Havik: Inside Brilliance
The 2021 edition of the Las Positas College Journal of Arts and Literature. Please visit our website for additional works, including videos and audio recordings. https://havikjournal.wixsite.com/website
The 2021 edition of the Las Positas College Journal of Arts and Literature. Please visit our website for additional works, including videos and audio recordings. https://havikjournal.wixsite.com/website
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InsideBriliance
Inside Brilliance
Havik 2021
Cover:
Earth
Painting
Aydin Ermolaev
Pleasanton, California, USA
Back cover:
From Rubble to Relic
Corrosive Metals and Raw pigments
Jeremy Siedt
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, USA
Staff
Editor-in-Chief
Lara Abreu
Senior Prose and Acedemic Editor
Elizabeth Reynolds
Senior Poetry Editor
Senior Art Editor
Michael Henry
Lara Abreu
Prose and Academic Editors
Lara Abreu
Jessica Marty
Kayla Gregory
Sophia Nunes
Copy Editors
Advisors
Assistant Advisor
Lara Abreu
Elizabeth Reynolds
Melissa Korber
Toby Bielawski
Peter Zimmer
Layout Designer
Jennifer Katherine Snook
Poetry Editors
Theresa Tmekei Peterson
Fernanda Patino
Jen Burnett
Sponsors
Thank You!
Diamond Hawk
Las Positas College
Student Government
Las Positas College Founation
Gold Hawk
Toby Bielawski
California Writers Club Tri-Valley
Branch
Dr. Hal G. Gin
Elpida Kohler and Dietmar Kohler
Martin Nash
Anonymous
Silver Hawk
Andi Schreibman, Financial Aid Officer
Bronze Hawk
Anonymous
Chris Henry
Lone Hawk
Anonymous
Efrine Tmekei Peterson
Acknowledgments
Our deepest thanks to the following people, who took the time to volunteer as judges to
select our award winners.
Fiction Judge
Martin Nash
Visual Art Judge
Dave Wagner
Creative Nonfiction Judge
Michelle Gonzales
Poetry Judge
Jim Ott
Experimental Works Judge
On-Staff Experimental Editors
Academic Nonfiction Judges
On-Staff Nonfiction Editors
We would also like to thank
Charlotte Severin
for presenting and sponsoring the Lydia Wood Awards for first place in fiction and poetry.
David A. Wright
the original founder of Havik (then the “Chabot College Valley’s Visions and Values”) in 1978
Folger Graphics
Without whom this anthology would not exist.
Copyright Policy
All contributors retain copyright ownership of the content they create, including prose, verse, photographs, illustrations,
cartoons, and all other work. The LPC Journal of Arts and Literature retains the right to use material in
all forms in perpetuity.
Letters from the Editors
Editor-in-Chief Lara Abreu
This summer I turn fifty. This knowledge floods me with myriad of
thoughts and emotions. As a stay-at-home mother for the last 16 years,
questioning my life’s choices, ambitions, and goals there has been an incessant
stream coursing through the back of my mind. What have I accomplished?
What impact have I made? While anyone who has raised
(good) children knows, this alone is a herculean endeavor. It is a daily
challenge rife with moments of incredible pride and overwhelming love,
tempered with regrettable moments of fist-clenching frustration and outbursts
of anger. It is finding the depth of mindfulness to accept the person
your child is trying to be while gently guiding them along their path. All
of this is an outward focus that can slowly, imperceptibly blur your path.
Enter Havik, whose very title, and play on words, captures the universal
experience of the last year. Serving as Editor-in-Chief was a self-imposed
leap out of my comfort zone and an opportunity for which I will
be eternally grateful. Our entire process has been virtual, creating novel
obstacles to the collaboration process. Tic-tac-toe screens of black boxes
with white names and disembodied voices sharing their thoughts and
perspectives. After our first meeting, I was flooded with feelings of doubt
and anxiety. How will we connect as a team? How can we communicate
with veracity without knowing who we all are? I needn’t have worried, for
my much younger team, by now adept at communicating in a two-dimensional
world, rose to the occasion. Our Senior Editors of Prose and Poetry
guided our teams with clear goals and experiential insight, creating a
supportive environment for us to tackle the 662 submissions we received.
Each editor embraced their works with integrity and fought for pieces that
spoke to them. Our advisors mindfully supported us as we waded through
this new platform, lending calm voices and invaluable advice. And our unflappable
Production Assistant made our vision a beautiful reality with her
quiet suggestions and powerful skills. Fueled by the incredible creativity
of our authors and artists, from New Zealand to Iraq, from Canada to the
UK, our collective determination to honor these stories and these images
was palpable. The raw emotion, vulnerability and truth we absorbed gave
birth to our title, “Inside Brilliance.”
The works we reviewed revealed a collective social conscience; outcries
against racial inequality; the impact of COVID’s tentacles in every
aspect of life; societal criticism; mental illness. These were balanced by
expressions of love lost and love found, depictions of nature’s beauty, and
the joys of simplicity. Drinking in these global perspectives of experience
quenched a thirst in us. We felt a kinship, a recognition, an affirmation
in every piece. We felt seen and heard in others’ words and images, for
what we collectively experienced in this last year has been inexplicable,
overwhelming and gravely disappointing. But knowing we are not alone
in these thoughts lends a legitimacy to COVID’s slogan of “We are in this
together.” With the utmost humbleness and awe in peoples’ creativity,
courage, and talent, we present this year’s Havik: Inside Brilliance, in the
hopes that you too may find solace and kinship in the experiences of your
fellow human beings.
Lara Abreu,
Editor-in-Chief
Index of Contributors
First Place Fiction
Out of Season
Katherine Davis – Page 64
Second Place Fiction
Clouds
Russel Doherty – Page 29
Third Place Fiction
In Our House
Susan Hettinger – Page 12
Honorable Mention Fiction
Dreaming in America
Nicolas Padrone – Page 5
Everything
Matthew Berg – Page 47
First Place Visual Art
Open Wounds
Younes Mohammad – Page 3
Second Place Visual Art
Travel
Yim Ivy Wu – Page 221
Third Place Visual Art
Quilting Whimsy
Kathleen URBAN – Page 111
Honorable Mention Visual Art
Before the Ballet
Pat Wai – Page 196
Zephyr
Eunhee Soh – Page 19
First Place Poetry
He Tramples the Daisies
Kerri-ann Torgersen – Page 174
Second Place Poetry
Johnny Reb
Ben White – Page 1
Third Place Poetry
Visitation
Richard Stimac – Page 85
Honorable Mention Poetry
(Zardozi) زَردوزی
Vinit Kurup – Page 86
High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)
Brianna Fay – Page 81
First Place Creative Non-Fiction
Diary of a Ghostwriter
Dawn-Michelle Baude – Page 59
Second Place Creative Non-Fiction
Happy Green Chlamydia Plush
Mercury-Marvin Sunderland – Page 230
Third Place Creative Non-Fiction
Super-Fast Trains, Super-Slow
Trails
James Sievert – Page 235
First Place Experimental
Mock up TV series Introduction
Kermen Choung – Online
First Place Academic
The Truth Behind The American
Dream
Matthew Aboudi – Page 274
Lara Abreu
Meditating Sea Lion 49
Santorini Sunrise 150
Yes208
Galapagos Love 214
Matthew Andrews
Manslaughter127
Love Poem With Natural Disasters 215
Valerie Ansuini
Broken127
Brian Araque
Anything is Profound 164
Alfredo Arcilesi
Someplace Without Washrooms 136
Mike Ball
On Our Hill 231
Alexandra Bartholomew
Climate is a Changing 40
She Dances Through Fire 202
I’m Part of Something Beautiful 218
Dawn-Michelle Baude
Diary of a Ghost Writer 59
Teresa Beeding
I Shall Never Forget 173
Julie Benesh
Lake Effect 245
Jennifer Benningfield
It Goes Down a Cherry 129
Matthew Berg
Everything47
Robert Beveridge
Moral and Natural Philosophy 226
Carl Boon
What No One Speaks of in Illinois 69
Andriana Botan
Control the Divine 149
jack bordnick
Facing it Together 115
S. T. Brant
A Tiny Dialogue of Metaphysical
Poets224
Kate Brock
Muscle Memory 197
Rebecca Burns
The Tenburys 232
Elle Butane
Fruit Bowl 187
Vialsy Cabrales Esparza
The Welcome Visitor 23
The Fall 207
Naomi Capacete
We Could’ve Been a Poem 101
Ashleigh Cattermole
Buttercup56
Ravichandra Chittampalli
Do Not Insist on Departing Today 101
Saphistry154
Lilly Constance
My Father Reads Meditation XVII 219
Ariel Cooper
Connection102
Fearfully and Wonderfully Made 126
Ilaria Cortesi
Digital Collage Art 46
Shahriar Danesh
IDIOT89
Katherine Davis
Out of Season 64
Christian Deery
The Scene & The Unseen 148
Laine Derr
Baspoke193
Russel Doherty
Clouds29
Ken Elliott
Dirty Hippies 185
Mary Elliott
Summer Lights 250
Aydin Ermolaev
Earth83
Maverick128
Brianna Fay
High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD) 81
Frances Fish
Lost183
Francis Flavin
The Sharp Edge 58
Tesa Flores
Bruises132
Taew Fornoles
Nap Time 171
Electrified 189
Liz Fortini
Reflection 243
Jennifer Frederick
A Moth in the Light 43
Agent Peacock 50
Contained Chaos: Growing in a Lab 188
Sunflower 247
Jessica Garrison
[ I am ] 84
A New Beginning 96
Matt Gold
#533107
Ellaheh Gohari
Won’t You Run Away 106
Caleb Gonsalves
Virgin Cocktails 33
Rhiannon194
Neverland244
Peter Grieco
Psalm Something 155
Jean-Sebastien Grenier
This is How Delirium’s Demiurge
Drowns the Universe 70
Adieu89
An Ottawa Night Out 163
Hydroponics246
John Grey
Michael’s Music 88
The Time of Your Child 114
David Grubb
This Place 100
Unhappy Chickems, Good Breeders 112
Kristin Ham
Visual Currents 201
Sunny Afternoon 229
Kaylee Hamilton
Black Against White 4
TA Harrison
Deadbeat Dinner Party 95
Sergio Hartshorne
The Wearer of Hats
James Harvey
A Summer With You, Again 216
Nezrin Hasanly
Melancholy is 17
Parks42
Curtain Call 202
Taxi Cabs 219
Rain245
Susan Hettinger
In Our House 12
Mane Hovhannisyan
Windows135
dave hunter
Honor151
Jones Irwin
Cynthia133
Of Western Civilisation 158
We Are A Community National
School159
Murali Kamma
Foreigners and Friends 165
Sam Kaspar
the snow remembered 202
Babbling Glide 205
Eden Kidane
The Mountaintop - The Second Act 261
Paul Koskinen
Rise from Pandemic 76
James Ph. Kotsybar
Apiology42
Craig Kurtz
The Old Man 58
Bachelor187
Vinit Kurup
(Zardozi) 86 زَردوزی
W.F. Lantry
Joshua Trees 110
Juniper Berries 110
Sequoia113
The Cave of Bones 184
Somewhere Between Near and Far 243
Olivia Larson
Where the Sea Swallows the Sky 108
Deborah LeFalle
Inauguration Day 11
Why You Shouldn’t Run in
Flip-Flops230
Danika Leuenberger
Prom Queen 73
Carolyn Lord
Fossul Fuel Relic 82
Kilmeny MacMichael
A Tale of Three Avocados 20
Night106
Ben Macnair
Atonal57
D.S. Maolalai
Lidl170
Terminal173
The drama of weather 207
Aina Marzia
His Name Was Mo 4
Sophie Mateja
Fuego121
Emily Mathis
A Father’s Touch 217
Gabriel McCluskey
The Birds of Paradise 51
Shanna Merceron
a love poem for someone who doesn’t
like love poems 88
Younes Mohammad
Open Wounds 3
Elaine Monasterial
A Ritual Adventure 216
Charity Morris
Residue77
Justin Nagundi
SWEATY ROSES 116
Clare Nee
Moonflowers on Arthur Street 98
Lance Nizami
Facewarp86
Interior134
Vita Nocilla
a trip in space 71
dreaming of the cosmos 97
mushroom bloom 143
let it go 162
the butterflies in my stomach are
free176
Michael O’Brien
A gull Told Me 45
Jay O’Neal
The Unpaid Philosopher or the
Typewriting Monkey 34
Nicolas Padron
Dreaming in America 5
Carl “Papa” Palmer
Bookshelf Prophecy 25
His Limbo Soliloquy 26
Jared Pearce
Battles55
Jilli Penner
Green86
Uncle Down Under 184
Sweatshirt184
Roses Shaded Pink 187
Charlene Pepiot
A Matter of Fact 35
katie pfeifer
There was a lump 23
My Hands 67
To the Man who told me 231
Alex Phuong
Starry Nights 219
Therese Pokorney
To my apartment and all the spaces I
make my own: 227
J.B. Polk
THE BLACK KIMONO 122
Marie-Anne Poudret
Thirteen Stripes 55
The Good and the Talented 62
More than Me 249
henry 7. reneau, jr.
What AmeriKKKa Looks Like Posing As
An Invisible Friend 2
Illume #2: Hope as a Trick of
Light132
If You Scared, Go To Church!! 156
The Signs and Wonders of the Inter-Dimensional
Warrior 228
Elizabeth Wolff-Reynolds
Dig177
Sarah Riensche
Mirage74
Daisy249
Charissa Roberson
Undisclosed194
Sandip Saha
Agony of a Poet 48
Fatal Fate 158
Thea Schiller
Finding the T in the Center of
Motown47
Jennifer Schneider
Invisibility75
Dylan Scillia
Alone24
First Second
Guardian149
Labdhi Sha
Zen Sex Metallica 72
Sameen Shakya
Labyrinth231
Tufik Shayeb
Afterward34
Word-Man63
Your Thoughts 63
The Theme Park 68
Jeremy Siedt
From Rubble to Relic 200
James Sievert
Super-fast trains, super-slow
trails235
Bobbi Sinha-Morey
Knotted so Tightly 182
A Joy I Once Knew 249
Ranjith Sivaraman
The Angel and the Dirty Boy 17
A Slevin
Doing Time 80
Eunhee Soh
Zephyr19
Salt Lick 106
Sam Sohn
Vicissitudes91
Sameeha Soora
Just Breathe 2020 26
Heidi Speth
I Wonder 11
Joy131
An Ode to the Broken Heart 161
After All 215
Louis Staeble
Waves172
Hypnotically Motivated 175
Michael Stentz
Sweet Song 96
Richard Stimac
Still Life 40
Night Prayer 80
Visitation85
Confession155
Terminal240
Mercury-Marvin Sunderland
A Happy Green Chlamydia Plush 230
Edward Supranowicz
Lady X 90
Olga Sushchik
Keep Dreaming 44
In the Sky Above Dublin Hills 87
Blue Flavor 206
Paper Bird 220
Diane Thiel
The Slide 45
Taunja Thomson
Sleight-of-Hand48
Summer Streets 240
The Pool 250
Theresa Tmekei Peterson
Crown XIX 25
Kerri-ann Torgersen
He Tramples the Daisies 174
The End is the Beginning is the
End182
Kathleen URBAN
COVID 19 Dreaming: Prince Edward
Island27
Dogwood Blossoms 28
Quilting Whimsy 111
c-leo ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈valentino
Swan Song #7 170
Monica Viera
Cabin on Detox Island 134
Joseph Vitale
Where the Yellow Flowers Bloom 241
Pat Wai
Little City Market 10
Before the Ballet 196
Micaela Walley
3AM88
IF WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO PREFORM
GRIEF- WHAT IS IT FOR? 114
THE BABY 120
Lindsey Wentzel
The L Train 95
Roses127
Roses are Red 174
Gregory Wilder
A Drowning Man 141
Bill Wilkinson
Bad Fog of Loneliness 144
Kevin Wilson
The Girl from a Bookstore 190
Brayden Wiseman
Up the Cellar Stairs 203
Ben White
Johnny Reb 1
Robert Wilson
Nightjars56
Yim Ivy Wu
Hannah18
Lady in Garden 195
Travel221
Peace248
Relax251
Bill Yuan
Knock at Midnight 103
Andreas Zignago
Synthetic Blindness 199
Peter Zimmer
Marc and Ward 252
Steve Zimmerman
Vacant Sea 41
igor zusev
Chaotic symmetry 225
Academic Works
Megan Mehta
An Extensive Analysis of The Life of
J. D. Vance 265
Caylia Love
Community College Stigma 268
Laura Riley
Round and Around We Go 271
Matthew Aboudi
The Truth Behind The American
Dream274
Please visit the
Havik website for
video and audio
submissions!
https://havikjournal.wixsite.com/website
Kermen Choung
Mock up TV series Introduction
Julián Esteban Torres López
Sleepwalking Through the 20th
Griffin Messer
Roads
Creative Works
Johnny Reb
Poetry
Ben White
Rio Rancho, New Mexico, USA
Johnny Reb
Had a statue
In Richmond
Alongside Lee and Davis
That they finally took down
In a time
When all of America
Needs to fold up
A Confederate flag
And give it to History
On behalf
Of a nation –
A union grateful
Johnny Reb
Was killed and defeated
In his lost cause
After the local aristocracy
Fooled the poor white boys
Into thinking
If they didn’t fight
They were no better than the
Blacks,
And being better than the Blacks
Was all most of them had
As they charged up North
To defend Dixie
And the culture of oppression
Not realizing
They were as enslaved
As the slaves
If not more so
As the graves of war
Ignored the purpose
In the service of the South
Where they were trapped
In the persona
Of Johnny Reb
With cornbread pride
And pork-rind patriotism
Where loyalty
Was sliced off the high hog
To convince them
They were blessed,
Just, and loved
By good-ol-boy Jesus
Who rode with them
As far as Gettysburg
Where He discovered
A gilded pretense of freedom
And abandoned
Those wood-slat worshippers
Retreating back south
To watch Atlanta burn,
Charleston choke,
And New Orleans slide
Into her own
Decadent decay,
But Johnny Reb
Still found a way
To keep inheritance alive
With his back turned
On God
And a lot of God’s children
As he got off his horse,
Turned in his rifle,
And starved on dirt
And dust
Creating a new God
To trust
Who was forgiving,
Loving, kind,
And white
Ready to fight
Dressed in sheets
With an unholy faith
Preaching
Inhumanity,
Inequality,
Injustice,
And fire
Burning at the end
Of a rope
While celebrating
The hope of regaining
A moonshine lifestyle
Beneath the cross
Where everything lost
Would be restored
While nostalgia and poverty
Went hand in hand
And the past was cherished
Where purity
Had not perished
In the fantasy
Of ideas held by the race
Still longing to chase
Dreams of superiority
By keeping
The minority
Frightened in the night
Excluded from the law
And segregated from the
Constitution
Of agitators up North
Who might travel
Back and forth,
But who would never understand
The Southern man
As a tragic Greek figure
Having suffered so much
At the hands of aggression
When the lesson
To be learned
Was in watching
The residual impacts
Of the Union’s victory
Turn into racist policies
And prejudiced practices
Throughout the South
But in Northern cities as well,
So even 40 years
After Johnny Reb fell,
He got his statue raised
And praised
For Southern Heritage
Memorialized and recognized
As having some kind
Of American spirit
He never really had –
He was just a kid
Given bad advice
Ready to sacrifice his life
For a fundamentally
Counter-Christian cause
Convinced he was right
And righteous
While his white
Skin and whiteness
Were turned into values
And given credit
1
For morality, ethics,
Sacred justice,
And the beliefs
He didn’t understand
Well enough
To guide him
Through reconstruction,
So the seduction
Of power
Perpetuated the hour
Of his ride
When the Rebel Yell
He cried was a call
Of culture
That could never keep up
No matter how many
Blacks
Were tormented,
Cheated, defeated,
Excluded,
Or murdered
In the Southern name
Of Johnny Reb Heritage…
And History won’t miss his statue
As much as his statue missed History.
What AmeriKKKa Looks Like Posing As
An Invisible Friend
Poetry
henry 7. reneau, jr.
Lindsay, California, USA
AmeriKKKa, distancing history, a unit of
measurement, from oppression
by swapping the word history with the word
postracial,
whose amorphous nature incorporates
physical exclusion
& random helpings of fear, paranoia,
frustration
& outrage. Blackness as test subjects
for injustices to be practiced elsewhere.
Every po-lice chief statement
of aberration by anomaly of racist cop,
the cockroach painted into a corner, the
attempts at evasion—
not-me—posing as an invisible friend, as
protect & serve. The official
spokesperson's lie,
like the smell of spent gunshots, chalkoutlines
the asphyxiating repetition of our
grief.
We drown standing up.
Black, as the clever gaze from hooded
Malcolm-tent eyes, hears
every word comes out the speakers.
Blackness, always
in someone else's country, because we, as
stereotype claims,
were born of water hog mud, livid with the
rage of fever
that makes us ungrateful, bites the hand that
starves us.
My blackness confronts me with a desperate
reinvention
of itself, the militant X, by which those who
cannot sign
otherwise leave their mark.
The comeuppance of flung Molotov
into police state lines
as the whole wide Diaspora
pulses through our veins.
But all of a sudden, AmeriKKKa stands with
the Black community—
a shield of aloof politeness
romancing what could have been
gracious good faith & understanding from a
distance—
opposes racism, oppression, &
police brutality, vows to continue to amplify
diverse voices in the U.S. of Attica. All of a
sudden
2
Open Wounds
Photography
Younes Mohammad
Erbil, Iraq
3
His name was Mo.
He liked school, well most days.
But he dreaded going to school that day.
For him, it was like walking into a death
sentence, figuratively, but isn't hard to imagine
it literally.
It was that day that made his mother want
to stay home as much as possible.
It was that day that made it impossible for
his father to find work.
It was that day that made him feel like he
never should’ve left the house in the first
place.
While tens and thousands of American high
schools were holding ceremonies for those
that they lost on that day.
Millions of innocent children, families, and
homes were being destroyed every day after.
While two towers collapsed on that day.
Over 100 mosques were destroyed, taken
down, and attacked even years later.
While the country that we live in blames a
whole religion for that day.
The lives of Muslims changed.
Forever.
Kids like him.
Growing up in a xenophobic society, constantly
told to go back, treated unfairly, and
given less opportunity.
It is because of that day that the NYPD
targets people like him.
It is because of that day that hate crimes
have simply become immune.
It is because of that day that people
wonder if they will be killed for practicing a
religion.
His Name Was Mo
Fiction
Aina Marzia
El Paso, Texas, USA
And as for Mo., it is because of that day
that four kids punched him on the floor of
the bathroom on September 11th, 2019.
Why?
Because his name was not Mo it was Muhammad
(PBUH).
4
Black Against
White
Poetry
Kaylee Hamilton
Saint Louis, Missouri, USA
Ebony. Against. Ivory.
Fabrics rubbing together
Causing static electricity
Can’t sew it together —
Too stuck in
the same mindset
Of hate
That each individual thinks is different.
Roses are guns
When you don’t forgive.
Everything is offensive
And we go back to the distressful ache.
Black against white.
When you put your magnifying glass
Or spectacles to use
All you can see
is the past abuse.
Take a step back-
See the big picture—
Then,
Forever-
You’re richer.
Black to white.
White to black.
“Give me so much love,”
The colors scream-
“We’ll never turn back.”
“Never fight ourselves!”
For that is what we can do
When we stick together without the glue.
Mrs. Blanco has always known she had a
smile, sensed it even before she became
aware of it. When nothing else would do
— her education, her figure, her presence —
that simple pull at the ends of her lips spoke
with a language of its own. This morning,
she knows she’s going to need it. So sure she
is, in fact, that after brushing she restrains
from flashing her teeth at the mirror to preserve
her smile’s full strength.
Outside the window is dusky gray. She
reaches for her floral dress, something to
brighten up the Monday morning that awaits
her. She closes the closet door softly, so as
not to wake up her son who’s still asleep in
the bed they share. From on top of the night
table, she picks up her reading glasses next
to the Selecciones del Readers Digest magazine
and slips them on. She wears them all
the time now when it’s dark.
The long hallways of the boarding house
are gloomy silent, her roommates either
asleep or gone to work. In the kitchen, she
greets Rita, the owner of the casa de bordantes.
No need to start shining her smile
yet. The radio is buzzing the local Spanish
news. Mrs. Blanco has her breakfast in
between Rita’s comments. They’re mostly
about the weather getting colder. Where
Mrs. Blanco comes from, el tiempo is not
much of a subject. It’s either raining or it
isn’t, and usually too hot. Not here, in the
city of long coats. The first thing out of people’s
mouths here, friends or strangers alike,
is the weather, how cold is it going to get or
what’s going to fall from the sky today.
Dreaming in America
Fiction
Nicolas Padron
Miami, Florida, USA
Mrs. Blanco finishes putting on her face by
the front door. She reaches into the bottommost
of her purse for the keys and locks
every lock before she steps away.
It all begins in the elevator, with the
simple act of pressing the call button on the
wall brass plate. The doors open on their
own and she steps inside the mirror and metal
box. Her belly shivers as the floor drops,
a combination of dread and excitement
she’s still acquainting herself with since she
arrived in New York. Part of the luxury trappings
of a past future time, an aging modernity
she is only now catching up to.
For better or worse, everything is temporary.
If she is certain of anything it’s that.
Exile with all its heartbreaks, the same as
the guilty enjoyment of a New York elevator
ride, is only provisional. The bearded atheists
who had forced her and so many to flee
her homeland would not keep her forever
from the life God had meant her to live.
Outside, it’s colder than it looks. She
buttons up the winter coat Rita sold her for
five dollars and tightens Amelia’s red scarf
around her neck. As she walks past the store
windows in her stiff overcoat, her reflection
isn’t all that unappealing. It not only
conceals her long-lost silhouette and keeps
her warm, it also makes her feel part of the
landscape, like another New Yorker.
At the bus stop, everyone climbs in one
at a time, each dropping a token, unrushed.
It is at moments like these too that she’s
reminded how far she is from home. Tokens
instead of money, no one hustling to the
5
empty seats, no conductor to collect the
fare. The efficiency of it makes her wonder,
though. In her town, buses had a driver and
a conductor, and when they’d seen her a few
times, she didn’t need to signal her stop.
Everyone was more in touch with each other,
less orderly, sure, but more normal. She
wonders how the americanos, as smart as
they are, could have missed that, the simple
human touch.
The downtown bus travels in the shade
of Broadway’s architecture, a sightseeing
show for Mrs. Blanco—and the reason she
preferred them to the subway. She presses
her forehead on the icy glass window. She
grins at the bright storefronts along the way,
with their window displays projecting out
to the street like movie screens with views
of domestic scenes, gleaming kitchenware,
and elegant mannequins wearing the latest
styles. There’s a kind of musical play choreography
in the way New Yorkers march
across the streets, in the stop-and-go of the
vehicle traffic. The grandeur everywhere
moves her: the polished sheen of rotating
doorways, the assembly lines of yellow taxis,
the sheer abundance of affluence. Her faith
in the infinite might and wisdom of the
americanos is reaffirmed at every intersection.
The bus stops at a red light.
When she left Havana, all she and her boy
were allowed to bring was $120.00 and — as
she liked to say — all the hope and Kleenex
they could carry. And, of course, the fervent
belief that the United States of America
would never allow a Communist nation to
take root just ninety miles from Key West.
This wasn’t only her opinion: everyone she
knew was of the same mind. The end of the
bearded revolutionaries was only a question
of when — maybe a year at the most before
she’d be back with her family around her
again, back to where she was born and married
and had her children, home until three
weeks ago.
Today is a particularly difficult day for
Mrs. Blanco. It’s her first day out looking for
a job, in search of employment, something
she’s never done or needed to do before.
At forty-six, the only job she ever had was
that of housewife and mother, work that had
prepared her for just about anything except
to look for employment — much less in a
foreign land. The task does not intimidate
her as much as the idea of having to ask for
it in English, a language she loves to hear
but she’s incapable of articulating without
embarrassing herself.
Mrs. Blanco looks at the note her exiled
friend, Marta, had given her. “Get off on
34th Street. Walk to 8th Avenue, Garment
Center. They’re always hiring sewing machine
operators in the factories around
there,” it says.
In Havana, she had a Singer machine
with a wrought-iron foot pedal her husband
bought her. She’d fashioned dresses and
shirts for her children with it when they
were younger, even sewn a camping tent for
her son’s Boy Scout troop once. Sew? Mrs.
Blanco could sew just fine.
From the bus, she keeps watch of the
street signs at every corner. “Get off when
you see the Macy’s store and walk around
the area looking for Sewing Operator Wanted
signs on building walls,” Marta’s note says.
Many things she never needed before or
thought she ever would are needed now.
Only a few weeks ago she still lived at home
with her husband of twenty-two years and
her two children. She’d known the comforts
of a well-off existence, which had come with
much struggle and only in recent times. But
in less than a year of the communist takeover,
it was all torn apart, beginning with
the seizure of her husband’s business, the
family house, even the cars. Then came days
of desperate rushing around like on a ship in
the storm, throwing everything overboard,
trying to sell, trade, and hide whatever
remained of the family’s assets. But the idea
of seeking asylum didn’t come until later
when talk of an even more horrifying law
was proposed. The enactment of what they
called ‘Patria Potestad.’ The law that gave
the communist government parental rights
over un-emancipated children. Once the
rumor took hold, the question of whether or
not to leave the country was settled.
The communists could take everything she
owns, she decided, but not her son.
Almost overnight, she found herself thousands
of miles away, confined to a bedroom
in an overcrowded boarding house in New
York City with her twelve-year-old son, starting
her temporary life of ‘political’ exile,
a refugee — a ‘worm,’ how the fidelístas
called the likes of her.
Although the hardships of her younger
days now seem like something to look forward
to, Mrs. Blanco doesn’t allow herself
to wallow in her misfortune as some of her
fellow exiles do. Hope is fresh yet. Still, the
day-to-day is far from easy. Rooming in an
apartment full of political refugees is like
living with a big wounded, grieving family.
Rare is the night that she is not awakened by
6
the muffled sobs of some of her roommates.
Exile is the same as living in a permanent
state of emergency, ever hanging to a single
hope. Every rumor, every word printed or
heard on the radio about the homeland has
to be dissected, reinterpreted for hidden
meanings, every piece of news a new topic
to argue about. The one thing the entire exile
commune agrees on, though, is, with God
and the americanos on their side, everything
the comunistas have stolen from them would
be theirs again. And this was something Mrs.
Blanco believes with all her heart.
Across the street, on the northbound
side of Broadway, Mrs. Blanco notices a sign
written in English and Spanish. It speaks
of union, employment, and brotherhood.
Compelled by a sudden impulse, Mrs. Blanco
pulls the cord and gets off the bus, and then
doubles back up the street.
The sweet smell of recently baked dough
stops her on her tracks. She rests one hand
on the shop window and stares at the trays
full of happy-looking donuts arranged in
rows. Mentally, she counts the change she
has in her purse, hoping. But she knows all
too well how much she has, or rather how
much she doesn’t have, then walks away
thinking of all the weight she still could
stand to lose — once again looking at the
positive side so as not to weep.
She stands under the sign she saw from
the bus and takes up the dark and narrow
staircase. At the top landing, she halts by
the opened smudged glass door. The stale air
in the gray-walled office reeks of cigarette
smoke and indifference. Facing a long counter
dividing the room, a handful of people are
lined up by a faded yellow line on the floor.
Mrs. Blanco steps in and surveys the women
working behind the counter and at the
desks beyond, pecking on their typewriters.
A couple of suited men sit behind glass-partitioned
cubicles.
She stands demurely at the end of the line
and listens to the English-speaking voice of
the bespectacled woman behind the counter,
concentrates on it.
The person at the counter walks away and
Mrs. Blanco moves up a step.
In front of her, there’s a tall black lady
and a Latina-looking one who’s at the counter
now. She’s speaking to the bespectacled
woman. The harder Mrs. Blanco listens to
what they’re saying the less she understands.
A minute later, she hears “Next.” She
remembers what next means. In English,
every word sounds so much nicer to her, like
in the subtitled movies, the voices of Doris
Day, Elizabeth Taylor, and Audrey Hepburn,
so musical even when uttered in anger. Yet
she’s just unable to articulate the words, as
if her mouth isn’t put together the same way
as theirs.
The tall black lady steps up to the counter.
Mrs. Blanco places the tip of her shoes
on the yellow line on the floor. The tall lady
seems upset. Something in the document the
bespectacled woman handed her has set her
off. Her voice is getting louder. She reminds
her of those powerful-voiced Protestant
preachers in the movies. Mrs. Blanco tries
to decipher what each is saying. The noisier
they get, the less she comprehends them.
The tall woman starts to shake her finger
at the impassive bespectacled face behind
the counter. Suddenly, she wheels and
stomps away, hollering menacingly at the
entire place. When she reaches the door,
she balls up the insulting document, hurls it
in the general direction of the wastebasket,
and storms out the glass door.
Now the office staff is up, bunched in
groups around their desks, ruffled by the
irate lady. Mrs. Blanco is up next.
The bespectacled woman waves from the
counter. “Come on up.”
Mrs. Blanco approaches with a tentative
smile: she didn’t hear ‘next.’ Her throat
tightens up. “Pleese, laydee, S-peak S-panish?”
The bespectacled woman turns around and
with a cigarette between her fingers waves
at someone and walks away.
Spanish Carmen comes to the counter.
“How can I help you?”
Mrs. Blanco lets out a sigh of relief and
broadens her smile. “Aaayy,” she sings out.
“Thank God you speak Spanish, mi hijita.
What a relief.”
Spanish Carmen almost smiles.
“Well, the truth is I am looking for work,”
she says, leaning closer to the counter. “Let
me explain: I have only been in this country
for three weeks, yes. But I am a hardworking
person and a fast learner, and I am willing to
do whatever work that is being offered.”
Carmen gives her a squint-eyed look. “OK,
let’s see your book.”
“Libro?” Mrs. Blanco, unsure whether
Carmen has understood, starts again. “Maybe
I should tell you, I am a married woman.
I have two children, yes, two. My oldest, my
daughter, she’s in Cuba with my husband, los
pobrecitos … I’m sure you must have heard
how terrible things are over there now with
those communists taking over, my God. But
my son, he’s with me. We had to bring him
out right away before the communists start
taking the children to Russia. Yes, that’s
another thing those communists are doing.
But he’s in school now, thank God. And God
7
willing, my husband will be coming to join us
very soon. Now, my daughter, we’re not too
worried about her. She’s already eighteen
and engaged, yes. She’s going to marry a boy
we know, a good boy. But in the meantime,
well, my son and I have to stay here, you
understand, until we can return. So you can
imagine how difficult it’s been for me to find
a job without any English —”
“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Blan-co,
right?”
“Yes,” she answers, reaching into her
purse for her passport, her ID. “In Cuba,
married women get to keep their maiden
name, not like here. Yes, it is Blanco.”
Carmen, assuming the walk-up is looking
for her book, says as she flicks through the
Rolodex, “Let’s see . . . We have a few openings
for iron operators today. Would that be
something you’d want to do?”
“Ironing? Oh, sure. I can iron. My husband
tells me no one, not even his mother, can
iron his shirts as well as I do.”
“All righty, then. Give me your book and
I’ll send you right out.”
Mrs. Blanco hands her passport.
“Not this, your union book, or your card,
whichever you brought with you.”
“I am sorry, señorita. I don’t have a union
book. I could get one if you tell me how—”
“Oh, oh. How can we send you out on a
job, if you’re not in our union? This is an
employment office for our union members.
This is not for anybody. I mean you have to
be a member.”
“No problem, I will join the union. Just
tell me how.”
“It’s not like that. I’m sorry, the jobs we
have are for our members in good standing
only.”
“This is no problem for me. No problem
at all. I want to be a union member. Just
tell me what I have to do and I will join your
union. You see, we just arrived in New York
and I need a job—”
“You’ve already told me, Mrs. Blanco.
But I can’t send you out unless you’re in our
union. It’s just how it is.”
“But I will be very happy to be a member
of your union. What is it? Is there a fee?”
“Yes, well no, it’s not just a fee. To join
our union, you must first work in a union
shop for at least three months before you
can apply.”
“You’ll have to pardon me, Carmencita,
chica. It’s a beautiful name, Carmen. I
almost named my daughter Carmen, yes. I
have a cousin named Carmen too. She’s my
favorite cousin—”
“Mrs. Blanco…”
“Forgive me, Carmen, I will not bore you
with it. But listen, if you give me the ironing
job, I promise you I will come back in three
months and ask for you personally and I will
join your union. A promise is a promise.”
Carmen looks over Mrs. Blanco’s shoulders
at the line. “Look, I’d love to help you —”
“But Carmen, my girl, how can I work for
three months and then join the union if you
don’t give me the job first?”
“These are the rules. I’m really sorry.”
“You mean you can’t give me a job unless
I already have a job?”
“Not really, but in your case, I’m afraid
so.”
“Why would I come to ask for employment
if I am already employed? I’d be too busy at
work!”
“I’m sorry. Take this brochure with you.
Read it at your leisure. There’s nothing else I
can do. Next . . .”
Mrs. Blanco buttons up her coat. “Ay, Carmencita,
really. I’m afraid it’s going to take
me a long time to understand this country.”
She straps her purse on her shoulder. “To
have an employment office for people already
employed—” She finished her comment
with a silent headshake of disbelieve.
As Mrs. Blanco walks toward the glass
door, the heat of emotion wells in her eyes.
She halts next to the wastebasket. She looks
down at the balled-up paper the screaming
lady had shucked with such disdain. Quickly,
she lowers herself, picks it up, slips it into
her purse, and walks out.
Two blocks away, she stops to decipher
the words on the paper. It’s a printed form
filled out with ink but without a bearer’s
name on it.
“... Jane Holly Blouses ... West 61st Street
... Steam iron operator ... Salary: $1.25 an
hour ... attention: Mr. Weinstein.”
Her face lights up. She has no reservations
in applying for a job a disgruntled member
of Carmen’s union didn’t want. Unions, what
are they good for anyway? In Cuba, they
called them sindicatos, like the one the
communists first organized in her husband’s
factory and then abolished after they confiscated
it. But if unions is how the Americans
choose to call them, it is fine with her.
On Columbus Circle, Mrs. Blanco runs into
a crowd of people waving signs of ‘JFK for
President.’ She works her way around them
and hurries down 60th Street, crosses West
End Avenue, and turns on the corner. The
Hudson River is just down the road.
A cold wind blows on her face, clean, crisp
American air.
61st Street is solid with parked cars. She
finds the address. A sign above the doorway
says Jane Holly Blouses. She enters the
building. Out of the biggest elevator she’s
8
ever seen, she encounters a pretty girl at
the desk by the door. Mrs. Blanco switches
on her smile and hands her the wrinkle-creased
but now straightened flat employment
form.
The receptionist, chewing gum, picks up
a telephone, says one phrase and hangs up,
then says something to her and points at a
metallic door. The stained sign on it says
‘Employees Only.’
“San-cue,” Mrs. Blanco says.
She enters a high-ceiling workshop with
long tables. Mr. Weinstein, a thirty-something,
pleasant-looking man in a tie and
dress shirt, comes walking from behind a
stack of rolls of fabrics. The out-turned toes
of his shoes are shiny but dusty . . . a man
who doesn’t mind getting dirty at work. Mrs.
Blanco approves.
She holds out the paper.
Mr. Weinstein doesn’t look up at her smile.
He scowls at the paper. “Where’s your union
booklet?”
She answers with her brightest smile
something that sounds like this to Mr. Weinstein,
“Chess, I lie to goo-erk bery mosh.”
He releases a long sigh, steps back, and
shouts over the machine noises “Josefina,”
then waits, glancing at Mrs. Blanco, sizing
her up.
Spanish Josefina, short, with a round
cheerful face, races over, obviously pleased
to be the boss’s interpreter.
“Ask Mrs. Blanco if she has her union book
or her ID card.”
Josefina translates the question.
Mrs. Blanco takes a deep breath and is
about to explain why she doesn’t yet have a
union card when Mr. Weinstein with the outturned
toes cuts her short. “Never mind,”
he says with a dual expression of pity and
mirth on his pale face. “Tell Mrs. Blanco not
to worry. Tell her to come back tomorrow at
eight in the morning ready to start training.
Ironing.” He gestures as if waving an iron.
“And tell her she’ll be starting at a dollar an
hour, not at a dollar twenty-five as it says in
the form. OK?”
Then Mr. Weinstein adds without the need
for translation, louder as if his Spanish would
be better understood at a higher volume.
“Ma-nya-nah worky on time. OK?”
The message is translated anyway and
Mrs. Blanco, beaming, almost curtsies at her
new boss. “San cue, bery bery mosh.”
Walking back to the subway, Mrs. Blanco’s
eyes overflow with tears. She can’t believe
her luck. To have achieved what only twenty-four
hours before seemed like a monumental
impossibility feels nothing short of
a miracle, as though the Virgin herself was
watching over her.
Suddenly, she remembers how hungry she
is and picks up her gait. Back in the rooming
house, there are hot dogs and a can of
Campbell soup waiting for her. Tonight, she
announces to herself, she will take her son
to the pizzeria on Broadway and celebrate.
She slows her pace as she approaches a tumult
in Columbus Square.
The crowd is so thick she can’t see the
end of it. Dozens of JFK for President cardboard
signs are up all over the street and
over people’s heads. Motorcycle policemen
are cutting off the traffic. Red lights are
swirling. A sudden upsurge of voices and motor
noises breaks out and she is dragged by
the rushing human tide toward the edge of
the sidewalk. A slow-moving black convertible
as long as a yacht comes sailing slowly
through the mass of bodies. And there, over
the sea of outstretched fluttering hands,
the figure of John F. Kennedy appears in a
royal blue suit, his face under a crown of
impeccable chestnut hair, and a smile of
perfect white. Drawn by the delirious multitude,
Mrs. Blanco reaches out to him as if
attracted by an invisible magnet, and their
skins clasp together for a magical instant.
Then just as quickly, the candidate’s caravan
floats away.
Mrs. Blanco extricates herself from the
mob. She walks away toward Broadway
unaware of the importance she would later
give to the event. A half-block up 61st
Street, she begins to feel faint. She leans
on a wall to wait for it to pass. Beside her,
there’s the tangle of tubes of a scaffold on
the side of the building. On a tall windowsill
behind her, she sees a neatly folded white
paper bag. She takes it and peeks inside.
There are two jelly donuts wrapped in wax
paper, a capped coffee cup still hot, two
sugar packets, a plastic stirrer and paper
napkins. She looks around her at the busy
sidewalk of incurious New Yorkers passing by.
She sighs and puts it back, and walks away.
She halts abruptly, turns back, picks up
the paper bag and rushes up the street with
it.
On Broadway, she finds a bench in the
median promenade. She sits down, pours the
sugar into the steaming coffee, and stirs it.
Slowly, she takes out a donut. Up by her lips,
she breathes in its baked aroma and bites
the sweet soft dough filled with even sweeter
jelly as though performing a delicious but
sinful act. Pigeons start gathering nearer.
The November sun shines with a silver glow
through the overcast Manhattan sky. She
savors the donut unhurriedly until is gone except
for the white sugary dust on her fingers.
9
She looks into the paper bag, and summoning
the phenomenal strength only motherhood
could give her, Mrs. Blanco saves the
remaining donut for her son.
She gathers herself up and takes the subway
uptown.
In her room, she finds her son with his
heavy white-sox feet resting on the radiator.
He has the transistor radio up by his ear. She
drops the groceries on the small table by the
door and gives him a kiss on the cheek. He’s
busy mouthing along with the song playing,
mimicking the singer. He’s singing in English.
Mrs. Blanco doesn’t fool herself thinking
if she ever went out job-hunting again that
she’d be hired the same morning, shake the
hand of a presidential nominee, and find a
bag with fresh donuts and coffee. But it had
happened. And she had done it all on her
own. She knew her exiled roommates were
going to ask her how her day went, they
always ask about everything. She’d have
to be watchful of how she told it. Measure
her elation, soften the magical aspect of it.
Tragedies bring people together, but personal
good fortune, not so much. To be an exile,
to be forced to flee one’s homeland and seek
refuge in a foreign country, is no different
than living with an open wound, hurting part
of every moment.
Mrs. Blanco approaches her son. His head
is bobbing in time with the music. She lets
the sweet-smelling paper bag fall on his lap.
He drops everything when he sees the donut.
“How did this get here in one piece?” he
says, amazed.
“Son, you wouldn’t believe the day I had
even if I told you.”
“Did you find anything?”
Mrs. Blanco smiled.
10
Little City Market
Painting
Pat Wai
Livermore, California, USA
Inauguration Day
Free Verse Poetry
Deborah LeFalle
San Jose, California, USA
I Wonder
Poetry
Heidi Speth
St. Peters, Missouri, USA
The blue balloons
tethered by thin cotton cords
wrapped ‘round my fingers
bob in morning breeze
and squeal as translucent latex
skins
rub one against the other
ready, waiting to be freed
to rise high into the sky
Their weight of no consequence
but I have bricks on my shoulders
Despite placid appearance
I am exhausted and await freedom
too
freedom from 1,461 days
of orange-drenched evil
As I let go, I let go
and the tightropes in my body
miraculously begin to ease
Bricks crumble into a heap at my
feet
invisible balm melts over me
At last, the hallelujah moment
hoped for has arrived
Head reared back
I watch the imperfect spheres
ascend
catching sun’s glare
drifting this way and that
until they are mere pinheads
And as blue balloons
dance amid the clouds
swallows soar
and signs of civility
come into view once more.
I often wonder about my fish
Swimming in circles in my fifteen-year-old, twenty-gallon tank
Are they angry when I bring home new fish?
Do they notice when one of their fellow fish dies?
Do they talk to each other?
Are they lonely?
How do they make the best of their situation?
I feel like we can learn a lot from fish
Because after all, we are all just stuck here swimming in circles in the
same fishbowl
It is time we learn to rejoice when we meet new people
Time to grieve when friends and friends of friends pass on to another
life
Time to reach out and talk to those who have no one else to listen
Time to not let people be lonely, but love them for who they are
Time to live our best lives every day, whether we are in the world’s
largest aquarium or the small
fishbowl in a child’s bedroom
No matter how trapped, how secluded, how isolated you feel
There are always going to be other fish in your sea to bring you up
To share their joy, to encourage you, to love on you
Sometimes we just can’t see past our own reflection in the glass
To see our friends staring back at us
11
In Our House
Fiction
Susan Hettinger
Olympia, Washington, USA
Before there were laws regulating such
things, in Mormon polygamist families if the
husband died first, his wives who died after
him were buried in his same grave. They
spent eternity together, stacked on top of
his coffin, chronologically by death date, one
atop the last, condo-style. I bet the women
didn’t come up with this idea. I’m an amateur
anthropologist and this practice interests
me. I am not a Mormon, or even a wife.
However, I live with a man who still co-owns
two cemetery plots with his ex-wife. Does
this bother me? Maybe a little. I plan to be
cremated or possibly composted, if the funeral
home in our small backward town ever
figures out how to do this without attracting
the neighborhood dogs.
I mull this over early one afternoon in
late autumn during the Baptist funeral of my
friend Rhonda’s father. Rhonda is not just
my best friend; she is an excellent friend. I
could call her around midnight and say “Pick
me up in the parking lot behind the Tastee
Freeze in half an hour. Bring five thousand
dollars in cash,” and she wouldn’t ask questions.
She’d show up.
Her father’s service is not one of those
celebration-of-life events where microphones
circulate so that the bereaved can
take turns telling heartwarming stories about
the decedent. It’s about release from earthly
travails, reuniting with our Holy Father,
that sort of thing. I’m a Unitarian. Some
Unitarians don’t believe in God, or even in
potlucks. Rhonda believes in both. She prays
daily, thinking that prayer changes both herself
and the world. I tried prayer a few times
but couldn’t quite get the hang of it. Now
Rhonda sits in the front pew with her mother,
half-siblings, and several middle-aged
women. Three of them, I later learn, are
Rhonda’s father’s second, third and fourth
wives, Rhonda’s mother being the first.
In the church social hall afterward, we sip
weak tea and nibble dry cookies after the receiving
line of mourners has muttered “sorry
for your loss” and shuffled along.
“It’s kind of amazing that after all the
divorcing and remarrying and reproducing,
everyone in this room still gets along,” she
says, “even the wives.” This strikes me as
awkward for all concerned. I compare the
wives. Which is prettiest? Which youngest?
Do they like one another or is there animosity?
I consider this as I drive home. I am not
like Rhonda’s mother, with her easy acceptance
of those successor wives. My family is
not Rhonda’s big, warm, welcoming family. I
am the only one among my four stingy sisters
to acquire a slightly used man. So? Maybe
my concern is that while I’m the incumbent,
I’m not the first. Maybe it’s that everyone in
this gossipy town knows that Isoletta left Lou
seven years ago, not vice versa, so I am the
rebound partner. Maybe it’s that Lou and I
haven’t married. Do people say, outside my
hearing, “Poor Samantha. Lou hasn’t exactly
traded up, has he? Think they’ll ever marry?
She’s forty-three. Could be her last chance.”
I don’t compare favorably to Isoletta’s grace,
her mellifluous voice, her glowing olive skin.
12
Her parents are Italian. Her father sang with
the San Francisco Opera, though mostly in
spear-carrier roles. He was not the guy who
gets the aria opportunities. But Isoletta has
an artsy, European aura. Given to tantrums,
I hear, and not suited to household chores.
Whereas I enjoy domesticity, am of average
temperament and average looks, distinguished
only by an unusually sharp tongue.
It’s not that I dislike Isoletta. It’s just that
I want nothing to do with her.
She keeps cropping up at inconvenient
times and places.
Pulling into the garage, I recall our recent
chance encounter. I’d looked up from a photo
spread of Inca mummies in The National
Geographic, to see her, Isoletta, sitting
across the clinic reception area, waiting for
her appointment with my (mine, not hers)
primary care doc. I’d been slightly anxious
even before noticing her sitting there,
wearing her classy slacks, and her flattering
cashmere sweater—though all that happens
at my annual visits is that I get weighed and
checked for crotch-rot. I’d mumbled “hello”
and returned to the mummies curled up in
their tombs. I imagined Lou, mummified but
still wearing his glasses, lying on a stainless-steel
exam table, the corpse of his exwife—in
cashmere prone on top of him. She
might prefer a Tibetan sky burial on a mountaintop
where vultures clean up the mess.
So I am peeved that tonight, after
this funeral, I may have to host her, and at
how she came to be invited to our house.
That is, the house that Lou previously shared
with Isoletta, the house that is now mine.
Ours, I mean.
###
Earlier in the afternoon, rushing through
the kitchen on my way to the garage to drive
to the Baptist church for the funeral, I had
encountered Lou, a talented and enthusiastic
cook, prepping for the evening’s dinner
party. A Yucatan theme with a menu of ceviche
and papadzules in the aftermath of our
trip to Uxmal with Lou’s 19-year-old daughter
Kate during quarter break her freshman
year at the University of Montana. Okay,
make that Lou and Isoletta’s daughter. Kate
had taken the pictures and sat at the kitchen
table assembling them into a PowerPoint
show while talking on her cell phone. Lou
stood at the sink carving up colorful, exotic
fruits we bought through Amazon—pitaya,
carambola, mamey—as I entered. When she
saw me, she smiled, held the phone a short
distance from her mouth, and said “Is it all
right if my mom comes?”
“What?” I said.
