what Peter calls him behind his back. [Peter looked harder, and made a sour face as he recognized his personal bully, Matt Boles] MOM He seems like a hard-working young man. SHELBY He looks cute. PETER [frustrated] You hate my best friend but you think my personal bully is cute? [knock on the door]

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SHELBY Don’t let Mark in! [Peter opens the front door. Mark walks in and shakes off the rain in the Kogut living room] SHELBY [whispers to her mother] Kill me now…before he opens his mouth. MARK Good Morning, Mrs. K! Thank you for the ride to school. Good morning, Shelby! MOM Good morning, Mark! [smiling at Shelby] It’ll be so nice to have a polite, well-spoken young person with us on our ride to school this morning. [Peter also smiled at Shelby] [Mark shakes more rain out of his wet hair, onto the Kogut floor] MARK It’s a tarantula rain out there. [Shelby smiled and looked up at her mother] SHELBY What kind of rain? MARK A tarantula rain. MOM A torrential rain?

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[Peter tried to signal to Mark to shut-up] MARK A tarantula rain. Yup. A sure far tarantula rain. [Shelby, tilting her head back and forth, she walked over to the window] SHELBY He’s gone! MOM Who’s gone? MARK Yeah…Who’s gone? PETER My personal bully. [Mark started giggling] MARK Was Fat Boles messing with the sign again? I hope he had a waterproof marker this time. [Peter looked out the window] PETER Looks like it.

Welcome to White Bitch Condominiums 16

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[Shelby giggled. Mom walked around the house collecting her jacket, laptop, and van key. Mom did not peer through the window to notice that the sign had changed] MOM Where’s my umbrella? SHELBY Daddy took it. MOM Strike two. MARK Remember when our hockey team beat the team Fat Boles was on? PETER No…let’s change the subject. [Peter stands in front of the window so his mother would not see the sign] MARK Yeah…you remember. It was in our last tournament. It was the Constellation Game! [Shelby looked up at her mom, grinning from ear to ear] SHELBY Maaark? What kind of game was it? MARK The Constellation Game! We were playing for the constellation prize.

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[Mom slipped on her jacket and turned to Mark] MOM I’m sorry son, the…tarantula rain is loud outside, I didn’t hear what you said…something about a consolation game? MARK Nope. The Constellation Game. [Shelby proudly sneered at her brother, Peter] [Mom went to open the front door and tried to politely change the subject] MOM Well…Mark. How…do…you like living in those beautiful new apartments across the street? MARK Those aren’t apartments, Mrs. K. They’re condominiums! [A cold silence again filled the room as they all were about to step outside. Another thunder clap breaks the silence.] MARK Nope. I don’t live in an apartment. I live in a condom! [Mom and Shelby stare at each other in disbelief.] SHELBY [whispers to her mother] I told you so.

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[All four exit the house. Giggles are heard from mother and daughter]

(End of Act 1, Scene 1)

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[Johanna Berger] Trap Door

It was a heavy spring the year I stayed in his guest room. I ravished the meals he sent up once monthly through the trap door in my floor. These snacks escorted his notes begging forgiveness and ending always in a couplet becrying my beauty

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or my speech and asking for another date he promised like the last one not to forget.

In his guest room I waited for a year until one day, so thin, I slipped out his trap door.

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Ă&#x2DC; January came, unwelcome with its gaudy silver ball plunging me away from your final, unfinished year (22) We, too (21) were unfinished when you kicked (20) the chair out from beneath (19) your feet. (18) I found you hanging (17) and my heart (16) stopped (15) and then beat (14) fast enough for both of us (13)

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but yours (12) refused (11) to accept (10) my rhythm (9) preferring (8) the triumph (7) of that quick (6) betrayal (5) to the (4) love (3) of honest (2) desperate (1) beats Ă&#x2DC;

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[Jeremy Nycholas] Cerebral-noise Canceller

The siren awoke Gerald, the distorted shrill rang through the metallic barrier; he rolled, shoving the pillow over his ear. Sleep eluded him and he finally caught some for the first time in five nights when that accursed siren howled, his eyes shone from under his pillow. It shouldn’t matter, though. Nothing matters. Peace does not come easily; it doesn’t come at all. Constant shouting, men pounding on their doors, on the walls; making vague threats to people they know they will never have the chance to kill. The man to his left yells incoherent ramblings, pleading for release, swearing for nobody, but for everybody. Gerald never partakes. Too tired to scream. Outside his slot, prisoners cast their rat lines, the guards chase them, but by the time they get up/down to the cell in question, the messages are received and promptly flushed. Maybe they have contracts for hits, to take out the God damned snitch who ratted them out, who took them out of general population and into this shithole. Sometimes they play checkers, some of the more lofty ones play chess and some need a good recipe for hooch. No windows, no sunlight, Gerald gets one hour once a week to “exercise.” He stands in the court and stares at the sky. He hopes it rains, to feel it in his coarse, unkempt hair, into his shaggy beard and to taste it in his disease-ridden mouth, with two fewer teeth than when he entered. A mandatory bath taken out of the hands of the guards and into the gods’. A knock, breakfast, minuscule portions of cereal, milk, and orange juice, the guard slides it through the slot with a limp wrist of apathy. The orange juice tastes funny, it always does. Metal and oranges. He drinks it anyways.

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He must drown out the screaming, his clear-shelled radio offers relief. NPR drones on about emergency financial officers. He laughs for no reason and rolls for fifteen minutes back and forth; he switches to the oldies station, “Henry VIII (I am).” For two hours, he stared at his ceiling letting his imagination riff off the radio creating his own music videos. “Baby in Black,” the Beatles play a funeral, “Tears of a Clown” has a man dressed as clown, singing his sorrows in an upbeat tempo, creating balloon animals as tears flow, making his greasepaint smear. He imagines what the DJs looks like and plays out the commercials in his head, mini plays in his mind’s eye. A hard knock took him out of that pensive bliss. “Come to the door and turn around.” What’s the meaning of this? He can’t ask it, he must follow the orders, fall in line. Do his time and the less trouble the better. He obliges, he’s cuffed and the door opens. The guard grabs him by the shoulder and scoots him along like he’s a kitten. He stands at the railing as two foreign guards barge into his cell, they’re different, their uniforms are black as opposed to green, and their boots are thicker, brandishing latex gloves and medical masks as they throw his mattress violently to the ground, and they rifle through his belongings, his books, his letters, his magazines. Then, a crash, his radio explodes; the circuits splayed across the floor. One guard shrugs and mutters “Whoops” and the other chuckles. Gerald hyperventilates. Nothing he can do. The mistake occupies his mind, the simple something, that preemptive strike which could have prevented his incarceration. Gerald worked his nights away, the stores were silent and he walked a mall without customers, without employees. His white F-150, made rounds around the perimeter, the doom and gloom of the BCC World Service keeping him company. He had only one incident during his time a couple years ago when he was 22. Two men were tagging the side of Sears with what was supposed to be Yoda, but it looked more

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like a garden gnome. Gerald flashed his lights, and he recognized the vandals: two classmates from high school. They recognized him as well, and they pleaded with him to “be cool” and not to call the cops. Gerald called “the 5-O,” and they called him a loser, a snitch, a bitch, an odd sentiment from two grown men playing a teenager’s game. He wonders what happened to them. Gerald came home and popped in one of his “Twilight Zone” DVDs. He carved himself out a nice piece of suburbia on the edge of the city in Harper Woods. He couldn’t stand light coming through his bedroom windows; he taped black garbage bags over them. He fell asleep to Serling’s closing monologue. Around three, a knock came at the door. Although he wasn’t expecting anybody, he rolled off his stomach and ran to the door, panicking. Just a girl scout holding a box of cookies. Then she screamed and ran back to her mother standing on the sidewalk. He looked down, he didn’t realize he was in his boxers and his half-flaccid, half-erect penis was hanging out the barn door, or rather, Garfield’s mouth. The trial lasted only a few days, the plea bargain seemed like the rational way out. Fighting it? The cops didn’t listen. The woman didn’t listen. The cops, they took one look around that house, the low lighting, the bareness, the ductedtaped garbage bags plastered to the window. They thought they would find a goat carcass in the basement with a pentagram of blood surrounding it, a closest full of meat cleavers and a freezer full of body parts. They didn’t. No child porn on the computer (He doesn’t have a computer? What the hell?) A stipulation, one Gerald wanted, worked out. If he’s going to plea, and he is going to jail…solitary confinement. General population would tear him apart, he’d be hunted down and killed, the story made the paper; they know him. The day before is what drives him. It plays over and over. He could have prevented it, the day before, the

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hardware store. It was in his hands! It shined; the little reflective dots, red and white. But he put it down, and went to work. He returned to his wretched pen. The mattress turned over; somehow there was water on the floor and in that pool, his radio. Turning the pieces over in his hands, tears welled up in Gerald’s eyes. The cerebral-noise canceller had been destroyed, the noise started playing, the scenario flashing; he put his hands to his ears. He joined the chorus. Gerald grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled on it “NO SOLICITING.” He had no tape so he defecated into his left hand, rubbed some tiny bits of shit onto the four corners and plastered it to the Plexiglas. He tore the mattress off the floor and onto the door to barricade himself from the onslaught. Within five minutes, the guards came down shouting giving him a warning. He sat in the corner, holding his legs and rocked back and forth. The guards assembled the SWAT team and they marched into the SHU, their boots marching in union. The psychiatrist made his final plea. No answer. Gerald hadn’t moved, aside for his Shaker tendencies. The lead guard opened the slot and fed it pepper spray and soon Gerald started coughing, his throat closed and his eyes watered and he collapsed to the ground like a bug in a cloud DDT. The guards stormed the cell, the lead man rammed into him with a shield; the next pulled Gerald to his feet with the scruff of his neck. He writhed, shoving his elbows back. A nightstick pounded into his stomach and they cuffed him. They dragged him to the shower, and sprayed him with a solution of water and baby shampoo. The entire time, he grinned with sick pleasure. 

