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#ISSUE 3
Published in September, 2015 by EXPOUND
Email: expoundmagazineonline@gmail.com | www.expoundmagazine.com
Copyright © Individual Authors and Contributors, 2015. All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Douglas Nilles.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of
both the copyright owner(s) (contributors) and EXPOUND.
Magazine Designed by Wale Owoade| waleowoadeonline@gmail.com
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M A S T H E A D
Publisher/Managing Editor
Associate Managing Editor
Media and Publicity Manager
Art and Photography Editor
Nonfiction Editor
Fiction Editor
Poetry Editor
Wale Owoade
Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji
Ife Olujuyigbe
Gina Cicinelli Alequin
Oyin Oludipe Samuel
Jason M Snyman
Saddiq M Dzukogi
Board of Advisors
-
Brigitte Poirson
Jenene Ravesloot
Senator Ihenyen
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C O N T E N T S
Editorial 1
Conquering Scallops | Nonfiction | Marisa Mangani 2
Two Poems | Poetry | Jessie Janeshek 5
Finding Pauperdom in the State of Eureka | Poetry | Richard King Perkins II 7
Intersection | Fiction | Brandi Megan Granett 8
To The Moonlight | Poetry | Nana Arhin Tsiwah 16
Chicago Night | Photography | Douglas Nilles 18
ache | Poetry | Chibuihe-Light Obi 19
Longing I | Poetry | JK Anowe 20
Three Pieces | Art | Jason Edward LaPrise 21
words without beginning, poems without end | Poetry | j.lewis 21
Three Flash Fictions | Fiction | Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois 24
Three Pieces | Art | Alex Diamond 29
The Great Interaction | Nonfiction | Carl Terver 32
Live Man Dead Man | Poetry | Jay Sizemore 35
A Flower Should Burn | Poetry | Dalton Souvato Heera 37
The 4 th Commandment | Fiction | Ugoo Anyaeche 38
Three Pieces | Art | ChisanaRobotto Baburuikakiti 40
Road from Calabar to Abuja | Poetry | Uche Ogbuji 43
L. A. Transactus | Poetry | M.A. Istvan Jr 45
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Lion Gentle | Fiction | Crystal Galyean 47
Grandmother died in her dreams | Poetry | Divya Rajan 53
Said youd give me light……| Poetry | Sarah Frances Moran 54
Three Pieces | Art | Jason West 56
Before Breakfast | Poetry | Steve Klepetar 59
Ten Grand | Fiction | Paul Kavanagh 60
Reassurance | Poetry | Juleus Ghunta 63
boxed | Poetry | Morgan Downie 65
Even Steven | Fiction | Tom Barlow 65
Two Poems | Poetry | Chumki Sharma 80
I Count | Video | Enigmatic Olumide 83
A Call for Social Change | Review | Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji 84
Big dreams, Bigger city | Photography | Julio Guerrero 86
Notes from the Editorial Board 87
Notes on Contributors 89
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E D I T O R I A L
Dear Readers,
At EXPOUND, it's delightful taking our 3rd step in this journey dedicated to the best of arts
and aesthetics. If the quality and quantity of works we have been receiving is anything to go
by, EXPOUND's journey will not be a short one. We thank our contributors for taking these
early steps with us. In this issue, we had to increase our publication from 55 pages on our last
issue to 100 pages in this issue. Despite opening the floodgate of fresh, exciting, and
imaginative creative works, readers would be surprised to know that we declined a great
deal of works that interest us. We had to raise the bar higher, helping us achieve the aesthetic
level we envisioned at the beginning of the magazine.
For nonfiction in Issue #3, Marisa Mangani's Conquering Scallops' and Carl Terver's 'The
Great Interaction' got Oyin Oludipe's nod.
Jason M Snyman chose, from several fine works of fiction to choose from, Ugoo Anyaeche's
The 4 th Commandment', Brandi Megan Granett's )ntersection, and Paul Kavanagh's Ten
Grand. Others are Even Steven by Tom Barlow and Lion Gentle by Crytal Galyean.
Saddiq Dzukogi received so much but settled with poems from Chibuihe-Light Obi, JK Anowe,
Morgan Downie, Chinedu Ugoona, Juleus Ghunta, Jessie Janeshek, Steve Klepetar, Nana Arhin
Tsiwah, Richard King Perkins II, Sarah Frances Moran, Chumki Sharma, j.lewis, Dalton
Souvato Heera , Divya Rajan, M.A. Istvan Jr, Uche Oguji and Jay Sizemore.
Gina Cicinelli Alequin solicitated and selected photographs from Douglas Nilles and Julio
Guerrero, including art works from Jason Edward LaPrise, ChisanaRobotto Baburuikakiti,
Jason West, and Alex Diamond.
For our growing community of Spoken Word Poetry, Enigmatic Olumide's spoken-word video
) Count features in this issue and followed by a review of it by Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji.
It is important to remind our readers that EXPOUND was born to bridge the gap between
writings from Africa and other parts of the world. By publishing fine works from around the
world without considering race and themes, EXPOUND is gradually building that bridge. After
all, works of art should be celebrated for their aesthetics, not geography and themes. That's
why at EXPOUND, it's not all about what the writer has to say, but how beautifully he says it.
Art speaks a universal language. African writers and writers from every other part of the
world should embrace it.
We thank our Board of Advisors for their oversight and for helping us balance. We have two
more issues to go before the end of the year, Issue #4 and a special issue. We will further
establish EXPOUND's place in contemporary art and aesthetics that speak a universal
language. Till December, keep expounding ideas that excite. Welcome to Issue #3!
Wale Owoade
Publisher/Managing Editor, EXPOUND
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Marisa Mangani
Conquering Scallops
From the depths of the darkened stage, her name was called. Pride and fear washed
over me. Wasnt me called out there to sing a song, so why was I nervous? Daughter
seemed, unlike her mother, to not have a self-conscious bone in her body, singing at
downtown events and festivals and volunteering to train for the solos. In the
uncomfortable seat in the old theater, ) felt Stephens arm tighten next to mine. Well
then, a normal parental feeling, I suppose.
Then she appeared in her light blue dress, spotlight upon her; her voice teacher
playing an intro on the piano in the well below the stage. Daughter opened her mouth
. . .and . . . nothing came out. Silence. The audience froze. Stephen and I froze. The
thought of my moms dated saying, You could hear a pin drop, came to mind because
you could hear a pin drop and I wished I could hear a pin drop because I needed to
hear something besides nothing.
The piano began again; stopped when she opened her mouth, guppy-like; her voice, a
constricted yelp. My chest tightened horribly, that old feeling of helplessness and fear
becoming a physical thing, making my face red; fouling up my speech. How could I
help my child not feel this way? On stage, a quiet whimper came from her but it was
the only sound in the theater. )t didnt seem so quiet, but my face swelled with a big
stifled cry, water leaking from my eyes; my hand gripping Stephens arm, his hand
gripping my thigh.
My life had been a stage of fright. My first-line cook job was at the Marketplace
kitchen. I was on my own at seventeen years old, and was sent to the walk-in by Chef
to get something called scallops for the nightly special. ) didnt know what scallops
were, but knew that I was supposed to know. The chef, after all, had taken me for
whom )d presented myself as: knowledgeable, fast on the line, perfect. When ) did
manage to complete sentences through my nervous stutter, I talked big, boasting
many minor accomplishments, as though )d cooked for the president or graduated
with honors from culinary school. But I knew nothing of scallops. They hadnt been a
part of my cheap meat and iceberg-lettuce meal sat home in Hawaii and I would not
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let out the stuttering words to awkwardly proclaim this fact. So, when Chef ordered
me to Go get the scallops from the walk-in, ) dashed off agreeably, letting the walkin
door close behind me and stood paralyzed in the cool air, consumed by self-doubt,
the shelves of food blurring through my tears.
Envisioning the contempt on Chefs face if ) brought him the wrong food item made
my stomach swirl into a sour mash; like being called upon in class to read, knowing
my words would not obey me. My face burned a hot red despite the chill in the cooler.
Embarrassment was an all-too-familiar feeling and I worked hard to avoid such
situations. What had he said exactly? Scallions? I panned over to the produce shelf
where the slender, green bunches laughed at me. No. Shallots? Had he said shallots
and was tricking me? A nightly special with shallots? Cant be. ) pivoted to the meat
shelf and stared at a box of boneless chicken breasts, a plate of flattened veal cutlets
wrapped in plastic, a pan of iced halibut steaks, a few Cryovaced beef tenderloins––
the usual mise en place for the dinner shift. Off to the side on the middle shelf sat a
clear bag of milky white something.
This was not part of the usual walk-in-meat-shelf-still-life. I picked up the bag and
mashed my nose into it, as if my nose could save me here; but my brain was
calculating, in its logical Virgo and Spock way, that this had to be it––the special––
because this was the thing that did not belong. The special thing. Scallops! Soaring
down the hill of relief, I emerged back into the sultry kitchen, rounded the corner and
presented the bag to the chef. What took you so long? he asked.
Oh, jus–– s-straightening some shelves.
I had cheated embarrassment.
The piano began again. Nothing. A few gasps from the audience.
Liz, one of the voice teachers, appeared at the edge of the stage, arms motioning,
coaxing our frightened daughter with smooth words, smiles, nods, cajoles, you can do
its, while ) held my breath, holding in a tidal wave of an all-too-familiar, built-up fear.
But its what you do, isnt it, when you fear something? )n order to lose the fear, you
have to do the thing, until there is no more fear. Sissies avoid fear. My daughter is not
a sissy; neither am I. Fearful at times, but not a sissy; which is why, after twenty years
in the comfort of working in kitchens, I gave it up to pursue scarier endeavors.
Sales? Me? In sales? Funny looks from longtime friends who were familiar with my
speech impediment, as my stutter was called in grammar school by a speech
therapist. Are you sure? they asked. I was sure. Out of the sixty-plus hour work
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weeks and into the Monday through Friday work-a-day. Out of the kitchen microcosm,
into the real world.
In my twenty-year career in kitchens, )d conquered a lot more than just scallops. )
rose to the top of a male dominated arena and became Chef. An award-winning Chef.
So, why not something else? Sales? Cold Calling? In spite of that growling bastard,
Fear, I saw Promise. Staring Fear in the face dead on, I proclaimed: move over
motherfucker, )m going to the better life on the other side of you.
On stage, Daughter sniffed up her tears, cleared her throat and nodded towards her
voice teacher Liz bless that womans heart!. Piano playing again. Then Daughters
songbird voice broke the fragile silence and sang out Annies Tomorrow with all the
confidence of a star, her strong, soon-to-be-alto voice filling the theater. The
pressurized torrent of tension exited me like air whooshing through the neck of a
balloon.
Move over motherfucker, )m going to the better life on the other side of you.
The song is over. Clapping and cheering gave way to a standing ovation. Stephen and I
stood and clapped wildly too, my face wet with tears of pride, and relief.' Sure, my
daughter did deserve that ovation, but how many cheering her were actually thinking,
) wish ) had the guts to do that.?
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Jessie Janeshek
Revenge Porn, Apathetic
Takes practice living this way
naked in toboggans
blurry eyes side winding
chest pains and psychopathy.
)ts obvious we ask for it
no talking to light history
unwilling to extend thought
to beings like ourselves
compass pointy at a state shape
sewage running down our faces.
Were horrible and we haunt
dont want to give up hooves
armpits, dioramas
his apnea and fat.
Every car that drives by
says prosthetic scratch n sniff
many minds will trust
this, the coldest video
eat our foul breath in the dark.
We were bleeding from the ceiling
dreaming of the ocean
swording through black deer.
We were scared. We sang
a free song. We lit our piss on fire.
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Revenge Porn 17
We believe X-entities
unconsciously generate
poltergeist activity.
My prolificacys your new friend
my axe your ethical dilemma
as our cats grow fat on absinthe
hog-weighting the blue chains
and we fight for snow pro-rated
hanging stars of David
inside our Potter Box.
It takes a few shush days
to forgive abominations
your heart the oily
target on my stump.
I toast the butcherbone
sleep across white forecasts
dreaming swollen boots and boobs
your crucifix, my nipples
too dark for the video.
We use our last fur coat
to clothe the human dartboard
smite the publics right to know.
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Richard King Perkins II
Finding Pauperdom in the State of Eureka
We couldnt afford a hotel in California
so we found the cheapest motel in a ten mile radius.
Ecstatic energy bolts me to the bed;
a smear of darkness channels through me like a caressing riptide.
We try to recloak our technicolor history.
We only seem naked after the fact.
This is not the dull shadow cast by familiar objects;
but I hear the same parable with its homespun morality—
the old wolf, the cackling scullion lie dead
with their guts strewn across the cordilleras up thrust daggers;
where the sweetest flowers have been over-pollinated by mutant bees
and their thuggish entourage of sycophants.
A matrix of bitterness, lost in her deluge,
keeps me stranded on a mountaintop near Petaluma.
Kestrel hymns foretold the decline of conjugal integrity,
releasing the throttle of sensual dime store drama.
I can stand here for a near eternity,
manifest in the key of duality;
vicious in wisdom, sagacious in the bartering of virtue
deftly hidden by earliest clouds—
caught in the act of self-pleasuring; in the thievery of moonbeams
stealing wads of silver from midday, or here;
in the small escape of light crumbing its way beneath the door,
the first thought of me, returning.
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Brandi Megan Granett
Intersection
Alameda, a slight girl with jet-black hair parted straight down the middle like s
Cher, raises her hand. Will our papers still be due Friday? she asks. (er eyes dart
toward the window and the clouds that hint at the gathering snowstorm.
I sigh. This is only the first time this question will be asked today. The rest of my
teaching day spreads out before me—two more classes before lunch and two after, a
time and a half load, penance for tenure. No, ) say. Lets make them due Monday.
Patwin raises his hand.
I stand up, avoiding his eyes, pretending to adjust the movie screen that hangs
lopsided over the whiteboard. ) cant extend any further than that. Must move on to
the next unit to finish up in time for winter break.
Patwin puts his hand down.
The topic was childhood memories. Just childhood memories. I wanted the students
to fill in the blanks. ) pass out samples from last terms class.
Alamedas group calls me over to explain a comma rule. Alameda loves that commas
have rules like math. I find myself studying grammar handbooks before meeting with
her in my tiny office on the far side of campus. Each meeting can be like a test with
Strunk and White.
This is shit, Chunta says from the back of the room. ) know his voice but not from
class.
) dont move from Alamedas side. ) point to the faulty semicolon. Her hair smells like
the clove cigarettes I see Patwin smoking after class on his way to the student union
building. )ll get you a handout on semicolons, ) tell her. ) keep one ear tuned to the
group in the back of the room.
What kind of absolute shit is this? Chunta continues. What the fuck kind of
childhood memories are these? Medicine men. Feather headdresses. Buffalo.
(onestly, buffalo? We havent had buffalo since the s. Either you had some real
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geezer last term, Louise, or hes been tripping on some mother fucking flashback.
Everyone laughs. Well not, everyone. Alameda and ) dont. She looks up at the ceiling.
Her lips move as she silently counts to ten then seems to start back at one. I smile at
Chunta. )ts just self-expression.
Self expression? They pay you to teach that shit?
Yes, self expression within the assignment. ) didnt say it had to be the writers
childhood memories. )t could be any childhood memories.
But didnt you tell us that feminists believe that the personal is political? Chunta
smiles back at me, flipping to a page in the beginning of his notebook. Yup, right
here, personal is political. All connection has greater purpose.
So why cant that writing have purpose? Doesnt it explore historical elements of
Crow culture?
Crow culture? Really? Really? What the fuck do you know about Crow anything?
The class shifts, quietly moving books to bags, pens to purses.
) dont, ) say. )m just here to teach writing.
Bullshit, he says, slapping his notebook shut. You came here to save. You must love
this good old days bullshit before the white man and his small pox and firewater.
The clock ticks to the top of the hour, and the hallway fills with students from other
classes. They look at me, and I wave them toward the door. Chunta takes his time. He
packs one book in his backpack at a time, looking up at me with long lashed eyelids.
Everyone else files out of the room, eager to escape whatever the hell is coming next.
You liked that? he asks.
No.
No? (e stands and strides up the haphazard row of desks. ) bet you did.
I look out the window at the first few flakes of snow.
) need to see you tonight, he says. Not a question. A statement. (e extends a single
finger and slides it across the turquoise bird dangling from my bracelet. His finger
lightly presses against my wrist. I am charged with the memory of that finger, his
touch, and my body.
Yes, ) say. ) am barely able to breathe.
) meant what ) said.
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) know you meant it. But that doesnt mean you are right.
He kisses me firmly.
My eyes dart from him to the doorway. Six oclock? ) whisper.
(e doesnt say anything as he walks out of the room.
* * *
Youre going to move that crap to the attic, Dale said. (e waved his meatloaf-tipped
fork toward the other end of the table where my latest poetry project sat in neat
stacks. )ve hired someone to replace the window. No point in you roasting up there.
We just cant have this mess anymore. (e flourished his fork again before popping
the meatloaf into his mouth.
I watched him chew. Twenty bites on each side of his mouth before swallowing . I
hated to watch Dale chew. ) picked up my plate and scraped it into the disposal. )m
sure he paid using our joint account; meaning the account only I put money in. But I
liked the idea of having a window that opened to let in the Montana air.
The day Chunta showed up to replace the windows he perfectly filled out the tightest
pair of Levis ) have seen since 1989. They were so tight that the outline of his wallet
was faded into the back pocket, complete with a perfect round circle indentation,
either a can of dip or the condom teenaged boys carried on the off chance theyd
randomly get lucky. That idea made me smile as Dale showed Chunta past me to the
living room. Dale said, Yea, )m going to be smiling too once we get her crap out of
the dining room.
Chunta looked over Dales shoulder and cleared his throat. )m just glad to help your
wife, he said. ) can always use the extra work.
Wife? Dale laughed. (onestly, kid. Wife?
Chunta shifted uncomfortably. He wore yellow high top Chuck Taylors. Words, too
tiny to read, were scribbled on them in black marker.
Wife, no, no. Dale here doesnt believe in that. We have a modern relationship. )
forced a smile. I met Dale when I was twenty-five. At the time, he talked a good game
about not wanting to own me, about being equals and finding a new way. By the time
I realized that not wanting to own me was some kind of code for not wanting to be
faithful, I was thirty-two, in Montana, with a heavily mortgaged house solely in my
name because Dale didnt want to formally own anything else either. (e was more
than happy to kick in his part of the bills. When he remembered. Or wasnt out of
town. On a business trip.
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Dale slung an arm around my shoulder. Thats it, a modern relationship. Well, )m
off. ) might be out of town until Tuesday.
Might be? ) asked.
Yeah, you know, he said, taking his arm off of my shoulders.
Yeah, ) know, ) said.
I left Chunta in the attic, taught my Saturday GED class, and came back. The house
was quiet; no feet shuffled around upstairs, so I thought Chunta had gone home. I
already knew what Dales might be out of town meant: his girlfriend in Palm Springs
missed him. )f asked point blank, his standard reply would be, a man needs time to
do things. ) shook my head at the thought; ) used to believe that. A picture of us a
few months after we first met hung on the wall. I flicked at my stupid smiling face
hard with the tip of my finger. The glass cracked in the frame, but the picture stayed
firmly in place on the wall.
Louise, Chunta said, standing in the still open front door. The sunlight filled in the
spaces between him and the door jam. ) almost couldnt see him. You all right? he
asked.
Sure, ) said. Youre finished, now?
) could be, he said. Unless you dont want me to be.
His thick, black ponytail fell over one shoulder. He smiled.
Maybe ) dont, ) said.
Come see the work ) did, he said, leading me upstairs to the attic.
I leaned out the new window and looked toward the main intersection on our street.
My neighbors silver Prius swung into view and crept slowly up the street without a
sound. I tried counting the seconds it would take until she turned on her blinker and
finally turned into the driveway between our two houses.
I felt his hands on my waist. He slowly slipped down past the hem of my skirt, then up
my thighs. He slid his fingers in between them. I froze. His fingers explored, tickling
the inner folds of my labia, until he finally pushed one, then two in. They moved deftly
up and down, in and out. ) didnt say anything; ) didnt want him to stop. I leaned
back into him, listening to the breeze as it blew through the tree in the front yard, the
sound of his zipper, the crackle of foil. I listened to myself as he entered me. My
hands gripped the freshly sanded windowsill. My neighbor finally emerged from the
car and struggled to carry in her groceries, a bag breaking on her front step, oranges
rolling down the drive and into the gutter, up the street. Chunta pressed into me.
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I pressed back. Released. Only after we came, did he kiss me. I kissed him back,
pushing his hand back down to the wet space between my legs. An invitation.
As evening fell, we finally made our way downstairs. I moved through the kitchen
with a newfound desire for food.
I fixed us some grilled cheese sandwiches and found a bag of chips from the pantry.
Sorry, its not a real meal. ) dont cook much.
) dont either, so dont apologize. (e took a bite. Perfect, he said.
(ave you always lived here? ) asked. )t suddenly seems wrong to me that I only
know your first name.
Perhaps it is better that way. Less complicated.
Complicated? ) asked. )f complicated feels like this, )ll take it.
Youll take it? What it? Me? Chunta pointed to his chest. The smile on his face
matched my own.
I felt light and happy. And maybe free. No, definitely free. I leaned across the table
and kissed him. He leaned forward and kissed me back.
Then the phone rang. I answered it on the fourth ring, reluctant to break away from
the kissing.
Took you long enough, Dale said. Do you know where my tennis racket is?
Dale, ) mouthed to Chunta.
Chunta raised an eyebrow at me. I stepped out of the kitchen and on to the back
porch. No, ) hissed into the phone. Why dont you ask your girlfriend?
Dont be like that, Louise.
Dont be like what? (onest?
) just wanted to know where my racket was. You didnt need to make it into a big
deal.
A big deal? The credit card with all the charges for lingerie in Palm Springs made it a
big deal, Dale. Think about that and think about your options for moving.
) didnt listen to his reply; ) didnt need to hear any more of what he had to say about
the flexibility of relationships or a mans business or where my things should be kept
in the house I pay for. I hung up the phone and stepped back into the house.
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Chuntas cleared plate sat in the sink. ) heard the front door thud close. Chunta was
gone.
) kept expecting him to return. ) picked up the phone, but ) didnt have a number to
dial. The whole next day I distracted myself by packing up everything that belonged
to Dale or reminded me of Dale. But still Chunta didnt return.
By the time Dale returned on Tuesday, all of his things sat in boxes on the porch, and
my new desk sat under the window Chunta installed.
An afternoon should be easy to forget. I bought a bike and rode it around town. I
picked flowers that grew on the roadside. Shopped at farmers markets. Drank pink
drinks with women from the math department. Wrote poems about forgotten places
on the prairie. Edited some poems by friends in other cities. Forgot about Dale more
easily than I ever thought possible.
Every so often, sitting at my desk, )d look out the open window and think about that
afternoon. But it felt more like déjà vu than a real memory. More like a line from a
poem I wrote and not the real thing. So much so that when I read his name on my fall
roster, I didnt even make the connection. But there he was on the first day of class.
Only he didnt say anything, and ) didnt say anything, and the term moved on until fall
disappeared into winter.
* * *
I leave my last class early, making excuses to the students about snow and safe
driving. But all I want to do is get there first. To get ready. To maybe have a glass of
wine and not think about him showing up or not showing up or what any of it means.
Sharon Olds poetry skates through my mind. Perhaps, ) will read some to him. Then,
at a stop light, ) shake my head, no, ) wont. ) will turn him away. At the next light, )
shake my head again. No, ) wont.
But there is no getting ready. He waits on the porch, hands stuffed into the pockets of
his leather jacket.
The tea kettle pierces the silence in the kitchen. Chunta fingers the Joy of
Cooking I have open on the counter, pausing every so often it seems to read a recipe in
detail. I fuss with cups and tea bags, trying to keep the tags from dropping in the cups
and getting soaked.
Sugar?
Yes, he says, taking the cup from my hands. (e wraps both of his around the
cup and brings it to his face. Cold out there.
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You were waiting a long time?
Since July.
He puts down his cup and reaches a hand around my waist, then my hips. I let him
pull me closer to him around the other side of the kitchen island. With his free hand,
he closes the Joy of Cooking and pushes it to the other side. Can we pick up where we
left off? he asks.
I look at the book its cover stained with one too many attempts at classic fried
chicken. No, ) say, shaking my hips loose from his hands. We didnt leave off
anywhere. We cant start there. What about the last four months? What was that?
The words shock me as I speak them. I imagined this moment many times, and it
always ended without clothes and fewer words.
(e reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. )m not what you think ) am.
What? ) dont think anything. ) dont even know you. You fucked me without even
talking first and then left. You sit in my class and say nothing until you explode with
some kind of righteous rage today.
Thats just it—you dont think )m anything. ) work at the college, too. )n Financial
Aid. I wheedle money out of the Federal Government and the Bureau of Indian Affairs
to get students through school. See, thats something you didnt know. ) knew you
long before Dale hired me.
What? ) say.
)ve watched you all over campus. But you never even saw me. I was just part of the
Native American landscape. (e steps back from me and takes a sip of tea from his
cup, cradling it in his hands, swirling it a little. One day, you were in the Student
Union, bending down to look at the turquoise trinket jewelry some druggie set-up.
You asked some dumb ass question about the symbolic meaning of the animals carved
on a bracelet. He made up some bullshit story about animal ancestors, and you
bought the bracelet. I tried to interrupt and call out the liar, but you didnt even
notice. You looked right into my eyes and didnt even see me.
Are you listening to yourself? You sound like a stalker.
Then, ) turn up in your class, and you dont even flinch. You grade my papers. You
talk about independent clauses. It took me freaking out about the fucked up folklore
today for you to address me directly. You took ignoring me to an entirely new level.
Then why are you even here?
You wore the bracelet today.
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I look down at the turquoise crow dangling from the silver chain on my wrist.
) knew that was a bullshit story, ) say. The kid, the druggie, was in one of my
classes the term before that. I was just buying it to be nice to him and get a gift for
myself. ) had found out about Dales girlfriend in Palm Springs that morning. On my
credit card bill. )t was going to be my last nice thing for a while. ) take a sip of my tea.
)t didnt have enough sugar, and the bitterness slides down my throat.
Chunta pulls the rubber band out of his hair, and his hair falls in around his face. He
runs both hands through it, keeping his eyes on me.
) couldnt even see what was going on in my own life, Chunta. (ow could ) see the
rest of the world? The personal isnt always political. Sometimes were just people.
(e doesnt say anything, but finally breaks his gaze from me back to his cup of tea.
But that day in July, ) saw you. Felt you. And then you just left. Thats personal.
But you took his call.
Yeah, about a tennis racket.
) couldnt imagine he would just leave you, Louise.
Why the hell not? You did.
But ) came back.
Came back?
Yeah, ) paid good money to take your class. ) came here today. ) am here right now.
But why did you start any of this? Why did you touch me like that?
) was lonely, he says. And you were too.
True, ) say.
He reaches out a hand. I let him rest it on my knee. He looks up at me. I nod, and he
moves his hand higher.
15