“I invited Mom to the party, Sam. To
see the pictures. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” I said in a bright, highpitched
voice. “Fine. Great.” I looked at
Lou, waiting for him to intervene (“Now,
honey, it might be better if you took the
slides over to your mom’s house tomorrow…”)
but he said nothing. Surely, I
thought, surely? Lou kept peeling. He didn’t
even look up, though he heard the whole
conversation. Lou’s ex-wife heard it, too,
because Kate failed to muffle the phone
against her UM sweatshirt, as we do in the
civilized world. A lively extrovert doing what
extroverts do.
I searched unsuccessfully for confidence
and optimism. Isoletta is the sensitive,
artistic type. She would be uncomfortable
in my house with my friends. She won’t
come.
Then I left for the church, preoccupied,
and annoyed, the prospect of Isoletta plaguing
me.
###
During the service, my mind wanders from
the minister’s words, which are not specific
to Rhonda’s dad. The generic quality of
the liturgy bugs me. So I check out and fuss
a bit, internally, about the tasks I need to
complete before this evening’s party. I stew
over how Kate’s invitation to Isoletta has
disturbed my universe. I ought to be thinking
about the disturbance of Rhonda’s universe.
On my return home after the funeral, my
irritation level escalates. This, combined
with the social anxiety over hosting a gathering,
the desire to make everything perfect,
and the fear of screwing up, all contribute
to an unsettling afternoon.
###
The hour before the first guest arrives is
not a time of calm reflection and enjoyment
of careful preparations. Not at our house,
anyway. At my mother’s house, she steps
from her bedroom, groomed and relaxed
thirty minutes before her parties start. She
walks into her spotless, fragrant kitchen and
asks my father for a martini. This is her tradition:
she sits, crosses her long legs, lights
a Virginia Slim and begins to enjoy herself.
Then somehow, over the course of the next
few hours, coats are hung, drinks poured,
13
appetizers passed, elaborate meals served
and cleared, all with no apparent effort. It’s
as though she has invisible servants.
At our parties, it’s as though I am the
servant. Up to the moment the first guest
appears, I’m still hiding piles of junk mail,
realizing that I forgot to buy cream for
the coffee, and questioning the underlying
premise of the gathering. (Must we celebrate
Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas
every year? When’s the last time these
people had us over? Would inviting them to
a restaurant instead be viewed as de facto
feminine inadequacy?)
I consider—selfish, I know—spending a few
of these precious pre-party minutes calling
Rhonda for reassurance. I shouldn’t bother
her now, not on the evening after burying
her father. She always takes my side. She
would remind me of home-field advantage,
my territory. True, but not the point. The
point is that if Isoletta shows up, I will have
to watch her move her prominent cheekbones
and hipbones through my living room
holding one of my wineglasses, hugging my
friends. Lou’s friends. Her friends, too, some
of them, I admit. But mine tonight, by virtue
of jurisdiction. This is no longer her house. I
did not invite her.
But it’s too late for attitude adjustment.
I’m already invested in pissiness and
it’s hard to give up. Soon the doorbell will
ring. I must guess who’s coming to dinner.
I walk outside to the front yard where
Kate and I have placed luminarias along the
walkway. Kate’s college-branded hoodie
covers her auburn hair. Her tall figure bends
easily as she lights the candles. I take some
matches and join her in the lighting ceremony.
We’d stayed up late the night before
talking while we decorated these paper lanterns.
She’d asked: “Do you remember those
creepy stories you used to tell me when I
couldn’t get to sleep?”
“Those weren’t creepy! And they
worked,” I’d said.
“The seven graves of Sacajawea? Definitely
creepy.”
“You were way too old for bedtime stories.
I was just keeping you company.” I’d
had no idea what to do for a ten-year old
who missed her mother and blamed her
father. I’d never wanted children of my own,
afraid of the psychological damage I would
undoubtedly inflict on defenseless small beings.
I didn’t even own a cat.
“Do you think she was lonely too? I mean
after she left? Or maybe now?” Kate says.
“Do you feel sorry for her?”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “She made her
choice.”
“Huh,” Kate says, pausing. And then:
“Remember the one where Sacajawea never
met Meriwether Lewis and instead of becoming
a guide, she got a job driving a Zamboni?”
“Uh, no.”
“And when she died, they mixed her ashes
with water and froze it to make the ice-skating
rink?”
“Now you’re making stuff up.”
She continued along the “remember
when …” vein long into the night as we cut
shapes from paper bags, shapes we’d seen
at the Mayan pyramids. Serpents, mostly.
At Chichen Itza on the fall equinox, we had
watched the late afternoon sun creep down
the northern staircase, creating the illusion
of an immense approaching snake. Now, as
we place the candles, their light creates an
eerie effect. It appeals to me.
After all are lit and Lou and I are in
our room changing clothes, I say, because
I can’t help it, “So, are you okay with having
Isoletta here tonight?” My jealousy is
unattractive. Isoletta is dancer-elegant and
cultured, in both appearance and behavior.
But I stick around. I am here. Here, wishing
I were less ordinary and had time to shower
again.
He turns to me, his face expressionless
and says, “What do you mean?”
“I was just surprised that Kate decided
to invite her.” I should suck it up and
tough it out. I regret speaking even as the
words leave my accursed mouth.
A flicker of irritation crosses Lou’s
handsome face. He says, “Isoletta is Kate’s
mother. Kate wants to impress her with the
pictures from the trip. I think she’s still
trying to earn her way back into Isoletta’s
affection. This is not about you, Sam.”
Oh.
He looks at me again.
“Isoletta is Kate’s mother,” he repeats.
###
She comes.
Lou and Kate are involved with other
guests, so I must let her in. She stands in the
center of a circle of luminarias on our porch,
looking like she’s on stage surrounded by
footlights. She has brought her shiny hair. I
open the door. We exchange manufactured
smiles. “Lovely to see you,” I lie. “Glad you
could make it.” She precedes me through
the entryway into what used to be her
house, before she fled, abandoning husband
and child. I take her coat so that I can put
it with the others on our bed (our bed!). I
offer wine and usher her in. This is my house
14
now. These are my friends. Mine, mine,
mine. She looks around, taking stock. Little
has changed since she absconded. We didn’t
paint or change the furniture. She has a good
eye, better visual sense than I have. Her degree
is in art history. I’m an accountant. I’m
drawn to the quantifiable. I’ve never cared
much about interior decorating, but this
evening I’m beginning to wonder if I could
somehow put my mark on the place. No, too
much like dogs and hydrants. But as I look at
Isoletta assessing our home, our lives, I feel
that one of us does not belong here.
It’s not like when we go to Lou’s company
Christmas party and I must see and speak
to women he dated before me. They are
negligible people and the party is always
at a hotel. Everything is impersonal. This is
different. She was his wife. This is our home.
In objective terms, the party is
successful. Everyone we invited comes. The
food is tasty. The photos project beautifully,
and there aren’t too many of them, so it
doesn’t get boring. My favorite image is the
three of us kneeling at an archaeological site
where artifacts are being exhumed; we’re
sweaty and dusty and entranced. Kate and
Lou make an entertaining father-daughter
act, both gifted storytellers. They tease one
another and me. Everyone laughs. Lou is
undeniably charming; I am lucky to be with
him. The house glows golden and inviting,
with soft light from the fireplace reflecting
on familiar faces. I think how eternal this
scene is, like cave people huddled around
a fire pit millennia ago, sharing a haunch of
roasted saber-toothed tiger and tales of the
hunt. I wonder if cave people were monogamous.
Seems unlikely.
Although the party appears to be going
fine, I continue to feel unsettled, like a
month-to-month tenant. A constant awareness
of Isoletta’s presence weighs me down.
I know her exact location at every moment.
She carries her Rioja out the back door and
stands on the deck, sipping and surveying
our hibernating weed garden. She returns in
under five minutes. She goes into the guest
bathroom, causing me to worry whether it’s
clean enough. I recall the moment when, as
I moved my stuff into the upstairs bathroom
drawers, I came across her forgotten jar of
facial “serum” made from mink oil, with a
$175 price tag still stuck to the bottom. It
was tempting, but I threw it out.
I try to ignore her but can’t.
At one point, I spy her standing next to
Lou. They make a handsome couple, both
tall and effortlessly stylish. I’m shorter than
them, closer to the ground, more detail-oriented.
They stand not face-to-face but sideby-side.
He hands her something. What is it?
It’s the snow-globe, a custom-made ball of
crystal containing an image of a child-sized
snowperson and an adult-sized snowperson,
representing Kate and Lou. Lou had it made
for Kate during our trip to Oslo to see the
fossilized Viking ships. Kate gave it to me
last Mothers’ Day, a gesture I understood to
mean that she sees the two snowpeople as
herself and me. This chokes me up whenever
I think of it. Now Isoletta receives it
with both hands, gazes down, then gently
shakes it to make the snow fall. I watch from
the other side of the room, hoping no one
watches me watching her. She tilts her face
up. Lou inclines his head toward hers. They
talk. She smiles. Is he giving it to her? No.
He puts his hand out to receive the globe
back from her. She pauses, then returns it.
Their hands touch unnecessarily.
As I pass, I overhear Isoletta say “… it’s
the typical freshman fifteen…” and feel momentary
outrage on Kate’s behalf. Cafeteria
food. She’s a bit rounder. So what?
I walk around the room, re-filling
glasses and collecting plates, trying to enjoy
the good fortune that has brought me this
life, these people. Kate, central to this
tableau, cut her hair while away at college
so that it looks a lot like mine, short and
low-maintenance, which is not exactly a
wise choice. For a moment, I feel a surge
of fierce love for this child who spent her
middle and high school years in our house,
the house I share with Lou. But the next
moment, passing plates of marquesitas for
dessert, which the slender Isoletta refuses,
I feel apart from the gathering, someone
whose job it is to carry away dirty dishes,
and make sure everyone else is warm and
fed and content.
Do I resent her? Not exactly, I realize,
as I move through the living room, discharging
my hostess duties. It’s Lou who disappoints
me. Is he treating me like a waitress,
or have I willingly assumed this role? I want
him to stand next to me, slip an arm around
my waist, look proud of me— I know I’m not
trophy material. Would such a small gesture
assuage my ugly jealousy? Maybe I should
prompt him.
I walk over to where he sits on the sofa
engaged in animated conversation with Isoletta
and the couple from next door, people
who have presumably seen it all, from their
close vantage point. “Dear,” I say, “how
about giving me a hand with the coffee?”
“Sure, Sam, I’ll be right there,” he
says, but he doesn’t follow me as I retreat to
the kitchen.
I am wearing my forest green sweater.
It’s my best color. I try to recall exactly
15
how long it’s been since we had sex. More
than a week. Two weeks? I return to the living
room carrying a tray of cups and a carafe
of coffee. I catch Lou’s eye and try to communicate
with him nonverbally, but there’s
no universal gesture for “hey you, walk away
from that other woman and come over here
and help me.” I approach him again. He’s
still seated, still yucking it up with Isoletta
and the next-door neighbors.
“Could you please take this around for
me, Lou?” I ask, interrupting him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, his hands in mid-air
as he gestures to illustrate some point in the
story he’s telling. “Just a minute.” He turns
back to his audience. “And then she goes,
‘Well Dad, what’s the point of traveling the
world if you’re afraid of a little raw conch
salad?’” They all laugh. I stand waiting. No
one looks at me. I set the tray on the coffee
table and withdraw again, irritation morphing
to actual anger. I think maybe it shows.
I’m okay with that.
In the kitchen, I stand by the sink, my
back to the door that leads to the dining
room.
“What’s with you?” Lou says, as he enters
and comes to stand next to me at the sink.
“What do you think?”
“I have no earthly idea,” he says.
“Put yourself in my place,” I say. “How
would you feel if I invited an old lover here
to our home and you had to wait on him
while we flirted on the sofa?”
“Seriously? You’re jealous? That’s ridiculous,
Sam.” He gives his head a small shake.
“You’re over-reacting. We’re not flirting. Get
over it.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this. I’m going
back to our guests.” He swivels, his back
to me, knuckles on hip.
“Fine,” I snap. “Have a swell time.”
And as he turns to go, the door to the
dining room swings open. In comes Isoletta,
carrying the coffee tray, having apparently
distributed the cups to our guests. She immediately
sees that something’s up, something
she wants no part of, something she
may recognize.
“Sorry,” she says, sets the tray on the
counter, and backs out.
“Nice,” Lou says to me, in mock civility,
and follows her.
I stand over the sink, feeling slapped,
looking out the window at the last surviving
luminaria. I see not the yard but my own reflection
in the glass against the black background
of night sky beyond. I look small, but
the resolution of my mirrored image is poor
so I appear less frizzy, flaky and fat than I
believe myself to be. I am alone. I scrape
and stack plates to wash later. I wish again
that Rhonda were here, someone on my
side, though I know this business of taking
sides is never a good idea.
The kitchen feels chilly. Voices and music
float in from the next room. Festive, but
antiseptic, like a sitcom laugh track.
I view the clutter around me—crumpled
napkins, lipstick-stained goblets, halfgnawed
morsels on skewers—wondering what
a successor civilization might make of my
midden.
Then motion attracts my eye. Someone
on the driveway, walking away from the
house. Isoletta, her slim silhouette in the
designer coat which she must have fetched
from our bedroom. The room where I wanted
her never to be. At least she’s leaving. I
exhale in relief and contemplate abandoning
the dishes to sit near the fire with the others.
But then she stops. She hesitates. I hope
she won’t turn around and see me watching
her. She remains motionless for what feels
like a long time but is probably only about
thirty seconds. She slowly rotates in a full
circle as if to survey the place she is leaving.
In the darkness, I can’t see her face, but
her form appears less regal than it did earlier
in the evening. What is she thinking? What
is she doing?
She squats down and sits on the curb, feet
in the gutter. She draws her knees up close
to her chest and wraps her arms around
them, in a sort of self-hug.
The door from the dining room bangs
open and Kate storms in. She slams the snow
globe down on the kitchen table hard enough
to cause the pile of dessert plates to jump. I
shift my focus: What is she thinking? What is
she doing?
“What?” I ask.
“She wasn’t even here.”
Huh?
“I didn’t mean to piss her off. Though
maybe Dad did. But she didn’t have to stomp
away like that. Make a scene and everything.”
“Slow down,” I say, searching her face for
clues. It’s red and damp.
She swallows, looks down, then back at
me. She backs up a couple steps and leans
against the counter, nudging the smudged
glassware out of the way with her rump.
“We were talking about the trip and that day
we stumbled onto a quinceanera, remember?”
“Of course.” A huge party across the
street from the public park where we picnicked.
Girls in fancy dresses, one in white
like a bride. Loud music. A gruesome pig
roasting on a spit. Kate had taken photos.
16
She’d shown one of them this evening.
“Mom said it was to celebrate menarche,
and I said no, it’s just a fifteenth birthday
party. And then she went on and on about
the importance of coming-of-age rituals in
all cultures when a girl gets her first period.
And I said, not all cultures. Not ours.
At least not mine. She sorta gave me the
stink eye. And then Dad butted in and said,
‘You weren’t even here, Isoletta. Sam was
here.’”
Thank you, Lou.
“He said, ‘Showing up matters.’ Then she
just got her coat and left. Without saying
goodbye to anyone.”
I remember that day. Red Tent rather
than Bat Mitzvah; no gifts. How uneasy Kate
had been. How we put a little Vaseline on
the end of the plastic tampon applicator to
make it slide in easier. And how relieved I
felt when she laughed as she sat on the toilet
while I stood just outside the bathroom
door and described how to position a mirror
to help her locate what I crudely referred to
as “the right hole.” I should have called it
“an orifice.”
“Do you want to go after her?” I ask.
“What for? She walked away from us, not
the other way around.”
Us. I hear this word with such satisfaction
that I immediately chastise myself for my
pettiness, my possessiveness, my invention
of a nasty little drama.
It occurs to me that if Lou were to sell the
two cemetery plots he and Isoletta own together,
or better yet give them both to her,
that would help me a great deal.
I feel sure he would do it if I asked.
Also, I want different carpeting.
And better lingerie.
My eyes sweep across the post-party detri-
tus. Kate looks at me. I look at her. Her hair
isn’t that bad after all. Neither is mine.
I give a loud but involuntary sigh.
“What?” Kate says.
“I no longer feel an obligation to do the
dishes. They’ll still be here tomorrow. You
with me?” I slip arm around her waist and
propel both of us back toward the party.
The Angel and
the Dirty Boy
Poetry
Ranjith Sivaraman
Kochi, Kerala, India
The kid loved playing in the mud
A mud much darker than his skin.
He was comfortable being dirty and ugly
Because all his mates were so.
Deep inside him always dreamed in vain
of a cute little angel who will descent from
the sky
with an alluring smile and tempting soul
The angel took his hand and slowly made
him clean
They walked into the woods, climbed the
hills
ran through the plains and swam in the rivers
they admired the orchids, pissed off cuckoos
drenched in sunlight and burned in rain
They tasted fragrances drank tears
danced in storm, fought for memories
hugged breathlessly and froze in moments
And kid asked the angel, "Where are your
wings?"
The angel told him "I forget to mention;
I was never an Angel, but I didn’t want to
hurt you with the truth!"
Melancholy Is
Poetry
Nezrin Hasanly
Concord, California, USA
To open the window for the first time in the
day
and you find yourself staring at a sunset
To stay up long enough at night
and hear a rainstorm from start to finish
Sometimes we don't need a clock
to tell us how much time we've missed
Nature is that mentor in our lives
with the stern but kind reminders we need
17
18
Hannah
Painting
Yim Ivy Wu
Danville, California, USA
19
Zephyr
Ink Pen Drawing
Eunhee Soh
Pleasanton, California, USA
A Tale of Three Avocados
Fiction
Kilmeny MacMichael
Oliver, British Columbia, Canada
“Once upon a time, there lived three
bears, a big bear, a little bear...”
“I already know that story.”
“Hmm. Once upon a time, there was a girl
with golden hair, who lived in a tower and…”
“I know that one too. I don’t want a once
upon a time story; I want a real story.”
“Once a time... once a time ago, but not
too long ago, there was a boy...”
“Is this a real boy?”
“...This was a real boy. This boy was older
than you, but not too old. There were still
many things he didn’t know. One day…”
“Where did he live?”
“He lived... in a big city, in a small house,
because his family was small and poor.”
“Were they paupers?”
“Not quite. His... father worked and his
mother was careful with their money. And
this boy was lucky to have found a job working
at a store, after school.”
“What kind of store?”
“I’m going to tell you. Why are your eyes
open? Close your eyes.
“The boy was lucky to have a job working
at a grocery store. He wore an apron with a
big pocket and swept the floors. He helped
to put the groceries out on the shelves.
Sometimes he would carry groceries out to
customer’s cars, and every so often, a customer
would give him an extra coin, a tip.
“He knew he was lucky to have this work.
He knew he was lucky even though carrying
the groceries sometimes made his arms hurt.
Even though working meant he couldn’t play
but had to hurry from school to the store as
soon as school ended for the day. He didn’t
have many friends to play with anyway. Many
of his classmates taunted him and laughed at
him.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because he was shy, and maybe
because when he did talk, he talked with a
different accent than they did.”
“Why?”
“Because his family came to the big city
from a place far away, trying to find good
work for the father. But his father hadn’t
found that good work yet.”
“Why not?”
“There were too many other people
looking for work and not enough good work.
It was a hard time for many, although there
were some still doing well.”
“They were mean, those other children.”
“Perhaps some of the boys who laughed
and teased him were even hungrier than he
was. Perhaps they were jealous of him, perhaps
their fathers couldn’t find any work at
all and neither could they. Perhaps.
“At the store, there were different coloured
fruits, golden apples, and green
bananas, lemons, and yellow squash. There
were brown nuts and red meats and soups
in brightly labelled cans. Jars of colourful
striped candies, pink-fleshed grapefruits,
and boxes tied with bows, full of chocolate…”
“And oranges?”
“There were oranges. Looking at all this
food while he worked, the boy’s stomach
would grumble and tell him it was empty,
20
and he was hungry.”
“I’m a little hungry.”
“After that big supper you ate? You are
not. Are you?”
“No.”
“Good. But our story boy was. Our story
boy would have to wait after his stomach
grumbled, wait hours until his work for the
day was done. He had to wait until he could
go back to his little home, and there his
mother would have a little supper ready for
him. The boy would eat the little supper and
brush his teeth and go to bed. Did you brush
your teeth tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Did you wash your face?”
“Yes.”
“Are you tired?”
“No.”
“Hmm. The boy in our story was sometimes
so tired after supper, he would fall
asleep before his mother had finished washing
the supper dishes. And he went to sleep
sad about how little and grey his suppers
were.”
“What do you mean, grey?”
“I’ll tell you. There was rent on the little
house to pay, and they had to pay the water
and electric company, and there was a
heating bill to pay because it was winter.
The boy needed new shoes. The family
couldn’t afford to buy colourful, strange,
exotic, different food. They couldn’t afford
to buy the colourful food at the store. What
if they tried something new and they didn’t
like it at all? They couldn’t risk buying food
they couldn’t eat. They could only afford
the same, bland, grey food, over and over
again. The food they knew. White bread and
margarine. Spaghetti. Lucky times, meatloaf,
although it was really mostly bread too.
Potatoes, all the time. The food they knew,
too well.
The boy’s mother was always saying there
were great things ahead, and better times,
as long as they kept honest and hardworking
and were patient.
The boy dreamed of striped candies, big
jelly doughnuts, crispy fried chicken, cornbread
with rich cream, orange squash…”
“Oranges?”
“…oranges. Plums. The boy imagined all
this wonderful food, with all its wonderful
colours, and the food that he did have no
longer looked or tasted any good at all.
Still, he stuck to being mostly good and
patient until one day. It was a day where
nothing seemed to go right.
He woke up late; he was late for school. It
was winter. The teacher was cross, and the
boy forgot his spelling, and he was called
stupid in front of everyone. It was Thursday,
which the boy knew meant potato soup for
supper again... and of all the grey food there
was, potato soup was just about the greyest.
When the winter wind started spattering rain
against the school window, the boy wasn’t
surprised. It was that kind of day.
On the way to work his old shoes let in the
road-greasy water, and soon his socks and
feet were wet.
At work everything was hurry hurry. His
shoes squeaked. His stomach grumbled so
loud one customer turned to look at him.
He blushed.
The boy found himself standing in front
of a display of green fruit called avocado.
His mother had once called them alligator-pears.
They didn’t look very much like
alligators, but they did look a bit like pears.
The boy had never tasted an avocado.
Have you?
The boy often wondered about avocados,
about why they were one of the most expensive
fruits. If people bought them even
though they cost so much, they must be
good. What was he missing out on, having
never tasted one?
There he was, with wet feet and an empty
belly, while other people swanned around
in furs and fat. He was tired of waiting for
better times. He was tired of missing out on
having, including missing out on these avocados,
whatever they were like.
He wanted to try one, and he wanted to
try one now.
No one was watching him, so he picked up
not just one, but two avocados.
He put them in his apron pocket.
He walked to the storage room at the back
of the store. He closed the door behind him.
He was alone.
He took out one avocado and bit right into
it, his teeth striking fast past the thin leathery
skin, into the flesh underneath.
“He’s wrong.”
“Yes. He spat the mouthful back out into
his hand. It had tasted awfully strange. Was
it meant to be peeled first? Fearfully looking
back at the door, he moved behind some
crates and tried to peel the fruit with his fingers.
It didn’t work very well, but he managed
to dig out a piece of the green flesh.
He put it in his mouth. It was hard to chew.
A thump, a voice. Someone was coming.
The boy quickly put his ill-gotten fruit back
into his pocket. He grabbed at the closest
box to him and pretended he was there to
21
get more… of…whatever was in the box. He
swallowed and smiled as the boss came in
and hoped he didn’t look too guilty.
There were rutabaga in the box.
The boy went back to work, the stolen
avocado bite sitting like a lump in his belly.
He was sure everyone could see his pockets
bulging with stolen avocado, but no one said
anything. When quitting time came, he took
those avocados with him out of the store.
On the way home, he put the avocado he
had bitten in to into a trash can. It was dirty
from the lint and dust in his pocket getting
into the gouge he’d made.
It was a double-wrong he’d done now —
first stealing and then wasting food.
But he still had the second avocado. Perhaps
avocados were like bananas, arriving
at the store before they were ripe. The boy
didn’t know what a ripe avocado looked like,
but he thought now probably it should be
softer than the one he’d tried.
The boy didn’t talk much at supper, and
neither did his parents.
Before going to sleep, the boy put his second
stolen avocado under his bed. He would
keep it secret under there until it seemed
ready. He didn’t know how long it would
take.
The next morning the avocado was the
same as the night before, so the boy dressed
and went to school and work. He worked extra
hard that day, so hard the boss told him
he was “a good, hard-working young man.”
The boy flushed and stuttered and felt just
awful about what he’d done.
But he’d done it; what could he do about
it now? Should he have confessed?
The boy wasn’t brave, and he was afraid if
he admitted his crime, he would lose his job,
and then how would he get new shoes?
When he got home, he helped his mother
with the dishes, and he studied a little
before he went to bed. He didn’t look at the
avocado under his bed that night.
He didn’t want to see it.
The next morning was Saturday. It rained.
He went to work. He pretended there was no
avocado under his bed. On Sunday it rained,
and he went to see a movie.
What did he go to see? Something fun and
silly, set in a world where skies were always
blue.
Monday was rainy. Tuesday, the boy failed
a spelling test. Wednesday, while raining,
the boy had to clear garbage from the rain
pipe in front of the store using the wrong
end of a broom. Thursday came again, and
he had the sniffles. Friday — Friday — eight
days after first stealing it, the boy remembered
the avocado under his bed.
He did feel stupid he had forgotten.
The avocado was soft now. The skin was
dull, and it had a few dark spots on it. When
he poked it, the place he poked went and
stayed dented.
He thought it must be ripe. And he got a
little knife, and he cut it open.
Inside, this avocado had sort of… dark
swirls through the green flesh, almost black
they were. It had a great big nut, or seed, in
the middle that came out easily.
The boy wondered if he should eat this
fruit, with its ugly looking dark swirls. It
didn’t seem right, somehow, but he didn’t
know. Maybe this was the way it was supposed
to look.
He ate some. It wasn’t very pleasant. In
fact, it was pretty terrible. This second avocado
tasted even worse than the first.
The boy went and rinsed his mouth out
with water and threw the mushy avocado
out the window.
The next day was Saturday again, but sunny.
While he was working, he couldn’t help
but notice there were still an awful lot of
people buying avocados.
Why? What was the secret? What did you
have to do to enjoy the things? Should he
risk stealing another to try avocados a third
time? Would the third try be the lucky try?
He kept working. Eventually, he was asked
to help carry a customer’s groceries to their
car, and he could see several avocados in
their shopping bag. His curiosity overcame
his shyness. He asked the customer lady
about them.
The lady seemed a little surprised, but
she smiled and said, “When an avocado
yields just a little to the touch, that’s when
they’re best for plain eating.”
She took one avocado out of the bag and
handed it to him. She said, “You try this one,
on me.”
The boy thanked her.
This avocado he didn’t have to hide. The
green skin of this perfectly ripe fruit had no
dark spots, just little yellow freckles. When
he gently poked it, it didn’t dent like the
last one, but it did give just a little like the
lady said it should.
He went and sat down on the curb in front
of the store, and he cut this avocado open.
The inside was pale creamy yellow-green.
There was not one dark streak in it. The nut
was smooth and shiny brown and came out
cleanly. It was pretty to look at. Maybe this
was why avocados were so popular? Because
when they were ready to eat, they were nice
to look at?
He almost didn’t want to eat it because it
looked so nice. But he also wanted to know
what they were supposed to taste like!
22
He ate half the avocado. The insides
were so smooth and creamy, he could lick
them from the skin. It tasted a bit like...
warm creamy ice cream would, if it didn’t
melt and it was cold and without the sweet
taste. It had a slightly nutty taste, too, and
it wasn’t... well, it wasn’t bad. The boy
guessed this avocado was just the way that
an avocado was meant to be — but...
It left a coating on his teeth and tongue
he didn’t like.
There was too much of it — even though
he only ate half —
And although it made him feel full, it really
hadn’t felt or tasted like eating anything
particular. While it was a bit like ice cream,
or nutty banana, it actually didn’t have
much taste at all.
It didn’t taste bad, but it didn’t taste very
good, either.
This colourful, perfect avocado sort of
tasted... pale. A little grey.
The boy wrapped the remaining avocado
half carefully in his clean handkerchief to
take home, so his mother could try it.
He still couldn’t understand why people
were willing to pay so much for avocados.
But he wouldn’t bother to steal any again.
He would still prefer an honest, every day
orange, or to be perfectly honest, a doughnut.
The Welcome Visitor
Poetry
Vialsy Cabrales Esparza
Lathrop, California, USA
I like to re-watch episodes of my
favorite shows when I feel sick.
It’s comforting to find myself
in fantastical, familiar worlds
with characters I’m as fond of
as family or friends.
Too often, I lose myself to fiction.
I enjoy the embrace of long weekends,
feeling secure and snug under a soft blanket
Knowing without a falter in the conviction
that I am welcome.
A repeat visitor and attentive re-listener
I can recite my favorites by heart
Like a best friend, I know what will be said
Long before the sentence even starts
I could, of course, explore anew instead
But these characters that hold me captivated,
They awaken in me a wonder and awe
to which the only response must be
inspired creation, pure and unweighted
unencumbered, understated
I acknowledge; therefore, I must create.
I acknowledge; therefore, I must create.
I acknowledge the beauty around me,
within me, the acknowledgements before
from those I’ll likely never meet
that there are stories meant to be incomplete,
characters destined to fail,
unable to reach what they need;
creators that know, the only comfort
I need (when I feel frail)
is that I will, indeed, prevail.
There was a lump
Poetry
katie pfeifer
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
There was a lump
The size of a penny
This tar lump
Staining her breasts in mammograms
Lurking for ways to cling to the nipple.
Everyone tells me they’re sorry
But how can I be sorry
When I want to get on my knees and thank whatever God that will listen
It was caught in time?
That the stain image of chemo burned tits won’t be my mother
Or the ghostly bald women
Who linger in society
Wearing the scarves where their hair was
Like a white sheet over a dead body.
The doctors comfort her
By saying she was lucky
But I could still see the fear possessing her through her eyes
Wanting to be awoken
So she didn’t have to do this.
But I inherited the fighter in me from her
The woman who won’t let me forget
She was in labor with me forty-three hours
Because I wanted to snuggle in her uterus more than climb down her
canal.
And on January 22, 2019
She made that cancer her bitch
And I get to hug her now
And not have to remember each strand of gray hair
Or the fighting she still has in her.
23
Alone
Photography
Dylan Scillia
Marlboro, New Jersey, USA
24
Crown XIX
Poetry
Theresa Tmekei Peterson
Winchester, California, USA
Recall, wretched beings, the warnings given
While I was still young and weak
A few bodies under yellow stars and red was
all the havoc I wreaked
Even on my name day when I was discovered
Shelter you still did not seek
Traveling through skies like migratory birds
You all helped me reach my peak
Embrace is not needed with air as my ride
And death, my compatriot
In truth, my job is hard when you hide inside
I encourage all to riot
Your leaders close borders and issue more
masks
As hospitals overflow
But everything is now too little too late
Your vaccines still come too slow
Millions have fallen to my gentle caress
You cannot fathom my art
You all should learn to fear my faceless
presence
Or be wheeled off in a cart
I have delivered many to my good friend,
Death
We relish your pain and cries
But those governments who had time to
prepare
Am I at fault for who died?
All this happened, more or less.
It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.
Bookshelf Prophesy
Poetry
Carl "Papa" Palmer
University Place, Washington, USA
(opening sentences)
Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut
A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
It was a bright cold day in April
1984, George Orwell
and the clocks were striking thirteen.
We started dying before the snow,
Tracks, R. Davidson
and like the snow, we continued to fall.
(closing sentences)
We are lost in darkness and distance. Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
and not enough to see by.
Cat’s Eye, Margaret Atwood
After tomorrow, another day
Are there any questions?
Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood
So that in the end, there was no end. The Tree of Man, Patrick White
We shall never again be as we were. Wings of the Dove, Henry James
25
Just Breathe 2020
Poetry
Sameeha Soora
Pleasanton, California, USA
His Limbo Soliloquy
Poetry
Carl "Papa" Palmer
University Place, Washington, USA
The pain first started with an
ache.
I watched as hope slowly died.
Everyone’s sorrow was bringing
them down.
I heard people say, “Just breathe.”
How can I breathe when instead I
fall?
This really made me think.
But how could I even think
That somehow this ache
Would still let me breathe?
Soon came the most painful fall.
George Floyd and Breonna Taylor
died.
Why must society bring us down?
The loss of social contact keeps
bringing us down.
If we all stay smiling and think
That laughter and love hasn’t
died,
This horrible, painful ache
Might finally let us breathe.
Then soon came Fall.
It felt nice to know that Mother
Nature hasn’t died.
The colorful leaves kept me from
feeling down.
But the raging fires made many
people fall.
Worrying and worrying wasn’t
helping society think
About how we can stop the fires
and this ache.
The smoke was caught in the air;
how do we breathe?
With barely any air left to breathe,
2020 decided we must deal with
another fall.
The elections were loud and kept
making us ache.
“Vote!” was what people said, to
keep us from being down.
There were times when all I could
do was think
About all the laughter and love
that had so obviously died.
But after so many people died,
Finally, there was some hope, that
allowed us to breathe.
It was making a lot of people
think.
The vaccines were bringing smiles,
as so many people fall.
Finally, we were looking up, not
down.
Is it really gone? This horrible
ache?
So many died, and people continue
to fall.
But as they say, “Breathe,” and
don’t look down.
I think, as the year ends, we are
now beyond this ache.
Actually, I like lockdown. I already was before COVID anyway,
but now I’ve got my privacy. No family feeling forced to visit
or hold vigil in my netherworld, he confides through the phone.
Both of us former Army soldiers placing us on common ground
made introductions easier with the usual “where were we when”
comparisons of duty assignments all military members embrace.
Though sharing multiple telephone calls these past seven months
since my assignment to be his companion as a hospice volunteer,
I have yet to meet him face-to-face due to pandemic restrictions.
Using his bedside number at the nursing home, I can call anytime,
not worry about visiting hours, ask if he’s busy, got time to talk.
His answer’s most always the same, Just busy here being alone,
too close to death to complain. Clicking me to speaker he begins
what he calls “me-memories from a time when when was when.”
Mostly musing of being anywhere but there, lost in an actual place,
blurring “what was with what is” behind and in front of his shadow,
recalling dreams as a younger man, of a future in past perfect tense.
And times talking of present times from his no man’s land outpost,
All days end as they begin in purgatory, today recopying yesterday,
cared for by hosts of faceless masked angels not letting me die alone.
Forgive me only thinking of myself, I just need you to hear I’m here.
Inside I’m your age, the two of us sharing a brew at the NCO club,
years ago and oceans away, comrades-in-arms talking of our day.
To me he’s the sergeant with permanent change of station orders
in transition for his final mission ending his time on active service
in hopes his God is religious and his terminal assignment is good.
26
COVID 19 Dreaming: Prince Edward Island
Photography
Kathleen URBAN
Alamo, California, USA
27
Dogwood Blossoms
Fabric
Kathleen URBAN
Alamo, California, USA
28
Evan spots her English professor, William,
parking his Jeep in the lot of Santa Barbara
City College. He throws a leather bag over
his deerskin jacket and strolls toward his
classroom. With his blond dreadlocks and
scuffed cowboy boots, Evan thinks he could
be one of the students. He waves to a passing
redhead and gazes out over the harbor.
Evan, a nineteen-year-old sophomore,
heads to the classroom with her blue dress
accenting her curves, hoping someone will
notice. She thinks how lucky she is to attend
a seaside college on a bluff overlooking the
Pacific and to be studying with William. She
knows without the money from her father’s
life insurance policy, she wouldn’t be going
to college anywhere.
William’s World Literature course is by
far her favorite class this fall; the intricate
plots of conflicted émigré lovers seem worlds
removed from the small town of Cambria
where she grew up. Evan loves reading these
stories and has decided to be an English lit
major, maybe even a writer. She’s thinking
of making that declaration to William. Evan’s
mother wanted to be a writer when she was
in college, then gave up that dream when
she married one—Evan’s father.
William has told the class he’s thirty-five
years old. Evan considers the average student
is barely out of high school, except
Linnea, the leggy Swedish exchange student
who seems to be his girlfriend.
The classroom door opens, and Linnea
strides out, heading for William.
William frowns, stops twenty feet from
Clouds
Fiction
Russel Doherty
Santa Barbara, California, USA
Evan, and waits. Linnea calls out as she
gets closer. Evan can hear her loud, accented
voice. “I thought we were having lunch
today.”
Evan wonders if she could use their relationship
in a story.
William’s eyes bounce from Linnea to Evan
and back. “I can’t really discuss that here.”
He’s fierce and quiet.
“What is happening between us? You keep
acting as if we are not lovers.”
“You told me everything changed.” William’s
voice rises. “You left in the spring saying
it was over, you would be staying home
in Sweden. So I moved on. Now you’re back
and basically telling me you’re in charge of
my relationships. That’s just not true.”
By the slump of her shoulders, Evan can
tell Linnea is at a loss. She thinks this means
William is available. Her mind starts slowly
calculating.
Linnea storms past Evan, back into the
classroom. William looks at Evan and shrugs
like he doesn’t understand. He walks by Evan
without saying anything.
William opens the door to the classroom.
Linnea runs out crying, holding her backpack
in her arms, bumps him aside, and keeps on
going. William enters the classroom. Evan
follows and sits up front. She decides to try
and talk to him after class.
Evan knows William’s wildly popular World
Lit class is attended by a cross-section of
students who mostly come for the easy A.
She wants him to know she’s different. She
loves the animated discussions caused by the
29
assigned novels: Bel Canto (South America),
A Bend in the River (Congo), The Alexandria
Quartet (Egypt), The Unbearable Lightness
of Being (Eastern Europe). The novels reflect
the culture clash of outsiders inhabiting a
society vastly different from their own. Evan
feels the storylines call out to her, begging
her to follow. William is her guide to this
mysterious universe.
She’s amazed by the lives lived in the
novels. In her discussion group, the languages
spoken, modes of transportation, dress,
housing, socialization—especially mating
habits—are all loudly dissected with the fervor
of anthropologists. Evan feels she’s found
her tribe.
She remembers William saying he has lived
this story of failed assimilation. He’s told
them his marriage ended because—as an
outlier—he tried desperately to fit into the
mostly male-centric, open-marriage faculty
culture, and failed. When he described to
them the descent into romantic hell experienced
by Tereza and Tomas in The Unbearable
Lightness of Being, he stressed, “This
is giving you a warning; watch out for your
heart.”
Evan knows that William likes to date his
students. She thinks about being that student,
just like her mother dated her father—
her professor at UCLA.
William starts in with today’s lecture.
“Some of the other English professors teach
the standard great themes of today: climate
and economically caused migrations of peoples,
multicultural clash of values, or polit-
ical decolonization. I don’t. I use my book
choices to explore Eros in the novel. Why did
the Unbelievable lovers choose to return to
Czechoslovakia after the Russians invaded?
Why not stay in democratic Switzerland,
where they would be safe? These characters
threw common sense away in an effort to
live out love to its fullest.”
Evan fantasizes about loving to the fullest.
William says, “And I want to explore the
importance of now, and the choices these
characters make to follow love. If you recall
Baba Ram Dass—an original researcher with
Timothy Leary and his LSD experiments—he
went to India, changed his name, and became
a proponent of Be Here Now. His philosophy:
Live your life now, not in your head,
not in the past or future, but in the reality
of today and who you’re with.”
This is my New World, Evan thinks. No one
has ever explained life this way.
“These are fish-out-of-water relationships:
encounters, attractions, maneuvers, couplings.
I treat these novels as gospel. Learn
from these experiences. Love is their calling;
their communication is with you.”
William’s rich, deep voice fills the room
like a Shakespearean actor, riveting and
soothing Evan at the same time. He sounds
like her father. She loves the way his hair
flops over his eyes, and he keeps throwing it
back, emphasizing his words: love…communication.
The characters in these novels have more
sex than anyone Evan has ever known. Their
relationships have been at the forefront of
her mind since school started this year. William
could be one of the characters.
As the lecture and the novel’s plots intertwine
and William’s voice resonates, Evan
hungers for her own love. Looking around
the room, she starts to formulate a plan.
The boys listen to William as if he were a
Great Explorer leading them to this New
World. The girls sigh.
“Today’s discussion novel, Bel Canto, is
about the relationship of art—particularly
music—to the stranger-in-a-strange-land
environment. Remember, in Bel Canto, the
English-speaking opera singer, the beautiful
Roxane, has fallen in love with the Japanese
businessman, Hosokawa.
“Hosokawa’s interpreter, Gen, is forced
into an unnatural position, helping a love
affair flourish between his married employer
and the American diva while they are held
captive by South American political terrorists.
And, of course, Gen is also in love with
Roxane. These novels I teach wouldn’t exist
without conflicting love triangles.”
Evan’s own parents had a fairly conventional
relationship, and then her father died
abruptly. She remembers the sad piper playing
“Danny Boy” at his funeral and the void
afterward.
She’s had two sexual relationships herself,
both pretty conflicted. The high school one
ended badly, and she’s never talked to that
guy—Zach—since. Last year’s new college
fling, Thomas, just fizzled out, leaving Evan
adrift.
She wonders how William finds these
books. Perhaps there’s a section in the bookstore
where the immigrant experience has
its own shelf. She pictures William’s house
filled with polished wooden bookcases.
Evan adores Bel Canto. Perhaps life could
imitate art, and a similar love triangle might
play out in her own life. She wonders what
kind of partner William would be. Articulate
in class, but not so considerate out of it?
William asks the class, “We all know opera
30
is a great form of art, but what is the function
of art to the characters in this novel?”
Three students yell out answers.
“Illumination.”
“Diversion.”
“Social commentary.”
Evan remembers from her reading that
art both describes and transforms human
experience. But something about William’s
question pulls at her. He’s like a child who
sees too much or wants too much. He always
talks of the lovers in the books and how they
found each other—as if it were inevitable.
She thinks he talks honestly about his life,
baring himself to the class, like he’s looking
for someone to fly too close to his flame. She
wants that flame.
And then William is right in front of her
and everyone in class stares.
“You seem so far away,” William says, his
voice a quiet, bassy undertone.
Evan, shaken, doesn’t know what happened.
Had he called on her and she hadn’t
answered? Had she drifted off?
“How did you interpret the story?”
Evan needs him to accept her. She’s not
sure why she’s being put on the spot.
She says, “Despite the hostages and the
terrorists facing death, they have to go on
living. They get through each day by Roxane
singing arias to them, everyone entranced
by her voice. Then the translator Gen and
Roxane get married at the end. It isn’t the
expected ending, yet it’s more satisfying.”
Evan can see in William’s eyes he wasn’t
expecting the analysis she’s given him.
Maybe he doesn’t see as much as she thinks.
Maybe she has something to teach him as
well.
“You have a very complete understanding
of the story,” he says. Evan is glad she’s
going to talk to him after class.
Because she knows from her reading that,
in the end, only love matters.
* * *
Later, outside, Evan waits for William.
As she waits, she watches the reflections of
passing students in a window, and the sailboats
on the sea in the background.
William comes out with his leather bag.
Evan remembers the novels. Is the same
insight needed to understand the novels necessary
to understand the teacher?
William smiles when he sees her. “I’m glad
you waited for me.”
Evan’s neck stiffens. The old cliché from
math class comes to mind, “When you assume
something, you make an ass out of you
and me.” She can’t say that, of course. But
his certainty stops her from declaring her
decision to major in English lit.
Instead, she says, “What makes you think
I was waiting for you?” William’s look shows
he didn’t expect that comeback. Evan thinks
maybe she’s made a mistake. But her tongue
has always been too fast.
“Sorry,” he says. “I meant I’m hoping you
were waiting for me.”
William’s answer disarms her. “Does a
relationship demand total honesty?”
“We’re talking relationships already?”
William now looks elated.
“I thought that’s how you interpreted
everything.”
“Not all of life, but certainly literature.”
“So maybe I was waiting for you. I had a
few questions.”
“Ask away.”
Evan looks up at the clouds to gather her
thoughts. They remind her of summer camp,
lying on her back in the grass, matching
animal crackers to the cloud shapes. What
animal is William? A cat, she decides. “Does
everyone in the English department accept
these books as important?”
William laughs. “Hardly. Half the faculty
thinks my literary heroes are interlopers who
won’t last another decade. But if we’re being
honest, I’d like to walk you to your car.”
He points to the parking lot.
Evan senses William trying to get ahead
of her, smiling to set her at ease while
attempting to control the conversation. “I
have another class, and I walk to my apartment
anyway.” Maybe he’s more like a fox.
“Could we meet after your last class? I’ll
drive you home.”
Cunning. Evan ponders this. “I don’t know
if I should accept your offer.”
“Well, we could go for coffee or tea or...?
Or you could say no. You won’t offend me.”
Evan closes her eyes and feels the sunlight
beating on her eyelids. William is smooth
and offering her an out. This almost feels
like a #MeToo moment, but she realizes she’s
the one who initiated it. Time passes. William
coughs.
When she reopens her eyes, William is
calm, awaiting her answer. She says, “I
should say no. But you probably wouldn’t
forgive me.” Evan waits to see how serious
Mr. Fox really is.
He says, “Sadness builds up in people who
are afraid to act. Most of the stories I’m
attracted to involve people whose actions
explain their wants and needs. They try to
live now, push the sadness away.” He flicks
his hair back.
She looks at her smartwatch and makes
the safe choice. “I have to go to class. It
ends at four. We could go to Starbucks after.”
“I’d like that,” William says. “I’ll meet
31
you here at four.” He nods his head and
strolls away.
As she walks to class, sniffing the ocean
air, Evan wonders if this is the start of her
real life—an older man, a professor, interested.
* * *
Starbucks is the usual: chatter, coffee
aromas, laptops, and people scattered at
tables, indie music in the background. William
escorts Evan in through the door. When
he holds it open for her and puts his hand on
the small of her back, the touch dizzies her.
They sit down with their coffees. Evan feels
expectant about where the late afternoon
might lead.
Thinking during her last class—Human
Development—that she needed to question
why William asked her here and not some
other girl, Evan has decided to try and pin
him down. She feels the need to turn the
tables on him and question his ending of the
relationship with Linnea. How to handle this?
She needs to know how he approaches love
outside of literature.
He stares as if he’s just seen her for the
first time.
Evan says, “What happened before class
with Linnea?”
“Let’s just say it didn’t work out. I moved
forward and she went backward.”
A Dave Matthews song comes on. His tenor
voice sings, “Crash Into Me.” Evan wonders if
that’s an apt metaphor for what happened.
“What do you look for in love; a heart-toheart
connection, just sex, a life partner
that you have to adjust to, or…?” She eyes
him over her coffee.
“My basic guideline is trying to stay honest
in the moment. Love for me is a struggle to
find the right person. Like this conversation
we’re having. I sort of let it happen; I leave
myself open to the possibility and hope to
learn from each of my friends.” He hands
Evan a business card, William – World Lit,
with his cell phone number.
“So we’re friends now?” She looks at the
card.
“I’d like to be,” he says.
Evan’s heart murmurs. “You said you were
divorced.”
“The culture here is very open and experimental.
My wife wasn’t willing to participate.
I felt it was holding us back. She felt it
was breaking us apart. We had a difference
of opinion.”
Evan thinks that’s almost the same answer
he gave for the breakup with Linnea. She
feels emboldened. “I thought about why you
asked me here, and I’m confused. Am I just
some random girl from this year’s class?”
“I’m sorry if I gave that impression. But
love is about acting and committing and living
in the now. I felt a strong connection to
you, the way you summarized the function
of art in Bel Canto today, and I wanted to
act on it.”
He’s smooth, but Evan isn’t convinced.
“Is love about self-realization or about the
relationship between the two people?”
“I don’t know, maybe…maybe it’s closer to
understanding myself.”
Evan thinks about her father—a one-hit
wonder with his coming-of-age novel, a big
splash with high school English teachers—
who slowly lost his fierceness and sank into
second-guessing himself when he switched
to literary fiction. He made enough money to
buy the cheapest house in Cambria and then
barely earned enough to keep them in it.
Evan’s mother is still waiting tables.
“Are you a writer also?” she asks.
“I like to think of myself as one.”
Evan hasn’t thought about dating a writer.
She looks away at people moving around
their tables, leaving, sitting, touching each
other. The sun slants in through a window
and turns a square of the gray carpet white.
She thinks of herself as a girl finding her
place in the world. How would she handle
being married to a writer and teacher in an
open-marriage culture? Not very well. Zach,
in high school, had said, “I want to date
other girls also,” while he was still with her.
That didn’t work.
“Who were you meant to be?” she asks
William.
“My parents were born in Belgium. They
named me after Guillaume de Machaut, an
early-Renaissance troubadour. ‘Guillaume’
is French for ‘William.’ Anyway, he wrote
poems about love, some set to music, called
motets. Most of my life, I’ve tried to envision
how to be that person here in the twenty-first
century. They say that in the love
poetry of every age, the woman longs to be
weighed down by the man’s body.” William
fingers his dreadlocks.
Evan giggles. “My God, that’s terrible.
That line is straight out of The Unbearable
Lightness of Being. Has it ever actually
worked for you as a pickup line?” Evan has a
wry smile on her face. William isn’t smiling.
“Not really. But if I’m bothering you, I can
just go.” William takes the top off his cup
and blows on his coffee.
Evan thinks, Thin skin. She realizes William
is used to the other person being impressed
by his worldly conversation, his position
as a teacher. He doesn’t think of himself
as someone who could be unoriginal and
worthy of being a punch line. “Well, what
would you say to me if I used lines from a
32
novel in conversation?”
“I’d say you were very literate.”
“But not very original.” Evan is on firmer
ground now. She doesn’t feel William is
getting ahead of her anymore. This is sort
of how debate was for her in high school,
the defense of your ideas, punching holes in
the other person’s argument. “Can I say this
sounds like Unbearable again? That dating
you might be the equivalent of my going to
a foreign country where I don’t know the
rules?”
William says, “Maybe we should start this
conversation over again.”
Evan feels William doesn’t have a clue
how badly he is coming off to her. “Are you a
musician and poet like your namesake?”
“I play a little jazz, some Jason Mraz.”
He’s defensive; less of a fox now, more human,
more malleable, perhaps a duck.
“Do you write your own love poetry?”
“Only when I find my muse. It doesn’t
happen often.”
Evan decides she’s being told she’s not his
muse. She ends the conversation.
* * *
Afterward, walking the bluffs, Evan wonders
if she should’ve stayed. When she said,
“Sure, let’s have coffee again,” and got up
to leave, she was certain there was a flash
of anger in William’s eyes. Maybe no girl has
walked away from him before. She can’t
decide which character William thinks he’s
playing, or if he thinks he’s the author of his
own story and no one else gets to know the
plot.
As she smells the new-mown lawn, she
thinks, Still, it’s nice to be wanted.
What adjusts the power between people
in relationships? Who’s in charge at any given
time? Evan thinks one of the big secrets of
human behavior is that you can’t love until
you can feel the other person. The electricity
has to be there. You grow together, you
grow apart, and you learn the boundaries of
human connections.
So she won’t really know unless she gives
William a shot. She sighs.
She knows we’re all connected in human
relationships, whether we like it or not.
They’re important to us, sustaining our lives.
And, just like the other two relationships
she’s had, Evan thinks no one is exactly who
you thought they were once you get close
to them. You either adjust or you don’t. It’s
both the wonder of life and the gulf between
yourself and another.