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[Ian Hilgendorf]

The Car Ride; or Jonah Loses to the Whale

The car ride home from church; myself in the front seat, buckled in, hands on the steering wheel, and Tommy sitting kitty-corner to me in the back, his nose just below the passenger side rear window. Our heater does not work anymore and I can see my breath issuing from my mouth like little puffs of steam from a train’s engine. In the back, Tommy taps his boots together making a little rhythm as our car labors down the road. From the rearview mirror, I can see his lips moving. For the last several blocks, the car has been making a banging, sputtering, I-can-no-longer-do-what-you-areasking-me-to-do, kind of noise, though until now I have not noticed. I have been thinking about the electric bill and the pink slip of paper sitting on my coffee table and whether or not I should expect a child support check from Ray this month. In the face of all that, I have spent the last several minutes bartering with God. You do this, I’ll do that- sort of a thing. Tommy clears his throat. “What did you learn in Sunday school today?” “We learned about Ninevah, and about Jonah and the whale,” he replies. “Oh yeah? What happened to Jonah?” “He didn’t like God so he got bored on a ship and then it stormed and he swam to the beach and sat under a fig tree. Like Fig Newtons.” I imagine a tree covered in Fig Newtons and me sitting beneath it with a burning hot sun beating down on my body. Somewhere nearby, Tommy is running around in a bathing suit with swimmies on his arms and my sunglasses on his face. They make him look like an alien. We are both

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far away from here. In my imaginary Ninevah, the electric bill does not exist and Ray’s check is unnecessary. “That’s not what I was thinking of,” I say to the mirror, to Tommy. “I was talking about the whale.” Tommy’s lips stop moving, his face grows tight. I look away, back to the 44th Street traffic. “What did God do to Jonah with the whale?” “He sent the whale to eat Jonah.” The car makes another groaning choke and I tell myself to start praying harder, to ask God to keep us going. But telling myself isn’t quite the same as doing, and somewhere out into the great eternity, I think maybe Jonah knows that too. “Why did God send the whale to Jonah?” Tommy doesn’t respond right away, and for some reason I feel like I should be crying, but I’m not. Our car stops churning- smoke blossoms from beneath the car hood. After slamming my hand against the steering wheel, I turn on the hazard lights and other cars go flying past us, their horns blaring in accusation. “Tommy, why did God send the whale to Jonah?” In the rearview mirror Tommy shakes his head. “Mummy?” he says, his voice rising in a question. “I don’t think I believe in God anymore.” “Why?” I gasp, those tears now clinging to the corners of my eyes like leaches. “I just don’t,” he says. 

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[Justin Rogers]

Mud

We bathe our sunburns in mud, Block the sun with mud Find salvation during droughts in mud— We don’t believe in your remedies Your technology Or doctors’ offices. We tango hand in hand upon mud, Kiss in mud Mud fight Just to make new mud with our tears Then love in our creationOur tribes don’t have meaningless music Nor does our culture Or religion. We track mud across our floor And protect ourselves with adobe brick Play grounds are built of mud And animal skins There is no electricity No pride in expression of happiness Simplicity is rock bottomed salvation

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Suicidal (After Patrick Rosal)

Before you dream of me tonight, You must Know this; The incense of a burning rose Is just as elegant, As the sound of our kiss, And even more benevolent than A barrage of purple crystals Piercing your skin Sending an applause of blood Over this cliff Where I’ve found myself trying to decide If I Should commit suicide… By leaping into this valley of insanity… Where roses are black, Violets are white, And every word has potential To be the crimson fingertips That turn sweet caramel Into a burning blistered window Opening into a museum of darkness, And it’s been that way Ever since I’ve wished I could kiss the lips that beautify Your Japanese breathing tongue… I’ve wanted to carve your name into my tongue Just for me to taste you… Talk about a dream come true. Back staircase Not the most romantic place

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But I think our lips developed a nice friendship And I am compelled to melt at the thought Of them beginning to play. I want to Tie your hands together, Let me have my way with you I’ll play against your body with this ice cube. Watch you shiver as I find your spot Make you quiver as you kiss your peak, Then untie you… Let you have your way with me. Before you dream of me tonight You must know this; Only when I miss your kiss Do I lick my lips And only when I lust for you Does my pulse quicken… I’ll commit suicide by leaping into this valley So we can walk through it Together.

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[Brian Dougherty]

Body Bag

Word got out that Jimmy skipped the Witness Protection Program and slipped back into town to settle the score. A “body bag” job is what we used to call it when we were up and coming in the Outfit. Sure he’s good – real good – and unquestionably reliable as a predator. Jimmy Mancuso is a flesh and blood Terminator, constructed by both genetics and fate to do two things superbly: kill and survive. But I’m even better. He’s making a big mistake, I can’t help thinking. Even bigger than the one I made three years ago when I failed to kill him like I did his son, just before raping his wife and icing her too. Maybe I should send the moron a thank you card for making it so easy to finish the job. There’s one born every minute. It’s 8:32 on a gorgeous morning in Chicago in the spring of ‘92. I drive by the bakery and there he sits, the same greasy-haired WOP with the hooded eyes and exboxer’s nose. I get a clear look at him sitting in the back booth with his back against the wall. A once strapping guy, Jimmy’s gone flabby and gray. I grin, amused. Looks like time took a serious dump on you, Jimmy ole boy. Just when I think my luck can’t get no better I hit the mother lode. Jackpot! He’s the only customer. Do wonders ever cease? After parking my Bronco and stepping into the street, I hoist my boom-box on my shoulder and strut off down the weed-strewn sidewalk. Breath slides in and out of my lungs with shallow force. Easy, Vic. You got the edge. Body bag, baby. It’s what you do, and you’re the best there is. Four steps later, it hits me: a nervous spasm in the pit of my stomach. My hands grow cold, clammy. It always

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happens this way when I go after another killer. When I know it’s him or me. I remind myself, You got the advantage. You’re the offense. It’s a true enough appraisal; but a single mistake with the contract killer who once slaughtered three Secret Service agents using only a knife and I’m as dead as they are. Then another feeling that only comes when I go to kill someone who might kill me: a powerful wish to be back in the protection of my mama’s arms. It vanishes as quick as it appears. The time is nearly at hand, and I aint never felt more frightened … and alive! I stroll into the joint. The aroma of fresh-brewed Joe meets me at the door, along with the smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. I see the same squat, old waitress with the bulldog face who’s been here every day for the three weeks I been casing the place. She’s racking a tray of donuts at the far end of the counter while some faceless schlep busts suds back in the kitchen with an angry clanking of pots and pans. A transistor radio on the other side of the counter emits a tinny version of Hank Williams’s The Angel of Death. I smirk. How fitting. I lock eyes with Jimmy’s for half a second as I make my way to the counter. Good to see you, dickhead. How’s it feel to be a dead man walking? He takes a sip from his steaming mug, all the while giving me a good once-over. And then, just as quickly, he dismisses me, cutting his suspicious eyes back to the street and sidewalk activity. I feel my grin expanding … along with my dick. “Ya cain’t be playin’ yer hippity-hop music in here, young man.” The old woman’s issuing me a look of frank appraisal, furrowing her bushy gray brows. I shoot her my best rendition of Jimmy “JJ” Walker’s “Dy-no-mite!” grin to let her know I’m one of the good ones and not one of those Boyz N The Hood types. “Yes ma’am, I know,” I say, placing the silent, black hunk of plastic and chrome on the counter. “That’s why I turned it off when I

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come in.” I offer her another smile – a disarming one that inspires old Irish dinosaurs like her to want to trust an asskissing spade more than she would any other no-good, black heathen. “You think I might be able to get one of them cinnamon rolls and a medium coffee, ma’am? Black?” I’m really cheesing now. “I sho is hungry.” She shuffles to a pot of coffee, rolling her eyes and mumbling under her breath. Not that I give a shit. I have other things on my mind, like maybe ramming an ice pick in Jimmy’s heart and mailing it to his mother. I fight the incredible urge to catch another glimpse of the rat bastard sitting behind me, instead choosing to focus my attention on any sound he makes. Blocking out the noise of the clamoring dishes, the old woman pouring my coffee in a Styrofoam cup, and my thundering heartbeat, I hear nothing out of Jimmy but an occasional sip and belch and the provisional drop and scooch of his porcelain mug against the table. The old hag hobbles to a rack of cinnamon rolls and grabs the nastiest one she can find with her grubby fingers. She plops the damned thing on a flimsy paper plate before slapping my breakfast on the counter with a Fuck you, nigger expression. “That’ll be eight-nine cents.” I drop a buck-fifty. “Keep the change.” Stone-faced, she registers the money and makes for the kitchen. Jesus Christ. Do jungle bunnies really got it this bad? I down my coffee, ignoring the stale taste. All I want is to drown the razor-winged butterflies carving holes in my stomach. I pick up the radio, carrying it by my side, and amble past Jimmy, straight into the john. The whole time I’m praying like hell nobody’s in the lady’s restroom a little farther down the hall. My heart quickens as I withdraw the sawed-off shotgun from the inside compartment. I calculate the distance from where I stand to where Jimmy sits in the booth as twenty feet. Placing ole Betsy back in the radio,

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which I leave slightly ajar for quick access, I’m momentarily startled by my reflection in the mirror. The brown-tinted makeup covering my face, my hands and neck; the stuffed cotton balls inside my cheeks; the jheri-curl wig covering my sandy brown locks; along with the rest of the “ghettofabulous” getup got me looking like one of those rap stars the jigs watch on BET. Hell, I don’t recognize me, so surely Jimmy don’t neither. You got the offense, Vic. Body bag. Take him. Calm and fast. I come out of the restroom at a normal pace, picking up speed on my way toward Jimmy’s booth, but he’s gone. The fat bastard’s gone! What the hell? “Goddamnit,” I mumble between anger-clenched teeth, “where’d the fucker go?” A cock of the hammer. “Right behind you, Victor. Body bag …” 