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
To The Mooning Light
On a sunny day like this
where the sun keeps her
bathing smiles on Africa,
the moon lies in hiding
the mountains stand helpless
without tunes and owls to perch
lights turn darkness as bones wrinkle
after the spotted edge of the grave
the land shifts her brows
sweeps her face across faces
sadness toils her palms
pins sink down the hearts of innocence
the bird's song written is fouled
as the sky of fate begins fading....
On Africa's hips I have begun
digging for the missing treasure
digging with sweat beads in drains
for the future, for tomorrow
the last drop of my heart
shall keep its tenderness at sea
from Nairobi, the sun clamps down on it eyes
from Pretoria, the birds sing desolated melodies
from the echoing corners of Libya,
clusters of pains reels the throats of bemoaning clays
from Sandema through to Savelugu
the pipeline of tears tears my being
will tomorrow be for us or them?
In this whining trails of the 21st Century
babies roam about on the streets of their minds
books are buried deep in the soil of blood-leaks
their saliva exchanged for gun-smoke
their tales unheard by the oppressor
wills and wildlife basket ruined on the lips of rhetorics
16

in tomorrow's black pot of soothsaying
I have raised this pen of confession
confessing from the turmoil of a bleeding continent
fighting my way through the ticket of the forest
but I ask, asking the sea and the sun
will tomorrow be a rising bed for Africa?
17