Maybe the only connection she wants out
of William is literature.
The air is warmer now, the ocean sparkling
with thousands of diamond reflections.
Feathery cirrus clouds float by in the background.
A horn sounds from the parking lot
down below; Evan sees the distant people
walking the harbor shops, miniature creatures
like in a movie. Further out, seagulls
ride the updrafts above the breakwater.
Stand-up paddlers break the vastness of the
Pacific. Oil derricks and the Channel Islands
dot the horizon. Pelicans fly by in a high V
formation, searching for fish.
Evan is reminded of Icarus, who flew too
close to the sun. She wonders if her wings
could also come unglued.
A different version of the New World
comes to her. I can write my own story, she
thinks, without the triangle, without the
conflicts.
She pulls out his business card and texts
William. “Sorry, I can’t join you for coffee
next week.”
Maybe she does have something to teach
as well.
The wispy, shapeless clouds drift away.
33
Virgin Cocktails
Poetry
Caleb Gonsalves
Roseville, California, USA
I sit watching hopeful high school students
Set up for their homemade remote prom.
Twinkly lights and beautiful white silk
Decorations of choice for their night of
fame.
Ready to vote for their queen and king,
Before they realize how meaningless these
titles are.
I watch making cocktails out of coke and
lemonade
Thinking about one particular girl,
and how I’d like to take her dancing.
I check my read receipts,
Confirming our new normal,
One where we don’t go dancing.
We peaked at fear and self doubt,
Which forced us to dance on our own
At dances that weren’t made for us
Missing out on what could have been,
We ended without beginning
Never knowing the magic of prom
The Unpaid Philosopher or the
Typewriting Monkey
Poetry
Jay O'Neal
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
The homeless philosopher outside Tims isn’t
sure about self-preservation anymore.
If life is lived subjectively through the senses,
he rhetorically begins,
through one’s face
and one’s hands,
*he extends a hand and stares at the dirty
fingernails attached*
then how can any of it
objectively matter?
Why even bother?
Now he aims his bright, intelligent eyes at
me,
two flashlights from a filthy face.
I shrug.
Though I’ve wrestled with the questions
myself, I’m not too sure either.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he says
as clearly as a crystal and as concisely as a
dictionary.
“It really doesn’t make enough sense to
bother with at all.”
I can tell he’s been at the problem for a
while.
During the pause, I ask if he wants anything
from inside.
He’s worth his weight in gold,
I think,
entering the Tims, ordering for us, then
leaving.
Fortunately, he doesn’t waste
his words on greetings or thanks.
Instead, he promptly shares a deeper lesson
learned from musing whilst I was inside.
“I guess just don’t panic, eh?”
I nod.
He nods.
“The key is not to panic,” he concludes,
taking his four-by-four from me and setting it
beside him on the cold cement.
He hasn’t said if this new conclusion
is connected to his original problem,
but I suppose that’s up to me to determine.
I could waste my life with him,
I realize;
I could waste my life
here at Jarvis and Carlton the way
Plato wasted his with that Socrates fellow.
But what a poor student I’d be,
ignoring his initial premise of living through
the senses
just for vicarious life-lessons.
What a poor student that’d make me, to forgo
my subjective experience.
With that in mind, I unlock my bike.
My teacher is too deep in thought
to bother with a goodbye,
his grubby face twisted with what
most would mistake for pain
or
a desperate need to shit.
Afterward
Poetry
Tufik Shayeb
Phoenix, Arizona, USA
Restless branches, creak
in the wind.
Swallow too much dry air,
hear a clicking in the throat.
Confuse the click
for a tick, and
believe there is a squirrel
inside.
Desperate,
swallow even harder.
Try to chase out
the goddamn thing,
but then give up
looking for enough saliva.
34
“And to your right, you’ll see our statue
dedicated to the Drabblewood Daemon.
Crafted locally, the design was inspired by
multiple eyewitness accounts recorded since
his first sighting exactly twenty-five years
ago!”
Camera flashes reflected in the bronze
casting of the half-bat, half-rodent stretching
on his clawed hind legs to sniff the air. In
the center of the gawking sightseers, Irving
smiled. Her grin’s reflection distorted in the
crook of the statue’s extended wing while
the guide continued her rehearsed trivia.
“To the statue’s right is the Dalby Street
alleyway—the daemon’s first known sighting
where an unfortunate group of bystanders
was brutally mauled in the darkness!”
“Bystanders,” the word slid through Irving’s
teeth. So that’s what they were now?
She blotted her nose with a scented tissue,
longing for the allergy pill left on her hotel
nightstand. The cornfields that surrounded
Drabblewood were agony in the fall. She slid
her face mask back on, ignoring the snorts
from those nearby. If they knew who she
was, they’d hold their tongue.
“And the swath of pine’s a little further
back is where bloodied clumps of fur were
found hanging from the branches following
the attack. It cemented the daemon’s love
for flesh, though what exactly the slain creature
was remains a mystery to this day.”
Camera flashes blanched the peeling tree
bark as the tour guide led the group through
the pines. The tourists stuck together, Irving
noticed, and hesitated with each step on the
A Matter of Fact
Fiction
Charlene Pepiot
Piqua, Ohio, USA
spongy needles—as though they expected the
daemon to lurch out of the ground and claim
his next victim. For fun, Irving stiffened and
snapped her head to the side. A family beside
her flinched and turned the same way.
Irving chuckled at the commoners, and they
laughed back with less enthusiasm. Irving
wasn’t scared of these woods. Not anymore.
The tour guide droned on with her rehearsed
trivia, each tense pause and fearful
stutter coming off as painfully artificial. Most
folks would connect her young face and lackluster
presentation as summer help making
a quick buck for college, but Irving knew the
folks of Drabblewood didn’t leave for university.
Indeed, they rarely left at all.
“And just behind me, you’ll see the
infamous cornfield of the Cashen family! It
was here the daemon revealed his startling
human intelligence and fire breathing capabilities
when he seared ‘DON’T EVER FOR-
GET’ into the crop twenty-five years ago. You
probably recognize it as the place Monster
Seeker’s host Gavin Gothel camped out in
the season seven premiere and found the
daemon’s eight-toed scratches gouged into
the dirt.”
Having heard enough, Irving slipped away
from the excited comments and camera
flashes. She backtracked through the pines
to reenter the town. Stopping at the daemon’s
statue, a cruel laugh escaped her.
“Ever the skeptic, aren’t ya?”
It was Irving’s turn to flinch. The voice behind
her awakened a long dormant helplessness
she struggled to contain. Her group was
35
still visible past the pines, and Irving forced
her shoulders to straighten.
“Ever the nosy bully, Harry? I see time
hasn’t changed you enough—” Irving’s retort
faltered as she faced the man. Who was this
bearded, hunched fellow whose beer belly
strained against tight overalls caked in animal
feces and bits of straw? Surely not Harry
Cashen, the athlete who could trip her in the
school’s hallways and rob kids of their pudding
at lunch because his family rented out
their farmland to everyone’s parents? Even
his voice sounded off, as though he hadn’t
been the one barking orders for a long time.
Irving knew how Drabblewood’s labor could
warp you, but somehow, Harry’s taunting
face had been immortalized in her memory
as ever youthful and cruel. Glancing at her
designer vest and Gucci pants, Irving turned
back to the statue. “The cast is quite detailed.
Did Jeff create the mold?”
“Yeah, he’s made a business of selling
handmade souvenirs and the like,” Harry
hunched his shoulders beneath the statue’s
shadow and stroked a flask of salt titled
Daemon Repellent. His alleyway encounter
had scarred more than his arms—the poor
“bystander”.
“Good for him, I know that was Jeff’s
dream,” Irving nodded. “The wings were a
nice addition. He can fly away whenever he
wants now.”
“Actually, there have been reports of the
daemon swooping down on night joggers
with very wing-like appendages,” Harry lifted
his head in a poor attempt at reclaiming
his withered power. “I guess the facts don’t
reach bigwig reporters in New York?”
“Considering I published the first daemon
sighting, I think I would know the facts,” Irving
said coolly. Last I checked, those bloody
clumps in the trees were just a few tufts of
hair.
“Really?” Harry echoed. “Like the facts
you televised to the world claiming murder
hornets were going to wipe out the Midwest?
Or the facts that we’d drop dead if we went
outside during last year’s flu outbreak—the
one conveniently televised before the elections?”
Harry spread his arms wide, and
a few passing tourists glanced their way.
“We’re well acquainted with your ‘facts’,
Irving. Judging by your mask, I assume you
consider that toxic smog cloud the latest
apocalypse?”
“Drabblewood is directly in its path, and
the levels of pollution will have bystander’s
dead of cancer in five years,” Irving insisted,
though Harry’s eye roll betrayed him for
a lost cause. Irving pulled her mask down
so Harry could watch her pronounce each
syllable. “Nevertheless, you can’t deny my
influence. The network wants to do a series
on urban legends and I twisted a lot of arms
to get the Drabblewood Daemon chosen over
the Mothman.” Backing off, Irving’s eyes fell
to a misplaced pebble on the sidewalk. Her
shoe orbited it in a slow circle. “I figured
the publicity would benefit the town, you
know?”
“Drabblewood isn’t interested in your
sensationalized fake news. We’re a town of
logic and facts.” Harry spat on the sidewalk
and stalked off.
Irving watched his back until a group of
tourists blocked her view. Something twisted
in her stomach that she fought to repress.
Swallowing, her gaze returned to the winged
half-rat, half-bat statue.
“Logic, eh?” she said a little louder than
necessary.
*
The tour group had moved on by the time
Irving’s conversation was finished. No matter,
she had been raised in these streets. A
few half-remembered turns later had her
questioning that sediment. The Drabblewood
of Irving's youth was more elusive than the
daemon himself. The cracked sidewalks and
peeling paint of years past had been washed
away by waves of tourist revenue and replaced
with supposedly haunted hotels, local
museums and gift shops. A former tunnel
sprayed with expletives was now adorned
with an honorary caricature of the daemon
writing “DON’T EVER FORGET” with his sixwebbed
toes in blood. It must have been
done before the Monster Seeker’s episode
confirmed the daemon had eight claws per
paw.
“Lassie, would you care for an infrared
flashlight?” An old man with a cart of Daemon
Bobbleheads wheeled up beside Irving.
The grease stains on his t-shirt hinted that
his previous job had been less than desirable.
“It’s the only true repellent against
the daemon, contrary to what he claims.”
The man scowled at a stand across the street
where a shriveled fellow in a straw hat was
selling vials titled TrueER Daemon Repellent.
“What does the light do?” Irving asked,
flipping one on and off.
“The daemon can’t stand the infrared,”
the man explained as Irving handed him the
cash. No one could say she didn’t support
tourism. “He can only see certain hues on
the color spectrum.”
Irving repressed a smile. “Can he now?”
36
“You ought to show some respect, lassie,”
the man warned. “The daemon doesn’t forgive
those who forget. See what became of
that Harry boy—denying a sports scholarship
just to show his devotion to the daemon!”
Monster Seekers did mention that the
alleyway attack had thoroughly rattled
Harry, though Irving had not realized the full
extent. She had left for New York just as the
daemon craze was kicking off, a choice she
couldn’t regret while watching the distant
corn swaying in the breeze for miles.
“If you’re a doubter,” the man continued
with a frown. “I’d leave before nightfall—
for your own sake.”
Irving focused on the old man’s face. Had
she known him before? Five years in the
fields could pile on enough wrinkles to warp
anyone beyond recognition, let alone twenty-five.
The man’s nose scrunched, and as he
leaned forward, Irving guessed the air-conditioned
sets hadn’t changed her enough.
“Irving?”
“Yes?” Irving said cautiously. Hopefully.
“You remember me?”
“Oh yes, Drabblewood’s hotshot who left
for the smoke and mirrors of New York!”
“ATN national news, sir.” Irving’s shoulders
slumped.
The man pried the light from Irving’s
hand. He wadded up her dollars and threw
them against her chest. They fell to the sidewalk.
The wind whisked them away.
“I don’t do business with crooks.” The
man's fist banged against the cart with a
force that rattled his infrared lights.
Irving’s mind raced with a million contacts
that could generate a million stories on
this brutal act of harassment. Instead, she
smoothed out her vest, bid the man a fine
day and melded into a passing crowd.
Irving followed the tourists into a rustic-styled
restaurant with an electric sign
blinking The Daemon Diner. Through the
window, Irving watched the man's competitor
in the straw hat and Harry join him on
the sidewalk. She stepped a little closer to
the woman in line ahead of her. There were
worse fates than being an outsider.
Staying amongst the hungry tourists
seemed her best option. Counting the calories
in her head, Irving chose an overpriced
tourist salad with homemade Dastardly
Daemon Dressing and flipped through several
hundreds before plucking out a twenty to
give the cashier. The woman at the resister
surprised her.
“Grace!” Irving gasped. “How are you?”
Grace swiped aside a black curl that had
escaped her hairnet. Her red lips parted in
a perfect ‘O’. “Irving? I barely recognized
you!”
The pleasant surprise in her voice was
encouraging. Irving rested against the counter
covered in little cartoons of an older,
wingless daemon rendition. “Given your high
school baking endeavors, could this fine eatery
be yours?”
“Someone has to feed the tourists, thank
god!” Grace chuckled. “Before this daemon
craze, I was facing a life feeding chickens.
Poor Harry took that route, you wouldn’t
recognize him now if you two met.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already had the displeasure.”
Both women laughed, though Grace
tapped her fake nails against the counter.
“Can you blame him, though? You did announce
on election day that your networks
opposing candidate was arrested for drunk
driving, yet conveniently neglected to mention
it happened over 20 years ago.” Grace
shook her finger at Irving. “That’s pretty low,
naughty girl.”
“I don’t write the scripts,” Irving
shrugged, conscious of the heat spilling from
the kitchen.
“Of course. You’re the innocent messenger
girl.” Grace laughed again, though the words
stung. She leaned over the counter. “Seriously
though, who’s behind the story about that
smog cloud? The catastrophic conundrum
that threatens us all?”
“No one’s behind it,” Irving thought of the
reports that hadn’t been released yet. Of
the mutations. Children with organs born on
the outside—their tiny hearts beating faster
and faster until they popped from the stress.
Eight legged calves trying to stand, to suckle
without jaws. “Grace, modern science
doesn’t know the full effects of inhaling
those toxins, and what they’ve discovered is
nothing to brush off.”
“Sure.”
“Grace, I mean it! The reports—”
“—claimed it was no big deal until the politician’s
ears perked. Now it’s Armageddon!”
Grace sighed a little. “We’ll be fine. Even
if the smog is as bad as your so-called news
claims, we have the daemon to protect us.”
“Protect?”
Grace’s smile faded. “You wouldn’t know,
of course, but since the daemon appeared
Drabblewood has had no catastrophes. The
tornado that decimated our neighbors last
year miraculously spared us, and we had no
casualties during that so-called pandemic.
We’ve had nothing but prosperity, and I
doubt some leaked gas will change that.”
“Grace,” Irving started, but a woman
whose Daemon t-shirt still had the price
tag attached coughed pointedly behind her.
Irving stepped aside for the customer, noting
37
Grace’s bright smile as she bid her a good
day. Grace was living her dream, and that
success would further spill into the town.
One day, getting up before dawn to feed
slop to the pigs wouldn’t be an option for
the children predestined to run these happy
little tourist traps. Grace handed Irving her
salad. Her voice fell to a whisper.
“You’ve been reporting for The Man too
long. You should come to our festival honoring
the daemon tonight! It’s locals-only, but
being born and raised here has to count!”
An insider look? Irving could picture the
headlines, the masses flocking into Drabblewood
to buy merch and support her former
neighbors. Not to mention she could warn
the community! Irving had never been one to
hesitate when an opportunity presented itself.
The successful took, and Irving instantly
accepted Grace’s proposition.
After a most average but overpriced meal,
Irving pocketed Grace’s handwritten directions
and followed the tourists-turned-meatshields
outside. Harry and the old men had
disappeared, though Irving felt unseen eyes
watching each step as she strolled down the
sidewalk. Success was not for the foolish
either, and Irving was well accustomed to
prying eyes watching for the smallest slipup.
But this was different. Drabblewood
shunned the scandals and internet rumors
her antagonists exploited. These eyes didn’t
seek airy gossip; they were hardened from
physical labor and sacrifice. Irving knew her
status in the world of spotlights and politics
would not protect her here.
Glancing around a final time, Irving
ducked down an alley she’d entered often
years ago. Back when a “weird girl” like her
who walked alone and dared to draw stick
figures laughing beside skyscrapers needed a
quick escape.
She came out beside a forest untouched
by noticeable change. This was Daemon
Country. Home. She strutted forward and
collided with a spiderweb. Swatting it aside
sent her tripping over a root and crashing
into a thorn bush. She pulled herself up with
a scowl—silk pants and vests weren’t made
for this world.
Picking bits of the web from her hair (and
only screaming once when she pulled out
the spider), Irving pressed further into the
woods. Twenty-five years had done little to
alter the twisted trunks of ancient oaks, and
as the memories of stumbling down the hills
to hide from Harry’s gang reasserted themselves,
Irving found her footing and strode
forward with bolder steps.
At last, she stopped by a rocky overhang
above a little creek. Her ankles wobbled
as she leaped across the slippery steppingstones
and made it to the other side
of the bank. Her hand traced the wall of
smoothed limestone extending along most
of the waterfront. As a kid, she had thought
it unclimbable. Now, it barely rose above
her waist. Everything here seemed so much
smaller.
Somewhere, a rabbit’s panicked screech
ended mid-note. It effectively stopped
Irving’s nostalgic trip, reminding her she
hadn’t come here to relive memories—but to
change history.
Irving’s hands shook as she bent back a
mass of branches drooping over a section of
the limestone wall. She stared into a small,
dark hole just big enough for a raccoon to
wiggle inside. Red eyes stared back.
“Time to come out, little fella.” Irving
curled her lip. “Did you miss me?”
Slowly, as though reaching through time,
she pulled the furry gray mass out into the
fading rays of sunset.
Far from the menacing figure whispered
about in gift shops, the daemon was smaller
in person. Irving had forgotten how cheesy
her mother’s fur coat looked wrapped
around the plastic cat skeleton. Not her
greatest work, though Harry and his posse
had been fooled when they stumbled into
the alleyway drunk that night. The scars
they sustained from fumbling in the dirt
over broken bottles had morphed into claw
marks with each retelling. It had aroused
the town’s suspicions only amplified by
her scattering tufts of her dog's shed hair
around the pines near the schoolyard. The
mauled raccoon taken for a victim had been
an unexpected bonus, and combined with
her burning “DON’T EVER FORGET” into the
Cashen’s cornfield, the Drabblewood Daemon
was born. Even back then Irving knew how
truth could be birthed from well-placed lies.
Was it dishonest? Perhaps, but the daemon
had breathed life rather than corn dust
into Drabblewood and placed the otherwise
unnoteworthy town on the map. He made
dreams reality and offered an escape Irving
had needed to forge for herself. Surely the
good more than compensated for a little
dishonesty?
“Only now you’re hurting this town,”
Irving ran her pampered nails over the mildewed
fabric. “They adore you, but a hoax
can’t ward off a scientifically proven cloud
of radioactive doom,” Irving chuckled bitterly
at her joke. The skeleton’s paw splintered
beneath her two fingers. Decades of winter
hadn’t shown the plastic kindness. “I’ll have
to come clean so Drabblewood will take this
smog seriously.”
Irving pulled a bag from her pocket and
38
shook it open in the light breeze. How
could a force so gentle be leading toward
something so deadly? As Irving lowered the
daemon into her bag, a clump of gray fabric
fell into the creek and floated away. The
breeze faded, but a nearby bush shuttered
ever so slightly—or maybe that was Irving’s
imagination. Tightening her fingers around
the plastic handles, she backed away toward
civilization.
Night had settled over Drabblewood when
Irving emerged from the alleyway. Scattered
tourists roamed the streets with night vision
goggles and bait in hopes of luring out the
daemon. Irving slipped past the distracted
amateurs to the Cashen cornfield on Drabblewood’s
outskirts. A half-moon cloaked the
surrounding corn in an unearthly silver as
Irving approached. Several stalks had been
torn out to create an entrance guarded by
two men in oil-stained jeans. Irving’s free
hand fumbled in her pocket for Grace’s note,
and after reading and rereading the directions,
she approached. The men stepped
aside as she entered the maze.
Night’s creatures chirped and gurgled
around Irving as the path widened into a
spacious clearing. Infrared lanterns had been
hung on poles to cast a red hue over empty
bottles and townsfolk conversing by tables.
A long banner reading “25th anniversary”
stretched along the surrounding wall of corn.
As Irving scanned the crowd for Grace, her
eyes found faces she hadn’t seen in years.
Many turned away, though some mustered
fake smiles. Loathe her all they want— Irving
knew they could never escape her legacy.
Her smirk faded as the doubts resurfaced.
How would they react to the daemon’s fabricated
origins? He offered them hope that
the impossible could become reality—if she
broke the backbone of Drabblewood, would
the town ever pull itself back up? After
graduation, when she had packed her bags
for New York with the town’s jeering in her
ears, Irving had burned “DON’T EVER FOR-
GET” into the field to retain some hold on
the place she had never belonged. Did she
dare break the finite link that connected her
with the sprawling woods and people of her
youth? Though memories of Harry tossing her
smashed journalism tapes into miles of flat,
inescapable fields reigned in Irving’s mind,
in some weird way Drabblewood was still
home.
Irving stopped by a campfire where Harry
huddled, stroking his salt. His eyes kept
glancing to the shadows with none of the
arrogance he’d exhibited in the daylight.
The daemon’s first and only intended target
was far from a threat now. Irving had seen
maliciousness beneath spotlights and smoky
rooms, and Harry’s high school shenanigans
just couldn’t compare. He was but a simple
mind from a simple town.
As Harry rubbed his crusted nose, Irving
knew she had haunted him, and everyone,
long enough. Her fingers tightened around
the bag, reminding herself of the smog cloud
that would extinguish everyone if they failed
to protect themselves.
“Excuse me,” Irving called over the blasting
stereo in the background. Eyes from all
directions locked on her with equal animosity,
though this was nothing compared to
the backlash she’d received after inflating
the numbers for murder hornet fatalities.
“So you recognize me? Good. Then you
know I have access to a substantial amount
of data—all of which points to a disastrous
fallout for whoever inhales the encroaching
smog cloud. You must take precautions before
it reaches you!”
“Ah yes, like those killer mutant dandelions
you warned the world about?” the old infrared
seller lowered his drink to shout. “Or
your shocking infection rate for last year’s
flu outbreak?”
Irving bit her lip. Fresh blood pooled
around her teeth. “Perhaps the scripts I read
from exaggerated threats in the past, but I
promise you that this is real!”
“Flaunt your lies all you want.” Harry
clutched his salt. “We have real proof the
daemon will protect us.”
“No science has proven his existence!” Irving
stomped her foot on the tilled dirt. “As
much as Monster Seekers claims otherwise,
any legit investigator lists the scratch marks
and fur as inconclusive!”
“Exactly,” Grace shouldered past two
men in overalls to stand beside Harry. “He
transcends modern science, making your socalled
facts irrelevant.”
“Idiots! You’ll all be killed!” Irving shouted,
stunned by Grace’s confidence as she
set her box of cupcakes on the refreshment
table. Grace, whose ACT Science score was a
perfect 36, considered the daemon a messiah
rather than tourist fodder? The surrounding
stupidity was suffocating, and Irving
fought to keep her tone professional as she
lifted the daemon from the bag.
“See here, this is your mighty protector!
The puppet I controlled twenty-five years
ago in the alley on Dalby Street! He is falling
apart, but I intend on saving you ignorant
fools again!”
Her words settled on open mouths and
stiff shoulders. The stereo’s Country playlist
seemed painfully misplaced for the occasion.
Grace was the first to speak.
“Nonsense. That looks nothing like the
39
daemon.”
“You read the reports,” Irving chided,
growing annoyed. “My reports published to
further the hoax!”
“The fur is gray,” someone challenged.
“Everyone knows it’s a gnarled, stringy black
color.”
Everyone knows? The nerve of these commoners!
“You dare reduce our beloved daemon to
some makeshift prop?” Harry shouted, glancing
around the surrounding corn.
Irving let the insult slide, for the townsfolk
were muttering amongst one another,
and she didn’t like the way the red lighting
reflected in the pits of their eyes.
“Grace,” Irving turned to the woman she
had considered a friend. “You know me, you
know this is nonsense!”
“He told us to never forget,” Grace twisted
a stray curl. “Your disbelief betrays him.”
“We haven’t forgotten you, daemon!”
Harry wailed into the night. “Don’t let this
skeptic evoke your wrath upon us!”
The town approached Irving as a unified
front. Hadn’t they always, even back then?
An army of cold scowls demanding she take
up a shovel and stop her delusions of grandeur.
Mocking her smiling stick-figure drawings
with her beside the Statue of Liberty
and other landmarks foreign to the local
farmland? Ripping apart the paper as Irving
cried and cried on the floor, thinking this
laughing face had been a friend she could
trust with her dreams? Not letting her forget
that she was too small, too independent, too
unique, to fit their standards—even when she
pulled weeds from the fields until her hands
grew bloodied and calloused?
Fear and sorrow fought for control as
Irving stepped away from the red faces. Her
desperate lie was breaking away and growing
into something else entirely. Something she
couldn’t control. Irving wasn’t accustomed
to being powerless. Not anymore.
“You’re all insane. It’s just a hoax! A simple,
stupid hoax that can’t save you!”
“Then let’s quiz her on the daemon,” the
female tour guide called in the back. “As the
so-called creator, surely she would know his
history?”
“Yes, yes!” Irving spluttered. Her back
thumped against the solid wall of cornstalks.
“Does the Drabblewood Daemon have
wings?” Grace pressed.
“Of course not!”
Grace and Harry shared a glance. Too
late, Irving remembered the statue and its
sprawling, bronze bat wings. Wings based on
eyewitness accounts.
“No,” Irving moaned as the believers’
approached her with sooty hands clutching
pitchforks and half-empty bottles. The liquid
inside turned the color of old blood beneath
the infrared lights. Her wingless prop
dropped in the dirt. “There were no wings.
There were never wings! That’s the truth!
That’s the honest truth!”
But the truth had warped, she realized too
late.
Climate is a
Changing
Poetry
Alexandra Bartholomew
Reston, Virginia, USA
The fires are raging
The dams are bursting
The deserts are growing
The snow is falling where it shouldn’t be
The coral is dying
The sky’s turned apocalyptic red
The ocean is swelling
90% of life may soon be dead
The water’s been poisoned
The fish are belly up
Companies won’t be reasoned
With blood in their cups
The climate’s a changing
We could have done something
Should have done something…
I would have done something
If I had any power.
Still Life
Sonnet
Richard Stimac
Maplewood, Missouri, USA
I’d cruise my bike along the earthen levee
And watch the towboats push with or against
The current. Standing there, my boy’s mind
heavy
With coming, going, watching, still, I sensed
My shifting, not the laden barges’ sway.
Illusions of self-motion trick us all.
We assume life fixed, that we choose our way.
Maybe my watching those shoal-draft boats
crawl
Ground fear in me, that dread will lead to
loss
Of freedom, of choice, of time held. It
seemed
Fixed, calmed, the earth at rest. It’s me
who’d cross
From point to reciprocal point. I dreamed
Of space firm, of time with no start, no end,
No sorrow, no loss, no sin to amend.
40
Vacant Sea
Photography
Steve Zimmerman
Bothell, Washington, USA
41
Apiology
Poetry
James Ph. Kotsybar
Vandenberg Village, California, USA
A
bee
can bite
the leaf of
a tomato plant
to encourage it into bloom.
When bees approach a flower, the static charge of wings
turns back legs into a velvet magnet to attract and carry pollen to the hive.
After a hundred million years, they’ve become expert
at selecting which plants will thrive
providing nectar
and other
foodstuffs
for
them.
Parks
Poetry
Nezrin Hasanly
Concord, California, USA
When I was a kid, parks were a fun and lively
place
I could never get enough of the slides
I always had a cheerful smile on my
face
Now I'm an adult, and parks have become my
escape
I keep going on the swings and swing so
high
hoping it'll free me from this world and
launch me into space
I wish I could go back in time and be
carefree again
Formed
from
the wasp,
they evolved
into colonies
developing social order,
language (dance), architecture, food storage, and many
of the things we call human inventions and institutions, like patriotism.
Each and every worker would give her life for the hive —
Hive held over jelly-fed queen,
who through pheromones’
tyranny
directs
hive
ops.
42
A Moth in the Light
Collage
Jennifer Frederick
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
43
Keep Dreaming
Photography
Olga Sushchik
Pleasanton, California, USA
44
A Gull Told Me
Poetry
Michael O'Brien
Chesterfield, New Jersey, USA
With me I would love to spend my time.
Some, upon seeing me, alone, in a cafe
might have thought it sad, and that,
they were glad.
Thinking, I have my people,
and I’m not lonely that way.
When I was by myself, I
was never alone.
Oh, how I would love feeling my thoughts cascade
from the wonder of being alive.
In this universe and into this consciousness
I would dive. My every sense receiving
into only me, the moments of a drifting mind.
That can’t be shared,
Thinking of how I did spend my time.
I was such a good friend of mine.
Such fond memories, of sitting by myself.
On a bench in the park.
Birds flying in the blue sky.
Tree branch marionettes, telling the
leaves, to dance if you please.
Ducks on the pond.
Floating feathered vessels, drifting aimlessly.
I was non-human, another part
of the landscape
to be painted.
Letting my mind out for a stroll.
Thoughts fluttering and swirling.
With no place to go.
This is how I would love to spend my time.
I was such a good friend of mine.
45
The Slide
Shape Poetry
Diane Thiel
Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA
Sometimes to avoid
conflict, we might let it slide.
Some of us, over time, have developed
quite a smooth side, that will slide the muck thrown
down off of us, leaving barely a trace to an outside eye.
But eventually, it becomes clear
that not everything can slide.
Some things are just too big,
and if we try, it would crush the slide,
rupture a fissure in the ground.
No one would know
how to fix such a deep rift,
heading all the way down to an abyss.
Clearly, at least to some discerning eyes,
such a slide would be too dangerous.
The black and yellow hazard tape
all around the slide
would become a permanent
fixture in the park.
So if I can’t let this one slide
into that chasm, I know I have to speak,
but from too much experience, I also know
exactly where this will slide, regardless—
what this will trigger, with such debris
having collected here for years.
Hard to watch, but easy to predict
the mud flow that will follow,
taking everything with it.
46
Digital Collage Art
Digital Art
Ilaria Cortesi
Shanghai, China
Everything
Fiction
Matthew Berg
Beech Bluff, Tennessee, USA
It wasn't good, and she knew it. Every attempt
was a miserable failure...to her anyway.
One idea. One stroke. One more color;
yet every painting done fell apart...to her.
It was this way until a revelation hit her
while painting again: Just paint everything,
whether it's good to you or not, so she did.
In painting what she did, joy returned. Her
results were less than amazing, but with each
painting done for the love of creating that
gradually changed.
Broken. Ugly. Failure was prominent.in.every.work.
A weld snapped. A bolt would not
tighten. Every design repulsive! He tried and
tried, adding more pressure to himself; until
one day when it all changed. Everything.
Just create everything, whether it's great to
you or not, so he did. He woke the next day
and listened in his spirit as inspiration spoke
to him. Then he created. The results were
pitiful at first, then became awe-inspiring in
each creation made. Joy however was always
present, remembering the reason he sculpted
once more each time.
An old lady was in need. A metal ramp had
to be made, and no one helped, until the
news reached the painter and the sculptor.
A mutual friend got word of this need. He
relayed it to them. Wanting to help, they set
to work. The metal sculptor built it, and she
painted it: beautiful and tasteful with flowers.
At the need met (and the beautiful designs)
the old woman was filled with gratitude as
her joy returned. She could access the outside
with her wheelchair and be encouraged by the
flowers, all because two people gave everything...with
joy.
Finding the T in the Center of Motown
Poetry
Thea Schiller
Somers, New York, USA
Tender, touching tenacity with also temerity,
Totally terrific, typically telling, of lives not
so smooth but with such smooth music.
Telepathic telepathy,
Tuning and tapping and tempering the crazed
emotions,
The Subjugations knowing inside the tummies
and knowing all the secrets of the Universe.
Trinidad and Tobago, places to go to hear
calypso,
But Motown,
Tight friendships and loyalty,
Melodic tops of the sunrises, sunsets
Proclaiming colors of black, blue, red, and
ecstasy.
The tipping point for brother Tempo
Holding a torch.
Thine own story be told,
To see your truths, too.
Tickled in the Sixties
Floating on tire tubes,
Iridescent blue in on the back of emerald
green turtles.
Here’s to the dream and to the love,
The unstoppable timetable of your alarm
clock where you set it
to tickle one’s fancy
47
Teachers of tick tock,
Around the clock, the trip around the
numbers to go past midnight,
To make it to morning and 6:00.
Tears, too thirsty, but thematic and thorough
become thoughtful,
And make Tea for two.
Not testy but trustworthy
And teeming with letters, with good partying,
totally into
transition of
Pure theology.
The sounds of T in the middle of Motown
Transport us
To the freedom train
Away from cussing,
into tooling
To make the task doable
The talk piece
Is having Time for everything
to turn, turn beyond Ecclesiastics
to stretch our homes to yours,
All thirsty for the golden answer of blessings
When we thank you, thank you!
Agony of a poet
Poetry
Sandip Saha
Kolkata, India
I.
Sleight-of-Hand
Poetry
Taunja Thomson
Cold Spring, Kentucky, USA
Where will the tide take us?
I am a poem
I take birth in a poet’s
fertile brain
like a tree
as a seed is sown
I am sown
as a thought
born on a paper
taking a shape.
My creator poet
sends me to journals
for publication
misery starts here
like a bride in India
I pay reading fees
as dowry to future in-laws,
magazine after magazine
no taker only pain
after immense efforts
when my father gets my home
he has drained himself
both financially and mentally.
Once I get married in a book
my creator cannot see me
if he fails to pay to the publisher
to buy that book in which I
dwell
my hapless owner weeps.
Once poets were adorable
now they are nothing but
beggars
pleading to publishers.
In summer earth plays tricks on
me—
bee balm mandalas spin lavender
a fox pops out of woods, slinks
under deck, rematerializes redorange
under my feet
& rests
afternoon sun tosses purple
spangles
at my feet
moon opals grass.
II.
It’s true—our eons seem
to be running thin
these days.
We’ve lost the tug of trees, the
odes
of onion grass & orchid, the
reveries
of web & swamp.
We are no longer ocean-wise,
having ceded reefs to garbage,
disdaining the poet’s eye
for slug & fin & foal.
III.
I cannot say, but I know where my
own steps
will take me—
into foxglove center with nectar
mind
following fox’s passage through
tree cathedral,
mossy nave & starry apse,
to her tunneled den cradling
her wild-eyed kits
into afternoons that adorn me
with violet dapple
& orange shimmer
amid nights so dark that stars stab
my eyes
IV.
& I stand, rapt, under winter
moon’s
sleight-of-hand.
48
Meditating Sea Lion
Photography
Lara Abreu
Pleasanton, California, USA
49
50
Agent Peacock
Collage
Jennifer Frederick
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
"Call to mind from whence ye sprang:
Ye were not formed to live the lives of
brutes,
But virtue to pursue and knowledge
high."
Inferno, Canto XXVI, 115-117
Adam, firstborn, held court on the plain of
Eden.
He was there, he said, as a deputy — in a
sense, as a chamberlain.
He was there, he said, to take a census of
the beasts of the earth, and the sea, and the
sky; to name their names and assess their
quality.
The animals bowed their heads. This
seemed a weighty task.
Adam told them to form a queue; to
divide themselves into kingdom, genus,
species, and family; to come in pairs, if
they spawned in pairs; to come in pods, if
they spawned in pods. Lastly, he told all the
animals to comport themselves with dignity
— "No pushing, no shoving!" — he would see
each one of them in the proper place, at the
proper time.
First came the beasts of the earth. The
ounce, the leopard, the tiger, and the lion.
One thousand kinds of cow and one thousand
kinds of chimp. Elephants with ears like India
and elephants with ears like Africa. They
came to our forefather. They kneeled and
were named.
Next came the beasts of the under-earth,
flowing like a river to the foot of Adam’s
The Birds of Paradise
Fiction
Gabriel McCluskey
Colwyn Bay, Wales, UK
throne. Moles and badgers led the way, followed
by the snakes and the spiders and the
toads. And then, like a froth of soap strained
from the grass, came the crawling legion of
insects. Adam named them all — the million
ants, the million aphids; the bugs so small he
could not see them or feel their weight in his
hand.
Then it was the turn of the sea beasts.
Adam went down to the coast and stood
upon the clean white beach. Before him,
he saw the water, alive with fish: plankton
swarmed, and pike pushed against pike,
and sharks jockeyed for position. And Adam
named them all — even the leviathans, hugest
of living creatures, which stretch on the
deep like islands in the main.
Last of all, Adam named the birds of the
sky. Like ministering angels, they landed
around him: buzzards and nightingales, tomtits
and cuckoos, warblers and gobblers. The
sky was dark with their bodies, stormy with
the flapping of their wings.
Then Adam was finished; his invention
nearly exhausted. He sat on his throne,
which was woven with flowers, and rubbed
sleep from his eyes.
"Who else is there?" Adam said to the animals,
"Who have I missed?"
They produced the platypus — a skulking,
miserable creature, who had hidden himself
away when he heard news of an assembly.
Adam cursed the platypus for his backwardness
and, from that day forth, he went
about with a duck’s bill and a beaver’s tail;
51
shamed and insulted.
Then Adam stood, and stretched, and
yawned. He retired to his pavilion, to ready
himself for the perfect sleep of paradise.
But the animals followed our forebear,
followed him right into his bedchamber. Calf
and cub trampled down the golden grass;
slugs nibbled at the wreathing amaranths.
The animals crowded round his bed of flowers,
watching Adam with reproachful eyes as
he bent over the washbowl.
After a moment, Adam straightened and
looked around at them. An antelope butted
his leg. Moths buzzed sadly by his ears.
"Who else is there?" Adam said to the animals,
"Who have I missed?"
They led Adam out of his bower, out of
his pavilion. They led him back down to the
plain of Eden. They clucked, roared, barked,
and hooted. They directed his attention to
the treeline — darkling, now, and gray with
twilight.
And there, bright on the branches, Adam
saw a flock of birds.
These birds — there were around three
hundred of them — had not hidden, like the
platypus. Likely, they had sat in the trees all
day long, waiting for his attention. Anxiety
trembled in Adam’s chest. He should have
gone to them earlier! Taken more care! To
think: He might have gone to bed for the
night, leaving these birds unnamed and
inchoate!
He began to hurry towards them, moving
through the field with a rapid step, indif-
ferent to the burdocks which stuck to his
bareness.
And then a voice called unto him: "Adam,
Adam! Come no closer, Adam!"
The man dropped to his knees, full with
fear and trembling. He flung his hands above
his head and cried out for mercy — primed
for the terrible reprimand, the rod of iron.
And yet no reprimand came. Nor was there a
light too bright to behold, or an angry crack
of thunder; nor was there the pressure of an
invisible eye, beating down on him like the
rays of the sun. There was nothing. Nothing
but a few panicked bleats from the animals
at his back; nothing but the night wind,
blowing in the trees.
Adam staggered to his feet. His knees
were patched with mud. The evening was
getting cold — as cold it could get in Eden.
He recruited his strength and carried on in
the direction of the birds.
And then a voice called unto him: "Adam,
Adam! Come no closer, Adam!"
He paused, listening, and he knew: this
was not the voice he had heard so often
before. That voice was strong, deep, masculine.
It appeared from nowhere, like a summer
storm, and it would brook no argument.
In comparison, this new voice was weak,
shrill, almost querulous. It was a voice of the
garden — a sound that could be made by a
pig, or a horse, or a serpent.
"Who is that?" Adam shouted, "Where art
thou? Do you dare speak to me in such a
way?"
The leaves whispered nonsense. The birds
ruffled their feathers.
So Adam went onwards, wary now, until he
stood by the trunk of the first tree.
He looked up at the birds. The birds
looked down at him.
They were a curious, colourful brood. The
largest of their number was about half Adam’s
height; the smallest could have hidden
in the palm of his hand. Many were of the
bright, twittering kind; some were grayer
and gloomier. All were possessed of watchful,
intelligent eyes; eyes that glittered
blackly in the deepening twilight.
Adam called up to them, prefacing his
words with a smile: "There’s nothing to fear,
friends! Humility will only add to your reward:
'The last shall be first, and the first
last.' Come down, now. Come down and
receive your names — and then we can all go
to bed!"
The birds did not descend. They continued
to observe him, staring at his muddy feet, at
his hair flecked with straw and woodbine.
Adam felt a pulse of indignation.
He fixed the smile on his face and spoke
again, his voice calm and controlled: "Listen
to me, friends: lament not your lateness.
And don’t make yourselves any later, either!
Fear not; tremble not; be strong and of good
courage. Come down right away and get your
new names. Or — what’s the problem? Why
hesitate? Don’t you want names?"
Wings flapped. A green bird whistled derisively.
Then the voice rang out again, harsher
than before: "We will not come down!
Indeed, we will not. We have no need of
you, Adam. You may leave us."
At length, not unamazed, Adam in answer
spoke: "What may this mean? Language of
man pronounced by tongue of brute, and human
sense expressed? This is not right. Who
are you creatures, that thus can speak?"
Again, the birds were silent. Then one of
their number — a large, red-feathered fellow
— fluttered down to a lower branch, so that
he sat just above Adam’s head. The bird
52
drew himself up and gave the man answer:
"And who are you, that thus can speak? Who
are you?"
Adam’s indignation rose to anger. He fixed
the bird with the eye of authority, and lifted
his voice in fury: "I am Adam, firstborn and
steward of the world. Third or fourth in the
great chain of Degree. I have been raised to
empery over fish in flood and fowl in forest.
I am one finger of a larger hand — a hand
which can pluck the feathers of ungrateful
birds quicker than they realise!" (Several
squawks: some filled with fear; some heavy
with irony.) "But I am not a tyrant, dear
friends. Nor is that power which empowers
me. No, no. I am extended as the finger of
peace – a finger which you may take, and
shake, at your will. So."
Adam stood, impressive, his hand extended
in friendship of a kind.
The red bird said nothing, but hung inverted
on his branch. Then, with a sudden
movement, he pecked at Adam’s fingers and
sprang upright. "So?" He cried, "So? So? We
have no need of you, Adam Firstborn. Get
you hence: shoo, shoo, shoo!"
"Why don’t you need me? Why do you say
that? Of course you need me! I hold office,
here. I give out the names. And you don’t
have a name, as yet." (A great deal of whistling;
a sound very much like laughter.)
"What will you do without names?"
"We have names," the red bird said, "We
have names, Adam."
‘No you don’t. How could you?’
"We named ourselves."
Adam’s anger burst its bounds. His yell of
rage reached the animals on the plain, (and
a particularly brazen calf set off to his steward’s
aid, but was soon called back to the
herd by his mate.) Other ears, too, had their
harmony broken by this yell. Other ears that
Adam had no desire to disturb, or bedevil, at
that time.
The birds in the trees crowed and shook
their wings at him. He paced back and forth,
sucking his bitten fingers, frantic with fury.
(And, not in a small part, with fear: His
position was not secure, as he had often
been told. Now, this little problem was quite
unconnected to the cardinal ban — at least
so far as he could see — but Adam knew that
it would not reflect well on him. Not at all.)
"But, how? How?"
The bird did not respond, but just
watched the man pace. He looked very
plump, Adam thought, very plump and proud
and haughty.
"Well, if you won’t answer that — what
have you called yourselves?"
"We will not tell you, Adam. We will not
tell you. Our name in your mouth is no longer
our name."
"But what if I name you anyway?"
"But what if I name you anyway? What if
I call you pale-hide? Or pluck-feather? Or
hog-cheek? We can both speak; we can both
go about on two legs; we can both think,
after our own fashions... It is true: We wear
wings, you wear paws. And we prefer the
sky, while you walk on the ground. But,
Adam, I can name you as well as you can
name me."
"But how can you speak? When — how did
you learn?"
"I learnt as you learnt, Adam: imitation.
At one point, our thoughts were low and
abject — the thoughts of any brute beast.
At one point, we could conceive of nothing
beyond the fruit of the field and the grubs
of the earth. But, then, one day, as we
made our nests in a tree of marvelous fruit,
we saw you walking in the garden, deep in
conversation with another. We listened. We
liked the music of your words. And, amongst
ourselves, we decided: We too would speak."
Adam licked his lips, opened his mouth to
speak, then closed it again.
Pastoral work, panpipes, and daily commerce
with mute herds, do not often a dialogist
make — contrary to the examples given
us by later sages. In truth, Adam had never
had opportunity to learn the art of debate.
Personally, he felt most comfortable giving
or receiving orders. And he could no more
argue with his superiors than a snail could
argue with him.
Night had settled on the woods; the birds
had been reduced to dim smudges and the
occasional rustle of wings.
"It’s all wrong." Adam said, speaking
almost to himself. "It’s all wrong, somehow.
You have broken — you have transgressed —
the Covenant!"
"That’s none of our concern. We were party
to no covenant."
"But it’s ridiculous! Nothing just names
itself! It’s a direct contravention, a direct
challenge… Even I didn’t name myself!
You see?" He spoke with more energy now,
relieved that he had hit on a good point at
last. "You see? I was formed with a name
made ready for me. Perhaps, if I had been
consulted, I would have picked another
name — but do I complain? Do I hide in dark
woods, and live like a platypus, and claim
that I named myself? No! I accept the job
that I’ve been given. And I accept the title
that comes with it, too."
"And should we submit, because you submitted?
Should we cringe, and crawl, and
eat dirt, because you did?"
Adam was about to respond, when — all
53
in a moment — his anger was cooled. Something
moved within him, something like the
stirring of life in a new-laid egg. He felt like
a patch of dry ground, made pliant by a sudden
shower of rain.
Adam spoke in suave, confiding tones, in a
voice he had never heard before.
"Do not forget, dear friends, that other
party — that much mightier power... You
know that He named Himself. Now, think:
will He be pleased to hear what you have
done? That you have helped yourselves to
His privilege? That you have puffed yourselves
up as — as what, indeed? As rebels?
As atheists? Or as powers in your own right,
perhaps?
"Think on that, birds, and consider the
consequences."
Adam stopped. He had won his point. With
this pronouncement, a whisper of uncertainty
spread throughout that parliament of
fowls. Even the red bird seemed perturbed;
momentarily struck dumb by the same fear
that had shaken his fellows.
"But, it’s not too late." Adam said,
"There’s still time. 'The last shall be first,
and the first last.' So, come down. Come
down! You’ll see — with names you will cohere.
At last! With names you will be digits
on the hand, like me; you will be leaves on
the tree; droplets in the ocean. Come, now,
come and see..."
The smaller birds seemed to waver. The
larger birds inclined their heads, plumes
swaying with thought. Uneasy on their
branches, they hopped from one foot to
another and ruffled their feathers.
The wind had stopped — held back like a
held breath.
Then the red bird spoke, his voice coarse
in the new silence: "We will not be tempted,
Adam. We will not be led by the beak!
"We saw what happened to you. How you
appeared on the riverbank. A white, fleshy
thing — phlegm of the dust! We saw how
that greater power came and licked you
into tolerable form, like a mother bear licks
her cubs. We saw it. We watched you walk,
faltering like a foal. We watched you build
your bower, and command your chattels, and
— last of all — we watched you impose your
names upon them, calling this one this and
that one that. You see how it has infected
our speech — how we cannot think without
thinking your words. Foal! Cubs! And,
now, you want us to join this great chain of
subservience? You threaten us, and tempt us,
and try to trick us?
"No, Adam, no. We are nothing alike. We
woke with dirt in our eyes. We came scrabbling
forth from the crust of the land. Born
— I suppose — from the secretion of certain
salts and minerals. We knew no maker; no
hand sculpted us from Euphrates’ clay. We
crawled amongst the weeds, our feathers
weighted with sod. We grew in strength and
wisdom, till we could leap from the earth to
the trees, from the trees to the sky.
"We made ourselves, Adam. We named
ourselves. We will rule ourselves.
"Now, get you hence, Pluck-feather!"
The tension was broken; the birds rallied
behind their speaker. Some shrieked and
hissed and flapped their wings. Some shouted
in voices like song. And some, less certain,
hid their heads beneath their feathers.
Adam opened his mouth to speak and was
silenced.
The wind, suddenly furious, had blown his
words away.
#
A great storm burst upon Eden, then. A
storm which made the forests bend and tore
the tender grasses from their roots. The first
storm. The storm that marred the face of
the sky with lightning; and which lashed the
backs of the animals with ropes of rain.
Adam hid himself from the storm’s anger.
He crept away, like a woodlouse, to hide in
the hollow of an enormous tree.
#
In the morning, when the rain and wind
had stopped their roaring, Adam left his hiding
place and went in search of the birds.
For the first time, he saw the floor of the
forest scattered with broken branches and
ragged leaves; he saw animals, sodden and
shivering, picking their way through the
wounded world. For th e first time, Adam
saw his breath cloud in front of his face, and
felt the bite of the air.
At length, he found the birds.
As before, they were met in counsel,
high up in the trees. But now, they sat close
together, huddled against the chill. Their
feathers were drab; their proud, plumed
heads bowed with exhaustion.
At first, they did not notice his presence.
To draw their attention, Adam had to shout
and bang on the trunks of their trees with
a fallen branch. And, even then, their gaze
lacked the fixity of the day before.
Adam addressed the red bird, who he saw
sitting apart from the others, sitting alone in
the fork of a battered yew. The bird’s face
was ashen, white where it had once been
scarlet. Hoops of sleeplessness had grown
beneath his eyes and his feathers were bedraggled
and rain-stained.
Adam stood beneath the yew, and called
54
up to him:
"Well, bird, what do you say?"
The bird bobbed his head. Said nothing.
"Now, you have seen it all — the storm —
the might — the power and the glory."
The bird bobbed his head, shrilly repeated:
"The power and the glory, the power and
the glory!"
"You have seen it. And, hopefully, you have
understood it. You are a particle of dust, flying
in the face of heaven. You realise, now,
that you must submit."
"Must submit. Must, must submit! Power
and the glory! The power and the glory!’"
"Just so. Now, come down. You will be forgiven,
all of you. Your crimes are not capital.
Soon, you will find your place amongst us.
Good grass will always grow in fertile soil."
"Just so! Just so! Grass, grass! Soil! The
power and the glory!"
The birds dropped dumbly from the trees.
They formed a straggling procession, twoby-two
up to Adam’s feet, their wings dragging
in the mud. It was a procession without
song, without rejoicing. Each bird received
his blessing, and then — in an instant —
seemed to forget himself. They staggered
and stumbled like drunks; they pecked at
the wet leaves like chickens.
The red bird kept his perch. He sang
senseless tunes and capered clumsily up
and down his branch. He bobbed his head
in frantic accord, snapped his beak at the
unresisting air. He cried out, in a voice as
thin as an infant’s cry: "Power and the glory!
The power and the glory! Forever and ever,
Amen! Forever and ever, Amen!"
#
And that is the story of how the parrots
got their name.
Thirteen Stripes
Poetry
Marie-Anne Poudre
Dublin, California, USA
Battles
Poetry
Jared Pearce
Oskaloosa, Iowa, USA
1.
You’re a little hoarse to call me
this morning to tell your story.