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[Jennifer LoPiccolo] Goodnight April

Lacy revenue between the sheets the exchange of exes and ohs withholding from warm beds deferred from a blow, or a good make out with thighs tight erections get exempted out on the porch, legs Audit the countryside horses schedules in the federal kayak, filing one thousand and forty acres under deductible sunsets harvest the double u too Back to the room under where an unmade champagne down on manila envelopes the dependent so debonair incoming, one and one, embracing riches, all over a mattress

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[Demetrius Sherman] The Murder of Spring

Most of the time our minds were filled with comic book stories and awful jokes, but today one of the fourteenyear-old boys in class tried something “adult”. Ben and the rest of the boys noticed that one of the girls in class had developed breasts. Ben must have thought that he could get her attention and at the same time make up for being the shortest boy in class. As the girl sat at her desk, Ben laid a “Tijuana Bible” or porn comic book in front of her. The girl briefly looked at the comic. She smiled. She handed the comic back to Ben. Then she ignored him. Shortly afterwards, Ben showed the comic to another girl. With fiery eyes and a stabbing voice, the girl told Ben to never show it to her again. A horrified and dumbfounded look broke on Ben’s face. I didn’t see him with the porn comics after that. *** When school let out that day, I headed to a very small store to buy something sweet. All around me were boys from my class. Up ahead, there was a long, concrete bridge we could have taken but always avoided. Candy stores were not on that route. Stepping into the store, the middle aged, midnight skinned storeowner looked up from the book he was reading and greeted me with a piano keyboard smile. He said hello in that deep voice that Africans spoke in movies. As I was busy choosing what candy I wanted, another customer entered the store. The storeowner put the book he was reading on the counter and greeted the customer with that smile. As he waited on the customer, I flipped through

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the book and spotted a photograph of a heavy-looking wooden mask. When he focused on me, I was still looking at the photo of the mask. “This looks scary. What is it?” I asked. “The mask is worn when the child is killed and becomes a man,” he said. I didn’t understand his answer. I slapped the book shut. *** In the lunchroom the next day, while the boys nosily sucked milk through straws, Delaney, a wild boy with red hair, told us about a movie he had seen that was one hundred percent violence. Excitedly he said, “That movie was so cool. I bet a hundred people got killed in that movie.” I told Delaney I had seen the movie and described what I liked about it. Machine guns colorfully blared and made people magically disappear. The movie was as much fun as our comic books. When school let out, my body floated weightlessly to the store owned by the African man. I got there, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. A huge man with a long, bloodlessly pale face stood over me, blocking my path. Wearing a black trench coat and matching black fedora, the man looked like the Grim Reaper had just come from a black tie event. I couldn’t see past his dark figure. In a somber voice, the man said that the store was closed. I left the store. I sensed something was wrong. My body became lead. Later that day, I watched the news at home. Behind the newsman was a photo of the candy store. Then I saw on the screen a photo of the African man’s smiling face. The newsman said that the storeowner had been robbed and savagely beaten to death. I realized that a detective had blocked me from seeing his corpse. Going to school in the morning, dingy clouds blocked out the sun and now

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everything was tinted with darkness. My face felt lifelessly hard and wooden. That day in the school lunchroom, Delaney cheerfully described a scene from another movie. It was childish gibberish to me. After school, I took the concrete bridge home. ď&#x201A;

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[Michael Reeves]

Haibun 1

Smoking on the balcony before class, Aaron's story is muffled by the roar of jet engines. I look up to see that the sky is concealed by the underbelly of an airplane. In the time it takes to wonder â&#x20AC;&#x153;was that normal?â&#x20AC;? hundreds of people disappear forever. Avenues turn into one way streets. Families crumble. Buildings fall at the same rate as bodies. She watches the television and points to the empty piece of sky where she stood on Sunday. People walk from a cloud of smoke covered in white ash. Blood washes away the filth that coats their bodies. We all cry. The shared experience of a skyline change today, a public execution.

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[Douglas Brian Craig]

The Liberal Arts Trivium 1. Grammar

range decline parse

hat's what I was saying

eated behind a scoop back dress 8am

E mpathize

affiliate

ablative

P rocreant promiscuous slang R ealizing I'm her parents' age I

thought you understood that

D isfluent

alphabet soup

P iercings along her spine F

ive majors in as many terms

R oots descend pate to tragus A s many clauses in every utterance

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Trivium 2. Dialectic

L ogic I

dielectric

t isn't like that

capacity

converse accident

T he set of all sets that are not members of themselves P resque vu

a priori

dispassion

T he space that lies between S

yllogism

denial

valid

D ĂŠcolletage not part of the vernacular D iscourse

intercourse

nor vernacular

excluded middle

A s many causes in every utterance D ifficulty

hardy

tautologically divergent

O ld enough to be your father I

t is

not like that

outlier

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Trivium 3. Rhetoric

K nowing apology once meant defense G orgeous

aretê

C orruption of youth

nonprofit one of the charges

Y eah but C onverse accident being material

F orensic

deliberative

epideictic

H ave you stopped beating your wife M iscreant promiscuous cant L ately lacking encomium H e only said that V erbal attack

amphiboly déjà vu

T oo smart for one's own good

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Quadrivium 4. Geometry

O ED

prove

give in

U tter indifference actually F

inding Juvenal refers to piercing

N eeding two centers to draw an ellipse S

he did not nor he

vesica piscis

C ompass straightedge constructions I

'm sure

inflection

O f course

expanding middle

T wo scoops I

obtuse disinterest

of reasons 8am

sn't it axiomatic

Q uadrature of the circle

prick Delian

P roof of the negative

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trisection

Quadrivium 5. Arithmetic

reezer

dryer

lawn

E nough for dandelion wine C ount on

add up

in the red

W ill rhyme for food

near orange rind

T ranslates as bladder of a fish S

tone soup

ust stopped

dehydrated

U nprofitable S

single serving

uncharitable

unable

he didn't think that was funny

P urple

silver

month

A fter goddamn month N o where to go but

yeah

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Quadrivium 6. Astronomy

R each for

struck

shooting

K nows a guy that T he space that lies beyond E cliptic I

inclination

precession

t occurs to me to ask

T etrabiblios

yeah

C onsider the Antikythera mechanism D iminution of the obliquity of the ecliptic F

ourteen centuries of being right

M usic of the spheres D oor hinge

curple

neither original

A stellar run

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Quadrivium 7. Harmony

A rrangement

confluence

R emember to sit in front I

nfatuation

Philologia

prosimetrum

C ontrapuntal soup R etrograde

diminution

inversion

T weeze intact tragus R ealizing I'm my parents' age F

ugue

coda

rest

T wo majors in as many years I

deation

preferred sense

finally

K nowing scherzo means joke P romiscuous crĂŠant

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[Stephanie Godden] straws

what if light had a mass what if i could seize it by the edge and pull it closer through the windowpanes to warm me what if photons fought back and the sun and i played tug of war its open rays outstretched and my rug-burned palms peeling i cannot grab energy keep color from slipping the underbellies of my wrists are exposed my palms are outstretched and i fling decisions from these hands toss choices to the dogs like scraps and they lap them up like sour milk like they've only ever been starving the animals i free for i am the one on a leash i self-medicate so you sever away my power of attorney what remains is the rugged bone the jagged flesh the echo of a better muse out of my head and a pinpointed pain in my upper left back like the searing amputation of a phantom limb i clutch at straws i see you out i shut me down

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[Drew Bazini] Money Down

The Holiday Inn Express on Anderson Street has the best coffee. The buffet at the Courtyard by Marriott on 9th has a waffle maker and bacon that’s refreshed every half hour so it doesn’t go all leathery under the heat lamps. The Embassy Suites downtown has a make your own omelet station. But the best free breakfast is at the Hampton Inn on Corona Boulevard, where I’ve been living for almost two weeks. They put out cinnamon rolls and sawmill gravy for the biscuits, the kind with little chunks of sausage and big flakes of black pepper that shine bright against the milky white. There’s a motivational technique that I read about in a book once. The man who wrote it covered it in pictures of himself, his hair was perfect and he smiled wider than California. He told you to wake up every day and make a list. At the top of this list, you write the words THIS IS WHO I AM in big capital letters, then tick off as many things about yourself as you can fit onto a single piece of paper, no matter how big or small it is. You start every item on the list with the words “I am.” The idea is that if you see who you are, you’ll be able to see who you could be. I’ve done this every day for three years. Today, I’m using a napkin so I can only write so much. THIS IS WHO I AM I am Steven Michael Howard (I always put my full name first) I am thirty-seven years old I am unemployed I am essentially homeless I am basically divorced I am not as miserable as I probably should be

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It’s nearly eleven on a Sunday, so there’s not much of a crowd, just a couple of guys in matching green polo shirts and khaki pants, nervously staring at oversized laptops and eating cold cereal. They’re salesmen or IT guys or something else, out here on business, a big trip; the future of their company depends on them. There are moments where I’m almost glad that things ended up the way that they did. They don’t last very long. Freedom is overrated. Most of these free hotel breakfasts have their own sad little rooms with bare bones furniture that’s bad for your back and the smell of a thousand forgettable breakfasts embedded into the tacky wallpaper, but the Hampton puts theirs in the hotel’s restaurant, which means I get to watch Stacy set up for the day. She rinses glasses and cuts up bar fruit. She puts those little spout things into the liquor bottles. She makes sure that every third barstool has an appetizer menu in front of it. Stacy is a bartender and she fucks like one. I met her the day after I checked in, drinking whiskey straight because I had nothing better to do at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. She called me cute. Two hours later we were upstairs in my room, tongues and hands moving busily. As I entered her, I thought briefly about my wife, three hundred miles away, wondered if she had moved on despite the fact that we were and are still married. Stacy is twenty-five and she feels like it. I told her a lot as we laid around afterward, about being laid off and having my house taken away. About Denise moving back in with her mother until “I get my act together.” About cashing in all of my hotel rewards points so I’d have a place to live. Stacy isn’t turned off. She’s sympathetic and understanding and she knows that things are bad all over. “You know that show where they take a couple and follow them around as they look at houses while the audience speculates on which one they’ll pick?” She nods.