Douglas Nilles
Chicago Night
18

Chibuihe-Light Obi
ache
a tunnel runs deep in my marrow
a fleet of train
a progression of feet
a route cluttered with your enormous absence
a hole yawn where you used to stand
a room of perforated walls
a decibel of broken blues
a cliff of angst
i seek relief in the rage of rum
19

JK Anowe
Longing I
it is beginning
and all
but your tongue
harnessed
to my tongue
like stallions
to chariots
of troy
is void
all but
rippling silhouettes
aloft the ankles
of God
in dark
formless waters
spreading
like poison
the budding nectar
shrouding
your tongue
ever sonant
as melting butter
lurking
in the petals
behind your thong
20

Jason Edward LaPrise
Fluidity
21

Eye of the Storm
22

Unseen
23

j.lewis
words without beginning, poems without end
before anything, before everything
swirling like nebulae through the cosmos
were words without number
words without end
to be sure, there was The Word
but all others drifted aimlessly
tethered to no star, comet, or planet
homeless and meaningless
until First Poet,
whose name is as forgotten
as the name of the most recent beggar
who held up his cardboard sign to me
asking for mercy, pleading for food--
until First Poet dipped his finger
in the eastern astral current
(the original EAC)
and pulled it back with words
trailing off the tip like a trot line
phrases dangling and flailing
at the sudden disruption of their flow
and they were First Poem
so First Poet became a fisher of words
snatching them unaware from their sleep
swallowing them whole and in batches
frying them, broiling them
belching their essence back into space
for other poets yet to come
who would lick their lips in anticipation
and wipe tears from their eyes
when they knew they could not write again
First Poem
24

eons of stanzas later
when this earth was formed
sliding through the same
ethereal astral current
trying to cool the fires of creation
First Poet was there to watch
words penetrating to the core
melding with magma
infusing the entire globe with
unsung, unwritten poetry
pre-earth syllables coalesced
into words that grew iambic feet
and crawled into the consciousness
of Earth Poet who woke daily
mind aching with the beauty and passion
of things that wanted saying
demanding to fly in the blue above
return to swim in the blue below
melt in the murderous heat of
unshielded summer
freeze and fracture
in the bitter arctic winter
spawning fragments of images
saved for spring thaw
for rebirth and refactoring
after the baptism of earth
by water, then by fire
when everything unclean, impure, unpoetic
had been washed and burned away
First Poet laughed deeply
then gathered his countless offspring
dipped the tail of a thought
in the eternal astral current
and exploded across infinity
looking for the rare ones
looking for His unborn children
to give new voice
to still-born thoughts
25

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
Armenian
All I can do is mixed race writing. My mother was Armenian, my dad La Raza/Eskimo.
) cant write white. My boss tells me that technical writing is not a mixed race thing,
that I need to fix on one language. He thinks my strength is Armenian. He has bought
me a plane ticket to Armenia and booked me a hotel for one week.
I sit on the plane. My carry-on bag complains ceaselessly. I hear its muffled voice
directly above me. My neighbors hear it too.
In Armenia, I decide to abandon technical writing altogether and take up poetry
instead. I contract to have my poems ghost-written by young adults in Bangladesh
who have fled the unsafe conditions of the garment industry. Their pain translates
admirably into literature. I pay them better than the clothes factories ever did. They
are imaginative. They write the poems in colonial cursive.
I claim the poems as my own creation, and sell them at Wal-Mart. )ts not plagiarism.
26

Organ Donor
1.
I gaze through triple-thick windows. I have no thyroid and often worry that I will
freeze to death. I often feel that I am freezing to death. My children find me pathetic.
They visit me and, as they leave, I see their thought balloons: I never want to get that
old. If I get that old, someone please shoot me. I should buy a gun now to have it well in
advance for when I need it.
) didnt raise them to be gun people. Theyre not gun people, so the names that enter
their heads are only names: Glock (sounds deadly but messy), Walther didnt James
Bond have one?), Lugar (harsh, Germanic), Colt (go out like an old cowboy, blow
yourself out of the saddle). Bye, Dad! Have a nice day!
And more thought balloons: What does he do with himself all day? They could ask the
staff, but dont. They find my incontinence pitiable, but its sudden, unsummoned
warmth is like a hint of Spring at the end of a long winter.
2.
But—ha ha!—I can still drive!
When I slide my license out of my wallet to hand the cop, I see the heart at the bottom
right corner, red like Colorado itself.
A river flows red through black canyons—sinister, vampiric. I slept in a vacant school
nearby, my wife and ) huddled like bats hanging from a caverns ceiling.
The heart on my license, that cheerful valentine, represents the brief period after my
death when my organs will fly hither and yon, packed securely, held close by
messengers, to bring joy to desperate families. In this way, I endorse the concept of
community, no matter how much I mutter under my breath about the general
stupidity of humanity.
The cop doesnt tell me that hes got a borrowed kidney. (e gives me a warning and
sends me on my addled way.
27

Two Halloweens
1.
)m holding my uncles battered lunch pail, the one that belonged to my grandpa
before him. My grandpa died of a heart attack. My uncle died in the factory. )m
carrying out the lunch pail and my mother asks: What are you doing with that? My
uncle was her hated brother. I say: I’m gonna put candy in it. Trick or treat---
My mother says: That’s not what you put candy in. That’s not what a ghost would carry.
Shes wrong, thats exactly what ghosts carry, but ) dont argue with her. Shes
pigheaded. She ought to dress up as a pig, except she doesnt need to.
My uncle took this lunch pail to work every day. He took it even after he died and was
buried. )t has dents in it, dents like the ones in my uncles face.
I run out before the witchy old pig-head can do anything.
2.
At the unseasonably warm, Halloween bar-b-que, someone ) dont know is knocking
back a Dos Equis and complaining about his plumbing.
Someone asks: Who ya gonna call?
I yell: Ghostbusters!
Everyone spontaneously realizes that )m a party crasher, and the hostess calls the
cops.
28

Alex Diamond
#1
29

#1
30

#3
31

Carl Terver
The Great Interaction
If you were a writer like me, you would find that writing with a pen is a very
strenuous thing. Tapping my fingers on a keyboard has not been a fine experience for
me either. As a wordsmith, I find my interaction with the keyboard a thing—the way
a poet may consider that genre of music known as metal. My fellowship with the pen
and its normal utility (to write the alphabets) has betrayed me. I would prefer if I
could just write with my finger on the soil; or, in the case of the interaction with the
tech-age, I would prefer if todays gadget had some virtual censors that could read
ones thought-language and convert it to text. Sometimes, I think, I write imaginatively
with the movement of my eyeballs.
Want to know why I find writing strenuous? Relax. Dont expect any reason
expository. )ts simple. ) just cant reconcile the speed of my thought once I begin
writing to the agility of my fingers. The idea revolves round thought process and
penning process; revolves round the mind and its locomotive wiring to the hands
(fingers). I think the human hand is the first mechanical tool of an artisan; and I would
want us to think of our utilisation and our ability to reconcile mind and pen, to think
of ourselves as artisans. And as this artisan and the vocation thereof in-between mind
and the pen is language. It is okay to have the mind but without that mediator – that
is, language – one definitely can write nothing and the pen would be useless.
Language is the product of thought- a combination of two or more factors or elements.
This combination may be a multiplication of factors, thus we can say the product of 2
and 2 is 4. With language comes factors like worldview, culture, geography, exposure
and add yours.
32

Prehistory, as it is called, is said to be the time predating the advent of the written,
when the progress or civilisation of man wasnt in any recordable form such as
writing. And historians tell us that the time after this is called historic times, when
mankind entered the phase of writing invented. If this premise is reduced to a
subjective tone, one can say that any people without a written language, even in this
modern era, are prehistoric. It follows that with the beginning of writing came the
birth of the pen, characterised across respective times in history, level of
advancement, writing method employed and any preoccupation of this thereof. To cut
it short, the pen as a translator of language into graphic or written form was/is an
inevitable partner in the progress of man and civilisation. The pen became a preserver
of language.
Just like the invention of the steam engine sparked the Industrial Revolution; just as
the invention of the printing press by the Chinese, the discovery of the ability (power)
to write sparks the minds of men. Of the minds of men to write and read, and to be
read; to communicate across fields of disciplines; to interact among languages; to
combine and metamorphose thought. All these morph into a culture – of the Literate
and the ability to be literate.
Culture is a way of life, so it is said, which encompasses the norms, values and beliefs
of that institution. The minds of men have adapted a culture, the literate culture, and
have not had second thoughts about it. It is a way of life that must be embraced to
facilitate, preserve and continue a civilisation in progress. The absence of the culture
of the institution of the pen will slow down this progress; and, in light of this, is the
revelation of the power of the pen.
Much is said about the lack of the literate factor puncturing a way of life, how the
absence of this creates an imbalance in the institution of progress. To narrow this
discourse to the literate factor, the ability of being literate brings exposure and
exposure reciprocates literacy and expands the capacity of the mind. In contrast, the
inability of being literate inhibits the capacity of the mind due to lack of exposure. )td
mean failure at being an artisan in the interaction of mind, of appreciating the beauty
33

of language and dynamics of penning; itd mean missing out on the great interaction.
The great interaction, if I am permitted to postulate, is that whole collage, that
discipline that cuts across channels of intelligence pervading the realms of
thought and academe. And it is the artisan that wields the pen that qualifies as a
pupil of this school of interaction. It goes further to say that the artisan is the learned;
learned in the art of engaging the great interaction – of exercising the mind and
breaking the boundaries of thought.
)lliteracy doesnt always mean retard, but, here, we can see how the absence of the
literate culture to a body may manifest. The pen stands to be respected as a totem of
intelligence of which the world would be a sorry without.
34

Jay Sizemore
Live Man Dead Man
~after Maya Angelou
A living man walks
down rain damp streets,
he carries a window
where no sunlight streaks,
he watches his feet
he watches his hands,
the moons phases ignored.
The dead man sleeps
in the churchs pew,
until awakened and freed
from the cages of blue,
he has no veins,
has no blood to spill,
a restless heart no more.
The dead man haunts
the halls of hell
freed from lifes
soft bodied shell,
he knows the secret
no god will tell,
that death is nothing
but a doorway.
The living man works like a factory for grief,
spending his nights drunk, a thankless thief,
he curses the sun that makes him sweat,
spending days hed just as soon forget.
The dead man knows the illusion of life,
that the end longed for he still longs for,
he has no veins, has no blood to spill,
a restless heart no more.
35

The dead man haunts
the halls of hell
freed from lifes
soft bodied shell,
he knows the secret
no god will tell,
that death is nothing
but a doorway.
36

Dalton Souvato Heera
A Flower Should Burn
The mournful sunflower hadn't to wait for me,
I can't keep her awaiting aloft
It would be a sin
It would be a sin
She'd walk through the sand
Where a thousand splendid suns
Waiting and waiting....
I couldn't make her let,
I am an oldish anniversary of a vintage play,
A shabby rue in rheum.
There's the suns awaiting with their virulent ray
What could I do, feared to be burnt
Letting her go, penancing, hey Pegasus.......
Sunflower should have found Apollo...
And the Charioteer Aruna,
Ran the seven horse march.
The shafts would hit Achilles,
That's the fate.
37

Ugoo Anyaeche
The 4 th Commandment
I hid my face as I saw Chidaalu revile Mama Chidaalu.
Although it seemed forgotten, the scene remains to me as clear as a chalk used on a neatly
darkened blackboard. That night at Our Lady Queen of Peace Block Rosary Centre as the
litany was recited and we were responding melodiously"yobar'anyiayiyo", a man
unprecedentedly rushed in throwing many of us into frenzy. Uzoma, who was first to see him,
shouted in a terrifying tone "blood of Jesus!" forcing the prayer to a halt.
A huge man wearing an unbuttoned shirt and a cap stood before us soliciting that we pray
earnestly for his wife who had been in labour for twelve hours, of whom the doctor expressed
fear of death due to large quantity of blood lost. At the mention of blood I grew cold and an
aura of insecurity overwhelmed me. I drew closer and held my brother's hand firmly.
Our very dedicated and zealous leader assured the man that the kingdom of darkness had no
place among the sons of God, adding confidently that before he would get to the hospital his
wife would be delivered of twins.
As he left our leader started another five decades of the rosary pausing from time to time to
tell our mother Mary to "do something."
We returned home that night after prayers in great silence; we did not play. Notwithstanding
that it was a Thursday night, we did not run home as usual to watch Super Story. Something
was at stake and blood was involved.
The following evening we received two packets of Oxford Cabin biscuit courtesy of the huge
man. Due to the circumstances surrounding the baby's birth he was named Chidaalu - thank
you God.
Chidaalu was loved by many partly because his mother was known to be peace-loving and
partly because he was the only child. He had better clothes and toys to play with. Many
children in the village then wished they had no siblings. Daalu attended the same primary
school with us and his mother begged us to always look after him which we did devotedly. At
38

the secondary school I was three classes ahead of him.
So it seemed like a dream and I was cast into a cascade of bewilderment this evening as I
witnessed the highest point of disparagement. I was outside looking up to pluck some ripe
guavas when I heard a loud cry from one of our neighbours.
The crying continued and soon people gathered. Chidaalu had pushed his mother fiercely to
the ground. When I neared I heard him whining about having warned "this woman" severally,
pointing at his mother who sat crying amidst a myriad of consolers. One woman was
quenching the blood running from her wounded knee.
When has Chidaalu gone nuts? I asked myself. The little boy I once looked after at school is
now a mate of insolence. It was unthinkable to me pondering what Mama Chidaalu had done.
Many years back she lay helplessly in a pool of blood, at the border of death, trying to bring
into existence a son who rather than resuscitating her drooping spirit would cause more
blood to flow.
As I went back into our house, having lost the appetite for my favourite fruit, I heard one
woman utter disgustingly, "useless boys, just like the goat in my house that calls himself my
son."
I kept on thinking about this until dinner.
My mother has just drawn a stool to sit beside me only to observe that I've not touched my
food. She asked, "my son you're not eating, don't you like the taste?"
"Mama I saw Chidaalu beating his mother today, when did that rubbish start?"I inquired
ignoring her question.
It was then that my mother began to narrate the odious story of how a lamb unexpectedly
turned around to become a wolf. She lamented about how they warned the woman to stop
pampering her son but she wouldn't heed to their advice. How she would always send
Chidaalu to her sister who stays at Onitsha during holidays without caring to find out what
her sister does to earn a living. About how a full-grown boy would not wash dishes and his
mother didn't bother about that. What pained my mother most was that at the age of fifteen
Chidaalu refused going back to school and his mother still allowed him into the house.
"Eat your food my son," she concluded, "he who fetches firewood infected with ants invites
lizards to his house."
39