Zebra! Zebra in pajamas!
Tell me about the savannas!
2.
Zebra! Zebra’s running fast
down the grassy vales' dead-ends.
“What amoral beast or man
has spooked your peaceful herd of friends?”
3.
Sleepy leopards perching aloft
opened their eyes but missed your rump.
Whiskers over claws, they fell soft,
Snarling at the speeding chump.
4.
“What amoral beast or man
has spooked your peaceful herd of friends?”
Zebra! Zebra’s stopping at last
to graze around the vales' dead-ends.
5.
Felon lions stalking their prey,
hiding under the canopy,
headwind blowing their scent away,
draw close, and you graze slap happy.
6.
Fancy, trendy in savannas,
Zebra! Zebra! You, silly horse!
Aren’t you a little too hoarse
to tell stories in pajamas?
7.
Snap! A twig breaks. Fuzzy ears twitched.
Two swift lionesses pounced
on your black stripes. Missed by an inch!
Faster, you saved your skin this once,
8.
my cunning horse who pranced. Of course.
Zebra! Zebra in pajamas,
Fastest reflex in savannas!
Survival was your thriving force.
9.
Stung by horse-flies the wildebeest
Reeled away from the waterhole.
Your stripes were your shield at nightfall.
Bite-free, you always drank in peace.
10.
Zebra! Zebra in pajamas,
You, lucky horse! You pranced, of course.
Fancy! Trendy in savannas.
Wild mane’s style! No silk! All coarse!
11.
“Are there more black in your white stripes?
Or are there more white stripes than
black?” (1)
Striking smart horse dressed in pinstripes,
smooth, you blur the lines of leaves and
bark.
12.
Bleached and tall, the grass blades hid you.
Jeeps and men with guns roamed near.
Stood still, as their dangerous crew
Killed—the zebra disappeared.
13.
Zebra! Zebra! You! lonely horse
behind zoo bars, you cry, of course.
Zebra! Zebra! You miss the plains,
where warm winds brush black and white
manes.
(1) Madagascar, by Eric Darnell and Tom
McGrath, Dreamworks, 2005
55
My neighbor is upset her dog is eating
rabbits.
She’s observed the dog will pretend his lead
is tight, that the rabbits believe this feint,
stray
too close, and the dog pounces, nails and
canines.
I asked if we could borrow her dog to kill
the rabbits in my yard. They creep in under
cover, nibble on the green, wolf the bean,
leave
nothing except their kits to glean and, again,
seed.
My neighbor looks like she’s been mauled, so
I duck
and weave: Could we have some shed fur to
deter?
She’s kind to that and brings me a fist of hair
I raise like dukes inside the garden fence.
She promises to bring a bag after the dog’s
brushed;
I arrange the defensive mortar and trench.
Do you like butter? Do you like cheese? Do
you like sitting on a housemaid’s knees?
Despite the deluge outside, I could see
one of the sheep that was putting on some
late winter weight. She was stumbling
against the sheet of rain and hail, standing
in the middle of the field, pawing at the
mud instead of huddling under the shelter.
Catching a flash of blood against her fleece,
I dropped my shabby tea towel and managed
to shove my aching feet into my still-sodden
work boots. I had spent all day clearing the
bottom pasture for the upcoming lambing
season and hadn’t yet had the chance to
check the flock. I silently cursed my father
as I threw the door open, he was difficult to
get along with, and the last three farmhands
had quit without notice, leaving just the two
of us and a flock of 600 Drysdales.
Nudging the torn-up grass, a low sound
rumbling from the ewe’s throat. I could tell
she was in pain, and as I reached a hand
out in comfort, she pulled away and slipped
into the muck. I ran a hand across her back,
deciding to call her Buttercup. I had spent
many afternoons in this field with mum,
shining buttercups under our chins, singing a
little nonsense song. Today’s buttercups have
been crushed into the dirt, flecks of bruised
yellow peeking through as the rain washed
clay across my boots. Daylight was fading
and the lambing sheds with the heat lights
and dry shelter were several miles away.
Blood was pumping through my cheeks as the
wind whipped loose leaves and debris around
Buttercup
Fiction
Ashleigh Cattermole
Christchurch, New Zealand
us.
I peered down the driveway, desperately
hoping my father had returned from checking
the fences, but the dirt driveway was
empty. My feet were skidding underneath
me, the shivering ewe in front of me was
quiet now, her breathing heavy. With a
rolling gut, I could feel bile in my throat but
sucking icy air into my lungs, I cradled the
gentle, soggy pile of fleece. I could feel her
contractions and knew the lamb’s arrival
wasn’t far away. I had nothing to wrap the
lamb in, nothing to soothe the ewe, and I
couldn’t tell how long I had. Bracing against
the weather, I ran for the wash house,
grabbed a handful of dirty towels, the first
aid kit, and a ripped tarp. Buttercup had not
moved from the muddy puddle, and I could
do nothing but sit with her, trying to calm
my racing heart with a glance up to the sky.
Good Lord, if you’re up there!
I hadn’t prayed since the day my husband
got sick. It hadn’t done any good then either.
I had lost track of how long I had been in the
paddock, but it was well and truly dark by
now. I looked up at the house, hoping for a
flash of light to show my mother-in-law had
returned. Nothing. I slipped a disposable
glove from the first aid kit onto a shaking
hand, the rubbery snap they made reminding
me of the blustering hospital nurses who
delivered my own son. With a deep breath,
I began to sing the only words that came to
my mind, probably soothing myself more
than the ewe.
“There was a woman, oh she was a widow,
56
fair as the flowers in the valley.”
I could feel the legs of the lamb now.
Buttercup was holding on as if she knew her
baby was almost here.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as her head crumpled
in exhaustion.
Out and down, my father had told me
when teaching me to birth a mispositioned
lamb. I opened my dry, cottony mouth to the
sky and felt the cool water slap against my
tongue.
Jesus Christ.
I held Buttercup as her lamb slid stiffly
onto the towel. Quickly wrapping him to
try and keep out at least some of the rain,
I placed him gently near his mother’s face.
She slowly blinked. Her panting was desperate
but measured. Her tongue began lapping
at the lamb, but I could tell it was a struggle.
Singing to her again as her eyes closed,
an old towel and a tarp all that was keeping
us from the thunderous spring rain. As I felt
her movements diminish to almost nothing, I
saw headlights approaching. Dad had returned.
Skidding frantically in the dirt beside us,
dad flung his passenger door open and piled
a few old coats onto the seat, turning the
heater as high as it would go. I held the
lamb between my knees as I rubbed the rain
and blood from its fleece. His legs shook,
but he was too weak to stand yet. He was
hauled up into the seat of the ute. With a
last bleat from Buttercup, Dad took off for
the wool shed where there was light, feed,
bottles, and warmth to get the lamb through
the night. I place the last of the soggy towels
across the still ewe, wishing I had more
warmth and comfort to offer her. Her eyes
closed, and I felt the shudder I had been
suppressing in my gut escape, and my body
began to wrack with tears.
As the beginning of the sunrise began to
brighten patches in the dark sky, I trudged
towards the wool shed. My mother-in-law
waved a coffee pot out the kitchen window
as I neared. I could see the top of my son’s
head peeking out of her arms. I nodded and
smiled, making a quick detour to find dad
snoring against a stack of hay bales and
shorn fleece. The heat lamps were pulsing
down upon a tiny bleating bundle that
turned his head and looked around. He was
on his feet now, and I could see his eyes
were bright and curious. I collapsed to the
ground and leaned back against the tractor
wheel, watching four clumsy hooves dance
around in the dust of the morning, a weak
ray of sunlight finally gleaming through the
doors.
Atonal
Poetry
Ben Macnair
Lichfield, Staffordshire, UK
A cow is mooing in a field,
somewhere a crow answers it,
the difference in language,
in communication skills
is obvious.
There are no easy translations for it,
no way that they can understand
what the other needs.
The only difference between their names is
an R,
and maybe the same is true of us as a
species.
Different languages spoken,
with little common ground,
but maybe in the atonal screeching,
the out of tune normality,
the foreign tones,
the microtonal nuance,
there are new tunes to be played,
new rhythms to dance to,
if only we had the time to listen,
and properly understand.
Nightjars
Poetry
Robert Wilson
Fort Wayne, Indiana, USA
I.
Black throats, undersized bills,
nightjars balance sidelong
on branches and wires
stretched across dry, open woodlands.
Their coloration, burnt sienna
and blight, matches dead leaves
on forest floors, they feed
on scraps of light and luminous
bodies of moths.
II.
We count what can be counted:
this was a riverbed,
these are a series of black marks on a page
with some sort of sense.
Those are small birds, eyes as large
as their skulls, still, even diapausal,
numbered one or more sight unseen.
57
The Old Man
Poetry - Tetrameter
Craig Kurtz
Charlottesville, Virginia, USA
The Sharp Edge
Poetry
Francis Flavin
Sparks, Nevada, USA
Have you met the Old Man yet? —
note he’s as old as old cats get;
he’s asthmatic and in no rush,
he’s bony and might need a brush;
you’ll see him mulling on his porch
as if he’s carrying a torch;
it takes a while to earn his trust —
cat treats help but they’re not a must.
Most cats can tell three yards away
if you’re a fink or you’re OK;
they always know if something’s wrong
and if it is, they move along;
they’ll let you be their friend if you’ll
respectfully be half-way cool;
and cats that are quite old are wise —
they’ll X-ray you with their cat eyes.
The Old Man’s twenty-five years old —
at least that is what I’ve been told;
it takes a while, but once up, he’s
inclined to figure-eight your knees;
and ev’ry once in a while, he’ll
be further afield than ideal;
although you wouldn’t think he might,
the rabbits get him out at night.
Although he’s old, although it’s cold,
those rabbits need to be controlled;
while he’s around, those rabbits will
be set upon, unless they’re still;
it’s self-esteem, or call it pride,
but cats should catch some prey outside;
’cause ‘fixing them’ is an affront —
at least let’s let them have their hunt.
His days of catching rabbits are
no doubt best left to his memoir;
I wonder if he knows these days
are yielding now to blank malaise?;
and back then when he captured one,
does he recall, like a re-run,
the last time of his lengthy span
he was a cat, as well a man?
So, have you met the Old Man yet? —
note he’s a person, not a pet;
he’s sitting on the front porch where
he might assess you with a stare;
and looking over the long haul,
what of his days he will recall?
I’m guessing hunting pleasure that’s
vicariously sex for cats.
And ev’ry time I think he died,
he’s been inclined to sleep or hide;
I’m sure he has forgotten me —
who knows a cat’s psychology?;
months later I will see him trot
right up to the best friend he’s got;
I hope the Old Man never dies
because cats aren’t good at goodbyes.
58
Your dinner is squealing in terror in the
backyard.
Ah, you have turned up the music —
Still, I think you can hear the loudest
shrieks,
When the pig is dragged onto the slab.
My knife is sharp and sure.
It will end his misery soon enough —
Yours as well.
Here, we lack that buffer of supply chains
and food hubs
That shields the Western psyche.
You love pork —
So, do I.
You know the price.
I know the cost.
Diary of a Ghostwriter
Creative Nonfiction
Dawn-Michelle Baude
Banner, Wyoming, USA
"Dear Jackie," I typed into the computer.
It was one of the most amazing moments of
my professional life. Me—a kid from Nowhere,
Illinois—corresponding with Jacqueline
Kennedy Onassis! The task combined the
thrill of celebrity-access with the mischief of
impersonation. I adored Jackie's elegance,
courage and style. I commiserated with her
misfortune. I coveted her sunglasses.
"Please do find time to visit us at the
chateau," I read aloud to the Baroness. "The
dahlias are in full bloom, and the gardens
are simply divine."
"Gorgeous," she corrected. "The gardens
are simply gorgeous."
I revised and waited, while the Baroness—
or Mimi, as I was permitted to call her—shuffled
slides on the light box. I spent so much
time in that Parisian office, its contours
have seemingly shaped memory itself. The
room was small and cozy, positioned beneath
penthouse eaves. Between our two desks
was a chaotic table overwhelmed by a turtle
mound of books and files. A phone/fax station
was arrayed next to the windows giving
onto the apse-end of the Basilique Saint-Clotilde.
French Provençal fabric covered the
walls, a different fabric for the swag curtains.
In aristocratic interiors, fabrics are
complementary, never matching. Only lower
classes match things.
"Tell Jackie," Mimi dictated, "the manuscript
is…."
I waited while the Baroness gathered her
thoughts. Aristocrats can't be rushed. The
fact that they can trace family lineage back
several generations gives them a kind of
gravitas bordering on inertia.
"Tell Jackie the manuscript is…," I prompted.
Mimi sighed. Clearly the task was tiresome.
I sipped Earl Grey from a wafer-thin
cup.
"Progressing," she said finally.
I politely ventured that we needed something
stronger. "The manuscript is progressing
well? Progressing steadily?"
Mimi squinted at a slide as if she didn't
hear me. It was tricky in these moments to
gauge how far I could push—deference went
hand-in-hand with employment. I excused
myself for interrupting and asked if she
might be willing to consider "progressing
apace"?
"'Apace' will do," the Baroness decided. "I
suppose Jackie will be relieved to hear that."
Jackie and Mimi were old friends, but
they weren't close. They had gone to boarding
school together, one of those east coast
establishments with lawns as manicured as
the debutantes' nails. Mimi attended Jackie's
wedding to JFK. When Jackie became an editor
at Doubleday after the death of her second
husband, Aristotle Onassis, she agreed
to publish Mimi's book, partly because—and
here I'm vague—someone in Mimi's clan was
very high up at Doubleday.
It was, nevertheless, a good fit: Bedrooms
& Boudoirs of Elite Frenchwomen was about
interiors, and Jackie was passionate about
interiors. It was Jackie who took a lackluster
Sears Roebuck White House and turned it
59
into showplace worthy of the Smithsonian.
She understood how the shape of a chair, or
the pattern of an embroidery, reveals domestic
history—intimate details of daily life
that speak to us more of what it is to be human
than wars or elections or neuroscience
data combined. But did Jackie know Mimi
hired ghostwriters for everything she published?
Although the Baroness could rattle off
precedence in a royal receiving line (Dowager
Viscountess before Earl), she was incapable
of ordering sentences in a paragraph.
She couldn't even write a coherent note to
her publisher.
"Should I tell Jackie that Madame Mitterrand
has declined to be a part of the project,
but that the Countess de Rîmes took her
place?"
The Baroness frowned and said that Jackie
was going to be so awfully disappointed
about Madame Mitterrand.
I would have preferred the French President's
wife too. I took a strong, immediate
dislike to the Countess de Rîmes as soon
as I read her interview with the Baroness…
and that's saying a lot. Most of the women
profiled in Bedrooms & Boudoirs took themselves
so seriously that there wasn't a shred
of humor or humbleness or compassion in
their transcripts, and none more than the
Countess de Rîmes.
I want those Biedermeier bed tables! And I
want them now! the Countess insisted at the
Hôtel St.
Regis, where once she slept in a room outfitted
with heirlooms. I suspect the St. Regis
finally sold the tables to her just to get rid
of her. Her two-hundred-year-old baldaquin
bed, apparently a souvenir d'amour, was
shipped from Spain. She preferred centuries-old
linen sheets, because of course, the
quality went down after 1800. Mimi told me
that the purity of de Rîme's lineage was visible
in her facial structure, which is why the
Countess pulled her hair back into a tight
chignon. Apparently aristocrats can identify
each other by their silhouettes alone. One
French family even claims to be descended
from Jesus Christ.
"I don't know.... whatever I'm... to do."
Mimi stopped sorting images and froze, staring
into space as if time had frozen too. And
I suppose, in a way, it has. Telling moments
in our lives become stills in memory, nuggets
of experience nestled in the neural albums
of the brain. I can still see Mimi's anxious
face, the way her big cow eyes swept in my
direction when I asked what was wrong. The
helplessness emanating from her gaze reminded
me of Mother.
"Hu-bert," she said as if talking to herself,
"may be having an affair."
Hubert? With those fussy ascots? The
perfectly pressed suits? That chiseled nose? A
terrible rigidity seemed to accompany Mimi's
husband into the room, as if all the humidity
had been sucked out of the air. In my opinion,
the Baron was about as attractive as an
empty swimming pool.
But she loved him. Mimi hunched over the
desk, hiding her face in her hands, shivering
like a nervous thoroughbred as she cried.
I fought the instinct to run over and put
my arms around her. Aristocrats often can't
be touched willy-nilly. Formality inheres in
their persons like starch in a cummerbund.
You can't physically comfort them if you
don't have a pedigree or some version of
intergenerational servant status. So I sat
awkwardly in front of the computer, Jackie's
unfinished letter glowing on the screen,
watching Mimi cry.
Her birth name was Norma. I'm not sure
when the Mimi part came in—probably long
before the Baroness part. Because of her
beauty and connections, she'd married into
the aristocracy, but it was a poor fit. Her
privileged airs were forced, as if her training
in finishing school had never really taken.
At some point or other, I began to remark
the subtle strain. Her French, although far
superior to mine, wasn't perfect. Mimi never
lost the American accent that flavored her
speech like too much coriander on the chateaubriand.
Real European aristocrats, those
who'd earned their place through breeding
instead of marriage, must have looked down
on her, although she tried so hard to be one
of them, going so far as to secure a book
contract that ensured access to the most
highly-placed women in French society. Even
Mimi's professional reputation—the one area
of her life where she could potentially derive
satisfaction—was a sham. The respect Mimi
earned as a former Condé Nast editor was
baseless. I doubt she wrote a single article
published under her name.
Mimi's struggle was to be Mimi—to become
the legend. But no matter how good
she looked in a Chanel suit, no matter how
snobby her aristocratic entitlement, how
often she lunched or dined with la crème,
no matter what power her money gave her
or how rigorously she obeyed the mandates
of privilege, there was a system of hairline
fissures in the foundation.
I believe the only thing Mimi really had,
the thing that she could fully own and rely
60
on, a work that was genuinely hers, was
her Rolodex. In truth, it was her greatest
achievement, a testimony to the success of
her social climbing. It was a late-20th-century
desktop gizmo, a rotating address book
that seems gilded in memory, like a celestial
wheel of fortune. On the notched address
cards, Mimi had the phone numbers of umpteen
women of pedigree, including several
women in line to thrones. It was a Rolodex
of wealth and position, of influence and
power, of caché and swag. Cards were filed
by name and residences: Easthampton, New
York; Gstaad, Switzerland; Ibiza, Spain; Paris,
France; Rio, Brazil; Siwa, Egypt. I know
this because sometimes I had to look things
up and the roll call reeled past, seemingly
spewing glitter.
Compared with this starry universe, Mimi's
personal life seemed tarnished by deception
and disappointment. Her husband was cold,
her adult children—the ones I met—spoiled
rotten and mean. They came to get money,
in cash, from their mother. I saw them—husband,
a couple of kids—they knocked on the
office door, glanced at me as if I were a dull
appliance, and bullied Mimi into whatever
it was they needed. The cash was kept in
a pocketbook in a little closet behind my
desk. I felt sorry for her during those visits.
I felt sorry for her having to go to sleep at
night, knowing deep down in her Baron-ness,
or Mimi-ness, or Norma-ness, that she was
a fraud. I felt sorry for her marital problems.
My face must have shown it. Her tears
slowed to a trickle. One should never cry in
front of the help if it can be avoided.
"Hubert will never leave you," I said.
"Of course not," she snapped. Her fragility
vanished like a raindrop — she was 100%
aristocrat now, sitting stiffly in her chair.
"Tell Jackie I'll be in New York the first week
in June. Ask if she might be free for lunch."
Once I printed the letter—Mimi added a
P.S. about the "simply dreadful production of
Tosca"—she handed me a folder on one of the
Rothschilds. "We mustn't forget the superb
collection of opaline glass," she said and
excused herself from the office.
I grabbed the ringing phone as Mimi
exited, thinking it was Hu-bert, who often
checked up on his wife. She must have
thought it was him too, because instead of
turning around to answer it, she shut the
door.
In English, a woman asked for Mimi. I
explained that the Baroness had just stepped
from the office.
"Perhaps you can help me?" the speaker
continued and my identity slipped. It broke
like a mirror, each piece reflecting a fragment
of self, each self bursting with so much
to say, too much to say, a commitment to
saying, to not just standing there with the
phone in my hand and my mouth open, to
say it, to finally say it, all of it, to say something.
Here is the young woman, flummoxed: Oh
God, it's her! Jackie O.! A former First Lady!
A major New York editor at Doubleday and
Viking!
Here is the WASP with a hard-wired work
ethic: I knew it! We're late—we were supposed
to fax the Princess de Broglia chapter
yesterday.
Here is the poet: Jackie's voice has so
much breath in it, as if each respiration
really counts.
Here is the aspiring writer: I'm ghostwriting
the book you're publishing. I verify, as
much as I can,
the information, but I can't phone the
ladies up and confirm the design details of
the commodes and whatnot because it isn't
officially my book. Might it be possible to put
my name on the cover?
There was too much information to distill
into a sentence or two. Words fail us—the
tiny capillaries in the brain funnel the emotions,
but can't hold the volume. We end up
reverting to known pathways.
I assured Jackie O. that I would ask the
Baroness to phone her back. The chance I
had of improving my lot evaporated into
the field of potentiality from whence it had
come: Jackie would never learn who was
writing the book she was publishing. While
it wasn't my place to tell her, I knew more
ambitious writers wouldn't have hesitated
to laud their role in the project. But it was
more than that: Jackie would never know
that the woman on the other end of the
line understood what it's like when someone
you love is killed and your whole identity is
redefined in terms of a crime. Even though
a comparison between JFK's death and my
father's was far-fetched, both men were
dispatched by strangers across the wide river
of Lethe. JFK's death opened a chapter of
tumult in American history, and my father's
death impacted a small, Midwest community,
but despite the scale-change, Jackie and I
had a scintilla of overlap. In a parallel universe,
we might have attended a survivor's
group together.
The reality was clear: I was a phony too. I
pretended to be a secretary who was really
the ghostwriter of the Baroness' book, who
was really a poet, who was really an abandoned
child, a traumatized kid, a resilient
adult, all smiles and good will, shimmering,
shimmering, a cloud floating freely in the
sky, deepening with the evening light, dark-
61
ening in the evening light, growing dark and
heavy and so deep with sorrow no light can
penetrate. Nothing grows there. Why look
that way? New scenery abounds on a rotating
earth—and there I am, researching Belle
Époque opaline glass as the Baroness returns
to the office, her lipstick refreshed.
"To whom were we speaking?" she asked
brightly.
"Jackie," I said, "it was Jackie."
The Good and the Talented
Poetry
Marie-Anne Poudre
Dublin, California, USA
Once upon my childhood, I met Alphonse,
A good poet.
He was seasoned with graying sideburn
Rimmed glasses often sliding on his pointy nose.
He worked as a journalist
For a Parisian newspaper
He wrote fast peppered stories about the top
brass of his days
He pondered upon the salty brew the city by
the Seine was spewing.
Alphonse had a poet friend
A younger friend he met at the Café des Arts
Many critics toasted with glee at the fresh cups
Of rhymes the cream forehead man was voicing
His name was Pierre Gringoire.
Pierre drank the praises of men
--Twice his age
Kissed the lips of ladies
--Twice his age
Thought he was a giant
but was not famous yet.
As the bounties of ladies became scarce
When the winds of wars reached the city
Stubborn Pierre starved, and Alphonse withdrew to a quiet hill in
Provence.
Where Alphonse kept on watching
Writing
Editing
Soon he had enough coins
To buy
A rundown windmill where he settled. (1)
Gringoire wrote poems in Paris
In which he mocked Alphonse
But the old man, trying tales
Where reason failed,
Weaved a story for the proud talent.
The muse of glory had the joy
Of picking this humble story
For the youthful eager ears.
His friend, Alphonse
Twisted some arms
And procured him a job in a suburb gazette
The gifted youth pouted:
“I write poems, not chronicles!”
Pierre Gringoire
Are the only words left of the young poet
He did not write them.
Alphonse did.
(1) Alphonse, Daudet, Letters From My Mill, France, 1869
62
Word-Man
Poetry
Tufik Shayeb
Phoenix, Arizona, USA
Your Thoughts
Poetry
Tufik Shayeb
Phoenix, Arizona, USA
scatter like fallen branches
an awful mess you pick up
preparing for a massive bonfire
okay, so
I didn't do the dishes
sue me
no,
please don't
I was very busy
saving the world
from itself
you see,
I have been gifted
the special power
of talking good
it's a lightning bolt,
that flirts with Thor's
hammer,
it crashes
upon the darkness
of illiteracy,
and it rallies
the troops to victory
I am Word-Man!
fear
the breathtaking might
of my inestimable
vocabulary!
swoon
at my unmistakable
prowess of that
syntax!
quake
in the wake
of my backbreaking
meter!
okay, so
I didn't do the dishes
but what’s
a worse outcome:
and not enough
clean forks,
or watching
some ignorant goons
heist away
the gems and jewels
of our culture?
in my free time,
I educate college
students
on the art of reading
poetry and prose
out loud
and I hope that
someday
they'll also forget
to do the dishes
and when you’re all done,
you hang a wooden shingle
that reads: a phoenix lived here
you sell bottled cinders, roadside
like a musty snake oil salesman
promising every biblical miracle
and every now and then,
swipe the ashes across your brow
and hope to remember it all
it is a patriotic shield
that evens out the
battlefield,
the smell of graying,
moldy cups
63
Everyone knew that the man in the van
sold pot. We could smell it in the air behind
the Costco Wholesale. We could see it in the
spring green paint job of his Ford Transit.
We could buy it in little baggies between the
hours of nine and five. But none of us could
say much else. There was no one living in
our small Oregon town who knew where he
lived or where he was from or even what his
name was. He was simply called the man
in the van, and not one Costco employee
could remember a time when he hadn’t
been there. He seemed to exist outside of
the world, and anyone who knew him often
wondered what that was like. For obvious
reasons, this was why he’d get mentioned
frequently to out-of-towners. Some wandering
tourist would ask if the town had anything
out of the ordinary, and the man in the
van would almost always be noted. We had
lots of fun describing what he looked like.
We’d say he was stretched like a pine tree
and had muscles in his back that rolled when
he sat down. We’d say he spoke with a soft
Canadian accent and said particular things
about the sky. We’d mention he wore large
dollar store T-shirts and had long frizzy hair
most mistook to be a perm. And when we
were done with our descriptions, we’d often
mention the strange occurrences that liked
to crop up around him. The man in the van
had a few regular customers—high schoolers
and fisherman mostly—and the stories they
told about his product were incredibly entertaining.
One student said smoking it had
made her hair shoot down to her elbows and
Out of Season
Fiction
Katherine Davis
Bluffton, South Carolina, USA
another said it made him dream only about
the ocean. A popular one among the sailors
was that it helped attract fish to their boats.
“Of course you shouldn’t believe them”
the tourists would often get told. “Burnouts
and sailors aren’t really known for their
honesty.”
We’d also try our best to explain why the
man in the van was so compelling. In our
own words, we’d say he was a figure who
understood the difference between solitude
and loneliness. We’d try to explain why
everyone wanted to be him and why no one
actually was. Then we’d usually talk about
the ducks.
Every winter they were there. Large flocks
of migrating fowl that flew down the North
Pacific in droves, and when they’d reach the
town, they’d swirl around the van like vultures.
In this one, tiny, specific area, there
were so many birds that people driving by
the Costco could see them swarming around
in the back. It was our go-to sign that winter
had begun. There was even an annual tradition
among the Costco staff to schedule a
party around the ducks’ arrival. They’d make
duck-themed party favors, pull up some
chairs, and then drink for good weather. And
every once and awhile, the man in the van
would be asked in, but he never accepted
the invitation.
“I’m a little busy,” he’d respond, and
every time, he'd barely be heard over the
sound of quacking ducks.
The town joke, of course, was that the
man in the van was selling the birds pot, and
64
every year, large swatches of conversation
were devoted entirely to this single mental
image. Someone would mention it offhandedly,
and pretty soon the room would spiral
into crazed laughter as people wondered out
loud what the ducks said and how the ducks
paid and how the man in the van managed
his prices. But eventually, an out-of-towner
would kill the mood and ask, “But what does
he really feed them?” Which meant one of
us had to speak up and say “Bread.” This response
left some impressed, a few intrigued,
others a little jealous, and most just slightly
let down, and this was why we didn’t always
give an honest answer.
“It’s definitely pot,” we’d joke. “You can
see for yourself if you want to.”
Ironically, the story behind the bread was
less boring than we realized. It was actually
one of the most mysterious things surrounding
the man. The bread was made out of a
strange, lumpy substance that smelled like
the sea, and somehow, it was all homemade.
The man baked piles of the stuff, and upon
closer examination, a person could wonder if
it wasn’t bread at all. So what was it exactly?
Where did the man in the van get his materials?
How did he even find an oven? Only
he could say, so most of us settled with the
bread being store-bought and left it at that.
Every third Sunday of October, the man
in the van would close up shop, sit in the
opened back of his Transit, and feed the
ducks from nine to five. And the ducks would
always come. There was something in the
bread that seemed to drop them out of the
sky.
Obviously, our Town Council hated the
man in the van. They didn’t find his cute
little oddities all that impressive, and they
could easily convince you they had every
right to want him gone. They had every right
to not want drug dealers in their community.
It was essentially their job to not want
drug dealers in their community. The town
needed a respectable reputation and a sober
community and a semi-sober group of tourists
that could spend lots of money and leave
upstanding reviews. They didn’t want this
man and his van and his ducks and his crap
marijuana and whatever else he was selling.
But strangely enough, it was the whatever
else that drew in a good fifteenth of the
tourists. There was a rumor—an incredibly
small rumor—that had crept its way across
the West Coast. It was usually said in the
backs of bars and near the ends of parties,
and it was as word-of-mouth as word-ofmouth
could be. It said that in a small
Oregon town a quarter mile from the ocean,
there was a green Ford Transit behind a
Costco, and in this van there was a guy who
could Make Stuff Happen. That was all the
rumor ever said, that he could Make Stuff
Happen, and very rarely was that description
ever elaborated on. But still people went,
and if they were lucky they would arrive
at the Costco and leave ten minutes later
feeling very stupid with a half-full baggie
of something-or-other pocketed in their
sweatshirts. No one ever came back a second
time, and even in the winter, the rate of
these customers never rose and never fell.
And of course, not all of these customers
arrived from far away. There was the town
dunce, Maggie Johnson, who knocked on the
Transit one May morning and aced all her
exams, and young Samuel Weaving who, on a
dare, had asked the man for a magic potion
and wouldn’t leave his bathroom for half a
week.
No one in the town knew much about the
something-or-other, but it created enough
activity around the man and the van that its
existence often led to some further call for
greater action. Every year the Town Council
tried to investigate the man in the van, and
every year they failed. This was because a
good solid number of us actually enjoyed
the man’s presence—or at the very least,
enjoyed his product—and this was why he'd
always be warned before the Council sent
one of their members down to the Costco.
The member would arrive, the man would be
spotless, and the Council would once again
be left with nothing. For the most part, this
was how life carried on for the man in the
van.
Then one year things changed. A new
rumor was created, and this time, thousands
across the state of Oregon were told
that duck season was upon them and if they
wanted to break some records, they needed
to be in a small sea-side town practically no
one had heard of. No one knew how the rumor
got started, but that didn’t stop dozens
of duck hunters from flocking in and filling
up the motels. It was basically the best thing
the Town Council could ever ask for, and
soon they became so wrapped up in these
new arrivals, they didn’t even notice the
man in the van setting up his own welcome
wagon. A second rumor picked up soon after,
and this one said there was a pothead behind
the Costco who apparently was responsible
for a lot of crazy shit. It said he had
helped a fisherman beach an orca. It said he
could make teenagers float off the ground.
65
It said he had once given a blunt to a woman
that had made her grow water-proof feathers.
It essentially said he could Make Stuff
Happen. Intrigued—and a little bored—the
hunters soon found themselves rounding the
corner of the warehouse and stopping to find
the man in the van sitting inside his Transit.
If they asked for something useful, each and
every one of them would be given a single
loaf of bread.
“You know you’re not supposed to bait the
ducks,” they’d say.
“You don’t have to buy it,” he’d respond,
and the hunters usually would.
That season was a strange one in the
world of duck hunting. Not only did those
hunters have terrible luck, but most of
them were also incredibly stoned. They told
insane stories about ducks blocking out the
sun before raining down to attack them, and
no one who heard these stories could tell if
they were an effect of bizarre and unfortunate
circumstances or whatever it was the
hunters had been smoking. Several hunting
magazines considered doing articles, the
man in the van quietly counted his piles of
fives, each and every one of us waited to see
what would happen, and the Town Council
fumed in their seats and scrambled to
grab hold of the culprit before he weaseled
out of their fingers. They called the Fish &
Wildlife Service, and after a very long phone
call and two testimonies, the agency finally
told them a couple of guys would be arriving
in the morning. We all considered this and
wondered if we should warn the man. We
hesitated. We decided against it. This time,
we figured, things were different.
On the 5th of November, the Costco
Wholesale was closed for one day, and a
large portion of us quickly gathered at the
end of the parking lot when we realized
what was happening. A dark-gray FWS truck
had arrived on the scene, seemingly completely
out of nowhere, and no matter how
hard we tried to peer through its windows,
no one could tell who sat inside it. Like a
shark, the truck drifted silently through the
parking lot and dipped around the corner,
and after it was completely out of sight,
a deep, unsettling anticipation swiftly fell
across the crowd. A few of us craned our
necks, some of us stood on our toes, and
others asked the person next to them if they
could see much else. There was a silence
that crushed us into holding our collective
breath and thinking a great deal. None of
us could have guessed what was happening
behind the Costco Wholesale.
The Fish & Wildlife agents were almost
pushed back by the pungent smell of salt
water and cannabis, and when they drove
around the corner, they were greeted with
one of the strangest sights they had ever
seen. They were expecting to find a tall,
middle-aged man in a green Ford Transit, but
what they saw instead was the man standing
in front of his car completely and unexpectedly
surrounded by every kind of duck. There
were mallards, wigdens, shovelers, pintails,
and teals. Long-tailed and short-tailed.
Cinnamon and Harlequin. And they were all
completely silent. It was incredible. It made
no sense. These birds needed to be in Baja
California or someplace even further south.
The two agents got out of their truck and
added the stench of wet bird and wet dumpster
to everything else they were smelling.
One of the agents said he’d wait in the car.
The other frowned and took a step forward.
“Sorry,” the man in the van said abruptly.
The agent paused.
The person in front of him sounded incredibly
preoccupied, and it gave the agent
a quiet, headach-y feeling that a person gets
when things fall out of order and they have
to deal with people and places that make no
sense.
“I know they're out of season, but I missed
the eighteenth,” the man continued. “I
didn’t think they’d be this upset.”
Not knowing how to respond, the agent
said nothing and took several steps closer.
He was now a foot deep in duck. A northern
teal bit into the top of his sock and somehow
managed to latch on.
“To be honest, I don’t completely know
why I did this,” the man said. “Turns out I’m
even stupider than they thought.”
The agent was now only a foot away. He
opened his mouth to speak.
“I mean, just look at how confused they
are,” the man exclaimed, and for no sensible
reason, the agent found himself struck into
silence as his body turned mutely around.
Never in his life did he expect to see it
right away. The ducks did look confused.
They seemed to fidget and shuffle and
cringe. The agent could somehow see it in
their eyes, in the way they waddled aimlessly
from place to place. Dumbly, he looked
down and remembered the teal. He half
expected it to speak to him.
“Please let me go,” it seemed to say, “I
really shouldn’t be here. This really isn’t
right. How can someone possibly believe this
is how things work?”
The agent came close to replying and
found that he’d been holding his breath. He
looked at the teal and the teal looked at
him. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. This was
ridiculous.
When the agent turned around with the
66
handcuffs, the man and the van simply
stared at them distantly.
“It’s weird that I thought I could feed
them all now,” he said as he held out his
hands. “And it’s totally unfair. This is all I
ever wanted to do.”
After the FWS truck rounded the corner
and drove past the crowd, and after we realized
it would not be turning back, none of us
really knew what to make of what we’d just
witnessed.
“Who knew they’d finally get him?” Most
of us thought.
“There goes my dealer,” a few others
whispered.
After the ducks scattered into the air and
soared above our heads, most of us felt even
more at a loss. We all got the uneasy impression
that those ducks would never stop by
again.
Then time moved on. A year passed and
a duck-themed Costco party was canceled
wistfully. We soon found ourselves submerged
in a somewhat muted haze. Many of
us tried to find another dealer. Sometimes a
tourist would ask about anything out of the
ordinary, which would lead to a local quickly
getting excited and then slightly annoyed
and then unspeaking. To the Town Council’s
utter frustration, the tourist revenue slowly
began to sink, and during the first few
months after the man’s departure, a handful
of out-of-towners could be seen walking
into the back of the Costco and then leaving
almost immediately.
“Who are they?” We’d ask, but most of
us didn’t go looking for an answer and most
didn’t want it, and after the number of
those strange out-of-towners dwindled down
to none, our small Oregon town truly began
to grow quiet. Another winter passed and
nobody bothered to leave out bread. For
most of the season, all any of us seemed
to do was wait. Wait for the ducks to start
blocking out the sun. Wait for the man to
return in his Transit. Wait for the day when
the town could return back to normal,
when we’d be a subject people liked talking
about, when we’d be strange and unusual
and a little bizarre, when we’d be a spot
that held solutions and stories and secrets
and strangers, and when we’d once again be
something just a bit out of place and a town
on the coast that could Make Stuff Happen.
These two hands
Dry and hard
Used to write this poem
stained
with tears of frustration
typing vigorously
about a story
wishing not to tell
Or a poem
to throw away again
racing with hard emotion
of what to express
And can’t seem to find the words.
My hands are at a stand still
With sweat and trembling fingers
Craving for approval
But rather hide and blend with the table
Running
While being immobilized
And can’t seem to concentrate
on the task at hand.
My Hands
Poetry
katie pfeifer
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
Then
Scrolling on the internet
to find the poem they shaped
the tears they wept
the blood they sacrificed
has been rejected
to be seen as worthless
to be seen as a waste of time
to the people they crave unwanted approval
So these two hands
Broad and thick
Are trying to a write a poem or a story
But instead
Just sit there and let their mind wonder.
67
I. Enter the Theme Park
With a highway trailer’s tilt,
the A-shirt and discount-ticket man
lumbers, unhinged and heaving,
toward the two local boys
standing in front of the hot wing
and funnel cake stand.
As loose soil, they tremble under
the crash of an August wind’s lead foot.
Did you cut in front of my son?
he asks, bringing them both down,
like roadkill, like coyotes reduced
to dust and blood on the interstate.
They apologize and shrink
under the heat of California magic.
They apologize and shrivel,
two decaying animals in the desert.
II. A Quick Bite to Eat
Inside the stand, employees
ache over world famous hot sauce
and finely powdered sugar.
The Theme Park
Poetry
Tufik Shayeb
Phoenix, Arizona, USA
They wear ties and trousers,
blouses and bonnets, hard at work
clothes, elbow-greased patches
and mine-shaft buttons.
Outside the stand, Midwestern folk
with glistening scrap yard smiles
chew through sinewy chicken.
Used napkins between them,
piling higher, racing against
the great roller coaster for ozone
and for superiority.
They are dirty from meat,
chewing meat, picking meat
meat from the gripping prison
of brilliant dental braces.
III. Waiting in Line
Deeper into the park,
past the steel beams
and plastic merchandise,
past the clamoring
jungle of tourists with bright
yellow fanny packs and large
fragile cameras slung low
at their sides, a monstrous,
68
winding anaconda, made of
sweaty, exhausted park ride
patrons, standing in line
they meet each other
over and over,
their
eyes are locked
over
and over as they
pass
each other, over
and
over, like
reincarnation
,over/ and \over,
they are familiar
strangers.
/\
IV. The Rides
Nothing green
will ever last long
in this park,
only mechanical bulls
too big for their riders,
pressing their bolted roots
deep into the slabs below
reaching for an empty heaven
while their creators still walk
on two legs and crawl
when injured.
V. Family Reunions
Near the great roller coaster,
a family reunion congregates
to use the facilities.
There are four generations of
[generic surname], closely arranged
in silk-screen and powder blue.
Some gene, some program
in the brain and in the blood
instructs them to synchronize
every [generic surname] on earth,
had chosen that precise moment
to seek out a ceramic bowl
where, squatting in dim stalls,
they mutter about bad weather
and about unfavorable timing.
VI. Having Fun
The great coaster pounds,
as a little girl pushes her way
through the crowd.
She makes her way
to the front of the line.
Her eyelids flutter,
two ashy moths on a window.
She is blind.
Her cane clickers and clackers.
Her face is vacation red,
her large ponytailed head
is bobbing as she moves,
a floating balloon
tethered by overalls
and clunky Velcro shoes.
Their eyebrows furrow.
That’s got to be a safety hazard,
they jeer.
She is excited.
Soon, the rackety ride
will drop way down.
The great big round Earth,
down below, will tug on all
the inside strings,
her spleen will steal a highfive
from her kidney,
and it will no longer matter
that she cannot see a mascot
dancing.
69
What No One Speaks
of in Illinois
Poetry
Carl Boon
Izmir, Turkey
I offer my mother a recipe
for mushroom risotto with chives,
it being a February Monday
and her frailty still a myth to her.
I tell her strange things happen
in Elgin when the thaw begins
and to call if the street-boys
mar the stop sign again, the red
octagon standing at the corner.
She whispers her goodbyes
to me now and forces me to fear.
Her Christmas tree still stands
in the living room, still shines
white and red. My husband
drives by after work for news:
the neighbor’s swept the slush
from the stoop; the pickled beets
in jars remain on the windowsill.
We drink whiskey after supper
and try not to cry—if we make love
I think of her blue bedspread
and the hairs that pierce it.
I think of the Fourth of July
an errant firecracker lit her blouse
on fire and what it means to live
in a house alone, what she sees
in the mirror before bed, what
85 years of the Cubs on the radio
and all that wind and seven
different priests have done to her.
The doctor says it will be gradual,
the decline, with moments
where she’s God and God is her,
and that the end will be a child’s.
This is How Delirium's Demiurge Drowns the Universe
Poetry
Jean-Sebastien Grenier
Nelson, British Columbia, Canada
face.
At last odyssey-crushed, I’m amid reincarnating
In the dismal glade as a sunflower on her
I am the spectral flame between her eyes.
I’ve been revived, so begins our entangled,
Entertainment within the dream eternal;
Let us sculpt shapes of beauty out the negative space
Between Hyde & host: a hunched madam gorging on
The brood-red carcass of an iron star.
Her cauldron’s brimming with the celestial
Sweat of a nearby brook. Between reflections,
Everything’s gurgling. Without warning,
My mad madam lurches face-first into the cauldron
And roars, regurgitates the symbolic ingredients
From my first creation; a chaos cadence,
Void-worn woes, eulogies of the logos.
The sheer paradox shock of it all shall
Spit out my near annihilation. This vixen
Of bestial visions only mouths her half-belief
In me. Not enough. Floating in the vat,
My meta mind metabolizes betrayal over
The fires of her laughter.
Strands of surreal steam rise and ensnare
The mirages, mine illumined via earthshine
Before vanishing into the black frigid sky.
And there above, making needles out moonlight,
Lung-shaped leaves on a low-hung bough
Abandon what it means to breathe.
Before the chimeric ichor in this cauldron can fully dilute me,
I’m picked apart by the cacophonous chant of her
Shadowy shawl stitched out all the masks of my past
Lives. They swirl their song around her shoulders
And welcome me home.
This is how we complete the branding of our coexistence.
70
71
a trip in space
Digital Art
Vita Nocilla
Livermore, California, USA
72
Zen Sex Metallica
Painting
Labdhi Sha
Atlanta, Georgia, USA
“Well Olivia, can I ask you some questions?”
Olivia smiled sweetly at him and with a
small giggle flipped her hair. “Of course! I’ve
been interviewed many times, I know what
I’m doing.”
The interviewer gives a tentative smile
and continues, “Do you mind if I record
this?”
“Oh, not at all!”
The interviewer clicked the start button
on a recorder. “Okay, first question. How old
are you?”
“That’s easy, I’m 18!”
“Okay. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Well, I walked into this room and then
you started asking me questions.”
“No, I mean before you got here. Why are
you here? What happened at prom?”
“Oh, you want to know what happened at
prom.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell you, but for the story’s sake,
I’ll start from the beginning. I was a normal
teenager, and my senior year was going
great. I had the quarterback boyfriend, I was
popular, rich, beautiful, and I had just begun
my modeling career. You might have seen me
in a few magazines and on TV commercials.
Anyway, prom was coming up. I had my dress
picked out. It was this beautiful blue gown
with silks, ribbons, and gems. It was breathtaking,
especially on me. All of my friends
had a date to prom already and I was waiting
for my boyfriend, Travis, to ask me to prom.
A few days later he did. It was so romantic.
Prom Queen
Fiction
Danika Leuenberger
Granger, Iowa, USA
He had spent so much time on it too. Oh,
it makes me blush just thinking about it.”
Olivia started to drift off with a dreamy look
on her face.
“Eh-hem, what happened next?”
“Oh, sorry. Well, when prom arrived, I was
so happy. School let out early. My girlfriends
and I all went to my house to get ready for
prom. My parents rented a limousine, and
when we were ready, we got in and rode to
prom in style. Prom was great. We danced
and talked, and when they were ready to say
who the prom king and queen were, we were
ready. We were so excited as they brought
out the crowns and sashes for the winners.
Then the class president went up, gave a
small speech about the year, and then she
took out the voting cards. She opened the
first card and said: 'This year’s prom king
is Travis!' I was so happy for him. Then she
opened the second one and said the prom
queen was me! I was so happy I almost ran
up to the stage, to Travis, and to the crown.
I was ready. I deserved this. They crowned
Travis and me prom king and queen, and
then we each gave a small speech. Then
the prom was over. Travis took me home,
kissed me goodnight, and then drove home.
I walked inside and went to bed. That’s it,
that was prom.”
“OK, thank you, Olivia. Johnathan outside
will take you to your next appointment.”
“Thank you, good day.” Olivia walked
outside to Johnathan standing outside in all
white, she reached for his arm but he shifted
away.
73
“Ready to go Olivia?” Olivia looked up at
him.
“Sure.” Olivia and Johnathan walked
down the dark halls in silence. Olivia would
try to start a conversation but would get no
response. Eventually, they got to another office
door that said, “Doctor Adams.” Johnathan
let go of Olivia’s arm.
“I’ll be right outside this door.” Olivia
nodded her head at Jonathan and walked inside.
“Oh Olivia, you’re here. Right on time.
Sit down, get comfy. Now, Olivia, do you
remember what we talked about yesterday?”
“Prom, right?”
“Yes, we talked about your prom. Do you
recall what I told you about prom yesterday?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll tell you again. Olivia, you are
not prom queen, your boyfriend broke up
with you, and your parents are broke. You
have been living in a fantasy world. I have
reports here, on my desk, that say on the
night of prom when you didn’t win you went
crazy. Do you remember that?”
Olivia looked at Doctor Adams with wide
eyes, and shook her head, “No”
“Olivia It’s time to change out of the
dress and give back the tiara.” He gestured
towards her blue dress and the prom queen
crown on her head.
“What, NO! I won! I’m prom queen!”
“No, you’re not. It’s time you come back
to the real world.”
“NO!” Olivia stood up violently from her
chair, knocking it to the ground. Olivia start-
ed screaming curses and threats at Doctor
Adams and she moved her hand back as if to
hit him.
Doctor Adams stood up and got behind his
chair as he yelled for help,
“NURSES! JOHNATHAN! HELP!” Johnathan
comes running into the room moments later
with a few other nurses and grabs Olivia.
“LET ME GO!”
“Johnathan please take her to her room,
we are done for today.”
“Yes, sir.” Johnathan and the other nurses
pull Olivia out of the room and down the
halls with her kicking and screaming the
whole way. They stop at a steel door that
Johnathan unlocks, and takes Olivia into.
He sets her on the bed, “Olivia calm down,
you’re in your room. Away from everything,
calm down. “ Olivia slowly starts calming
down, taking deep breaths, and looks at
Johnathan, “Is it true?”
“Yes, that’s why you’re here, in this hospital.”
Olivia looks down at her hands in her
lap. “Am I okay?” Johnathan sighed.
“Not yet, but you will be.” Olivia lays
down on the bed putting her hand to her
forehead. “Please leave, I wish to be alone.”
Johnathan stands up and walks towards the
door. “See you later.” He says with a small
smile.
He shuts the door and locks it behind him,
"Oh Olivia, when will you wake up and see
reality? You’re not prom queen. Your prom
was two years ago." Johnathan walks away
from the door down the hall. He sees a nurse
and a guard struggling with a patient in the
halls. He goes to help them deal with the
situation. Before Johnathan can get there,
they knock out the patient and drag him
towards his room. Johnathan pauses and
thinks to himself, Somedays I wonder, why
did I choose to work at an asylum? He shrugs
his shoulders and walks down the dark hall,
standing out in his bright white nurses uniform,
surrounded by rooms filled with insane
people on either side. The screaming filled
the halls, but it didn't phase him anymore.
They were people needing help. That’s when
he remembers why he does this job, to help
people who need it the most.
74
Mirage
Poetry
Sarah Riensche
Castro Valley, California, USA
A glistening vision looming ahead
A dream bright with recognition and fame
Where all wrong is made right again.
A universe orbiting a sun of dreams
A realm where colorful hope
Swirls amid dancing light.
The child of a longing mind
Conceived in desperate yearning
Born of vivid fantasy.
A mirage
Just a mirage.
Invisibility
Poetry
Jennifer Schneider
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA
I am a keeper of a cream parchment card stock that I alone claim. I
am a body in a wooden dining room chair, with a reserved seat and
setting at the far end of the long table. The one laden with ceramic
bowls filled of foreign and flavorful substances. Cumin and curry. Basil
and bay leaves. Savory orange and brown broths. Rectangular casserole
dishes full of sweet corn, crisp asparagus, and lean meats. Folded
cloth napkins and a pitcher of freshly brewed lemonade just out of
arm’s reach. Laughter, too. Heavy aromas blanket the air and wrap
my personhood. A dry wad of Fruit Stripe gum lodged in the cavity of
my right cheek. My tongue pushes it right, then left, then right again.
I speak and await responses I know will never present. Silent victims
of my lack for dialect, language, and charisma. A reality I’d gladly
attribute to my routine upbringing though I know it was anything but
routine. Nights counting minutes, eyes tracking night lights.
Quiet. Listen please. It’s better if you saw nothing at all.
Uttered words land on the tiny red, yellow, and pink flowers
embroidered on the cotton cardigan draped across my lap. Initially a
light dusting. Eventually a drenching cast upon the ruffled collar that
I wrap around my neck daily. Commuting to and from. I am a body on
a bus. The No. 5 on Tuesdays. The No 2. alternate Wednesdays. The
No. 32 each night, three minutes before 11. I am a hand that clutches
tokens and a head that bounces to beats of Lennon and Joel. John and
Stevens, too. Their names and their lyrics roll through the potholes
that litter the city streets. All hands clutch devices and all heads
bounce in rhythm with tunes that stream through wires in oddly shaped
ears. Three tiny bones, some of the smallest in the human body, with
an odd, oval-shaped window.
As much as I consume, I remain always looking for a way out. Beyond
the window of the standard 4 bed 2 bath in the standard suburban
town. Beyond the window of the standard bus traveling down the
standard thoroughfare. I wonder why the others seem so different.
