The Huron River Review Issue 14 Digital | 2015
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The Huron River Review Issue 14 Digital | 2015 The award-winning journal of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, and art by students, faculty, and staff at Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Editing and Design Tom Zimmerman
Editorial Board Zachary Baker Simon Mermelstein Ember Plummer Davon Shackleford Tyler R. Wettig
Copyright Š 2015 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors and artists. Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works. The works herein have been chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.
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Mission Statement The Huron River Review is a forum and a showcase for the vibrant literary and arts community made possible by the students, faculty, and staff at Washtenaw Community College.
From the Editor This fourteenth issue of The Huron River Review is packed with excellent poetry, prose, and images. Enjoy! My thanks also Dena Blair, Interim Dean of Humanities, Social and Behavioral Sciences; Bill Abernethy, Interim Vice President of Instruction; Rose Bellanca, President; and the WCC Board of Trustees. Finally, thanks to the following: Max Gibson, Karen Karatzas, Jas Obrecht, Aimee Smith, Sue Smith, the WCC Bookstore, WCC Public Relations and Marketing, WCC Student Development and Activities, the WCC English Department, the WCC Writing Center, the WCC Copy Center, Jessica Winn, and Ann Zimmerman. --TZ Ann Arbor
Colophon This issue was produced on a Dell PC using Microsoft Word. Fonts used are Berlin Sans FB and Calibri.
Breaking & Mending The following poems first appeared in the WCC Poetry Club anthology Breaking & Mending: Malcolm Barrett’s “Meditations on a Dying Cat,” Sheldon Ferguson’s “Six Haiku,” Adam Lowis’s “Aenima Mundi,” Lylanne Musselman’s “Blank Sheet,” Olivia Oakes’s “Stretch me,” Davon Shackledford’s “The Old Captor,” James Smith’s “Black Friday 2014,” and Tyler R. Wettig’s “Gods and Things.”
Submissions The Huron River Review is an annual publication of Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan. From September through January, it is open to submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography by WCC students, faculty, and staff. The editor and student editorial board select pieces for publication based on their aesthetic merit. We’re fond of work that is beautiful and/or strange, but we’ll look at anything. If you’re not sure, send it; we’re friendly. We prefer electronic submissions. E-mail to tzman@wccnet.edu. Snail-mail to Tom Zimmerman, LA 355, Washtenaw Community College, 4800 E. Huron River Dr., Ann Arbor, MI 48105. Phone: 734-973-3552. Website: http://thehuronriverreview.wordpress.com/
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The Huron River Review Issue 14 Digital | 2015 Contents Regen Ainley
Ring of Fire
Cover Poetry
Tyler R. Wettig Ember Plummer
Jamie Fulcher Brandon Shelton
Zachary Baker Danielle Karwowski
Mike Frieseman Steven Hoekstra Kelly J. Anderson R.M. Frumkin Kelly J. Anderson Tom Zimmerman Tyler R. Wettig Michael Hylton Kyle O.A. Linford Tom Zimmerman Kelsey Horne Danielle Kanclerz
Dumpster Series #1 i am worth everything misaligned tectonic plates laughter, sobbing, abrupt silence . . . Gigermoth Muriel Our Day of Roam It’s two am What Becomes of Responsibility Axl Come Am A Love Poem for My Body Suspense toothpaste and formaldehyde subterranean homesick ooze Under the Bed Three Heads Are Better Than One Do Not Make Stray Marks on the Ballot Neruda’s Dreams Halifax Afternoon To the Girl with Flaxen Hair Gods and Things The 400 Blows Ishvara Pranidhana Monumental Kingswood Last Bridge to Rome
9 10 11 12 13 14 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 29 30 31 32 33 33 34 35
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Robin Anderson Sarah Eicher Anton Capaldi Remy Anderson Wroxanna Work Lauren Adams Erica Morris Tom Zimmerman Emily Merucci Barbara Sofia Branca R.M. Frumkin James Smith Yasha Chernyak Adam Lowis Yasha Chernyak Olivia Oakes Nicholas T. Slane Zachary Baker Davon Shackleford Tom Zimmerman John Shelton Natalie Lovell Michele L. Sweeney Iris Petersen Tom Zimmerman Kimberly Bolton Tom Zimmerman Sheldon Ferguson Malcolm Barrett Jamie Fulcher Zachary Baker Lylanne Musselman Diane M. Laboda Jean Kearns Miller Olivia Wylie
How to Die in a Horror Movie Purely seductive techniques Dad The Dinner Party Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment Alter Bridge, Rock on the Range, May 2014 Under the Radar The Surfer When Burano Calls on Me Reaching towards L’Amour Black Friday 2014 Jesse Aemina Mundi Gorilla Stretch me Untitled Neurons The Old Captor Funeral Mask, National Archaeological Museum . . . Penny for Your Thoughts You Should See Me in a Crown The Lost Poet SoulMate Ionian Sunset Raindrop Races I-80 Rain Six Haiku Meditations on a Dying Cat The Knot in the Wind Postapocalyptic Dream Blank Sheet Your Idea Blues in the Night Yo Soy Francisco
36 38 39 40 41 41 42 42 43 44 46 47 49 50 52 53 54 54 55 55 56 57 58 59 59 60 60 61 62 64 64 65 66 67 68
Gallery Olivia Wylie
Yo Soy Francisco
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Mike Frieseman
Regen Ainley
Robin Anderson
Janet Hawkins Chanel Stitt Anton Capaldi Ralph Kennedy Max Empson Calvin McClellan R.M. Frumkin Lauren Adams
Jamie Fulcher
Danielle Kanclerz Yasha Chernyak
Abstract #1 Abstract #2 Abstract #3 Abstract #4 Winter Ring of Fire Weathered Vigil Stalwart A Lost Age Abandoned Youth Abduct Crystalline Image Interrogate Spectral Waltz Rue de Glace et Niege Lily Straw Hat Golden Glow The Space Between Untitled Untitled The Road Not Taken The Pretty Reckless, Rock on the Range, May 2014 Killswitch Engage, Rock on the Range, May 2014 Wolfmother, Rock on the Range, May 2014 Five Finger Death Punch, Rock on the Range, May 2014 Avatar, Rock on the Range, May 2014 Neon Night in Ypsi Yspect Untitled Grand Canal Spirited Weed Disclosure Blah Green
70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 84 85 85 86 87 88 89 90 90 91 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 99 100
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Fiction Tyler R. Wettig Shane Emery Tyler R. Wettig Tom Zimmerman Hana Finder Danielle Kanclerz Sara Weldon Robby Hunter S.L. Schultz Samantha Oliver Amy Rust Higgins Jeff Murtonen Danielle Kanclerz Lauren Adams Matt Thompson Yasha Chernyak Adella Blain Danielle Kanclerz Kelsey Taylor Danielle Kanclerz
Dumpster Series #2 The Forest and the Trees Reservation Prince Edward Island Pow Wow The Painter Gondola Jailbird amygdalae Autopsy of Desire Untitled Untitled The Picnic Did You Know That Time Was Passing? Stepping Stones Like a Storm, March 2014 Dream Date Pigeons Megan In the Name of the Father Tangled Branch Lavender To the Light
101 102 103 103 104 106 107 108 110 112 113 114 121 122 123 124 134 134 135 140 141
Nonfiction Tyler R. Wettig Chloe Paglia Yasha Chernyak Brian Ruhlig Jamie Fulcher NoubissieThierry Kehou Roma Ziarnko Brian Goedde Tom Zimmerman Index of Authors and Artists
Dumpster Series #3 A Messy Recollection Vova Dooryard Decline Untitled Spanish for Strong Woman Land of Dreams and Dragons Step-brother Roommate Sea of Wonder
?144 145 152 153 154 155 164 165 167 168
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POETRY
Tyler R. Wettig
Dumpster Series #1
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EMBER PLUMMER ______________________________________________ i am worth everything i. once upon a time they told me to take up space. i am only just understanding what that means. ii. when you are used to panic attacks breathing is a privilege. you do it quietly so as not to draw attention. if you are trying to let your exhales be heard remind yourself to breathe deep. every bit of air in your lungs is blessed to be there. iii. uncross your legs. stand with them shoulder-width apart turn your feet outward take up space. do not let yourself shrivel you are more than a pulled-up flower. grow roots inside yourself and bloom. iv. speak louder. at first it will be torture feeling this breath ripped steady from your lips a band-aid stuck on too well. speak louder anyways. your words are important and if they are not they will be forgotten and that is okay speak louder anyways, speak louder always v. i am only just understanding i am worthy of taking up space. my breath my body my voice me
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EMBER PLUMMER ______________________________________________ misaligned tectonic plates i can feel myself shattering along fault lines we drew as children. i can feel myself shattering along fault lines i knew i had but never thought to stitch up. fault lines i carved myself. i know i have these i know they shake in every earthquake i know pieces of me drift out through these empty gashes. i know sometimes i like them. i know sometimes i like them. i know something is wrong that i like the way these silver natural disasters feel under searching, two a.m. fingers. i know something is wrong with the fault lines i know people should not be made of pieces. i know i can’t breathe i know i can’t breathe breathe—breath is skipping , skipping skipping my breath in— in— in— can’t get air in. air out—out—out breath comes out too fast too much skipping beats i’m made of pieces. held together at fault lines i’m not sure we can survive this earthquake.
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EMBER PLUMMER ______________________________________________ laughter, sobbing, abrupt silence, scratches of pencil on page, keyboard clicking, soft ‘aha,’ quieter ‘fuck,’ humming, paper rustling, phone calls to memories, memories, forgetting, every joke you ever told in middle school, every girl you ever kissed, maybe the boys too, more crying, more laughter, a five-hour phone call, more memories, silence. the soft kind people don’t flinch away from. some words taste sweet, have you noticed? the way syllables can curl your tongue like sugar and the softest sounds can feel like prayer? like amen is your tongue clicking against your cheek— i was never a religious girl. they all say that, don’t they? the poets who call for spirits every time they hold a pencil. god, but they’re singing, come forth, my ghosts. it’s time to feel again. and the marching sounds like papers rustling. and the marching sounds like
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Jamie Fulcher
Gigermoth
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BRANDON SHELTON ____________________________________________ Muriel Somewhere in America there is a city Marred by empty stores and litter lined streets With smokestacks spewing their poisonous breaths And somewhere in this city there is a bar The sign out front gives no hint of a name Only a steel frame in the shape of the word BAR Each letter ambushed by light bulbs Some broken, some dead, some hanging onto life Some still have managed to burn too bright And their red paint has begun to peel and crack The ancient planks of wood Which have known life on the floor Far longer than they ever knew of it in the forest Are stained with every possible human bodily fluid Blood, spit, vomit, semen, and especially tears Here people drown their sorrows and livers They numb the aches of unfulfilled dreams They stifle the internal voice of self-loathing They drink to escape, to cope, to handle merely existing At one end of the ebony wood counter sits a man His head hung low, his eyes fixed upon his drink He follows each bead of condensation As it becomes too heavy under its own weight And tumbles down the glass of his double Jack and Coke He has loved, and has lost love He has laughed, and cried for what was lost Around his neck is a pendant with a faded photo A beautiful woman kept in the dark Her smile hidden from the world but not forgotten by him Each night after closing time he shuffles home He makes his way up several flights of stairs To an apartment that has fallen into squalor Dishes in the sink have become Petri dishes Full of life, the kind that give mycologists wet dreams
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The floor covered in packages from TV dinners That never found their way to the trashcan Which hasn’t figured out how to escape the abuse of starvation He slumps down on what was once a chair The springs have sprung and given up And the foam, or what is left of it Has become home to countless generations of roaches A sinister stain strangles the fabric Which was once so proud of its colors His head bobs up and down like a sick pigeon As he fights to stay awake just long enough To see the woman across the alley get out of the shower And dress for work, she is aware of her watcher And is flattered he has taken notice But what she doesn’t know Is any woman could be her But no woman could ever be Muriel He reaches up with trembling hands Ravaged by years of hard and thankless industrial labor His mind screams orders at his fingers But the whiskey swirling around his brain distorts each command Seconds become seemingly endless minutes And finally his determination pays off There she lies with her familiar placid smile Between two heart shaped pieces of sterling silver Her eyes are kind and warm Though her body has long since grown cold and rigid Her skin given way to the hunger of worms And her green eyes two endless black voids This is how he knows her, the love of his life He utters words, unknown to even him, under his breath Muriel oh Muriel how could you go and kill yourself he thinks What about me? What about the kids? What about the dishes? What about the carpet stains? Muriel.
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BRANDON SHELTON ____________________________________________ Our Day of Roam Under the toilet I can see the radial splatter of piss The mold stained grout where hope limps off to die Beneath a jagged and chewed fingernail moon I’m drunk on the bathroom floor dreaming of you We ate in fast restaurants and drove faster cars The freeway stretched passed the horizon Until the solid yellow line touched far off stars And we rode loudly into that gentle night Three sheets to the wind in a hurricane of whiskey Laughing as we approached the speed of light Until it was too late and fate had us by the throat We tried our luck and hit a stalled out truck You soared out the windshield like a falling star And then you hit the road and rolled a mile Leaving in your wake a trail of skin and blood Your teeth strewn about with patches of hair
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BRANDON SHELTON ____________________________________________ It’s two am Hope was a bird That hit a window On the 34th floor Of a skyscraper And it’s blood Trickled down The concrete and steel tumor To the asphalt below. Somewhere in the Bronx A window washer Felt a chill creep up His scoliosis spine A fever clutched his head And in the beads of sweat On his wrinkled brow Fear evaporated And the whole world Breathed it in.
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Zachary Baker
What Becomes of Responsibility
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Zachary Baker
Axl
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DANIELLE KARWOWSKI ________________________________________ Come Arms stretched wide like the branches of an olive tree, come to me. I will place my hands on your mantle until you're no longer shaking. I know that sometimes you feel so soft it hurts. Body like an aging peach, come to me. I will ice your bruises. You have opened yourself like a mouth wrapped around its favorite bottle. Dizzy, it is all too much. Come to me. I will hold your hand. I have watched you grow crooked, Weeping Willow, dark forest. Bones withering wood from which I could build the most grand piano. Come to me.
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DANIELLE KARWOWSKI ________________________________________ Am "I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am." -- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar I woke up today and decided to tell the truth: I am not okay. But that is okay. At least I am feeling something. I am lonely in my kneecaps, in my womb. Between my fingers and teeth, spilling like sweet honey onto everything I touch and bite and kiss. The roof of my mouth. Behind my eyelids. I am cold; think waterpark, mid-November. I am rainfall, year-round. Quiet, persistent, I am outside your window. I am the moon- calm, pale, bruised. Heavy weight of stone, somehow floating. Dodging men's fists like a fox in daylight, I am my mother's daughter. I am a seeping light in winter: think chandelier smashed against the pavement. I am open: arms outstretched like the branches of an olive tree, come to me. I am naked, fully clothed. I am a disappearing act gone wrong: a ghost in your backyard, asking you to dance. I am the sorrow you just can't swallow. I am sweet- think fruit, apricots. Rotting and growing in my gardener's hands, he is sinking his teeth into me. I am not graceful. I am not beautiful. Think Tuesday morning, 3 am. Hair in the sink. I woke up today and decided to tell the truth.
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DANIELLE KARWOWSKI ________________________________________ A Love Poem for My Body Here is a poem for my body. For my body who I often pretend to not know. For my thighs, who I am always running from . They are soft. When I wear dresses, they glide with me, and so I am grateful for them. My face, it is round, pale. It is peaceful. Is that strange to say? On a good day, I can be the moon. And my lips! My always crooked, pouting lips. Who have memorized sonnets and equations yet somehow feel they do not deserve to be kissed. I am learning to love the soft curve of my waist. Just because it isn’t toned does not mean it is not strong. I am angry at myself, for always hiding the freckles splattered against the bridge of my nose, like stars against a galaxy. You see, what I am trying to do is sort through myself, piece by piece, even the bad parts while trying to comprehend that my body is not a bad thing. That the stretch marks on my underarms are just treasure maps to my breasts. That my weak arms were somehow strong enough to erase the handprints off my skin that should have never landed. Tomorrow, I will dance along the shore in my swimsuit to the sound of
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my own body parts. I only wish I could have heard myself sooner.
Mike Frieseman
Suspense
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STEVEN HOEKSTRA _____________________________________________ toothpaste and formaldehyde She died the way she lived full of toothpaste and formaldehyde in the soft roselight that shone bleakly ‘pon her prosthetic smile. the bereaved drank whiskey and fed themselves fish oil brandishing gaudy bouquets, like floral crusaders fighting to retain a cold, sympathetic poise. her son barely breathed. he disowned his tears as the Hammond organ breathed amen cadences and her bones changed from yellow to gold to brown her rosary and lusterless rings were like the ouroboros. Meanwhile, the bereaved popped fish oil gel caps, and drank their stomachs green, and smoked their lungs from pink to brown to black
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STEVEN HOEKSTRA _____________________________________________ subterranean homesick ooze Standing sitting moving walking telephone prose and clip-on clothes catacomb nightcrawl like fire on propellant and blazing the trail sharing harsh smokes gazing stalactite windows and uranium floors we are tramps of the underground donning converse shoes in gemstone quarries tremulating tunnels infested with reverberating bats their choruses of nothing are tombstone pledges to all-knowing deities they know we walk and talk and sing just like we used to, to blanket our deepest despairs. we’re somewhere In Between a sickening ritual is a kiss away. from crowned crowning infant child destined new born prince fuck is half-witted and gray a land mine to the brain land mind has texture and definition but half-wit revolutionaries have nothing other than a visual appeal to t-shirt salesmen which means naught to the bhikkhu but even the average t-shirt waits on hooks and heeds its call but the unaverage t-shirt is stuck to its hook like an unrepentant victim of the inquisition in chains receiving nothing other than dusty and gloomy and squalid looks and mustard stains that remind me of home that make my stomach ache
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KELLY J. ANDERSON ____________________________________________ Under the Bed Barely a foot tall, the space between floor and bedframe — a safe harbor. A boxspring roof, shedding hairy strings, like cobwebs in a still place. The ruffle of a bedskirt — inside-out navy blue with white dots, for privacy. White legs, etched in gold trim, sturdy and reliable. I would wake up with short red wool from regular square tiles pressed to my face. Like soldiers, obedient and orderly, those floor tiles marched to my doorway Always open — “No closed doors in this house, young lady.” — a lonely condition. Beyond the threshold, lumpy mesas of blue loopy-cut carpet — a road To the Living room, to an antique carved upright piano I liked to play — But not when forced in ruffled dresses, for perfumy aunts and cigared uncles —
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A left turn led to dark brown linoleum and colonial dining chairs around a table To the place where mom’s voice would be heard — screeching to a silent dad: “Look what your daughter did,” she held up the evidence, damning. A family snapshot with mom’s face surgically removed, by a hole punch.
R.M. Frumkin
Three Heads Are Better Than One
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KELLY J. ANDERSON ____________________________________________ Do Not Make Stray Marks on the Ballot Let the world float past your grubby habits. You are too busy to notice the change that walks past the house like the deer at night, snacking on the trees of your complacency. Go outside one day, see some thing amiss, but go back inside without asking why. Another day you can stumble on a rock in the center of your lawn and you can wonder how such a thing landed there. Instead, pray to the eternal blue sky. Do not look back at the yard and across the neighborhood and wonder where the trees moved and why you are living on top of a lifeless lunar surface where you swore you planted a lawn.
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KELLY J. ANDERSON ____________________________________________ Neruda’s Dreams For our dreams are the smoke trails that float to the clouds and conjoin with a shared particulate conversation only to return as the rain that fertilizes the existence of those conscious and not yet dreaming.
Tom Zimmerman
Halifax Afternoon
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TYLER R. WETTIG _______________________________________________ To the Girl with the Flaxen Hair* Like a prophecy, it has come to this; I drink her poetry like a disciple of Christ. Ichor trickles from her eyes; stabbed in spite by funeral knives. Never has one so blind been so apt to see; may her soul's worries cease to be. Her crystal sepulcher refracts the light; her flaxen hair yet shines bright. Still more ichor– like sap from a tree; to lust for paradise shall make the light not be. Perhaps at last, she is free.
*Titled after French composer Claude Debussy's piece The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.
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TYLER R. WETTIG _______________________________________________ Gods and Things Beyond grassy plains, through Eden of old. Upon the snowy qliphoth*, tender and cold. A temple, a spine– Elevated, dedicated, alive. Desecrated by Gods and things. Where light yet basks through crumbled pillars and Angels’ wings.
*In Kabbalah tradition, the qliphoth is a realm of evil.
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MICHAEL HYLTON ______________________________________________ The 400 Blows I saw you alone on the shore, your slept-on hair combed by the breeze. I think it was a Tuesday, and we were both wandering, like a pair of buoys untethered and absent. The breeze tossed us like the sea and you ran to catch all of it to hold in your hand. I forgot I was watching when you looked at me. I met your eyes and found a sea of hard luck. You had nowhere else to go except the water and I thought to join you. We could drift out there to where the ocean opened up and the tide no longer held us, and we would never return to our homeland. Instead, we would float with our backs to the water and our faces to the sun.