ChisanaRobotto Baburuikakiti
ChisanaRobotto Baburuikakiti
#1
40

#3
41

#3
42

Uche Ogbuji
Road from Calabar to Abuja
Shot out through the newly-set stelae
Welcoming to Calabar, we plunge into
Lucent green: chlorophyll to brimming,
Pale blue vessel clapped over our heads,
Illumined to reflect forth in the chipped, black strip of road;
Jagged mounds astride the shoulder teem with ants.
Into the gentle basins of the delta bread basket—
Sour sop lollipop land. Akamkpa now Ikom and
Combs of coconut with wavy leaves of plantain,
Fan leaves of cocoyam, and hardwoods strutting the sky.
Mounds astride the shoulder are muscular yam
Winding into razor plots of pineapple.
Past Ogoja into Benue, grass reaching to pull down
Tree tops—brown streaked green
Of banana stands under these bowed crowns
Mounds astride the shoulder are cassava spreads.
Round cement huts topped with thatch
Bon-boy bobbing heads mark paneless windows.
Gboko to Makurdi, trees step lightly over
Rioting grass. Dust motes laze gnat-like in still air.
Mounds astride the shoulder are stock of citrus vendors,
Suspiciously, for December, occasional usurp of mangoes.
Orange orchards march out from the red canvas
Against whites and purples of thick sugarcane.
Copper, rust, straw of new construction—
Mounds astride the shoulder are sterile brick heaps,
Savannah grain stacks drying, cleared bush
Over the Benue, grey waters bitten by
Brown sand bars (Cameroon courtesy in silt),
White cows kicking up brown clods and dust spray.
43

Mounds astride the shoulder are fresh quarried granite,
Laborers stooping over stone slabs in the sun
Black columns of burning bush spring from the horizon
Ash waste flats on denatured brown
Rearing up past Akwanga, heaving hills, slashing dips,
And uncertain, green clumps that cling on dear.
Year-round harmattan palette—
Trees full wizened to brush—
The mounds are Capital Rock.
44

M.A. Istvan Jr
L. A. Transactus
We pulled up to the teller
at the L. A. bank of corpses,
my wife rolling down her window
to the pane of safety glass.
Blue vistas, the speaker crackled
from script, is sorry for your loss.
From the passenger seat, I strained
to meet the tellers eyes, but
he looked down when speaking
and then was busy with those
transacting at the remote lane—those
merelysigning the guest sheet
and air-tubing it back to him.
The automated door unfoldedstark
against the soothing lullaby tinkle.
My wife reached for the guest sheet
with no hesitation, as if
it were just some deposit pouch.
Still not looking, the teller told us
to take as much time as we needed.
As soon as the melody cut back in
from the intercom override,
my old friend rose, Nosferatu-style.
I leaned over my wife. I strained.
But that was not much help to see.
Do let us know when youre ready,
the teller said, all to trigger, it seemed,
that drive-through anxiety to hurry up—
anxiety that such polite words,
taken literally, should allay. Were—.
Were still looking, said my wife
at me. Take your time, the response.
45

Are you gonna lean back? ) said, shaking.
My wife fumbled for the recliner switch
until at last I caught the bottom
of that forgotten face caked-up peach.
Let us know when youre ready.
the crackle urged. The line building,
) gave up my contortion. Go.
Just go, ) said, feeling gipped
that only she, full of tears, got a chance
to transact with the dead in peace.
46

Crystal Galyean
Lion Gentle
My name is Leon Doux. My art therapy teacher told me that my name is interesting,
because in Spanish Leon means lion, but most of the time I am more like a house cat,
sweet and gentle. That's what Doux means in French. I told her that lion gentle didnt
make any sense, and it should be gentle lion if my name were to mean anything. She
said that sometimes in other languages, the word describing the other word comes
after, like man black. I think this is a stupid way to do things, but maybe when I get to
New Orleans it will make sense. They speak a lot of French down there, I hear.
I'm in art class now, but I'm tired of drawing pictures. I've been drawing pictures for
thirty years, and then explaining what they mean. When they dont mean anything I
have to make something up because the teachers keep asking me, but making things
up is tiring. So I think today I will write about myself instead of drawing. That way
they cant ask me what it means, because it already says what it means. The teacher is
nice and blonde, and she said she would fix my punctuation or if ) dont spell things
correct. She is like a flower—just so pretty that you are afraid to touch it, case you
mess it up.
Yvette, the one with crazy hair that sticks up like a picket fence, sits next to me. One
day ) asked her why she didnt comb it and she said she is going to get it straightened
the day she gets out, and thats what they call relaxing, but she says it is not relaxing
one bit. Yvette is drawing a picture of the sun with tears. Her daughter died a few
years ago when she got caught in a sofa bed and suffocated while Yvette was cooking
eggs, and Yvette is still very sad about it. She likes Beethoven and sometimes she will
pretend to play the fifth symphony on the keyboard even though its not on because
it's not music time. It is a sight—with her crazy hair sticking up and her hands going
up and down and her mouth going dum dum dum dummmmm.
On my other side is Tanya. I love her even though she says weird things and talks too
quiet and shuffles around in pink slippers. Tanya is drawing a picture of a clock, but I
dont think she has her curves straight. )t is dented where it should be round and the
numbers arent right. The teacher came around and asked her if the clock meant she
was thinking about her time in the hospital. Tanya said no. She always talks so soft,
you have to lean in to hear. ) dont blame her for not thinking about time. Thats the
worst thing to think about, because the doctors never let you know when you can go
home. Tanya's eyes got watery. I felt bad so I turned her clock into a happy face and
47

she is smiling now. She told me she is schizophrenic and sometimes hears the Devil,
but she does not want the slightest thing to do with that man. Her husband loves her
and he comes during visiting hours. (is smile is just like hers, like a childs. ) am glad
someone can make her smile when she is not with me.
Maybe ) will write about my family before ) write about myself, because ) dont think )
have done much worth writing about. Most of my family are in prison because they
tried to be drug mules and werent good at it. My mother used to live here in
Brooklyn, but now she grows sugar cane outside New Orleans. I wish she could come
see me, but I think those fields are a lot of work and New Orleans is too far from Bed-
Stuy to come just for visiting hours. )t is nicer weather there too, so ) dont blame her.
Curtis just came in for a minute. (e doesnt usually come to art therapy because he
has problems sitting still. (e is always laughing, but ) dont think hes laughing
because he's happy, ) think he laughs because he cant not laugh. )ts a weird laugh,
like a cackle that sucks his air out and bends him at the waist. ) dont think that would
be comfortable, laughing like that all the time. It would be like having hiccups that
wont quit. They took his belt away, so he walks around holding his pants up with one
hand. The nurses are always yelling, Curtis! Stop laughing! or Curtis! Pull your pants
up! He just left to watch TV, even though it is group time. The nurses let him watch
TV sometimes just so he stops moving. Yvette says Curtis laughs like that because he
smokes crack. I never smoked crack, but I wonder what is so funny about it.
) dont watch the TV too much because fat angry people are always screaming at each
other and it gives me a headache. The screen is cracked right down the middle, and
the seats are so hard that you have to keep shifting so your butt doesnt fall asleep.
Some people dont seem to mind the couches, but they are the ones that dont move
too much anyway. The other day there was a funny commercial with Jesus in a truck. I
dont think the Good Lord would buy a truck. He would probably buy an electric car or
at least something smaller because its better for the environment.
The chairs in art class are cold, but at least they move. If you have to move closer to
the table or further back to stretch, you can slide the chair. In the rest of the hospital,
everything's bolted down. The tables, the chairs, the TV, the couches. The beds are
bolted down too, and they have holes on the sides. I thought at first the holes were for
something to hold on to so you could move them around, but Yvette told me that the
holes are for leather straps when someone gets too excited. I think this has happened
to me but my memory is wrong sometimes. When I make my bed, I try to keep the
sheets draped over the holes so ) dont have to look at them. But then ) get yelled at
for not making my bed right.
During the times I get real mad, I want to throw something. But everything is bolted
down, and that makes me even angrier. I get louder than I should be which gets me
needles. I have been poked with forty-seven needles since I got here. Yvette told me
that ) am a derelict. But the teacher told me that ) have a way with words. ) dont know
48

if a derelict can have a way with words, but I guess if a lion can be gentle I can get
away with that.
***
Art class is over, but ) told the teacher ) wasnt done with my story and she let me
keep it to work on as long as a nurse could watch me with the pen.
When I was eight years old I threw a pot of boiling water in my baby brothers face. (e
wouldnt stop crying and ) got so mad. ) dont remember it too well but thats what my
mom said happened. Of course )m sorry ) did it. That was the first time ) got sent to
the doctors.
***
I was up early this morning. I like getting up before the nurses start yelling. They have
Caribbean accents, and when you first get here they are hard to understand. But the
more you dont understand, the louder they get. And before you know it you are
getting loud too and that means another needle.
First they yell your last name, and then they yell BREAKFAST! If you stay in bed too
long, they start to yell your first name, and thats when you know you are in trouble. )
feel sorry for the people who spend their first night here and wake up to roars like a
bomb is about to hit the hospital. Sometimes ) pretend )m in the Louisiana guard
protecting my mommas banana fields.
I try to get out of bed and into the common area before they start all that hollering.
Before you get breakfast the nurse takes your blood pressure. First, the nurse asks,
Any pain? Then, Bowel movements? You gotta tell them the last time you moved
right there in front of everybody. But thats ok. )m not shy. ) get up early so ) can
shake peoples hands as they come into the common area and ask them how are they
doing today. I have been told I have a good handshake.
At mealtime everybody starts trading like it's the New York stock exchange. Oranges
for cereal, wheat toast for white, juice for milk. People act all crazy, passing food to
each other over everybodys heads until the last trade happens and we eat.
The noise lasts all day long. Nurses shout at patients and patients shout at nurses and
the TV shouts at the whole ward. )t feels like ) cant think loud enough and anything
that is not a shout just dies in the hallway like a helpless little stillborn baby.
) dont usually take my medicine at night like )m supposed to, because it makes you
sleep hard and then you wake up with a fog in your brain. The first thing you hear is
your name shouted through that fog and you remember all of a sudden who you are
and where you are and that is no way to wake up.
49

***
Maybe this should be a guide for new patients. I have been in and out of here since
1988 and I know all the rules. ) know that people who first get here dont want to be
bothered by a crazy lion spouting advice, so maybe if I write it down they can read it
by themselves if they can find a corner with some peace and quiet.
Let me introduce you to a couple people you might meet here. There are a couple
others that have been in and out like me, and maybe once )m out for good you are
going to have to ask one of the others for help. So you better learn who they are.
You already met Curtis and Yvette and Tanya. You should probably know Earl because
he looks scary at first. (e has a long beard and greasy hair that he doesnt brush and a
big mustache that makes him look like a truck driver. He says he is 42 but he looks
older, maybe because he is homeless. The police picked him up on the Williamsburg
Bridge, looking to jump. (es lost three wives. One to cancer, one to a car accident, and
the third to someone else. (e said why try to live anymore when he doesnt have a
thing? He says if they let him out, hes just going to try to kill himself again. But
sometimes if you talk to him he has real good stories. Just like a blues singer.
The last person you should know is James. James is a brother like me but I think he
went to school longer than I did. He always has a one of the big male nurses with him.
) heard this was because he is dangerous, but he doesnt seem so dangerous to me. (e
sleeps most of the time. When they take him early in the morning I am the only one up
to see him go. They walk him out―two big men on either side of him―and the door
closes behind them with a great big buzz.
When he comes back he's not walking anymore. They have to roll him in on a bed.
Tanya doesn't know where he goes but I do. James tells Tanya all kinds of things when
he wakes up. Sometimes he tells her he went to the candy store and saw lollipops so
big you could lean on them. He says they look so good, so tasty, especially the green
ones, but he's never eaten one. Tanya said she would have had two, no matter how big
they were. James said I bet you wouldn't and Tanya said I bet I would and James said,
now how are you going to be so cruel as to eat something that talks? She said lollipops
don't talk. I knew he was joking but I asked him what the lollipops talked about. He
said weather mostly. Rain is real bad for their skin.
I don't know how James thinks all this up when he spent the day before under
unmade sheets with his eyes rolled up in his head. Sometimes I imagine what it would
be like to get electro-shocked like that. I imagine I would see sparks like static
electricity in the dark behind my eyelids. I hope it doesn't hurt too bad but if it didn't I
guess James wouldn't be getting it as punishment.
50

***
Today, my Aunt Denise came to visit. ) dont think she likes me very much, but she
brought me a can of soda and complimented me on my shirt, which is clean and
collared and striped white and green. The nurses think it looks nice and they tell me
to wear it when ) have a visitor. ) think its itchy and hot, but luckily ) dont have to
wear it hardly ever. My aunt said she saw my momma at the hair salon. She said my
momma is doing good but is real busy. I asked when was she in Louisiana and is it
nice there? She looked at me funny and told me to be good.
***
One of the first things that might get under your skin in the hospital is that there is not
much fresh air to be had. The only air comes pumping through vents way up high.
There is a courtyard, but we cant use it unless one of the nurses has time to sit with
us, which is hardly ever. )f you can get out there though, its real nice. There are
flowers all along the edges and when you look up the sky seems close enough to
touch. The other day we were sitting out there when a hummingbird came along to
see about the flowers. We watched this little bird fly from bud to bud. It was beautiful.
Then the birdy landed just right by me, looked me dead in the eye, and let out a little
white shit and flew away. I thought that was rude but everybody else thought it was
hilarious.
On Sunday mornings the nuns come to sing us some worship songs. )f its nice outside,
the nurses let us out in the courtyard to sing. Some of the patients go to church just so
they can sit outside, but I like the songs, especially the ones in Spanish. I know a little
Spanish from when I was little in Brooklyn. Maybe my momma can teach me some
more when she gets back from running the hair salon in New Orleans. The nuns wear
flowers in their hair. Purple, pink, yellow and all kinds of colors in between. I want to
ask for one but ) dont know if it's appropriate. )ll have to ask the Art Teacher.
***
Today Tanya and I were sitting out in the courtyard with James. James was kidding
Tanya that there was a big old snake in the bushes. Tanya is a schizophrenic so
sometimes she sees things that arent there anyway so ) didnt know about putting
ideas about snakes into her head. But she was giggling like she got the joke so we kept
on describing the snake, making it bigger and scarier until she laughed so hard and
called us liars. Everybody likes making Tanya laugh, cause most times she is so sad.
Even though we get to go out in the courtyard now and then, it still feels boxed up in
the hospital. I want to run but ) wouldnt get very far before ) hit a wall and had to run
right back the other way. And then I would feel like a hamster in a wheel. Once I get
out )m gonna take up running like Usain Bolt.
51