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“We were on that. That house that we picked is the one that got foreclosed on. It had everything. Everything. Stainless steel kitchen appliances. Vaulted ceilings. His and hers bathroom sinks. A shower you could fit fifteen people in and a Jacuzzi tub that fit five. You could have had a pretty good party in the bathroom alone. There were granite countertops and walk in closets and Brazilian Cherry cabinets.” “Mmmm, that sounds nice.” I could hear the familiar jealousy in her voice, the same jealousy that me and Denise and our neighbors used to have for each other’s lives. I could hear the longing for something more than she was, something more than she had, something more than she’d ever probably be. Because of people like me, people like her would probably never own anything. They’d never have a lawn or a clever mailbox or spend Saturdays at hardware stores picking out light fixtures. “It was. But the part that they never showed you was the adjustable rate mortgage we got talked into. Or the three percent property tax. It was like she sold us a hand grenade with the pin pulled out. The fuse was burning before the ink had a chance to dry.” I watch her until she notices me and smiles. She bites down on a green olive the way that only a girl like her can make suggestive and it kills me. Absolutely kills me. Denise is a distant past, one that I’m not sure even happened. We talk a lot about what we were and what want to be. Stacy wants to be an elementary school teacher but she ran out of money and has half a degree. She’s worked in bookstores and supermarkets. She’s cleaned up after sick people in hospitals. She’s sold life insurance over the phone to old people whose families would never see any payout. “I’ve been bartending for two years,” she says, wrapped up in the white hotel sheets, a long leg sticking out of the bottom. “I like it.”

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I ask what she did before that and she goes quiet, the kind of quiet that’s almost angry, the kind that tells you more than words do. Denise used to be that kind of quiet all the time. I don’t miss that at all. “It’s not pretty,” she says. “I don’t want you thinking differently of me if I tell you.” “I think you’re great. I don’t know what could change that.” Stacy tells me about answering an ad for models. “It was completely banal,” she says. “Something about needing attractive women to be extras in upcoming films. So I send a picture and I get a reply, and they give me an address. They tell me to look normal, to not wear too much makeup or dress too sexy. Nothing low cut or short. They wanted to see me. The real me. Not some illusion.” She throws on my dress shirt and gets up to sit at the small desk next to the television. Denise used to wear my shirts like this, but Stacy makes it look better than she ever could. “So I go. The address they give me is for one of those office parks with a dozen different buildings, and they’re all covered in that reflective black glass so you can’t see in. There are doctor’s offices and SAT preparation companies and businesses whose names were so vague I couldn’t tell what it was they did. In high school I got sent to a place like this to see a therapist because my dad died and my mom thought I was never going to get over it. They put me on antidepressants until I told them that they made me throw up.” Stacy tells me more about her dad and how she hasn’t seen her mom in more than a year. It’s sad in a way that I can’t really place, like I don’t want someone like her to have anything bad in her past. “So I find the place and I talk to the girl at the desk. She asks me to follow her down a hallway to an office. She knocks and opens the door and I see another woman at a desk covered with headshots like the one I sent. ‘This is

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Stacy,’ she announces, turns and walks out the door, closing it behind her. This woman’s office is nothing special. She has that pressboard furniture you can get in a K-Mart and a futon that looks like something she may have had in college. She tells me her name is Amanda, and invites me to have a seat. Amanda is no more than thirty and she’s dressed like someone with a real job would dress. Whatever business casual is for women. I don’t remember. She asks me questions about how comfortable I am with revealing clothing and flirting. She explains that I could be asked to wear a bikini and serve drinks at VIP lounges. She says she likes my look and wants to get a better view. ‘Stand up and turn around.’ I do as I’m asked. ‘I have some outfits from events we’ve done in the past. How would you feel about trying one on?’” Stacy tells me about the outfits, about how they were basically nothing more than underwear with a few short party dresses thrown in. Amanda said she looked great in all of them, and asked if Stacy would mind being filmed during another interview. “I said that would be fine, and I knew what was going on. I’m not stupid. But I went with it. I don’t know why, but I went with it. I liked the attention. I liked feeling…important? Powerful? Desired? I don’t know what I felt, but it wasn’t a bad thing. She asks me my name and my age and I look into the camera to give my answers. I’m asked if I enjoy sex. I’m nervous but I say yes. Of course I enjoy sex. I’m directed to sit down on the couch. I’m wearing a really short skirt that rides up my legs as I sit and I see Amanda point her camera towards them. If it were a guy it might be different. I might be more guarded. But I play it up. I smile and try to pull it down a little bit, knowing it will pop back up right away. ‘What was it like when you…touched yourself for the first time?’ I don’t remember my answer, but it was good enough for things to continue. ‘Why don’t you touch yourself for me a little for me right now? Would that be okay, Stacy?’ I go with it.”

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I’m a little turned on as she tells me this. Her long legs fidget in the desk chair, spinning it back and forth a little bit. The muscles twitch, contract and relax. She bites her lip. Stacy is masturbating on a stranger’s futon in a business park. Next door business goes on as usual. Someone is having a meeting. A doctor is telling his patient to cut out the fatty food. On the other side of the wall, a young woman is being videotaped as a neon pink dildo is taken out of its package and handed to her. She’s enjoying this. She’s relishing it. She’s turned on and getting close, easing the rubber phallus in and out, hitting that right spot every time. This is how it goes, she thinks to herself. Just like this a job interview turns into something tawdry, something exciting. She tenses up as she’s getting ready to come, muscles all over firing with pleasure. It builds and builds and she lets it out with a shudder, the same shudder I’ve come to know. Amanda tells her she did a great job, cuts a check for five hundred dollars and says she’ll be in contact with more work soon. “It really wasn’t anything weird or gross. No guys. Mostly just playing with myself in front of a camera or stripping out of some ridiculous outfit. Nurses, schoolgirls, a stewardess once. I got talked into a girl-girl scene right before I stopped answering Amanda’s calls. I don’t know why I quit, just like I didn’t know why I started. One of those things I just had to do, I guess, and when it got far enough, it got far enough.” She’s looking at me like something wounded, something cornered, expecting forgiveness for something she didn’t even do to me. I just kiss her on the cheek while gripping her hips. She takes over from there. It’s 7 in the morning when I wake up. Stacy is next to me, still wearing my shirt. I can sense the traffic building up on the highway outside the window. It’s November. Colder every day. I think of perfectly browned turkeys and whipped potatoes that are lighter than air. Denise was a perfectionist. Everything was matched and coordinated; the drapes, the

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napkins, the plates and serve ware, it all blended together perfectly and made me feel like I was in one of those idyllic scenes you only see in advertisements. I turn on the television and quickly mute it so Stacy won’t wake up. Early morning TV was always my least favorite. Awful wake up shows with perky reporters on one channel, seizure inducing cartoons on another, infomercials on the ones that can’t afford to stay on the air twenty-four hours a day. I used to think that hotel beds had too many sheets, but as I drift in and out of sleep, I start to appreciate each and every one. There are three days left of free rooms on my account, and I have enough in cash for two more. I’ve forgotten the exact number, but there must be nearly six hundred sheets of paper with my name and contact information and experience on them, all typed in the most perfect, tasteful font, organized impeccably. They’ve gone ignored or found the bottom of a pile or been made into confetti. I wake with a start from a dream I won’t remember. It’s after eight and I’m sweating. The world comes into focus and I sit up. One of those phony talk show infomercials is on; the kind where two people talk back and forth across a table so it looks like it might be a news discussion show. There’s a crawl at the bottom and everything. I un-mute the sound out of curiosity to hear the end of their conversation. The screen fades out then back in on a man sitting in front of a backdrop covered in numbers and phrases like “Change your Life,” “No Money Down,” and “Make Money the Easy Way!” He talks about what he used to be and how seeing a commercial at four in the morning turned him into an overnight success by using the Andrew McMasters system of flipping houses for profit. “I bought my first house at auction for fifty thousand and sold it six months later for three times that!” he boasts. His screen fades off into a montage of all the other houses he’s bought and sold, graphics explaining how much he’s made, voice over about how great the McMasters system is, and I’m glued, not blinking, focused on the screen for the eight

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seconds that my house, the one filled with granite and Brazilian wood cabinets, all the crap you need to make your friends hate you out of jealousy, is splashed on the screen. Bought for two fifty five, sold at auction to this guy for sixty. He says he’s living there. That it was too good a deal to let someone else in on. There’s the green front door, the brick exterior, the squared off bushes on either side of the walk that led up to the entrance. It’s me up there, not just a house, the me that I used to be, that I haven’t been in nearly half a year. Stacy wakes up slowly, groaning and stretching. I’m motionless, still fixed on the TV even though it’s been ten minutes since the commercial has ended. She sits up next to me and bites me on the ear, rubs my chest. “That was my house,” I mumble. “On TV. Someone...someone bought it for less than a hundred thousand. He’s living there. There was a picture and the guy bragging about it all. His name is Nick Banks.” Stacy is quiet. She doesn’t know what to say, but I can tell she feels sorry for me. “So what are you going to do?” My mind is a blur. I can’t focus. I’m angry and sad at the same time and I feel like I’m going to be sick. The back of my head is pounding. “I’m going there,” I say. “I’m going to my house. And I’m going to punch Nick Banks in the face.” We pull into my circular driveway at around seven thirty. Stacy’s spent the better part of the day trying to talk me out of this. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to own something. To have a life taken away. You’ll do anything to get it back, to have even the smallest possible piece returned. “I’m staying here,” she says. “Don’t do anything too stupid.” The doorbell plays in my head, the chime that took us the better part of a Saturday afternoon to select. The perfect tune, the perfect length. No one comes to the door. I knock as loud as I can. Still no one. The lights are off. I take a step back