Note: The title is borrowed from the English translation of the 1959 French film directed by Franรงois Truffaut
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KYLE O.A. LINFORD ____________________________________________ Ishvara Pranidhana Let go of the anchor Lose your ground Give into the weight As the monsoon washes over you And the waves crush your breast. Let the rain run over your head And drowned you in a sea of darkness Because in the dark A candle shines brightest Just as a bird’s song is the most beautiful After a storm.
Tom Zimmerman
Monumental
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KELSEY HORNE _________________________________________________ Kingswood Four days. no make-up or underwire bras. Ten minutes per phone call. Scars on every single arm. Well I'll have to see yours, miss. I played in the sandbox, and sipped apple juice, and sang my room mate to sleep. It was her third time here. No, I don't have any pot. She was found, hanging. She jumped out of a car. He threw a cat in front of a bus. yeah, But why are you in here? I took too many pills. but, why? I don't know. and i'd think about you, and how all you really felt, was guilty. Her hands stopped that
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for a while. And I'm glad it worked out for you. Really. I sat in the backseat, and stared at the clouds.
Danielle Kanclerz
Last Bridge to Rome
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ROBIN ANDERSON _____________________________________________ How to Die in a Horror Movie Accept a sketchy invitation to an isolated house many miles away from any semblance of civilization. If female, abandon common sense for high-heels and impractical clothes. They’re much more fashionable. If male, replace rationality with testosterone. All potential threats will cower in your masculinity. Upon arrival at your destination, do not concern yourself with frivolous things like the lack of cell phone signal or the fact that the landlines are down. Such things are not your priorities. Relax. Consume copious amounts of alcohol. Bond with your friends. Immerse yourself fully in your environment, it is a vacation after all. If you or one of your group see the stark silhouette of a man in the window, ignore this. It’s clearly your imagination. Shame those that mention the strange noises that you can hear too. When the lights go out, scream as loud as you possibly can to alert others of this predicament.
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Argue loudly with your group. Ignore any logic. Bring up the prospect of splitting up. Split up. If possible, accompany your significant other. Allow paranoia to render you inane. Talk constantly in a loud, barely concealed whisper, especially if you are alone. When you hear a scream, become hysterical. Ditch any companions. You don’t need them. Find somewhere to hide that is deep in the labyrinth of a house. Stay away from any exits, and forget the fact that you came in a car. When the killer enters the room, remember that, in his cumbersome mask, he can hear your very breath even if you cannot, so you must give up your position. Quickly, run past his vision, drop any possible weapon you had collected, and do not apply any tactics of stealth. Trip over air as you steadily look back over your shoulder. Reach the end of a useless, doorless hallway. Crumple against the wall like a pile of dirty laundry. Reason with the man with the bloodied hands. Shriek uncontrollably as he slowly approaches. Do not attempt to dodge the impractically large weapon he wields. Close your eyes. Accept fate.
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SARAH EICHER _________________________________________________ Purely seductive techniques Smokers lounge of pubescence starting with a light, heightening to a touch ending with a fuck. Bics stain fragile air of young minds, temporary tobacco, ignites fading passion filtered by closed thoughts. Camouflage to hold, overflowing porcelain breasts, while Sir Burnies loosens lips. Pressing enthusiasm coaxes the pussy drive, indulge in longing for lust, stealthy combinations can only end to a public affair. Grindin of knees trying to switch on his button forbidden fruit seems like communal satisfaction to hard liquor lovers
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Anton Capaldi
Dad
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REMY ANDERSON ______________________________________________ The Dinner Party How merry! How joyous! The time has come! The guests; they have arrived! By oaken vessel their voyage ends with me. One by one they march, hoity-toity with stiff posture. Their eyes gaze upon my wondrous decor. My decor. They have come to see me! "Good evening, Miss Margaret" I say as I kiss her soft, velvet hand. "Aren't you looking just divine" Set gently betwixt Margaret's golden locks lies a sky blue ribbon, tied just so. "My, my" I exclaim. "Such refined taste, so beautiful, so blue" Margaret's eyes veer shyly away from my polite observations, how rude. I skip joyfully amid my guests, whom I assume are just dying for their delectable feast. I hear the faint ring of the dinner bell as it announces that the feast draws near. "That’s it!" I announce "The feast is upon us!" My mind races as I skip gleefully into the pristine kitchen. Pots and pans clash in harmony as I finish preparing the main course. I tremble with anxiety as I lay out the suckling pig amidst the rest of the banquet. The guests-- My guests-- gaze upon the glorious feast that I have placed tenderly in front of them. Their mouths lay agape with hunger not dissimilar to a starving lion approaching its kill. "Don't just look!" I hurriedly spit out "The feast grows cold!" Sir McManus, Miss Margaret, Tom Petiloch, and those devilish twins; Remus and Roy. The candlelight dances upon the silhouetted cast as I make sure each guest is tended to. The red wine glistens as it is poured into each glass (not into the childrens' of course, of course). My heart flutters and sings as I tie the final bib around Tom's neck. The candles continue their festive dance as Roy's powdered corpse slumps into his silk laced chair. "How impolite" I offhandedly whisper into Tom's ear. Red wine dribbles from Miss Margaret's maw, staining her fine white dress. "Simply disgusting" I utter aloud "How did I end up with such foul dinner guests?"
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WROXANNA WORK ____________________________________________ Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment Youth, Almost maddened with the effect Of their impulse. They laughed and pretended And strove to imitate fully, Tripped up, Louder than ever, to think there a livelier picture Of youthful rivalship, Deception. The tall mirror Reflected the figures, Contending for the skinny— But they were young: Still keeping hold of fragments.
Lauren Adams
Alter Bridge, Rock on the Range, May 2014
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ERICA MORRIS __________________________________________________ Under the Radar Waiting for words to pour out of your mouth As quick as a motorboat to make up for all the lost time Spent in Silence We wade in pools of water Watching the waves turn from clear to brown From all the oil boats leak The drivers demand that the motors move faster As mush from the engine turns to slime on the rocks Still we stand and wait With our toes deeper down in the muck Staring at the empty dock That the boat was never tied to
Tom Zimmerman
The Surfer
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EMILY MERUCCI ________________________________________________ When Burano Calls On Me These days I don’t feel close to no one or no thing But when I’m here, I feel close to him I come here as much as I can these days Not as often as I’d like But it’s better than nothing I used to be here every Monday, After work, on my way home Park my bike at the shore And slide the rowboat into the hungry Sea I used to love coming here with my wife Elena Having her meet me down here And I would have flowers waiting Behind my back I used to love coming here with my son Giuseppe Teaching him how to fish And rowing all the way out to Burano Tiring, but worth it like nothing else To watch the sun set on my little boy’s delighted face While his feet danced in the water lapping against the ledge That was then, Before the sea betrayed me Before he swallowed my pride and joy My beautiful little boy
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BARBARA SOFIA BRANCA ______________________________________ Reaching towards Me: dear one I am here for you come – sit next to me may I brush your hair look in the mirror see how beautiful you are I saw you pick up that dead bird you found in the forest you stroked its stilled breast so sad tears wetted your cheeks you made a shoebox home for it filling it with green grass and dirt for the travel to heaven how kind you are I know you are afraid of your dolls especially that porcelain one whose eyes open and shut if only I could take them away let me get you your black and white panda the one with music box in it you play it every night do you know that I hold you every night while you cry into its worn flat fur sometimes if you sit quietly you can hear your breath it will stop those tears your breath is like the warm sea sweeping up onto the shore washing over you and then sliding away cleansing you refreshing you
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you can trust your breath Me: I have to put my dolls in the same place they move at night they will kill me if I don’t I get daddy’s lighter off the dresser I light the trash every morning I’m scared put it out before they are here just a little fire every morning before breakfast I hate breakfast oatmeal with bumps oatmeal I hate oatmeal cold breakfast oatmeal at lunch cowgirl boots I like Annie Oakley but not the witch with the red apple in Snow White I screamed and screamed but I had to stay in the movie seat my mother smiled got closer smiled and slapped my face red I hide from that smile Me: Sweetheart I am so sorry sit here next to me remember you told me you could leave your body? there were angels made of clouds all around you
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cooling your face caressing your hair singing you felt safe for now you can go there I am there you will be safe lay your head on my lap let your eyes close softly so I can sing you to sleep
R.M. Frumkin
L’Amour
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JAMES SMITH ___________________________________________________ Black Friday 2014 Interpolated with direct quotes from online message board, November 24, 2014 15 minutes before 5 p.m. on Thanksgiving The store manager gives us the up-sale speech: If they are buying boots, you sell them socks too A kayak, they should leave with a paddle If you can’t think of anything Else sell them gift wrap I smile, think of my minimum wage, Lack of holiday pay Think of others My good and hardworking co-workers the nice managers imagine what it could be if we were doing something meaningful there must be thousands of places like this my mind, this time, our time, revolts from this idealism so I think about what I should up-sale with pepper spray But that sends me to Monday’s revolt in Ferguson I, like a car-gawker, went online Found a live feed watched the response To no indictment The message board was frantic, Black Friday shoppers Hands up, don’t shoot Pants up, don’t loot We open I sell a pair of pants Recommend a belt Who’s streets, our streets Shoot back Fuck the police This is too peaceful
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We are playing Christmas music We aren’t that busy But the ones who come Are all turkey, testosterone, primal Chimp out Rise of the planet of the apes The lion sleeps tonight Good God Darwinism is exciting I work until 1 a.m. Others will be here all night I will return on Black Friday proper Abe Lincoln was a piece of shit If Snoop Dogg became president I could die happy No taxes, no police The Illuminati did this The store manager hands A customer an AR-15 The customer racks open the assault rifle Takes a big whiff of the chamber Man, I love that smell Oh, the oil smell? No. Freedom. I scurry away to avoid Puke laughing If they destroy my McDonalds I’ll have to step in Airdrop KFC it’ll stop Later, my libertarian manager says Man that guys was coo-coo. Freedom. Tell that to them Arabs. I ask if he would have sold that rifle To that guy Sure. My salary rides on sales goals. Besides, if we wouldn’t sell it to him, One of our competitors would. I say, maybe, we should sell it To the “Arabs” instead. He laughs, calls me a sick fucker every 28 hours a black man is shot by a cop make the pigs pay dearly By the end of Black Friday We sell nine AR-15s When a customer comes to my line with one I recommend the cute snowman gift wrap. But really I wonder if I’m suppose to offer A camo ski mask
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If you hate feminists press 7777 I don’t mind blacks I just don’t like mexicans These social justice activists’ tears are delicious Like Trayvon this will be forgot in a year RIP Michael Brown
Yasha Chernyak
Jesse
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ADAM LOWIS ___________________________________________________ Aenima Mundi For the friends I lost to O.T.O, the occult, pseudoscience and other superstitious nonsense. The strangle-held fetters of fanaticism make fertile the ground where monsters of unchecked imaginings sprawl as wild vines Over the space of fiercely driven and expansive mind. The shackled womb of the Bretheren still clutching its hold on a beast of fierce intention driven by whimsy and senseless sensation. Compelled to leave this realm while yet living. You saw the fear in those who speak of grace, yet still yearned for an embrace, and to be free from the straining weight of gravity, and soring without boundary into endless space. Transcendental games to unlock hidden realms of mind, endowing unto them strange and monstrous forms while your truer eye stayed blind. Did all the signs and symbols mirror things within one’s self? Or did you lend them power profaned as things with presence seen and felt. Did you even know the difference? Confuse hedonism with ethereal and feel the draining of the essence. The seduction and the lie of sublimating the senses. Emptiness abides when ordinary is the sensuous, when discipline swims to the depths of experience. You met the wisdom eye, but never learned the lessons. Did you even know the difference? You unearthed the secrets, and ancient hidden things, all the nexus points of the interwoven strings, only to obscure them, yet again, in masks of aversion and unsightly imaginings. Iconoclasts do not muddy a vision in the miasma
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of emblems of the strange. The endless wheel of exploration And symbolic explication: Numbers, diagrams, shapes and lines, can never embody perfection of emptiness; of apprehended moment, already gone, already out of time. Imperfectly we prophesy. Imperfectly, we divine. Did you not see that in creating the antithesis, you only mirror the thesis? Was it not revealed to you, that the universe is on the side of justice, not power? Compassion is no vice, and it will yet alight our darkest hour. It is no prophet who dies a junky drained of wit. It is no law, that which was written in maniacal romantic fit. It is no prophet who substitutes seduction for empathy; in whose renown is remembered infamy. You remain admired by players in strange, deviant theatre of shock. A barely existing cabal, lovelorn, starved for touch all assemble in your flock. Those that touch the source Radiate excellence, even as the body gives way. Your end was met in sallow skin and bloodied tongue, in decrepiting decay. In allying with demons They exact your destruction as their price. As you worship with “strange drugs� and partake of every vice. The birthright of us all. Change in accordance with will.
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Your magical mystery tour, invoking every thrill. Poor brother. Effort that missed the mark of transformation. What good is it? Save for the forming of your fascist ideations, and the naming of hungry ghosts.
Yasha Chernyak
Gorilla
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OLIVIA OAKES __________________________________________________ Stretch me Stretch me I’m rolled up in my predictable provocations Rolled up in what I learned before pelvic break Stretch me so I can come closer Join you in the trenches Where you’ve told me it’s not as scary as I think Yeah, avocado pears Peaches rumpus Balls for fucking sake Can’t we throw that out of Merriam Webster Or at Merriam Webster The MRI sees straight through me I can show you those images But what do bone spurs and dessicated discs tell you beyond my age. I stretch every morning while still in bed Thinking I can get there You’re not there I’m not there How do I reach the trenches? Can I arrive unripened? Will you have me?
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NICHOLAS T. SLANE ____________________________________________ Untitled Too often the scent of learning is empty space devoid of passion. Where is the perfume of the struck match igniting the smoldering charcoal of thought? Learning should be the aroma of cookies straight from the oven, freshly cut grass on a summer day, and the stench of sweat that clings to the sheets. Shown the proper care learning can shed the stagnant scent of dust and become the transcendent fragrance of ambrosia, blinding all other senses.
Zachary Baker
Neurons
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DAVON SHACKLEFORD _________________________________________ The Old Captor What do you see when you look at money? The answer is nothing Like a piece of lint or a bottle cap You mean nothing to me All you’re doing is stopping the flow of goods and services You asked me a question What do I see when I look at you, what do you see when you look at me?
Tom Zimmerman
Funeral Mask, National Archaeological Museum, Athens
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JOHN SHELTON _________________________________________________ Penny for Your Thoughts Broken are the words not said or transported to the page through ink Bled from the head, from the chains constricting the thoughts of one’s mind Bind, bound, and sealed are those words not spoken into existence, but held captive by doubt. Showered with pride, bathed with ego; forgetting what it is to genuinely have a clean conscience. Though fond enough to even give the thought, too gracious to expand upon, Due to the fact that society may object Leaves you lost for words like a blank dictionary or an illiterate conductor on a train of thought. Time is not bought, but obtained by reckless steering of this train. Intuition goes awry from the shattered framework and stability of the thing we call a brain. Anything can and will be done by a thought, the power of the thought, one thought undone by testimony. Woven from streams of gleaming light, but shadowed by uncertainty. A shine darkened by society’s judgment, Lost is that bright idea. Loud shouts of logic, toughened by the fearful sound of failure, A sense once kissed by self-realization, yet forgotten by grief. I see you. I see what is hidden behind dark receptors called eyes, Still blind to the coherent truth of the destiny once used by your common sense. To shield your mind from the ugliness that is deception. Melodies of hatred play in your shattered ear drums, and in doing so, bestowed upon you a crippled song. Leading you to believe that yes is no and no is yes, and Left you with a broken glimpse of what is truly right.
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NATALIE LOVELL _______________________________________________ You Should See Me in a Crown There was once a time when I was too small But now too young, has become too aged Now, I can handle all, for I am tall Your puny onion-eyed whey-face has me caged. You tore me from my wonderland to truth Left me alone to fight all on my own And in time I learned to be a sleuth And now I am able to be cold as stone. So you have succeeded, yes you have won I have grown, but unlike you I am wise I shall take my new learned tools and run Like a phoenix, from ashes I will rise. From a throne of swords, on you I look down Vain toad-spotted, just look at my crown.
Yasha Chernyak
King
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MICHELE L. SWEENEY ___________________________________________ The Lost Poet The man was lost and could not think, though ponder ‘n muse, he could not sync, nor rhyme . . . nor patter . . . nor sense a verse, no matter how long tried, his talent cursed. To woodland dark he risked, to open mind, to seek the wisdom sage of trunk ‘n vine, though time he gave his years in search, little did he learn, but from elm ‘n birch. With determine grim, and purpose nigh, he scaled mountain to brush the sky, and asked the falcon to give him breath, but all he gained was a fear of death. Where next he sought the ocean deep, his breath he held, to this time keep, yet as he fell beneath the rush of waves, a fragile peace arose to swell his days. To desert dry ‘n plain of sand, he fell to earth, no strength to stand, the serpent hissed ‘n gave no light, and only threatened to take his life. When last he stepped to home ‘n hearth, he thought he had not learned enough, yet when paper to pen he surely brought, found his nature, lost . . . was wisely sought.
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IRIS PETERSEN __________________________________________________ SoulMate I think while we sleep at night our Souls sneak out and meet over the lake and under the moon. And there, between the water and the stars, they cradle each other and giggle and find respite from our trivialities on earth.
Tom Zimmerman
Ionian Sunset
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KIMBERLY BOLTON _____________________________________________ Raindrop Races Sky darkens, air thickens, Heavy clouds threaten to empty. Distant rumbles grow closer, Louder each moment. I watch the first drops fall, Form an array on the glass, Race each other to the windowsill. They move slowly, at first, Then burst with speed as other drops join along the way. As one race ends, many others begin, Their paths marked by zigzag streaks left behind. Those fade away, but memories remain. Childhood days gone by.
Tom Zimmerman
I-80 Rain
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SHELDON FERGUSON ___________________________________________ Six Haiku The pine bends And breaks in strong autumn Breeze ~ Misty breeze blows From the south: oh how I Wish spring were here ~ Daffodils sprung Up out of spring soil; Earth is in rebirth ~ Skylarks fly Toward rising sun over High high mountains ~ On a pink Sandy beach flamingoes flock And mingle together ~ Foal eats wild oats; Cool gentle wind blows through The misty maples
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MALCOLM BARRETT ____________________________________________ Meditations on a Dying Cat 1. It’s like this it’s like this: you wake me early in the morning. Last night, you licked the snow on my boots And now it’s melted. You meow like you used to, to wake me, Like when you were hungry. Now, you won’t even eat all this Polish ham I’ve Gone out to get you. You don’t have an appetite, So you don’t know why you’re here Or where you’re coming from, But you’re enjoying my hand on your head. When I get up, you’re already looking back at me, running out the door, to you don’t know where. 2. Two hearts on Fat Tuesday Listen, My heart is a stale pancek. Someone’s taken all the lard and flour Cooked it up with prune jelly For before the lean days. Who is that person Who left it out all night, uneaten? I’ve tried to explain to you that you’re dying. You don’t care. Your kidneys are small and lousy with nitrates. I’ve tried to explain to you That your heart is like a lost rowboat.
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You don’t mind. You lay your head on my lap and purr. 3. Zazenkai It’s the rest period, but I’m thinking of you. Oh well. I’m trying to think of you eating green beans as a kitten, But I can only think about the time you stole my chicken bones. When Sensho comes with blankets, It’s a miracle how warm I am. The temple fills with the smell of basmati rice, And it will be a long time before the bell rings. 4. What’s left? I can’t get all this cat hair Off my sweater from all the times I’ve picked you up today, No matter how much I brush it. My niece is pretending to be a cat, Or at least she will until she wants to solve a mystery. The Old Friend is out front Honking his horn. You’re still in the corner, and I think you look pretty funny With your belly shaved. 5. Everything in our pockets I did not mean to leave my hand On your chest as your heart stopped. I felt it Like I feel this axe in my hands. Good God, Nanapush, We’ve inherited everything, right Down to the broken, frozen soil.
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JAMIE FULCHER ________________________________________________ The Knot in the Wind An uneven knot undulates along traces my veins devours its art fat and bold thin and frail ashamed you were hidden your faults in the wind hidden and driving the wind that follows Into the darkness I walk and meet a mountain two mountains each fierce and bearded and wide the moment tips the balance shifts I no longer walk your weird walls I build my own walls to walk and prowl Now the ship casts off its cloak a kingly robe a garment of gold now shines the keel ebon in the moonlight black as raven wing onyx in its pride now the tale is written the first chapters told
Zachary Baker
Postapocalyptic Dream
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LYLANNE MUSSELMAN _________________________________________ Blank Sheet As an artist I can take a blank sheet, turn it into anything – larger than life faces, some blue jay playing sax, a crazy looking cat, my imagination come to life. As a poet I can take a blank sheet, spin it with words – that rhyme, lines of love crimes that commit phrases, my words breathing images on the page. As a lover I can’t be a blank sheet, fresh as if I’ve never been hurt – left behind love, belittled, abused, my worn heart, torn like discarded paper full of filthy smudges.