Most eyes cast downward. Some heads covered in cloth. I see no one
and I am seen by no one. We commute, to and from. Over the greentinted
water, in and out of the city to the dwellings we call home.
To all who ask, we are city people. Yet we too flee as dusk descends.
Awaiting the morning call of the train before returning. I am an
employee whose stomach rumbles like clockwork at the top of the
hour. An employee who prefers analog to digital, thrift shop to store
brand, and late nights to early morning. Though my shift starts at 9 AM
sharp. I am a number whose work is measured also in numbers, mostly
fractions of an hour.
I am a number who output is measured in rows and columns added
daily and tracked weekly. I am body that longs for sleep yet sweat
dreams of alarms and missed deadlines. I have eyes that long to
close forever and lashes that long blink. I am a body painted of black
mascara, purple and blue shadow, and rose blush. I am a girl who grew
to a woman and who was taught to listen, say thank you, and take
orders. I am a woman who no longer thinks that what she was taught is
timely. I am a body in a wooden dining room chair, with a reserved seat
and setting at the far end of the long table. I am a keeper of cream
parchment card stock that I alone claim. I have not forgotten who
gifted me life, though they have forgotten me.
75
76
Rise From Pandemic
Acrylic and Spray Paint on Canvas
Paul Koskinen
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Reasons not to take Quetiapine as prescribed
(an incomplete list):
Dreams.
Dreams of the dead, of the possible dead,
the probable dead. Realistic dreams with
smells and colors and music. Vivid dreams
with a lover and her beloved on the tracks
outside his house. Dreams of arguing. Of
desperation. Don’t leave me here, she says.
I’ll come with you, she tries to plead as
her voice is swallowed by a blast of sound.
Dreams of him walking away from her, face
resolved. Dreams of tripping.
Dreams of a yell, but she doesn’t hear
him. She has already turned away in tears.
Dreams of a massive force that rattles
the ground. Dreams of a shriek that pierces
through even the deafening horns. Dreams
of the last time she locked eyes with his, his
deep eyes wide in a way she has never seen
before, darting down the tracks and back at
her.
Dreams of rushing. Of reaching. Of distance
that grows with every step to close it.
Dreams of hands that touch, barely, for an
instant, before never again. Dreams of pink
spray, her spray, his spray. Dreams of body
parts, of supple skin sliced by hot metal,
of time slowing down to present each and
every tear. Even the strongest human bodies
are remarkably fragile.
Dreams of the sky opening in tears for the
two, summer rains that had left their scent
lingering on his jacket, now sealing her into
a muddy grave.
Residue
Fiction
Charity Morris
Umatilla, Oregon, USA
Dreams of one last blink, one last canopy
of stars, before submitting to sleep.
That wasn’t how it happened, though.
She had thought for a moment, lying on the
grass, staring at the canopy of stars, that she
was dead, had died, and that Mario was dead
too, but she’d been wrong. He’d woken her
gently, with a blood-spattered hand, a gash
across his cheek that made him look even
more rugged and handsome than before. He
had pulled her from the ditch, didn’t let her
look down, covered her arm with his coat,
torn and tattered and impossibly dirty but
she hadn’t been able to protest. She had
tried to hold onto consciousness as he carried
her but it was too much, it was all too
much, and she had woken up later -- months
later, it seemed -- in this bed that she now
lives in most of the day.
***
They meet on a Thursday.
End of the year parent-teacher conferences
always have poor turn out. Some of
her coworkers appreciate the several uninterrupted
hours to catch up on grading and
lesson plans, but Danielle remains hopeful
the parents of her more concerning students
will show.
She is reorganizing her paperclip drawer
when he walks in. His pants are dirty and
patched with unmatching blue squares, but
his shirt, a yellow and brown plaid button-down,
is freshly pressed.
77
“Mrs...” he extends his hand to her with a
questioning look. She stands.
“Miss Smith,” she corrects him, taking his
calloused and filthy hand in hers. She wonders
how long she needs to wait to use her
hand sanitizer without it seeming rude.
“Mario Ruiz,” he says, wiping his hands on
his pants sheepishly. “I just got off work,” he
explains.
Danielle, horrified that he has read her
expression so plainly, tries to change the
subject. “So, you’re here for…” she probes.
“Luis,” he states. She has a lot to say
about Luis. Luis is a bright boy, gifted really,
but the past few weeks have seen his bright
young face turn sullen and withdrawn. She
means to talk to his mother about it, a polished
Latinx with a sternness about her that
she knows will help him get his focus back so
he can graduate the following year, but surprisingly,
his mother hasn’t shown. Instead,
there is this mess of a man who clearly can’t
find his way to a washtub to save his life.
“And you know Luis how?” Danielle asks.
“I can’t give out student information to anyone
but a parent or guardian. It’s the law.”
The man tries to squeeze into the small
student desk across from hers before perching
on the desktop itself. “Luis’ parents…”
he begins in a low voice. “My brother and his
wife…”
“Do you need a translator?” Danielle
asks, trying to mask her impatience. It is
five minutes before the end of conferences
and it has already been a long night. All she
wants to do at this point is to wrap things up
and head home, but she can tell already this
isn’t going to be quick.
“I speak English just fine, thanks,” he says
shortly. “It’s just hard to explain why Luis is
living with me now.”
“Oh,” Danielle says, embarrassed at her
own assumption, and sits to look for Luis’
file. “Where’s Maria?” She freezes. “Did
something happen?”
“Maria is..." he seems at a loss for words.
“My brother Carlos’ wife? They were… removed.”
He shifts uncomfortably on the tiny
desk.
“I see.” Danielle comes around to sit on
the front of her desk. “And you aren’t legal,
are you.” It is more of a statement than a
question; Luis would not be her first student
lost to parental choices and political inconsistencies.
“No!” he blanches. “I have all my papers.
I go to the office and do them every time,
but my brother…” He speaks quickly, looking
panicked. “He missed his renewal deadline.
He and Maria were taken two weeks ago.
I’m documented, Luis was born here, please
don’t have them come by.” His eyes, deep
brown pools of fear, plead for understanding.
“I’m not a father. I don’t know how to do
this. I’m just trying to be a good tío to Luis
until we sort all of this out.”
Danielle notices the bags under his eyes.
He looks exhausted.
“You said you work?” she asks.
“Landscaping,” he says. “Four a.m. every
morning until it gets done. Although in
summer, fieldwork pays more. Sometimes I
do both if I can get the work.”
“It costs a lot to raise a child,” she sympathizes.
She pours him a cup of coffee from
her desk coffee-maker, a necessity for conference
nights. “Sorry the mug is pink.”
He accepts it gratefully and smiles. “I bet
it tastes just fine.”
She refills her mug and they drink in
silence for several minutes. Through the
window she sees other teachers, laden with
books and student files, heading to their
cars. Conferences are over, but she doesn’t
feel the need to rush home anymore. She
finally understands the boy wearing headphones
in her class, the hoodie cinched
tightly around his face, the times he miserably
lays his head in his arms during class
discussion, blocking out the world.
She sets down her mug. “So how can I
help?”
***
She spends the summer doing just as Mario
has asked. Every morning she comes by their
small one-bedroom home out by the rail yard
to check on Luis. She brings groceries when
Mario’s days are too long to stop by the supermarket
and extra school work for Luis to
keep up over the break. Not that he needs it
-- she has always said he is her finest student
- but because working on math and grammar
helps him focus on something other than the
fact that he hasn’t heard from his mother in
months. Often, she stays with him well into
the evening when Mario stumbles in, physically
spent and visibly grateful she is there.
He offers to make her dinner, but she never
allows it, preferring him to take a shower
and relax with Luis while the boy puts
whatever YouTuber or show he is watching
on the television, as evening trains add their
low rumble to ad jingles for toilet paper and
cars. Then, after Luis goes to bed, Danielle
awkwardly packs up her things and heads
home.
78
Until the evening Mario asks her to stay.
He brushes off a dusty bottle of wine from a
client who was particularly pleased by the
stonework on their new patio, and they drink
it together in the living room, which, as she
finds out, has doubled as his bedroom since
Luis came to stay. He is a surprisingly kind
man, a good man, to give up his bedroom
for the boy, although as the evening goes
on and their glances grow longer and more
intimate, she wishes he was slightly less kind
and good.
But he is a gentleman, she rues, and
against her better judgment she discovers
that her commitment to student achievement
has somehow evolved into feelings she
never intended, feelings she actively worked
to avoid.
Which means an uncomfortable conversation
is long overdue.
“I can’t come by anymore,” she tells Mario
as he walks her to her car.
He holds her gaze even as she fumbles for
her keys. “Sure you can,” he replies.
“No,” she insists. “This is… weird. It’s
unprofessional. It’s --”
But then he kisses her. Hard and soft and
earnest. She drops her bag on the concrete
and wraps her arms around his neck. After
a moment she pulls back, drinking in his
rich brown eyes, enraptured with his rough
strong hands in her hair and the way he
smells of cedar and lawn clippings and sweet
summer rains. The second time, she kisses
him first, fumbling with the car door and
pulling him in after her.
That was before. Before the comfortable
routine set in. Before the toothbrush in his
bathroom drawer. Before the monogrammed
coffee cups. Before the ring he found at the
second-chance shop and had his cousin, a
welder but aspiring for more, melt down
and reset to a brilliant new gleam. Before
he came home to tell her his H2-A visa was
denied and everything would change. Before
Luis had to choose between foster care and
returning to a country that claimed him,
but that he had never claimed. Before she
pulled Mario’s weeping face to her chest and
begged him to marry her and stay and before
he pulled out the token that stated for him
how much he meant to ask her first.
***
“It was so romantic,” Danielle sighed
blissfully, as she recounted the moment to
Ben and Camille the following day.
Ben shifted and adjusted his glasses, slipping
his pen back into the breast pocket of
his white coat.
“Now, Danielle, we’ve discussed this. You
were here--”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben,” Danielle
muttered, staring out the window at the
softly falling snow.
“You were here,” he persisted, trying to
place himself in her gaze. “You haven’t left-
-”
“NO!” Danielle looked around wildly,
looking for the door. She flung her bedspread
to the floor and meant to dart for the exit,
but was stopped by the thick canvas strap
connecting her wrist to the bed.
“Again,” Ben was getting angry. Spit flew
as he tried to reorient her: “You have not
left this bed since you were found at the ER
doors —”
“What the hell is this, Ben?!” she cried
hysterically with tears in her eyes. She
launched herself against the restraint, eyes
closed, wishing to be anywhere else. “Why?”
she moaned, her tears spotting her blue
paisley gown.
“For the last time, it’s Doctor Atkinson,”
Ben snapped. He stood and strode directly to
the exit before turning to Camille. “What’s
taking so long on those meds?” he snarled at
her.
“I’ll double-check with Pharmacy,” Camille
stated blandly, her eyes glued to the
chart on her screen as she tapped slowly on
her keyboard.
“And tighten that restraint, for chrissake,”
the doctor huffed as he left. This
rotation couldn’t end soon enough for him.
Camille finished the session notes quietly
as Danielle sobbed. Mondays were all the
same; MDs were all the same. She was the
one still here on Tuesday but no matter how
often she pointed out how fruitless their sessions
were, she didn’t have enough letters
after her last name for her opinion to count.
She turned to Danielle.
“So,” she said in her brightest voice. “You
got engaged!”
Danielle hiccuped and took a few short
breaths before giving Camille a weak smile.
“Yeah,” she sniffed.
“Let’s see the ring!” Camille said walking
around the bed to Danielle’s hygiene tote.
Camille knew their script. It was the same
every week.
Danielle beamed and obliged.
“Oooh,” Camille cooed, taking a brush to
Danielle’s matted brown nest. Weekend shift
had a lot to work on in regards to patient
care. “Is that a diamond?”
Danielle laughed and rattled off the details
- how he found it and gave it a fresh
start, like the fresh start they had given
each other after that first embarrassing
79
meeting. Camille brushed gently and smiled,
her eyes trained on the space above Danielle’s
gnarled left stump of an arm, the
space that would have contained Danielle’s
left hand, if she still had one. “He must
really love you to go to all that trouble,” she
murmured, the hair on the back of Danielle’s
head finally smooth.
“I really love him back,” Danielle sighed,
taking the cup of pills Camille handed to her
and slipping into their darkness.
***
Reasons to take Quetiapine as prescribed
(an exhaustive list):
No more anxiety. No more pain. No more
confusing conversations.
No more scratchy sheets. No more hospital
smells. No more small talk with the nurse
you secretly despise.
No more memories of bliss, of kisses under
star-canopied skies. No more smells of
coffee while locking eyes with a set that see
you and know you and love you, despite the
circumstances.
No more pain. No more searing pain in
her arm, her leg just above the knee, her
heart, her memories. No more straps on the
bed when she tries to explain what really
happened, that he isn’t dead. Do they think
she just stumbled here, flayed and out-bled,
alone? After facing down a train, she just
made it here on her own?
No more questions. Nothing more to explain.
And no more pain.
***
Danielle wakes to a heavy calloused hand
on her thigh. Ben is gone. Camille will be
back in an hour. She places her left hand on
his and opens her eyes. Her beautiful ring
glitters on her hand as it always does and
she turns to look into the eyes of the one
who comes to sit with her between all her
hourly checks, who has never left, and who
never will, as he tells her whenever the pain
gets to be too much.
“Mi amor,” he purrs, touching her face
with his hand as his other continues to hold
hers. She brings her forehead to his and closes
her eyes, drinking in the smell of cedar
and lawn clippings and sweet summer rains.
Doing Time
Poetry
A Slevin
Dublin, Ireland
Broke up last night
Broke me mentally
Broke before rent day
Broker trade? Forget about it
Break a sweat
Break the window
Break his neck
Break into a run
Back home now
Back killing me
Back out of this habit
Back into the saddle
Change out of my bloody clothes
Change behind the couch
Change of scenery
Change my name
Drink away the old
Drink in the new
Drink of water in the hotel bar
Drink is on him, I tell the barman
Knocking at my bedroom door
Knocking my resolve for six
Knocking shop owner that I didn’t pay
Knocks me out cold
Head into the bathroom
Head is banging
Head of my beer comes back up
Heads up! The world goes dark
Night Prayer
Sonnet
Richard Stimac
Maplewood, Missouri, USA
This cloudy, new moon night, the star-like
lights
Of grain silos and elevators shine
Across the river, water black as wine,
As if constellations fell from their heights,
Sky, earth, in exchange. A dry bulk barge
rights
Itself as feed grain mounds send up a fine
Dust, and the watery stars shimmer, a sign,
That God, awoke, has put us in his sights,
Or nature is indifferent. To you,
As you walk across heaven’s floor, your soles
Singed by seraphic heat, you turn your eyes
Up to hell’s glory. And me, in my fuss
For banks and cars and who leads in the polls,
I pray fallen words never reach the skies.
80
High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)
Poetry
Brianna Fay
Henrietta, New York, USA
I have dreams
every other full moon or so
that I’m driving down middle road
and the sun had already set
and there’s a car driving towards me
he flashes his high beams at me.
On, off, and on. Three times.
I’m driving down the dip in the road
He’s coming at it from the other direction
His high beams light up the cabin of my Chevy Trailblazer
They illuminate the yellow dashes in the road
They light up the wheat on either side of the street.
On, off, and on. Three times.
What are you trying to tell me?
They light up the abandoned machinery in the field.
It’s been abandoned;
every time I pass,
every time the car drives by in my dreams.
The fields by this road are my favorite part of this town.
My family used to watch fireworks from that hill at the top of the road
and when the sun is setting
the city skyline lights up over the trees.
I used to take that road as a short cut to get home from Jay’s Diner.
It’s where I got pulled over for the first time.
It’s where I drove the car to the side of the road to spend three hours
crying
just because everything was falling apart.
I have these dreams
81
every full moon or so
that I’m driving down middle road
and the sun has already set
and there’s a car driving towards me
and he flashes his high beams.
On, off, and on. Three times.
What are you trying to tell me?
Is there something wrong with my car?
YOU’RE DRIVING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION
Lately, the landscape has changed
but I still take that route home.
The machinery has been moving dirt.
Dad says they’re building soon
and we might not be able to see
the skyline from that hill
GET OFF THE ROAD
I never go to Jay’s Diner anymore.
BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE
I don’t even know if this route is really a short cut.
GET OUT
On, off, and on again.
IT’S NOT TOO LATE
Fossil Fuel Relic
Painting
Carolyn Lord
Livermore, California, USA
82
Earth
Painting
Aydin Ermolaev
Pleasanton, California, USA
83
I am not a person.
I am a disappointment. Fathers don’t
want daughters. They want a son to play
sports, earn trophies, and score during the
championship game. They can call him “Junior”
and teach him all he’ll need to know.
Sons can get a scholarship for throwing a ball
and running around with other sons. Dad will
be so proud. He’ll tell all his buddies at the
next poker game about how his son has done
the family name well.
Fathers want a son who will be looked up
to and popular amongst the ladies. “That’s
my boy,” he’ll say. They’d worry too much
about their daughters going out with the
type of boy they would have raised.
Fathers want a son who can be a successful
businessman. They can provide for the
family while wearing a suit. They’ll buy nice
Christmas gifts and drink expensive scotch
while out with their pals. Daughters won’t
be corporate CEOs and have a large paycheck.
They’ll be secretaries, maybe.
Better yet, a housewife.
Daughters aren’t the ones bragged about
at family reunions, unless they’re beautiful,
with a husband who resembles the son
they’ve always dreamed of. Fathers want
a son who will follow in their footsteps and
give them a sense of pride. Fathers don’t
want daughters.
I am a piece of property. My boyfriend will
choose me based upon specific expectations
[ I am ]
Fiction
Jessica Garrison
Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania, USA
he has set. I need to look the part in order
to fit in with whatever crowd I’m needed
for. I have to be dumb enough so he can be
the center of conversation, but still pretty
enough to be worth the time. I can’t do the
same to him. I don’t want to seem shallow.
He needs to have his arm around me to
show the other guys that I’m his and they
can’t have me; I’m an ornament that’s
supposed to look nice and show off his best
features. I laugh on cue and act like I’m OK
with his buddies’ side comments on my body.
I’m only there to prove he has someone.
Has something.
I am a sex object. My body needs to stay
in its best possible shape so my husband
isn’t ashamed to sleep with me. Whatever
his request may be, I should be willing to do
it because he’s my husband, and I want him
to be happy, don’t I? If it makes me uncomfortable,
then I should get over it. I’m being
silly. Maybe even a little selfish. He’s just
trying to spice things up. He’s my husband
and I should be more understanding of his
needs.
The beginning years are like a fairytale
with long talks about our glowing future.
The touches are gentle, and my heart swells
when he looks into my eyes.
Now it has just become a routine of
quickly undressing and avoiding eye contact.
A way for him to unwind after a long day at
work while I stayed home and read romance
novels. There will be no story of that nature
with us. No rose petals or champagne or
84
scented candles. Just used sheets and empty
kisses.
I am a womb. It’s my job to have children.
I’m the one with the uterus. I’m supposed to
carry my husband’s children and give him an
excuse not to have sex with me.
It doesn’t matter whether or not I wanted
this child, I’m having it. I’m keeping it. It’s
my fate to be impregnated, carry said child
for 9 months, and be forced to do everything
for two. To eat right, go to doctor’s appointments,
and have my body ripped from the
inside out for the sake of a perfect family.
Even after all of this, I must prove myself
worthy. My husband will be a great dad
for remembering his (or her) birthday and
sometimes seeing him (or her) before bed.
I could give my life for him (or her), and it
still wouldn’t be enough.
I will be responsible for making sure this
child turns out OK.
If she doesn’t, I have failed as a womb.
A sad head shake. “Turned out just like her
mother.”
If he does, it was because he had a strong,
supportive father. A pat on the back. “Just
like his old man.”
I am a machine. I have to rise earlier than
anyone else and creep down the stairs before
the sun begins to peek over the horizon.
Brew the coffee and make breakfast. My
husband needs a big breakfast to keep his
energy up during an exhausting day at work.
Of course I’ll clean up the dishes. Of course
I’ll get the kids up and ready for school. Of
course.
I only have fifteen minutes to get ready
for work because I needed to help them put
on their shoes. I wanted to take a shower
this morning. I ran out of time.
Drop the kids off at school and head to
work. I have to speed to get there on time.
I go thirty over, fingers crossed that a cop
doesn’t see me. I’m still late. My boss says
it’s strike three. I have to be careful. He
doesn’t have children.
It’s eight hours later, and school is out.
Their assignments are done before dinner,
and they eat all the vegetables on their
plates.
“Daddy’s working late again tonight.” It
was his turn to do the dishes.
“No, I don’t know when he’ll be home.”
He promised to help fold the laundry.
But he has to stay late. He is providing for
the family.
Time for baths and pajamas and bedtime
stories. I was supposed to take a shower
while he got the kids ready for bed. Maybe
tomorrow morning.
He comes home late, too tired to talk.
We go to bed, but I don’t fall asleep. I need
more time.
I wish he’d help me like he says he will. If
I nag about it, he’ll tell me to quit my job so
I can get more done. If I quit my job, he’ll
resent me for the budget cuts. He doesn’t
think of my feelings. Because machines don’t
have feelings.
I am not a person. I am a woman. And
they are not the same.
I’ve wandered into some old church
On a rundown street, the dive bar
Next door for those left in the lurch
By idled engines, empty rail cars,
Closed foundries, cold kilns, dead steel yards.
The tar-roofed shotgun shacks still blaze
With the ghosts of the refuse and discards
Of what we call the simpler days.
Simple is not what I’d call the people
Who measured weeks by Sunday mass.
Like Uriel, set to guard the steeple,
They kept ward over broken glass,
Cracked blacktop with hopscotch crosses,
Rusted chains of bent iron hoops.
Score was kept of wins and losses.
They rocked and watched from sagging
stoops.
With their mute mouths, glass eyes, deaf
ears,
Like faded pastel plaster saints,
They marked and shed plaster-like tears
For coal girl’s pleas, brakeman’s complaints.
Who would hear them? The whiskey priest?
All he did was preach the divine.
That was something, he thought, at least,
To clear black lung, straighten a spine.
Visitation
Sonnet
Richard Stimac
Maplewood, Missouri, USA
When you . . . when I, I meant to say,
Like an angel, make my visit,
Up steps, through doors, a passageway,
Maybe I will ask, “What is it
That led these poor to drop their cents
Into the plate to build this place?
What empty cupboard, past due rents,
Went unpaid in lieu of this grace?”
Above the altar of gold leaf,
Mary holds a small man, Jesus,
And signs to all the way from grief,
As if seeing itself frees us
From misery. The senses save
More than the mind. They understood,
The old, who wore black, and were grave,
Life is for grief and not for good.
85
Green
Poetry
Jilli Penner
Citrus Heights, California, USA
I’m the type of girl
That’s only “loved” at night
More interested in
The color of my panties
Than the shade of my eyes
They prefer
Ripping off my clothes
To uncovering the mysteries of my mind
Fulfilling my need for connection
But only for a moment
In exchange for violating my insides
You’re gone before I wake up
My skin may be soft
But so is my smile
My eyes are green by the way
Zardozi
زَردوزی
Poetry
Vinit Kurup
New York, New York, USA
It is with suspense that I watched
a seam of intricate half-truths
symmetrically pour out of metallic lips.
The waving crease between them
pouring consistent threads of precious
comfort
tied to manipulated golden smiles.
The art of misleading is as exquisite as
the zardozi weavers whose fingertips leave
treasured dust on the fabrics they métier.
Such dedication is so seamlessly passed
from threads of embroidered luxuries
to the serrated malice of falsities.
The incredible affinity
to source distrust and pain
is plated into patterns of floral paisley aptly
crafted to to take after
the shapes of blooming tear drops.
Perhaps it’s why this morning,
the edges of my mouth undid their selvage
and began shedding gold flakes -
a sign that I too had recently indulged in a
lie.
Faceswarp
Poetry
Lance Nizami
Palo Alto, California, USA
Distortions
They were all around me
The faces—they were pretty, too symmetrical
The faces —they were smiling, too made-up
They failed to show the underlying feelings
They failed to show emotions underneath
The feelings were not pretty or symmetrical
The feelings were lopsided, ugly, mean
The feelings hid behind How-can-I-help-you’s
The feelings hid behind How-nice-to-meetyou’s
The feelings hid behind What-do-I-call-you’s
The feelings hid behind the formal
handshakes
The feelings hid behind—the feelings hid;
How often has this happened, do you think
How often has this happened to you too
Do you suspect a darkness under skin
Do you suspect black water in their veins?
Indeed, you might —instead of blood, that is—
It’s not the ink of creativity
It’s slow resentment from antiquity
It’s flowing fluid negativity
Hidden behind faces—they were smiling, too
made-up
The faces—they were pretty, too symmetrical
They were all around me
Distortions
86
87
In the Sky Above
Dublin Hills
Painting
Olga Sushchik
Pleasanton, California, USA
3AM
Poetry
Micaela Walley
Hanover, Maryland, USA
in our worst moments, I try
not to spill words like empty
houses—vacant, inviting you
to fill in the blanks. I try not to
disown myself in these ways,
like standing by what I said
when I didn’t know what else to
say or relying on the benefits of me
to outweigh the risks of you. If I am
a broken home on a busy street
that no one looks twice at, then you
are a prime piece of real estate with
an unstable foundation. I wonder about
the way your lips quiver when mad,
like earthquakes shed pictures from our walls.
Like God himself might fall from your mouth.
I wonder about the home we’ve built with
our broken words, how fragile they sound
when repeated back to me, how easily they
could blow away in the midnight wind.
Michael's Music
Poetry
John Grey
Johnston, Rhode Island, USA
Abused by keyboard,
cuffed round the head by keys,
his father had paid for the damn thing –
at least he was sending a monthly check
to the appliance store –
so somebody better be on that stool
and practicing their scales for hours.
He grew up terrified of music.
It was the monster that dwelled
beneath the shiny black lid.
Its claws were ivory.
Its mouth a heavy fallboard.
And, down below,
where his feet hung loosely,
pedals nipped at his toes.
But he survived.
Even played a mean “Für Elise”
in his teens.
But his friends all craved guitars.
Saw them in store windows.
Not in nightmares.
a love poem for
someone who
doesn't like love
poems
Poetry
Shanna Merceron
Palm Coast, Florida, USA
i don’t like it when you call my written
feelings
c r i n g e
still i burn, the Crackle of fires you never
cease tending to
the Ring ringing of our phones continue, we
milk these unlimited minutes
i brush off the Interruptions, always trying to
nestle inside our limbo
soothed by the Nicorette you snap between
your teeth, just for me
i don’t think i could count all the Gas
stations we’ve visited, don’t worry i’ll
keep the truck running, or don’t worry, i’ll
see you
soon, Everything will be packed away from
your place, and from mine, to move into
somewhere called ours
cringe if you'd like to, i’ll trace the shiver
down your spine, capture it in my hands
and whisper into my cupped palms all the
things i cannot speak aloud
but mostly i just say that i love you
88
Adieu
Poetry
Jean-Sebastien Grenier
Nelson, British Colombia, Canada
IDIOT
Poetry
Shahriar Danesh
Mashhad, Khorasan Razavi, Iran
“Just as an embryo passes through the evolutionary
animal stages, so we carry with us archaic ‘memories’
which can be brought to light.” — J.E. Cirlot
I shed hallucinations like Paris fashions. Despite my efforts, like
some carpenter’s calloused thumbprint, your porcelain persona reemerges
overnight, replaces my true face with that dense dead identity.
Persistent as a bad cough, my morning routine seduces me into
the ritual obsession of a prophet invoking the horrors of an obsolete
apocalypse; before I’ve even woken, shaken off the rust, I’ve already
glued your grotesque fragments into another mosaic that, against all
evidence, I end up calling mine, my mask. I haven’t recognized myself
in the mirror for a decade proper. I must’ve shattered your plateau a
million times over by now, but haven’t yet let die our arcane charade.
Why? I lost count at twelve double-images multiplying, reflecting off
the broken glass. Staring. What’s worse, your shards are more intoxicating
than sugar dreams. Before I can manage to wear you out, you’ve
gone and reconfigured yourself into some neurotic nuance, whatever
noire nightmare that’s been nagging me that week. There aren’t
enough chemicals in hell, nor the apothecary’s medicine cabinet to
melt you away for good. It’s been too easy to fall for the make-believe
of your masquerade. It’s my fault, I started this. As your séance surgeon,
I carved your fixed expression out of bad land exhaustion. You’re
just a metaphoric character I attached too much meaning to, that I
summoned when I didn’t know what it meant to be human. Raw. Now
I’m just weary with our game, the one where I half-heartedly try to
remove you again, you cling, and then recede back into me like some
shell-shocked hermit crab. You fabricated thing, you cling to exist, but
you’re not even real. It’s Lovecraftian unknowns you fear most, getting
locked in the vault without love, but it’s your hollow head, your hollow
words, you’re hollowed out by the howling worm you call soul. Neither
of us knows this yet. And so, for the first time again, I’ll slice myself
shaving with your thin halves; you’ll bleed for lucidity. And this time,
I’ll leave it alone because your sentience is cheap; it’s just a set of
stale sentences that no longer have anything to do with who I want to
be.
89
I’m the life of a shadow, the shadow of despair,
Made a life inspired by hell and “it ain’t fair,”
On the corpse of my hopes, rotten roots, lethal pride,
Rapping rolling rocking, on the bed of Cyrus, every night.
I tell Cyrus: “take a nap, I am up,”
Cyrus peeks from the breach of his coffin,
Then he cries: “I am burning, help me, god!”
Jeez, Cyrus, what the fuck? (I look admonishing).
I chill the temperature, by the cold gaze I share, every day; in metro,
taxi, a rusty bus,
While walking, crawling, howling, and running,
To the park, with a bud, buy a drug; to the dorm, runny walk, cheap
weed, in a suck, yuck!
It smells like yuck! and works like yuck! and feeds us up, with one
more puff, a big fat puff.
We then laugh a little, cry a little, nag a little, nothing a bit, less a
little, then go to sleep.
Wake up! erected, go to college,
meet some ugly make-uped girls who deep down I want to piss on,
But I’m rejected continually by the whores of Babylon. (I’m the oldest
wrinkly cock of Persia)
But I keep on,
the same bullshit again, over again, over again,
Till I get graduated, with a “U-stupid” degree, that I can marry or call
a bitch,
But never a dick, to fuck a job with. (“behave yourself,” Cyrus says)
Sorry, I’m pissed.
Shit shit, popped up, my girlfriend’s knocked up.
Other dudes fucked her too, but I showed up with her, so shut up.
(Cyrus laughs)
now her brothers and cousins are coming to kill me.
She was a saint, apparently, keenly,
Sewing her virginity clit to butt, while repenting to a funky god.
Lady X
Digital Art
Edward Supranowicz
Lancaster, Ohio, USA
90
He is not the kind of person whom you
merely have a "crush on." You slowly and
deeply fall in love with him, deeply, so very
deeply. And that was the way it was for me
with Ji Hoo. But this was no passive affair.
A person has to be self-cultivated enough
to be able to appreciate his worth. I had
to transform myself into the kind of person
capable of appreciating — truly appreciate —
the countless virtues he exemplifies. Much in
the way a Cezanne can’t be appreciated by
a beer swigging lug, people of a higher cast
can only be understood by people who have
nurtured the higher ideals within themselves.
To illustrate the work I'd done toward that
end, he’d mentioned once in some interview
I saw that he’d read Dostoevsky and I started
on Crime & Punishment straightaway.
Another instance evincing the self-cultivation
I'd done, in a joint interview with
several other actors during a press flack
quite a few years back, Ji Hoo stated that in
preparing for the period piece he had recently
filmed he'd read Iris Murdoch simply
because the screenwriter had mentioned
in passing to him that he'd had one of her
novels in mind when he wrote the screenplay.
I read the novel he mentioned for my
own edification, but I imagined also that by
doing so I was further cultivating the psychic
connection I shared by Ji Hoo. I realize of
course that most would consider that fanciful
thinking, but there are many things the
blinkered crowd know nothing about. And as
it happens, I took a liking to Murdoch. This
Vicissitudes
Fiction
Sam Sohn
Glendale, California, USA
led me to move onto Anthony Powell and
then later Evelyn Waugh. So I felt like Ji Hoo
then had put me on to timeless literature
and really could such a thing ever be said of
just another trivial actor? Doesn't that alone
demonstrate the numinous nature of our
connection?
I think you must believe me at this point
that I'm no mere "fan girl." I don't think it
would be so mad of me to say I'm a connoisseur
if you'll indulge me of a kind of person
who embodies exalted ideals like chasteness,
soberness, artistic integrity. While I've
focused my attention on Ji Hoo solely, is that
so different from one say who has made it
her life's undertaking to chronicle the works
and life of a consequential artist or some
literary giant? And am I not in fact more than
these creditable stodgy souls?
Isn’t someone who interjects themselves
into a subject's life, shapes the course of
events rather than meekly cataloging them
at very least someone of consequence as
well? And it’s not as though I do this out of
vainglory but rather from the sincerely held
belief that the object of my machinations
will himself realize untold benefit by being
with one who can interpret and understand
even his most delicate sensibility.
What was it which initially started this
fascination? I must admit, it started from
reading those stupid magazines as a young
girl. His was a story which stood out, one
which was immediately arresting to me. Being
an immigrant of mixed lineage — he had
a Korean mother and his father was an Amer-
91
ican soldier who had abandoned him and
his mother — he bore all manner of taunts
and epithets in his small town. In spite of
that, he diligently practiced his cello all the
way through his teen years with unflagging
ardor. His story certainly wasn't the standard
fare. He garnered entrance to Julliard, and
during his first year a casting director who
was spotted him during a first year's student
performance at the Lincoln Center asked
him to audition for a role as an adoptee in
Your Family Is Your Family. These things just
don't happen haphazardly, not in my view. Ji
Hoo's fate as it were had sought him out, and
it so happened that he met it with aplomb.
He of course decided to pursue acting and
drop out of Julliard. It was of course only
after self-immolating deliberating that he
decided acting was his calling, according to
the article. The brevity of the description of
his decision-making process tantalized me.
I wondered how he must have agonized and
struggled, how he must wandered the New
York streets trying to clear his head in order
to decide what to do.
Reading about his trials, I felt a kinship
with Ji Hoo. That's not to say that I had an
even remotely similar background. Mine was
fraught in altogether different ways. While I
also hailed from a small town, I had a chaotic
household. Julliard was not the kind of
place certainly which I would have had a
chance to attend. I had an absent father as
well and a mother who had taken to drink in
order to stop remembering her dread past,
one replete with truly hateful things better
left undiscussed. But she couldn't keep her
memories at bay, and she abused herself
beyond drink with her sundry boyfriends and
made me object of her anger, a repository of
all the betrayals in her life. I don't despise
the woman anymore. She is just a non-entity
to me, and I don't think about her any longer.
I’m well aware therefore that fate can
come for one much less felicitously.,
But back to Ji Hoo. Ah, yes, yes, at first
maybe you could have called it a crush, but
I was no mere pre-teen with a simple infatuation.
When there were dark times, I could
take refuge in inhabiting elaborate dreamscapes
with Ji Hoo. He wasn’t fully formed
himself mind you when he played the friend
in that soulful series about troubled teens,
but you saw glimpses of his depth, the
profundity at his core which a person could
burrow toward ceaselessly only to uncover
further depths to plumb. I subsequently became
acutely aware of whatever project he
took part in or was even mulling taking part
in regardless of how minor the role. I didn't,
however, do as some frivolous girls did and
tackily hang his image on my bedroom wall
as though such paltry homage accomplished
anything whatsoever.
On that score, that Ji Hoo was treated by
many as some teen sensation in the mold of
sundry doltish boys who were his contemporaries
— those who in fact fit perfectly well
on mindless teens' walls — was to me like
some oaf taking a Stradivarius and plucking
away like it were banjo.
I on the other hand from the very first noticed
the traces of the soulfulness to which
he naturally inclined even amidst the youthful
playfulness he exhibited in that somewhat
silly, early role. And over the years, I
observed how his artistry and poet's sensibility
were emerging, and it seemed to me that
his development was in lockstep with my
own maturation. I witnessed this through his
many roles, his evolution, the realization of
his artistic potential. We grew together over
the years you could say.
Then I saw him once in a coffee shop in
Santa Monica a year ago. I'd just gotten back
from a long solitary amble by the water. He
was there all of a sudden in all his corporeal
reality. It was a shock.
My fandom — certainly that word doesn't
do my affinity for Ji Hoo justice, but one
which does doesn't readily come to mind —
had waned some over the years what with all
the troubles I'd had. Getting turned out from
my place not long after being let go from
the shop in West Hollywood for instance, this
only after wage garnishments and numerous
enervating court appearances in which I
fought against inhumane eviction practices;
there was that whole ordeal when my identity
was stolen by my ex, and it took years
(years!) to disentangle myself from that
situation. There were long stretches where
there was hardly even a whiff of an audition
to speak of. Sidelines such as selling merchandise
at concerts were hardly any help
especially when taking into account evenings
like the Pixies show when I was robbed of
all the cash I’d made. I had been whipsawed
every which way.
These are just some of the travails which
spring to mind over the near decade after
I'd moved to Los Angeles from the Pacific
Northwest. It is ironic that while the physical
distance separating us had lessened substantially,
the intensity of my feelings for Ji Hoo
had diminished a great deal. In retrospect,
now that I've had time to reflect, I realize
92
that the harshness of life beats the desire to
contemplate the higher things out of a person,
renders one unable in fact to remember
that higher things exist at all. My waning
fandom, or ardor more appropriately perhaps,
stemmed from this in my estimation.
But when I saw Ji Hoo in the coffee shop
that day, I was immediately reminded of all
of my former feelings for him, my ruminations
over his performances, and all the insights
about the human condition which such
cogitating had stimulated. And my emotions
overflowed and left me dumbstruck.
As I stood there stupidly, slackjawed,
gaze fixed, something occurred to me like it
were a revelation. As he fumbled in his pants
pockets for his wallet, it occurred to me that
he was just a person, someone who like all
of us inhabited a physical body. Until now,
for me, he had been like a celestial being
whom I'd only had contact with through a
bedimming medium such as a movie screen
or television set. In this moment, however, I
saw the real person. It occurred to me that
just like all of the rest of us, he, too, deals
with the thudding banalities and indignities
of everyday living. When the barista smiled
her unctuous smile, lavished praise on him
for his work in his recent desultory sci-fi
film, Worlds Apart, I was aghast. I stood
there in stockstill silence, mouth agape.
But he dealt with it with aplomb, with a
grace only the truly humble and great can
exhibit in my view. So at the very moment
his humanity was revealed to me. In dealing
with the everydayness, the whatness, with
which all humans at the most elemental
level must contend, that which makes him
so sublime came to light. There he was in his
sunglasses. No awkward disguise. There he
was out in the open. There was no affecting
sangfroid. He was just who I'd always imagined
he'd be in a mundane setting, gregarious
and unaffected. In short, true and open
and pure. After all the muck and grime of
Hollywood and being traduced by tabloids,
hounded by paparazzi, and dealing with all
manner vermin pullulating this world, I could
see that he remained unsullied and was still
a free spirit, luminous and unburdened.
It was at this moment that I sensed that
he and I were destined to be together, that
our preordained paths were intertwined,
and this very moment was the point at
which they merged. He smilingly received
his coffee, and he ambled out the back exit
where there was a small parking lot. I had
parked on the street next to the shop, and I
decided at that moment to follow Ji Hoo. I
went out the front door and got into my car,
and when I saw the Porsche convertible in
my rear view window, I followed as if drawn
to an irresistible shiny black object. I followed,
however, at enough of a distance to
avoid detection and made my way onto the
freeway as he did and exited the freeway
on his heels and ultimately followed him
into a neighborhood with stylized homes of
modern design most of which were largely
concealed by large trees. Ji Hoo ascended a
steep incline, and I was leery that he would
be suspicious of me, but nothing in his placid
style of driving suggested he was even aware
of me. I saw him pull into a driveway which
was at a significantly greater distance from
the nearest neighbor's home than even the
generous distances separating all of the
other homes I had seen in this neighborhood.
I couldn't see his home which seemed to rest
atop a hill judging by the upward ascent of
Ji Hoo' s vehicle. His home, or the entrance
to it anyway, was hardly inviting what with
its seclusion, but what immediately struck
me was that there was no gate. Moreover,
no one stood guard. It occurred to me that
a person could with no fuss make her way toward
his home and initiate contact with him.
During the drive back to my much less
impressive abode, I thought to myself that
that is precisely how I imagined Ji Hoo would
live — in private, understated fashion, without
ostentation and excessive security. And
I thought during this drive that I needed to
seize this opportunity. It hadn't just haphazardly
appeared. Fate had come to me in the
form of a deux ex machina, one which I had
divined as a child.
The more I meditated on it, the clearer it
became to me that Ji Hoo and I were fated
to be integral figures in each other's lives.
How could it be that he and I just happened
upon each other so serendipitously, he an actor
of international renown and me his most
penetrating critic? And there was a cosmic
justice to it all, too. All of the hardships I'd
endured could be cleared away like detritus
from a road. All of the unpleasantness
inflicted on me by my mother's boyfriends,
while incapable of ever being rendered null
could be assuaged, counteracted to some
degree if you'll allow. While I had been hard
done by to say the least, I could finally be
done right by by the propulsive forces driving
the universe. Surely there is such a force
I mused. I had this premonitory sense that
that which had been fated to transpire was
in the midst of coming to pass and that an
abiding joyfulness was upon me.
I went to work the next few days. I was
doing cashier work at a drugstore for the
time being. I didn't formulate any concrete
plans just because I now knew where Ji Hoo
93
lived, but I marveled that no elaborate planning
was in fact necessary. One evening, a
customer argued with me about the amount
she was charged, and I was obliged to call
my manager, which was not out of the ordinary
but this customer was so angry, grossly
out of proportion to the amount at issue. As I
got off from work and drove home, I decided
that I couldn't wait any longer. I showered,
put on a nice ensemble, a sweater and
jeans, and put on makeup, made myself as
comely and yet unassuming as possible.
I got into my car and drove to his place. I
was going to knock on his door, beguile him
with my self-effacing introduction, and he
would ask me inside because I believed fate
had irrevocably put into motion our union. I
was simply hastening the inevitable conclusion.
I knocked on the door tremulously, feeling
that this was an occasion of great moment.
No one answered. I rang the doorbell, and I
waited for a good minute. I was crestfallen.
As I contemplated driving forlornly back to
my hovel in the dusk, my pulse quickened,
and I walked to a large bay type window
20 feet from the entrance on a hunch, and
when I pulled on it, lo and behold it opened!
I was acting purely on instinct at this juncture.
I jumped in. It was dark, and as I
mentioned the house was concealed by trees
and far enough away from the next closest
home that I wasn’t being surveilled so far as
I knew.
Inside what must have been the living
room was wall art with a scene from Lover’s
Symphony, a role in which Ji Hoo brought
to bear his considerable musical talents, a
movie which upon first viewing had sent me
into raptures and which in subsequent years
served as balm to a wounded psyche. (On
the opposite end, we need not talk about
that comic book adaptation he acted in a
couple years ago. I don’t begrudge someone
making a living. But commerce is debasing,
and if someone goes too far, it can forever
tarnish an artist.)
Suddenly, I heard noises and rumblings as
though a door had opened upstairs. There
were stirrings from above. Then there were
footfalls on the stairwell. I was like prey in
the jungle, utterly paralyzed. Slippered feet
came into view. Then a robe. When we made
eye contact, there was a moment when
space time was suspended, and then there
was bedlam.
“Ji Hoo! Come down here!” she railed as
she scurried quickly back up the stairs, and
then there were all manner of hyena like
shrieking noises.
An athletic male bounded down the stairs.
He stared at me wildly. I saw fear. At first I
didn’t recognize him. He was like an animal
in his crazed state. How could he be fearful
of me? How could he be so utterly lacking
in perspicacity and devoid of the sensitivity
with which I’d treated him?
“Ji Hoo, please, my apologies. I just let
myself in," I spluttered. "Please Ji Hoo, just
speak to me for a moment. I've all these
things I'd like to share with you. If only you
would allow me to introduce myself.” He
was feral. I had never seen him like this.
Even in A Debt Paid in which he played a
member of a special ops unit deployed to
carry out an assassination (and endured
torture as a POW), I had never seen him this
wild. He demanded that I leave in maniacal,
crazed fashion, his eyes ablaze with malevolence.
But I couldn’t leave just then, so
unceremoniously, without so much as making
a true human connection. I approached
him pleadingly, and he blenched backward
as though I were a grotesque spider snake
hybrid, and he then retreated several steps
away from my advance. When I reached him
in the foyer, he thrust forward with stunning
alacrity, grabbed hold of me and tossed me
to the ground over his shoulder like a judo
master (I know he is not in reality; he does
have some tae kwon do training); we fell
to the ground, and I felt the full brunt of
his weight and mine as we slammed onto
the floor. When I awoke, he was still resting
atop me. I made a sudden movement,
and my right shoulder throbbed with a pain
I had never before experienced and have
not since. The robe was again present. Not
someone I would have ever have imagined
he would have been interested in. Buxom
blonde, she could have one of scores of
girls I’d seen just like her on auditions. She
mentioned that the police should be arriving
in any moment. Every time I tried to
say a word, he yelled, “Don’t Speak! Don’t
speak!” and the ferocity with which he exhorted
me quickly induced me to comply.
The police when they handcuffed me
nearly sent me in to convulsive fits because
of my shoulder. As I was being taken away,
the one coherent thought I managed at the
time, one which fills me with rue to this very
moment, was that I had never got to say my
piece to Ji Hoo.
I’m set to be released next Tuesday. I need
to see about where I’ll live, how I’ll get on.
Once I become settled, however, make no
mistake, I will see Ji Hoo again. I won't be so
clumsy as to just go to him as before mind
you. That was clearly the height of stupidity.
I now have a plan, meticulous and elaborate,
so this time he won’t be taken by surprise.
You see, I have recognized my error. Foisting
94
myself upon Ji Hoo as crudely as I did introduced
an element of outsize terror into our
interaction which prevented those things
which would have transpired naturally, which
necessarily would have happened, from occurring.
Some artistry and delicacy were required
on my part, and I failed spectacularly
on this front. I’ve learned, however, from
the experience. Part of my plan involves
writing Ji Hoo anonymously. I will write him
with a light, airy tone, but in succeeding
letters, I will make literary allusions, quote
moral philosophers such as Iris Murdoch. I
will beguile Ji Hoo with erudition which will
set the stage for our second meeting.
Ji Hoo’s destiny and mine are intertwined.
I am no less convinced of the truth of this
so in some fashion, our union will be consummated.
I am certain of it. Therefore, of
course I take issue with the notion I have
some "obsessive fixation" and an "addled,
deranged, mind" as that unimaginative judge
put it. I understand his way of thinking, however.
It’s just that there are certain forces
at work to which only a privileged minority
are privy. I am one such person, and Ji Hoo,
if he is not one already, will be one as well
shortly.
She lounged with lassitude
At the corner café
While people lingered
Staring at her lurid red hair
Her, oblivious to the labyrinth around her
A libidinous choice, red.
This bright, intense, loud hair
Was her scream for liberation
Her languish for lust and limitless levity
Was laden on her shoulders
The longing for luxury, latitude and
lasciviousness
Was pulling her away from her leash
Of love, loyalty and a labeled lifestyle
Temptation loath to leave
She finds herself getting lax
She misses the lunacy of dating
The lechers and larks
Oh, to be flush and lush at once would be
legendary
But instead, there is lambaste
A plea to return to the lacquer of the lasting
The L Train
Poetry
Lindsey Wentzel
Montgomery, Texas, USA
Now the games are more lethal
To be caught would be
to be lynched
no lenient judge will preside
Liability is unquestionable
Lacerate these lustful lies!
Before lachrymose loathing takes over
Alas, the hair, was a wasted labor
She still finds herself
Learning to break the lock
One step closer to the ledge now…
What’s that on the other side?
She can almost see it…almost
For now the limbo continues
Lamenting in her lair
She dreams of latent promises
A league beyond her own
Dreams of libations, lingerie and riches
Leery of the danger
Her phone a loaded gun
Deadbeat
Dinner Party
Poetry
TA Harrison
Olympia, Washington, USA
We were in love once
It was beautiful and perfect
Perfect if only for a moment
If only for that night
On that dance floor
Under those lights and in that smoke
High on vodka, pills, and emotion
Our bodies perfectly in sync
Locked into the rhythm of heaven
Of our ancestors and their gods
Speaking forgotten human languages with
our hips
Ancient melodies and poem pouring from our
bodies
Two lovers caught
Trapped between this world and the next
Deep in a trance
A hypnotic black hole of sex
Of deviance and passion
Pulling everything inside
Leaving only us
The two lovers
And the one dance floor
Moving forever in perfect harmony
It is true, this loyal, logical union is
what she had longed for, for so long
But…no more of the fast pace
The heart aches and heart breaks
No more libel, no more innocent games.
95
You told me you loved me
on a spring evening
when the sun had already set
and the flowers outside were fast asleep.
Their petals bloomed beautifully,
displayed like a rainbow cast after a rainy
day,
even though there was no light to be shed.
Scarlets, emeralds, indigos,
all frozen in time.
But then our ship capsized,
flipped from the suddenness
of the uneven weight
we held.
Of all the weight
I held.
Our previously potted garden,
the one too lovely for words,
had drowned along with everything else.
A New Beginning
Poetry
Jessica Garrison
Charlottesville, Virginia, USA
How is it possible
that I felt more alone with you
than I did when I was on my own.
Like a single firefly
left to brighten the entire sky
on the Fourth of July
after the last few fireworks
have faded away,
and nothing but silence remains.
However, the isolated autumn stretched on,
the quiet winter flurried away,
and, once again, the spring settled in,
smelling like fresh soil and new beginnings.
So here I am
with a fresh spotlight of sun on my face,
in a newborn garden of my own,
as I continue to replant the seeds of a new
flower.
Sweet Song
Poetry
Michael Stentz
Bristol, Pennsylvania, USA
The way she sang
He’d give every last dollar
Then just keep walking on
The sky behind her
Her hair so bright
Nothing to do
But just keep walking on
So light and sweet
So simple, with such grace
After all the words are spilled
Just walking on
Never to hear her voice
Outside that fated song
Humming the tune, shambles left
Of the words
Just keep walking on
I didn’t think I could feel so much regret
over something that I didn’t say,
something that I didn’t do,
something that truly never was.
But you left me standing there
with an open heart
and empty hands,
stranded in a treacherous storm,
wild sobs and crying thunder
over the new summer sky.
96
dreaming of the cosmos
Sketch/Drawing
Vita Nocilla
Livermore, California, USA
97
Moonflowers on Arthur Street
Fiction
Clare Nee
Marshfield, Massachusetts, USA
It was the turn of a new decade, and
sheer optimism fell over the prosperous
suburb of Clifton Park, a developing area
just outside of the outskirts of the city of
Schenectady. The late January cold of 1970
drifted its way into the Colonial frame of the
Stiller residence on Arthur Street in Upstate
New York. This was the home of Louis and
Madeline Stiller, a young, married couple
in their early twenties. A young couple who
dreamt of gardens and dinner parties; sports
cars with the top down, kind of leisure. So
much leisure time to be enraptured in youth
and love, and remain endless in the state of
bliss and excitement that their marriage was
founded upon. However, their reality would
be quite different.