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and look up at what used to be mine. Something’s wrong. I get an empty feeling deep down, a reflection of the inside. There is no Nick Banks. Not here, not anywhere. The door isn’t even locked. I can see where everything used to be; where the leather sectional was. The table where those perfect dinners happened. Stacy follows me in. “What’s going on?” “There’s no one here. No Nick Banks, nothing.” It’s cavernous, the way it looked when Denise and I first walked through. Impressive and eerie like a church at night. Shadows throw themselves against naked walls and bare floors. The kitchen appliances, the granite, the light fixtures, the cabinetry, it’s all gone, sold off. “It’s a scam.” “Maybe it wasn’t your house on TV. Maybe you saw something that wasn’t there.” “No, it was mine. It was this. I know it…” Stacy sits on the floor in the formal dining room. “It really was a great house, huh?” “You have no idea,” I say, sitting down next to her. “You have no idea.” I wake up on the floor of the master bedroom. Stacy is next to me, asleep. I go searching through the room, looking for something to write with. I find a permanent marker in a bathroom drawer, but no paper. On the mirror, the one with silver trim that makes the whole thing look like a fancy picture frame, I write: THIS IS WHO I AM I am Steven Michael Howard I am thirty-seven years old I am unemployed I am essentially homeless I am basically divorced I am the former owner of this house I am hopeful that you will love it as much as I did

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I am not as miserable as I should be ď&#x201A;

Toucan Prostitute found adhered to window in Parking Structure 1 in 2010

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[Thoren Optiz] Poetry Is What Poetry Does

â&#x20AC;&#x17E;Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.)â&#x20AC;&#x153;

Walt Whitman, America's first admired singer & songwriter reborn on poet's pages, that's the true meaning of a ghostwriter

His song comin straight outta the coffin in bloom when fly LA C's laced in the doggyard boom'd

Walt the Wit Man deliver the shit man like a Hits Man Cash'd in on The Game with Dreams & a vision

Prophet of the streets when there was no profit in the streets Legend's singing their own legacy, connecting withat wee'd be coming out of that battle endlessly rocking

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to stand out on songs systematically shocking withe help of leaves of grass we hear the flow on badass mixtapes

Following the dawns gold rush in seven stages to Cali the Wise Wizard's swarming inner eye sees brothers killed for their boots & taken on Nike's winged, athletic foot to the Olymp in Holy Woods Finally, resting at mountain lakes of zen-like clarity the pen-master is shown the purple parade he so adores

The sun soars high noon over G's shootout carried out in songs of themselves that's what OG's about sporting a cocky hat on the Cover of his Diary The grandmaster's spanning the living land like the East-West rivalry

He is crossing the continent using his culture's cradle

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the filament of his fantasy, strong strings of Brooklyn Bridge cable He made it in the rough printing gangs of New York, pasting the five Burroughs because he had The Will to say I am! So he could make it anywhere & said whatever you say I am.

Walt Whitman recorded rhymes in free'd verse lines he is there in the start and the end, singing songs for the Dead President to represent Lincoln on paper green sprigs using language to obscene for white wigs feeling one withe poor, raising a powerfull voice from the floor besides celebrating sex, masculinity & his citycollective consciousness of materialicity for he wrote The List, the inventory of the Super Market that A'Merca became, where everybody can cop/shop his drug & be it just distraction.

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Remember W double time'd you, R.I.P. in Rap's pieces, being happy that poets became so popular, happy that there are more stars in bars than behind and very well that they contradict themselves, humans, one of a kind Down since day one for freedom, speech & the war within one's self, expression that leads to peace.

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[Noor Salim] Informotion

Future school history textbooks on the 21st century will be less about events and more about issues. Turn on the tube, flip a page in the daily, scroll down an online article, and I all hear and read are appalled boasting voices and words, but I have no idea what the hell is going on. In future classrooms when our society is gone and left in books to be studied, students’ multiple choice exams will consist of the following choice answers for every question of how people reacted to [insert significant historical event here]. a. Relaxed b. Hysterical c. Repulsed d. Enraged Ten times out of ten, choice a. will never be chosen as the correct answer. Students deemed to conclude that we were a civilization addicted to and dominated by emotion. Following the “Information Age”, our time period would be identified and labeled, “The Age of Opinion”. * * * My business is in information, and emotion is the motivating force I started out with the small stuff. People would pay big to know if they’ve been chosen as a beneficiary on a will, or to know the nature of their mate’s behavior outside their home. Sex and finances; these little harmless matters paid my rent, bills, meals, and occasional entertainment.

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But it wasn’t enough to purchase a couple of airline tickets to the nearest vacation spot for spring break. My business progressed to blackmail. It quickly became the only reason I was sought after. Wealth, love, fame, beauty, and health were all a guise for an ultimate goal. Power. Grab a little word about your enemy, something they want hidden from someone else, and you held the power. Politicians running for a government position would do anything to seek any information deemed dirty to the public enough to sway opinion and votes. And if you had information that left the other opponent wondering how you found out with no trail leading to the source, they’d freak out enough to bail and forfeit the race before it even went to the ballot. That was power. Ok, so maybe I got a little greedy. Politicians were paying handsomely, but not before long the word got around about my flawless services. Next thing I know, the government offers me a position as a spy. Which I suppose was the appropriate term. It was exactly what I had become. I used my paranormal vision to hack into the vision of others, and used all that I saw as a means to make a living. That’s how it started. At first, I saw these things and felt guilty. It took me a long time to realize I wasn’t dreaming, and when I found out what I thought were nightmares were actual events happening on a daily basis, it traumatized me. But after so much exposure, just like everything else, you become desensitized. Murders, fetishes, tortures, all the horrible things humans do in private, all of these things I saw did nothing to me. It’s like when children watch horror films, and they cry or get scared of the violent acts and monsters they watch on the big screen. But then as adults, they start to feel nothing. You could watch a woman getting raped on the American flag as her boyfriend is forced to watch with a knife to his throat, and it produces no feeling of remorse, but of a little muster of words as you mouth casually, “Wow, well

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that’s pretty gross.” And we go about our day unaffected. But as children, the first time we see Reagan in The Exorcist twirl her head 360 degrees, we have nightmares for days to come. A huge client under my belt was the military, and they used my information to find weaknesses in their enemies’ structures, and would strategize accordingly. I’m not saying I’m responsible for the surplus and availability of resources coming in, and I’m not saying I am responsible for hundreds of deaths, but I did make it easy. But I felt unaffected, and the only thing on my mind was money, so that I didn’t have to live a life at an office or working under some asshole prick with an inferiority complex. However, I quickly learned of the connections between the government and criminal syndicate groups, or the up-and-coming mobs of our day. I learned although they worked together, it was only to take advantage of powers each had separately in the hopes of a joint effort in control. Neither entity wants to admit their power alone isn’t enough to pursue their ambitions for dominion. So the government used the mob’s power of evasiveness and ruthlessness, while the mob used the government’s power of manipulation and law. It was simple as that. And the more and more cases fell into my lap, from the menial, girlfriend seeking out her cheating boyfriend, or to the man seeking to assassinate someone out of revenge, all I pictured in my head were children. My imagination was forming children out of these clients blubbering in front of me about their problems. Whining and fussing. I didn’t see an adult exchange or case, I saw a girl whining about her piece of shit boyfriend she knew was a piece of shit to begin with. And revenge? All I saw was a man pointing to another bellyaching and complaining, “But he started it!” All this information was never for the good of anything but to satisfy the emotions of these people.

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And I was guilty as well. Put me down for answer “d”. Ironically, I was furious with how the system worked. People with nothing to offer the world, but to collect free money from the government taken from workers, lacking a sense of responsibility therefore weakening the collective competence of the world; having children without being able to take care of themselves first, were furthering the cycle of idiocy. And I gave into it. I took advantage of it. I abandoned my principles and hit up these goofs where I knew I could. Looming information above their heads like feeding sharks in intense fervency. I did it all for money, to avoid working the rest of my life. My business was booming and I didn’t even need a marketing plan. In business, the key to success is in knowing your demographic. It is in knowing what is in demand, and being aware of consumer behavior. I lived in a time where every decision made, every opinion formed, was of tremendous emotion enough to dictate thoughts and actions, thus making people vulnerable to manipulation. We were a civilization of over-populated fanatics and extremists. People would watch the news, and an anchor would yell at the camera. And then the next day at work we would yell at our co-workers. It worked. Emotion swayed the species. I only followed the formula to get what I wanted. If I ever happen to make it into future history books, I only hope approaching generations view me as a pioneer. 

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Motion Picture

For a struggle For a story For relevance is all that we want. God was created by a lonely mind who needs an audience.