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DIANE M. LABODA _____________________________________________ Your Idea It was your idea to short-stack hay on this blustery July Sabbath with noon-sun already dripping off corrugated roofs and bodies. It was your idea to let the pastor wonder if we’d had a death in the family or had ended up in hospital, broken. It was your idea to rush the job so none of the neighbors would see us shirking our Lord for fodder better left until a proper workday. It was your idea to crank that elevator high, double-speed and raucous so bales made a continuous run into the great maw of barn. It was your idea to eat chaff until we choked and prickle to our heels, leaf and stalk sticking to hair and beard and filling ears. It was your idea to hose down behind the barn when we were done to wash away the evidence of ill-begotten labor, the sin of industry. It was your idea to pile our clothes so far away on the last wagon, so when Aunt Clara came by to bring condolences for our troubles we were as God created us, red-faced and headed for hell.
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JEAN KEARNS MILLER __________________________________________ The Blues in the Night It sings electric and The Song rolls around the head like the blues swivels through the air like viscous poetry stroking the face leaning into it. It is all torchy and deluxe and cathartic with its clarinets and bass. It puts right the breakage of the soul, a terrible thing that will lead you to sing. O, lamentations, O, Song of kewpie dolls with painted faces. Where is The Song now? Keening from the balcony, wailing from the fire escape, down, down, down, and around the mystic city, jumbled with buildings big sedans with paid drivers glide along the feverish pavement. All at once comes the cry, half moan, half blithe refrain that jazzes up the avenue. The Song doesn’t stop. It goes on deliriously like influenza because when all is said and done The Song does the singing. The Song. It is The Song that sings. It is The Song that swings all the terrible night long.
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OLIVIA WYLIE __________________________________________________ Yo Soy Francisco I am Francisco I came to America with Spain in my heart I am in Detroit but I live in Madrid I speak Spanish and French But here I am illiterate Franco killed bulls, guitars, flamenco and poetry I am Francisco Munoz of Spain I was once young with dreams I believed in a better Spain The pain is inescapable the wound will not heal Civil War, Guernica and the International Brigade Where is Velasquez and Don Quijote? I am Francisco and I am from Spain Tapas, castles, straits of Gibraltar Blood and gore but not of bulls Franco and Hitler are friends Garcia Lorca lives in my head I was once someone’s child Held in a blanket and placed in a crib How did I come to be Alone and filled with melancholy I am Francisco This is me A desperado Just let me be.
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GALLERY
Olivia Wylie
Yo Soy Francisco
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Mike Frieseman
Abstract #1
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Mike Frieseman
Abstract #2
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Mike Frieseman
Abstract #3
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Mike Frieseman
Abstract #4
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Mike Frieseman
Winter
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Regen Ainley
Ring of Fire
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Regen Ainley
Weathered
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Regen Ainley
Vigil
Regen Ainley
Stalwart
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Robin Anderson
A Lost Age
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Robin Anderson
Abandoned Youth
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Robin Anderson
Abduct
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Robin Anderson
Crystalline Image
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Robin Anderson
Interrogate
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Robin Anderson
Spectral Waltz
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Janet Hawkins
Chanel Stitt
Rue de Glace et Neige
Lily
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Anton Capaldi
Straw Hat
Anton Capaldi
Golden Glow
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Ralph Kennedy
The Space Between
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Max Empson
Untitled
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Calvin McClellan
Untitled
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R.M. Frumkin
The Road Not Taken
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Lauren Adams
The Pretty Reckless, Rock on the Range, May 2014
Lauren Adams
Killswitch Engage, Rock on the Range, May 2014
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Lauren Adams
Wolfmother, Rock on the Range, May 2014
Lauren Adams
Five Finger Death Punch, Rock on the Range, May 2014
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Lauren Adams
Avatar, Rock on the Range, May 2014
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Jamie Fulcher
Neon Night in Ypsi
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Jamie Fulcher
Yspect
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Jamie Fulcher
Untitled
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Danielle Kanclerz
Grand Canal
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Danielle Kanclerz
Spirited
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Yasha Chernyak
Weed
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Yasha Chernyak
Disclosure
Yasha Chernyak
Blah
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Yasha Chernyak
Green
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FICTION
Tyler R. Wettig
Dumpster Series #2
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SHANE EMERY __________________________________________________ The Forest and the Trees On the day that I leave, I will be thinking of you. When I step off of the cracked sidewalk, barefoot, and forsake the trees for the forest, I will think of you creeping through traffic toward a prison where you will guard yourself. And I will know that I am walking in the right direction. When I inhale the aroma of a thousand blooming wildflowers in an open field, I will think of you waiting in line at the prison’s coffee-maker. And I will smile and sigh. When I am fishing with my hands in a cold little creek in the woods, I will think of you searching a file cabinet for something you think you need to know. And I will know that I have found the answer. When I gather wood for the evening fire, I will think of you gathering your car keys, your house keys, your pay check, and your cell phone. And I will know that I am wealthy. When I stare up at the crystal clear night sky and embrace that infinite view, I will think of you huddled in the dark before a flickering television screen. And I will know what it means to see. When I bed down in the dirt and the brambles and the filth, I will think of you taking a warm shower before bed. And I will know that my soul is clean. When I awake in the middle of the night to the sound of howling wolves, I will think of you, unable to sleep in the safety of your bed. And I will know that there are worse things than wolves to fear. And I hope that you run from them. Run! Run barefoot down the city blocks and off the cracked sidewalk’s edge. Run! Run through the sweet-smelling wildflower field. Run! Run past the cold campfire. Run! Run beneath the crystal clear night sky. Run on dirt and over brambles and find yourself filthy when you reach me where I am lying, listening to wolves. Run, and do not look back. Run, and do not look at a single tree on your way to the forest.
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TYLER R. WETTIG _______________________________________________ Reservation Once again, I find myself being driven by the white man's car, my white man's dress pants caressing the white man's seat. I am encapsulated amongst many more cars moving, in synchronous clockwork droves, toward a golden crepuscule. I peer to my left to observe a rotting animal, sprawled and martyred in the name of the great spirit. I peer to my right to observe scads of neon signs, symbolic of the natural lights of our fires extinguished long ago. As I approach the gates past the dusty road, I realize that it is finally my turn to truly drive. Once again, I find myself garbed in feathers, caressed by plagued winds from beyond the great fence. The sounds of our flutes are drowned out by the artificial, rubber vernacular of the white man's metal machines. The music of my mouth is content, but the eternal grip of my hand is as white as the skin of the usurpers. They should consider themselves lucky that I have within me enough reservation to not baste them in the blood of those who have gone before.
Tom Zimmerman
Prince Edward Island Pow Wow
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HANA FINDER __________________________________________________ The Painter I now understand what it means when people say that “the silence is deafening.” It means the air is thick with words unsaid and actions left undone. It means that it is so quiet your breath is like shouting and it echoes and you hold your breath to stop hearing it. It means that you can notice the buzzing underneath everything. It terrifies me. My mouth is dry, tongue leaden and for once, silent. My palms are clammy. The sword is heavy in my hand, blade dragging in the sand beneath my feet as I pause to take it all in. The wasteland is barren save for the skeletons of a few houses. If I tried hard enough, I could call it Ortranto, but dead. It was as if the city had been ravaged by some unknown disease. Dust coats the back of my throat. The hilt of my blade sticks to the rough, calloused palm that clung to it. My palm. My breathing is shallow, quiet but audible. I make sure to breathe with my mouth open, careful with each breath. It’s all very strategic. My heart thunders in my ears. I’m sure It can hear it, hear me, my breathing, my terrified heart pounding steadily in my chest. It’s probably counting every fucking beat. Over. And over. Biding its time. My wrist flicks in agitation, swinging the sword through the air in a nice circle. It’s not a threatening move. Wherever It is, It knows this. The air tastes like blood, that unmistakable, horrifically familiar metallic taste that clings to your tongue, fills your nose; lingers. My tongue passes along my dry and broken lips. The trick is to appear to be less frightened than you are. It’s almost always the same. There is a reason for the large, bruise-like, purple bags under my eyes. I try to keep it from happening, keep it from even beginning like this. Unfortunately one can only stay awake for so long before the body forces sleep upon it. It always starts with dust and crumbling buildings. I can name it now. Ortranto. Where it all began. Where it will all finish. I find myself praising some god or other that it’s not my beloved Florence. Not this time. The sun is so high that it blisters my skin and my lips crack and bleed. Sometimes it progresses into a thick forest, with trees tall and foreboding that block out the sun and swallow all hope of escape. Sometimes my heels dangle off the edge of a terrifying cliff with rocks that present like a wide, wicked smile. No matter the landscape, there is always something beneath my skin, this terrifying sense of something overhanging, something about to happen. I’m standing on the cusp of something. It makes the hairs on my arm stand at attention. It is always waiting for me. It takes its time. Plays with me, makes it damn near impossible to escape. Some nights it doesn’t have a face, just a swirling thickness of shadows that obscure any recognizable feature. Sometimes it takes the shape of my worst enemies. The Count is a familiar and popular one, with his sword and his dagger, his tiny smirk that suggests that he knows something I don’t. I’d think he were beautiful if he weren’t trying to kill me.
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Regardless of what face It wears, It aims to kill me, wielding weapons and sharp teeth with words that cut me to my core and claws that can rip into my chest and liberate my heart from the cavity it railed against inside. We circle each other like wild animals. Tonight it doesn’t have a face. There’s something more terrifying in the obscurity, I note. The dust hangs in the air; evidence of its passing at a speed my eyes cannot capture. By now I know that I am dreaming, but that doesn’t bring me much comfort. I cannot wake. I have tried. It knows I am here. It has cornered me. My wrist twists again. I step, slowly to the side, a calculated move. I know how to fight. I will defend my life until my last breath. It never dies. But perhaps tonight will be different. Movement catches my eye. By then I am nearly too late. It steps from the shadows, as if the shadows have pinched off a piece of themselves and given it legs. Its own blade is clasped in shadowy fingers, aiming to remove my head from atop my shoulders. I have died many deaths among these ruins; I do not intend to die another. The harsh sound of metal-on-metal breaks the eerie and deafening silence that had befallen us, echoing off the broken and empty houses. If Its shadow face was wore any features, I am sure It would be leering. Our battle is long and hard fought. Sweat drips into my eyes. My arms are tired, my body aches. It knocks the blade from my clutching fingers. It hits the sand with a dull thud, reminding me that now, now I am going to die and I’ll wake screaming like I do every night my eyes find rest. My lips purse. The creature circles me. Sometimes I think it is perhaps a depiction of what I consider myself to be fighting against. Restraints. Men and women who seek to remove freedom. The suffocation of knowledge. Perhaps that is what those shadows are. It presses the tip of Its blade to the center of my chest. I hardly flinch, fingers splayed out beside me, still for the first time in what feels like hours. I stare at Its obscured face, eyes fixed mercilessly upon it. I doubt the creature finds the fire in the depths of my stare anything but amusing. It chuckles, a dry, wheezing, rattling exhale that fills the still air more than any other noise could. It resonates in my bones. The point presses against my sternum just a little harder. It says nothing, but as I stare into the depths of Its soul, I cannot help but feel as though it is probing into my own as well. It raises the blade. I do not shrink. I deserve this. As the blade slices through the air, parting it with a quiet breath, the creature’s face shifts. There’s a smirk there now, lips twisted upwards into a cruel, masochistic expression of his victory. My heart stops before the blade can spill my crimson blood upon the sand. I know those lips, but the smile… Dear God the smile is something I have never laid my eyes upon before. Eyes quickly follow this sinister addition to the shadows. They’re leaving, turning into flesh and blood and those features, every single one of them I know so very well. Those bright hazel eyes that peer at me from the depths of a rapidly forming face, I know those eyes. They are cold and harsh now, not bright and excited as they usually are. The blade descends as the rest of the face falls into place, confirming that question left unasked. I was right. I wake so suddenly that the screams die in my throat. I can hardly breathe. The heavy
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smell of paint fills my nostrils, familiar and yet it’s not as comforting as it usually is. My fingers are trembling, my eyes are wide. My limbs are heavy and stiff and they flail as I throw myself from the unfinished wood of my workbench in search of the pail of water I keep by the door. If I wash my face, I muse, I can wash it all away. My entire body feels damp and sticky. The water is cool and refreshing against my hands and face now, as I throw it upon myself. My hair sticks to my forehead. I’d like to think that the tremors that my fingers are experiencing are natural, that it is not the shock of an ill-constructed dream that drove my body to react in such a way. I press my wet fingers to my eyelids, rubbing for a moment before I let out a long, quiet sigh. My eyes catch on a bit of mirror I keep by my pail. It reflects, at present, the chaotic state of my studio; half-finished canvases, drying paints, malformed inventions that will never see the light of day. A soft smile touches the corners of my lips. My studio, it seems, reflects upon the state of my mind. Tender fingers lift the shard from the blanket upon which it resides as my fingers scratch at my bearded chin thoughtfully. “It was just a dream, Leo,” I scold myself. Those eyes… Those cold, harsh eyes… Those eyes were mine.
Danielle Kanclerz
Gondola
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SARA WELDON _________________________________________________ Jailbird Imagine a box. Four corners, four walls. Everything white. Not blindingly white but a grungy white, like a thousand children had rubbed their dirty handprints into the paint until there was not a speck of pure white left. On one wall sat a toilet, if it could even be considered that. It was so overused and never cleaned that any normal person could throw up at the sight of it. Good thing normal people didn’t live here, right? The sink wasn’t in much better of a condition but at least that had soap on it occasionally. The back wall, opposite of the door made of bars, laid the bed. Or in some cases there were two, one on top of the other. Most of the beds in this place were never made. The brown bristly blankets just thrown about, waiting for the next night to be even more jumbled. But this particular cell was perfectly made— edges tucked in, top folded over and smooth all the way across. The fluffed pillow was set upright, though it still looked sad and lonely like it needed a friend. That bed would go untouched for the rest of the day until it was time to be used again. This was Josiah’s cell. Pencil drawings covered the dirty walls until no more white showed through. They were good, though nobody ever seemed to notice his talent, not even himself. Josiah was surprised when they had allowed him to draw; couldn’t he use the pencil as a weapon? Weren’t they afraid of him? But no one seemed to care about him despite what he was in that cell for. So he drew to pass the time. When his hand would get tired he would sit against the wall or lay on the floor and rest. Josiah reserved the bed strictly for sleeping, no matter how uncomfortable he got during the day. That way he had something to look forward to at night, even though the bed was nothing special. The mattress was thin and hard, but the longer he sat on the cold ground, the more he looked forward to laying his head on that flat, single pillow and finally getting away from it all for a while. Then he would wake up and do it all over again, just like he had for the past 6 years.
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ROBBY HUNTER ________________________________________________ amygdalae A decade ago modern science produced a method by which human emotions could be
not only recorded, but preserved and reused as well. Two nanochips surgically embedded into the amygdalae would analyze the biochemical reactions as they occurred, transmitting the information to a computer. Scientists, then, with the appropriate modus operandi, were able to reproduce the biochemicals and give them to other humans and animals; originally only intravenously, and with rather short-lived durations. This was an earth-shattering victory for neuroscience and for humankind in general. Naturally, unbridled publicity ensued, and agitated the already rapidly spreading research. Before long the practice became much more efficient; where once an injection yielded only a crude fifteen minutes or so of artificial emotional activity, it now gave rise to hours of the desired effects. In order to avoid the unnecessary risks related to common folk injecting prescribed biochemicals, they began manufacturing incense containing them. Patients with severe cases of depression and anxiety were given the aforementioned incense to burn as they went to sleep. This proved to be one hundred percent effective in treating psychological disorders of the sort, and promptly conquered the marketplace. Not long after, the entire practice was legalized, and any civilian could obtain these happy incense. Among the first to be sold were as follows: 1. Happiness 2. Mania 3. Quietude 4. Love Soon, however, those with nanochips in their amygdalae began seeking out new and overpowering emotional reactions, receiving enormous compensation in exchange. These luxurious compensatory rates led to more and more people volunteering to have their own brains chipped. Consequently, scientists quickly realized just how varied emotions are from person to person. The more “sensitive� subjects’ emotions grew coveted. Two of the more famous emoters were a man, Daniel Sutherland, and a woman, Kendall Habarth. The incense menus began to look as follows: 1. Happiness (Habarth) 2. Happiness (Sutherland) 3. Happiness (Mackenzie)
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Habarth was known for her impressive index of positive emotions, in particular her Mountaintop Meditation and Post-Orgasm Equanimity. Sutherland, on the other hand, was known for his potent catalog of negative emotions, most popular being Manic Suicidality and Impossible Guilt. The practice of seeking new and stronger emotions became widespread and led to a field of work not unlike that of the novelist, singer, or painter. While Habarth and Sutherland were most famous for their biochemicals, lesser known emoters took much riskier leaps for their work, acquiring for the people masterpieces of human emotion, e.g., Psychedelic TerrorLoop Panic, Pre-Chair Kick Resignation, Post-Homicide Hysteria, Lost in the Woods Lonesomeness, etc. Public outcry was tremendous. Well-to-do ladies and gentlemen with no interest in anyone else’s emotions picketed outside of the ever-pullulating ED&D1 facilities, shouting and holding signs, illustrating their moral dilemma via catchy slogans and rhymes. Much of the distress came from myriad suicides as a result of the use of Clinical Depression, Crack-Cocaine Comedown, and the like. Scientific apologia was something to the effect of “that is why we give it a warning label.” Sutherland, in an attempt to immortalize himself and join the ranks of the greatest artists, leapt from a building in New York City. It seems he had succeeded at least modestly, for the resulting incense topped the best-sellers for months – Post-Leap Trepidation, Mid-Fall Dubiety, and, most successful of all, Jellied Flesh and Bone Bliss. One Savannah Lewis, having no depth of emotion nor prospect for the future, allowed her unborn child to be implanted with the nanochips, resulting in the immeasurably abused and highest grossing of emotions, Prenatal Rapture. This emotion was used oftentimes intravenously, having struck the fancy of many heroin addicts who found a way to extract the biochemicals from the incense, provided they did not, of course, acquire a pure form of the emotion from some less than respectable medical staff. Prenatal Rapture greatly resembled the high of heroin, only “much cleaner feeling, and with virtually none of the scratching or vomiting.”2 Despite the subsequent uproar regarding Miss Lewis and her child, the industry continued to boom for months on end. Its imminent downfall came at last as a result of an exponential rise in communistic ideals, promoted by the use of such emotions as Paycheck to Paycheck Perturbation. The United States Government took swift action and shut it all down, declaring it “devilishly immoral.”
_____________________________ 1Emotive Development and Design 2As described by Edward James, long-term heroin and Prenatal Rapture abuser
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S.L SCHULTZ ____________________________________________________ Autopsy of Desire 1 Desire draws them together. Their young bodies intermittently graze as they walk. Do they know their steps are syncopated? The smooth, sleek, outer side of their hands, like the belly of a fish, lightly tapping? Their upper arms and shoulders, because he stands not much taller than she, lean inwards. Their cheeks look rosy, as they snake along the path through the park, their voices lifting. Her occasional shrieks crack the twilight as his contact, finally, becomes a push towards the tall soggy grass beside the pond, towards the muddy pools whose shallow water runs red, yellow, and violet with the sunset. At sixteen, they exist conflicted, told not to touch, told to fight the force, pretend the magnet of desire does not pull, sublimate this power that screams for consummation. And at last, nature triumphs once again, as the two round that corner between the hardwoods, a place public but out of view, and the boy pulls the girl into an awkward embrace. 2 He would arrive back home from fishing with his friends, and the quiet, stern man had transformed into a giggling prankster. The joke was on her. His desire fed on crass jokes, fueled on demon alcohol, and freed through a day spent in the great outdoors. He would walk in unconsciously incognito. Perhaps he greeted the children for a moment, the boy and the girl, but his attention burned on her. Chase her through the house, catch her on a turn, tickle her, pummel her, and eventually turn her upside down by her feet. Her shrieks of protest were short lived for this is how it’s done. No sweet entreaties, nibbles on the ears, velvet caresses, or kisses that steal the breath. His role model never existed or stumbled to find his way in the dark of desire as well. Damn those fairy tales where the man played a very different role! In the real world, men chase down, twirl around, subdue through domination until they slip it in. He laughed over her shrieks of protest. She laughed too, however weakly, and then surrendered, dreaming of a mating dance with a handsome recording star or film screen idol. 3 When she walked into what once was a Buddhist temple, the tears began to flow. No sound accompanied them. The faucet turned on and would not shut off. She felt ashamed, like she was a child among adults more experienced and capable of processing the past. Cut. It. Up. Examine the parts to understand at last. The shaman called them forth one by one. They must sit with him and tell him their intent. Why did they travel here? What was it they hoped to gain? What part of them did they have in mind to heal? Her turn came and she sat beside this artist shaman from the jungles of Peru. The soft, salty tears continued to fall, as she told him her intent. The others in the room listened. She stuttered as she told how she
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came there to let go of the shame and humiliation that distorted her desire. Don Agustas Rivas, or Papa, as the shaman was called, picked up a small polished, dark wooded wand, and with a flick, captured a tear from her cheek on a little metal chain. He studied that tear in the dim but focused light. Tomorrow you will know why you came, he kindly said through the translator. During the ceremony, I want you to throw up. I want you to purge over and over all you’ve held so deep within. Let it come up. Let it go out. Let it go now. Let it go. 4 They poured the dark brown liquid tobacco into a small blue funnel which drained into her nose, her throat, the well. Ayahuasca, also known as the “death vine,� she drank from a small white paper cup. Given properties by the creating force, this jungle plant transports those who ingest her to places deep within to find what needs to be mined. The plant brew ran syrupy in texture, brown in color, like the tobacco but thicker. Soon they placed themselves against the temple walls and waited. After a short time, Papa began choreographing the journey within with percussive instruments. The journey without began as participants including her began to hurl. Hours went by as they dozed, reflected, sobbed and screamed in the dark, candles casting shadows of forms huddled, crouched, sprawled and Papa tapping, pounding, skittering various beats to not just keep them awake but draw them further in. For so long she saw only darkness inward and a nonsensical reel of images past and present. But suddenly a story spooled in black and white before her inner eyes. He giggling and red faced chasing her mother through rooms of the house. She giggling too but already tired of the game. Where were the soft whispers of endearment? The small nuzzled kisses on the neck? The caresses smooth but urgent over the contours of her form? The words growled, purred, or whispered that adored, encouraging her to open and abandon hesitation? In black and white, the images paraded as intermittently she retched, groaned and cried. So this was why she stood in garbage in her fantasies. Why she crumbled from orders that beat her down. Why she carried shame and humiliation like a bag of broken rocks around her neck. She retched more deeply. 5 The sun sinks, the reflections stretch, the colors fade as the blushing, flustered teen age girl pulls away from the panting boy. He fights her resistance as her playful, shrieks shoot through the twilight. Grasping one arm behind her back, he subdues her then pretends once more to push her into the soggy grass, into the stinking muddy pool. There comes a moment when they simply disentangle and look each other in the eyes, their toes licking at the edge of dark liquid. In this moment the possibility arises. His eyes soften and for a moment, just one, she feels the security to unveil, reveal the soft, moist center of her being, take him into her and together become one. Instead, his eyes turn to the ground and he begins to run. She chases, catches up, taps lightly against him with her side. They begin to walk together again in that syncopated step. A small but significant distance lurks between them.