Madeline was a beautifully bright, twentyyear-old
waitress at a popular restaurant on
State Street called Ricky’s Restaurant and
Bar in Schenectady when she met Louis. She
loved the atmosphere of Ricky’s: energetic,
but never too rowdy. She enjoyed people
watching while learning to memorize the
menu on her breaks. The chef always made
sure she was taken care of, as she was one
of the hardest workers he had ever seen
there in the fifteen years that they had been
open. Before she landed the restaurant gig,
she wasn’t sure what she’d do, and if it
wasn’t for the money she had saved prior,
she wouldn’t have been able to survive. At
18 years old, she moved out of her parents'
house; she was determined to do it on her
own. She rented a room from a couple in
Schenectady who owned the whole second
floor of a Brownstone. The sink in her room
barely had running water, but it was good
enough for what it was: a place to lay her
head. She was willing to make sacrifices
in order to remain her own. She dreamt of
being a writer: a novelist and a poet. Like
the ones she had studied in school. To engulf
in her art and exist within the margins of
society, was good enough for her, or so she
thought. She was smart and quick-witted.
These were qualities that were apparent to
those around her, including her customers.
A couple years getting gawked at by men
for her charming looks and quick wit was
enough for her to feel the exhaustion and
frustration within her bones. The city life
of Schenectady was not as glamorous as she
thought it would be, and she barely had the
energy to write when she wasn’t working.
When Louis Stiller walked into the bar that
night, she was ready to call it quits. He was
the answer to her prayer: a respectful man
— a tax accountant — who, in the beginning,
worshiped the ground that she walked on.
He came from money, was educated, and
well dressed with a charming smile that
seemingly brought out the blue in his eyes
that much more. That night he asked her to
sit with him for a drink. Three months later,
they were married. It all happened so quickly.
Louis was willing to take care of the expenses,
and before she really knew what she
had gotten herself into, they were looking at
homes in the suburbs in Saratoga County.
Clifton Park was a place where everyone
who's anyone desired to be. It had been
98
robustly booming towards the mid-sixties
with an influx of people into the once small
town, and by the turn of the 1970s, it was
solidified as a suburban first-class town in
Saratoga County with over fourteen thousand
inhabitants. The town would now be in
control of voting on taxes, speed limits, and
other changes. This was a big deal for Clifton
Park and its emergence into the world as an
official suburb, and Louis Stiller moving into
this area did not go unnoticed. The Stiller
family was well known, particularly with
their involvement in the Saratoga Horse Races.
Alongside the family’s legacy, Louis was a
particularly social man. The kind of man who
could hardly go anywhere without running
into someone that he knew, which often ran
into rather lengthy conversations, during
which Madeline learned to smile and nod.
Of course she remembered each person and
had heard so many wonderful things about
them from Louie. She was the only person
who called him that, which seemed rather
uncharacteristic of his pristine, put-together
self. He was a member of the Ballston Spa
Country Club, a frequent churchgoer, and an
avid donor to Our Redeemer Lutheran Church
in Scotia. There wasn’t a charity event that
he missed. He was as social and outwardly
humble in the presence of his community,
which was one of the most charming parts
about him.
The Stiller couple moved into 93 Arthur
Street on the third day of the new year.
There wasn’t too much to unpack or move
since most of the homes in this neighbor-
hood came furnished, with the exception of
the Stiller family china and hope chests. He
would allow Madeline to take charge in purchasing
the bedding and other small items
to give her something to look forward to and
to plan while he was working. For the first
time since she was a child, Madeline did not
have a job. Growing up in the city, she was
unaccustomed to this new lifestyle; all she
knew was to be overworked and underpaid.
But Louie had asked her to quit her job once
they were engaged. It was a given; no proper
woman would be schlepping dirty dishes
or dodging skeezy men. She was a married
woman now. Perhaps once she got the house
settled she would begin to write again.
Since the couple moved, it had been the
buzz of the town. “Did you hear that Louis
Stiller married a beautiful redhead over at
the Lutheran church down in Scotia? She is
such a doll that girl, a real looker. I heard
they moved into a Colonial over on Arthur
Street. Yes, that gorgeous white one with
the navy shutters and the big yard. They
have about ten acres. Well, it’s only time
before he gets nominated as a new town
board member. Oh, without a doubt he
will.” The gossip had been right; it felt as
though the Stillers had only been present in
the suburbs for a few brief moments before
Louis was asked to join the town board as
the town’s tax assessor and supervisor. He’d
work in a big office building in town and
earn a salary of $7,000 a year, which placed
the couple nicely amongst the upper-middle
class. There would be a celebratory dinner
following in honor of the new board members,
and it was the chance for the couple to
make their big social entrance into the world
of suburbia.
Louie insisted that they go shopping as
soon as the weekend rolled around. They
needed to look the part, or rather she did,
which was lightly implied. Madeline had put
on a few love pounds since the first time
they had met, and her clothing, as Louie
revealed, “Just didn’t fit quite right. It was
too city,” and he refused to have his wife
dressed in anything but the best... They
drove into Schenectady in his 1968 Plymouth
Sport Satellite: a fiery red, automatic
two-door vehicle with a hardtop. The two
strutted down State Street hand and hand
and exchanged their hidden anxieties with
new extravagances. Wool suits, pocket
squares, and leather shoes were purchased
from Bond’s clothing store for Louie, and
they finished the day off at Carl’s bargain
outlet. Although they had the money, they
were cautious about saving now since they
had a mortgage to pay. She didn’t feel quite
comfortable, but he insisted. She settled on
a simple, white, sheath dress with blue flowers
that came down to her knees, but Louie
insisted upon a black dress with three-quarter
length sleeves, a string of pearls. She
began to drape expensive garments over her
arm that she had seen in the magazines and
advertisements and finished her look with
a fur-trimmed winter coat. Elegant, classy,
with an otherworldly tilt of her head, she
felt ready to take on the night.
After the excitement had settled, she
filled her time with daily rituals of searching
the advertisements for the best deals and
the latest trends. It was important for her to
stay relevant, so she made a growing list of
what to buy for the weekend, during which
Louie would accompany her to the stores or
go off to Saratoga Horse Races with some of
the men from the country club and leave the
car behind for her use. As more and more
99
time went on, she realized the quantity of
items that she had procured in her house.
She found herself sifting through the goods
without spirit in their bedroom. Everything
was in its place, but nothing felt right. In
fact, she didn’t feel much of anything at all.
She ran her hands over the smoothness of
the gold, moonflower bed sheets and comforter,
and wondered how she had gotten
there. Hadn’t she wanted this? She wondered.
Hadn’t she dreamt of the stillness
of a home and the comfort of stability? The
emptiness hollowed her as she wallowed in
the voicelessness of her bed. She spent days
at a time there, but Louie hadn’t realized,
at least at first, because she always got up
with enough time to make his dinner. But
when his meetings seemingly ran later and
later, eventually she just began to give up
on forcing this interaction with her husband.
The office became his life, and when he
came home, she was already in bed, and he
began drinking heavily to fill the void. More
and more bottles of top-shelf Scotch began
to pile up by the week.
One morning, she convinced herself to
get out of bed and to write. She wasn’t
sure what she yearned to create; she just
knew that she had to fuel her energy into
something, and today felt as good of a day
to start. She began with poetry, and by the
second week, she grew tired of writing the
same lifeless prose. A novel was in order. She
worked tirelessly at the table for months,
adding a few pages each day and editing
down the previous ones. She began to pull
the life back out of herself, and she was
excited this time around to share her passion
of writing with Louie. It was during this time
that she began to notice his excessive drinking,
and when she questioned him about
it, he grew aggressive towards her. She had
never seen him angry before, but after a
handful of disturbing displays of this side of
him, it became the norm within the home.
Out in Clifton Park, they were the couple of
the decade; a couple of lovebirds nestled
quietly in their nest and making appearances
when necessary. She didn’t need much, just
to fulfill her desire to write each day, but
shortly that luxury would end too. She began
to feel queasy in the mornings and tired in
the afternoons. She held the First Response
pregnancy test and sank to the floor when
the second pink strip appeared. She felt the
walls around her begin to crumble and give
out on the floor. It was all over now; the life
that she was beginning to pull out of herself
vanished.
Seven years later, they were the textbook
image of a hopelessly tumultuous marriage
filled with void and utter despair, all of
which being concealed within the privacy of
the home. Their children would later wonder
why their dad was always so angry and why
their mother had chosen to marry such a
man, but they hadn’t always been this way,
though, she would tell them. There once
was love and a deep spark of connection
between the two, but that all seemed so far
away now. A far-off memory hidden beneath
the dusk of suburbia.
This Place
Poetry
David Grubb
Cumberland, Maine, USA
If ever there was a place like this, it existed when my mind could sort out
the delusional from the rational, the despondent moments from the cherished.
A blue sky so vibrant and relenting I could only imagine it from childhood or
in films or created by the brushless stokes of Monet, Gogh, Pisarro, Canaletto.
If not, then in my dreams before the trumpet swans broke free, the trees grew toward heaven
while being pulled toward hell, the clouds pillowed in dramatic shapes that delight and terrify.
I yearn to go back for a visit, to stroll along the riverbank and re-immerse myself in memories
of life without added girth, darkened eyes with sagging bags around them, a diminished libido,
and cognitive dissonance. To lie next to you in the cool grass and let our minds wander, our
bodies inflate, deflate, inflate— Ask you frivolous questions I’ve asked before while eating
endlessly from a gilded picnic basket. Sing the songs from yesteryear and dance the silliest
dances in history, the Humpty, the Macarena, the La Bomba, Tootsee Roll.
If ever there was a place like this, then I bequeath it to the world, to the brown-haired girl
who sat next to me in detention and wrote haikus, to the loners who never catch a break, to
the urban dwellers whose endless sprawl rarely lets them breathe easily, and to the misguided
who need sanctuary anywhere they can find it, especially in nature’s boldest landscapes.
Freely, without dues, fees, or compensation, I give it to ensure it doesn’t vanish into the vapid
recesses of my mind or become lost in time or disintegrate from climate change.
If ever there was a place like this, I may have been there before, could’ve been there
yesterday or today, but I’m certain I’ll find myself there when the time is right.
100
We Could've Been a Poem
Poetry
Naomi Capacete
San Francisco, California, USA
We were something special from the moment we met
You were the quiet one
Always sitting in the back away from the world
I was the loud one
Burning with a flame of passion
Your soul was full of music
Your heart lost in songs
Mine was full of books
My mind filled with pages of never ending stories
It was the perfect duo
We exchanged words but our eyes never met
But when they did
Oh, when they did
A spark flickered between us
We could’ve been a poem
Our nights were never boring
It was always an adventure
Walking around the city
The midnight breeze blowing through our hair
Drinks in our hands
We would sometimes end up on the beach
Running around in the sand
Or dance around in my empty apartment
Until the sunlight peeked through the windows
We were spontaneous like that
Do Not Insist on
Departing Today
Poetry
Ravichandra Chittampalli
Kajang, Selangor, Malaysia
(After listening to Farida Khannum’s rendering of “Aaj jaane ki zid na karo”)
Do not insist on departing today
For tomorrow I may not be around
Or you may have a few grey hairs,
And the bridge may wash away in floods.
Do not insist on departing today
For I may be struck by lightning
When eyes brighter glance at me
Or be poisoned by rumours about you.
Do not insist on departing today
For I am scared you will never return,
And I grow too old to fall in love again,
Though there are lovelier women yet.
Do not insist on departing today,
For it is the last day of autumn
And the snow storm is swirling
Up in the high mountain pass.
Do not insist on departing today
For there may never be another spring
And we might never go looking
For wild strawberries together again.
You in your ripped jeans
And worn out converse
Me in a leather jacket
And combat boots
We could’ve been a poem
101
Connection
Screenprint
Ariel Cooper
Jacksonville, Florida, USA
102
My memory couldn’t hold on to your face,
but onto the day we met, it clutches like
pirate unto gold. It feels like this one won’t
get away, but I am writing it down nonetheless.
After all, memories fade.
#
The clock was ticking, the short hand
about to strike twelve, soon to be overshadowed
by the longer and faster arm, now only
a fraction of a degree behind. My head was
spinning.
Then I heard you — bang, bang, bang!
Strong, rhythmic, and loud, especially at an
hour when nothing was awake.
I turned my spinning head from my never-ending
thick volume towards the pale
entrance to my apartment, seeming somewhat
gloomy in the dark. In the dead of the
night, only the silent humming of my heater,
mixed with the quiet hissing of my breath,
was audible.
Bang, bang, bang! Stronger, faster, and
more urgent than the last round.
Are you kidding me? I was starting to get
annoyed.
In my head, you must’ve taken a shot
of espresso — or ten — to be performing a
series of drumming on my neighbour’s door.
For God’s sake, I’m trying to read. I walked
toward the pale exit that now seemed to
glow outrageously in the dark.
I knew you didn’t hear the door creaking
open, drowned by your thundering rhythm.
Also, you jumped at the slightly aggressive
“Hi” as I stuck out my head into the warmly
lit corridor.
Knock at Midnight
Fiction
Bill Yuan
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
As it turned out, you were no artist, no
drummer. And you were certainly no — as I
initially imagined — angry disturber of the
holy sleep, not that I was having any. The
moment I saw your eyes, all the thoughts
of my thick volume and the big deadline
the next day went straight out of my head.
Through the window of your soul, a telling
emerged — you were worried, extremely.
You were a student, anxiety-stricken, didn’t
know what else to do other than drumming
on your friend’s door.
With all my previous expectations of you
knocked out of me, I now was embarrassed
by the secret grudge I held against you.
For a moment, I thought about sticking to
the original cranky plan. But alas, an invisible
barrier held back those scolding words.
One inch below the throat — was high as
they ever got. I had to say something, partly
out of etiquette, partly out of genuine
curiosity.
“Hey... Is everything okay out here?” I
suddenly ran out of words, so I stuck to the
cliché.
Your lips parted slightly, about to spill out
the mysteries hidden in your midnight drum
solo. Yet only one word came out, “Um...”
You looked away, at your friend’s door, pale
as your face.
I felt and knew your inner stirrings: I, once
too, parted my lips, only to swallow the
thousand words that wanted to pour out; I,
once too, looked back to the source of those
thousand words and considered spilling them
out, anyway. You knew everything wasn’t
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okay — actually, nothing was — but you were
too polite to drag a stranger into whatever
muddy water you were treading in.
Just a little nudge is all it takes, I
thought. “What’s going on?” I frowned.
“My friend,” you exhaled heavily and
looked anxiously at my neighbour’s door and
finally let out the words you stomached,
“she hasn’t been replying to any of my
texts.”
A bit dramatic, no? I squinted.
“Does...she do that...often?” I tried not to
appear judgmental.
No idea if it was working, though.
“No!” you snapped a little, “...Well, I
mean, sometimes...”
But...? I knew there was a “but” coming. I
could sense it in the air.
“But,” there it is. You paused. “But...
what?”
You continued with a sigh, “She’s been
not herself lately. She lost her appetite,
her energy, her mood... She would watch
her favourite show and just stare blankly
into the screen — it’s like she’s not even
there...” your dam of words went down, and
they flooded out. You wanted to say some
more but stopped short. You turned to me,
your inquiring eyes searching for any signs
of comprehension in mine, and gave up the
final two words with a sigh, “...You know?”
I see; your friend isn’t the only one with
mountains of feelings bottled up. You wanted
to pour them all out, but only found yourself
at a loss for words. You looked at me,
frowning. Your anxiety sunk to my stomach
with every breath I took.
“Yeah...” I did know what you were
talking about. My neighbour, a girl about the
same age as me from China — I could tell
from her accent, did always seem a little
gloomy to me.
What you described to me was like a case
from my psychology textbook. But even so,
I still couldn’t see exactly what you were
getting at. Nay, truth is, a part of me didn’t
want to look at it.
As if you knew all of that and were afraid
I’d keep my gaze distracted when you said,
“I’m just afraid that she’d do something
stupid.” You glanced at her door again, your
hand clutching onto your arm while squeezing
your shoulders closer together as if protecting
yourself from a cold breeze.
With those revealing words, you forced
upon me the conspicuous image of that
which I didn’t want to look at. Yes, I had to
admit to myself, I know precisely what you
mean.
Like any good friend, or a nosy neighbour,
we stood in that warm hallway and
exchanged ideas on a plan of action. By the
third round of back-and-forth, it became
clear to me we wouldn’t get anywhere
without further information to tilt the scale.
You obviously shared the same sentiment.
You gave me your phone number just in case
your friend comes out of her shell while you
were away and in case she texts you back
and you didn’t need a watchman anymore...
or in case of something else — neither of us
could muster the strength to say it, though.
I doubt if we even wanted to. I saved your
number, and we went our separate ways.
#
As a good college student, of course I
pulled an all-nighter for the deadline that
was in less than twelve hours.
From time to time, I went to check in on
your friend. I pounded on her door, loudly,
like a drum. Part of me wanted to know
what had happened to your friend and part
of me wanted to keep my promise to you.
Yet another part of me thought it a good
distraction from my deadline.
It was almost noon when you texted to
tell me that you’d be on your way back to
your friend soon and that I should move on
to my day. I kind of needed to, since my
class is beginning soon. So, I decided to let it
go. But fate is mischievous. It was precisely
at the moment when I started to move on,
you came back to haunt me in the form of
another text.
“She texted back,” it read.
“And? What did she say?” I promptly replied.
“She said, ’Everything will be okay.’” I
frowned at your friend’s response.
Your next text followed in an instant, “I
have a bad feeling about this.” Frankly, so
did I.
“Well, maybe things are okay, she’s just
having a down day?” half of me really believed
what I said, while the other half
wanted to call myself out.
“Maybe... I’ll try calling her again.”
“Yeah. Good idea.” Strangely, it felt like
you made a decision for me and lifted a rock
off my chest.
As you attempted to reach her, I again
tried to move on.
Half an hour flew by as I freshened up,
made my coffee, and got ready to head
out for class. If the Fates were real, they
must’ve really wanted me to see your business
through to the end. You see, I don’t
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carry my phone as I do things around the
apartment. It helps me stay present. The
moment I came back sitting down at my
desk, placing my coffee on the table, the
black liquid inside formed a series of shaking
concentric circles, then settled back down
to a shiny, smooth surface. I reached for
my phone after taking a sip as if those few
seconds of delay would make a difference in
the outcome.
“Something’s wrong,” your alarming words
were inevitable. “She didn’t answer?”
“She did... Uh, hold on, I’ll call you.” As
soon as I felt the vibration, I picked up.
“Hello?” Your voice came through the
speaker.
“Hi,” Mine went through the microphone,
“what happened?”
“Well, I tried to call her a couple of times.
She didn’t pick up. But like... five minutes
ago she did, but... she wasn’t speaking.
It was just dead silence. I kept calling her
name, I was almost yelling... but she didn’t
say a word.” I could hear your voice trembling,
and with it, my stomach shakily seized
up tight.
I was waiting for something like, “Then
she finally said something...” and then it
would be the part which led you to believe
something was wrong.
Yet, you blurted, “Then she just hung up.”
Immediately an alarm went off in my head,
trying to process what you just said.
She hung up? That doesn’t sound right.
Why would she do that after picking up? A
chill shot up from my spine. Sleeping buttcall?
That’s just ridiculous... Well, then...
A strong stream of electricity spread
through my body. I see why you sound so
worried. It’s the “something stupid,” isn’t it?
It’s that thing neither of us wanted to make
real by speaking of it in plain words.
Silence creeped into the air. Neither of us
knew what to say or what to do. I knew I had
to say something, anything.
“I can call the security and get them to
open her doors for me,” I broke the icy silence,
“...if you want,” I added.
“But what if she’s just sleeping? Then
we’re just intruding on her for no reason...
She did always sleep in a lot. And,” you
hesitated, “I don’t think she’s the kind of
person who would...you know, do something
stupid?” Your shaky conviction in your own
words was made unequivocal by the long
drag in your tone.
No reason? My thought started racing
again. I’d say there’s plenty. But you are
right — she could just be sleeping. What
should I do? Insist and persuade you? That
feels like stepping over the line. Back off?
But what if she’s not “just sleeping”?
From a probability perspective...
“Hello? Are you still there?” Your voice
broke off my train of thought.
“Yes, yes, I’m still here. Well, listen, I
think you should get here as soon as possible.
I’m gonna go downstairs to the security
and get them to open her doors for me.”
“But, what if...”
“Well, then I’ll make a fool of myself. She
might just be sleeping, and all this worry
and scenarios may just be in our heads, and
all that... But what if she’s not? I don’t think
that’s something we should be betting on.”
I drew in a deep breath and continued, “It
could happen, and I don’t wanna risk that.
So I’m going in, okay?”
You made some unsure, undecipherable
sounds. Ding! I turned my head to see the
doors slide open, “Okay, the elevator’s here;
I gotta go. You coming?”
“Yeah, yeah,” you snapped out of it, “I’m
on my way.”
#
Even with her face pale like my door, lips
blue like the glacial ice, I recognized her.
She lay on the yellow-and-white cart, pushed
by the paramedics, overdosed on sleeping
pills, on the verge of breathing the last
breath. I’ve heard it, I’ve seen it on television,
I’ve even imagined it in my head, but
the real thing weighed down on me heavier
than all the others combined.
Even when I went about my usual business,
this unusually long night — you, her,
our texts, the paramedics — kept playing in
my head out of its own accord.
Oh, how things could’ve turned out so
differently. What if I did try and persuade?
What if I did back off? Believe me — things
could’ve been a lot different. She could’ve
not recovered. She could’ve not received
psychological intervention. You probably
would hate yourself for it, even though you
weren’t guilty of much.
I wish things had turned out as I wrote it —
what a true relief it would be! But it didn’t.
My neighbour did recover, and she did get
psychological help, but I know that you were
the one who chose not to risk it, not me. You
took that crucial step forward when I chose
to take one backward. It was cutting close.
She could’ve been gone if it weren’t for you.
I wonder, to this day, what did that silent
phone call mean? What did that text mean —
“Everything will be okay”? Of course, there’s
no way for me to know now. But I wonder if
the reason was you? Because your unrelentingness
had lit up a little hope in her despairing
heart?
I wonder this, too, sometimes: Where
are you? Are you still disturbing others’ holy
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sleep for your friends? Are you still reaching
out to them relentlessly? Are you still barging
in with security when they pick up the
phone but speak not?
For their sake, I hope you are.
But for yours, I hope you didn’t — and will
not — have the need to.
Won't You Run
Away?
Poetry
Ellaheh Gohari
Pembroke Pimes, Florida, USA
Where do you hide when you don’t want to
be found?
In the muddy, gritty streets of the city,
In the blue, silver lakes on the plains,
In the slippery, tall trees in the rainforest,
Or the dry, sandy desert far, far away?
Why do you hide when you think you’re
unwanted?
Why do you hide when you think you’re a
freak?
Why do you leave me to deal with your
problems?
Why is it so hard to keep you with me?
Is it funny, to you, when you run away?
Do you laugh at my frantic walk?
Do you enjoy watching me suffer?
Do you relish in the way my heart drops?
Well, I’ll tell you, dear one,
I’m done with it all,
You think you’ve had it bad?
Well, trust me, dear,
When you leave once again,
Don’t bother coming back.
Night
Poetry
Kilmeny MacMichael
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Canada
Night was nearly over
the sky was already brightening
formless void assuming identity and shape
The track, rock strewn moonscape
Mysterious
Ditch nettles sour
Torn
Fit territory for murder
It was a mistake to have come,
ignoble connoisseur of death
he briefly crossed himself
His sister told him about her lover
the affair was over
he hadn’t any evidence under the
fingernails.
From Ex Wit - a collection of poems using
borrowed text from the first 100 pages of
P.D. James’ Death of An Expert Witness
Salt Lick
Poetry
Eunhee Soh
Pleasanton, California, USA
I’ve been long loving you
rainy or dusty,
not dawdling at nights, I go.
You are there
magnetizing, giant, cavernous,
like a temple.
Since I could clamber next to my parents
I heard we shall love you
on volcanic dikes, spiral cliffs.
Kneeling and clinging with my cleft hooves
I chew on you and brood over you.
The sun buzzes on fly wings.
You don’t know how you taste of,
the nearby rock falling.
You are too loose to hold me tight
but my bones will shatter without you.
My pink-flecked tongue sings your maculated
ditch.
I don’t mind falling off.
You are fatally lovable,
sat there on my map.
When later my blind eyes will lead me to you
I can see you dissolved in the dark.
The journey to the high mountain
scourges my veins.
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107
#533
Painting
Matt Gold
Brooklyn, New York, USA
Where the Sea Swallows the Sky
Fiction
Olivia Larson
Manteca, California, USA
The dull vibration of my phone lulled me
out of my sleep. My mind and body weren’t
quite in the same place yet, the former still
swirling around the latter while my hand felt
its way around the edge of my bed for the
device that was demanding my attention.
My fingers grasped it and found their way to
the button to stop the noise. My eyes forced
themselves open as colors and shapes sharpened
for a few seconds and allowed me to
make out the numbers across the top.
1:01 a.m.
Sleep had only held me in its embrace
for the last two hours. I stayed in bed for
another 20 minutes, staring at the wall and
contemplating letting sleep take my mind
again. I glanced at the neatly folded note
kept unceremoniously in a plastic bag resting
on my nightstand, my name lazily scrawled
across it in black ink. I dragged myself out
from under the comforter. The brisk air from
my open window was a sudden shock on my
bare legs. I collected myself, stood, then
searched for some appropriate clothing.
The note called me again, and I stared at it
for a few seconds. Finally I picked it up and
placed it carefully into the outer pouch of
my backpack, instantly feeling the increase
in weight. I inhaled and let out a sharp
breath, standing at my bedroom door. The
creature swung open effortlessly on recently
oiled hinges.
My eyes closed, and my ears opened,
searching for the rhythmic snores of Uncle
Callum downstairs. I found them, and
tiptoed my way out and to the top of the
stairs. I listened at the door of Aunt Elaine’s
bedroom. It sounded like sleep. Not quite
silence or the sound of breathing, simply the
heavy sound of a body at rest existing within
a space. I was safe. I made my way down
the wooden stairs, running my hand along
the worn bannister and wincing with every
step. The slow rise and fall of Uncle Callum's
chest on the living room couch assured me
that I could likely have stomped down the
stairs yelling without disturbing him, but I
didn’t want to risk anything. Normal sounds
seem so amplified in the thirteenth hour that
simply walking around might warrant the
neighbors calling in a noise complaint.
My next enemy was the front door. A slow
turn of the brass knob and a quick pull on
the door let out just a small squeal. I locked
the door behind me slowly and made it to
the car. It was a summer night, and the air
had a bite but wasn’t uncomfortable. The
dim yellow street lamps illuminated the
street in a twisted sort of way, turning it into
a strange reflection of its usual self, littered
with uncertain shadows. I took a final
glance at the house before sliding the key
into the car door and unlocking it. I sat down
and stared down at the wheel for a minute
before the key met the ignition, and I gave
them a twist. My teeth gritted together, and
my eyes clenched shut as the engine roared
to life.
I let the car sit idle for a moment as stale
air began to blow, making sure no lights
were coming on in the house, then pulled
away. I rode down the street in silence, then
108
out of the neighborhood, through downtown,
and finally onto the interstate. I felt my bag
in the passenger seat, not with my hand but
as a physical thing taking up space next to
me. Darby, Pennsylvania passed my windows
as the orchestra of engines and old tires
against older roads crashed in my head. My
stomach was low in my body, socializing with
my intestines. I released part of the tension
that had been holding me since my eyes
first opened, then moved for the radio and
twisted a dial until static became notes. It
was an older song playing, probably a classic
rock station. I recognized it as one of my
dad’s favorite bands, but couldn’t place the
name. The endless road stretched onward
in front of me, headlights illuminating a few
dozen feet ahead of me while the velvet sky
enveloped everything else. Faceless drivers
in nondescript cars made the trip with me.
Who knew where any of them were really
going, but it felt nice to have some company.
Looking at the other strangers driving
with me, I felt a part of something greater, a
member of some religious pilgrimage.
After a short while, I turned the music off
and listened once again to the sounds of the
road. I felt eternities pass as the gas meter
inched counter-clockwise. I had crossed the
state line into New Jersey a while ago, taking
some backroads to bypass the toll. It only
added a few extra minutes, and while I had
the cash, I despised the thought of interacting
with another human being. Now the Delaware
state line was coming up. I was about
halfway there. Boredom was hitting hard,
and I reached over into the center console
and took out Uncle Callum’s nearly-empty
pack of cigarettes. I had never been much
of a smoker, never really gotten a taste for
it, but it could be somewhat comforting at
times. The scent reminded me of him, and it
seemed to scratch an itch I hadn’t been able
to reach with anything else. The cigarette
calmed me for a few minutes, and I had another.
Two turned into four, and I didn’t even
realize until I was lighting the final one that
I had emptied the pack completely. I beat
myself up mentally over my lack of self control.
It was just something to do, an activity
to pass the time. They’d just been so sweet,
euphoria shifting black to navy. I promised
myself I’d buy a new pack in the morning for
him. I wallowed a bit longer in a place that
was somewhere at the corner of self pity and
hatred. I licked my lips and sighed, looking
out at the passing signs that offered brief
illumination between the crushing black.
Phantoms held vigil at the edges of my vision,
flying past at impossible speed.
When I finally arrived, the place looked
deserted. I’d never seen so few cars in the
lot. There were signs of life in one, looked
like a few kids getting high. I ignored them
and got out of the car. It was a lot colder
here, the sea air sharp with salt and rot. The
breeze was light, and the air was heavy. I
swung my backpack on and locked the door,
making my way to the concrete stairs. At the
bottom step, I sat and tugged off my shoes
and socks, leaving them there.
The chilled sand made its way between
my toes as I stood there. This beach that had
once been so full of life, so bright and vibrant,
was now cold and desolate. The early
morning hours had transformed it into a sort
of liminal space, a space between spaces,
that was simply wrong, like a familiar upbeat
song played in a minor key. It felt as if I was
taking a peek behind the curtain. The moon
hung half-heartedly in the sky, casting a hazy
reflection on the infinite water and turning
the sand indigo. The sky merged perfectly
with the black water on the horizon, so one
could not tell where one met the other. The
moonlight had a sort of ethereal quality
about it that made me feel weightless. The
whole situation felt forbidden, not by any
mortal laws but by something universal.
The ocean was breathing. The waves
crashing onto an ever-changing shoreline,
in and out like the labored gasps of some
wounded beast. I stood by myself at the
edge of the world, oblivion lapping at the
sand. Debris covered the beach, seaweed
and cigarette butts breaking up the otherwise
smooth surface. This place was beautiful.
I was more alone than I’d ever felt, the
ocean my last living companion.
I dug into my backpack and removed the
plastic bag that held the paper note. It was
heavier than it had felt in my hand before. I
took it out and held the folded square in my
hand as a tear found a path to my chin and
fell onto the sand. I sat down, and the sand
likely filled every pocket of my jeans, but I
didn’t mind. I squeezed lightly on the yellow
note.
“Do you remember this place?” I asked
him.
There was, of course, no response.
“I thought you might like it more here.
You always used to say you wanted to get
a beach house here when you retired.” I
paused, thinking. “I love you. I don’t think I
said that enough. I wish I had.”
I stuck the note in the sand in front of me
and stared at it.
109
“I’m glad we made it back here. I wanted
to spend one more moment with you in this
place.” A cold wind suddenly picked up. It
wasn’t harsh, but almost comforting. A thousand
tiny soldiers marched down my spine as
the breeze found its way through my hair.
“I never read your note, you know. I guess
there was some part of me that thought
maybe if I still had this part of you, unopened,
unspoken, you’d still be here. I
know it’s stupid, but I just thought that if
I didn’t read it, there was still a piece of
you left, one last thing to say, and since you
haven’t said it yet, it’s like you’re still here.
I guess I brought you here to release you. I
want to set your soul free.”
I closed my eyes, letting twin rivers carve
their way down my cheeks. My breath stuttered.
“Sorry I don’t talk much anymore. I’m 19
now. Things are so different now. I’m still living
with your brother, but I’m not sure how
much longer that’ll last.”
I listened to the waves and let my words
hang, hoping that someone was there to collect
them. A coppery scent entered my nose
as I filled my lungs with frigid air.
“You were pretty fucked up, you know
that?” The tears had stopped. Heat was
coming off my face now. “I think another
part of not reading the note was that I didn’t
want to give you the satisfaction. Do you
remember the night you tried to kill yourself?
I found you on the sofa, whiskey in one
hand, painkillers in the other. You wanted
me to find your body. I thought you were
dead. I was fucking 12!” I paused again,
teeth clenching my lower lip, “And I guess
the last part of me didn’t want to read the
note because I didn’t want to believe that
the crash was your fault. I know it’s stupid to
think it was anything else. Why the hell else
would you leave a note?” I gazed out at the
universe and forced myself to breathe.
“Part of me couldn’t accept that the man
who raised me could do such a thing. The
rest of me knows that’s a lie. I’m not here
to talk about that now though. I’m here to
forgive you. I think. I want to forgive you. In
reality, I want nothing more than for you to
just come back home. You wouldn’t have to
say a single word; I don’t need any explanation.
I just want you back.”
I bent over in the sand, placing my hands
against the cold. The tears flowed again,
staining the beach. My breath caught, and I
leaned back and screamed. The sky screamed
back. I looked up at the moon again as my
breathing slowed. I closed my eyes to clear
them and took a breath, collecting myself. I
stood, removing the paper from the sand and
walking to the edge of the water. I stared out
into the blackness as the foam threatened
my toes.
“You know, all things considered,” I sniffled,
burning my nostrils, “there have been
worse dads. You were here for me for 16
years. You were supportive. You helped me
realize who I was. And I like to think I’m a
better person because of you. I am the child
of a good man. A man that will never die.”
I grasped at the edges of the paper. I unfolded
it, then crumpled it into a messy ball.
I brought it behind my head and lobbed it as
hard as possible into the Atlantic. I watched
it bob and soak with water, then sink beneath
the inky sea. I imagined it falling, filling with
water and being torn apart and dissolved by
the currents. I imagined his words drifting off
into the water. I imagined the final remnants
of the man’s soul reduced to nothing more
than yellow pulp.
Joshua Trees
Poetry
W.F. Lantry
Silver Spring, Maryland, USA
Their arms upright as if to hold the sun
in place, unmoving past its angled height,
making this day unlike another, still
persisting through the hours as the steep
shadows grow permanent, as if their will
could outline, in this darkness and this light,
the motionless formations of a day.
Dry yucca leaves twist, cluster, and betray,
in moving with the breeze, this passing time:
the sun moves with them, shadows
lengthening
presage an hour when arid winds will sweep
sand, shadow, leaf, from stone near evening.
When all has been made smooth, the moon
will climb
above these broken shadows, and restore
the transience of dusk. This desert floor
is paved with stone. There is no place to lie
or each place is the same, so you must lift
the stones away to form a space for sleep
and place them in a circle. Sand will drift
between them, but the circle will supply
protection of a sort from rattlesnakes
and scorpions. No Gila monster breaks,
some say, the walls of spirit, or at least
the circle gives no place for them to cross,
and if the curve's meticulous, its deep
shadows will comfort even during loss
of moonlight, and protect until the east
brightens again, when the last starlight's
done.
110
Juniper Berries
Poetry
W.F. Lantry
Silver Spring, Maryland, USA
These mountains clothe themselves in
juniper.
I've heard their berries make excellent gin,
but how could I distill their essence here
beneath a sky made turquoise by these wings
twisting away? I'm sightless in this clear
abandoned air. Beneath my fingers spin
those berries. If I hold them in my hand
a moment longer, I may understand
both wings and air, the dry rust-heavy dust,
the twisted branches wrought by absent
snow
which must have fed these disappearing
springs
in other seasons. Beneath this earth, I know
they must be moving still, the hollow crust
hiding both salt and sweetness from these
roots
which, stunted, cannot nurture lowland
fruits
but only push the junipers to bear
their nearly iridescent blue and red
thorned berries, where a mockingbird now
sings
his stolen measures, where someone had
bled
almost my own blood into dust, and where
even my sharpened eyes in this wind blur.
Quilting Whimsy
Fabric
Kathleen URBAN
Alamo, California, USA
111
She can taste sorrow in her morning omelet.
The red streak blended in by a fast-moving fork,
but bits of red pepper remind of life snatched away,
god-like, no remorse.
Unhappy Chickens, Good Breeders
Poetry
David Grubb
Cumberland, Maine, USA
In the cool coop at night, she stirs the slumbering hen,
docile enough to get off the eggs without fight,
but her bare henpecked neck and quizzical look haunts.
Worse, she waddles over to hop on the roost, next to,
yet far away from her sisters, who treat her cruelly, an untouchable.
Eggs in basket, she walks to the house unaware
of the bats flittering overheard, but hyper aware of the parallel
when she came out of the clinic twenty years ago,
god-like, no remorse.
In the bright lit kitchen, two young kids scream and fight, make up,
whine for snacks, throw tantrums, dash off to their bedroom giggling.
Hubby asks what’s wrong with his kind eyes,
yet eagerness to get back to his iPhone is palpable.
She hesitates, shakes her head as she cracks an egg then another
and flips on the mixer. The familiar sound, now foreign like a faulty
vacuum,
fuses remembrance with the present more solidly than advanced
metallurgy.
Her knees almost buckle, yet the disdained hen’s resolve holds her up,
suspended anime.
The over excited kids ask, “who’s birthday is it?” A murmur, “No one.”
“Then why did you make a cake?” A bit more quip-like, “No reason
cake, see no candles.”
Hubby’s become keen to no reason cake—on the same day, every year—
for quite some time, he never asks, not even with his eyes anymore.
112
After one last potty trip, after snoring ensues, she creeps downstairs
and gets out two hidden candles: one shaped as the number two, the
other a zero.
The flames melt gluey white wax onto the black ganache,
now cracked from cutting off slices. She draws in a deep breath,
but waits for someone else to blow them out.
Minutes, hours, perhaps even half the night passes when a shadow
moves past her.
Wind, like Air from a turbine extinguishes the failing flames.
Hubby appears, an apparition fades, he pauses as if waiting
for entry into a fortified castle.
If he missteps or misspeaks she’ll beat him for being a fertile cock
that procreated before they met; beat him for being the non-factor
in their dogged pursuit of bonding their own dna; beat him as the
stand-in for the young lover who jilted her. Beat him for gifting her
with children’s love and adoration even though she’ll never deserve it.
He won’t fuck up, never does, but if he did, he’d absorb her fury,
maddeningly let her destroy his body, mind, soul, let her seethe
until heaven fell, hell rose up—till widowhood. He’s not perfect,
not by any mythic standard, yet in this he’s infallible...
and God help him if he was anything but.
She relents. He embraces her before the formidable tower gate
has the slightest crack. For a while they swoon, as if yin and yang
spin top-like, endlessly through time. When the calmness abates,
she casts him aside and assails the cake: Tears large handfuls from the
pan
and smashes the moist deliciousness on the island, again, again, again.
Rage to blackness, in the morning there’s no mess.
Her fingernails are void of incriminating evidence.
The kitchen’s spotlessness seems implausible,
but the half-eaten cake under the glass defies all reality.
She stares at hubby sipping coffee, fingers casually caressing his smart
phone.
Their eyes meet and his gentle eyes ask what’s wrong,
an apathy to resume his tech addiction is the only thing amiss,
and the missing feathers around his neck.
Sequoia
Poetry
W.F. Lantry
Silver Spring, Maryland, USA
Small fires burning forest litter- bark
and fallen leaves- are common here. They run
in lines up hillsides, clearing ground for seed
of giant redwoods whose low branches hold
their cones above the flames. Sequoias need
bare ground for germination, open sun
and constant water when they're small. But when
they've grown for a few centuries, the glen
becomes a place unlike any on earth:
the trees make red cathedral columns, bark
grows three feet thick, and curved ridges enfold
ten meter trunks, their tallest branches arc
a hundred meters up: the widest girth,
the largest things alive are in this place.
And yet, through smooth proportions, their light grace
seems natural, as if all earth should be
a grove like this, a place unbounded by
our expectations, forests uncontrolled
by any force. Their limbs buttress the sky,
their upper boughs forming a canopy
like Chartres' ceiling. Sometimes sunlit rays
slant through the forest's shadowed morning haze,
as light slants though rose windows, and our eyes
can't help but lift themselves, as if, remade
by seeing light refracted, red and gold,
we find a different form of seeing, shade
receding, and the multicolored skies
make even desert sunlight appear dark.
113
IF WE ARE NOT
ALLOWED TO
PREFORM GRIEF-
WHAT IS IT FOR?
Poetry
Micaela Walley
Hanover, Maryland, USA
The Time Of Your Child
Poetry
John Grey
Johnston, Rhode Island, USA
how else should we call attention to
what haunts us? anything less
than standing on a stage
seems frail. We aren’t
supposed to acknowledge pain
beyond its designated day,
though I can’t breathe when loss
enters the room and never leaves,
never releases its tight hold, fingers
around on my throat. Choked up,
I tell someone I miss them because
it is true, because I am allowed
to live this life as it comes to me
regardless of perception. I am here,
and I am hurting, and you are not
too good to know about it.
it’s your choice of how to respond,
but it is mine to show it to you
anyway, to accept love wherever
I can get it, when I might need it
the most.
Time is supposed to heal.
Maybe it just hasn’t read up
on its job description lately.
The dead are as dead as they have ever been.
The surgeon’s words still turn
his understanding into your bitterness.
A pale human face said sorry
when it should have been God.
Now every room is a wailing room,
even the silent ones.
Every other child
takes care to remind you of
but not be your own.
And the love of all these mothers
exhausts you.
They’ve no idea that the opposite
of three-year-old
is emptiness.
Then there’s the time
that’s your personal time,
the one that announces to you,
and you alone,
that it’s time to move on.
This is time as starting gun
for some marathon
that you feel as if
you’ve already run.
And then there’s your husband,
more caring than he’s been in years.
He wraps an arm around you
every chance he gets.
This is time trying to make up
for all that it’s lost.
The attention leaves you as cold as the fish in
the freezer.
Can time do anything right, you wonder.
114
115
Facing it Together
Mixed Media: Digital and Sculpture
jack bordnick
Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA
Reading has always been Ssalongo’s second
love. Never mind that his wife Nnalongo
abhorred the sight of his reading-chair
and detested his heinous reading culture at
the dinner table — left foot tucked under
right thigh, a thumb jammed in each ear.
He had a knack for ignoring her cooking and
her signature perfume: the smell of sweaty
roses enfolded in her brown skin. Pity, it was
she who needed reading-glasses, not him.
Greater pity still that she was disgruntled
even with the knowledge that she came first
place.
‘You’re not listening, Mzee — Old man,’
the little sovereign reproaches, sprawled on
her back on a papyrus mat by his bedside.
She is dressed in jeans so shredded, they
should belong on a garbage heap, and an
overlarge tee-shirt with the words ‘Straight
Outta...’ he can’t make out the tiny words
at the bottom. The words are locked up in a
yellow box. She holds her telephone aloft in
front of her creased brow, her leg crossed at
the knee.
In that drowsy waking moment, he sees
her face again. Every evening for three
years, as night slithers in, he sees her--his
past — in vivid color. As usual, he shakes the
specter from his eyes. He rubs the glowing,
bald patch on the crown of his head, and
guiltily wipes a hint of drool from his face.
‘Nzuukuse — I’ve woken up.’ He says too
quickly.
She clucks her tongue disapprovingly.
One morning, three years ago, when
his eyes still drank thirstily, Nnalongo his
SWEATY ROSES
Fiction
Justin Nagundi
Kampala, Uganda
oppressor-in- chief (in her most intricate
scheme) died in her sleep (on Easter Sunday
no less) right after ironing nine of his least
favorite pairs of khaki trousers and burning
a jagged hole in his newest shirt. A few
weeks later, still reeling from this chain of
upsetting events, as he supped on a piece
of steamed matooke—plantain—and groundnuts,
his heart hiccupped for a few seconds
warranting a necessary visit to a hospital in
a screeching van. From that day on, he had
a new tyrant in the form of his youngest
daughter, Nakato Joanna. With teenage enthusiasm,
she threw herself wholly into monitoring
every beat of his crumbling heart.
For his benefit, Nakato scrupulously hides
iodized salt, sugar and all unhealthy foods,
namely: any foodstuff that may accidentally
or otherwise arouse his appetite. Every
morning, she shoos him out of bed at seven
o’clock for brisk walks on uneven ground,
escorts/drags him to the supermarket to
buy vegetables for green smoothies which
she shrewdly watches him gag down. For his
ailing heart, she purchases medicines that
nibble away at what remains of his retirement
fund after Nnalongo’s burial expenses.
Since his wife’s memory still torments
him, he swallows prescribed sleeping pills,
appetite pills and anti-anxiety pills (by a
cardiologist who a man of Ssalongo’s middle-class,
retired-professor social standing
should not reasonably afford) to cope with
his bereavement. These drugs as a mild
side-effect make him dizzy in the morning,
deprive him of his zest for life and worst of
116
all, impair his evening sight.
Like a magpie, he feverishly stores heaps
and heaps of old metallic strips of nebilong,
amoldac-5, cardiac aspirin and God-knowswhat-else
in a small drawer and pockets the
golden key. These drugs are the currency in
which he pays for this expensive lifestyle. He
cracks open the drawer now and then to see
how much life he has consumed, but more
often than not, he wonders how much more
of it he must bear.
During the day, he writes his cheques,
pays his bills and watches CNN while he can
still see the words Breaking News snake past.
At night, Nakato is his sight—his insolent,
dictatorial, opinionated sight.
On days when he bears her mistreatment
stoically—days which are sadly far
between—Nakato pats him on the back and
affectionately declares him a ‘good boy’. You
wouldn’t believe how pleased these words
make Ssalongo. He hides his puffed chest
behind a Bukedde newspaper and a gruff
remark.
On such days, she rewards him further by
reading to him any book she has read and he
hasn’t. It is shocking, he thinks, how many
books there are having lived through a few
wars followed by that deceptive spell of
peace in the early nineties.
The first time he was a ‘good boy’, they
read a book called Mulligan’s Yard riddled
with lecherous clergymen and an unrealistically
handsome protagonist. Their next was
a book in Luganda called Zinunula Omunaku
about the trials of a spectacularly unfortu-
nate lad. They only got as far as the second
page, largely because Nakato’s reading of
her mother-tongue resembles the nervous
stuttering of a shrill toad. He cannot tell her
that. Foolish old man that he has become,
he awaits these hours of hearing her narrate
lives outside his own like Uganda awaits an
end to political ennui.
Lately, with death squatting on his heart
and hammering at his chest, his congested
lungs whining for air all night, he reflects
that perhaps ennui is a luxury of youth.
Besides, irritable bladders do not leave room
for excessive introspection.
“‘…Deeper and deeper the silence
seemed to become, like the deepening
night,’ Nakato reads aloud again, ‘ while
the jurymen’s names were called over, and
the prisoner was made to hold up her hand,
and the jury were asked for their verdict.
“Guilty.” ...’
‘—but she’s a child.’ Ssalongo protests.
‘They should forgive her.’
‘She’s almost my age.’ Nakato scoffs. He
doesn’t tell her that nineteen is a drop in
the bucket of piss called life. ‘She knew
what she was doing when she and Arthur…
you know...’
Ssalongo chuckles. Since they started
reading Adam Bede, Ssalongo has been
entertained by their debates on morality,
justice and (to him) what morally upstanding
Adam Bede requires in a wife. There are
two candidates for the job. The first is Dinah
Morris, a Quaker. Ssalongo does not hesitate
to point out she’s too boring for Adam. The
second is her seventeen-year-old cousin
Hetty Sorrel, a beautiful girl who Adam loves
too wholeheartedly for his own good. Ssalongo
has his money on her. The conflict takes
the form of the wealthy Arthur Donnithorne
who eclipses Adam. His handsome money
and handsomer looks win over Hetty (Adam’s
heart’s desire) easily.
While Nakato harbors an undiluted disgust
for Hetty, Ssalongo sees in the girl a child,
much like Nakato; a child not much wiser
and with the same infatuation for shiny
things. Evil inside Nakato’s untrained mind,
however, never pushes good from her loins,
never turns to you one night after thirty
years of coldness, begging to do better.
‘Young girls should make mistakes, Joanna.
There is no better time.’
‘Why do you support her, Mzee?’ Nakato
wants to know. ‘She played hard-to-get with
Adam, just because she could. And then
Mzee, and then,’ she pounds her fist against
her thigh, ‘she dumped him because she had
found a rich guy. Then, she threw Arthur’s
child—Arthur who she pretends to love—in
the lake, and left it to die.’
‘She went back for it,’ Ssalongo points
out pragmatically, ‘and listen Joanna; times
have changed. It was an abomination in our
days for unmarried women to have children.
Even the writer knows that.’
‘If George Elliot had wanted us to feel
sorry for Hetty,’ Nakato proclaims, ‘she
wouldn’t have made her so bad. Mschwww!’
she twists her mouth and jeers, ‘She’s such a
slay-queen.’
She is uncannily like her mother. An argument
with Nakato can take up the rest of
their reading hour before his show on Radio
Simba begins. Ssalongo, eager to know
what happens to young Hetty, forestalls her.
‘You’ve read the book before. What happened
next?’
‘Let’s stop here today,’ she pouts. ‘I’m
expecting someone on WhatsApp…’
His protest cools in his throat. He stands
117
no chance against the boy inside her telephone.
And yet—‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Same time,’ she chirps. He imagines she
has closed the page. He can’t wrap his mind
around the shape of a book inside a mobile
telephone. She skips off to her bedroom. The
green velvet curtains blacken in the waning
light. Gloom settles amidst their inky folds.
Each day since Nalongo’s death, in the depth
of his first nightly hour of despair, he has
longed to cry out to his mother. He suspects
his heart wouldn’t withstand the shock of
seeing his long-dead parent. The doctors call
it congestive heart-failure. And yet…
It is eight o’clock again. One whole hour
before his radio program and darkness has
descended indeed.
*
‘Where did we stop yesterday?’ Nakato
quips, tucking her left foot under her right
thigh at the dinner table. She’s wearing an
oversized grey jumper he did not buy for her.
A modest supper of rice, boiled beans outnumbered
by eggplants and peppered with
rock salt, lies partially demolished on both
plates. Ssalongo has no motivation to listen
to the news. It is the same dreadful song.
Death and Disease. Fires and Floods. His
reality is all that should concern him. If only
it weren’t so draining to live this drudgery
one day at a time. If only he could live it all
at once. Like a character in a book.
‘Ahhh. They found Hetty guilty.’ The smug
note in Nakato’s voice is unmistakable.
He props his elbows on the cotton tablecloth.
Cradling his cheeks expectantly in his
hands, he waits like he did five decades ago
when, having trekked five miles to school for
the first time, he discovered you could not
learn how to read a hymn-book in a day.
When Nakato reads, you can hear in her
robust voice that she never had to walk
barefoot to school. That he made sure of
that with every pay-cheque. ‘‘“…Adam...I’m
very sorry...’ she reads, ‘I behaved very
wrong to you...will you forgive me...before
I die?” Adam answered with a half-sob, “Yes,
I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave thee long
ago.”’—’
‘You see!’ Ssalongo cuts in with a sly grin,
‘If Adam can forgive her…’
His daughter rolls her mother’s large
brown eyes, ‘Humph. You and Adam are so
soft…’ . She reads on, ‘“…It had seemed to
Adam as if his brain would burst with the
anguish of meeting Hetty’s eyes in the first
moments, but the sound of her voice uttering
these penitent words touched a chord
which had been less strained. There was a
sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable,
and the rare tears came—. Hetty
made an involuntary movement towards
him, some of the love that she had once
lived in the midst of was come near her
again. She kept hold of Dinah’s hand, but
she went up to Adam and said timidly, “Will
you kiss me again, Adam, for all I’ve been so
wicke—Daddy!’ Nakato has noticed his rapid
blinking. ‘Stop feeling sorry for her. She
doesn’t deserve it.’