Some mornings they have a class thats a whole bunch of stretching and jumping
jacks. The teacher goes around the circle and everyone picks an exercise for the group
to do. Yvette picked skipping and the teacher said, That’s great. When is the last time
you went skipping down the hall? I said two weeks ago and everybody laughed but )m
not sure why. )ts important to keep moving, as much as we can in here, because
otherwise, all you want to do is sleep, the kind of long sleep where you cant feel
impatient or closed in or anything bad at all because you are down deep where
nothing can get through.
***
The nurses got me again yesterday. I must have been carrying on and swearing again.
Now )ve had needles. Eight needles on the arm, ten on the leg, and a whole bunch
more when I was sleeping. I don't remember anything else that happened yesterday. I
hate hate hate needles.
But like ) said, doctors can see what you cant see and know what you cant know.
James thinks ) believe too much in the doctors. (e says they dont really concern
themselves too much about us.
The other day Tanya was crying on the edge of her bed. A nurse walked by and told
her, Don’t cry, or they won’t let you out. ) dont know much about medicine, but )
think its ok to cry or get mad, sometimes. ) get mad too much, but for other people its
ok.
People cry in group therapy. Some people dont go to meetings because they get tired
of all the talking. They say people tell the same old stories over and over and they
dont have the time to listen. ) think thats funny, because all we have here is time.
Today we had a new therapist. (e was young and looked nervous. ) dont blame him
because we are probably a pretty mean-looking bunch, except for Tanya. After
everybody introduced themselves, Sean (he said to call him Sean) asked what kind of
coping skills we use. Earl said that on the street he could always find a way to survive.
He said that if he needed money to eat, it was hard to come by. But when he needed a
fix, money just appeared. Someone left their wallet on top of a pay phone, or their bag
on the subway, or something lucky like that. He said if you searched the ground after a
raid, you could always find a score because junkies dropped what they had on them
when police came. But Earl said that kind of luck never did him any good, cause he
ended up on Williamsburg bridge and then in detox hooked up to methadone.
Sean looked confused at Earls answer, but he said thank you for sharing and turned
to James. James never talks during meetings, but he has to go because of the court
order. Sean asked what his coping skills were, but James just stared him down real
hard.
52

) knew James story because he told me after we were teasing Tanya about the snake
in the courtyard. He was in love with this girl, but she had a husband. James saw her
man beating on her, and he told me something inside him snapped. He started hitting
this guy over and over and he must have been beating on him for a long time because
the next thing he knew the man was dead and he was in handcuffs. James gets zapped
(that's what he calls it) every few days now, and sleeps for a couple days after that.
The attendants still have to sit right by him, in case he wakes up mad. But he doesnt
seem very dangerous to me.
***
Everyone at the hospital thinks about breaking out now and then, in laundry bins, just
straight up making a run for it, whatever. But there have been times when I was out of
the hospital, when ) knew, ) mean knew in my gut the way a fish knows air wont taste
so good full-time, that I would end back up here. Things would start itching at my
brain and I would get testy and there the needles would be, waiting for me, when I got
back.
Or sometimes, my aunt gets more and more huffy and shows up with home videos of
me and my brother when we were young. I dont know where she goes to get them,
but she can always get them. She plays them on loop. Turns all the lights out and
closes the curtains and plays them over and over as the light from the screen sends
shadows scurrying through the room. Pictures of me and my brother real young, in
oversized t-shirts on scuffed up bikes laughing and getting in fights and crying and
then laughing again. There aren't very many videos so I end up seeing the same
pictures over and over, looping on the screen.
She never says nothing while she plays these movies. She just sits on the couch and
watches. Or sometimes she leaves it playing all day and all night while she cooks and
sleeps. She never says a word, but I know what they are about. They are about how
just looking at me hurts. They are about how I don't deserve to be there. When those
videos start it doesn't take me long to pack up and return my own self to the hospital.
Maybe work myself up some so I have something to show the doctor. I done spent
most of my life back and forth between a few blocks. Neither place wants me, and I
want neither place.
Last night I dreamt I could fly. I launched up over the hospital and down the coast, out
of Brooklyn and over the Carolinas and hovered over Louisiana, just to check in on my
momma. But when I stopped over the bayou the trees were so thick all I could see was
green and green and more green, and NEW ORLEANS in big block letters like on one
of those maps from elementary school. I knew my mama was down there but I
couldnt get to her through all that green and Spanish moss. ) wish ) could meet the
composer of that dream. Someone is working hard at a typewriter in some little closet
somewhere writing these dreams for me.
53

***
) got a new roommate named Darron and he is so sad he doesnt barely move. (e
stays in bed all day and stares at the wall and sometimes at night he pisses his bed.
When he has to take a shower, the nurses have to move each limb for him because he
doesnt care how stinky he gets. They say hes called catatonic.
Yesterday, somebody made a big old mess in the bathroom and ) wont get into too
much detail because I am a gentleman. The attendant who came in to clean it yelled at
Darron up and down. Darron just stared at him with that empty face of his, but when
the man left Darron started getting all worked up and tried to tell me it wasnt him
that left that mess. (e wasnt used to talking so his lips werent doing him any favors,
and then he started shaking real bad and his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell
backwards. Lucky for him the bed was right behind him so he didnt hit his head on
nothing hard. I ran out and screamed for the nurses and they came in and said Oh
Lord! and gave him a shot. Later they told me he was having a seizure and I said
maybe they shouldnt yell at him so much.
The nurses left and I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at Darron, who was
sleeping hard now. ) walked over and tucked him in so he wouldnt get cold. ) saw
something white and shiny on my nightstand. My eyes arent so good, so ) picked it up.
After turning it over in my hand I realized it was Darrons teeth. They must have taken
them out when they were calming him from his seizure.
) held the teeth for a second and wondered if people dont get out of this hospital
crazier than when they came in. )ts been needles now. )m going to show my
momma the marks once the sugar canes are done growing and she can come visit. But
) know one thing. When ) get out, and get down to her, )m gonna be looking a little bit
like someone better.
54

Divya Rajan
Grandmother died in her dreams
Beeped the text. My heart was already a tree- length spine,
Concrete as bolt and a pitch- swell cotton candy
With sugared maple and ice on top, I kept
Munching to sooth my innards. I swallowed
Mouthwash, until the swish of a belligerant windscreen wiper
Alerted me, it's home. As the garage door rumbled open,
I brushed a heavy dose of compact
Over an unapologetic eyelid. When she asked me
How my day was, I said it was busy with flavor tastings.
Routine. Boring. Predictable. The glimmer of disappointment
In her eyes soothed my parched throat, a can
Of hungry ducks paddled in my fluoride-ridden mouth
Furiously. We are two sides of the same coin.
Grandmother'd say. Quietly arrogant, you. Loud, me.
I’m upfront, and you’re rather deceiving.
Let's blame it on the times.
55

Sarah Frances Moran
Said you’d give me light, but you never told me
about the fire"
when I tell you I need a whisper
its because
sonic booms are
going off
in
my head.
The Spanish Armada of worries
has laid miles worth
of trip mines
and )m clumsy.
When I ask you to dim the lights
its because
lightning strikes more than once
on the inside of a mind
thats mastered storm making.
)ts so bright in here
and I burn easily.
When I question how much you love me
its because
someone else replaced arrows with missiles
and pushed the launch button
before I was ready.
56

My force fields are weak.
And when you find me unbearable
its because
)m fragile but also fire.
Something took a match to my bones
and ) havent found the douser.
But if you sit with me long enough
I promise that hope steeps inside
the burning
embers.
The smoke that seeps
is permeated with more
than mere destruction.
57

Jason West
#1
58

#2
59

#3
60

Steve Klepetar
Before Breakfast
(es rowed out onto the lake again,
just at the edge of sight, where a point
cuts the water into unequal lobes.
Sunrise pours across the sky in lurid
hues: flesh of peaches near the pit,
skin of salamanders waiting
for warmth on a flat ledge of rock.
Even at this distance, he pours
visions into her swelling mind.
By now, shes done with weeding
and gathering eggs, which she sets
on the counter, wipes her hands
on a rag. )ts time to roll her anger,
that ball of clay, down into a tiny
planet with the gravity of a star.
She rolls and rolls it in her fingers,
then feels its density pressing against
her warming palms until her bones
ache with weight. Opening wide,
she swallows that world with a cold
cup of water from the well, tasting
metal tang as it slides through
her body, a breakfast pulling her
deep into the maelstrom of a universe
fashioned from nests and light and claws.
61

Paul Kavanagh
Ten Grand
The form of this piece [or the lack of it] is the author’s homage to James Joyce
He said he wanted the apple and I told him that the apple was really an onion and he
laughed and said that he would have the apple and I told him that the apple was an
onion and the onion belonged to me and he said that what was his was mine and what
was mine was his. I told him I was saving the onion and I had plans for the onion and I
told him that I hoped the onion would ramify and that we would have an armful of
onions. He laughed, it was a cruel laugh. He showed his serrated teeth, black. He said
that apples grow on trees. Yes I said. Trees take years he said. I placed the onion
before him and told him to look at the onion and he looked at the onion and light
invaded his eyes and his face glowed red and he licked his lips. Have we any salt he
asked. I shook my head and I told him we had pepper, black like your teeth. He said
that an apple does not need salt. ) agreed. (e smiled. ) watched his ears lift, pigs ears.
I picked up the onion. What are you going to do with that he asked. I pointed to the
hole in the ground. It was a small hole. I had spent a week digging the hole. The
ground was frozen. I had to use my hands. He had watched me dig the hole and he did
not offer to help. He could have helped. In the past if there is such a thing as the past
he had helped. Together we had dug holes, my older brother and I. )ts a grand hole he
said. ) thanked him. )t will rain today he said. ) smiled. Dont smile he said. ) had
forgotten. My mouth is without teeth but has a fine array of gum diseases. I stopped
smiling. Let me have a look at the apple again he said. I reminded him that what I was
holding in the hand and was planning on growing in the soil was an onion. I was once
called an onion he said. Yes I said. Yes he said. Why I asked. I could bring a tear to a
girls eye he said. There was color in his cheeks and his eyes had enlarged. (ow )
asked. He stood up and unzipped his slacks and before I could object he showed me
the onion and he laughed and swung the onion which looked like a cucumber between
his knees. Too big for the hairy hole between the mouth and the anus but not too big
for the mouth and the anus he said. Put it away I said. He coiled the monster and
stuffed it into the aperture and while zipping his fly he whistled ostentatiously. The
proof that we are seeds from a different fruit he said. Yes I said, a swan will never
62

come from the meeting of two hippos. He sat back down and he rubbed his belly and I
rubbed my belly. Let me feel the apple he said. Vexed I passed him the onion. He
weighed the onion. This apple could feed the both of us he said. I nodded my head.
The onion was still an onion but I was vexed. Brother he said, go inside the house and
fetch the knife. ) held out my hand. Dont you trust me brother he said. ) shook my
head and he laughed and farted a phenomenon we did not share and when he
coughed he pissed and when he whistled he shitted and when he moaned he shot his
load. (e tossed the onion at me and ) caught the onion. Thats a fine apple that is he
said. He licked his lips and rubbed his belly. I carried the onion into the house and
after being out in the air the fusty odor of the house stirred the hunger and I saw
unreal apples and pears and spuds in the mold and mildew and I placed the onion on
the table and picked up the knife and it was a very sharp knife and to test the
sharpness of the knife I removed a node of my fuzz and I looked at the removed hair.
Grey.I picked up the onion and carried the onion and the knife outside. Rain he said. I
had forgotten why I had gone inside but I was holding a knife and I showed him the
knife and I shrugged my shoulders and arched my eyebrows and smacked my lips.
Hand me the knife he said. I handed him the knife. I closed my eyes and tried to
remember why I had gone into the house and I why I had a knife and why I had
handed my brother the knife but all I saw when I closed my eyes and thought was
nothing. Seeing me thinking impelled him to laugh. That old McCormick hit you hard
and often he said. I nodded my head and I tried to remember the fight. It started well.
Fair play said Old Joyce seeing a good left and a good right. Old McCormick tried to
take the center but I moved him on with two uppercuts and a few jabs. Blood. I cut
him above the eye and the crowd clapped and cheered. The blood flowed and Old
Joyce said fair play to you both. Old McCormick ducked under a right and. We lost ten
grand. Pass me that apple said my brother. )ts an onion ) reminded him. (e never
forgave me. )ts an apple he said. No ) said and ) held up the onion. )ts a grand looking
apple he said. I told him that the apple was really an onion and he laughed and said
that he would have the apple and I told him that the apple was an onion and the onion
belonged to me and he said that what was his was mine and what was mine was his
and I asked him for the knife and he said he would swap the apple for the knife and I
agreed. After three we will swap he said. We counted. One two three. We swapped. He
held the onion to his nose and inhaled and I looked at the bevel of the knife and it was
sharp and he licked his lips and I spat on the knife, both sides and polished the knife
on me slacks and he bit into the apple and he chewed and then he groaned and he
dropped the onion and it started to rain and I went over and kicked the onion into the
hole. You gobshite you done me good you give me an onion for an apple and I see the
apple in your slacks. I held up the knife and told him that I would stick him with the
knife if he came any closer. The rain turned the soil to mud. He jumped out of his chair
63

and tried to glue his hands around my neck. I tried to stick him with the knife. He
moved quickly. He hit with me a right and
64