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Samantha Oliver
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AMY RUST HIGGINS _____________________________________________ The Picnic Deb was cutting cornbread, singing along with Sting, “If you love somebody, set them free,” when Connie came to peer over her shoulder, pursing her mouth and shifting her hip aggressively at the sight of the irregular parallelograms. “Christ. What do you think we’re going for here, the Ritz? This is downhome cornbread. Cut it in rectangles. Big, fat, regular rectangles. I’ll do this. Go roll more silverware.” “Sorry.” Deb retreated to the prep corner. She had just finished her freshman year of college, and after a week of training on the job at Glenn’s Cajun Café, she couldn’t blame Connie for her impatience. Rolling heavy flatware in slippery, burgundy napkins and stacking the bundles like firewood, Deb thought it would take months, not weeks, for her to get up to Connie’s level of bustling efficiency. She’d never get there if Connie kept her rolling silverware and refilling sticky bottles of Texas Pete’s. When customers swarmed in at 5 pm, Connie took every party of four or more, leaving the young pairs and solos to Deb. Deb tried to work up a righteous anger, but she was actually relieved. She liked the college couples out on their thrifty dates. They were so grateful when she assured them Glenn’s world famous fried catfish platter was more than enough for two if they ordered an extra side. And yes, the cornbread was all-you-can-eat. So she took the puny tippers and lonely souls without complaint. Then there was the liquid lunch bunch that arrived between 2 and 3 p.m. She was nineteen, too young to serve, but she’d rather face a cop than Connie, so she poured and slid beers across the counter all afternoon to the stringy men who squawked among themselves like crows. Their mottled skin made her think of Slim Jims. Three of them filed in the door now. Deb made a mental note—again—to learn their names. “Afternoon, gentlemen! What’ll it be?” The friendliest was first in and ordered a Bud draft. He leaned over the bar and gave the oil-stained bill of his John Deere cap a tug of greeting in Deb’s direction. He owned the garage next door and did a lot of the repairs himself. “I’ll have the same,” said the one who never made eye contact and talked around a perpetually rotating toothpick at the corner of his mouth. “Make that three.” The last regular reminded Deb of a snapping turtle--his thin neck poking out from hunched shoulders, his lipless, pointed mouth. Deb smiled; they’d ordered the same four days in a row. Tomorrow, she’d greet them with “The usual?” and they’d give her that appreciative nod Connie got from her regulars. Deb wanted a few regulars of her own, even if they did leer and crack sexist jokes. She’d eavesdrop today so she could greet them by name tomorrow. Connie wasn’t a patient
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mentor, but her best tip had been, “Smile, but not long enough for them to smile back. Eye contact leads to trouble.” Her second day on the job, the crows had baited her, shifting unexpectedly from benign questions about college to Toothpick’s, “So settle a bet for us sweetheart—you still a virgin?” Deb had blushed, feeling furious and naked at the same time. “That’s none of your business,” she said and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. She felt ambushed by a question she didn’t know the answer to herself. Connie found her unloading the dishwasher, wiping angry tears in the steam and clatter. “Fuck those redneck assholes. Serve them, but stop smiling, and remember what I told you— don’t give them an opening.” So, Connie was looking out for her. Deb had handled the crows more deftly since; Oil Spot still leered knowingly in her direction, but they’d stopped with the questions. She kept her eyes on their beer glasses, kept the refills coming and made the quick getaway to the sink or kitchen before they could chat her up. “Miss, you got a Heineken?” Deb hadn’t noticed the man who slid into the last barstool, safely distant from the trio. He wore a faded tie-dye shirt. “Sure,” Deb pulled a green bottle from the cooler, opened it, then placed the beer and a chilled mug in front of him. His close-cropped hair was an ashy red; she noticed the scatter of freckles across his pale collarbone. “Can I bring you a menu?” “Heard the cornbread is Nirvana.” “You heard right; I’ll bring you some. First slice is on the house.” Deb went into the kitchen, reached over the rectangles and put one of her parallelograms on a plate with two gold-wrapped pats of butter. Fragrant steam still rose from the cornbread. Deb wanted to stand here and watch him take a bite, see if it drove the sadness out. She turned instead to take menus to a teenage couple in flipflops touching fingers across the table. As their hands separated, Deb felt she’d thrown a circuit breaker. Their eyes came back into focus; one humming awareness became two. ********* The third time Heineken came in, it was 3 p.m., when the liquid lunch bunch usually cleared out. He had just settled on the far-most stool when the crows rose as one. “Faggot.” Deb wasn’t sure who’d said it. Their laughter followed them out the door. “Nice,” Heineken jerked his head in the direction of the closing door as Deb set the green bottle down. She was sorry he’d heard them. “As far as I can tell, faggot means any guy they don’t know who walks in here. I’m Deb, by the way. Heineken?”
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“Thanks. I’m Chris. And those three assholes are regular as clockwork. I hope they tip well.” “No.” Deb snorted, then leaned over and whispered, “Jim and the Crows.” Chris raised his bottle in tribute, “It’s perfect—like a redneck band.” She replayed this conversation through the slow hour and the dinner rush. Deb only realized how much of an outsider she felt at Glenn’s now that she had a customer she could relax around. She wondered if a regular could become a friend. She thought about his pierced ear, the vulnerability that struck her from the day he walked in, the fact that he hadn’t hit on her or even “accidentally” touched her hand like so many male customers did. Maybe he was gay. She’d never had a gay friend, not to her knowledge. She had romanticized the freedom having a gay guy friend could mean—no sexual tension, no need to be on guard, a male friend who didn’t consider her virginity or lack thereof the most interesting thing about her. The next day, Chris came in at his usual time. He hadn’t let the slur intimidate him. It wasn’t exactly a statement of gay pride, but Deb took it as another likely sign that it was true. The crows exchanged knowing smirks, but left him alone. Chris smiled at Deb, then slid onto his accustomed stool, opened a worn, leatherbound notebook and began writing. Deb felt as if she’d earned the trust of a bird; if she stood still enough, he might perch on her finger. When he’d finished his first beer and closed the journal, Deb came by. “Another Heineken?” “Sure.” “What are you writing? I mean, it’s not my business, I’m just curious.” “I was trying to write down a dream before I forget the details. You know how you’ll wake up from a dream that’s more real than life, but then it just evaporates, and you wish you’d written it down?” “Yeah. And then I keep my journal by my bed so I’ll be ready, and I don’t have any good dreams.” “The muse is fickle. I heard you say you’re an English major. What do you write?” “Poetry, mostly. That’s my concentration within the major.” “I’m a terrible poet. I write them anyway, though. And meditations. My housemate, Paul, he’s a Buddhist monk. He’s teaching me to meditate, and if I write down how I reached a higher level of consciousness, sometimes I can reach it again.” “Wow.” Deb knew she sounded adolescent, but she didn’t know what else to say. The dinner crowd was picking up early, so she grabbed some menus and went to seat a large family that had just come in. She didn’t get another chance to talk to Chris, but she hoped tomorrow would be a slow afternoon. Gay and he writes poetry. Cool. Over the next few days, Deb found that Chris became philosophical after a second beer; he told her how he’d met Paul. They’d been on a paint crew together. Chris took the “shit job” because it was all he could find, but Paul was painting because it centered him. “I wanted what he had. Here I was hating every sweating, stinking minute, and
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Paul was like, ‘It’s just me and the brush and the paint. And then it’s just the brush and the paint and I’m both here and everywhere. It’s the deepest peace, man.’” “And did he teach you?” Chris laughed, tucking his chin to his chest, “Getting there.” Deb liked this shy, private gesture. He was blushing as he thought of Paul. The love that dares not speak its name, she thought. When she got home, Deb flopped down on the couch with a sigh. “What’s cooking at Glenn’s?” Her mom sat cross-legged in her recliner, a drink that looked like ice water but probably wasn’t on the table beside her and True Crime magazine open on her lap. “Chris has to be gay, Mom.” “Hmmm.” “Think how he’s had to hide who he is. I want him to trust me.” “You want to trust him,” her mother murmured, returning her attention to her magazine. Yes. Yes, I do. ******* It was mid-July. The oversized air-conditioning unit in the back corner of the café ran constantly with an occasional shudder, like an asthmatic, sleeping giant. Everyone moved more slowly in the dense, Missouri air. The crows’ talk was of wilting crops, pests, cheap herbicides. She looked forward to daily conversations with Chris; he would walk in and she’d leave him to his beer and his writing. He would close the notebook, carefully place the grimy ribbon to save his place, and look up at her with that strange, contrasting smile of his: the unguarded boy eyes above closed, unreadable lips. Restless at Mizzou, he’d left college after a year and traveled, inspired by Kerouac and Steinbeck, drifting from job to job. He’d picked cherries in Oregon, lived among the Hare Krishnas in San Francisco. “I kept looking for enlightenment and finding escape instead. I woke up in a flophouse one morning next to a dead guy. He’d overdosed on heroin.” “God, Chris. I’m sorry.” “Columbia, Missouri, suddenly looked good to me, and I came home.” “And then you met Paul.” “Yeah,” that closed smile again. “And now, you.” Those boy eyes. “Do you have a boyfriend?” Like Paul is his boyfriend. He wants to tell me, but he’s afraid. “I don’t. Can I tell you something personal?” “I’d like that,” he said, leaning toward her, resting his cheek on his fist.
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“There was this guy at college, Richard. I met him the first week, and we got to be friends. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, and it wasn’t like that with him anyway. I needed girlfriends, but my roommates were rushing sororities. The girls on my hall, that’s all they talked about—going to cattle drives, . . .” “Cattle drives?” “Frat parties where they’d invite all the freshman girls and no freshman guys.” “And the girls went?” “Yes! Elizabeth, my roommate, was like, ‘Come to the cattle drive with me—older men, free beer. And we’re the prize.’ It’s not that she didn’t get it.” “That’s twisted.” “Yeah. So, I hung out with Richard. He wasn’t rushing, either.” Chris leaned closer, nodding. Deb took a deep breath. “One night, we were playing euchre with some guys Richard knew, and they invited us to a BOG party. “Bunch of Guys.” They were supposed to be kind of an anti-fraternity. Richard was interested in joining, so we went. Just before we got there, Richard says, ‘Pretend you’re my date.’ I go, ‘Why?’ ‘C’mon Deb, please.’ So I did. I danced with him, and let him bring me drinks. He introduced me to some of the guys as his girlfriend.” “And you went along with it.” Deb nodded. Yeah. I went along with it. “We had a lot to drink, and I’d never been drunk before. He took me in a room, and . . .” her throat tightened. “He wasn’t pretending anymore. I felt paralyzed. I just let it happen.” Deb felt dizzy and sick saying the words. She held her breath, hoping Chris would say what she wanted him to say. He raped you. “Were you okay? . . . .Did you get pregnant?” he asked as if these were the same question. Deb shook her head; a tear splashed on the polished wood of the bar. Chris reached across the bar and laid his fingers over hers, lightly. ********* The next day was Friday. Her first weekend off since she’d started at Glenn’s in May. She would write, maybe even pry her mom out of the smoky cave of the apartment. A new Stephen King movie—Silver Bullet—was playing. They had both read every book he’d written. At least it would get her mom away from the booze for a few hours. Chris came in at 1 p.m. The crows wouldn’t be here for an hour, and Connie was at lunch. Deb couldn’t summon a greeting. She was still a little queasy that she’d told him; she still unsure about his response. He’ll tell me today, she thought and brought him a Heineken. Chris wrote for a long time. He scratched things out, tore pages out of his notebook, crumpled and stuffed them in his pockets. He’d downed 3 beers by the time he closed his
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notebook. Deb wiped the bar, starting at the crows’ end; they’d come and gone already, left her a buck fifty each. She worked her way down to Chris. “Hi,” he rested his arms on the bar and leaned his face in one hand, looking into Deb’s face; his eyes were unfocused, his closed smile goofy. “Will you go on a picnic with me?” “I’d like that.” Of course he wanted to come out to her somewhere more private. “I’ve got tomorrow off. Can you pick me up? My mom’s car smells like smoke.” “Sure. One o’clock?” “Perfect,” Deb tore off the yellow customer copy of Chris’ bill and scribbled the address to her mom’s apartment across the back. Chris folded it carefully, “See you at one. Cheese sandwiches and wine sound good?” “Classy. I’ll bring some fruit. See you tomorrow.” As the door shut behind Chris, Deb lifted his bottle and coaster to find a folded piece of paper and a five dollar bill, also neatly folded. She started to unfold the poem—it was clearly a poem—when she saw Connie watching her, hand on hip. “You’re really going to go out with that loser? He’s too old for you.” “It’s a picnic, not a date. He’s just a friend.” “Uhn-hunh. Just be careful.” She doesn’t know he’s gay. Good. “I will.” ******* Shit, shit, shit. Deb sat on the cracked concrete steps that led down from her mom’s apartment to the street. Any moment Chris would pull up in his paint-splattered Ford truck. She’d shoved the poem deep in her jeans pocket, but now she took it out and read it again. Feast (for Deb) I came for a beer but I saw you here, and it made me hungry to drink in your eyes, and dream of your thighs You brought me cornbread I spread with butter but I want to spread your lips with sweet maple sirip and lick it off with my tongue . . .
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It got worse from there. She had shown it to her mom, “What do I say—‘Sorry. I thought you were gay?’ How do I back out of this?!” Deb knew she was too old to use her mom as an excuse, but she wanted her to say she shouldn’t go. “You got yourself into this mess, Deb. You owe him an explanation . . . maybe not the real one. Besides, he sounds harmless.” ******* Chris pulled up and called out the window, “Hop in!” The truck cab smelled of smoke and beer. Seeing him for the first time in full daylight, Deb noticed white hair mixed in with the red. Chris grinned at her; he’d lost the selfconscious, closed smile. As the truck lurched away from the curb, she registered three facts: he was drunk, he had deep crows’ feet around his eyes, and he was missing a tooth behind his upper left canine. Two blocks from the apartment, Deb barked, “Chris, pull over! “ He swung the wheel so the truck rolled up on the curb and stopped. “D’you forget something?” He leaned over the seat, reached over and squeezed her thigh. Deb winced. How did I misjudge so badly? What made me see only what I wanted to see? “Chris, how old are you?” He slowly put his hand back on the wheel and looked straight ahead. His voice suddenly gruff, he said, “I’m thirty-nine. Does it matter?” “Yeah. It matters.” She didn’t even use the lame “just friends” script she’d prepared. Chris kept his face turned away while she got out of the truck. Like her mom, she felt sorry for him. Had he hidden his age from her the way he’d hidden his teeth, or had he assumed she knew? When she confided in him about Richard, had he thought it was a come-on? She would never know. She didn’t owe him an explanation. She didn’t owe him a goddamn thing.
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JEFF MURTONEN _______________________________________________ Did You Know That Time Was Passing? As I walked past the screen door, I could feel the cool air permeating into the room. I turned to look at the darkened world outside. The moon was bright and full, and no clouds threatened to obscure it. There was something in the soft breezes of late August that I could hear speaking to me from the other side of that screen door. I swung it open and stepped out onto the porch. Feeling the aching in my aging knees, I took a seat in an old, wooden rocking chair. I had put that chair on my porch about thirty years prior, but I had never even sat in it. Now, the paint was chipped, and the legs were splintered. However, I felt no remorse. I only felt a sweeping, trembling longing for times that had passed long before. In that moment, on that porch, it was as if I was feeling the fresh autumn air for the first time. Yet, I was keenly aware of all the times I had felt that exact same way. There is something in the breezes of autumn that brings all of my remembrance into my heavy heart. In the street and on the sidewalks, there was nobody. No other souls were out in the darkness of that late hour, but I could picture my old friend Tom running over the sidewalks and lawns. After all these years, I could still see his bright eyes and torn pants. “My mom says I should stop crawling around in the dirt,” he used to say, “she hates when I get holes in the knees, but I don’t mind the tatters.” Despair and delight were intertwined with every memory. It was debilitating to think that I would never live those days again, but I would live through a thousand years of pain and aging for the debt of having those ten years with Tom. It really was strange, because while I looked up at the stars, I could remember every moment I had spent with Tom in the splendor of our neighborhood. I couldn’t remember the meals I had eaten the previous day or the conversations I had the previous week, but there was no detail I had forgotten of the time I had spent in those grassy fields and cracked streets. I remembered the hours we spent climbing the trees in the park and talking about all of our brilliant ideas. I remembered the time we caught hell for trying to give his father’s car a new paint job. I even remembered the exact moment when Tom and I saw our model boat get swallowed up by the river, and we just laughed. I have wasted many hours in my life, but I will never regret the hours I wasted with Tom. The only thing that makes me sad is the thought that I will one day lose all of the memories. I guess it’s no surprise that the saddest songs are the ones that we remember. We knew everything about our world. Tom could tell me where the ducks would land in the morning, and I could tell him which trees could be climbed the highest. We knew where the most secret pathways were and where every lost relic of the neighborhood was hidden. We thought we knew everything, but did we know that time was passing?