‘Nobody should enjoy seeing others in
pain, Joanna, ’he chides, ‘Nobody deserves
to die.’
‘…she’s just a character,’ she mumbles
tossing the synthetic ropes over her shoulder
petulantly. If vanity were an offence, she
too would perish by the sword she wishes
for Hetty Sorrel. When she’s taking selfers
on her telephone she gathers the ropes over
one eye, raises that telephone high over her
head, twitches her mouth and urges him to
smile. He didn’t realize how much of a chore
it is to smile until he saw all his frozen grimaces
stored in her phone for all posterity.
Vanity, he reflects, only looks endearing
on inexperienced girls. Her smiles, her
bossy reprimands, each toss of her artificial
hair is perfectly in order. It is her birthright
to flaunt her face and figure. Let the unfortunate
boys who cannot afford her gaze
at a respectful distance. The world is her
looking-glass, and looking at her, even now,
makes his heart swell with fierce pride… his
beautiful child. See what we did, Nalongo,
he thinks. See what I contributed to. She is
a part of you that you couldn’t take away.
Every evening, he watches her sorting
out his medicine (heart meds from anxiety
meds), warming her fingers on the drinking-water
in a ceramic cup, grating ginger
and slicing a banana should the medicine
make him nauseous or get stuck in his
throat. In her, he sees another face painted
with different strokes; imbued in love. It has
crossed his mind that in a spurt of kindred
feeling with her mother, she could poison
him. She might name the lethal drug epilim,
nebilong, amoldac-5 but he knows, and so
does she, that from her, he would take poison
gladly. See the gift you left me Nalongo.
See the disastrous miracle we made together…
Unable to endure her coy suspense any
longer, he demands with urgency his daughter
will never understand before she learns
the crushing burden of unadulterated love,
‘Does she live or die Joanna? Did they show a
little mercy or did they hang poor Hetty?’
At his plea, Joanna flips the page on her
phone, a knowing smile on her lips. He
knows that smile. He lived with it for thirty
years. She holds him captive. This time he
doesn’t mind.
118
‘It was a sight that some people remembered
better even than their own sorrows—‘
she reads reverently, doing the scene of Hetty’s
possible execution, justice. With each
pause, each cunningly calculated breath, she
binds him to Hetty Sorrel, to all women cruelly
snatched away by the clawed hands of
fate, before the men who loved them were
ready.
‘--the sight in that grey clear morning,
when the fatal cart with the two young
women in it was descried by the waiting
watching multitude, cleaving its way towards
the hideous symbol of a deliberately
inflicted sudden death. All Stoniton had
heard of Dinah Morris, the young Methodist
woman who had brought the obstinate
criminal to confess, and there was as much
eagerness to see her as to see the wretched
Hetty. But Dinah was hardly conscious of
the multitude. When Hetty had caught sight
of the vast crowd in the distance, she had
clutched Dinah convulsively.
“Close your eyes, Hetty,” Dinah said,
“and let us pray without ceasing to God.”
And in a low voice, as the cart went
slowly along through the midst of the gazing
crowd, she poured forth her soul with
the wrestling intensity of a last pleading,
for the trembling creature that clung to
her and clutched her as the only visible
sign of love and pity.
Dinah did not know that the crowd was
silent, gazing at her with a sort of awe—
she did not even know how near they
were to the fatal spot, when the cart
stopped, and she shrank appalled at a
loud shout hideous to her ear, like a vast
yell of demons. Hetty’s shriek mingled
with the sound, and they clasped each
other in mutual horror.
But it was not a shout of execration—
not a yell of exultant cruelty. It was a
shout of sudden excitement at the appearance
of a horseman cleaving the
crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot
and distressed, but answers to the desperate
spurring; the rider looks as if his
eyes were glazed by madness, and he saw
nothing but what was unseen by others.
See, he has something in his hand—he is
holding it up as if it were a signal.
The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne,
carrying in his hand a hard-won
release from death.
This time, Ssalongo unabashedly allows
the tears to snake down his cheeks, the iron
fist that has kneaded his heart for three
years unclenched. He has edema of the feet
and the hands; edema of the heart and the
eyes.
He never could confess to Nnalongo how
hollow his life was without her. It was not
their way, the African way, the Ugandan
way or even the Ssalongo Zacharias way to
express affection for one’s wife… but she
knew. His bachelorhood was a multitude of
days waiting upon the mercy of just one of
her self-satisfied smiles—his marriage, an
eternity of wondering how to rekindle the
spark she doused when she married him. She
basked and reveled in the warmth of his love
but kept her own heart safe from the fire
that roasted his.
And yet she rifled through his drawers
for decades searching for a mistress’ sickly
sweet scent, a photograph of a love-child,
a suspicious receipt from the dry cleaners—
anything to excuse the block of ice her heart
had become towards him. Anything to shift
the blame of their stifling union on him. She
accused him of preposterous infidelities and
despised him when she found none. When
the bitterness had saturated her blood, she
poured the frothing residue into their children.
Here he was in the twilight of his life,
sitting in a shadowy corner of Kampala with
a Nakato—the younger of twins—as though
their union had not begotten five children.
Here he was, writhing and pathetically, bafflingly,
impossibly yearning for her scent; for
the pungent smell of sweaty roses.
‘Daddy…’ Nakato lowers her phone, flustered
by his compassion and cowed by her
lack of it. ‘Why are you like this? She wasn’t
good to him. Never!’
He understands her quagmire. So young
and so cynical. So old and so nonsensical.
‘Adam would never have been the same if
she had died. Losing loved ones destroys the
soul, Joanna. When we love, it’s always, always,
always too soon to live without them,
my daughter. Always!’ His grief rings vehemently
in his tired voice.
Realizing the latent meaning of his words,
Nakato of the ironclad heart wipes her eyes
against her wrist. She casts aside her telephone
and scoots closer. Sniffling, she throws
her arms around him for a few moments,
then looking earnestly at him through her
cosmetic-soiled, numbingly innocent eyes,
she says, ‘I’m sorry I chose this book. I didn’t
know it would… bring dreadful memories.’
She wipes one corner of her eye. Her thumb
comes away with a black smudge, ‘No more
death for you Daddy.’ She gives him a watery
smile, ‘We will read cheerful stories from
now on. Tomorrow, if you’re a good boy, we
will read the Christmas Carol.’
Drying his own embarrassment sheepishly
on his shirt sleeve, he asks, ‘Who writes it?’
‘Dickens,’ she says rolling her eyes, ‘The
one who wrote Oliver Twist?’
119
‘Ah. Charles Dickens. Mmumanyi—I know
him. Kinyuma—Is it interesting?’
She ponders his question. ‘It has a happy
ending.’ she decides.
As Nakato sashays out with the dirty
plates, crushing the surrounding darkness
underfoot, he smells for the first time the
dizzying scent of fresh roses.
‘Owulidde nnyabo? Have you heard that
madam?’ Ssalongo asks the empty room
where Nnalongo lingers in every piece of furniture
they bought together in every sinew
holding him together, in every scratchy whisper
of wind. She has been breathing down
his collar since he threw the last handful of
dirt and earthworms on her coffin. ‘Have you
heard your daughter?’ he confronts his wife’s
presence—her tangible absence—for the first
time, ‘No more regrets for what I couldn’t
give you. No more, Mukyala—wife. I have
died every day since… How much more?’
He observes the light dressed in a brown
lampshade overhead. It shines a little brighter,
‘I have a will to make. No use waiting
for Walumbe—the god of death—to drag me
away. I have one daughter to bequeath my
entire estate to and four sons to disinherit.
I need to have a conversation with this boy
who keeps buying our girl malidaadi—fancy
things. I never smiled at the women at
church?’ he scratches his scruffy chin, ‘I
know you wanted me to prove you right.
Oswadde--shame on you. But when our girl
goes to Makerere University in September, I
will court one widow in the choir. I have died
enough with you, Concepta. It’s time for you
to go...’ he murmurs before falling into a
doze.
And for the first time in three years, when
he sleeps amidst the shadows in his bedroom,
the darkness lies docilely at his feet.
When the yellowest of all sunrises ushers
Nakato into her father’s bedroom the next
morning, she peels the curtains apart, ready
to shake him awake and stops cold.
Tears spring unbidden to her eyes. Dressed
in the previous day’s clothes lies Ssalongo
Zacharias on top of the bedcovers, his face
aglow with an ethereal radiance she hasn’t
seen since her mother died, breathing rhythmically
like a person who is very, very, very
much alive.
THE BABY
Poetry
Micaela Walley
Hanover, Maryland, USA
First, the body—
bloated disfigurement
a house with the lights left on
in the dead winter
night. November
and the baby is alive
yes, the baby is alive
in the dead dark
room, in the house that is a body
filled to the bones
with a body
the baby is the light
in November, the final
green leaf
succumbing to winter—the body
is the tree, refusing to die
more limb than a forest
on fire
Second, the baby
is coming
is not coming
is coming again
the house is burning
a heat so cold, could cure
November, the light is seeping
out of the hole
too, the baby
is alive, yes, the baby
is alive, and the body
is left in
the dark
120
Fuego
Poetry
Sophie Mateja
Pescadero, California, USA
We measure time in an ever-growing stack of New Yorkers
Counting the faded rings of charred trees
on a yellow hill, wrinkled like
old people's skin.
You told me
living is an evanescent act of love
The cook whispering ay dios mio in the kitchen corner,
our takeout and warm posole.
I forgot the gentle crashing thud, thud
waves against our beach
and the cool weight of sleeping sand.
Water washing watercolors —
an osmosis of study and unconscious defeat,
faded memories peeking through torn seams of perfection
A little girl tied to an anchor,
rusted chains against tender skin
the woosh of the current pulling down, down
further
The sundial betrays our mourning
Shadowy puppets hug my eyes
dancing in the light of champagne I drank last night
They only say I’m gorgeous when alcohol blurs the details
then, sometimes words for loss are too beautiful to be repeated
aloud
I question the darkness
gracing the wind with dancing fingers up and down
my spine
Lips-stained purple by blackberries, i stab another
It’s a sad meal,
Far from the humors of childhood.
Rather, we sit in blind consumption
Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between love and
remorse for fields of pumpkins rotting
Fall wastes herself to winter, weary wandering to cold — I
live and die, as well.
121
The room is hot and dusty. No one has
come in for a while to air and clean it.
"How long has it been since Victor left?"
Juan wonders. "Or more accurately, since I
threw him out?"
"At least 18 months, if not more," he answers
himself.
A black kimono with bright yellow and
green circles is thrown casually onto a wooden
hanger suspended from the top part of
the closet. The fabric it is made of is shiny
and looks soft and smooth. Juan doesn't
know much about fabrics, it's a woman's
thing, but he thinks the stuff is called silk.
He remembers watching a documentary on
Discovery Channel about how silk was made
in China, and he found the process cruel and
disturbing. The filament in the cocoon must
be extracted in one piece, so it's necessary
to get rid of the hard shell first by dipping
the cocoon into boiling water or baking it in
hot air. He remembers the presenter saying
some 3000 insects must die to make 200
grams of silk. That is why it is so expensive.
One might say they are only insects but
still... he shudders at the thought of billions
and billions of the little buggers dying so
that someone can wear a pretty blouse. Or a
kimono, like the one on the hanger.
He feels sweat pearl his forehead and drip
down the back of his shirt. He gets up from
the bed, pins and needles tingle up his right
leg from sitting on it for nearly an hour. He
limps across the room to open the window. A
warm breeze wafts in and moves the kimono
sleeves. They flutter like huge butterfly
THE BLACK KIMONO
Fiction
J.B. Polk
Santiago, Chile
wings — moved by the souls of the thousands
of silkworms that have gone into making it.
He winces. Butterfly. He has been told
that that's what they called Victor — the
Butterfly. Because of the garish clothes he
wore and the outrageous make-up and the
hair color. Neighbors never failed to let him
know when they saw Victor walking on the
central roundabout, famous for transvestites
and other "freaks," as they would tell him.
Whenever he listened to such gossip, he
would keep his face impassive, his mouth set
into a disdainful line. He knew he was the
laughingstock of the neighborhood mostly
composed of ex-army people like himself
and their families. Sergeant Juan Gomez
whose only son was not only a fagot but a
fagot who dressed like a woman, wore a wig,
and sold his body to the highest bidder. Or to
anyone at all.
Victor had been born just before Juan
left the army — a late and quite accidental
arrival in the family. Emma, Juan's wife, had
always said that with four daughters they'd
better close the factory, shut the oven tight
and spend their time and money on the
already large brood. And then, unplanned,
nearly unwanted, she was with child, and
Juan was delirious with delight when he
learned it was a boy. He'd have a son with
whom to go to Sunday football matches and
do all the stuff that fathers do with their
sons like buying electric saws, fixing faulty
sockets, and talking about politics.
But it never happened. By the time he was
six, Juan knew that Victor was different. He
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was fascinated with Nelly's, their youngest
daughter, dolls, and their fancy wardrobe.
Instead of going out to play on his scooter
and climb trees, he spent hours watching
Francisca, the eldest, who was 16 at the
time, put on makeup in front of a mirror.
Juan caught him several times dipping a finger
into a jar of strawberry gloss and suck on
it secretly. There were signs, of course, but
Juan could not bring himself to believe that
his son was a "marica," a poof who wanted
nothing to do with boys' stuff and dreamt of
girls' soft clothing, long locks, and hairless
armpits. Things like that did not happen in a
soldier's family.
He tried to ignore it for many years as
long as Victor made at least some pretense
that he was a normal if somewhat effeminate
teenager. At 14, when was finishing the
eighth grade, and the other boys in his class
opted for carpentry and electronics, Victor
said he wanted to be a beautician.
Juan blew up.
"Over my dead body! No man in this family
has ever or will ever mess with people's hair
or nails!" he fumed while Victor looked at
him insolently and smirked.
"Try and stop me," he said when Juan's
outburst was over.
"You have no permission to leave the
house until you choose a different career,"
Juan spat out.
Victor got up from the chair where he was
sitting and walked towards his father. They
were just inches apart; Juan could feel his
son's hot breath on his face.
"Just try and stop me," the boy hissed.
Juan's fist caught him on the nose. Blood,
red and thick, burst out like juice from a
squashed tomato.
Victor looked at his father with dazed
eyes. He didn't expect this kind of a reaction.
His dad had never laid a finger on him
before. Or his sisters. He didn't know Juan
had it in him to be violent. Yes, he used to
be a soldier, and soldiers sometimes did cruel
things but never to their families. His dad
had never been anything but gentle with his
wife and the girls. And Victor.
He watched the red droplets fall to the
floor in slow motion and splat heavily. He
raised his gaze to his father, who seemed to
be as horrified as he was, then turned on his
heel and left the house.
Juan was relieved because eventually,
Victor came to his senses. He said he'd study
mechanics and seemed to enjoy it quite a
lot. He even tinkered occasionally in their
old Honda CRX and took his sisters for a spin
around the neighborhood.
But it didn't last. Nothing good ever
lasted. A year later, Victor's enthusiasm
waned, he started skipping classes, coming
home late, and Juan worried he was getting
involved in petty robberies or something
worse, like drugs.
He now goes back to the day he came
home early that fateful afternoon. The middle
of winter — the rain was pouring down as
if there was no tomorrow. And there wasn't
— at least for him. It was dark because of
the low rain-heavy clouds when he entered
the house — the girls were still at school and
Emma was nowhere to be seen.
"Emma!" he called.
"Can you get me a towel? I'm soaking wet."
There was no answer. He saw a spear of
light sneaking from under the door of their
bedroom. Emma was probably sleeping...
He pushed the door open and came face
to face with... someone, something. Someone
he knew to be Victor but not the Victor
he loved. Not the Victor in a school uniform
with a backpack full of books and ham and
cheese sandwiches Emma made for him. Not
the Victor who sat with them at the table
eating his mother's fried chicken and goofing
with his sisters.
This something, this someone, this new
Victor was wearing a blond wig, a short
dress, shiny stockings, and high heels. This
someone had put on garish makeup – like a
clown, the eyelids dark purple, false eyelashes,
and the lips swollen and red.
"Dad, I didn't know you'd come in so early,"
this someone said.
"I... I... let me clean up and then we can
talk," he continued.
Juan made one big step and stood face to
face with this someone. He tore the wig off
his head and threw it onto the floor.
"Five minutes..." he said.
"I'll give you five minutes, and you are
gone."
Although the wig was no longer on the
boy's head, this someone or something still
did not resemble his son.
"Dad…" he pleaded.
"Five minutes and no more."
Juan's chin shook with rage as he pronounced
the sentence.
The someone who was and was not Victor
picked up his clothes from Juan and Emma's
bed and went to collect his things.
Juan still stood with his back to the living
room when he heard the door to the house
close with a soft click.
Emma came in half an hour later and
123
found him standing in the middle of their
room, the blonde wig at his feet, her makeup
bag all messed up on the bed.
"Where is Victor?" she asked, but she already
knew the answer.
"What have you done to my baby? What
have you done, Juan?" her voice was shrill
with burning fury.
He started at her.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked.
"Of course, I knew" she screamed.
"I knew, and I didn't care! He's my baby!
No matter what clothes he wears!"
"But he no longer is mine," Juan answered.
He left the room on the way kicking the
blond wig as if were its fault for what had
happened.
Months passed, and he never saw Victor
again. He never asked about him either.
But his neighbors made sure that he should
know. They told him Emma let him come to
the house whenever Juan was out. They told
him he no longer wore decent clothes but
strutted around in stilettos and tight skirts.
It was a year or so later, one Friday evening
when he came back from the bank
where he worked as a security guard. Even
before he put the key in the keyhole, he
could hear the crying. He pushed the door
open. Emma was sitting at the table, her
face swollen and red, three of their daughters
around her — Francisca was away studying
to be a nurse — trying unsuccessfully
to comfort their mother while dealing with
their own grief. Nelly the youngest, barely
out of her teens and not much older than
Victor, put a reassuring arm around her
mother's shoulders.
Emma looked up at him and yelled: "It is
all your fault! It is all your fault!"
He closed the door gently and approached
the table.
Emma was looking at him with a kind of
hatred he had never seen before, not even
when he was a soldier and carried prisoners
in his van — dark, unforgiving, unyielding.
"You killed your child," she spat out.
"If it weren't for you, he'd still be alive.
But you made him run away! It is as if you
killed him yourself."
The four women looked at him with eyes
filled with grief and lack of comprehension.
Juan sat heavily on the chair opposite
Emma and said: "Tell me what happened."
Emma was breathing heavily like a poisoned
dog, weird hiccups coming out of her
throat together with poisonous words.
"He left because of you. You could not
accept him as he was. You... Juan Gomez,
a soldier, an army man could not have a gay
son. You were ashamed of him and that's why
he left. It is just as if you killed him yourself.
But that's what you know to do well,
isn't it? Kill. That's what they teach you in
the army. How to torture and kill," she hiccupped
again, tried to fill her lungs with air
but failed.
"I hate you, Juan, I hate you! You killed my
only son," and then she burst into prolonged
and inconsolable weeping, surrounded by
her daughters, who must have felt the same
because they didn't even try to defend him.
He tried to hold her as she wept and told
her he had not wanted this to happen, but
she squirmed out of his embrace and left
simmering in her grief and anger.
Later that day, already dried-eyed, she
watched him punch holes in walls and throw
a chair into a window but did nothing to stop
or console him, although he was like an elastic
being stretched too far.
The next day, a guy in the homicide squad
told him that Victor had been found in an
alley behind the local supermarket where
all sorts of hobos, druggies, and other losers
used to hang around.
"I know it's gruesome, but you need to
know. We are sure it was a hate crime. There
was a knife stuck in his chest, and that was
probably what killed him, but his face was
beaten to a pulp, hardly any teeth were left,
blood formed a thick crust on his skin," the
guy told him without any anesthesia.
"But the really horrible part is that the
skirt he was wearing, and his panties were
around his ankles and his privates had been
viciously slashed and the word 'maricon'
carved in his left thigh." There was no indication
of pity in the man's voice. It was just
another crime and another pansy killed for
trying to be someone he was not.
The same guy told him a family member
had to identify the body. He could not let
Emma see Victor so he said he would go.
And he was grateful that it was he, a soldier
accustomed to identifying dead bodies, and
not his wife who saw the state her boy was
in.
He was lying on a slab of metal in the
mortuary covered by a white sheet. The
doctor, a lanky tall guy with straw-yellow
hair and glasses in thick frames, pulled back
the sheet.
"I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."
"Maybe he is sorry or maybe it's just the
words he says to everyone," Juan thought.
He nodded and approached the gurney. He
knew it was Victor because they had fingerprinted
him and matched his identity to
one Victor Gomez, aged 17, son of Juan and
Emma. And thank God they did, because he
would have never recognized Victor by his
face. Although someone had washed off the
124
crust of blood, it was just a mass of bruises,
the nose broken, fragments of bone-like
white thorns poking through the skin, the
eyes swollen and shut tight and the toothless
mouth folding inwards.
"The mask of an Aztec god of sacrifice,"
Juan thought.
He had also learned it from a Discovery
Channel documentary — Itzpapalotl or the
"obsidian butterfly" because he was as black
and shiny as the volcanic glass. And so was
Victor now — his face was black with a few
punctures of violet and blue, but mainly
black. Juan had never seen anyone as
wounded as Victor.
Well, maybe once before. A long time ago.
He remembered another boy, not much older
than Victor, whom he had driven to a big
house in the foothills of the Andes. Rumor
had it, it was a place where those who opposed
the military regime were subjected to
terrible torture.
A small pretty woman had just driven up
the slope in a yellow Volkswagen Beetle and
was blocking the entrance to the cellar.
"You are in my way. Can you move your car
right now," he barked at her.
Her eyes were flinging thunders in his
direction, she was debating with herself,
looking for the right words or maybe a curse
but said nothing, jumped into the car, and
moved forward a few meters.
Juan had left him there knowing the boy
would be interrogated and probably killed.
And so did she — the pretty petite woman
whose husband, a tall good-natured gringo,
let them use the cellar and sometimes even
participated in the interrogations.
He was right — two days later he was
ordered to pick up the body and throw it
into the river. He now remembered the
boy's face as it had been when he had left
him in the big house and how it looked when
he pushed the corpse into the river. Like his
son's, it was the obsidian mask of the sacrifice
god — black, swollen, shiny. The boy's
body was naked and tattooed with bruises.
The only thing he had on was a string-like
bracelet around his right wrist. His flesh was
already beginning to swell and the string bit
deep into the wrist. Juan knew he was not
supposed to leave any distinguishing marks,
but as much as he tried to tear the bracelet
off, he couldn't because it was embedded in
the decaying flesh. So he left it on.
For years, he could not erase the picture
from the canvas of his mind. It festered as
though infected, and do what he did, he
could not shake off the feeling of disgust
with himself. Disgust with what he had never
thought he was capable of. But they say that
time heals and, gradually, the memory resurfaced
only occasionally. He was able to push
it to the darkest confines of his brain, but
this time, looking at Victor it came to haunt
him again. Two obsidian masks — one belonging
to his son and the other to a boy he led
to his execution.
He was responsible for both deaths. Emma
was right. Had he not told Victor to leave,
he would have been alive. Had he refused
to take the other boy to the big house, he
would have been alive too. But times were
different then. Almost everyone had given up
hope to see better days. And besides, he was
a soldier. He obeyed an order.
The only difference between the two
young men was that Victor would get a
proper burial, accompanied by his grieving
family. For the other young man, there'd
been no grand send-offs because his body
was dumped unceremoniously into the river,
most probably floated into the Pacific, and
was devoured by fish, bracelet and all.
When the day of Victor's burial came, he
said he would not go. He didn't belong there
— if he went, he would feel he was seeking
validation, pity, forgiveness, love. Which, of
course, he was but was not willing to admit
even to himself.
Instead, he watched from afar, undetected.
There were only five people at the
graveside if one did not count the priest
— Emma and the four girls, dressed all in
black, supporting each other, crying into
their handkerchief, searching for meaning in
their desolation while the priest said something
cliché like: "He is in God's arms, his
sins are forgiven and forgotten."
There was a strong smell of freshly mown
grass and wet earth, which brought to his
mind the memories of their holidays in
his parent's house, out there in the sticks,
where two lazy creeks flowed together forming
one rushing river. His parents' house had
smelt like that — of wet earth and grass. And
wood smoke from the clay oven.
They had been happy then — Emma helping
his mother to chop chilis, coriander and
onion for the spicy sauce they would put on
the slightly scorched bread freshly taken out
of the oven. Victor, a chubby two-year-old,
napping in his pram under the vines pregnant
with grapes. Yes, happy times before something
got into the boy's head and changed
him completely and forever.
He left shortly after, even before the mechanical
platform started lowering the coffin
into the ground with a prolonged moan.
There was no point in staying.
When he got back home, a hair-raising
emptiness invaded him. Emma and the girls
would probably linger on at the cemetery. Or
125
maybe, they would not return at all.
Yes, they are right. It was his fault. His
son's death and the other boy's. Thoughts
roll around his head the whole time, but
he has yet to make sense of them. He sits
on Victor's bed, in his room, watching the
black kimono flutter its butterfly wings. He
can stand it no longer and like on the day
he learned about Victor's death, he vents his
rage on inanimate objects. He stands beside
the bed, his arms raised, almost of their own
volition. He takes hold of one of the pillows,
feeling its weight. It seems to be filled with
stones. But he knows it is the weight of his
conscience that has somehow seeped into
the pillow through his palms.
He flings the pillows onto the floor,
punches the wall, and rips the kimono off
the hanger. He does not want it here anymore.
But he does not want to destroy it
either — it still smells of Victor, or rather of
Victor's alter ego — the Butterfly. The smell
is musky, similar to the smell of his mother's
chili sauce. He feels that if he tears it to
shreds, he will kill the last vestige of his son.
There is a charity shop next to the bank
where he works and where he can just
drop it through the slot where people leave
unwanted clothes, books, and other things.
He will just drop it off there and then try to
forget and simply move on. Like the time he
tried to forget the boy with the red bracelet.
Fearfully and Wonderfully Made
Lithography
Ariel Cooper
Jacksonville, Florida, USA
126
Broken
Poetry
Valerie Ansuini
Livermore, California, USA
So beautifully torn into fragments of what
once was whole
The shallow beating makes up for the steady
breathing
New life from the death of a dying flower
If breaking means seeing
And hurting means believing
Then how can one’s heart be broken upon
leaving
For it’s not the truth that has been said
But the sweetness of lies put in my head
When all goes wrong it proves me right
A single smile with one tear tonight
Manslaughter
Poetry
Matthew Andrews
Modesto, California, USA
The Israelites had a rule: if a body
was found slain in a field, murdered
and then left abandoned in the dirt,
the guilt would fall on the nearest city
and its people would sacrifice a heifer
while crying out for mercy. Silence
reigns in this park today, no lament
pouring from the children on swings
or the parents congregating on benches
over the figure slumped in the grass,
almost directly in the center of town.
Mourning is for the dead, and this body
is alive so long as no one takes its hand
and rests two fingers on the wrist,
so long as no one places their head
on the chest to feel the work of respiration.
I glance for only a moment before returning
to the unconcerned faces around me,
confident in my defense, in my plea
that it seemed to me he was only sleeping.
Roses
Poetry
Lindsey Wentzel
Montgomery, Texas, USA
A brilliant red spray
Roses so perfect set on display
A show of love and want
Who would have thought they’d come to
haunt?
A wonderous night, lets out and play!
In your bed tonight is where we’ll lay
So much fun in our jaunt
How did the night become so daunt?
We were so happy but nay
For past issues we will pay
Bubbling emotions quant
And we find we both can taunt
Thought we were strong, come what may
Yet you sent me out into the fray
A relationship became so gaunt
When we selected a whole new font
Roses scattered into an array
My truck bed the lucky bay
I don’t think this will be okay
127
128
Maverick
Painting
Aydin Ermolaev
Pleasanton, California, USA
Kelly rarely ventured into the wild conglomeration
of electrified flesh known to
her fellow humanoids as "parties," and never
alone. Simply operating as a functional guest
represented a monumental task. Far easier
to stay at Keith's side, rigid, on the defensive
for no discernible reason, before he lightly
guilted her into socializing, arguing the benefits
of small talk.
His efforts to coax Kelly from her shell
produced the same sad result: a six-foot-tall
bag of fruit in a corner of the room. Even if
she beat back the trepidation with an apple
or two, Kelly's ability to enjoy a conversation
was severely impaired. Many were the dumb
smiles and clipped replies, trembling fingertips
pulling at her curls, eyes desperately
seeking an object worthy of focus, while
colossal waves of melancholia snatched
her breaths quicker than she could replace
them.
Such fuss, despite the support of her boyfriend,
whose buddy Scott extended an invitation
to a "super VIP" shindig. Apparently,
only five people would be attending, making
for an environment less threatening than a
sleeping chickadee.
Kelly quelled the temptation to share the
true story of a minor celebrity who'd met
their end via peritonitis caused by an ingested
toothpick, settling instead for a sincere
promise to try her best.
Despite the low body count, Kelly lasted
only eight minutes before retreating into
herself, drifting further and further away
It Goes Down Cherry
Fiction
Jennifer Benningfield
Hagerstown, Maryland, USA
from the living room, lamenting how disappointed
Kool and the Gang would feel at
the sight of her, thumbs jammed in jeans
pockets, eyes dark and downcast, mouth a
barely sufficient slit. Keith did not immediately
break off his conversation with a fellow
European car enthusiast, giving Kelly time to
compose herself.
Eventually he approached, scowl set, a
put-upon young man yet again expected to
take charge of a gradually deteriorating situation.
Kelly guessed he was one wrong word
uttered inappropriately from crushing the
aluminum cylinder in his clutch.
"I feel like I'm about to suffocate," she
muttered.
"Look up, look at me."
She hated showing him--showing anyone-
-the unblinking eyes and quivering lips of a
clearly uncomfortable woman, but she knew
he loved taking the command when offered.
"Take your jacket off."
"That's not the problem and you know
it's not," she snapped, ready to respectfully
tear into him until she saw Keith's eyes
narrow behind the full-rim spectacles. That
slight change in shape set Kelly's shoulders
straight. The process of determining a solution
had begun.
Less than a minute later, she stood in a
backyard not much larger than the kitchen
they'd just passed through, counting breaths
as Keith retrieved two white plastic chairs.
The concrete walkway was too narrow, so he
plopped both seats on the grass.
"We'll stay out here till you feel okay," he
129
assured her.
"You mean until I no longer feel like a novice
at breathing, or in the existential sense?"
Those were the last words Kelly spoke for
some time, content to half-listen to her boyfriend's
theories on the next Star Wars movie
as she stretched leaden limbs and felt the
tension take its sour time dripping over the
dead spots of the lawn.
"Hey, you two."
"What's this, then?" Kelly muttered, opening
her eyes and closing her hands.
"Dunno. Don't bite her head off, okay?" The
question materialized more grumble than
plea.
"I will be as polite as your grandma at
Mass," Kelly promised, and so she was. Polite
to the lisping redhead in a glittery green
sweater; kind to the dense yet sweet guy in
a Tool shirt; and best, the Crown Royal-bearing
blonde who had turned to tell an unseen
someone, "Calm down, I'm a great person,"
before descending the wooden steps.
"Feeling better?"
The last, "great" visitor had switched on
the back porch light, an act of kindness
which sent a strip of soft white down to
the midway point of the concrete walkway.
Keith's chair sat on the edge of the strip, and
the glow gave his face the appearance of
robust vulnerability.
Kelly felt the nerves gamboling underneath
her skin. A single prolonged exhalation
served as a proclamation: she felt fine, with
finer on the horizon, another beer and a half
away from shedding pesky inhibitions and
indulging dissipated desires. Which meant
reaching out and stroking the untrimmed
whiskers of her paramour, from mid-cheek to
chin, until her fingers lost all feeling.
"I'm no longer wanting to roll up into a ball
and die, but I'm still antsy. I guess that's an
improvement?"
"Why are you still antsy?"
"Dunno. Maybe the fact people keep buggin'
us."
"They're just being hospitable," he
shrugged. "It is a party, remember."
"Kindness of strangers."
"If you say so."
Kelly raised an eyebrow. Every several
months, Keith delighted in the unveiling of
some new way to try his girlfriend's patience.
Their next conversation was closer to the
actual definition of the word, and this did
much to erase Kelly's lugubriousness, as did
the moon, lurking behind leaves and rooves
like a timid child.
"Smell that? Smells like steak and cheese
sub."
"There's a Sheetz close by," Keith nodded,
the airiness of his voice a perfect accompaniment
to the cravings causing the inside of
Kelly's mouth to weaken.
"Wonder how this would do as a mixer,"
she wondered, tapping the Crown Royal bottle
with the toe of her left shoe.
"Gimme a minute and we can find out."
Several minutes later, they did.
"You're a lifesaver, my man."
"If you say so."
The backyard of an acquaintance, Kelly
decided, did not a suitable battlefield make.
She filled the large plastic cup halfway with
soda, then splashed it twice with the whiskey.
One swig, and she broke into a seated
gallop.
"So, good?" Keith turned his right fist into a
chin rest as he awaited the reply.
"Delicious. Seriously."
"I've never had cherry Pepsi before. How
cherry is it?"
"Not terribly. Goes down cherry." Kelly
tugged at the renegade curls resting on her
shoulder as he prepared his own drink. "Lord
a'mighty that's good stuff. I'm gonna get so
warm I'll wind up in a freezer. Alcohol's gotta
be the best way to warm up. It's like gravy
for your inner biscuits."
"What about fire?"
"That's cheating. That's like saying water
is the best way to get wet, and we all know
that's a lie."
######
"So does this make us bad party guests?"
"Probably," Keith managed, through a
yawn. "I wish I could handle caffeine better."
"Wishes aren't bad things to have," Kelly
said. "Especially under a canopy of stars."
She waved her hand and rolled her eyes.
"One of them just might have the safety off.
Ooh, listen to my semi-poetic self. I need to
drink whiskey more often."
The fun was well and truly kaput the
moment Keith announced, with appropriate
sheepishness, that he'd been overcome with
the urgency.
"You can't go out here?"
"No, this is…a little more complicated."
Kelly's grimace was short-lived, straightened
out and smothered down by the creak
of the back door, the rustle of leaves, and
the distinct sound of shattering glass. Her
shrieks alerted the other three partygoers,
who seemed to appear in the yard almost
130
instantaneously. Kelly stammered out a
summation in their general direction and
watched as their confusion deteriorated into
horror.
"Don't get too close! The glass!"
"Oh God. Oh my God."
Keith tore off his shirt and dropped to
his knees. Kelly thought it the oddest thing
she'd seen him do in their time together, and
cursed the high-pitched ringing in her ears
for its horrendous timing.
"Can somebody turn their phone light on,
so I can see what I'm doing here?"
Kelly removed her fingernails from her
palms to do just that before the blonde
woman beat her to the punch.
"It's okay, man. It's okay. Hold still. Hold
still."
The advice had not been meant for Kelly,
but she took it regardless, blinks and breaths
at a premium as she watched Keith apply
a tourniquet halfway up the fallen man's
forearm.
"Looks good, looks good. I'm calling an ambulance,
Scotty, it's gonna be okay, buddy."
"It was that damned bat!"
######
A half-hour later, Keith and Kelly sat in
his car, trembling at what had transpired in
the backyard, and not at the sight of a mere
windshield. She tugged at her ears, appreciation
for the resilient flesh increasing with
every pull, while he performed a song of
disbelief.
"Wow. Wow. Woo. Woo. What did I just
do?"
Kelly gulped, figuring her reply would decide
whether the man she loved exploded in
laughter or imploded in sorrow.
"You saved someone. Somebody was going
to die, and now they're not, and it's because
of you."
"Yeah, if…"
Kelly nearly gave herself whiplash. "Yeah.
I do say so."
At that moment, the number of sentences
Kelly could bear to hear or speak was limited.
Not one contained a dismissive word.
She placed a hand on her head and tried
to shove aside the sight of their host's face,
wet and red and blue. She placed a hand between
her breasts, willing her touch to calm
the juddering sensation.
The struggle had not ended when she felt
the world rumble underneath her. Keith was
ready to go. Kelly shivered, contemplating
his internal havoc. Shame she didn't have a
third hand.
"Do you think it was rude of us to take
this?" she asked, tapping the Crown Royal
bottle with the toe of her left shoe.
"No," Keith answered groggily. "We earned
it."
Joy
Poetry
Heidi Speth
St. Peters, Missouri, USA
The snow falls like flour through a sifter
Resting more peacefully than me on the rolling hills
Cold, all there is is the bitter, never-ending cold
It bites me hard, hitting me like the memories of that night
Spring breaks like a sunrise on the darkest, most terrible night
Chilly to the bone at first, but then thawing like a body straight out of the icebox
The flowers start to bud and blossom
Rays of hope peek through the clouds, inspiring peace, tranquility, and new beginnings
Another Summer is finally here
Sweat covers my limbs, I’m tempted to let the adventures of the dirt roads consume me
So the grief does not get there first
Fireworks penetrate the navy, starlit sky
Echoing louder than a bullet out of a gun off the lake that surrounds us
Hot, all there is is the humid, sticky-skin hot
I’m cleansed by the refreshing murky lake as I plummet off the old, splinter-infested dock
Fall starts to set in like the sun after a long Summer’s day
For once I can sleep again, under the branches of the oak, my body caressed by the light
breeze
The chilly nights return, different this year
This year, they are comforting, I have made it, I have almost made it one year
The multi-colored leaves are falling
Haunting me, flashing images of you falling into my arms, every time I even so much as blink
It’s time to be thankful
That’s what everyone is saying, though I don’t feel it, I feel angry and sad and worn down
The white, flour-sifter flakes have returned, just days from a whole year after the fact
The life-changing fact
I think of you often, knowing that while I have been going through this tornado of grief, you
would want me to find the joy
So much time as past with so little joy
It’s hard to find joy when the greatest joy of your life is gone.
131
Bruises
Poetry
Tesa Flores
Brooklyn, New York, USA
I see bruises bloom on my body like flowers in National Geographic.
I stab a crouton and it slits in two.
I have no one to yearn for.
I am never clean, never unbroken.
After hours I catch a coworker in the spreadsheet,
digital mouse's dancing a stale paux de deux.
We don’t know each other and never will.
Every time I walk out of the house I let the palm leaves caress my cheek, try to remember to
feel it.
I smash my knees into worn down cement and blood spurts in my hand but doesn't escape the
skin, two red dots in the flesh of my palm, trapped under layers of me.
Joked to my boss now I have my souvenir, pieces of Florida parking lot in my knees forever.
Illume #2: Hope
as a Trick of
Light
Poetry
henry 7. reneau, jr.
Lindsay, California, USA
Our hands out like a beggar's cup & the sun
ablaze behind our heads We cast
a hopeful shadow of optimism only illusion
of photons & neutrons
compressed to atoms of dazzle
illuminating a bottomless well the
anticipation
of polished promise
at its vanishing point fabricating
There is much I didn’t expert to present this way, to collect so physically.
The body keeps the score and I am a
fucking loser.
Every thought is a feeling and every feeling is a thought.
If the pain isn’t in you now numbing everything else to sidelines….
well it will be soon.
When I smile sometimes I can taste the lie on my tongue.
They keep feeding me and feeding me like it’s love but it’s unreconizable.
In 6th grade, writing about ice queens and knives, they sent me to the office cause they thought
I wanted to die.
11 years later I’m still here, and still not sure what for.
But some days are better than others and that is
nice
enough.
132
Cynthia
Poetry
Jones Irwin
Dublin, Idaho, USA
I
Thought he was cracked for
a time was he all there didn’t
know himself. Wrote
endlessly to papers, strangers, to
the dead. Voices in his
head. From errant place to place a
suitcase of these missives. Police
arrested his associates to plea
bargain. Got nishte, mate. Cynthia
said they both could run
away from Albion. Where though hun?
Gotta keep movin’. Many fingered
man. Don’t wanna be a soon
headstone. Kefalonia we rest
there. The Dionysus tavern
has bed and breakfast. In the
morn you can watch the Hellene
sun rise. The ferry to Kylini leaves daily
if need be, you get me? No one knows us
in Greece ‘cept the whores and
moneylenders. Fabulous he
laughed. We are quite the
phenomenon. Cynthia always
made the worse better. Wry
face. Sexy dark sister.
II
But how long could it
last? Finitude. Already
his hair was falling out and
his teeth. That’s what happens
to anarchists and neo-syndicalists in
the end. How long left, then? Months maybe
certainly not years. Days possibly
counted on two hands if lucky. Wait until
the winter comes. In Sammi
all the tourists are gone the wind
loud and shrill. Locals
make money from informing
the crime lords. Your comings
and your goings. The reckoning
can’t be put off forever with
backhanders. Try as you might,
boyo.
And Cynthia, dear lover.
Who was that you was
talking to this morning
on your phone outside the
window? You were speaking
a different language. Tell me
now please before I have to kill
us first. Then do my worst.
III
Maybe just maybe
there is an alternative to this.
After all you’re the first
femme fatale I ever did trust.
Course they all warned me
against it. Cited the fate
of poor old Irish Raymond
they did his grisly end.
The claw hammer episode
with Moira’s gang etc.
But perhaps we are distinct.
I’ve kept my hope intact.
Read Kierkegaard a whole lot.
133
Corridor. 1. I silently open a narrow white
door
Pale diffuse sunlight streams through a long
corridor
Silent, narrow, white
White doors on its sides, at its end a white
door
All doors, faintly glowing, identical
The end door I open, it shows a white room
A room of white fixtures in pale filtered light
The room glows faint eggshell in weakened
white light
A sound, just perceptible, whispers of breeze
I stand in the doorway not breaking the spell
Singular, waiting, my feelings becalmed
White room. 2. Lines, corners, cut sharp firm
Edge makes shadow; shadow tells me of
dimensions, things unseen
A depth, a distance
Door is open, depth beyond
Now door is closed, and space ends there
untruthfully
The mirror when uncovered falsely shows me
depth, but it’s just flatness
The furnishings are blocks, of odd size,
seeming solid through
Interior
Poetry
Lance Nizami
Palo Alto, California, USA
But they’re just planed, their insides hollow,
model-like
One lone exception shows: a clear and planar
pane of glass
It isolates, but not conceals
And so all things but one are skins that hide
what is behind them
To eyes unaided in plain light, mere skins will
lie within our sight –
Closet door. 3. Hard white rectangular
resistant it slides aside, darkness within
Narrowly, limp objects hang from frames,
motionless, parallel
The colors dark-muted to sameness
Dead quiet
I stand gazing at the shaded back wall,
imagine it fading to black air
And I step inside that secret space, reaching
back to close the door behind
134
Cabin on
Detox Island
Poetry
Monica Viera
Montebello, California, USA
If you ache to be reborn
You need not travel far
Detox Island has a vacancy
But beware, it's quite bizarre
The regulars are sober
But they're pretty high on life
They laugh and smile and talk together
No sight or sound of strife
But when the sun starts to set
The regulars disbar
They trot back to their detox cabins
By light of the North Star
Once they're in and all alone
They lock their doors and sigh
And after nine, on Detox Island
You start to hear them cry
Behind their wooden cabin doors
They're trapped in with their fears
So, until the sun rises here
You'd best cover your ears
The wind is thick with screams and sobs
That cover you with chills
And you realize there's no escape
From these cabins on the hills
A night on Detox Island
Is enough to go insane
For the regulars that mull around
Have souls already slane
Windows
Photography
Mane Hovhannisyan
Yerevan, Armenia
135
Someplace Without Washrooms
Fiction
Alfredo Arcilesi
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
It was clear to Cynth that the cute girl and
handsome boy didn't want to kiss. Not with
her sitting three benches away. Not with
their pushy friend egging them on, cameraphone
framed and ready.
The typical scene was written and directed
by genetics. The girl was indeed cute,
petite, armed with perfected feminine mannerisms,
all packaged in a Fall outfit that
teased of Summer treats; in a word, she was
desirable. The boy was indeed handsome, a
model without a magazine cover, the world
ready for the taking, but waiting for testosterone
to fill his head with the notion; in a
word, he was desirable. Their pushy friend?
In several words: fat, ugly, awkward, desperate,
undesirable.
She was Cynth.
Which was why the urge to walk over to
them, and tell the pushy friend to leave the
possible couple alone propelled her to stand
up.
But a thought weighed her back down:
Who the hell am I to say anything?
And one resounding, troublesome question
cemented her to the bench: What if they
recognize me?
There had been a terrible snippet of her
sorry life filled with judging stares and words
of condemnation. Three years had dwindled,
and though the eyes gradually passed blindly
over her constantly-changing appearance
without a second glance, she still felt the
permanent pressures of temporary infamy.
Nobody recognizes me, Cynth tried to
assure herself in that soothing, albeit unsteady,
therapeutic voice she had worked
so long and hard to construct, desperately
trying to sound anything other than her
trademark, albeit notorious, professional vocal
fry. Of the three kids before her, no more
than thirteen-years-old apiece, she guessed,
she reasoned: They're too young to recognize
me. Too young to know what I've done.
She smiled inwardly. Nobody recognizes
me.
The thought used to haunt her, sprinting
alongside morbid worries of living and dying
alone and unknown, inside of a pathetic
body people couldn't help but recognize,
both for the comic relief and disgust it had
provided.
Selfishly, she was grateful for the events
of three years prior, for it had supplied
her with ample motivation to lop off and
straighten a lifetime's growth of untamed
auburn curls, add bleach, pierce body parts
of her body she had grown up to believe
were virginal, and, along with the cocktail
of depression, anxiety, and guilt that felt
intravenously fed to her via every available
vein, dissolved nearly two-hundred of her
three-hundred-and-twenty pounds. Her skin,
however, remained an open canvas, and on
the days when the cocktail's alcohol content
was too unbearable, she strongly considered
decorating some part of herself with a
memorial.
And what would the tattooist say when I
show the portrait I'd want? she challenged
herself. Wouldn't they recognize me, then?
Nobody recognizes —
136
A child's laugh.
Cynth looked at the boy and two girls.
The pushy friend lowered her cameraphone,
laughing at something the photogenic pair's
faces deemed unfunny.
Just go over there, and tell her to leave
them alone, Cynth coached herself. Just go,
and — And what do I say?
Tell them about Jaley. They don't know
Jaley. Neither do you.
The truth splintered that familiar place
within her that had never fully healed.
Having visited the park on a near-religious
basis for the last three years, listening to
the radio program her obsessive memory
played, Cynth rarely had any suitable players
to perform the needy voices in her head.
Some visits, she allowed the voices to speak
through unaware mothers and their playing
children. Other visits, she allowed the voices
to speak through passing squirrels, pigeons,
and dogs. Most visits, the park was empty,
forcing her to replay the conversation solely
in her mind.
Today, however, there was the cute girl,
the handsome boy, and the pushy friend.
How perfect, she thought, and let the
eager, three-year-old memory roll:
“We've got Jaley on the air,” the pushy
friend said. Her mouth was moving, but
her lips were issuing different words, like a
poorly dubbed film. Still, Cynth made due,
hearing her own voice — the trademark vocal
fry — inside her head, leaving the pushy
friend's mouth. “You there, Jaley?”
A gust of wind passed through the park.
Static crackled over the radio in her head.
“Hellooo? Jaley?” Cynth/the pushy friend
coaxed.
Jaley? Typical. Sounds skinny, Cynth, three
years away from chiseling at her own skeleton,
had thought then. As if the conversation
wasn't punishing enough to remember verbatim,
she painstakingly recalled nearly every
thought she had conjured during the longago
exchange.
The wind settled.
The static cleared.
“—ere, here, here, I'm here,” the cheery,
instantly loveable voice in her head said.
To Cynth's eyes, the cute girl on the bench
opened her mouth to respond to the pushy
friend.
“Thought I lost you there,” Cynth/the
pushy friend said.
“No, it's my stupid phone,” Jaley/the cute
girl said. “Hi.”
Probably don't even know how to use it,
except for a shit-ton of selfies.
“Hi, back,” was Cynth's/the pushy friend's
equally cheery response. “So, Jaley, how old
are you?”
“Just turned twenty-one last week.”
That's a lot of math for you, isn't it? “Awww,
Happy Birthday.”
Cynth could still hear the annoyingly loud
noisemaker she had activated at the touch
of a studio console button.
“Thank you,” Jaley/the cute girl giggled.
“Now... you called 'cause you had a pretty
weird date last week.”
“Yeah.”
Good.
“Care to share with everyone?”
“'K,' so, like... I went out with this guy,
and-”
“What's his name?”
“Guy.”
“Guy?”
“Yeah.” “Creative.”
Parents probably would've named his sister
'Girl.'
“Yeah, I know, right?” Jaley/the cute girl
agreed.
“Okay,” Cynth/the pushy friend said, “so,
actually... before you get to the date, tell
everyone where you met.”
“Online.” The undertone reeked of Duh!
“We messaged for, like, a couple hours, and I
guess we decided to meet.”
Oh, a couple of hours is way more than
enough time for him to see you're twenty-one,
skinny, and fuckable.
“So, then what happened?” Cynth/the
pushy friend probed.
“'K,' so, we met at a cafe downtown,
'cause, you know, I'm not stupid.”
Just twenty-one, skinny, and fuckable.
“I just met this guy,” Jaley/the cute girl
continued. “I don't know if he's crazy, or if
he's gonna look all weird, you know?” A slight
chuckle.
“A girl can't be too careful, totally,”
Cynth/the pushy friend agreed.
Idiot.
“So, yeah, we met at the cafe,” Jaley/the
cute girl continued, “and he looked just like
his pictures, so bonus.”
“He cute?”
“Uh, yeah.” Another dose of Duh!
What was I thinking? Someone named Jaley,
twenty-one, skinny, and fuckable doesn't
do ugly.
“So, you're at the cafe,” Cynth/the pushy
friend reviewed, “he looks like his pics—so
he's who he says he is, which is cute. But not
too cute about what he did next.”
Glad he did it.
137
“I know, right?” Jaley/the cute girl proceeded:
“So, he says he needs to use the
washroom. So he leaves. And I'm sitting
there, waiting and waiting, and I'm like,
'Don't guys just go in, do their thing, and
come back out?'”
“You heard it here, guys,” Cynth/the
pushy friend broke in. “It's that simple. Unless
you got long lines like us femme fatales,
all you guys need to do is 'go in, do your
thing, and come back out' to your date.”
Cynth/the pushy friend laughed, and then
abruptly stopped for dramatic effect. “But
what did he do?”
“He didn't come back out.” Jaley/the cute
girl sounded shocked.
Awww, poor skinny, fuckable you.
“You mean he ditched you?” Cynth/the
pushy friend enforced.
Hope it hurts.
“He totally did,” Jaley/the cute girl said,
pouting cutely.
Good.
“And you called 'cause you wanna know
why,” Cynth/the pushy friend seethed, getting
down to exciting business.
“Yeah, like, we were having a good time
and all, and he seemed to like me.”
'Cause you're twenty-one, skinny, and
fuckable. “You tried calling him?”
“Yeah.” More Duh! “For, like, three days.”
“Girl, that's three days too many.”
Fuckin' moron. “Yeah.”
“Well, let's see if he picks up when your
gal-pal Cynth calls.”
You would never be my gal-pal. Nobody
who looks like you would ever want to be
seen with someone who looks like me. And I
wouldn't want to, either.