Juleus Ghunta
Reassurance
In tough times
I live by these words of Normas,
who, while breaking bread
and squeezing limes
on the cold floor of a dimly lit room
in rainy weather,
said: The struggle will be long,
but it won’t be forever.
65

Morgan Downie
boxed
in the dimness
of the doorway
fingers hooked
into the soiled
folds of their coats
even unseen
they scent the air
and curl the noses
of those whose feet
pass over them
perhaps they are
disturbed
by the chatter
of lunchtime diners
or the incessant
chime of phones
they stir
their eyes blink open
and they are lanterns
shining out upon us
66

Tom Barlow
Even Steven
Steve spotted the door in the old buckeye tree as he squared up his mower blades for
another trip along the border between his corn and the driveway. He shut his tractor
down and stared at it for several minutes. He and his sister, Julie had been all over
that tree as children, twenty years before, from the ground right up to the top limbs.
He would have remembered a door.
He was not one to panic, but something so extraordinary made him briefly consider
returning to the house for the shotgun he'd inherited along with the farm. After
pondering for a moment, though, he concluded that someone, he couldn't imagine
who, was playing a practical joke on him. He kept his eyes fixed on the door as he
approached. It was made of vertical wood planks, bleached almost white by the sun,
probably oak, from the grain. As tall as he was, no doorknob, just an old hasp. No
window. No knocker. No doormat.
He pressed his ear to the door, heard nothing, rapped, first softly, then with more
authority, but no response.
He lifted the hasp and the door quietly swung open, as though the hinge had just been
oiled.
***
His sister Julie was in the kitchen drinking chamomile tea and sketching the basil
plant his wife kept in the window when Steve returned to the house. Although she
was dressed in running shorts and a sleeveless T, sans makeup, hair tangled and dirty,
he was taken by what an attractive woman she'd become in the years since he'd seen
her last. She had their mother's flawless olive complexion, their grandmother's thick
black hair, and a tall, leggy frame. So different from him, who had once been described
by his cousin Grace, the poet, as a florid fireplug.
Steve had not seen or heard from his sister for almost ten years until she knocked
67

unannounced on their door a week before. She hadn't offered to explain her return to
the family farm, and he, seeing the pain on her face, hadn't yet asked, although his
wife Wendy kept egging him on.
Before he left for his afternoon elementary-school bus run, he told his sister what hed
found. "Behind the door is a room in the tree, a little bigger than our mud room, with a
round hole in the floor. Like a drain hole, about yay big around." He held his arms
outstretched. "The sides of the hole are brass-colored metal, shiny."
"A hole in the tree?" She gave him a skeptical look.
"It starts inside the tree, but goes straight down, like an old well."
"Right. Is this another Horse Thief Cave deal?"
"That was twenty years ago. We were kids. And you forgave me, remember?"
Julie rubbed her forehead just the way their mother had every time Steve brought his
report card home. "Maybe this is what Dr. Mágia meant."
"Who meant what?"
She set down her sketch pad and licked her lips. "I was in a relationship for a couple of
years with this woman, Heather Clay. In L.A."
Steve could sense she was watching him for a reaction, since she'd never come out to
him until now. As though he hadn't known since junior high school that she was a
lesbian, even after she married Ray Sylvester just to prove to herself that she wasn't.
"How does that explain the tunnel?" he said.
"Heather is rich as Donald Trump and really into the occult. Her whole house up in
Laurel Canyon was designed as a pyramid, and she brought a shaman in from Japan to
bless it before she would move in. That sort of person."
Steve could see how Julie would be attracted to such a person. After the divorce she'd
flitted from one religion to another, landing finally on Scientology. When she forged a
check from their father to the church, he'd thrown her out of the house for the last
time, a month before he died. Steve had supported their dad's decision, and her
reappearance after ten years without any contact was the first sign that Julie might
have finally forgiven him.
"A month ago, for my birthday," she said, "Heather bought me a favor from a magician
she'd met."
68

Steve couldn't help but chuckle.
"Yeah, go ahead and laugh. You know, you've been ridiculing me since I was a kid. I
don't know why I thought things would be different now." She tapped a cigarette from
the pack on the table, stood, and walked out onto the porch.
Steve followed her. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to ridicule you. I just find it hard to
believe that a grown adult would believe in magic."
She lit the Camel and sucked on it like she'd been holding her breath for days. "That
was her, not me. But Dr. Mágia was one weird dude, with the kind of eyes that you'd
see on a saint, or maybe a serial killer."
"What did you ask him for?"
She gave him a brittle smile. "I asked him to save me. You probably noticed that I'm
not happy with the way I ended up. I can't sustain a relationship, I have no job skills
and the clock is ticking on my womb."
"What did the magician say?"
"I thought it was all bullshit, you understand? He pricked my finger, squeezed out a
few drops of blood onto aluminum foil, then boiled it off over the flame of a black
candle while muttering some hocus pocus. As far as I could tell, nothing happened. But
when he was done, he promised that something magical would soon happen to me,
and it would change my life. He claimed he never knows how the wishes are going to
be granted, just that they are.
"I made fun of him on the way home, which really pissed Heather off, since she'd given
the guy ten grand. I think that's when she decided to dump me."
"I'm sorry," Steve said. "That must have been tough."
"Yeah, tough, especially since I'd quit working at Target and moved in with her. I went
dirt biking one afternoon a couple of weeks later and when I got back I found my stuff
at the curb and the house locks changed."
"What did you do?"
"I packed up what I could and left the rest for the trash man. A long bus ride and here I
am. I didn't know where else to turn, since I'm totally broke. Pathetic, huh?"
"I'm glad you came," Steve said. "So you think this hole, this was the magic he
promised?"
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"You explain it," she said. "Please. I don't like thinking I'm beholden to Heather."
"I wish I could. When I get back from my afternoon run I'll take you and Wendy out
there and you can judge for yourself."
"I know the tree you mean. Maybe I'll walk Peabody out that way."
"Please don't take my dog out there; he has a habit of jumping into any hole he comes
across."
"I have that problem, too," she said.
***
Steve found the tractor parked next to the house when he returned from his afternoon
route. In the utility trailer was the sixteen-foot ladder, a paper sack and a large coil of
nylon rope. He peeked into the sack: flares, a couple of flashlights, and a throwaway
camera. His sister walked out of the house a minute later, eating one of his tomatoes
like an apple.
"I'd like to wait for my wife, if you don't mind," he said.
"Wendy called a couple of minutes ago. She won't be home until seven; she's getting
ready for some tour this weekend."
"The travel writers' tour. You might try to remember; the tour is a big deal for her."
When they arrived at the tree, Julie jumped off and sprinted to the door. He entered
the tree just as she dropped a flare into the hole.
"Goddamn it, Julie!" he said. "There couldve been natural gas down there."
She shrugged, knelt, ran her hand along the smooth lip of the hole. "Well, there wasnt.
This is really something."
He leaned over her, looked down at the flare. It rested a dozen feet below in what
appeared to be a tunnel running parallel to the ground in either direction. It looked
tall enough for him to stand in upright. "What do you suppose it could be? Some old
military storage site? Part of an old water system?"
"Oh, get real, brother. They accessed a military storage site through a door in a tree?
No way. It has to be magical."
Steve had no response, as he tried to wrap his mind around the concept.
70

They fetched the ladder, maneuvering it through the door and into the hole. Only
three feet of the ladder remained above ground after the ladder feet struck the bottom
of the tunnel.
Steven grabbed the ladder, preparing to climb down, when she shoved him aside.
"This is my magic. If anything goes wrong, it should go wrong to me."
Unwilling to upset the delicate relationship with his sister, Steve moved aside.
Julie stepped onto the rung level with the ground. "Wish me luck."
"Do you really need it? After all, this is your wish come true."
She carefully descended the ladder hand under hand. A moment later, she said, "The
eagle has landed." Her voice was followed by a faint echo, then another.
He leaned out to where he could see her, courtesy of the flashlight she pulled from her
pocket . "What can you see?"
"Nothing. )t looks like a big tunnel. Perfectly round. ) cant see the end either
direction."
"Is it wet? Like an irrigation pipe?"
She stooped to run her hand across the bottom of the tunnel. "Dry as a bone."
"Does it smell like a root cellar?"
"All I can smell is flare. The air is moving a little. Look at this," she said, kicking ash
from the expired flare into the air. "Some of the ash is drifting down the tunnel one
way, the rest of it the other."
"Come back up," Steve said. "We should be careful, the first time."
"I think we need to bring bread crumbs and extra batteries, and take a hike to see
where it leads."
"Tomorrow. Wendy will have supper on the table, and you need to get busy on your
resume."
She looked up at him. "You waited until I was trapped in a hole to bring that up?
Youre a coward sometimes, you know that?"
"You going to climb up, or should I get a grappling hook?"
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Steve had thought to bring a padlock, which he put on the door hasp as they left, to
keep people, mostly Julie, from sneaking into his tree.
***
Wendy had picked up a rotisserie chicken for dinner and was setting the table as they
arrived. Julie went to her room. As Steve washed up in the kitchen sink, he asked his
wife how her day went as the newly-appointed Darke County Tourism Director.
"A busload from Indianapolis came for the barn tour. They loved it, even though one
of the ladies took a fall in one of the horse stalls. What did you and your sister do
today?"
"She helped me try to figure out this thing I found in the buckeye tree."
"Did she apply for work anywhere?" Wendy pulled three baking potatoes from the
microwave.
") dont think so. She was still in her pajamas when ) came in for lunch."
Julie returned downstairs just in time for dinner. "Did you think any more about that
tree?" she said as she helped herself to a small slice of breast and half a potato.
"Tree?" Wendy said.
Steve described what hed found.
") dont understand," Wendy said.
Steve explained it again.
") still dont get it," Wendy said.
"Me neither," Steve said. ")ts the damndest thing." (e didn't bring up the magic
aspect, knowing that a concrete thinker like his wife would only ridicule the idea.
"Maybe you should call the County Extension Service," Wendy said.
"And ask for whom–the door-in-a-tree expert?" Julie said.
"What are you going to do about the tree?" Wendy said.
"Were going to sleep on it."
Wendy piled the plates, scraping the leftovers onto one plate for the dog. "Just
remember," she looked at Julie, "you promised to play Annie Oakley for the travel
72

writer's press tour this weekend. (on, you'll be driving the bus, so dont you two get
worked up about this tree thing and forget."
Steve was relieved Wendy had already turned toward the kitchen so she didn't see the
blank look on Julies face.
He returned from his morning run the next day to find Julie waiting for him again.
***
"Lets go back to the tree," she said. "We still have some time before your afternoon
drive."
He'd been up late contemplating the hole, imagining dangers that had not occurred to
him earlier. Also, he was almost a week late in fertilizing the soybeans and rain was
forecast for the weekend. "Until we figure out what it is, what it's for, I think we
should stay out of it."
") dont know why Dad left you the farm, if all youre going to do is let it rot," she said,
and stomped toward the barn.
***
Wendy was waiting for him in the family room later that evening, after he finished
mowing the yard. The television was muted.
"Your sister can really be a pill, when she puts her mind to it," she said when he told
her of Julie's unhappiness over declaring the hole off-limits.
"Even when she doesnt put her mind to it. Youve got to understand her, though."
"Why? I married you, not your whole damn family."
Wendy was flicking through the channels as she spoke, which always annoyed Steve.
"Shes never forgiven me for inheriting the farm when Dad died," he said.
"She ended up with your mom's diamond and the life insurance. Has she forgotten
that?"
") suppose if that deadbeat she was married to hadnt spent it all as soon as she got it,
she wouldnt fixate on the farm so much. But since shes broke, ) suppose it just keeps
nagging at her."
")ts just dirt and a crappy house," Wendy said.
73

"And a crappy barn. But still, its something that lasts, and our family has owned it for
over years, so thats something."
"Thats an explanation, ) suppose, but its not a justification to act like that. ) don't like
what it's doing to you. You've been on edge since she showed up."
"You seem a little on edge yourself."
"I said something to her about the tour this weekend. I asked her if she'd tried on the
Annie Oakley outfit yet. The last person to wear it was Betty Brady, and she's a little
chunkier than your sister. Anyway, she said she was too busy with that thing you
found in the tree.
"You better do something about her, hon. She can't stay here forever; it's not good for
you to be worrying all the time. Are you taking your blood pressure pills?"
He stretched out on the couch and doubled the pillow under his head. "One time our
parents took us to Kentucky for vacation, down to Red Rock Gorge. The second
morning, Julie and I went to explore this cave near the campgrounds, Horse Thief
Cave. Mom and Dad had heard other people talk about it, and had the idea it was just a
hollow place in a big slump rock, more of an overhang, nothing dangerous, so they let
us go on our own.
"They were wrong, though. There was a gate over the entrance, but someone had left
it unlocked. We found a crack in the rock at the back of the main cave that we could
wiggle through. It led to another room, with three more tunnels leading deeper into
the mountain. Hardly any light made it into that room, and each of those side passages
was dark as a coal bucket.
"We decided to go just a little way down one of the passages. Somehow Julie and I got
separated. I couldn't see her in the dark. She kept yelling for me, but the sound
bounced around in the cave and I couldn't figure out where she was. When I found
myself back in the outer chamber, I decided to go back to our campsite to get my dad.
It took me half an hour to find him; he and Mom were having coffee at another
campsite.
"The park rangers ended up calling in a special cave rescue team, and it took them
until three in the morning to find her, almost a quarter of a mile deep in the cave
system. She never trusted me again."
"So you figure you owe Julie something?"
"I don't know about owing, but I do wish she could be happy for a change."
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"Like we are," Wendy said.
He smiled. "Right. Like we are."
"Sally Ann said she saw your sister at the IGA this morning, filling out an application."
"The grocery store would be a good job, dont you think? Steady, anyway," he said.
"Your sister doesnt seem like she wants anything steady. She seems to like things
unsteady." Wendy kicked off her shoes and leaned back in the recliner.
"We had plenty of unsteady growing up. You probably noticed that ) dont like
change."
"You dont have to tell me. )m watching a twenty-year-old television."
***
Julie was sitting in the glider waiting for him when he arrived home the next morning.
"I had an idea," she said when he reached the porch, pushed past him and headed
toward the barn.
Steve had just settled into the glider when he heard the tractor start. In a moment,
Julie pulled it up to the porch. The two bicycles that Steve had bought the previous
summer, when he and Wendy were fantasizing about taking up regular exercise, lay in
the utility trailer.
"I thought we were going to let that tunnel alone until we knew more about it."
"I know all I need to know about it. Heather spent ten grand to bring it about, and I'll
be damned if I'm going to waste her money. So, please–I've never asked you for much.
Let me do this one thing."
"This is a really bad idea," he said as he and Julie approached the tree.
")ts not like we could get lost."
"I have a route to run this afternoon."
***
"Let the kids walk home. The exercise would do them good. They're all fat, anyway."
"Youre just full of good ideas, arent you?" he said.
") know you think )m an idiot, but its not true."
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"Where did you get that?"
"Youre just like Dad. You don't trust me with anything important."
As soon as he unlocked the door to the tree, she stepped inside, descended the ladder,
and waited for the bicycles.
He leaned over the hole as he tied the rope to the first bicycle. "I never thought you
were an idiot. ) dont think so now, either."
She didnt reply. After a moment, he lowered the first bike. She untied it, moved it into
the tunnel. He lowered the second, then descended to join her.
He stood there for a moment in amazement at the precision of the tunnel, like
something machined by robots. There were no obvious seams where sections met, no
variation in the surface finish, no eccentricities in the geometry.
Julie tugged his sleeve to break his reverie. He duct-taped one of the flashlights to her
handlebars. She stuck the extra batteries in her back pocket. When he went to do the
same thing to his bike, however, he discovered the bulb was broken.
"No problem," Julie said. "You can just follow me."
They stepped astride their bikes, and Julie began to roll away. "This is cool," she said,
retreating slowly. "You cant go wrong; the curve of the pipe keeps you going straight."
"Can you see where youre going?" he asked.
"Whats to see? )ts tunnel and more tunnel."
"I should have left a note for Wendy," he said as he began to pedal.
"Shes too busy with the travel writers to notice," Julie said.
"If she didn't work we couldn't afford to keep the farm. Would it kill you to show her a
little appreciation?"
They picked up speed.
"I don't give a damn about property," she sang, "just give me some R-E-S-P-E-C-T."
Following the wavering shadow of the flashlight, Steve was quickly disoriented.
"Is the tunnel straight, ahead?" he asked.
") think so, but its hard to tell."
76