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[Acquanetta M. Sproule] To Brood

I'd worn my uniform to my mother's funeral. Had my new E-5 chevrons and my four-year stripe. She'd never seen them. After being four days dead, she still had beads of sweat popping out above her top lip. I decided that she was struggling to get up, so she could slap whoever'd put Caucasian-colored makeup on her coffee-colored skin. Someone remarked to my father: "Your daughter looks just like you!" "She'd better," he'd said, "or I'll go up there and take back my casket!" Did she smile? Somewhere, probably... ď&#x201A;

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A Purple Cat for Mama

Though baffling to the extreme, one of the surprisingly least hateful things about this lie of a "summer vacation" to Burtonville, Tennessee was SaraSue's weekly trips to her Great Aunt Corabelle's. SaraSue just never could figure out exactly what she was supposed to be scratching off of her Aunt Corabelle's toenails. No matter how much she scrapped and scratched and squinted, SaraSue never saw anything come off, never saw any change at all. BUT, when her Aunt Corabelle would "ask" her mother if SaraSue could come over and pick her nails…well…when her Aunt Corabelle said come, SaraSue's mother would say: "Call me as soon as you get there." So, once a week SaraSue hunched cross-legged on the floor with one, then the other, calloused foot propped on her knee, determinedly picking invisible thingies off of her Aunt Corabelle's toenails. There was one consolation. Once she was satisfied that SaraSue had gotten rid of this week's crop of that nuisancey stuff, her Aunt Corabelle would reach way down into that black leather cavern, (though never falling in and disappearing forever as SaraSue often thought she might) and mine out some spare change for her efforts. That evening, she rewarded SaraSue with three quarters, a nickel and two pennies. "So close!" SaraSue grumbled at the coins. So close to the final $1.25 she needed to get her mother's birthday present out of layaway! Remembering where she was, SaraSue peeked apprehensively up, hoping -- praying! -- that she hadn't spoken out loud. Her Aunt Corabelle pinned her with those shiny, black eyes. SaraSue held her breath worrying that her Great Aunt might tell her mother that

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she'd been smart-talkin' or something, or, preferably, just swat her there where she squatted! One corner of her Aunt Corabelle's mouth crooked up and she went digging again. She surfaced with a brand new, never creased dollar bill, finger snapped it to be certain that she wasn't being more generous than she'd intended and handed it to SaraSue. A dollar! A whole dollar!! "Thank you, her Aunt Corabelle!!!" SaraSue threw herself into her Great Aunt's arms, squeezing her as tightly as she could, while trying to rock, with a surprising amount of success, some of her gratitude and enthusiasm into her Aunt Corabelle's solid frame. "You're welcome…now get out." "Yes, ma'am!" SaraSue answered cheerfully as she pocketed the money and scooped up her light, summer jacket. Off the porch, out the yard, nearly tripping but, with flailing arms, recovering her stride, SaraSue ran! She bat-turned down Dexter Street, racing past the Cat Lady's house, a dozen or so of her house mates lounging around and about in the Burtonville dusk, diamond eyes gleaming disapproval at her rude and uncharacteristic haste! On and on, faster, it seemed, than she'd ever run before, until only her Aunt Grace's hillcrest apartment complex was left between her and her mother's birthday present! SaraSue had to slow down some, climbing up that well-manicured mound. She tried to ignore the sudden stitch in her side, to focus on her goal in the little shopping center forty or so car widths away on the other side of the complex's parking lot ... just to see, set-by-set, the store's lights wink out! "NO!" SaraSue stumbled up against the glass door! She'd have to wait! Probably, only a day. Or two. It was just that

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she'd been so, unexpectedly, close! So closeâ&#x20AC;Ś Butâ&#x20AC;Śthere! Behind the counter! And there! Between the aisles! "PLEASE!!" SaraSue cried out, beating flat-handed on the glass-door, "please, let me in!" Blue eyes frowned at her. The head waggled, mouth shaped: "We're closed." "Please! I've got the rest of the money! I can get my mother's present, now!" Green eyes frowned at her. Head waggled, mouth crept into a smile. "So, you've come for your kitty," said Green Eyes, when he'd locked the door behind them. "You could've waited until morning," scolded Blue Eyes. "Now, Mother, she'll feel better once she's got it in her hands. Ain't that right?" he said and handed SaraSue the soft ball of purple fur. "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" "You're welcome. Now, get on home before it gets any darker." "'Kay! G'nite!" Walking quickly but still well out of sight of her Aunt Grace's front door, she put her plan into action, taking off her jacket and draping it over her arm -- just so -- to conceal her mother's purple cat nestled safely underneath. Keeping the birthday present secret from her mother these next two days wouldn't be a problem. She was, after all, only a grown-up. But keeping her demon-spawned-cousin-from-Hell from catnapping it and doing THINGS to it, that would be a challenge -- beginning with getting it into and keeping it safely hidden in the little room SaraSue was forced to share with the evil one. These were going to be some long two days. "Running a little late ain't you?" her mother said

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when she'd answered her knock. "I swung by the Cat Lady's place on the way here," SaraSue answered smoothly. Not quite a lie. She hadn't said that she'd stopped and visited ... but, her mother still seemed to examine her appraisingly with a hint of her Aunt Corabelle's smile lurking on her lips and behind her eyes. "Yeah. Well. Next time I send you on an errand, come straight back. Y'hear?" "Yes, ma'am." "Go wash that sweat off you and get ready for bed." "Yes, ma'am," SaraSue answered, trying not to give away her eagerness and relief! SaraSue felt her eyes still watching her as she escaped to the Hell Pit and gently closed the door. It was a blessing to have the room to herself for a few minutes, but she didn't have time to enjoy it, she had to find a safe hiding place for her mother's purple cat before the others got back from the show. The only place SaraSue had been able to think of these past few horrible weeks of her sudden and unexpectedly extended summer vacation that her cousin, probably, wouldn't look was the suitcase she'd brought from home. It was only being used for storage now and soon would be packed away, forever, in some dark, dusty corner when she and her mother moved out into their own place. SaraSue hauled over her cousin's favorite chair to the closet, not bothering to move Barbie or Skipper out of her way and, pulling the suitcase closer toward the front of the top shelf, unzipped only one side of it just enough to, carefully, start cramming in the cat. Of course, that's right when she heard the front door open, and Their voices. Aunt Grace, her boy friend, June Bug, the two teenaged boy cousins and ... IT! SaraSue jabbed at the cat so no purple hair would catch in the zipper and catch Its attention. Her mother and her Aunt Grace were talking, something about a long distance phone call, while three pairs

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of heavy footsteps jockeyed toward the kitchen. SaraSue shoved the suitcase back, teetering some, frantically trying to remember exactly how it had been before she'd moved it. Her Aunt Grace's and her mother's voices got closer ... and louder. They were nearly shouting; her Aunt Grace telling her mother she was being stupid and her mother retorting that Aunt Grace should be glad they were leaving. Leaving? Sure, it'd be great to have her own room again, like she did back in Detroit ... back home. But, this meant that her mother had found herself a job, and them a place to stay. And, next month SaraSue would be starting school, only down here instead of up North with her friends and futilely neat piles of red and yellow leaves to jump into and snow and ... Daddy. SaraSue was still up on It's chair, hands buried in the stuff stacked on the suitcase, when her mother threw the door open, strode in a few paces, then rocked to a stop. She looked at SaraSue. Looked at the suitcase. Kinda smiled. "Yo' ears too big sometimes, little girl." "Yes, ma'am." "Well, since you got hold of it, pull it on down," she said, coming the rest of the way in. Now, SaraSue knew that she, SaraSue, wasn't stupid! Yeah, she'd done some dumb things like trying to restraighten Barbie's plastic hair with a hot clothes iron ... but every bone in her body knew, without her having to think about it, when her mother said to move -- SaraSue moved! But she couldn't! If she took down and opened the suitcase right then, everybody would see her mother's purple cat! Her two boy cousins were spectating in the doorway scarfing their usual monster sandwiches made with lots of every/anything in the kitchen that wasn't nailed down or

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able to get away fast enough…this time. June Bug was, precariously, trying to calm the two sisters down. Brave man, June Bug… And, her mother and Aunt Grace were, loudly, discussing the situation; both with hands on hips and heads a-whippin' and both using words that SaraSue had heard them use before but would never let pass her lips not and risk her mother finding out that they had. Nope. SaraSue wasn't stupid! "Get yo' big, stanky feet off my dolls!" Oh. Yeah. Devil Girl. "My feet don't stink," SaraSue told It. Deciding that cat or no cat, the faster she got packed, the faster they could get out of there, she gave the suitcase a hard jerk. The suitcase slid halfway out, and closet stuff rained down on both girls ... but, mostly on It. "You did that on purpose!" It accused. No, but that didn't stop it from being funny! "Don't laugh at me no more," It threatened. Yeah. Right. Well, it worked once…SaraSue shifted her feet to brace herself, unfortunately freeing Barbie and Skipper. It bent down and snatched them up as SaraSue bent her own knees and snatched the suitcase. The Devil Child arose in triumph, Its smile matching the dolls' painted on ones. Until just before the suitcase connected… * Gallant June Bug, clawed and haggard, had driven SaraSue and her mother to the bus station early that next morning. The long ride home was quiet, mostly because, being a bright child, SaraSue knew when to keep a low profile. Out of Tennessee and through Kentucky, her mother's expression showed that she was still smoldering from that last night of fights between "Us" and "Them."

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Through Ohio and into Michigan, some of her mother's apprehension at reconciling with SaraSue's Daddy started to creep through. Her Daddy was waiting for them at the bus station, hands crammed in pockets. "Hey," he told her mother. "Hey," her mother answered. No hugs. No kisses. SaraSue wanted nothing more right then than to shrivel up and disappear. Then, he turned to SaraSue: "Gonna help me with the bags, baby girl?" "Yes, Daddy." "You not gonna hit me with one, are you?" SaraSue's mouth dropped open. They both chuckled, started talking -- a little. This was it! Time to pull out her ace! SaraSue lunged into her carry-all and whipped out that purple cat! She hadn't had time to get any wrapping paper, so she'd done the next best thing ... swiped her cousin's favorite pink ribbon, made a bow and tied it on that cat! "Happy birthday, Mama! This is from Daddy and me!" SaraSue presented her mother with the cat and was rewarded with that appraising look again. "This is from both of you?" she asked, shifting that look to her husband. Feeling trapped, SaraSue silently prayed ... hard! "Happy birthday. Do you like it?" he answered smoothly, and gave his wife a slow, little kiss on the cheek. Then, softly: "I'll get the bags." SaraSue hurried to help. Then, SaraSue's Daddy took his family home. ď&#x201A;

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[Sharon Munson] Terror in the Night

She stirs, wakes palms clammy, mouth dry. The woman listens to the night. Silence cuts the blackness, heightens sounds of water gurgling through baseboard heaters — a stream that amplifies the hush. Wind from the northeast skates along the roof, aspen limbs brush the single sheet of glass. Downstairs, the hall clock chimes three. The darkened bedroom illuminated by a sliver of winter moon reveals traces of a presence. Rounded shapes in the doorway, cajole. Her damp hand inches toward the bedside lamp. Uncertain, she waffles — then presses as bright light explodes into the familiar. On the closet doorknob, ballooning out in the draft, drifts six neatly ironed white cotton shirts — long sleeved, unbuttoned hung carelessly on black wire hangers.