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Danielle Kanclerz
Stepping Stones
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Lauren Adams
Like a Storm, March 2014
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MATT THOMPSON ______________________________________________ Dream Date I was supposed to be cleaning the garage. Instead, I was entranced by a photograph of Wa Maru. My wife Elizabeth stepped into the living room to catch me all google eyed and spellbound. She had no doubt taken a stroll through the garage to check on my progress. Finding me prostrate on the couch, she shot a dismissive glance and asked with an edge, “What are we doing with the six boxes of bottle caps in the garage you’re supposed to be cleaning, and by the way, another case of Rhondo Pop?” I had purchased at least a half dozen cases in the past two months but couldn’t for the life of me recall buying the most recent crate of twenty four. “Hello, Earth to Max Morgan Smith,” Elizabeth snapped. “Right,” I said, shaking my head. “I suppose I must’ve purchased another case.” “Do we really need that much Rhondo Pop?” She asked. “Well,” I said, “That case could hold the winning cap.” She asked with a dismissive smirk, “Really ?” Playing stupid I said, “Y’never know.” Elizabeth twirled a finger near her ear as she crossed the room picking up kid clothes, food wrappers and various items scattered in a wide swath across the floor. She paused under a diagonal beam of afternoon sun streaming in through the sky light to inspect a fossilized cookie. The yellow glow revealing lines around her eyes and jagged scars on a bulge of belly fat peeking out from under her shirt. Her hair, once the color of late summer wheat, was now wiry and run through with streaks of gray. And then there’s me with my droopy eyes, a medicine ball belly and sagging jowls. The two of us had morphed into our parents. The lady in the photograph, incidentally, is the rock star Wa Maru. I was enthralled by her beauty – most of all her lips. They were a marvel of nature, sumptuous, plump and textured like a ripe, pulpy tangerine. It was her lips, rather than her musical talent, that catapulted her to stardom. Before her first hit single topped the charts, Wa’s beautiful lips were all over magazine covers, TV and internet ads. I used to write about her when I worked for Jam, a music magazine in Milwaukee, back when she sang for a better than average bar band. Now as a domesticated husband and father of two, I write tech manuals for the appliance industry. Anyway, the aspiring rock star moonlighted as a model for a cosmetic empire. Within a year of becoming a fashion diva, her music career made the jump to light speed with her band, Wa Maru and the Fireflies. Throughout my short career with Jam, I never stood within arm’s reach of Wa’s enchanting lips. As much as I schemed to interview her, fate would not allow it. I followed her trail through every bar and performance hall in Milwaukee but never managed to get close
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enough to see her in the flesh. Somehow, unlikely and crazy circumstances always stood between us. After she became famous I found an autographed stage shot of Wa in a Milwaukee novelty shop. The photo is now enshrined on our fireplace mantle in the living room. As a reporter I missed my opportunity, but as an adoring fan there was a way to get at those lips; not as a privileged insider, but as a contest winner. If I peeled off a certain bottle cap, I’d win an all-expenses paid trip to Las Vegas to see Wa Maru and the Fireflies in concert. The winner would also receive a backstage pass to meet Wa and the gang in person. Best of all, one lucky sap would either get to kiss Wa or receive a year’s supply of her unique line of beauty products – winner’s choice. I decided the day the contest was announced that I’d go for the kiss. “The contest ends Sunday,” I told Elizabeth. “After that, I’ll load six crates of empties into the van and cash them in at the grocery store. That’s a promise.” “You honestly think you’re going to win?” she asked. “It could happen.” Elizabeth cracked a sneering smile and mumbled, “What a dumb ass.” Sure, it was a longshot, but I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my evenings – popping caps in the garage. When I’m not popping caps I’m cutting out pictures and articles and adding them to my growing collection. I keep my secret stash in manila folders stuffed between cockeyed piles of National Geographic magazines against one wall of our garage. Each folder is plum full of revealing photographs and scandalous articles detailing Wa’s battle with drug addiction, her on-again off-again romance with rapper Buster Sway and a special feature about her temper-tantrum during a presidential gala at the White House (also caught on video). Elizabeth discovered them the last time I was supposed to clean the garage. She was most amused by one picture in particular in which Wa, falling out of her underwear, is slobbering over a giant lollipop. I had scrawled, “My favorite,” right on the picture in black marker. So amused by the photo and my hand written message, she felt compelled to show her girlfriends. The whole crew had gathered around our kitchen table one night for a good laugh at my expense. I had to endure their jeering about, as they put it, my “middle-aged obsession.” Undeterred, I held firm to the dream that one day maybe . . . “Dream on, Dad,” “What?” My reverie is broken by my fifteen year old daughter Sophia, stepping into the living room. She plops herself on our battered beige recliner. “Hi sweetie,” I say, my eyes still fixed on the picture of Wa. Sophia, obviously aware of my distance, looks up from her lap top and says, “Mom, I think Dad is having a mid-life crisis.” I finally turn my gaze away from the picture and say, “No I’m not. I’m having a mid-life renaissance, inspired by Wa’s music.” Then my eight year old son Cameron chimed in. He’d
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been sitting on the floor in the corner the whole time. “Is that the lady who’s always showing off her boobs?” Elizabeth growled, “Cameron!” “Well, it’s true,” he said. Cameron was right about Wa’s choreographed clothing mishaps, but it was her lips that I obsessed over and her enchanting smile. Since the promotional campaign began, print and electronic media showed images of Wa’s succulent, wet lips latched onto bottles of Rhondo Pop. Caught up in the fervor, I consumed the stuff like a drunken sailor, all the while holding fast to the outlandish belief that I could win, that I would win. And then it happened. Later that afternoon, I took another break from the garage cleaning project to peel off a few caps. I knew there were only three days left before the close of the contest, so I had to act fast. Plenty sick of Rhondo Pop at this point, I took a swig here and there but dumped most of the fizzy beverage into the drain. After I had emptied ten full bottles, I decided I’d peel off just one more. Ready to toss the last cap into an overflowing box, I turned it over, glanced at it and flicked it onto the pile. “Wait a minute,” I said out loud. The inside of the cap was green and yellow – different from the rest, but where did it go? Frantically, I reached into the heap, realizing I had paid no mind to its trajectory. My speed and dexterity honed with practice, I flipped caps, many of them spilling to the floor. “Come on yellow and green, where are you?” I grumbled. Then from behind I heard a voice, “Dad, is everything okay?” My heart pounding, I turned and saw Sophia standing in the doorway. “Hi sweetie. Yep, everything’s good. I’ll be in in a minute.” She remained there, her gaze fixed on me as if trying to make sense of me. I waved at her. “All is well, Sophie, really.” When she finally stepped away, I went back at it, mumbling to myself again, “Come on cap, I know you’re in there.” And then the earth moved, perhaps a single degree, allowing a column of sun to beam through a window in the garage door. The light put a glint upon a spot of green beneath the work bench. I crawled on my hands and knees across the dusty concrete floor, picked up the cap and turned it over. That’s when the clouds parted and a choir of angels sang and I saw with my own eyes the emphatic announcement emblazed on the inside, “YOU WIN!” I looked at the two words, my finger-tips rubbing against them as if to validate their reality. Then I let out a shriek loud enough to raise the dead. “Wa Maru, baby, I’m going to Vegas!” I ran out of the garage and into the yard flaying my arms, hooting and hollering, oblivious to the wheel barrel piled high with manure and directly in my path. I of course stumbled over it, my face planted deep in a heap of bovine waste. “Damn it!” I yelled. I rushed
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into the house with cow crap and wood chips smeared over my face all the while babbling about Vegas. Elizabeth, paying no mind to the commotion, said, “By the way, when you’re done with the garage you can finish spreading the manure in the garden. I’m planting begonias this afternoon.” Then she turned and saw the mess on me and screamed, “Oh My God! Get out of here, fool!” Elizabeth continued to yell while I rummaged through the junk drawer of our hutch to find a pair of reading glasses. I knocked pencils, markers and rolls of stamps to the floor until I parked an old pair of horn rimmed spectacles over my eyes. She hollered, “You’re getting cow crap everywhere, for crying out loud!” Hardly aware of her screaming, I held the winning cap to the light, still trying to allay a lingering shadow of doubt. I turned it over in my hands, seriously considering the possibility that it was all a ruse. But it was real; the crown jewel, the Holy Grail of my wildest dreams. That evening I studied the contest instructions featured on Rhondo’s web site. Within a week of following them precisely, I received a certified letter from the Rhondo Pop Bottling Company. The first sentence repeated the announcement, “Max Morgan Smith, you are the winner!” The letter declared that the Rhondo Pop Bottling Company, in conjunction with Firefly Inc., had arranged to fly me out to Vegas on their tab and would put me in a room, poolside, at the Desert Sands Hotel. The itinerary called for a Friday afternoon arrival at Las Vegas International, giving me an evening and a day to slosh around in the pool and tour the strip. The big show was on Saturday night at the Funkasaurus. The brochure, included in the envelope, showed a giant concrete Tyrannosaurus parked outside the entrance of the building, dressed in a long coat with a fur collar, a giant leopard skin fedora on its head and sunglasses over its eyes. Within a week I was on a plane bound for Vegas. Once settled into my room, I made a powerful middle-aged fashion statement with a baggy, florescent orange swim suit and a pair of black sox and high tops. From the hotel lobby I stepped into a wonderland set a blaze by a hot desert sun. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the neon glow of the concrete deck. The infinite blue, the gaggle of sun bathers and the sounds of gurgling, splashing water worked like a lullaby on my winter-worn soul. Next, I joined a gathering of vacationers pool side at the Sands, slicked up with sun block and eager for a frolic in a vast reservoir the hotel staff called “Kidney Number One.” After a refreshing swim, I stretched out beneath the hot Vegas sun to bronze my flabby white flesh. By seven o’clock the next night, I had my butt in a front row seat at the Funkasaurus. The show was everything I hoped it would be. Prince was in town and joined Wa in a duet. They sang an upbeat techno version of “Something Stupid,” a sappy 1967 hit made famous by
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Frank and Nancy Sinatra. Wa and the gang put a modern twist on the old song. They dialed up the tempo, added bass, dub-step rhythms, samples and percussion. They squeezed out the sap and added some funk – enough to move me out of my seat. Then Firefly Inc. sent the dance team out in their satin suits and goofy hats. I’m not sure how their gyrations told the story of a date turned sour by the words, “I love you,” but it rocked. After the group’s last song and a lengthy ovation, the musicians and dancers left the stage and the house lights came on. My instructions were to remain in my seat after the show and await a Firefly Inc. representative for an escort backstage. About twenty minutes after the last fan left, some guy in a black suit and green aviators walked up to my seat. A label on the side of his radio read, “Agent Six.” Other than the label, his real identity was unknown. This dude was a noir private eye right out of a dime-store novel from the fifties with his crew cut hairdo, white shirt and narrow tie. He came at me with CIA bravado and told me to keep my hands to myself or he’d put an abrupt end to my dream date. “Yes sir,” I told him. When the moment finally arrived, steely-eyed Agent Six planted me at the center of a circle surrounded by press people, band members and stage hands. Then Wa plowed through the ring of bodies out of nowhere, nearly knocking a man’s camera to the floor, rushed up, grabbed my shirt by the collar and pulled me into her. Standing toe-to-toe with me she put her mouth on mine and pressed herself into me. Her close proximity put me in some kind of singularity, compressing time and space into infinite density and the world around me went silent. Then I sighed and wrapped my mouth around her fleshy wet lips, tasted sweet tangerine, took in a deep whiff of rain scented shampoo and basked in the aura of her holiness. Having fulfilled her obligation, Wa pushed me away with all the sass she was famous for. Figuring our little interlude was over, I back peddled for a quick get-away, but Wa grabbed my shirt and pulled me into her and again jammed her wet fleshy tongue in my mouth. Just as my eyes widened, a barrage of camera flashes went off all around us. Every neuron on in my head lit up like fireflies on a summer lawn. Then Wa pressed herself into me one last time, but instead of a kiss, she put her lips near my ear and whispered, “Follow me.” “Huh?” I said. “Follow me,” she said again. I just stood there all wide-eyed and dumbstruck, my feet held in place by rapture and wonder. I was drawn deeper into a holy moment as Wa drew close again, close enough for me to feel her warm breath brush against my face, close enough to gaze into her chocolaty brown eyes, her perfect skin and tangerine lips; close enough to see sandy blonde strands running through her dark brown hair, a hint of blush on her cheeks and smell a sweet halo of sweet citrus all around her. “C’mon,” she said, “We’re heading backstage, remember, that’s part of the deal.” “Oh yeah,” I said, thinking I was already backstage.
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My trance broken, Wa put her arm under mine and rushed us through a concrete tunnel. Swept along by the mob, I heard the clatter of feet echoing off the concrete walls as we ran toward a set of double glass doors immersed in sunlight. Someone banged through them and the herd ran across the street, blocked off by Wa’s security team and Las Vegas Police. Wa pulled ahead of the mob and quickened her pace, a heavy carry-all bag slung over one shoulder. While running she pulled off her costume piece by piece. First, the cellophane, followed by the sci-fi hat sprinkled with metallic glitter, then the frilly poofed out skirt and the thigh high white tights. I paused, holding myself against the wall to catch my breath as Wa led the pack, stuffing the last of her costume in her carry-all bag as she ran. By the time I made it to the front doors of what appeared to be a coffee shop, she was already in blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt, balanced on one foot trying to hook a flip flop between her toes. Once hooked, the two of us entered a holy place of sudden calm and quiet. “Backstage” turned out to be a coffee shop with a neon sign out front announcing the name of the joint, The Backstage Coffee Shop. Wa’s security team had cleared the place prior to our arrival. There wasn’t a soul around, except the barista behind the espresso machine, her hands at the controls of a coffee steamer, “Woooooossshhhhhh.” As we sat down at one of the tables, Wa dabbed at her face with a damp white cloth. While rubbing away the makeup, she turned to me, her voice tense, “You’re staring,” she said. “Oh, sorry,” I said, and looked away turning my eyes to the decor. I turned my eyes to the walls festooned with screen shots of entertainers, Wa Maru featured prominently among them. The seating area, directly adjacent the counter, spread out under a domed ceiling; the interior of which was painted over in midnight blue and studded with tiny lights. Other lights, nestled inside fixtures shaped like tear drops and painted over in frosted orange, hung over the tables from long cords. While my eyes were on the décor, Wa transformed. It seemed her makeup was uncommonly thick, our table littered with little pads layered with flesh colored paste. She had unearthed a strange pallor beneath, stone white with a hint of lavender. The more she rubbed, the more she uncovered a skin texture I had never seen. Wa Maru’s skin was imperfect, scarred, pitted and slightly discolored. It was nothing tragic or even unusual, just not… perfect. My staring, judging by her expression, clearly unnerved her, compelling her to turn and ask, “Is everything okay?” I shifted in my seat. “Yes, I’m sorry,” I said sheepishly. “I guess I was starring again.” Wa smiled and said, “I get that a lot.” Then Wa turned to me as if suddenly sensing my presence, and said, “Forgive me, I move fast through life. I have to get this crap off me or I’ll go nuts. Anyway, I’m Wa Maru,” and then she extended her hand, “Pleased to meet you.” “Hi…” I said.
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“So, you are…” “Max Morgan Smith,” I said. “You look like a family man. You got a wife, kids?” I said, “All of the above; two kids, a son, a daughter and one wife.” She smiled and then turned to summon the barista with the wave of her hand, a young college-aged woman standing behind the service counter. The barista was every bit as serious and stone-faced as Agent Six. As she approached our table with a warm beverage, which she placed on the table in front of Wa, Wa said, “At ease, soldier.” The barista cracked a smile and said, “Sorry, Wa.” “No worries, Cynthia.” “Anything else?” asked the barista. Wa looked into the tall coffee cup and then turned to Cynthia, “How about a little more whipped cream and chocolate sauce.” “Yes ma’am.” Wa turned to me, “How ‘bout you Max, you want anything? It’s on the house.” “Um, thank you. I’ll just have coffee, black.” As Cynthia walked away, Wa continued to wipe away the sparkles clinging to her forehead and of course her lipstick. Her eyes darted between me and a makeup mirror on our table, sporting a somewhat nervous smile. Equally nervous, I looked away trying to think of something clever to talk about but found myself enthralled by her transformation. In an effort to re-engage, I blurted out the first thought that came to mind, “Sooo…this is nice, I wasn’t expecting a one-on-one visit.” “Yeah, we usually meet in the greenroom, but when I come to Vegas,” she said, “we come here. It’s my favorite coffee shop.” “Well, it’s a good thing…really, and it gives you a chance to connect with your fans.” I said, wincing at the drivel rolling off my tongue. Wa smiled nervously, followed by another awkward pause. “Ssooo,” I said again, as if one “O” wasn’t enough. “Is Wa Maru your real name?” Wa turned and looked into my eyes and answered with an edge, “No, no it’s not. My real name is top secret, Max,” she said while dabbing away at the goo over her eyebrows. Just as I was about to dig into the name mystery, I heard the melancholy strains of a viola. Wa turned to me and said, “That’s my ring tone.” Wa’s cell phone was going off, somewhere at the bottom of her over stuffed carry all bag. She frantically began removing objects from the bag, piling them on the table; her glittering silver high heels, a shirt with sequins, makeup containers a bundled pair of white tights and a book titled, Healing the Hurt. Just before the sound of her viola trailed off, she found her cell phone and answered it. “Hey baby…Yes…Backstage for coffee?…” She put her hand over the phone and turned to me, “Excuse me, Max. I have to take this call.” Wa stood up and pulled her wig off and laid it
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on the table. Then she walked behind a curved wall beyond the coffee counter, her voice muffled by drywall and distance. As she left, my own cell phone went off. I pulled it from my pocket. It was Elizabeth calling. I turned it off without answering it and set it on the table next to Wa’s wig. I was too astonished to talk, startled by what I thought I had seen – Wa Maru’s real hair – reddish with a bit of a wave in it and…freckles. Wa returned to our table several minutes later, her finger pecking away at her cell phone. “Sorry about the interruption,” she said, “but the group and I are working on a new song and it’s starting to jell.” “What’s it about?” I asked, grateful that she had turned to face me. Still, she seemed remote, her gaze fixed on her phone. “What?” she asked, looking up. “The song, what’s it about?” I asked again. “Um,” she said, still pecking out a text, “it’s about dreams.” “Dreams?” “Yes, dreams,” she said with a smile. “What about dreams?” I asked. “Huh?” she muttered, her eyes reluctant to meet mine. “Oh.” Her focus returning she continued, “They’re never quite the same as reality.” “How do you mean?” “Well,” she said, suddenly drawn into the conversation, “take stardom for example, it’s nothing like I dreamed it would be.” “It’s not?” I asked, I suppose sounding surprised. “No, it’s not.” Then Wa’s brown eyes zeroed in on mine and her words and mood turned serious. She said, “It’s hard enough finding out who you are without fame. But when your entire persona is manufactured by the industry...” Wa’s throat tensed up with emotion and her eyes watered until she continued in a strained voice, “Let’s just say…it’s hard to know which part of me is…me.” Sporting a bitter-sweet smile, she turned again to her cellphone and started pecking way. While she tapped out a message another call came in. Wa answered it and I heard a female voice say with an upward inflection, “Hi Betty…” Wa answered, “Hi mama, what’s up?” Did I hear that right, I wondered. Wa said into the phone, “Mama, can I get back at you later, I’m doing the Backstage thing.” I heard the distant voice say, “Sure darling.” Wa turned to me, sensing my astonishment, she asked, “What is it?” I hesitated and finally answered slowly, “That lady…called you Betty.” Wa put a delicate finger to her lips and said, “Sshhhh, Max, that’s top secret.” Wa looked at me straight on. She looked as pale as a beach stone, her eyes wide and her tough exterior breached by a display of faint-heartedness. In the span of a few seconds I saw
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her freckles again and a faint suture line above each eye brow. “Betty?” I said, having a difficult time concealing my astonishment. “Yes,” she answered. “Betty.” Then Wa held out her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Betty Rutowski …really.” “How…did Betty become Wa?” I asked. “Think of it, Max, what kind of stage persona goes by the name “Betty?” So the marketing team at the cosmetic company financed some plastic surgery and turned me into a Eurasian dream.” Wa put a finger on one arched eyebrow and said, “See, you can see a faint line. They planted an epicanthic fold over my eyes to make me look Asian.” She dropped her eyebrow and continued. “Some people have a sex change. I had a race change. If not for the surgery, I’d still be playing the viola for the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra.” Wa’s once glamorous lips, now somewhat purple, drooped into a frown as she said in a slow, hushed tone, “If I could go back…” Her throat tensed too tight to finish her sentence. But she flexed her jaw in anger and said, “I’d take that seat all over again, marry Buster, squeeze out a few pups and live a life of obscurity.” Wa turned her watery eyes to the windows. “Really, I would...in a fuck’n heart beat.” Wa’s bottom lip trembled. “Well,” hesitating, I asked, “Why don’t you?” “If only it was that easy, Max.” The woman of my dreams cracked a strained smile; one I had never seen before. Cynthia the barista arrived, delivering a large black coffee and placed it in front of me. “Here you are, sir.” “Thank you,” I said, noticing coffee in a to-go cup. Wa’s cell phone came to life again. “Sorry, Max.” Wa…I mean Betty, put the phone to her ear and retreated behind the wall again. Her conversation carried on for a good twenty minutes. Before she finished, other members of her band arrived along with some of the publicity people I saw earlier on stage. Within minutes, some guy strumming a ukulele walked in and everyone joined him in an impromptu sing-along. Buster Sway came in behind, shirtless with a sagging pair of jeans, tattooed and buffed from working out. He walked up to Wa, embraced her and put his lips on her neck. Wa giggled and groaned, “Stop it baby, there’s people around.” I gathered from what happened next that they were all working on the song Wa mentioned. Once it was clear Wa had more pressing matters, she signaled Agent Six with a nod and he sauntered over, his chest out and his face tight. “Sorry mac,” he said, “Fireflies and friends are busy. Time to leave.” Feeling like I had to say something, I groaned, “But…” “What, you think something else is gonna happen?” He asked. “No, I just…”
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Then he smiled condescendingly. I stood there a minute feeling stupid as he moved in close enough for me to smell his cheap cologne. He put an arm around me and said, “Look, don’t do this to yourself. Go home, old man. Show’s over.” “But we were…in the middle of our…” Agent Six interrupted with a finger aimed at the door and his mouth curled into a smirk. So I walked out of the coffee shop into the glitter of Las Vegas feeling unfulfilled. To add to my woes, someone in a back alley channeled my sadness through the business end of an alto sax. While I waited for a cab to happen by, Agent Six plowed through the double doors holding my cellphone. “Hey Mac, you might need this. It started blow’n up after you left.” Agent Six turned to look at the screen, “Some dude named Eli is trying to get ahold of you. He seems pretty desperate.” “It’s my wife,” I said. “Your wife’s name is Eli?” “Eli, short for Elizabeth.” “Oh,” he said, his stare lingering on me. “Look,” he finally said. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, it’s not here.” So I put my eyes right back at him and said, “Right,” I told him. “Dreams. They’re never what we imagine them to be.” Agent Six shot back a look of pity and locked down the doors as I boarded a curbside cab back to the Sands. As I stepped into my hotel room I felt my cell phone buzzing. I pulled it from my pants pocket, saw that it was my wife calling and laid it on the table. It would stop for a spell, then buzz again…and again. Instead of answering it, I gazed through the rain splattered window at the glitter of Las Vegas. The rain blurred the colored lights, making them all bigger. There amid the glow I saw a digital billboard flashing an obscured, looping image of Wa Maru flashing her trademark smile. The same smile that enchanted me, beckoned dreamers to this land of make believe.