Soon, the reflection of the tunnel in his handlebar mirror behind him was completely
black, the light from the hole where they had started no longer even faintly visible. He
glanced at his watch.
"We need to turn around in minutes," he said, "or )ll miss the route."
"Ooh, that's too bad. Remember Horse Thief Cave?" She turned off the flashlight.
Steve slammed his brakes. He could hear her continuing on, but could see nothing.
"You still pissed about that?" he said.
"When you tricked me into taking a side cave and then left me?"
"Thats not the way it was, at all."
"You told me I had to keep going if I wanted see the fairies." Her voice echoed.
"You weren't that dumb. You knew I was kidding." He was almost shouting as her
voice receded.
"No. In fact, I did see something amazing. I saw my brother turn into an asshole.
Watch out for the fairies."
He could hear the whisper of her tires moving away from him, but could not even seen
his own hand in the darkness when he waved it in front of his face.
"Julie? This isnt funny."
She didnt reply.
Now that he could no longer see the pipe, he could sense it all around him: above,
below, on either side. He considered turning, heading back to the ladder, but
remembered the cave and how poorly that had panned out. He couldn't abandon her
again.
Instead he rolled forward, slowly, trusting that his sister would not allow him to
collide with her. He could smell the faint floral scent of her lingering in the air as he
passed through it.
Then his shoulder brushed the side. He stuck out one hand and felt rough, deeply
pebbled rock, like lava stone. He stopped the bike when his hair brushed up against
the ceiling. This section of the tunnel was rocky, as though it had been chipped out of
bedrock, and it seemed to be shrinking.
77

Still, his sister hadn't passed him, so she must be up ahead. He walked forward,
pushing his bike ahead. Soon the rock outcroppings on either side were scraping the
handlebars and his shoulders. He came to a section where the ceiling was so low he
had to crouch. Finally, he hit a small window through which the bike would not pass,
so he left it behind, wondering how Julie had passed through. The squeeze forced him
to turn his torso ninety degrees to wriggle through. He had almost made it when his
advance foot slipped off the rock and was suspended in midair, unavailable to press
him backwards to safety. The more he struggled, the tighter he was held, as though
the rock was moving in to pin him.
He yelled for his sister, could hear her name reverberate down the tunnel, but
received no response. He fell still. Certainly, when they failed to show for supper,
Wendy would call the county sheriff, and they would eventually be found.
Countering his rational thoughts, though, was the fear that magic, if indeed this was
magical, obeyed no rules. Who was to say that the door in the tree wouldn't disappear
as easily as it had appeared, leaving him stranded down here?
He was on the verge of panic, afraid that if the rocks shifted an inch more he would
not be able to breath, when a flashlight came on, directed at his face. At the same time,
the rocks seemed to disappear. He fell to the floor of the tunnel, which once again felt
smooth.
"Jesus!" he said, almost sobbing with relief. "How'd you get through here?"
"Through what? It's all tunnel, isn't it?" Julie ran her hand along the smooth tunnel
surface and gave him a toothy grin. "Or did you see some fairies? Now, we're even,
Steven. Come on."
Ignoring Steve's protests, she set out again, further into the tunnel and away from the
ladder. He was about to beg her again to turn around when he noticed, ahead, beyond
the light of her flashlights, a faint glow.
As they came closer, the glow resolved as a light in the ceiling of the tunnel. A couple
of minutes later, they rolled into the sunshine streaming through the hole in the
ceiling of the tunnel, broken up by the rungs of his ladder.
"We're back where we started," she said, mystified.
"Did you notice that the pipe was bending?"
She shook her head. "I swear it was straight as a pin. How long have we been down
here?"
78

"Five or six hours?" Steve said, then checked his watch, stared at it in disbelief. "No,
wait. About half an hour."
"Damn. This is so cool."
He, on the other hand, couldn't wait to get out.
***
Steve stopped by his attorney's office after his run that afternoon, but arrived home in
time to greet Wendy returning from work. While Julie went upstairs for a quick
shower, Steve told her of his experience. His wife looked at him with concern. "You
sure your sister didn't slip you some drugs?"
He explained about the magic. She rolled her eyes. "It's about time you showed me
this hole."
After she stuck a pot roast in the oven, they walked out to the tree. Steve was half
expecting it to be gone; perhaps it had accomplished its task. But it was still there, and
Wendy fell silent as she stared into the hole. When her father had died, she'd dealt
with it by avoiding the subject entirely, and from the expression on her face, she was
going to do the same with this. Which was OK with him.
***
Wendy made sure Julie and Steve were up and dressed before she left the next
morning to meet the travel writers. Steve watched her help Julie cinch the leather
jacket and pin the flat-topped, wide-brimmed felt hat to her hair. She then oiled and
combed his hair to match the photo of Lowell Thomas, the travel writer from Darke
County who made Lawrence of Arabia famous.
"Be there at 11:00 a.m., OK? You'll make sure your sister is there?" she said.
"Of course."
Once Wendy left, he and Julie had nothing to do for a couple of hours, so they took
Peabody for a walk. They found themselves heading toward the tree.
"How'd you like to wear those clothes all the time?" he said.
"If I was Annie Oakley and had to wear these, I'd probably have used one of my first
bullets on myself," Julie said. "Wendy didn't seem very excited this morning."
Steve kicked a rock down the lane. "She's not the kind of person to get excited about
79

much of anything. If a magician pulled a quarter out of her ear, she'd want to know if
she could keep the quarter."
"You're not exactly Mr. Excitement yourself."
"I think excitement is overrated. That's why I'm a Browns fan."
"I used to think all excitement was the same. Man, was I wrong. If only it was all holein-the-tree
exciting…."
"But sometimes it's your-husband-in-your-neighbor's-bed exciting," he said.
She pulled off her hat and shook her head back and forth. Her hair trailed half a turn
behind. "That wasn't exciting. That was expected. You told me to expect that before I
got married."
She stopped and turned as they reached the corner of the field, the farm revealed
behind them, on a gentle slope of corn running away. "But I forgive you," she said. "I
just wish, one time, I could be right. With you, I always seem to be in the wrong.
Wendy, too. You're, like, the Right family."
"Not true. Maybe we're the OK family, as in everything's OK so far. But we've never
taken any risks. I should have told you before, how much I admired you for taking a
risk marrying that douche bag. That must have been hard, trying to convince
everybody that you weren't gay."
Julie stopped, pirouetted and raised her open fingers to her mouth in faux surprise.
"You admired me? Don't move. I want to remember this moment forever."
Steve took his handkerchief from his pocket and daubed the oil that had seeped from
his hair onto his neck. "Yuck it up. Anyway, I wanted to give you this." He reached in
his back pocket, pulled out several sheets of paper folded in thirds, and handed them
to her.
"What's this?" She unfolded the papers and read. Steven watched Peabody dance
around the entrance to a rabbit den.
"You're giving me the hole?" she said. The hand gripping the papers was shaking.
"And the tree. Wouldn't be worth much if you couldn't get into it, would it?"
Julie carefully folded the deed and slid it into the pocket of her long shooting skirt.
"But what if I tell the world about it? You could have people from all over butting into
your life."
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Steve took several steps, grabbed the dog by the collar and pulled him back before he
could dig his way into the rabbit hole. "You got the short end of the stick, I figure, and
not just in money. If a little inconvenience is the price to set you back on your feet, I
don't see why we wouldn't pay it. Let them come. Hell, Wendy might even be able to
turn your hole into a tourist draw."
He waited for her usual drama-queen reaction, but this time his sister just smiled and
nodded. "Nice save, brother. You know, after Dad died I had no idea what I wanted
from their estate. To remember them by. That's why the money ran through my
fingers, I suppose. But now I know, what I wanted was this. Now who doesn't believe
in magic?"
"You wanted a hole in the ground?"
Julie pantomimed hoisting a rifle, sighting on his forehead and squeezing the trigger.
"No, doofus. I'm not talking about the hole." She blew imaginary smoke from the
barrel of her imaginary rifle, and brought it to parade attention. "Let's roll, Lowell."
81

Chumki Sharma
The Gallery
This rainy evening
I stroll through the nothingness
and visit the gallery
inside my mind,
move from one panting to another
hanging on the lilac walls,
old, older than this body of mine-
a delight here in this painting,
a shiver in the next.
An old face. Some new tales.
I tilt my head to the right,
and in one life size oil painting
I am an archaeologist
bringing Pompeii back to life
from the ashes.
I tilt my head to the left
and I am an astronaut
suspended in space
marvelling at the Blue Dot
at a distance.
I look down at the fresco
where I am a hunter
running across a tropical forest
my gaze fixed on the target.
I look up to the watercolourhere
I am a convict
in a high security prison
plotting a daring escape.
82

I am in all and none I own.
After every rain
I leave the place for
something called home.
83

The One Night Stand
Enough of putting poetry
on a pedestal.
I thought of the geek
in my Physics class long back,
to whom 'Gauss' Law for Magnetic Fields'
was more desirable than me.
What chance did Poetry stand
with her transient words
against the universal elements
of 'Einstein's Theory of Relativity'?
After spending the night with
'The irrationality of the square root of 2'
I return to poetry this morning
like an errant lover vaguely repentant.
84

Enigmatic Olumide
I Count
Click the link below to watch the Spoken Word Video
https://youtu.be/qd2qUlmvlpo
85

Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji
A Call for Social Change: A Review of Enigmatic
Olumide’s I Count
Enigmatic Olumides ) Count is a two hundred and forty-two seconds spoken word
video, directed by Kayode Babalola and Enigmatic Olumide, with a salty symphony
and theatricality that calls for social change. Watching this spoken word video
reminds me of Albert Camuss Philosophy of Revolt. According to Camus, in a revolt,
cosmic absurdity tends to retreat into the background, and a moral idealism comes to
the fore; a moral idealism which did not call for the production of an elite, an
aristocracy of higher men, at the expense of the other, but which insisted on freedom
and justice for all, real freedom and justice, moreover, not oppression or enslavement
masquerading under those honoured names.Thus, it seems the poet hopes for a
moral idealism.
This video, which captures the socio-political history and the present of Nigeria,
begins with an image of a very skinny, starving child, one of the victims of the
Nigerian Civil War (1967-1970) on the front-page of Daily Mirror. This gruesome
image foreruns more saddening images about the Civil War with a cacophony of
gunshots. There is also a pictorial journey from the historical Nigeria to the present
Nigeria. Then the spoken word artiste (or poet) shows his patriotism by infusing the
Nigerian National Anthem before he begins to pour out his troubled spirit.
A candle loses its light to connote the hovering darkness of corruption and oppression
that has enveloped Nigeria. And it is in this darkness with a black attire and a
mournful mien that the poet speaks rhetorically and rhythmically. The poet begins
with a question that demands reason or explanation: why? The repetition of the whyquestion
shows the poets extensively the peoples demand for a justification for the
trebling and troubling rate of corruption and oppression in the country.
This video is an interplay of symbolic images with a dominating scene of a candle light
procession and a couple of mime dramatic performances of the poets lamentation.
(owever, ) Count is not just a poets lamentation, but also a call for self- realisation
and significance. At the end of the spoken word, the candle that lost its light at the
86

eginning of the performance, regains its light, signifying hope, a hope that can only
be attained through activism void of greed and dishonesty. The poet also suggests that
a people should know their history, quoting Edmund Burke: Those who dont know
history are destined to repeat it.
Although, this is an interesting spoken word video, it is important to note that this
spoken word seems so prosaic that it may lose its pulchritude if it is strictly confined
to the pages of papers.
Chinua Achebe writes in his The Novelist as Teacher, (ere, then, is an adequate
revolution for me to espouse – to help my society regain its belief in itself and put
away the complexes of the years of denigration and self-denigration. Achebes
statement seems to affirm the authorial vision of the poet.
Therefore, I, you, we count for the voice of the people is the voice of God.
87

Julio Guerrero
In a world that never stops, things to do places to be, tasks undone,
and tasks that will never get done. Big dreams but bigger city, one
day we will find a way to help each other make this world a better
place.
-Julio Guerrero
88