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[Ralph Pullins]

Burn it Down The voice on the phone says, “Your mother is dead.” I put the phone back in its cradle and stare at the ceiling until the sun rises. I am ten years old again. It is horribly hot and I think I might be dying. Scratchy wool coats are trying to smother me. I trip over unseen things in the cramped darkness. I can’t catch my breath. I can hear him stomping around and shouting, but it seems far away. A sound of pure fear and desperation escapes from my mouth, a wordless whimper. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t find the door. The hanging coats grab me and hold me. I can’t find the door. I don’t want to, but I call out for my mother. Fear and panic grip my throat so nothing comes out. I can’t find the door. I trip over something again, shoes maybe, and this time I fall. I see a bright band of light near the floor. I claw my way over to it and press my face near the crack and the light and I suck in great breaths of cool air. I fumble around in the dark and I find the doorknob to let me out, let me out, let me out of this hot wooly darkness. I find the doorknob, turn it, and it is, it is…locked. “Sign here,” the lawyer says, and I do. “Nice house,” he says. “What are you going to do with it? Restore it?” “I’m going to burn it down,” I say, “and piss on the ashes.” He looks at my face for signs of a joke but there are none there. I’m thirteen. The nurse stitching my head is a man. “How did this happen?” he says. I tell him I slipped on the ice. “Of course you did,” he says. “Did the ice crack your ribs too?” My face is a stone. Yes, I say. He shakes his head. “Stupid,” he whispers. “Fine, alright,” he says. “Whatever.” As I leave, he says: “Wait.” He says: “There’s things you can do to avoid…ice. People to call.” His eyes beg for anything, some acknowledgement that I understand. I don’t even

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blink. “I’ll have a talk with your mother,” he says. Ha. Good one. I take my boy with me on my trip north to claim my prize. He is six and the most beautiful thing in the world. “I still don’t know where we’re going,” he says in the car. “We’re going to your grandmother’s house,” I say. “I have a grandma?” “Not anymore. She died a couple of days ago.” “Are you sad?” “I should be.” “But are you?” “I don’t know yet. Ask me again when we get there.” He doesn’t say anything else. He is a quiet boy, thoughtful. I just watch the road fly under the car as it takes us north. We stop at a gas station and I fill up two ten-gallon gas tanks. “What are they for?” my boy asks me. “We’re going to have a fire.” He looks excited. “A big one?” “As big as they get,” I say. We get into the car and back on the freeway. “Can I get some mush-mellows?” he asks. I smile at the mispronunciation. When I was his age, I used to say “pasketti.” “No,” I say. “It’s not going to be that kind of fire.” “Huh,” he says. More road flies under the car. Then: “What’s vindick? “What?” “When we left, Mom said you were a vindick jackass.” “That’s vindictive. It means to get back at someone in a mean way. Did you hear our whole conversation?” “You were yelling. I couldn’t help it.” “It’s OK.” “You said the F-word,” he says, reproachful. “I know.”

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“A lot.” “I know, I’m sorry,” I say. He shrugs in a forget-itwe’re-cool kind of way, and just that, his simple forgiveness, fills me with both pride and self-contempt. I’m fifteen. Blood leaks from my mouth and my teeth don’t seem to fit together anymore. I hiss when my tongue hits the place where my right eyetooth used to be. My mother is wiping the blood from my chin. “He feels really bad,” she says. “He does. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, but sometimes he cries he feels so bad.” My heart is a stone. I don’t even bother with contempt. I tell her I’m leaving. Tonight. Right now. She looks away; she can’t meet my eyes. “Don’t make me choose,” she whispers, and right then I want to hit her, beat her bloody. Right. I stand up, get my backpack and walk out. Outside, I shiver in my t-shirt and look at the house for the last time. One day, I’ll burn this place to the ground I promise myself. Later, my boy speaks again. “What was she like?” “Your grandma?” “Yeah. Was she nice?” “She was careless, but yeah, she was nice,” I say. She always bandaged me after I was beaten, I don’t say. “Did she make cookies?” he says, and I laugh. “Cookies?” “On TV, grandmas always have cookies.” “They do, don’t they. I don’t remember if your grandma made cookies. I don’t remember too much about her,” I lie. I’m not sure why I brought him. I should have done this alone. I’m glad he is here though, he is keeping me strong. He is making me brave. I think I took him because I can’t face that house alone. I pull into the long driveway. The house is still hidden by the trees, and suddenly I slam on the brakes. I

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can’t breathe, I can’t move. My hands are clenched tight on the steering wheel. I am panicking. (Blood and empty bottles and thirteen stitches in my head and crying in the dark for my mother, locked in the closet for two days for leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, his swollen tomato face so close to mine I can see the broken vessels in his nose, his hot dirty smoky breath and his hairy reaching hands, I am going to throw up I am going to throw up.) Then the boy, my son, touches my arm. “It’s OK, Dad,” he says. I look over into his shining, trusting eyes, so much like my own, and I realize that he’s right. He’s right, it is OK. “Are you scared?” he asks me. “Yeah,” I say and I’m glad my voice holds steady. He thinks for a minute. “Do you want to hold my hand?” “Yeah.” I take his little hand and I hold it. “I’m OK,” I tell him. “Let’s do this.” We pull around the bend in the driveway, and there it is. The house has held up well. Just a house, I tell myself. Wood and wire and metal. We get out of the car, and the gravel crunches under our feet. We stand a while, just looking at it. It seems so much smaller than I remember it. “Looks haunted,” he says. I look at my boy. I nod. “It is.” “Are there ghosts?” I smile at my son, the perfect being, the angel. I am filled with that fierce, proud, protective love that only parents know about. He doesn’t need this, I think. This is my fire. I think of the gasoline cans in the trunk, about how the house would look engulfed in flames. I think of my mother: quiet, subservient, and weak. I didn’t go to her funeral, if she had one, if there was anyone left who cared enough to give her one. She is dead, and so is he, with his belts and fists and anger. Dead, and this house is not them. This house is nothing more than wood and wire and metal. Just a house. I look at my son with his clear trusting eyes, his perfect heart, his mother’s smile.

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“Ghosts?” I say to him. “Yeah, there’s ghosts. But they can‘t hurt us anymore.” 

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[Humeshkar Nemala]

Maya in Detroit

Orange hues signal the puberty of the sun. Tall rises A city laden with half hope Limps A deep yawn; I roll up the blinds. The ebony smoothness Hugs passionately, the patterned playground; Gods watch with frozen temper Helplessly; all the while inhaling Oxygen and Its worthless love child. The brewing crushed beans The rolled up sheet From yesterdayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s power play Crescent marks All are on display. Overbearing smells of Cashew sautĂŠed korma and Stale butter milk Conjure hazy pictures Of carnal voyages Blue coffee cups Unwashed laundry Soiled Rubber Lie Hostages of the dark lords. Touch, faith and untarnished love; Cupid carried these seeds,

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To cast in flesh and blood A conjugated matrix Of chromosomal art. I make love to the shadows of Medusa Even as Aphrodite waits to sing The glory of holy matrimony; All the while watching the snaking Nile whisper Tales of fornication. I shudder. I touch. The grey chambers purge Pregnant thoughts; To witness in agony, the blue sirens. I scream; Maya! Maya!

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[Ricardo Castano] Castled

Max woke up, as per his usual routine. His shower passed quietly, his old body soaking up the heat from the steam building up in the bathroom. As he was shaving, he turned the intercom on, and asked the maid to make him some eggs. He would have asked her by name to make breakfast, but after fifteen years of having help around the house, names became muddled into one big cloud of accents and nicknames. He moved to his closet and grabbed his favorite sweater. Sure, it was old and the wife hated it, but even if it was just a bit too small, she wouldn’t be around to bitch about it. Besides, there was a kind of friendship with the old thing – a kind of familiarity that only came from years and years of use, and that fit better than any of those horrendous pullovers his wife was always bringing home for him from shops like Neiman Marcus. He grabbed a fresh pair of slacks, belted them up, put his diabetic socks on, and slipped on his wingtips, which were shined to perfection. Before he made his way down to breakfast, he went to his study and grabbed his old case from the bottom drawer of his desk, the edges frayed and worn, like the lines on his owner’s face. He tucked it under his arm and went downstairs. After a quick romance with the perfectly prepared eggs, he choked down his organic rye-wheat bread, drank his organic prune juice through a child’s straw, and sat a moment to let the whole thing slosh about in his gut. Max got up from the table, thanked the maid, and made for the front door. On the small table beside the hat rack was his paper, which he grasped carefully, making sure not to let any of whatever the hell was stuffed in it fall out. He took his hat and coat, donning them like an old uniform. As he went to open the door, his reflection in the cut glass made him pause.