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Yasha Chernyak
Pigeons
Yasha Chernyak
Megan
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ADELLA BLAIN _________________________________________________ In the Name of the Father “If I can just get this fire going, you can take off your ski pants and hang them on the screen. They should dry a bit before we have to get back to town.” “But then I’d be colder than ever; it’s freezing in here … besides, I don’t want you to see me like that.” Maureen stood with shoulders tensed, her knit toque pulled down over her eyebrows and her striped woolen scarf covering her chin. “I’ve seen you in a bathing suit, haven’t I? “ Bobby asked. “Yes, but you know it’s not the same thing. That heavy elastic suit is like a chastity belt. My underwear is more revealing … so don’t get excited. The ski pants are not coming off.” “Oh, Maureen, you know how to destroy a man’s very appetite for life.” Bobby smiled and leaned back and watched his small kindling fire flare up. The wind gusting off Lake Superior shook the windows in the small cabin, diminishing the promise of warmth that the sound of the fire’s sputter and crackle promised. “Don’t go philosophical on me, Bobby,” Maureen responded. “It won’t weaken my resolve.” She shivered and stepped closer to the hearth. “Oh, God! Why did we have to come in here? You should have just driven me home, even if the heater in your old junker doesn’t work.” She stared into the fire, then turned and watched Bobby use an old bellows to raise the flames. “Whose cabin is this anyway … your aunts’? I can’t imagine those maiden ladies enjoying a beach-side cottage on Lake Superior. They’re too fussy … too urban. They would never walk barefoot in the sand.” She sat down and put her heavy-socked feet up to the fireplace screen. “They’d be constantly dusting that pile of firewood over there.” “No, no. It belongs to my Uncle Bill. You know, Father Salhany,” Bobby said, and he put his arm around Maureen’s shivering body and kissed her forehead. “Watch that the soles of your socks don’t scorch,” he cautioned, “That screen will get very hot in a few minutes.” “Oh, your uncle, the priest. I’ve never met him. Does he ever come to the Sault?” “Not often. When he comes, he stays one night with the aunts and me and then he leaves in the morning. Sometimes he comes here to the cabin in late fall or in early spring before the nearby cabins fill up with vacationers.” Maureen hesitated before speaking, not wanting to say anything at all critical about a member of the clergy, especially when he was Bobby’s uncle. She spoke softly, “That seems strange, Bobby. It seems almost like he’s hiding from people in the area.” Bobby threw a few more pieces of kindling on the fire and settled back down beside Maureen. He removed her hat and ran his fingers through her long wavy hair, slowly untangling the knots.
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“Yeah,” he said. “He’s a mysterious guy. You know, last year on my 18th birthday, he drove up from Detroit and arrived at the house around dinner time. The aunts had let me invite Joel over for cake and ice cream. I was shocked that they suggested Joel should come.” He sighed. “Never before had they let me invite anyone inside for a meal, not even you, and you know how they adore you.” “They do seem to like me. They always come over and talk to Mom and me after Mass. One of them even told Mom that I had alabaster skin. Can you believe it?” “Yes, I can. They think you’re perfect, honey. Well, back to my birthday --in times past, the guys could come in and use the bathroom or get a drink of water when we played football in the back yard, but no one was ever invited to share a meal with us. Anyway, when Uncle Bill arrived, the aunts acted really weird. They practically pushed Joel out the door before he swallowed his last bite of cake. I was so embarrassed.” “Well, that is weird.” Maureen frowned. “Was Father Bill wearing his Roman collar?” “Oh, yeah. And, he was polite and friendly to Joel. He insisted that Joel take some more cake with him when he left.” Bobby leaned over to Maureen. “Honey, you are still shaking. Come on, you’ve got to take off those pants. Look! There is still ice stuck on the legs. And, on your rear where you sat on that puddle in the fish shanty, your pants are soaked.” “I am really cold, Bobby,” Maureen whispered. She looked around at the cabin’s meager contents –the hide-a-bed against the east wall, the oak dresser beside it, the small painted table and chairs near the stove and sink, the rickety-looking rocking chair and a floor lamp. Snow shoes and canoe paddles hung on large iron hooks on the knotty pine walls and small birch logs and stacked old newspapers were piled neatly beside the front door. “There aren’t any old fur blankets around here, are there?” “God! Your mother will kill me if you catch pneumonia. She told us it was too cold for walks on the lake today.” Bobby stood up. “Look, honey. I won’t peek. Let me get a comforter from the hide-a-bed. I’ll warm it on the screen and you can take off those damn pants and wrap it around you.” “O.K. That sounds like a good idea.” Bobby hurried over to the bed and started throwing off the seat cushions. He grabbed the handle release, pulled out the three quarter-sized mattress, and grabbed a patchwork quilt. Maureen stood trembling while Bobby warmed the quilt against the fireplace screen. Seconds later, with Bobby holding it up like a curtain, she had shed her soaked ski pants and wrapped the quilt around her hips. She tried to ignore the strong scent of mildew that clung to the quilt and made her slightly nauseous. Finally, she settled back down by the hearth and watched Bobby arrange her wet pants against the screen. He dropped down beside her then and wrapped his arm around her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” he said. “I wanted this to be such a fun day. Since I got home from State, we’ve been surrounded by so many people–your family, the gang from St. Mary’s –I’ve been just dying to have you to myself.”
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“I know, Bobby. I’ve been eager to have some time alone with you, too.” She paused and said, “I know that Mom worries about our spending time together without any adults present, but I’ve told her repeatedly that we won’t do anything that we’d regret later.” Maureen smiled and looked up at Bobby. He groaned in mock annoyance and fiddled with the ski pants, turning them around on the screen once more. “Hey, I’m not going to get you pregnant … at least, not now. I’m hoping that when we’ve both finished college and we get married, we’ll start a family. Isn’t that what you want, too?” “Of course, I do! Robert, do you think that I’d let myself be all alone with a guy in a deserted cabin on the shore of Lake Superior if I didn’t see him as my future husband? I’m not that kind of girl … as you know,” she added. She stood up and moved in front of the fire, warming herself again. Then she sat down and leaned against Bobby. They’d been going steady almost two years now and, in certain ways, especially in their ease in conversation, she felt like they were already married. “Now tell me the rest of the story about your Uncle Bill,” she said. “I have a feeling that you had more to say about his visit on your birthday.” “You are so perceptive! That’s one of the reasons that I love you so much, honey. Well, that night after Joel left, Uncle Bill gave me a brand new $100 bill. He had tears in his eyes and he gave a little speech, kind of like a sermon. “ “Really? “Yeah, he did. I don’t remember his exact words but the gist of it was that I was now a man and he was very proud of me, you know, proud of the way I had adjusted to growing up with no father or mother. He hoped that I’d continue on the straight and narrow path and keep getting good grades. He said that I should let my aunts know that I appreciate the many sacrifices they’ve made for me over the years.” Bobby grimaced and added, “I know it wasn’t Uncle Bill’s intention but somehow his words made me feel really small, and definitely they made me feel unworthy.” “Oh, dear! Why would you feel like that, Bobby? “It’s hard to say. Maybe it’s because of the many times that I’ve resented living with a couple of old women, instead of with a real family. They’re good to me but it’s not the same as having a regular family.” Maureen shifted on the quilt and turned to look directly at Bobby. “Hmm. I know that your father died in WWII but what happened to your mother? I’ve always been afraid to ask,” she murmured. “It’s alright, honey. Well. The aunts always told me that my mother had never recovered fully from the baby blues after I was born and that she was in a mental hospital down below, but sometimes I think that she may have just abandoned me ... just gave me to the aunts. You know, probably she didn’t want to raise me by herself.” Maureen put her arms around Bobby tightly. “Oh, sweetie! That’s a hard pill to swallow. I’ve heard of other women who went kind of cuckoo after giving birth. I bet that is
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what happened to her. No! I’m sure she didn’t willingly leave you. How could she?” Maureen’s eyes opened wide. “I saw your baby picture in the yearbook. You were a little curly-haired doll! Oh, how sad!” They clung to each other briefly and then fell backwards onto the floor where Maureen then climbed on top of Bobby. She kissed his forehead and cheeks. Bobby pulled open the bundle of quilt and put his hands around Maureen’s waist and moved them down slowly over her hips to her thighs. “Hmm. You’re still damp and chilly on your rear,” he muttered. “And, this floor is rock hard and cold as a witch’s tit.” “Could we roll the quilt around both of us?” Maureen suggested. “Yes, that may warm my back a bit, but it won’t stop the pine planks from bruising my butt.” He grabbed Maureen and rolled over on his side. “Here’s a better idea. Why don’t we warm the quilt again at the fire and then go and lie down on the mattress? It has a hell of a lot more give than the floor. We can take off our jackets, too.” “I guess that’s alright if you promise not to go too far? Turn your back, I’m going to take off the quilt and warm it at the screen.” “Damn! You know I won’t go too far,” Bobby said, “in spite of how much I want to.” He threw off his parka and lay down on the cold mattress. He stared across the room at the unplugged wall clock while Maureen warmed the quilt, wrapped it around her, hurried over and leaped onto the mattress beside him. She slipped under the cover and pulled it over his body and hers in one motion. “Now, that’s what I like,” Bobby said, “a woman of action.” He pulled Maureen closer and kissed her roughly. His tongue found hers and the longed for moment was bliss until Maureen moved her head to the side and sat up against the sofa’s back pillow. She was breathing heavily and her cheeks were flushed. “Bobby, as much as I like this, it’s impossible to continue with the Blessed Virgin watching us. Look! Her statue on the dresser is facing us. She has that sorrowful look on her face –that look that says to me, ‘Maureen, you must stay a virgin until marriage.’” “Oh, shit!” Bobby moaned. “Come on, Maureen, just close your eyes. That’s what I’ve been doing.” He pushed down on his erection that was pulsing against his long underwear and jeans. Then he tried to turn Maureen’s head so that she was looking away from the dresser. He tugged on her arm to slide her back down beside him. Maureen paused and sniffed the air and asked, “What is this other bad smell? Could it be mouse droppings?” “Jesus, Maureen, you’re breaking the spell. Come on, honey, just slip back under the quilt and close your eyes. I want to feel your body against mine again. Didn’t you notice? We’re not cold anymore.” “You’re right, Bobby.” She slid down next to him. “I feel snug as a bug in a rug cuddling with you under here.” They kissed again and lay facing each other on their sides, perspiring under their wool sweaters. Bobby reached behind Maureen and unsnapped her bra, then,
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holding his breath, he moved his hand to her breasts. “I love you so much, Maureen,” he whispered. “No, no, no, NO! We can’t do this, Bobby. The Blessed Virgin is almost crying.” She grabbed his hand and pulled down her sweater. “Well, damn, then I’m going to move her so you can’t see her tears,” Bobby shouted. He removed the quilt on his side and stood up in a crouch, trying as best he could to hide the broomstick lookalike that was jutting out from his jeans. He reached the dresser in one stride and picked up the blue and white robed virgin. While looking around for a spot to place her outside of Maureen’s gaze, he turned the statue upside down. “What’s this?” he mumbled. He stepped back and sat down on the edge of the bed. He placed the statue upside down between his legs and started pulling masking tape off the bottom opening. “There’s something lodged in the cavity,” he said, “It looks like a letter.” “Let me see, too,’ Maureen coaxed, as she moved over to Bobby. “Maybe it’s a map to buried treasure. It might pay for your next semester’s tuition.” She laughed quietly. Bobby yanked out a small, pale blue envelope and removed from it a typed document. With Maureen leaning over his shoulder, he read: ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… Certificate as to Birth
State of Michigan, Wayne County
I, Judson P. Smith, Clerk of the county of Wayne and of the Circuit court thereof, the same being a Court of Record having a seal, do hereby certify that the following is a copy of the record in my office of the birth of: Robert Jordan Salhany Date of Birth……………….August 4, 1942 Birthplace…………………..Detroit Name of Father………….Unknown Birthplace…………………..Unknown Occupation………………..Unknown Name of Mother………..Marie Claire Maloney Birthplace…………………..Sault Ste. Marie Residence of Parents…(Mother) Sault Ste. Marie ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… Bobby’s voice grew softer and he stopped speaking before he reached the last line. “What does this mean, Bobby? Why isn’t your father’s name printed here?” Maureen took the birth certificate from him and read it silently to herself. “I’m sorry … this is hard to ask … but does this mean that you were illegitimate?” She felt Bobby’s shaking before she heard the sounds. Head in his hands, his deep throated wail filled the cabin while he pounded his fist on the bedside. “No, no, no,” he
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sobbed, “not Bill!” Maureen waited quietly until his sobs became a low register lament; then she said, “Come here, sweetie. Lie back down. Let me hold you.” She pulled Bobby back down under the cover. She removed her sweater and rested his head on her chest while she massaged his back and neck gently. Sparks flew against the fireplace screen and the cold wind whistled through the cracks in the window frames. Darkness began to fall.
Danielle Kanclerz
Tangled Branch
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KELSEY TAYLOR ________________________________________________ Lavender The porch swing faced the west, and she sat alone contemplating the last rays of the dying sun. Her cup of hot tea had long since gone cold, and she hadn’t bothered to pull the worn sweater over her shoulders. The hard wood against her back was a familiar discomfort, as she commanded the same post daily. The paper she held in a slim-fingered grip was folded and unfolded so many times it threatened to come apart, the black ink fading into the creases. Even though it was now too dark to read, she read it by memory, every word waging war inside her chest. On some nights she played soft jazz or classical music over the speaker system, or read a book by her favorite author. Other nights she would wander out onto the grass with a small blanket and stare at the stars. The dark night which she now battled however, would be long and lonely, and not even the harmony of piano or the tale of a hero could keep her company. The brightness of all the stars and moon were not bright enough to quell the darkness that conquered her. It was one year ago to the day that she had married her childhood sweetheart, the man of her dreams. And she had not seen him since. Now she sat alone allowing the night to envelop her, on their first wedding anniversary, and promised herself she would not cry. Her grandmother had spent months making her wedding gown, which she had taken out of the protective dress bag to admire earlier in the day. When she unzipped the plastic bag, the smell of her bridal perfume whisked out and tickled her nose. The train still had scuff marks on the white peau de soie. She lightly fingered the imperfections on the pure white fabric, and could see him accidentally stepping on the dress as they danced around the floor. She packed the dress away, against the great temptation to put it on once more. She had moved slowly through the rooms that were mostly empty, walking past the wedding presents that stood unopened in the corner of the living room. Aimlessly she wandered the floor plan, stopping at the room she had prematurely named the nursery. She looked in at the four walls, wondering what it would be like to hear the sound of crying, the smell of baby powder, and to see her husband changing a dirty diaper. She leafed through old photos, some dating back to their childhood. He still had the same sideways smile and piercing blue eyes. A picture of him as a young boy standing on the river’s edge brought tears to her eyes. She was in the picture too, smiling at the ground as he held a handful of lilacs in her direction. She could not let herself tread the waters of thought for too long, or she would soon find herself drowning in the sorrow of things never to come. Now she rested heavily on the porch swing he had hung for her, on the front porch of the house he built. She remembered him in his navy blue uniform, the embodiment of the nation’s pride. The smile on his face when he saw her walking down the aisle was rivaled only by hers at seeing him waiting at the altar. She let herself bask
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in the memory. She replayed his soft voice pronouncing his vows, and she closed her eyes against the star-filled sky to feel herself kiss him once again… It had happened sometime during the reception when they had been separated, greeting guests who had come to celebrate their union. Another man in uniform approached the happy new husband and led him to an empty table. The band played enthusiastically, and the dance floor was full of people enjoying themselves. The men conversed in hushed tones, and the other man sat calmly with his hands folded. As she approached, her new spouse stopped his quiet pleading and angry gestures. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and reached out to take the other man’s hand in introduction. Her husband slyly slipped a letter into a pocket inside his jacket and thought she didn’t notice. It remained there for the rest of the night, and he carried its weight as if it were made of stone. As the band played a slower melody and the dance floor cleared, they slowly swayed. Looking up to meet his gaze, she caught him staring at her. They searched each other’s eyes for a long moment, and she finally asked what had been on her mind since the arrival of his commanding officer. “Why is he here?” she whispered suspiciously, “I thought he was overseas with your unit?” He thought of what to say for only a moment and replied, “He didn’t want to miss it.” The way he answered her—breaking eye contact and scanning the crowd—told her he was holding something back. She gave him the look that told him she knew he was lying, and he laughed silently. When she insisted, he simply kissed her forehead and hugged her close before whispering, “You look so beautiful; I am the luckiest man in the world.” Before she could speak again, he spun her away in a twirl and a fit of laughter as the band started again with a faster tune. Sitting alone by the light of the moon one year later, she wondered why she hadn’t known then that something was terribly wrong. Thinking of that night, she blushed at the memories she lingered on. It was all she had ever wanted, at least until morning. When they were finally out of bed and ready to begin the first day as man and wife, he shared the news she prayed he wouldn’t have. By then there was already a black sedan waiting in the driveway to take him to a far off land. She held him on the front porch of their home, kissing him until the sedan revved its engine in warning. He promised he would call, but that he couldn’t tell her where he was going. Still one year later, she had received only one letter from him. The year had been painstakingly long; each day the sun rose with hope and set with disappointment. She refused to give up on him, and would wake each morning with her own sense of duty. She would run to the mailbox and meet the postman. She could now tell if he was having a fight with his wife, or if he held a winning lottery ticket simply by the way he walked to the mailbox. She had hugged the man only once, when he presented a small envelope with a wide smile. She now held the tear-stained and wrinkled parchment in her shaking hands. As silent tears rolled down her cheeks and she broke the promise she made to herself, a soft tune came to her floating on the scent of wedding flowers. Emotions were toying with her, and she willed herself to go to bed before she fell prey
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to more trickery. Yet as she sat, searching for strength to stand, she heard the same familiar melody. It was the romantic tune she had last heard one year ago, while spinning in white in her soldier’s arms. She closed her eyes and pictured again their wedding day, and their first dance. She could hear the song clearly, feel his arms moving her to the soft cadence of the song, and even smell the bouquet of lilacs she held around his neck. Squeezing tears from her shuttering eyes, she brought herself back to reality and let the handwritten note fall from her limp hands. She suddenly felt that she was not alone; a feeling that had been her bedmate for far too long had vanished. Slowly she realized the song was not playing in her head, but coming from behind her. She abruptly opened her eyes and listened intently, keeping her gaze firmly on the beacon of sanity that was the moon. The voice that she hadn’t heard in one year was now playing in her ears, caressing her as would a lover’s touch. Although there were no words spoken, she knew the pitch of the hum. She heard soft footsteps on the wooden porch, and the smell of lavender was on the breeze. Lilacs were her favorite flower, but they were out of season now and she used this as reason to admit she was dreaming. With a fluttering heart she turned to see her husband as she had last seen him on the porch step. But this time, instead of luggage he held flowers in his hand. He stood there for a moment, taking her in, humming their wedding song. She stared at him, looking at him without seeing him. He smiled at her, that sideways smile she loved so much, and she caught a sob in her throat. The more she tried to hold it in, the more it came forth. She slid sideways off the rocking chair onto her knees before it, fully facing him now. She kept her hands to her lips in attempt to keep in the wails of desperate longing. She reached one arm out in his direction, as if wandering through the desert she thought he could be a mirage. He slowly approached and set the flowers down where she had previously been seated. When he took her outstretched hand, and used it as an anchor to pull him down to her, she cast off all doubts. The smell of lavender was nothing compared to the feeling of his arms around her. On their knees they held one another and wept. His crisp navy suit caught all the tears she had been holding in for the last year, washing away the dust and dirt from where he had come. She was touching him all over, to reassure herself that he was solid. When her hand landed on his chest, and she felt his racing heartbeat, she looked into his blue eyes before closing hers and collapsing into his arms. He held her shaking body and kissed her wet cheeks. All the pain and fear of the past year came out all at once, and she felt silly for thinking he would never come back to her. She clung to him as a child does a blanket. He slowly lifted her petite form from the stained deck and held her against himself. He held her with no intention to let go, as if she were the only air supply and he was voyaging deep under sea. When they finally pulled apart he wiped at the tears on her face, and softly whispered, “You are so beautiful; I am the luckiest man in the world.” She could not hold in the sob that escaped her throat, and she pulled herself to him again. With her head on his chest, in an embrace that would last forever, he told her, “Happy
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Anniversary.” When she looked up into his eyes, she saw that his tears were replaced with a hunger. Their lips met again, and this time it was filled with passion and urgency. He lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Holding tightly to him, squeezing him with her thighs, she held his head as she kissed him like never before. He took stabilizing steps backwards, as he pulled the loose shirt up her back. She wiggled out of it as he tore it off her. He backed her up against the front door, and held her there for a moment, kissing her everywhere he could land his lips. Their hands searched the other’s body as if trying to remember the topography of the other. He turned the knob with one hand, the other still holding her against him. As he carried her over the threshold like he had done on their wedding night, the exhaustion and weariness she felt from missing him was gone. He was finally home, and she was going to spend the second night with her husband as a married couple. They lay together for a longtime in silence, neither of them needing words. When the conversation started to flow, it was as if no time had passed between them. They reminisced about the wedding, laughing at the speeches made, and the drunks on the dance floor. They talked about growing up on the other side of the river that was now in their back yard, and how they should fix the tire swing hanging over the deepest part. She told him the hottest gossip in town, and he told her what it was like to jump from an airplane. They talked about grocery shopping, and all the foods he missed. They talked about what color to paint the bedroom, and about having babies. At his suggestion that they had been out of practice regarding how to make a baby for far too long, she laughed and kissed him again. She asked him about his time away and where he had been, and he had told her. When he spoke of his best friend, the best man at their wedding being taken down, and dying in his arms, she held him again and they both cried. She grew quiet during their continuous conversation, listening to him talk about the different things he had seen since he had last held her in his arms. She was still in awe that he was there with her. The thought of him never coming home had been a fear that she had wrestled back every day. She thought of all the nights she cried and screamed for him, of all the nights she sat numb without any more tears to shed. When he kissed her softly, and wiped the tears that fell silently down her cheeks, she refocused her eyes and saw concern in his. “I thought you were… gone,” she whispered with a wavering voice. He looked down at his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he replied just as softly. “I…” When he trailed off she watched him struggle for words, and saw tears well up in his eyes again. “I thought I was gone, too.” It was hardly even a whisper; and the tears spilled out as the final syllable left his lips. With this, she pulled his head to her breast and smoothed his hair as he cried his final tears of the night. She kissed his tears, and the soft kisses she placed on his lips were eagerly returned. Again they lost themselves in one another, this time it was slower, and more purposeful. She brought him into her light and together they shone. By the time they got to the living room, the easterly sun was peeking in through the