Notes from the Editorial Board
Carl Terver's "The Great Interaction" is homage to the pen and an inquiry into the
wielder - hand or mind. It is all of these on that poignant axis where language, thought,
histories and all phenomena of the burdened artisan collide. - Oyin Oludipe,
Nonfiction Editor
In "Conquering Scallops", Marisa Mangani conquers more than scallops. Her account is,
at least, an emotional revelation of the distortionist antics of fear; and, at most, a
resonant drum of triumph from private spaces. - Oyin Oludipe, Nonfiction Editor
There is so much hair-raising poetry in this third issue of EXPOUND. After I climbed
through the very large hill of choosing the poems, I kept spending time with the ones I
have turned down and they kept bawling at me even while I slept. But these are the ones
that made it and they have doused the fire of those that didn't. I hope each poem gives
all our readers more meaning than it has given us. Don't forget to thank me after you've
seen these incredibly talented set of poets! - Saddiq Dzukogi, Poetry Editor
In our narrator, Leon Doux, Crystal Galyean has fashioned a character who would be
right at home in the pages of an angsty Chuck Palahniuk or Ken Kesey novel. However,
where Palahniuk sometimes fails at developing the full innocence and likability of his
characters, Galyean has triumphed admirably. With a handful (and I mean, they really
are a handful, this bunch) of supporting characters thrown into the IV Drip, Lion Gentle
makes for one of the best short stories I've read anywhere this year. - Jason M Snyman,
Fiction Editor
The exceptionally clever quill of the author peacefully blows stereotypes into pieces. Her
characters await the reader at the intersection between apparently antinomic identities,
at the crossroads between seemingly separate worlds. Discover how the story opts for a
startling final twist. You will also experience how the author’s elegant, fluid style will
swiftly take you to this end on the light wings of her words. - Brigitte Poirson,
Member, Board of Advisors
Paul Kavanagh delivers "Ten Grand" as a single-paragraph monologue that twists your
brain around - in all the good ways - in the rambling style of James Joyce's character,
Molly Bloom from Ulysses. Follow it carefully and you will find it enormously
entertaining. I won't tell you how it ends, but when you get there, you'll know. - Jason M
Snyman, Fiction Editor
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I Count is not just a poet’s lamentation, but also a call for self- realisation and
significance. At the end of the spoken word, the candle that lost its light at the beginning
of the performance, regains its light, signifying hope, a hope that can only be attained
through activism void of greed and dishonesty– Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji
Jason Edward LaPrise's artwork is bright and majestic. His use of bold contrast is
masterful in drawing our attention to his works.
Douglas Nilles is a gifted photographer with an eye for detail. His work, brings us into
the world of the homeless. Allowing us to get a glimpse into a forgotten world. It
challenges us to pay attention.
Julio Guerrero amazes us with his beautiful photography with perfect views, colors and
gorgeous details. His sharpness in his photographs, leaves no detail unseen. We feel we
are there in the flesh.
Chisana Robotto's art is whimsical with movement in a fairytale like style. It leads us
views on a fantastic journey.
Alex Diamond's talent is expansive. From graffiti art sending us powerful messages to
photography that has perfect visual point of view. His work carries a profound message.
Jason West's work is mysterious, detailed and provokes our thoughts. Beauty, detail,
mystery. Capturing vulnerability and power at the same time.
-Gina Cicinelli Allequin, Art Editor
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Notes on Contributors
Alex Diamond is a street photographer. He also draw, make music and write poetry.
He took all of that at Columbia College Chicago in 1995, but dropped out and didn't
pick up a camera again until 2014.
Brandi Megan Granett (formerly Scollins-Mantha) is an author, online English
professor, and writing coach. She earned her Ph.D. in Creative Writing at Aberystwyth
University. She holds an MFA in Fiction from Sarah Lawrence College and a Masters
in Adult Education with an emphasis on Distance Education from Penn State
University. Morrow published her first novel, My Intended, in 2000. Her short fiction
appeared in Pebble Lake Review, Folio, Pleiades, and other literary magazines. She
also writes an author interview series on her Huffington Post blog. When she is not
writing or teaching or mothering, she is honing her archery skills.
Carl Terver is the curator of Afapinen Litmag. He is a Nigerian writer, artist and poet.
His works have appeared on The Kalahari Review, Kaanem Art Magazine,
NigeriansTalkLitmag and some others.
Chibuihe-Light Obi (b. 1993) is a poet, memoirist and writer of children fiction. His
works have been published in The Kalahari Review, The Sun Newspaper and Black
Boy Review. He is one of the current winners of Splendid Literature competition for
teen writers.
Chumki Sharma is a poet from Calcutta, India. Her works have been published and
are forthcoming in several publications in India and abroad. She is also a renowned
spoken word performer and has been featured on the radio and other media.
Currently she is working on her manuscript 'Running Away With The Garden' when
not engaged in her day job as a Banker.
Chinedu Ugonna is from Imo state, a graduate of accountancy, a song writer and an
aspiring novelist and poet. This short piece was inspired by his one year of
compulsory national youth service in Zamfara state, Nigeria. Twitter:
@chineduugonna, Instagram: mistahchinaydu, blog: cheeugoh.blogspot.com
Chisanarobotto baburuikakiti - Outsider and intransient artist; creates jewelry,
watercolors, computer graphics and mixed media. He does this while he suffers from
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HHV5, a chronic AIDS condition. Currently he is curator of The Art Cafe and creates
web pages for a number of business clients: BubbleKitty.com. Kohl has also created a
display exhibit for Sloan Museum; the 'History of Turntablism' exhibit. He says he
hopes to create a program to use computers and the internet to help disabled, +POS,
and homeless people to network, find work, or learn skills. Mr. Kohl believes that our
country is seriously endangering the health and welfare of the disabled. He spoke at
the NAMI conference 1998 on this subject. His watercolors were accepted to the Art
with a View exhibit tour at Very Special Arts.
Crystal Galyean, a California native, holds a journalism degree from Northwestern
University and a master's degree in history from Rutgers University. As a music
journalist, she wrote forRolling Stone and the Village Voice before turning to a career
in educational publishing. Her fiction has appeared in Five
Quarterly, Fiddleblack, McSweeney's Internet Tendency,HeadStuff, and DecomP. She
lives in New Jersey, where she makes bluegrass music with her band The Great
Grassby and is working on polishing a historical novel spanning prohibition-era New
York and the Irish Civil War. "Lion Gentle" seeks to examine the human capacity, at
once perverse and wonderful, for maintaining hope and empathy even in the bleakest
of circumstance.
Dalton Souvato Heera is a poet and writer from Bangladesh. He is also doing
research on Namasudras in 1947 in National University of Singapore.
Douglas Nilles is a street artist who loves what he does and wants to share it with
others. He is based in Chicago. You can view more of his works here douglasnilles.net
Divya Rajan's poems have appeared in After Hours, Berfrois, Four Quarters, and
several others. She has been associated with The Furnace Review in the editorial
capacity. She lives in Chicago.
Jason Edward LaPrise was born on the same day as Pablo Picasso. October 25th.
Born in Dearborn, Michigan. Birthplace of Henry Ford. Raised in Detroit, Michigan.
Jason is a self taught artist. Specializing in colorful abstract and sometimes political
artwork. LaPrise draws his inspiration from science and life experiences, suffering
from depression, having numerous panic attacks, several nervous breakdowns and
failed suicide attempts. While the world falls apart around him, he's able to recreate it
through his art.
Jason Michael West was born in the small, rural town of Charleston, Illinois is the
late s and was raised by his Grandmother and Aunt. (e is intrigued by spirituality,
the human condition, history, and science and this is reflected in his art by showing
the complexities, juxtapositions, ironies, and beauty in everyday life. A tad macabre, if
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you will. His work has been exhibited at Pancakes and Booze Chicago in 2013, and at
Garart in , and in he illustrated the childrens book ADHD Avenger about
growing up with ADHD. His work can be found in private collections across the U.S.
Jay Sizemore doesnt win awards. Founder of Crow (ollow Books, he writes poems
and stories and scribbles his name a lot onto electronic pads for material possessions.
He listens to Ryan Adams and drinks Four Roses. You can find his work online in
places if you go looking, including his chapbook Confessions of a Porn Addict,
available on Amazon. His wife puts up with his shit in Nashville, TN. Find him at
http://www.jaysizemore.com.
Jessie Janeshek's first book of poems is Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010). An Assistant
Professor of English and the Director of Writing at Bethany College, she holds a Ph.D.
from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an M.F.A. from Emerson College. She
co-edited the literary anthology Outscape: Writings on Fences and Frontiers (KWG
Press, 2008). You can read more of her poetry at http://www.jessiejaneshek.net/.
JK Anowe was born in Nigeria in 1994. His works have been published in Gnarled
oak, African Writer and Brittle paper. He writes from Benin city, Nigeria.
j.lewis is an internationally published poet, musician, and nurse practitioner. His
poetry and music reflect the complexity of human interactions, sometimes drawing
inspiration from his experience in healthcare. When he is not otherwise occupied, he
is often on a kayak, exploring and photographing the waterways near his home in
California. You can explore his creativity at http://www.jlewisweb.com
Juleus Ghunta, born in Jamaica, is a peace advocate and motivational speaker. He has
a B.A. in Media and (istory from the University of the West )ndies, Mona . (es
a member of Young Peace Builders (YPB) – a youth led peacebuilding NGO based in
Freetown, Sierra Leone. His first poetry chapbook The Way I Learned To Ignore was
recently published by Bamboo Talk Press (Trinidad and Tobago). His poems have
appeared or are forthcoming in several journals including The Ofi Press; The Missing
Slate; The Olduvain Review; BIM; Moko; Susumba’s Book Bag and Poui. He currently
lives in Yonago, Japan.
Julio Guerrero is a photographer based in Chicago.
M. A. Istvan Jr. is a gender-queer, race-queer, and-many-other-sorts-of-queer
instructor of the Gay Science (Die frölicheWissenschaft) at various Texas universities.
As for some recent news, )stvans wife of years has just come to terms, after a
lifelong struggle, with the fact that she is a full-blown lesbian. Biologically male and a
mere 35% female in soul, Istvan thus has never been quite right for her. The two of
them—best friends, family, co-parents—are now undergoing an amicable divorce,
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despite how heart-broken Istvan is.—Listen to Shuggie Otis, watch Skin Diamond, and
visit )stvans page at https://txstate.academia.edu/Michael)stvanJr.
Marisa Mangani was born and raised in Hawaii and now lives in Sarasota, Florida
where she designs commercial kitchens and bars. She has a degree in Restaurant
Management and as Executive Chef won a silver medal at the Florida Restaurant
Shows Mystery Box competition. (er culinary adventures took her to New
Orleans, Vancouver and Australia and now she writes and open mics about food and
life. Her essays have been published in Hippocampus, Airplane Stories and Blood and
Thunder Journal. In 2010 she co-wrote her husbands memoir, Sharkman of Cortez.
www.misenplacememoir.wordpress.com
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over eight hundred of his poems and fictions
appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the
Pushcart Prize for work published in 2012, 2013, and 2014. His novel, Two-Headed
Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for
Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver.
Nana Arhin Tsiwah is an undergraduate student from Cape Coast, Ghana; a disciple
of Pan-African consciousness, a cultural ideologist/akanist, an awensemist (poet) of
different shade but tells of a hunter's trails for 'Akan-ism'. Known in poetry circles as
"The Village Thinker", Tsiwah, is an orator, a linguist-performist and a village servant.
Morgan Downie is a visual artist and writes short stories and poetry. He is a keen
collaborationist and cross disciplinary practitioner and this underpins many of the
themes of translocation in his practice. His published work includes stone and sea and
distances, a Romanian- English photopoetry collection.
Paul Kavanagh delivers "Ten Grand" as a single-paragraph monologue that twists
your brain around - in all the good ways - in the rambling style of James Joyce's
character, Molly Bloom from Ulysses. Follow it carefully and you will find it
enormously entertaining. I won't tell you how it ends, but when you get there, you'll
know.
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term
care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He
is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee. Writing for six years,
his work has appeared in more than a thousand publications including The Louisiana
Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Roanoke Review, The Red
Cedar Review and Crannog. He has poems forthcoming in The William and Mary
Review, Sugar House Review, Plainsongs, Free State Review and Texas Review. He
was a recent finalist in The Blue Bonnet Review, The Rash Awards, Sharkpack
Alchemy, Turtle )sland, Writers Digest and Bacopa Literary Review poetry contests.
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Sarah Frances Moran is a stick-a-love-poem-in-your-back-pocket kind of poet. She
thinks Chihuahuas should rule the world and prefers their company to people 90% of
the time. Her work has most recently been published or is upcoming in Elephant
Journal, Rust+Moth, Maudlin House, Blackheart Magazine, Red Fez and The Bitchin'
Kitsch. She is Editor/Founder of Yellow Chair Review. You may reach her at
www.sarahfrancesmoran.com
Steve Klepetar's work has appeared widely in the U.S. and abroad, and has received
several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Tom Barlow is an Ohio writer of speculative, mystery and upmarket stories. Other
stories of his may be found in The Intergalactic Medicine Show, Digital Science Fiction,
Encounters, Crossed Genres, KZine, Beyond Science Fiction, Nebula Rift and many
other magazines, as well as many anthologies including Best American Mystery
Stories 2013 and Best New Writing 2011. His science-fiction novel "I'll Meet You
Yesterday" is available from Bundoran Press.
Uche Ogbuji was born in Calabar, Nigeria. He lived, among other places, in Egypt and
England before settling near Boulder, Colorado. A computer engineer and
entrepreneur by trade, his poetry chapbook, Ndewo, Colorado (Aldrich Press, 2013) is
a Colorado Book Award Winner, and a Westword 2015 Award Winner ("Best
Environmental Poetry"). His poems, published worldwide, fuse Igbo culture,
European classicism, American Mountain West setting, and Hip-Hop influences. He is
editor at Kin Poetry Journal, founding poetry editor at The Nervous Breakdown, and
runs the @ColoradoPoetry Twitter project.
Ugoo Anyaeche is a Nigerian young writer interested in fiction and nonfiction. He
hails from Ukpor in Anambra State and has written many short stories published in
many magazines. Currently he is a final year student of philosophy in Nnamdi Azikiwe
University, Awka.
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