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He couldn’t help but smile at what looked back at him. If only the guys at the firm could see him now – one of those old fogies who sat for hours on end in the park, playing chess with other gray-heads to avoid their wives. Max and his wife had learned throughout their relationship that a certain amount of space was good for the both of them; it also gave them some nice stories to tell at the dinner table. The subway stopped, and Max made his assisted ascent into daylight. Ever since the war, he had praised the invention of the escalator. The damn Krauts made his one knee all but ornamental because of everything that had happened, but it wasn’t pleasant to think about. He took his usual seat on the shady side of a tall maple in the periphery of the tables laid out in the park, grabbed his case and set up shop, always claiming the blue side of the chess set. Blue for the Allies, he thought. His brow furrowed. Forty years on now, and I’m still waging wars. A part of him winced at that. Forty years? It couldn’t possibly have been that long, could it? But it was. That old, gradually drying up sack of a cripple that stared him down in the door’s glass was a solemn reminder that time had pulled its old disappearing act. A part of him, perhaps the part that arises in so many elderly people close to meeting their maker, rose up: he thought for a moment to be the gray side for today, and attempt to let these old wounds heal. This made him recoil in horror at what that might mean. There was no forgiving or forgetting. Let anyone, even his conscience, say what they will. He was true blue, and there was no way to even try to sympathize with the gray side. It sat at the other end, awaiting challengers to come forward and try their luck. Let them come, he would think. Let them come, let them sit. I’ll pull my version of blitzkrieg on ‘em. Those damn Gerries won’t know what hit him. Max grinned. There hadn’t been a single pawn moved, but he already felt like he had won six in a row. Then he sat down. Max gaped in horror.

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*** Viktor’s day started much like any other. It was the weekend, so the boss didn’t need him. It was good too, his bones were aching more and more these days, and he didn’t know how much longer he could go on running errands for some trust fund baby who was at least three times younger than he was. He had been out of bed by 10:30 and hot-plated himself a scrambled egg and toast. He watched a little fuzzy CNN, drank some instant coffee, then grabbed his hat and headed out. Viktor liked to come down to the park on weekdays and play chess with other men around his age. It was his new way of making friends, and meeting new faces. However, his conscience told him he did this for more than just those silly reasons. He was making amends. He knew that he could never come close to undoing anything. Maybe, and this was the part that kept him up most nights, he could never do enough to even attempt to make things right. What if he was just exercising some futile attempt at redemption? He sat down at another fellow’s table. The man’s looks assumed that he was older than Viktor was, from his sweater and neat ring of hair around his prominent bald spot, but there was something that told Viktor he was closer in age to this person than he thought. He must have arrived just in time, since the man had a look that said a game had just been finished, and in his favor. However, it looked like Viktor took the poor old guy completely by surprise - he seemed to jump out of his skin when he laid eyes on him. The old man sat in front of a full board. The chess set was a very old one, unlike the run-of-the-mill sets he had been accustomed to. The color scheme was awkward as well: blue and gray. A nice twist, he thought, from the standard black and white. The pieces themselves were distinguished and elegant, made from a very dense metal, perhaps pewter. They were formal, yes, but not without a sense of being well-used. The shine from the paint had lost its luster, the towers on the rooks were crumbled and smoother than when the owner

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had obviously purchased them. The swords on the evervigilant knights had been worn down, becoming one with their armor. A small tinkle of anticipation rose on the back of Viktor’s neck. He didn’t know why it was there. “How do you do? I am Viktor Klein,” he began in a heavy accent. Max regained his composure, and with all elements and constructs in his being telling him to flee, he forced himself to reach out and shake the man’s hand. “I do well, thank you sir. They call me Max Domczyk. ” He replied. “Gray always goes first. Make your move.” Viktor let out his first pawn. Max let out his. During the game, Viktor seemed to notice more and more that this man seemed familiar. He did not like it. No one was this familiar, and that was what troubled him so much. It must just be paranoia, he thought. The mind playing tricks on him, as it had tried to do so much in the past. He decided to start in on his usual spiel and get to know him. “So Max, where do you hail from?” Viktor’s icebreaker seemed to fall on deaf ears, with Max staring straight into Viktor’s eyes. Then Max, realizing himself, gave a slight shake of his head and answered. “Well, originally, Poland. But after the war, I headed to the good old U.S. of A. The war had destroyed the economy, and I couldn’t find work. So I shipped out. Been here ever since,” Max replied. Viktor’s throat dried up. He was bound to meet someone from Poland eventually, no need to make a mountain out of a molehill. He was just being irrational. He moved his bishop to guard a pawn. Max snatched it. “Ah, your story is very like mine. Tell me, where did you live in Poland? I’m from Lodz.” Viktor started a small prayer to himself that Max’s answer would be somewhere like Chernivtsi, Lwow, even Bialystok. Viktor moved a knight to a plainly unguarded space, distracted by a subtle gurgle stirring in his subconscious.

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Max neatly swept the knight up with a quick move of one of his old rooks. He realized this game would be the easiest one he had ever played. His chance for revenge was finally here. “Oh, just over the border, were yeh? I was in Krakow,” Max replied, allowing a slight tinge of naiveté to enter into his voice. Viktor’s blood ran cold. Krakow was just across the border from the camp. No. This is impossible. What are the odds? No, no, no. Max castled his king, a favorite technique of his. It was a security policy developed over many years of playing. He never lost a game when he castled. That’s when Viktor saw it. Max moved to cover his king with his rook, and the old, scratchy sweater he was wearing slid up his arm as he reached to move the pieces, revealing small, sick, deep green numbers. They were embedded into his arms, each digit a manacle chaining him to those memories, the pain, the anger, the hatred. They burned their crude forms into Viktor’s eyes, wrenching his mind to the war. His one great fear was finally realized – he met a survivor. Any formality he had dissipated, everything he said he would say, it all left him. He was a blank slate. He was merely Viktor Klein, Wachmann of Auschwitz. He had watched so many innocents wither away into nothing, and shot down emaciated specters that were once human for wandering too close to the fences that bordered the camp. Escape attempts were verboten, and now there was no escape for Viktor. He was face to face with a man who had survived the terrors of the camp, and had lived to meet him. This was impossible… “Your turn, mein herr,” Max said, a trickle of contempt and aggression rising in his voice. He knew that Viktor had seen. He had wanted him to see. Blitzkrieg. Viktor stammered aloud and moved his queen. Through his haze of confusion, he had tried to get some kind of semblance as to how the game was progressing. His next

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move seemed logical to him, but then again, logic was something completely foreign to him now. All the guilt that had been festering inside him since his flight from Germany was bursting out of his thoroughly-repressed seams. It would have been a wonder if he could have run away from the table without falling flat on his face, but he was cemented to his seat. Max swooped up Viktor’s queen with a quick move of his bishop. Now it was just a waiting game. “Du,” Viktor shook his head, bringing English back to the forefront of his mind. “You are from Treblinka, ja?” “Why, yes I am, mein herr. How has life been treating you since the fall of the Reich?” Max was no longer smiling. He saw the terror in his old tormentor’s eyes. Max’s first thought after he shook Viktor’s hand had been to summon what was left of his youth, leap across the table, and throttle him outright. However, in the few minutes their game had been going on, Viktor had been fidgeting. Now he was outright shaking, on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Then it hit him. This poor soul felt as guilty for his atrocities as Max was scarred for having lived through them. Violence would solve nothing, but Max still remained true blue. There was no forgiving. Not after what he had been through. This was endgame. Max moved a rook, placing Viktor in check. A move was made, but he had no idea what he moved or where he moved it. Viktor could stand it no longer. He fell into a deep sob, covering his face in his hands. The living embodiment of all of his nightmares, all the crying, screaming faces that kept him awake every night were staring across from him. He threw himself into a litany of apologies and pleas in two different languages for forgiveness and absolution. He was causing quite a scene; very few games of chess result in a fully grown man past retirement age breaking down and crying like a felon on the witness stand. But, then again, wasn’t that who he was? A felon. A murderer. A fiend who had no value for human life, and now he was facing judgment. His reckoning had come

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while he still drew breath, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Max made his final move. The blue queen took the gray king. Max knicked it, knocking down the hard, ironlike figurehead. A piece of the king’s crown chipped off as it hit the board. Max got up, leaving his chess set behind while Viktor pleaded, unintelligible. He went to the hysterical man’s side and firmly grabbed his shoulder. Viktor yelped at Max’s grip, and tried to regain some of his composure. He could only manage himself into a sniveling, red-eyed lump. Viktor struggled to look his victim in the face. It was all he could do to look past him. Max looked into his eyes. Endgame. “Checkmate, mein herr. Auf Wiedersehen.” 

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[Sharada Sharp]

Whale Hunter Tongues move like whales Over whalebones and things I could never touch Not because I never Wanted to but It seemed frivolous like counting the moles on your back Or deciphering all the colors in your iris Spines and mammoth ribcages like hovering church ceilings Unstable and quivering White as Jesusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; face And whole like the sacrament Lapis lazuli Glimmering beneath the surface, throwing Sparse reflections in the distance While the whales brood like shadows or storm clouds Touches would never do I could never feel what it is that your are With all this skin in the way Where is that current? The blood the soul the shhhhh I whisper naughty things while you sleep Holding onto the covers, tightly Anticipating the downpour Sailing over cryptic waters I see them I hear them in my dreams floating upside down Layers upon layers of bones upon sand upon water These touches could never grasp Tempest-tossed matters

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Fail Flower on Trumbull and W. Edsel Ford Service Drive, Before Remodeling

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Dear Reader, I hope you enjoyed this edition of the WLR, because I compiled it for you. It was a rocky ride but we made it, and I have to say that it definitely was worth every minute. I hope that this message reaches you well and that it inspires you to access Wayne Stateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strong community of writers and artists. This book is a prime example that you have it in you to write the great American novel, to sing a hit single, to have students study the themes of your portfolio into the next century. It starts here. Thanks and I hope I see you here next time,

Alyssa A. Bell Editor-in-Chief

# drew bazini # johanna berger # ricardo castano # douglas brian craig # brian dougherty # stephanie godden # alan dennis harris # courtney-sophia henry # ian hilgendorf # melissa humphrey # jennifer lopiccolo # sharon munson # humeshkar nemala # cameron kenneth nuss # jeremy nycholas # thoren opitz # ralph pullins # michael reeves # justin rogers # noor salim # sharada sharp # demetrius sherman # acquanetta m. sproule #