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blinds. They walked down the hall holding hands, and again she thought about how lucky she was that he came back to her, just in time to celebrate their anniversary. She led him to the scarcely furnished living room, as the rest of the house was no better. They moved all of their stuff only the week before the wedding, keeping only what they needed out of the boxes. Their first and only night together in the house was their wedding night. She had meticulously kept the place clean, and had done minor repairs herself. He had built this house with the help of his best friend, and both of their fathers. All of them had passed this year, leaving only her husband. When he was away, it was more precious to her than anything, aside from the ring on her finger and the single note he had written. It was never just a house to her, but it was never a home with him gone, either. She now took his hand and sat him down on a couch that was haphazardly placed. He looked amazed at all the gifts that sat unopened. Shaking his head he said, “Woman, you have admirable self-control.” She winked at him, handing him a gift she wanted him to open first and said, “Honey, you have no idea.” He tore through the sparkling white wedding wrapping paper and jumped up excitedly when he held a coffee maker in his hands. She giggled and watched him set it up as he talked about how disgusting the coffee was on the base. She caught herself thinking how much she loved him, and how terribly she had missed him. She walked up behind him as he bent over the sink, and wrapped her arms around his middle. He stopped talking and, leaving the water running, turned around to hug her back. He looked down at her and said, “I know. I love you too.” She smiled at this, hugged tighter, and said, “I have a surprise for you.” He watched her leave him and hurry to the refrigerator. “Close your eyes,” she teased. He gave only a small protest before closing his eyes and holding his hands palm up in front of himself. She opened the plastic container holding fresh blueberries and tiptoed to him. She held two in her fingers, and held them to his lips. When he felt the cold berries touch him, his eyes flashed open and eagerly took them from her slender fingers. She smiled as he moaned softly, savoring the little fruits. “Pancakes?” she asked. They had always been his favorite, and they had planned on having them the morning he left. She had kept a fresh box in the fridge ever since. With a hearty laugh he lowered himself below her waist and picked her up turning in circles. As he spun he lowered her in his arms until her feet touched the ground. He smiled at her warmly and softly she said, “I know, I love you too.” They built a fire in the living room and finished the pancakes with two cups of coffee each by the light of the fire. After opening the rest of the presents, they moved out to the porch swing together, letting the flame warm the house. Again they sat in silence, simply enjoying being together again. She must have dozed off with his arm around her, because the next thing she knew he was getting to his feet. She smiled up at him, happy to be waking to the sight of his face. He knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his. He looked at their matching wedding bands for a moment, and then looking back into her eyes he said, “I don’t want you to cry anymore, I want you to smile. I don’t want you to worry anymore, because I
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will always be with you. I don’t want you to be alone anymore, because you deserve to be loved. I want you to live your life as the woman I married, because that woman can and will do great things. I will always love you, and I will always watch over you.” She searched his eyes as he spoke, trying to learn where this was coming from. It sounded like goodbye. She couldn’t say anything; she couldn’t even wipe the tear that was falling from her eye. She bit her lip, looked down at their entwined fingers, and simply nodded. He waited a moment, and then stood. She felt cold alarm run through her, and gripped his hand tighter. She looked up to him questioningly, and he smiled down at her. “I will never leave you,” he said. She weakly smiled through her tears and let go of his hand as he walked away. She watched him vanish in the house, probably going to get another cup of coffee. As she stood to follow him into the house, a black sedan rolled up the dirt driveway. Her heart stopped in her chest, as she remembered the last time she saw that car. She stood on the step and braced herself, holding her chin high knowing that she wasn’t going to let him go again. As the man got out of the car and approached the steps, she recognized him from the wedding. It was her husband’s commander. Once he stood before her, he removed his hat, and cleared his throat. “Ma’am,” he said softly. “It is my painful duty to inform you that your husband has been killed fighting for his country.” He shifted uncomfortably where he stood, and looked as if he was ready to catch her if she fell. When she only stared back at him, confused, he went on. “He died yesterday evening. His unit took heavy fire and he was able to lead most of them to safety. His best friend, the man who stood in your wedding, went down with him. They…” She interrupted him. “Commander I assure you that you are mistaken. My husband is alive and well.” Now he looked confused, and then pity took hold of his features as he realized she truly didn’t believe him. “Ma’am, I know this news is hard to take. Believe me I wish it were not so myself. Your husband was a good man and the country is truly in debt to his service.” He held a letter out to her, and she unfolded it, looking incredulous. Skimming it, she could not believe that they could make such an atrocious mistake. She turned her back on the commander and hurried into the house, taking the letter with her. She called out to her husband, and received no reply. She called again, her voice breaking. She checked the bedroom, and found only wrinkled sheets and her own scattered clothes. Hysteria gripped her, and she stumbled down the hall to the kitchen. She found only the dirty dishes piled in the sink, and old, stale coffee sitting in the dirty pot. Struggling for air, she ran to the fridge and found a carton of blueberries, still sealed and unwashed. The man was still standing on the porch, speaking with someone quietly on a cell phone. She couldn’t breathe. She replayed the entire night again, and could still feel his lips on hers. She stood in the middle of the living room, where unwrapped presents littered the floor. She fell to her knees in front of the fireplace, where the logs were black and cold. She let out a choked sob and fought to catch her breath. She saw him as a boy picking her a bouquet of lilacs. She became dizzy. She saw herself waking to see his face, the sweetness of his voice still playing in her mind. She thought of the
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final words that he said to her. “I will never leave you.� Finally she was able to catch her breath, and when she did, it came with the scent of lavender.
Danielle Kanclerz
To the Light
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NONFICTION
Tyler R. Wettig
Dumpster Series #3
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CHLOE PAGLIA _________________________________________________ A Messy Recollection My grandpa and I met for the first time when he brought his confused, but cordial, blind date to the hospital minutes after my mom gave birth to me. Unsurprisingly, she never called him back. * Bob Binge was seemingly average in a lot of ways. Six feet tall, two hundred pounds, and never, ever caught without a worn out trucker hat or baseball cap on. He walked with a distinct swagger, pronounced almost all of his words just slightly wrong, and always had a box of Winston's peeking out of his shirt pocket. He loved telling riddles and jokes to anyone willing to listen, betting any amount of money on virtually any game, periodically escaping to the great outdoors, sitting back in a recliner and watching the history channel for an entire day, and most recently blasting bizarre music videos on YouTube. I miss him the most when I'm driving. Maybe it's because my new car didn't come with a proper antenna for radio use, and the silence forces me to confront the things in my mind that I otherwise successfully avoid. It starts with a brief memory flashing in front of me, catching me by total surprise. I go on to try my hardest to remember it as vividly as I can, because forgetting even the slightest detail seems like the scariest option now. Only then do I consider how he's gone. Like really gone. Like actually gone. And these short surprise experiences always end the same way – with me feeling like the entire world is emptier, duller, and scarier. * My grandpa wasn't the World's Best Dad to my mom when she was a kid. It was the 70's, apparently making it acceptable for him to have four daughters with four different women, none of whom he ever grew old with. (When later asked why he didn't marry any of them, he replied, “Well...not one of them ever asked me!”) He wasn't in her life so much until I came into the picture. Because my parents had me right out of high school, he offered to let the three of us stay with him for a bit while they saved up for a place to call their own. Fast forward: things didn't work out between my parents and my mom and I comfortably made ourselves at home there in the house on Petersburg for the next 7 years, give or take. Not that he minded at all. My grandpa didn't care when I dragged my dripping bottle on the ground behind me as I learned how to walk, and eventually forced him to get new carpet.
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He didn't care when I begged for a pool that I never used and ruined the grass in his backyard. He didn't care when I spread my homemade slime-like clay into the couch cushions and we had to flip them all over, or when I did it all over again and we had to buy new couches altogether. He didn't care when I accidentally left my pet turtle's heat lamp on, setting my room on fire, and leaving a big black gaping hole in the floor. He didn't care when I insisted on painting every wall in that same room a different, but equally bright and obnoxious, color. He didn't care when more of his kids, and their boyfriends, and his nieces, and nephews, and even his exes, needed a place to stay and moved on in, pushing him into eventually sleeping in the unsightly and unfinished basement. And when I say he didn't care, I mean it. He never said a word. * Maybe he was too young and full of himself when his own daughters were children themselves, but my grandpa loved spending time with me when I was little. He affectionately renamed me “Bubba� and I remember him sometimes taking me out onto the small porch at night and pointing up at the stars and the moon, trying to teach my tiny mind about the overwhelming hugeness of the universe. He would tell anyone who would listen how smart I was, and he used candy and popsicles as a way to show me basic arithmetic before I had even started preschool. He had what would now be considered an ancient artifact of a camcorder and constantly asked me to talk into it, never actually appearing on tape himself. * Our unique household environment created a special kind of dysfunction, one that seemed absolutely lovely to me as a child. At any given time you could walk in and find my grandpa, my mom, her younger sisters, cousins, myself, all of the neighborhood kids, whatever animals we had taken in that week and whoever else decided to stop by. Things were messy, loud, and they were certainly unconventional. Looking back, I feel like our entire family dynamic would be drastically different now had we not spent time packed in that tiny house together all those years ago. It's my personal silver lining to what some would deem the unfortunate event of being the product of irresponsible teenage parents. An especially crazy day that comes to mind is when myself and my friends were in our backyard, playing with my pet turtle outside. Minutes later my aunt showed up with a stray dog she found down the street, with no name or tags. Before we realized he was there, the dog had the turtle, fully retracted in her shell, in its wet and gaping mouth. Naturally, we all started screaming and flailing our arms a bit, having absolutely no idea what else to do. The shrill screams of the entire neighborhood's children woke my grandpa up from a dead sleep in the basement. He clumsily ran up the stairs and out the back door as fast as he could—in only his tightie whities.
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Next thing I know, he's chasing the stray dog in circles, still half asleep, and more than half naked. My turtle nded up being okay, and we found the dog's owners. * I guess now is as good of time as any to mention that not all of the dysfunction was of the happy-go-lucky variety, and my grandpa wasn't a perfect person by a long shot. His biggest and most obvious flaw was that he dealt with vicious alcoholism for the majority of his life. Looking back, it's impressive how long he remained so fully functional while drinking so heavily, but that kind of lifestyle catches up with you eventually no matter what. One day, which started out like any other, he received a DUI, leading him to lose his job as a cement truck driver. At that point, barely 50 and not at all ready to retire, he decided to head west to California and try out his luck getting a similar job there. We all moved out of his house on Petersburg accordingly, and started the next chapters of our lives elsewhere. Meanwhile, just months later, he received another DUI in California, causing him to lose that job as well. I won't call it bad luck, it's really just simple cause and effect. What happened next wasn't pretty, and is not my pleasure to write. But if I'm going to do this at all, I have to give the fullest and most complex portrayal I'm able to. Things had started to crumble for him, as he had seemingly run out of options, not only support to everyone like he was used to, but to simply support himself. Thus began his mental breakdown, which would define the next several years of his life. Gone were all of his quirks, his goofiness, and the person everyone had grown so used to having as a staple in their life. He was somber, deflated, guilt-ridden and beyond lost. Soon, he was too doped up on all the antidepressants, anxiety medication and sleeping pills he was prescribed (pills that have since been banned) to even understand what was happening. He came home to Michigan and drained his modest savings while living alone in the house we all used to fill. One night, under the influence of the unhealthy combination of strong medications he was taking, he flicked his cigarette butt into a bucket of cleaning supplies while going through old photo albums. He then fell into and stayed in a deep comalike sleep, even as a vicious fire began to ruin his home, thick black smoke filled the air, and fire alarms blared. It took the intervention of a nearby neighbor who could tell something was wrong and many, many firemen to ultimately rescue my grandpa, put the fire out, and determine its cause. He had no recollection of what happened. * The next three years of my relationship with my grandpa were a blur, as were the next three years of his life in general. He was always there, but it never felt like he actually was. Since he had no savings left and was temporarily incapable of doing anything besides sleep, he
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relied solely on my mom to support him. The rest of the family wanted very little to do with a situation so difficult and hard to understand. That means he stayed in our small two bedroom house, and spent 99% of his time taking up 100% of my twin sized bed. He hardly ever did anything besides drag himself out of bed to chain smoke, and bite his finger nails down to scabbing nubs. I vaguely recall a few times where he went off the deep end and took two many of his pills, resulting in some ambulance rides and short lived stays in the nearby mental hospital. I was too young to understand what was happening, but old enough to know it wasn't good. I consider these the lost years. I wish I remembered the exact moment the switch flipped, but I don't. What I do know is that one day my grandpa was done feeling low, and started flying high. The sun had come out in his head and he started an entirely new life as an entirely new person. The medical jargon for this kind of thing is bi-polar. * There are some things that you really can't understand until you're face to face with them. And even then, manic bi-polar people are a force of their own, something I've never seen anything like. It turns out that the past three and half decades of a constant beer buzz kept this considerably well hidden from the world, and he never received a diagnosis or treatment for what was now coming to light very quickly. Looking back, there were some signs all along that were chalked up to stubbornness, or quirkiness, or drunkenness, or all three. One morning many years back, my mom answered the house phone to a surgeon frantically wondering where Bob Binge was for his emergency quadruple bypass surgery, a procedure he neglected to tell any of us anything about. Next thing I know, my mom is strapping me into the backseat and we are racing to his work to physically drag him to the hospital, because “he didn't think he really needed it.” That kind of malarky was one thing, but we were on a whole different level now. In some ways, he was on top of the world. He eventually had his own studio apartment, made friends with every other misfit weirdo around town, and started living the life. This started with him receiving a big chunk of his retirement money all at once – and blowing it all at the casino in one 48 hour period. After that, a large part of his days revolved around finding fun new ways to make money. Once, he picked up hundreds of recycled books from libraries, and tried to sell them on his front lawn for a dime each. Eventually a rain storm ruined them and he left them in his yard until the city threatened to fine him. For a while, he had a job washing dishes at his favorite 24 hour diner, where he spent more time singing along to the jukebox with all the regulars than he did washing any dishes. He hung out for hours at the local party store, betting dollar bills on chess and Euchre games with the owners. Once he made me (try to) teach him how to use eBay for hours, and then convinced all his friends to let him sell their old junk—with a 10% commission for him of course. Most of the money he made from these
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ventures now sits in the pockets of the owner of the Motor City Casino, where poker was his game of choice. I'm still not sure if he was just really bad at cards, or simply refused to leave until he forced to by his empty wallet. All of his shenanigans didn't revolve around making money though. Sometimes he was just plain crazy without a cause. When I was 16, he bought me a six pack of wine coolers so that I would finally watch The Terminator with him. Anytime I had a friend over, he would sit us down and go on and on about everything he'd learned throughout the years. They all loved him, and he insisted they call him Uncle Bob. Most importantly, he started to grow close with his younger grandkids. My mom is the oldest daughter and had me at 19, so I was already around for a decade or so before her and my aunts had any more children. He would come to our house with more energy than he knew what to do with, and let the kids wear him out by playing catch and reading books and making crafts and taking walks around the neighborhood. His carefree attitude was at best infectious, and at worst mildly irritating. I like to think that the irritation was caused by people's slight jealousy that they couldn't look at the world the way he did, without any real rules or limitations or duties to speak of. Every time he walked in unannounced, he filled the room and he was automatically the center of everyone's attention, not unlike a slightly bulkier and older Kramer from Seinfeld. No matter what I was doing I would stop to give him a quick hug, and I still remember exactly what they felt like. His frame was big, but firm. He was tall, and my face always ended up somewhere around the collar of his latest goofy Hawaiian shirt. He always smelled like a distinct combination of cigarette smoke, Old Spice and something else I can't quite put my finger on. * I suppose I would be lying if I said that his presence wasn't sometimes exhausting. Most of the time his money making schemes didn't pan out, which meant that most of the time he was asking us to spot him. He usually paid it back, even if it was months after the fact. Much more upsetting than that, he refused to take any of his medication. It's not unusual for a bipolar person who's feeling good to convince themselves they don't need pharmaceutical treatment for their mental illness. But he also never took any of his heart disease medication either, pills that his cardiologist did not consider optional. This was consistently annoying to the family, because it was ultimately his choice even though we all knew it was the wrong one. Separate from that, he would sometimes still go on the occasional drinking bender. They weren't frequent and didn't last long, but were always pretty extreme nonetheless. During one of the worst, he went casually strolling down the street with nothing on besides socks and shoes...a walk he later had no memory of. This streaking incident was absolutely mortifying to us, and landed him on probation with a mandatory breathalyzer.
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Regardless, we claimed him as our own. Very rarely did I find myself outwardly frustrated or personally embarrassed by his actions. I learned from a young age that some flaws and mistakes are fueled by forces stronger than common sense or being a good person. I tried, very hard, to separate my grandpa from his addiction and his mental illness. Even though there was still so much I couldn't understand, it was clear that not accepting him wouldn't change who he is. * One day grandpa decided that it was time to get out of Michigan. He wanted a fresh start, somewhere fun and warm, and once again his pick was California. He announced his move suddenly, and none of us took him very seriously at first. Then one night I heard him upstairs on the phone booking a train ticket to Santa Barbara. I got out of bed and went upstairs, and he told me he was leaving the next morning. I didn't realize what a staple of my day to day life he had become until I thought about his absence. Embarrassingly, I cried onto his shoulder for a while and then again in my bed until I fell back asleep. I was well into my teenage years at this point, and the crying felt dramatic even to me. I don't know why it had struck me so hard to consider what it would be like without him physically there. Once he moved, I started to get used to only hearing from him during our weekly phone call. He would tell me about all of the things he was doing there, like camping out on the beach and taking the bus to a different city every day. He never settled in one place, and bragged about how nice the homeless shelters were out there, claiming they were like five star resorts. We missed him, but couldn't deny that he sounded happier than ever. * A year and a half or so later, grandpa was set to come home for a visit centered around my high school graduation party. I picked him up from the train station and was immediately reminded of how much fun he is to be around, with him cracking joke after joke on the drive home. At the party, he helped us so much with setting everything up, and excitedly mingled with everyone he hadn't seen for the past year. Soon he fell right back into the same routine here like he never left, and it became pretty clear he had no intention of using his ticket back to California. Perhaps he had missed us too, even if he didn't let on. That autumn and winter hold some of my fondest memories with my grandpa, and I think everyone else in the family feels similarly. He seemed to tone everything down a bit and really focus on spending time with us. A few times, he even spent all day cooking me my favorite dinners to come home to after work. Eventually I introduced him to Netflix, where he made his own profile on my account and promptly binge watched American Horror Story, Breaking Bad and a series of food documentaries. When he'd stay at my house for a while, he
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woke up every morning to start my car for me before school. And every single morning before I left, he gave me a big hug, sniffed the top of my head and told me how good my shampoo smells. * There isn't much left to say, except that things started to go downhill from there. His gambling was getting worse, his drinking binges were not nearly as spread out, and things were catching up with him faster than he knew how to handle. Even though he claimed to always be going to his doctor appointments and receiving good news, we could see his health deteriorating. One morning, after a bad episode of binge drinking, he came to our house to wind down and recover. He slept for almost three days straight, hardly getting up to even eat. He was so run down and exhausted, that I finally convinced him to go to hospital. The fact that he even agreed makes me think he must have been a bit worried himself. They told him they think he suffered from a mild heart attack, and strongly suggested he stay there and have surgery immediately, as another one was most definitely in the horizon. He refused and demanded to go home, causing everyone to immediately panic and beg him to reconsider. He wasn't one to change his mind once it was set. * Just days later he suffered a massive heart attack and died on his friend's couch in the middle of a nap. It was exactly one week before his 60th birthday. * Eight months later and I still wake up forgetting it happened, followed by the kind of remembering that feels like the wind being knocked out of me. Death used to just be a terrifying concept that I unsuccessfully tried to wrap my head around. And though the reality of it is all around us ever yday, in many ways defining our lives, there is no comparison to the crushing blow of that overwhelming grief. I now regret spending the first several months blocking as much of it out of my mind as I could, with nothing coherent to say and no one to say it to. Gratefully, I've entered a new mindset now where I want to take account of my feelings and actively celebrate my memories of him. For a man who lived so many of his days doing exactly what he was not supposed to, I can't think of anyone else I've ever encountered who has taught me more about life than he did. I'm finally beginning to understand that the teaching doesn't have to end now.
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Yasha Chernyak
VOVA
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BRIAN RUHLIG _________________________________________________ Dooryard Decline Spring, a time of fresh and new, but I was mired in routine. Being stuck on the bus as a preteen on the way home from school was already too mundane. Stop after stop rolled by until what had been a lively crowd had dwindled to the final unlucky souls at the end of the route. At last, the bus crested a small hill and squealed to a halt in front of the driveway leading to my grandparents' house. As I stepped from the bus, my backpack tugging down on my shoulders, I inhaled deeply. The pungent aroma of fuel mingled with the strong scent of animal manure, earning a chorus of disgusted moans from the stragglers on the bus, but to me it smelled like home. Stones ground underfoot as I trudged down the short driveway to the house, my mind none-too-pleased to contemplate the coming homework. Dulcet tones of grazing cattle chased me in the back door; the muted slam of the door putting an end to the exterior sound. Through the spacious breezeway, up a short flight of stairs, through another door, and I found myself in the kitchen. Kitchen really was too kind a word for the space that was hardly as large as most people's bathroom, but there I found my grandmother. Her face lit up as she caught sight of me, as it did every other day I rode the bus home, and she greeted me with a gentle hug. I accepted her embrace with my usual sense of obligation, content to let her keep me from my studies a moment longer. The embrace seemed to persist longer than normal and that's when I noticed my father seated at the dining room table. His expression was somber, his voice matching the tone as he called my name. I shot my grandmother a curious glance as she guided me away from her with a hand. My mind wanted to race while I moved towards my father but it lacked a place to begin. With his chair turned in my direction and me standing at his feet, my father drew a deep breath into his broad chest. “We're going to sell the cows,” he stated bluntly, his voice remaining amazingly calm for someone who had spent his entire life farming. I couldn't even sputter out a response. My life revolved around those cows, hell, my first word ever spoken on this earth was 'cow'. The memories of days spent feeding calves freshly weened from their mothers, evenings spent squatting on a bucket in the milk house doing homework as dad milked cows flooded my senses. In just a couple months I would've been taking my heifer, Jenny, to the fairs to show her, and myself, off to the judges. “Why,” was all I could meekly muster, a spring of emotion welling up in me. “We can't afford to keep them,” my father answered flatly. Can't afford to keep them? We were dairy farmers, what would we be without them? What would become of the barns, the feed room, the milk house, all the places I had played since practically infancy? All these places teeming with life, what would happen to them with
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the cows gone? I felt my knees shaking as thoughts of loss crashed around in my head, my young mind wholly unable to come to terms with what I was hearing. Taking one wobbly step, I planted myself between my father's knees, my moistening eyes searching his. No questions my mind now screamed found their answer, and my body responded by collapsing into my father's lap. There, against his barrel chest with his strong arm wrapped around my shoulders, I wept.
Jamie Fulcher
Untitled
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NOUBISSIE THIERRY KEHOU ____________________________________ Spanish for Strong Woman The pain came and went every half-hour or so, an unbearable jolt through her lower back. She squeezed my hands or wrapped her arms around my neck for comfort, after which I massaged my palms just above her buttocks until she was able to breathe normally again. Twelve hours had passed since I last contacted the hospital. In that time, your mother and I had watched as many British suspense thrillers as we could from our ever-growing list. Now, the pain appeared every 15 minutes. The bags were packed; they had been for several days. We were ready—or so we thought. We lived on the fourth floor of a six-story walk-up in a neighborhood called La Goutte D’or, a Little Africa in Paris. I agonized over finding an apartment in the city. Friends and others had warned me that finding an apartment would be a difficult task. Some were frank enough call out the elephant that would permeate the room at each appointment: you’re black. Still, I had no suspicions to think I did not have a change. Our dossier, the thick portfolio of documents mandated for every appointment, was complete and solid, including a color copy of your mother’s passport I made sure to place on top of the pile to ease any potential discomfort. And, I was an American who spoke the language fluently, sans accent as they say. Half-a-dozen apartment visits into my search, including one in which the owner refused to acknowledge my presence until I was halfway out of the door, and twice as email inquiries unanswered, I found myself still looking. At times, visits felt like investigations and I was the one they were suspicious of. Somehow, I theorized, despite all the evidence proving otherwise, my story didn’t hold up enough for my potential landlords. I saw this coming and had faced this scrutiny on previous trips here—though not with this much, a place to live for the next seven months, at stake—and had a back-up plan devised to inject some theatre into my interactions. From then on, I gave landlords what they wanted, a fine-tuned French with a deep American accent, spliced with the occasional and well-picked big word, mistake, or “juh neh say pa luh mo unh fransay” which prompted them to give me permission to say the word in English. As best as I could, I became the unquestionable American, the one I assumed they would be delighted and more comfortable to be meeting with, and whom they would not be able to confuse with natives who looked like me and often had a tough time finding an apartment in the city. To my delight, I conducted a handful of visits in this pseudo personality, amused after each of them, and relieved I’d been able to sustain my accent without slipping and blowing my cover. But, this didn’t produce better results. And then, as Nana would say, Jesus sent Ms. Tyler to save me. I was relieved—and fortunate—to have met Ms. Tyler, whose posting your mother had
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seen while still in the States, and practically begged me to go visit, claiming “she’s American!” as if she knew meeting Ms. Tyler would end my misery. By then, I had grown sick and tired of pretending to be someone I was not, though I hadn’t had that sort of thrill in years. Ms. Tyler, a bubbly transplant from Detroit who could pass for a 30-year old Josephine Baker, had been living in Paris for nearly a decade. She could relate to what I had just gone through and confirmed my suspicions about my failed housing search. She shared her own early painful forays that ultimately pushed her to buy the apartment we would eventually call home. Ironically, it was the best apartment I’d visited, and met our two biggest criteria: fully furnished and hardwood floors. Your mother and I left the apartment and proceeded to the winding staircase. We made our way down the three flights as if the stairs were made of thin glass. The rising sun and smell of freshly baked baguettes and croissants greeted us as we emerged onto the sidewalk of rue Saint-Luc. Hand-in-hand, we walked along the winding empty streets, past Eglise SaintBernard de la Chapelle, onto rue Boris Vian and then rue de Chartres until we reached Boulevard de la Chappelle below the elevated subway tracks. We smiled the whole way. Lariboisière Hospital, with an appearance more fitting for a king and queen than for doctors and nurses, was a mere ten-minute walk from home. Registered, we settled into our room, and continued to work on a grant proposal while your mother was still willing and able. It was due on the 6th. So were you. For the second year in a row, I was on the short-list of semifinalists. This year I hoped to get the invitation to New York. When a nurse finally appeared, I put away the laptop. Your mother needed me now more than ever. Though her French had improved over the last four months, now wasn’t the time for her to feel left out. The nurse hooked her up to a monitoring device, an IV, and promised to return with some pain meds. We continued refining the proposal, often pausing so I could alleviate the pain shoving against her back, which now returned every five minutes. She didn’t say, but I knew her well enough—your mother was scared. After dinner, an unfamiliar nurse emerged. Only staff was allowed in patients’ rooms after seven. I had to leave. Your mother protested. They reassured her she’d be okay. I did too. I knew better than to try to reason with French bureaucracy. I kissed your mother’s forehead and then her belly, and walked out of the room and into the cold and smoke-filled darkness of Paris. That night, I didn’t bother to sleep on the bed, alone. I wanted to be with your mother. I was restless and tired. Instead, I sprawled onto the cold white leather couch, turned on the TV, and fell asleep to CNN World. The phone rang at 5:50 AM. Your mother sounded defeated and desperate. She pleaded with me to come back as quickly as I could. I immediately left the apartment. I ran through the wet streets as best as his my weight would allow me to. She had been moved to a different room, on a different floor. I paused before I entered. A few months ago, three months prior to arriving in Paris, I’d received a similar call with a concerned voice on the other end. Then, too, I’d rushed to the hospital and paused before I entered the room, where men,
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women, and children sobbed uncontrollably around the lifeless body of my dad, your other grandfather. I wasn’t too worried about your mother. After all, I’d just spoken to her. Rather, I was concerned about you. Your mother raised her head as the door swung open. We looked at each other as a tear left her eye, flowed over the black shade beneath it, and landed in a crease of her chapped lip. I could tell she was relieved to see me. Her gaze rattled me to the core of my nervous system. Her complexion, pale to begin with, lacked the modest luster that allowed for its subtle glow in the dark. Her hair was disheveled, slickened by its own oils and her sweat. Blood canvassed the floor from which she’d just risen to her knees into an arched position. She wanted to make it to her feet, to stand, to be held by me and feel secure and reassured as only my arms could. She couldn’t. Her strength had been depleted, transferred and now usurped by another smaller yet stronger individual. There was no white towel to throw in, no plug to be pulled—as I’d painfully convinced Nana to do last July. Both your mother and Cashew, as we called you in the womb, were “fine” despite the disturbing scene. Fine? What she endured and what I witnessed was, to quote the midwife again, “normal.” Really? Still, we were not quite out of the water just yet. Though I had returned to provide your mother with what she needed most, encouragement and instruction, you, our little Cashew, were still hours from joining us. Another day, that’s how long we’d have to wait to find out, to unwrap the lone white towel beneath which lay the answer to the greatest suspense of the last nine months: is it a boy or girl? Though man’s greatest burden was upon me, it was a quarter-century in the making. I think I was six when I knew that I wanted children more than anything else in life, and that I would love them more anyone else, your mother included. She knew this. I’d shared this with her on our first date, a five-hour meal at a Japanese restaurant on Bond Street. She’d asked me why I felt that way. She knew then I was the one. I did too—kind of. Six years later, in a suburb northeast of Paris, while again feasting over Japanese food, we’d settled on another important decision. Though we liked the name Simone, we weren’t in love with it; if our baby were a girl, her name would be Lola, Spanish for strong woman.
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ROMA ZIARNKO ________________________________________________ Land of Dreams and Dragons Oh, I had dreams all right. I dreamed of learning Chinese, shopping in Hong Kong, and exploring the vast remoteness of Tibet during vacation. What a sensation I would create, too, when I finally returned to Ann Arbor and showed off my expertise with chopsticks before all my friends. But the thing that excited me most about this trip by far was that I was going to get the chance to really teach. I had heard stories about the godlike deference with which teachers were treated in the Far East, stories about students who were so desperate to learn that they would sometimes come to the classroom and pore over their textbooks before anyone else had arrived, waiting for the instructor to appear. Louis Wong, an old friend from NanJing, said that teachers are so respected among the Chinese that it is forbidden to step on the teacher's shadow. What a pleasant change that attitude would be after what happened to me in Texas! In China a teacher was somebody. In China I could make a difference. When I touched down at the airport after a weary sixteen-hour flight, I retrieved my tattered suitcase that I had re-enforced with duct tape, pushed through countless lines, and squeezed past Customs, lost in a milling throng of Asian faces. Now and then a stranger would appear out of nowhere and dart in front of me about an inch from my eyelashes as though I were a chair or a decoration on the wall, never acknowledging my existence. I didn't know so many people could fit into one place. I felt overwhelmed. I was suddenly three years old again. To think that I could actually go the wrong way and get lost among all these crowds! I couldn't read. I couldn't write. What would I do alone and illiterate in a foreign land? What if no one came to meet me? Where was my Chinese phrase book? The business card with my school's address and phone number? Did I still have my passport? A sigh of relief—it was in my right pocket. Nervously, I kept pressing forward until I saw a sign in Chinese, French, and—yes, in English: WELCOME TO CHINA. I held my breath, and with a stampede of other passengers, squeezed through a door just ahead. Hope Johnson, director of my school, had promised to meet me in the waiting hall. This was it- the moment of truth. "Don't worry. You'll recognize me," Hope had written in her letter. I looked around me. I was standing in the middle of a swirling human mosaic. People were waving, hugging, kissing, yelling names, and jumping up and down all at once. The scene was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I felt as though I were seeing everything at a distance, somehow removed from it all. For one terrible second I was afraid she wouldn't be there. Then I heard someone shout my name. I saw the banner next—a white banner with the words Renske Rozanski in huge letters. Someone was expecting me. Someone cared enough to drive all the way from the airport in Shanghai to pick me up. It was real! It was real!
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BRIAN GOEDDE ________________________________________________ Step-brother Roommate When family structure shifts, the bedrooms shuffle, and the ease of the change can depend on how the new rooms feel. I was ten years old when my household—my dad, my five-year-old sister, Beka, and I—moved into the house of my step-family-to-be—a mom, her fourteen-year-old daughter, Shanti, and her twelve-year-old son, Jonathan. My sister took the room that had belonged to Jonathan, and he and I moved in together. For the boys, blending our families meant our room would be shared. The change was as destabilizing as it sounds. It helped that our new bedroom was the best in the house. It had been the library/guest/otherwise-all-purpose room, which meant it was spacious, and it was downstairs, which meant it was easy to escape. Across from our wall of bookshelves were three windows that opened onto the mossy steps behind the house that crawled under the laurel bushes, up to the garage, and onto an alleyway that traversed one of Seattle’s steep hillsides. Only once as a teenager did I meet up with neighborhood friends for mischief—an attempt to drive a friend’s family car, thwarted by its owner in the driveway. Otherwise I snuck out of the window just to sneak right back in. I wasn’t very daring. I escaped for the sake of escaping, to create a moment that was entirely in my control, a powerful feeling because it seemed little else was: my parents had split up, my mother had moved away, my family had joined another, and none of these decisions were mine. I needed to escape my room—or just know that I could—but as it turned out I didn’t need to escape Jonathan, and while we must have climbed out of the window together, I only remember doing this during the weeks he wasn’t there. It was my empty room, the being without, that I had to escape. When Jonathan and Shanti were at the house, it was my time to feel like we were a big, boisterous family, a time for overlapping conversations at the dinner table, for bickering over the order of showers, for outnumbering the parents and using this leverage to get us to the Baskin Robbin’s on Broadway, where, like some kind of dessert theatre, we’d watch the parade of dogs and skateboards, leather jackets and fashionablyunfashionable sweaters, once a guy on a unicycle, and once a guy leading another guy by a leash. I loved how my world expanded with my step-siblings, including my room with Jonathan. For years it was filled with the sound of his hands digging in the Lego bin to find the piece to complete his inventions—a buggy that rolled out of a spaceship, a city of buildings on wheels. My creations were also inventive, but, shall we say, on the abstract side. In the years that followed, I was captivated by his tales of life two grades ahead of me, especially once he started high school, and he expanded my world—if not exploded it—with the Dead Kennedys,
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ironic self-silk-screened T-shirts, and Victoria’s Secret catalogs ferreted out of the recycle bin long before I had use for any of these things. For all that I may have lost in sharing a room, my adolescence came fully furnished. More than a way out, what I needed in my new step-family was a way in, and Jonathan, by being such a playmate and mentor, made me feel like I belonged in his house, in his family. Or—half of his family, I should say, because then, for two weeks at a time, I never saw him. We two pairs of siblings were a study in different post-divorce childhoods. Jonathan and Shanti alternated two weeks with us, and two weeks with their dad’s family down the hill, a family that (warning: it gets complicated) included two older step-sisters from their stepmom’s previous marriage. Beka and I spent most of our time in Seattle, and for Christmases and summers we’d fly to northern Virginia to see our Mom and her new family, a family that included a younger brother and sister she had had with my step-dad. In a few years, Jonathan and my respective families went from nuclear (Mom, Dad, sister) to hologramatic: seen from one angle I had one sibling (a sister from the same parents), from another angle I had five (all of our siblings, whether we were with them or not), and from another angle I had three (at whichever house we happened to be). Jonathan and I would compare notes on our family holograms in conversations before going to sleep. I had the top bunk, and while it would take a night to re-acclimate to the snoring below me when “our two weeks” would begin, stranger still were the alternating weeks when I’d be suspended over his absence, when my room would remain “the boys’ room” even if I were the only boy in it. It made more sense to have Jonathan there, and it also made the room, and going to sleep, much cozier. He’d whip through the pages of a monstrously thick fantasy novel, I’d read the same long paragraph over and over of something “literary,” and we’d fall into conversation about girls, school, sports, and our other families, the families we didn’t share. We tried to determine whose situation was better. I envied the fact that he could see both of his parents in the same day if he wanted, rather than have the permanently awful feeling that one parent is on the other side of the country, and he envied the fact that I had a single place to call “home,” where he always had two places, which meant his time was also halved: either his mom’s or dad’s but never his. We also tried, with some amusement, to figure out what his relationship was to my siblings in Virginia. If they were “half-” siblings to me (same mother, different father), would that make them “half-steps” to Jonathan? We tried to imagine what my relationship was to his step-sisters in his dad’s family. Double-step? Or is there a point where two people, even if they both call the same person a sibling, are not considered family? The more pressing question Jonathan and I asked, my voice coming from above and his from below, was what our relationship was to each other. We too, we reminded ourselves, were once strangers. Now we’re brothers—kind of. We’re the unrelated kind, the kind that
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spend half of their weeks together, except for when I leave for months at a time. We liked the slang use of “brutha,” to mean guys who were close friends. By even having these conversations, we agreed, we were this much. But at the end of our day together, in the darkness before sleep; at the end of our weeks sharing a room, on the last night before we’d separate again; at the end of our years growing up together, years accumulated as two-week fragments, what did “step-” mean? The room that Jonathan and I once shared has long returned to being a library/guest/ otherwise-all-purpose room, and now when I visit my childhood home, I share it with my wife, our six-year old son, and three-year-old daughter. Jonathan and Shanti and their spouses and daughters will usually come over on the evening we arrive (Beka lives in New York; it’s not often she and I visit Seattle at the same time, though we try). As we watch our kids run around the house, I feel a subtle but extraordinary relief that, with our focus on the new generation, we have all become simply “uncles” and “aunts,” “cousins” and “grandparents.” Family structure has shifted again, and “step-” has left our language completely. Gone with it are the questions Jonathan and I asked—although, if the questions have taught me anything, it’s that nothing truly disappears with only a tilt of the hologram.
Tom Zimmerman
Sea of Wonder
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INDEX OF AUTHORS AND ARTISTS _______________________________ Adams, Lauren, 41, 90-92, 123 Ainley, Regen, covers, 75-77 Anderson, Kelly J., 26-29 Anderson, Remy, 40 Anderson, Robin, 36-37, 78-83 Barrett, Malcolm, 62-63 Baker, Zachary, 18-19, 54, 64 Blain, Adella, 135-40 Bolton, Kimberly, 60 Branca, Barbara Sofia, 44-46 Capaldi, Anton, 39, 85 Chernyak, Yasha, 49, 52, 57, 98-100, 134, 156 Eicher, Sarah, 38 Emery, Shane, 102 Empson, Max, 87
Laboda, Diane M., 66 Linford, Kyle O.A., 33 Lovell, Natalie, 57 Lowis, Adam, 50-52 Merucci, Emily, 43 McClellan, Calvin, 88 Miller, Jean Kearns, 67 Morris, Erica, 42 Murtonen, Jeff, 121 Musselman, Lylanne, 65 Oakes, Olivia, 53 Oliver, Samantha, 112-13 Paglia, Chloe, 149-55 Petersen, Iris, 59 Plummer, Ember, 10-12 Ruhlig, Brian, 157-58
Ferguson, Sheldon, 61 Finder, Hana, 104-06 Frieseman, Mike, 23, 70-74 Frumkin, R.M., 27, 46, 89 Fulcher, Jamie, 13, 64, 93-95, 158 Goedde, Brian, 163-65 Hawkins, Janet, 84 Higgins, Amy Rust, 114-20 Hoekstra, Steven, 24-25 Horne, Kelsey, 34-35 Hunter, Robby, 108-09 Hylton, Michael, 32 Kanclerz, Danielle, 35, 96-97, 106, 122, 140, 147 Karwowski, Danielle, 20-23 Kehou, Noubissie Thierry, 159-61 Kennedy, Ralph, 86
Schultz, S.L., 110-11 Shackleford, Davon, 55 Shelton, Brandon, 14-17 Shelton, John, 56 Slane, Nicholas T., 54 Smith, James, 47-49 Stitt, Chanel, 84 Sweeney, Michele L., 58 Taylor, Kelsey, 141-47 Thompson, Matt, 124-33 Weldon, Sara, 107 Wettig, Tyler R., 9, 30-31, 101, 103, 148 Wiley, Olivia, 68-69 Work, Wroxanna, 41 Ziarnko, Roma, 162 Zimmerman, Tom, 29, 33, 42, 55, 59, 60, 103, 165
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Adams Ainley Anderson Anderson Anderson Baker Barrett Blain Bolton Branca Capaldi Chernyak Eicher Emery Empson Ferguson Finder Frieseman Frumkin Fulcher Goedde Hawkins Higgins Hoekstra Horne Hunter Hylton Kanclerz Karwowski Kehou Kennedy Laboda Linford Lovell Lowis Merucci McClellan Miller Morris Murtonen Musselman Oakes Oliver Paglia Petersen Plummer Ruhlig Schultz Shackleford Shelton Shelton Slane Smith Stitt Sweeney Taylor Thompson Weldon Wettig Work Wylie Ziarnko Zimmerman
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