The simple hip-hop beat looping quietly in
the background was punctuated by dialled
digits, followed by a ringtone.
“Least his phone works,” Cynth/the pushy
friend quipped, the latter lifting her cellphone,
readying another attempt to snap a
photo or capture a video of the cute girl and
handsome boy.
A second ring.
A third.
“Maybe he's in the washroom,” Cynth/the
pushy friend jested.
Jaley/the cute girl issued a brittle laugh,
cut short by: “Hi, you've reached Guy...”
“Guess you've heard this part before,”
Cynth/the pushy friend said over the standard
voicemail greeting. With barely contained
enthusiasm: “Let's leave a message.”
“No,” Jaley/the cute girl blurted, the
former worried Cynth might keep her word,
the latter swatting the pushy friend's cameraphone
away.
Cynth cut the call before the tone Guy
had promised ended. “Wow,” she/the pushy
friend said. “This what you been dealing
with?”
Poor skinny, fuckable you.
“It's okay,” Jaley/the cute girl said with
playful disappointment.
Wasn't like it was love. There'll be plenty
more, anyway. “Let's try one more time,”
Cynth/the pushy friend urged. A rapid succession
of dial tones made Jaley's decision.
One ring.
“What if he doesn't like me?” Jaley/the
cute girl offered weakly. Two rings.
“Well, we're gonna find out,” Cynth/the
pushy friend said.
You don't sound so fuckable now, do you?
Three— “Hello?”
He sounds fuckin' hot was Cynth's immediate
thought. “Hi. Is this Guy?” Cynth/the
pushy friend inquired.
“Speaking.” Caution coated his otherwise
sultry voice.
If the handsome boy sitting on the bench
with the cute girl and their pushy friend had
been contributing to their private back-andforth
all along, Cynth hadn't noticed; she
had been transfixed on the girls, the live
mimes representing the female voices in her
head. With the introduction of Guy in this
familiar script, Cynth now fixed upon the
handsome boy, and saw that he was speaking
Guy's words.
“You're a hard guy to reach,” Cynth/the
pushy friend said. “Do you listen to the Cynthetic
Cynth Morning Show?”
“Um... not really,” Guy/the handsome boy
said.
Didn't think so. “Awww... that's too bad.”
“Wait...” His voice peaked, hinting his
forgotten pubescent years. “Is this... Am I on
the show?”
“Smart cookie,” Cynth/the pushy friend
beamed, thinking Jaley's Duh! “You're speaking
with Cynth, on-air.”
“Okay, cool. Did I, like, win something?”
Guy sounded more excited than the increasingly
frustrated handsome boy appeared.
“In a way,” Cynth/the pushy friend said.
“I'm calling 'cause I heard you went on a
date last week.”
“Oookay.” A dip back into caution.
“You do remember being on a date last
week, don't you, Guy?” “I do, yeah.”
“You remember the name of your date,
Guy?”
The looped background track filled his end
of the conversation.
“Uh-oh. You're looking worse and worse
here, Guy. Don't tell me you don't remember
the name-”
“Are you there, Jaley?”
138
Cynth hadn't heard it then, during the live
recording, but when she had listened back
to the segment, she could tell his uncanny
inquiry, spoken in that sexy voice of his,
had taken her breath away. Even the looped
background track seemed to break at the
precise moment of his question.
Nobody ever said my name that way.
Jaley was silent. For a moment, Cynth
thought she had lost her caller, and, therefore,
the entire gimmick—and Jaley's punishment
for being twenty-one, skinny, and
fuckable—but she could see the line was still
live.
“What makes you think Jaley's here?”
Cynth/the pushy friend teased.
“Ah, she is, isn't she?” Guy chuckled,
while the handsome boy scowled at the
pushy friend. “I've heard shows like this before.
Ah, man.” More chuckling.
“So, you know what's up?” Cynth/the
pushy friend asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He exhaled. “I'm an
ass. Wait—can I say 'ass' on the radio?” “I'll
make an exception in your case.”
More of that appetizing laugh.
I'm not twenty-one, skinny, or fuckable,
but if I was, I'd be all over you. Even if you
didn't look like your pictures.
“Why do you think you're an ass, Guy?”
“'Cause I ditched. “His breath rustled the
phone, as if his sheepishness had rapidly produced
an abundance of scraping wool.
“So, what's going on, Guy? Why'd you ditch
Jaley?” Before he could respond: “And ignore
her calls for the last three days?”
“I'm an ass,” he maintained, matter-of-factly.
“I'm an ass, Jaley.” She was
live, but remained silent, as did the cute
girl on the bench. “Jaley, you still with me?”
Cynth/the pushy friend asked.
“Yeah,” a mouse on the other line said.
“Wanna ask Guy here what his deal is?” A
silence too long for radio.
“Trust me, Jaley wants to know what your
deal is,” Cynth/the pushy friend intervened.
“Everyone wants to kn-.”
The handsome boy abruptly stood, disrupting
Cynth's mental program. She could
hear his voice—a fight between current boy
and eventual man for the vocal cords—but
not specific words. His reddening face clearly
had more to do with the pushy friend than
the cold air. Cynth watched as he turned
to grab the cute girl's hand, pulled her to
attention, and flashed a middle finger in
the pushy friend's face. The cute girl looked
back at the pushy friend as she was whisked
away, but said nothing. They were heading
for Cynth, who busied herself with birdless
birdwatching. As they breezed by, she
thought she heard the handsome boy say
something reminiscent of “...none of her
fuckin' business what we...” With that, they
penetrated the woods, where Cynth dared
not go.
Maybe one day, she told herself. Maybe
today. Maybe.
Cynth ignored an actual bird that had
deserted the forest beyond, turning her attention
to the pushy friend. The sulking mass
sat on the bench, a forest of one, abandoned
by lovebirds.
She fiddled with her phone for a while,
then stood, and walked without purpose to
the still swings, giving each a heartless push
before leaving.
Cynth waited until the swings settled
before reevaluating her surroundings. Confirming
her solitude, she moved to the bench
recently occupied by the trio. The worn,
paint-chipped wood was cold, though she
believed she could feel their warm ghosts
wafting through the seat of her pants. She
looked at each of the benches she had sat
upon — experienced, she liked to think of
it — prior to the kids' appearance. There was
the one with the loose plank, the one with
the missing plank, the one half-sunk into the
loose earth, the graffito's masterpiece, and
the pigeon's toilet.
There was also the one closest to the
forest.
Which one are you? she mused, as always.
They hadn't sat on the swings, toes and
heels gently digging shallow grooves in the
sand in romantic synchronicity. They hadn't
roosted on the top or bottom of the slide.
“We were sitting on a bench.” Guy's words
in print and on screen, unimportant, almost
trivial, but paramount to Cynth.
But which one? she willed to Guy.
As part of the ritual, she closed her eyes,
and tried to visualize a day she had never
lived. The entire scene unfolded in choppy
edits: in one instance, she could see
Jaley and Guy, sitting together on a bench
comprised of sampled details of all seven
benches, their faces pixelated, the way she
remembered them on screen and in print;
in another instance, she could see Guy as
Jaley; she could hear his tantalizing voice—
never Jaley's—not in the park's open, clean
air, but as she had heard him on her morning
radio show: filtered, human-like:
“We sat on a bench,” Guy said, his acorn
eyes piercing whatever colour Jaley's had
been. “I need to know which one,” Cynth
said, the trademark vocal fry some critics
and listeners alike complained about and
mocked substituting Jaley's cutesy cadence.
“We talked about how we were on that
old, fat, ugly, unfuckable, meddling bitch's
139
show,” Guy said, ignoring her. He took her
hands into his own. So strong. So masculine.
So desirable.
“And then everyone recognized me,”
Cynth said, letting his thumbs massage the
tender meat between her thumbs and index
fingers. “Everybody wanted to skewer and
roast the old...”
“...but thirty's not old...” Guy teased, caressing
her hair now. “...fat...” Cynth said.
“...you're not fat anymore...”
“...ugly...”
“...you're not ugly anymore...”
“...unfuckable...”
“...mmm, I'd definitely fuck you...”
“...meddling bitch,” Cynth ended.
“Don't feel so bad,” Guy cooed. “Jaley
and I talked about how we should thank you
for bringing us together.”
Cynth tried to break his hold. “It's not my
fault.”
He held on, his luscious, kissable lips
formed a seductive smile. “Thank you.”
“It was just a show,” Cynth rebelled,
tugging harder, but not succeeding. “It was
entertainment. Stupid entertainment for
stupid people.”
“Thank you.” His lips drew closer to her.
“It's not my fault.”
Closer. “Thank you.” “It's not my fault.”
“Thank you.”
She felt his breathy syllables as his lips
pressed against her own. “It's not my fault,”
she heard herself scream, the words devoured
by his exploring mouth.
“Thank you,” she heard him say in spite of
their entangled tongues.
She closed her eyes, and received everything
she wanted. And when she had had her
fill, she opened her eyes, and saw what she
had come to expect:
The six other benches, each with their
own personality and history. No kids.
No Guy.
No Jaley.
Just her.
And the bench she always saved for last.
She dreaded her self-imposed regimen,
but knew her daily diet needed feeding.
Is that where they sat? Cynth pondered,
inwardly cringing at the oddly pristine bench
partially enveloped by the treeline.
Maybe.
Maybe it's the one I'm sitting on.
Maybe it's the one with all the bird shit on
it. Maybe it's none of them at all.
Maybe Guy was lying.
Guy had lied about a lot of things.
Guy had lied on my stupid show for stupid
people.
She recalled the latter portion of the longago
segment:
“Trust me, Jaley wants to know what your
deal is,” Cynth had said. “Everyone wants to
know.”
After a brief hesitation—staged, she knew
now—Guy gave in: “Basically, I didn't think I
was good enough for Jaley, so I said I needed
to use the washroom. I saw myself in the
mirror, which didn't help, and I guess I decided
to just leave.”
You chickened-out, she mended. But not
the next time.
Cynth fast-forwarded through the remaining
garb, skipping her relentless teasing of
both parties, Jaley's shock and relief, and
ending where she had spoken the words that
had set her upon an endless string of park
therapy sessions. “Just one recommendation,
okay, you guys?
When you guys go on your second first
date, make sure you guys go someplace
without washrooms, okay?”
“Someplace without washrooms,” Cynth
whispered to the park, where Jaley and Guy
allegedly met.
The park was someplace without washrooms.
The forest hugging the park was someplace
without washrooms.
Deep within the forest, the hidden clearing
at the foot of a hill, lined with a pitiful
stream, where Jaley's white, nibbled, lifeless
fingers dabbled, was someplace without
washrooms.
The other places, where other “Jaley's”
had been found, were places without washrooms.
It could've been this bench, Cynth ruminated.
She sat in silence, allowing no certain
amount of time to pass.
Feeling she had paid enough—for now—
homage to the current bench for one sitting,
she confirmed her isolation, stood, and proceeded
to the final bench. As always, a pang
of guilt, lighter than the heavier ambience,
resonated throughout her body as her bottom
covered the names of lovers come and
gone, their etched initials smothered under
what others, herself included, had used to
call her “fat ass.” She looked for “J+A,”
“A+J,” their full names—anything—but knew
they weren't there.
It doesn't mean they didn't sit here before
he led her into the woods, she reminded
herself.
Without a cast to play the roles of the enduring
voices in her overcrowded head, she
heard a vocal-fried, old, fat, ugly, unfuckable,
meddling bitch say: “We've got Jaley
on the air.”
A gust of wind passed through the park.
140
“You there, Jaley?”
Static crackled over the radio in her head.
A Drowning Man
Poetry
Gregory Wilder
Schenectady, New York, USA
“We, in our turn, sought the same escape with all the desperation of drowning men.”
- The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous pg. 28
The Temptation to drown is all around.
To nosedive into shallow ends
Of Liquor Pools with no Lifeguards.
The Temptation to drown is all around.
To let go and sink back to my bottom
When the weight of the world drags me down.
To never come up for air again.
The Temptation to drown is all around.
I already drowned once before — Sometime in the early 90s,
I think I was 5 — When I fell off the Fun Noodle
After crossing the rope in our Apartment Complex pool –
I guess you can say that was the day
I first went off the Deep End —
And though I survived — Only to die
And come back again, time after time,
Like a mask-less Jason Voorhees
On an Amphetamine-fueled rampage —
The Temptation to drown is still around.
When my 2-year coin doesn’t double as a life preserver —
I’m sure it would sink as fast as I can —
Trapped inside vicious circles of condensation
Gathered on tables —
The Temptation to drown is all around:
Every street is paved in Black Tar Heroin.
Every corner a sharp edge I must avoid —
The tips of rigs poised to pierce my skin.
Every church is a block from the Knock Spot.
There’s Panic! In Needle Park — I Pray for the Wicked –
Lead us not into Temptation — to drown.
But I can’t trust a soul —
Every face that I breeze past
Starts to look like a Relapse —
141
A six pack of Henry’s Hard Soda
Sits at the Bus Stop, waiting
To board the next 40 oz. Eastbound —
To Freedom.
Empty bottles with scratched off labels
Shuffle into basement meetings
And call themselves “Anonymous.”
While a run-down looking bottle of Rum
Is in the alleyway taking a leak.
(I think he may have had a CRACK problem)
A fifth of E&J is playing chess
Against a bottle of Smirnoff in the park.
Mini-Bar bottles riding Merry Go Rounds —
All it takes is just one little push...
The Temptation to drown is all around.
Beautiful bikini-clad bottles on Beaches —
Sexy under clear blue summer skies.
Spin the Bottle — Spin the Bottle,
Kiss your life, Goodbye.
The Temptation to drown is all around.
College campuses and classrooms
Crammed with Cognacs and Coors.
Another case of Coronas caught crossing the border —
I hear they all got thrown in the Cooler...
It always seems to happen during ICE raids.
Jaeger Bombs over Baghdad!
Wine bottle skyscrapers
Span the City skylines.
I see Constellations in the stars,
Of the scars along the crooks of my arms,
And every block must have great cell service
Cause it’s never too hard to find Bars!
Temptations
To Drown
To take the plunge
Where that little plume of blood
In the needle becomes
The Mushroom Cloud
That completely destroys
Everyone...
DEVASTATION!
My adolescence filled with Butterfly Effect blackouts —
Entire Weekends Lost from Memory to Madness.
From Tequila Sunrise to Blue Moon.
These Days of Wine and Roses last too long —
And are covered with thorns.
DESPARATION!
Destroying the house in search of
That last one you’re sure you hid.
Diving into dumpsters.
Tearing through trash bags
For some empties to scrape...
All I need is enough for just one little taste.
DELERIUM!
“A Disease of the Night” —
The sweating. The shaking.
The raving, screaming hallucinations:
Little Animals! Lions and Tigers and Bitter Ends —
Jails, Institutions, and Death
OH MY!
Trapped in the Halfway House Heartbreak Hotel.
Fear and Loathing in Lansingburgh.
So It Ain’t So!
My Pink Cloud Bursteth...
A storm of Life on Life’s Terms.
So, here I am...
1,000 Days in Sobriety.
Still drunk off my own pretentiousness.
Passed out in puddles of Word Vomit.
The Temptation will never go away,
So I pray: God,
Grant me the Serenity,
To not freak out and murder
Every last one of my enemies!
3 DUIs – But they can never take my Poetic License.
So I’mma ride this bitch till the wheels fall off
As I trudge the Road of Happy Destiny!
May God Bless Me — And Keep Me —
Until Then...
143
mushroom bloom
Digital Art
Vita Nocilla
Livermore, California, USA
Instead of pacing circles around the gazebo
in the park with clumps of snow piling up
on his neon green hoodie, my brother should
have been in Florida.
I last spoke to him in early December. I
had tried calling on Thanksgiving, but his
number was out of service again. He’s had
three or four different numbers just since
summer, so it’s hard to keep in touch. It
was our first Thanksgiving without Dad, so I
thought it would be meaningful. I guess he
didn’t share the sentiment. Then he called
me out of the blue from yet another new
number.
“Hey, sis!” His voice was clear, not
scratchy and heavy like the last time. “It’s
your favorite brother.”
Only.
“I’m leaving for sunny Florida tomorrow.
Have fun shoveling snow!”
* * * *
Dad got sick last winter, and we knew it
would be fast, so I quit my job and moved
home. Go, go, I’ll wait here, my husbandto-be
said. Be with your father. But his texts
grew ever more plaintive over the weeks. He
accused me of abandonment and told me not
to bother coming home. So that was that.
I sold the house after Dad died even
though I stuck around. The local college
offered me a permanent position. I bought a
little house clean of memories on the other
side of town.
* * * *
Why Florida? Why now? Is this a good idea?
His call unsettled me. He sounded decisive.
Bad Fog of Loneliness
Fiction
Bill Wilkinson
Meadville, Pennsylvania, USA
Last I knew, he still worked the overnight at
a Walmart near Pittsburgh, two hours south
of here. He’d been there two years, world
record length for him at a job.
“Oh, sis, you always worry. I got a sweeeet
gig lined up.”
Yeah?
“I know this guy. From college? He was
two years behind me. Anyhow, I heard from
a guy who heard from a guy that he just
took over Head Golf Pro at this super sweet,
super posh country club down in Jupiter.”
So you’re going back into golf? Teaching?
“Nah. Soon. I’m starting at the bottom
again. I’ll be caddying!”
Caddying?
“Oh yeah, it’ll be great. A buck twenty-five
for a single loop, plus tip. Some days
he says guys get out twice, earn three hundo.
Cash. Connections. Exercise. Sweating in
the sun! I’ll be breathing in straight life, sis.
Then, we’ll see. Guys move up quick. Hell,
this guy? Went from caddy to boss in just a
few years.”
Okay.
“Yeah, sis, I’m putting it all back together.
I bet Dad would be proud.”
My brother was always convinced he’d
make it big playing golf on TV. He wasted a
few post-college years driving around the
south in his Ford Taurus, losing thousands of
dollars playing on a minor league mini-tour
with other pipe-dreaming suckers.
When the Taurus crapped out, he got a
real job at a country club near Pittsburgh.
He started out doing grunt work like pulling
144
carts and picking balls on the driving range,
cleaning clubs, before they gave him an
assistant’s job in the golf shop.
People liked him and he had a knack for
teaching, especially kids. He stayed busy and
we all thought he was happy and beginning a
career.
Then he started getting weird. Weeks
would pass without hearing from him. His
number would be out of service, and he’d
make up a flimsy excuse about a mix-up,
and we’d shrug it off. He was young. But you
couldn’t always count on him to show up for
family things, and he got behind on bills and
always needed Dad to send him a little money.
I never knew why. It wasn’t my business.
There was that one Thanksgiving he nodded
out when I was carving the turkey. He
said he’d been really busy at work. He didn’t
show on Christmas that year. We waited all
day before opening presents without him.
We saw him a few days later, and everyone
just acted like it didn’t happen or that
we’d known all along he wouldn’t be there.
He disappointed Dad all the time, but Dad
wouldn’t ever say anything about it.
He called late one night that summer and
I didn’t answer because he’d been hitting
me up for cash. His words were garbled on
the voicemail. He said he was unhappy and
couldn’t do this anymore. This? He wanted a
way out.
“Don’t they say it’s better to burn out
than to fade away, sis?” he concluded.
It took a while to learn the club fired him
a few hours after that call I didn’t answer.
He lived in a house on the country club’s
property, up a winding road by the thirteenth
green. He plowed his car into a tree
that night. He must have crawled out of
the wreck at some point because one of the
maintenance workers found him passed out
in a bunker by the green.
We knew nothing about this until a few
weeks later when Dad called the golf shop
number looking for him because his phone
was off again. Dad wanted to take him out
for lunch. Maybe play golf together. They
used to play all time.
His boss implied maybe my brother was
into something heavy, but he claimed not to
know any details. It wasn’t his business. My
brother had been acting flaky for months,
the guy said. He told Dad it was a shame
because people really liked him and he was
a good teacher. But the country club is a
respectable place. People pay a lot of money
to belong there. They can’t have assistant
golf professionals acting erratically.
Some members complained that pill bottles
were going missing from their lockers
and golf bags. The bar manager noticed an
occasional bottle gone. No one wanted to
blame him, but then he crashed his car.
When we finally heard from him, he said
he was working construction with a guy he
knew that flipped houses. He said he’d been
just drinking too much, and his shitty golf
game was to blame, so he was quitting golf,
quitting booze, forging a fresh path. Doing
honest labor with his hands and muscles.
Nothing else was wrong, and he didn’t talk
about the crash.
Then he took the job at Walmart, and I
guess I figured he was okay, settling into
something steady. I had my own things going
on. Everything with him was so dramatic. He
never asked for help, so how was I to know if
he was in trouble?
* * * *
So golf again, I asked when he called to
say he was heading to Florida. I thought you
were happy without it?
“Yeah, I don’t know. I think I’m meant for
greatness.”
Greatness?
“Yeah.”
Make yourself great again.
“Be happy for me.”
Dad’s not here to bail you out.
“Yeah.”
But now it’s January fifth, and I’m walking
to the library, and he’s wearing a path
around the gazebo, and he’s muttering, and
his arms are gesticulating, and it’s him. It’s
him, and he hasn’t seen me, and I became
disoriented and tingly.
I turn and hustle back down the sidewalk.
I take the long way around instead of
through the park.
My brother didn’t visit the whole time Dad
was dying. He’ll come, Dad said. He could
only sit up in a chair for short stretches.
The television bothered him. He asked me
to read to him because he couldn’t focus his
eyes on the words. I’d never read to anyone
before.
The day I saw my brother in the park, I
was going to the library to check out The Little
Drummer Girl. We were only fifty pages
from the end. I hate that he died mid-book,
so I thought I’d read it aloud to Dad’s empty
chair. Just in case. That sounds stupid, but
I’ll do it anyway.
When I read to Dad, he would fold his
hands on his chest and let his chin drop. I
probably read ten more pages before noticing
his hands were no longer gently rising
145
and falling. I felt I failed him by not witnessing
his passing. And by not finishing the
book. Perhaps I should have just kept reading
it. Are all these feelings as stupid as they
appear on paper?
I found the book in the stacks and took it
to the librarian to check out. I wondered if
she remembers chiding me when I eventually
returned this exact copy two months late.
Tsk-tsk-tsk, better late than never, ha ha
ha.
I didn’t tell her about how it sat on the
end table by the chair, and I really wanted to
finish it, but I equally didn’t want to touch
it, and so the days piled up, and here’s
the damn fine money you cold bitch. That
wouldn’t have been fair.
My brother is standing on the sidewalk
when I open the library’s door. I freeze
again. His back is to me. I dread he’ll turn
around and our eyes will meet before I can
flee.
I’m desperate for him to turn around so
our eyes will meet before I can flee.
And then he walks away down the sidewalk,
never turning, and I continue on my
way.
I decided this year will be my year. I will
be selfish. I will do what brings me joy. Dad
is gone. The man I thought I loved left. My
brother is in Florida, beginning again, seeking
happiness. I believed myself completely
unattached, with no one able to make claims
on my time and attention. And so I could
start fresh on my own terms.
But no, my brother’s here in the snow.
I couldn’t bear the thought of calling him
and his number actually working and him
actually answering because I had no idea
what I would say. I’d probably hang up. But
I couldn’t ignore his presence. So I sent an
e-mail when I got home from the library.
Hey, how’s Florida, little brother? Warm
enough for you? Well, it’s been snowing
here, boooo. Hope all is well. Happy New
Year! Let me know how things are going.
Love ya. Send.
* * * *
Days go by. I take walks in the evenings
around town. I’m looking for him. My head
swivels and my eyes dart. If I see him first,
I’ll likely duck around a corner or into a
building.
An e-mail pings my phone while I’m walking
one evening. He reports making good
coin, meeting great people, the weather’s
HOT, staying busy busy busy. Oh, he’s got
a line on a sweet teaching gig at a country
club near Pittsburgh.
A bright green flash hustles down an alley
up ahead behind the school’s gymnasium. If
it’s my brother, he’s probably avoiding me,
too. If ever the two of us shall meet, it’ll
certainly be accidental.
Even so, he’ll smile and tilt his head like a
puppy. Hey there, Sister.
Unless he’s been drinking, then he’ll want
to keep a safe distance so I won’t smell it.
And if he’s using, I don’t know what he’ll
do. It’ll depend on what he’s using.
Had I seen him a few days earlier, back
in December, before the calendar flipped to
the Year of Me, would I have rushed up to
him? Would I have grabbed him in the park,
said Let’s get you inside? Let’s get you warm?
Let’s get you help?
Probably not. Fear of his intoxication and
desperation would have stopped me. I would
have yelled and ranted, driven him away.
It always felt like he expected his problems
to become mine. I told friends I was
constantly dropping everything to help him.
To counsel him and rescue him. But really
I think these grand Big Sister Interventions
were little more than exasperated lectures
chastising him to grow up and sort your shit
out and quit expecting others to clean your
mess.
And I never really understood the scope
of his problems because it all seemed just
childish attention-seeking behavior and so I
never asked.
I tell myself he was drunk or high or strung
out that snowy night in the park, and any of
the times I’ve seen him since, and had I approached
him and spoken to him, he would
have offered nothing but excuses and lies.
It’s easier believing that than allowing the
possibility that maybe this time he’d ask.
He let Dad die without showing up, and he
let me grieve alone and so if he wants help
he can fucking ask.
But then he did ask for help. There was a
letter-to-the-editor in the paper. It was so
weird, and he used an alias, but I know it
was meant for me. He used to do this thing
as a kid where he’d try to talk just using Neil
Young song titles. It made him laugh. It made
Dad laugh. He said those songs encapsulated
the entire range of human emotion.
I’ve been a Hitchhiker on this Human
Highway searching for my Field of Opportunity
and a little Peace of Mind, but sometimes
I get caught in a Bad Fog of Loneliness.
One day I came upon an Old Man sitting
Down By the River. He told me he was The
Loner and he had no place to go. “Hey Hey,
My My,” he said. “I’ve seen The Needle and
the Damage Done. I know There’s a World
where everyone has a Heart of Gold, but Tell
Me Why I always find myself On the Losing
End?”
I’m a lot like you, I told him, but Don’t
146
Let it Bring You Down. Come on Baby, Let’s
Go Downtown, I said, because maybe Tonight’s
the Night it all turns around. I said
maybe we should help out at the soup kitchen,
get a meal and do a good deed. I know
helping others lets me Mellow My Mind.
Friends and neighbors, I implore you to
notice those of us out here struggling After
the Gold Rush. We aren’t Helpless, we just
need a hand. Please don’t Walk On.
Thank You,
Bernard Shakey.
That’s my brother for you. That’s his way
of asking for my help. And having a laugh. I
should have set out to find him that day. He
told me where to find him. I shouldn’t have
come home without him. But I didn’t.
* * * *
Time passed, and one evening I had forgotten
about him for nearly an entire day.
Until the phone rang.
It was after ten. I was beginning a third
episode of Fargo even though this year I
wasn’t going to binge things. I was going to
read in the evenings, turn screens off, be
contemplative and relax. But my phone sat
in my lap so I could mindlessly scroll Facebook
and Twitter and allow a low-level rage
to simmer in response to the day’s latest
social injustices just so I won’t miss that one
pithy tweet that makes the addiction worth
it. But it was the landline that rang. POLICE
DEPT, the caller ID showed.
It’s incredible how much thinking can be
done in the space between two rings. Finally,
this is the call. The one that will free me.
A shiver of anticipation surged, and I answered
the call completely prepared to hear
Your brother is…
And when I heard, “Hello, this is Officer
Greg Baker. Your brother is…” I expected to
hear Dead. I might have even hoped for it
somewhere in between the chimes of the
ringer. It feels awfully shitty to recognize
that.
“...down here at the station,” the officer
finished. “He’s okay, but would you be able
to come down here?”
Is he under arrest? What did he do?
He’s not dead. Not dead. He’s okay.
I shook off the brief feeling of shame
that came with the realization I had maybe
desired to hear that finally I no longer had a
brother to worry about and replaced it with
righteous annoyance.
“What did he do now?” I asked as if this
were the umpteenth time the police called
me at home about him and not the very first.
“Oh, he’s in a pinch of a sort, but nothing
that can’t be worked out,” the officer calmly
assured.
“Should I call a lawyer?” I asked. “What is
he accused of allegedly doing?”
“Now, miss. It’s best if you just come on
down. You can bring him home with you. I
think that will serve everybody okay in this
scenario.”
So it turns out my brother didn’t know our
house wasn’t our house anymore. He saw the
lights off, no car in the garage, and the new
owners hadn’t changed the locks. The spare
key was still behind the loose brick above
the back screen door, so he let himself in.
I heard this, and I was thankful. Thankful
he didn’t know where I lived because I’m
certain he was there to steal. To find something
to sell. Isn’t that what people like him
do?
My anger stewed on the drive to the police
station. I slammed the car door and charged
up the sidewalk into the harshly lit lobby
and asked the woman behind the tall desk
for Officer Baker. I was ready to yell at my
brother. I was ready to lecture and force him
somehow, some way, to get his shit straight.
I didn’t see him sitting there in the chair
by the door. No handcuffs or anything. When
the woman pointed behind me, he greeted
me with that sheepish idiot’s grin I hoped he
wouldn’t dare unleash.
“Hey, sis.”
“I want to speak to the officer,” I said to
the woman.
“He’ll be out in a minute.”
“Hey, sis,” my brother repeated. “Sold the
house, huh?”
“And what if they shot you?”
“Huh?”
“The owner. You’re damn lucky, mister.”
“Yeah.”
“What were you looking to steal?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. What are you high on right now?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a liar. I guess you didn’t have anyone
else to call, huh?”
“I guess.”
“You disappear for weeks, months, and
now what? Just call big sister? I thought you
were in Florida all this time.”
Who’s the liar now, hypocrite?
At that moment, the officer appeared
at my elbow and gently cleared his throat.
“Can I just speak to you a moment?” he
asked.
I followed him down a bright hall to a dark
little room with a coffee maker and a stale
smell.
“He’s a good kid,” Officer Baker said.
“He’s not a kid,” I said.
“Yeah, okay. So the owner isn’t pressing
charges because there wasn’t anything
missing. It seems your brother didn’t know
147
the house had been sold and he said he was
looking for a book that belongs to him.”
“I’m sure,” I scoffed. “Couldn’t come up
with a better story.”
“Well, the owner, Mr. Nicholson, he had
a little scare and called 911 when he came
home and saw the light on. But when we
got there, they were chatting about The Old
Man and the Sea. That was the book he was
looking for.”
The officer’s voice grew distant and muffled.
The Old Man and the Sea?
“Anyhow, sounds like your brother hit
a rough patch. Said your dad died? I don’t
think he’s got a steady roof right now.”
Dad kept an old hardcover copy of that
book on the table next to his reading chair
all the time he was dying. He’d flip through
it occasionally.
“Can I share something with you, though?”
I asked him if he wanted me to read it to
him, but he said he wanted to save it.
“I’ve seen your brother around town these
last few weeks.”
Dad said he hadn’t read the book in years
and he hoped to read it once more. After
each book we finished, I asked if he wanted
that one read to him yet, but he just shook
his head.
“I think he might be sleeping behind the
gymnasium on campus. I live a few blocks
away, and I see his neon green hoodie some
mornings. I checked back there but couldn’t
find any evidence of anyone sleeping there,
but there’s a covered area over a grate down
some steps to the basement door, so…I don’t
know. Never got any complaints.”
Dad liked reading books he hadn’t read
yet. He told me he wanted to hit all the
good ones he could just in case he couldn’t
find them where he was headed. He wanted
to read The Old Man and the Sea once more,
though, because of the part where Santiago
dreams of the lions frolicking in the surf on a
beach in Africa. Ever since he first read that
passage, he wished to experience that exact
dream just once. Perhaps he saved it for his
last.
“I’ve seen him at the community kitchen.
I stop by there to check in on things. Thing
is, he was serving food, not eating. And he
was helping with the dishes. I asked the lady
that runs it if he was a volunteer, and she
said sort of. Said she knew he was hungry,
too, but that he insisted he just wanted to
help.”
He wanted my brother to read it to him.
“He told her he wasn’t helpless but just
needed someone to say, ‘I believe in you.’”
“Neil Young,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, he’s family, right? It could be
worse. I’ve seen just about every junkie and
drunk low-life this town’s put out the last
twenty-five years. I’ve locked my own relatives
up. But he’s still got hope, I think.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“You just keep trying. Because once
they’re gone, they can’t come back.”
We returned to the lobby and my brother
was standing with his arms spread wide.
“Hey, sister.”
“Let’s go.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“You were really just looking for that
book?”
“Dad and I read it together when I was
little. Thought I’d like to read it again.”
So.
I took a walk the other night
On the sun-soaked streets of Sicily
Surreptitiously slow, almost sluggishly
I’m not me in Italy.
I dragged my ragged feet.
Beat up converse beneath me.
I conversed with my demons
About my need for significance.
Spoke with my trauma
About the melodrama.
Got some insight on my mental demise
Asked why I tell myself so many lies
And why so many sleepless nights?
Bruise-blue under red lights
A who’s who of bad guys
Lit a cigarette that I detest
That burned at both ends
And turned to ash in my hands.
The Scene & the Unseen
Poetry
Christian Deery
Rugby, Warwickshire, UK
Through the cacophony
Of darkness I tried to make sense
Of the cold thoughts that
Chaotically crawled
On the spray-painted walls
Inside of my skull.
It is there I kill my darlings.
Where the sun dies
But is reborn in the morning
Where day is dawning and I’m still yawning.
There’s a dream somewhere in this
nightmare.
I hit a bump and lost my train of thought.
The self esteem train left at dawn.
Its tracks cut through the earth’s flesh
Before I could catch it, it already left.
148
Guardian
Poetry
First Second
Walnut Creek, California, USA
Control the Divine
Poetry
Andriana Botan
Groningen, Groningen, The Netherlands
Never alone,
Hands are floating over mine
They’re born of light
Their arms are loose around me —
I’m,
Taking my first steps
For so long I swam
Carried to the shore
I’m discovering I can stand
Exploring deep into caves
and out into glory
Time’s on my side —
I’m mounting new risks,
Climbing by shreds,
View now wide open,
No turning my head
Rising
Beginning to fly
My Guardian
This hope of mine,
It guides me wide
And leads me far,
To nest inside
my restless heart
No going back to despair I’ve
outgrown
Home’s on my shoulders
My fate is my own
All is before me,
Burning my sight
Blinking through tears
I join with the light
Rising
Beginning to fly
My Guardian
This hope of mine,
It drives me wide
and pushed hard
Relentlessly
It breaks my heart
Rising
Never to die
My Guardian,
This Force of Life
It guides me wide
And leads me far,
To nest inside
My restless heart
Rebellions and blood-rusted iron,
Is a familiar sight to the eyes of the Watcher.
Does he delight,
When the bombs dropped upon Hiroshima burned the skin of
People?
Did he rejoice,
When cruel ancient lord would hoist their enemies upon spikes,
To be used as dinner for crows?
I know why Lucifer rebelled.
I know why he got punished.
I’ve seen his fall in the eyes of men and women who have left the world
Enshackled.
He-who-hoisted-himself-on-the-Gilded-Throne was never a kind father.
He who lets babes drown in the wombs of their mothers,
Of a people,
Who he sired,
That decided to worship in a different way.
In a longing to understand their Father,
They buried children,
In the walls that held the Tower of Babylon upright.
Yet, for fear that lesser beings would stand on an equal grounding,
He created strife, and war, and desolation.
Lucifer, a preternaturally wise beings, must have seen
This need to control the divine.
It is a shame his legionnaires have fallen.
It is a shame that nobody can read the signs.
149
Santorini Sunrise
Photography
Lara Abreu
Pleasanton, California, USA
150
Jon had lied to his mother and it was
keeping him awake. She’d smelled cigarette
smoke on him and asked if he’d been
smoking. He didn’t think smoking was a sin.
Jesus and God didn’t know about tobacco.
But lying to his mother, that was bearing
false witness and not honoring his father and
mother. She closed the book on her finger
when he came out of his room.
“I lied,” he confessed. “I did smoke a
cigarette.”
“And how was it?”
“It was awful. I coughed and thought I was
going to throw up.”
“That good?”
“But I don’t think it’s a sin. They didn’t
know about tobacco until the discovery of
the New World, so neither God nor Jesus
could have known about it.”
“I know you’re very smart for the ninth
grade, but you’re still a little young to be
deciding what God did and did not know. I
think we’re against smoking because somewhere,
and I can’t tell you exactly where
right now, I can ask your father when he
gets home, it’s written that our body is the
temple of God and we shouldn’t be polluting
that temple.
“You didn’t buy cigarettes, did you?”
“No.”
“Where did you get them?”
“It wasn’t them. It was just one.” He
didn’t want to tell her it was Eric, because
he was afraid she’d tell him to stay away
from Eric and that would spoil the best part
of living in this new place.
Honor
Fiction
dave hunter
Austin, Texas, USA
“Well the next time Dave or Eric offers
you a cigarette, tell them about the temple
of God and take a pass. Okay?”
“Okay.” He felt better. He returned to his
bed and dreamed of mountains.
He told them the next morning. Eric came
by, then they walked to Dave’s where they
had coffee before walking to school.
“Temple of God,” scoffed Eric. “Kind of
a shoddy builder, I’d say. Temples that fall
apart in forty years and get tooth decay and
rheumatism and flat feet.”
“Well,” Jon argued, “it’s unnatural. You’d
never see a woodchuck smoking.”
Dave chimed in, “Walking on concrete’s
unnatural. Reading’s unnatural. Working’s
unnatural. School’s unnatural.”
“Well it about made me sick and I didn’t
like it and I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“Then don’t. That’s fine. You don’t need
to be making up all this philosophical bullshit.
I was just trying to add a bit of Minnesota
sophistication to your Land of Goshen
hickness.”
They were in the same home room because
their last names began with H. H’s and
I’s began the day together. Jon had come a
week after school started. The new kid. On a
Friday, Eric, with Dave, walked back to him,
put out his hand, and announced, “I’m Eric
Hacket, they call me the Hacket Kid, and
this weasel is Dave Hise, who is called the
Hise Kid. Where you from Jon?”
“The Land of Goshen.”
“Is that some kind of joke?”
151
“Yeah, sort of. Goshen, Indiana. My folks
moved here from Goshen, Indiana.”
“They have any fishing in Goshen?”
“Some.”
“That’s what we do, Dave and me, on
Saturday mornings we fish the river. You up
for that?”
That was the beginning. Even back in Indiana
where he was not the only Mennonite
in school, Jon had been a loner. Now he had
friends, two best friends, for the first time in
his life. He was happy. He worried about the
religious thing and saw no reason to bring it
up, but learned it didn’t matter.
Yancy Ingham had shoved him into the
lockers as they exited home room, and
shoved him again so he’d know it wasn’t an
accident.
“You people are chickenshit,” Yancy
snarled. Boys and girls semicircled. Jon’s
face turned red from being the center of
attention.
“So what’s happening here?” asked Eric,
stepping into the half circle.
“He belongs to some weird religion that
won’t fight for the country,” said Yancy,
looking as if for once he knew something.
“Weird religion? Oh yes, I plum forgot
about when Jesus was G.I. Joe. And speaking
of weird, Nancy, here you are picking a
fight with a guy who doesn’t want to. How
bright is that? If I wanted to fight, I’d take
it up with someone who truly loves it. For
instance, and here he comes now, the Hise
Kid.”
That was the end of that.
“I wonder how he knew?” Jon asked.
“Hell, man, everyone knows. This is
a small town. Your old man’s new in the
physics department. So he’s a scientist and
religious. Some people think it’s a strange
combo and they chatter.”
“But it doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it? Dave and I are supposed to
be Lutherans. Born into it. That bother you?”
Weekends were the best. Some mornings
Mrs. Hacket would drive them upstream to
the next little town on the river and they
would fish their way back, an all day effort.
They caught smallmouths, walleyes, northerns,
channel cats, sheepsheads, and carp.
Some weekends they camped out on the
river. Jon learned that in the spring the Kids
had planted potatoes near their favorite
campsites. At first they teased him and said
they hadn’t expected him, so no potatoes.
They sat out on an island beside their fire
with the stars overhead and the sparks rising
and the river whispering past and talked into
the nights. Why did math seem so connected
with the world when it seemed to come like
fantasy from human brains? Was there really
order in the universe, or did humans focus
their attention where they saw it? Why had
conservation departments imported carp?
Why did fat girls so often have pretty faces?
Was there life on other planets? Was there
an end to the universe? Why did Terri Huges
already have such big tits while others had
nothing? Was stupidity genetic or learned?
Summer came and they nearly lived on the
river. Dave had paper routes and part time
jobs that kept him in town sometimes. Eric
had an allowance, a generous one for the
times. Jon thought he ought to find some
summer work to pay for extras, like fishing
tackle and an occasional chocolate malt.
Eric dissuaded him. “We can make all the
money you need and more selling minnows
to the Iowans and turtles to the Produce
Store. Dave has to work ‘cause he pays his
folks for room and board and has to buy his
own clothes. When trapping season gets
here, we’ll make some real money. And,
Dave’s folks will have no idea how much he’s
making. You probably ought to save up to
buy a couple dozen one and a half coil spring
traps, if you want to join us.”
If he wanted to join them! What if? He’d
read every book he could find in Goshen
about the mountain men. “What do you
trap? Do you trap beaver?”
“No, we don’t trap beaver. Not yet. Next
year when we have driver licenses and can
get a jeep, or a pickup. You figure a beaver
weighs from say thirty to sixty pounds and
takes an hour or better to skin. We’re on
foot, and we don’t want to be lugging beavers
back to town. No, we concentrate on
mink and muskrats. We pick up a few ‘coon,
but we don’t concentrate on them for the
same reasons. Dave can rough skin one in
about fifteen minutes, but that’s still a lot of
time. Mink and rats we can throw in a pack
and skin them after school.”
Things were getting better and better.
In July the Kids added sweetcorn to the
fish and potato menu. They picked it on the
way to the river. Jon said, “It’s stealing.”
“No it’s not,” objected the Hise Kid.
“Of course it is.”
“Look,” explained the Hacket Kid, “deer
and ‘coon take a lot more than we do, and
beaver wipe out whole sections of the field.”
“But they don’t know any better.”
152
“And neither do I,” said the Hise Kid.
They all laughed, and boy, you soak those
ears in the spring water and then lay them
right on the coals in their husks, did they
ever taste great!
Magic nights. One night five girls from the
trailer court on the ridge above the sand pit
came down and went skinny dipping. It was
dark and Jon couldn’t really see them. They
were high school girls, but they seemed to
know the Kids. They stood around the campfire
in their underwear to dry and warm.
They bummed cigarettes from the Kids and
joked, then all at once dressed and left. But
it was food for the imagination and never
would have happened back in Goshen.
One night there was whiskey by the fire.
“Care for a swig?” Eric asked, passing the
bottle to Dave.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
And Dave handed it to Jon. Jon held the
liquid in his mouth. It burned under his
tongue. He spit it into the flames and shuddered
as he inhaled the fumes. “Good grief,
how can you stand that ghastly stuff?”
“It’s an acquired taste. Like golf, or poetry,”
answered Eric.
“I always liked it. From the first time,”
said Dave. “I think it tastes like fall and oak
leaves.”
“It tastes awful. And, it’s against the law.”
“But not,” argued Eric, “one in the mind
of God.” (Jon had told them that his father
thought that by discovering the laws of
physics, you discovered the mind of God.) “It
wouldn’t make any sense to have a law that
expired every time someone turned twenty-one.”
“It’s so unnatural. I can see where wine
and beer would just happen when you didn’t
have refrigeration, but this stuff has to be
distilled.”
“So you’re saying flour’s okay, but bread is
an abomination?”
“No I’m not.”
“You just don’t like it, that’s all,” said the
Hise Kid. “If I were you, I’d leave it alone.”
“Fine. I will.”
“Fine.”
Summer was over and they moved from
9th grade to the 10th grade, from their
junior high to the larger senior high. More
electives, more choices, and they’d been
joined by students from the other junior
high. The Hise Kid’s philosophical question
was why new girls always looked so much
prettier than the ones you’ve known? Hacket
Kid said it was something in the mind of
god. The trio still had the same home room.
All the H’s were still together, but the G’s,
I’s, and J’s were gone. They had the same
biology class, higher algebra class, and the
constants, English and social studies, but Jon
had signed up for Spanish, while Eric and
Dave had to take the second year of Latin
to get credit for the year they’d had in 9th
grade, which they called “extortion, from
the Latin, to twist.”
The down side of the 10th grade was that
they’d gone from being most senior, top of
the pecking order, to the bottom. There was
potential torment to go with the new status:
vicious and humiliating attacks known
as wedges, swirlees, and depantsing. To his
delight, Jon found he was immune by association.
He was not yet called the Hartzman
Kid, or Jon Kid, but most students, and
particularly the bullies, seemed to know he
was part of a trio best not toyed with. It was
a good feeling.
Leaves were beginning to turn. He was
browsing Hawbaker’s Trapping Supply Catalog,
but hadn’t ordered yet. There was a
discussion of disagreement with his father
about the upcoming trapping venture.
“It’s cruel,” Mr. Hartzman said.
“They’re going to teach me to make
drowning sets.”
“You think drowning is humane?”
“Do you think butchering cows and pigs is
humane?”
“But no one butchers on Sunday, that I
know of.”
“Please Dad. I’ll make some money, and
Eric and Dave are doing it. It’ll be an adventure.
Please.”
“Those two live like it was 1859. They’re
avatars, anachronisms, throwbacks…”
“Come on, Daniel,” Ruth Hartzman interrupted.
“They’re just boys. Let him have
some fun with his friends while he’s young.”
“Well, okay, as long as he keeps his grades
up.”
“I will. I promise.”
Mrs. Hartzman was happy for her son. Jon
had always been a good boy, always a good
student, but he’d been quiet, and a loner,
and pale, and a little chubby. Now he had
friends, he’d lost the baby fat, he looked
really healthy, and best of all, he was happy.
Two weeks into the new school year, Jon,
with modest pride, told the Kids that his
father had been invited to read his paper on
Surface Friction in Liquids of Varying Viscosity
at a conference in Indiana. His mother
had prepared Jon. They were going to be
gone a week, attending the conference and
then visiting friends in Indiana and Illinois.
She would freeze some meals that he could
just reheat in the oven. She’d prepared a list
153
of numbers to call if he had any problems,
though she didn’t expect any.
“That’s great,” said the Hacket Kid.
“Quite an honor. Good for your old man.
That’s about all anyone can hope for; to add
one little piece of truth to the body of socalled
human knowledge.”
“And great news for us too,” said the
Hise Kid. “You know what I’m thinking? Week
long party.”
“My folks would never go for that.”
“Which is why you don’t tell them.”
“No. No. I don’t want to risk my folks
coming home to property damage. I’ve heard
what happens at those parties.”
“That’s those big crazy ass parties
where they let in every teenage idiot in the
county. I’m talking a small party, low music,
dancing, a bit of booze, just about six of us.
You know that Terri Hughes, when she gets a
bit of sloe gin in her she can hardly keep her
blouse on. And I’m going to invite her just
for you. You think on that.”
He did think on it. Girls in his house.
He didn’t know how to dance. Terri naked.
Then what? And it was all illegal. And he
would have to lie to Mom and Dad. What if
they smelled cigarette smoke in the curtains
when they got home? What if the neighbors
said they saw girls coming and going? Naked
girls dancing in his living room. And once
he’d lied to Mom, he’d have to keep lying.
But Eric and Dave were his friends. They’d
never asked anything of him until now. But
this was a big deal. It didn’t seem like a big
deal to them. But it was to him. If it wasn’t
just plain wrong, why did he have to lie
about it? And no matter what the Kids said,
it had to be a sin. If it wasn’t wrong, why
wasn’t he sleeping at midnight? At one, at
two, at three?
“Are you feeling all right?” His mother
asked at breakfast. Dad was already out on
his morning jog.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine. If you’re not ill,
something’s bothering you. What is it, Honey?”
He told her. Not everything, but close.
He felt better. Lighter. He’d done the right
thing.
“I knew Eric and Dave smoked, but I didn’t
think they used alcohol too. They’re far too
young for that, and for unsupervised parties
too. Thank you for telling me, Jon. I know it
wasn’t easy.” She kissed him on the cheek
and patted him on the back and sent him off
to school.
It was the next morning that things began
to feel wrong. First, Eric didn’t stop to pick
him up. Well, he could be sick or skipping.
But when he turned onto Dave’s street he
saw both the Kids sitting on Dave’s porch
with coffee and cigarettes. When he approached,
Dave flicked a cigarette butt at
his feet. They both looked at him blankly.
“You squealed,” Dave accused.
“What?”
“You know what he means,” said the
Hacket Kid. “Don’t pretend that you don’t.
Your folks didn’t read your mind. You told
them.”
“I had to.”
“No you didn’t. You could have told us no,
that you didn’t want to have a party, but
you didn’t. Instead, you finked. And then
your mother called our mothers. Dave here
caught a good beating from his old man, and
I’m grounded after school for two weeks.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. And we’re sorry too. Usually
a case like this would call for a sound
beating. But you’ve been a friend for too
long and you’re not a fighter. So you get a
pass on that. I hope you haven’t ordered any
traps yet. You can if you want, but you’re
not trapping with us.”
The Kids got up and walked off fast ahead
of him. He felt tears in the corners of his
eyes and a lump in his throat. Life was going
to be lonely again.
154
Saphistry
Poetry
Ravichandra Chittampalli
Kajang, Selangor, Malaysia
Sappho, I admire your lack of hypocrisy,
I am amazed by your intensity,
In spite of being your cousin,
When I try befriending Aphrodite
I stumble and fail at every word.
Diving deep into the stream of blood,
I collect the Rose that wilting swirls,
Hoping she would recognise what dripped
Immaculate from the blinding flash of feet,
That in measures mellifluous moved the
base,
To achieve with one touch sublimity
unmatched.
No god ever transformed a mundane life
To such enrichment of the mind as she
When with her fair feet touched coarse
earth
To make Marino sing a song that none forget,
Or you to seek, half in jest, the help of the
foam-born.
Let that be as it may, I today have jettisoned
The altar I had of lucent words built for her,
Instead build this temple in your honour
That all those who may their kind love
Henceforth find favour when they visit
Under vow or despair to bend a knee.
Confession
Sonnet
Richard Stimac
Maplewood, Missouri, USA
We shoved on monkey bars, the steel slide,
Chain swings, through sewer pipes, the best
for hide
And seek. You showed me yours. I showed
you mine.
Ten years, same place, we’d drink our Mad
Dog wine
And wrap ourselves, like relics, side by side
And count risen stars. That was good. Wideeyed,
I rudely kissed you down your neck and
spine.
They always warned us not to cross “the
line.”
Some Sundays, mass concluded, the priest
And families returned to their homes, we’d
feast
On flesh, too, flesh of arm and thigh and
breast.
In my bedroom, a confessional booth,
We mocked and shrived each other’s sins. In
truth,
Condemned to death, unknowing, we were
blessed.
on a bike, it’s easy ta coast
accumulated spiral streets
asphalt for silica, concrete for curbstone
of rock built up, chamber by chamber
melted & cast, moistened & worn
by all the natural processes of memory
portraits of formal elegance in the balance
of dilapidated storefronts
the filaments of lives & histories
in the old attic, what was felt, the
weight of each individual thing
fusions of hands & eyes
dampened reverberations under the steep
roof
buzzing summers of nesting wasps
the slight sucking of linoleum
footfalls on the narrow stairs
corroded & yellowed silver inner workings
of the dormer mirror honeycombing an image
a child's dim face
we collected each morning on the blacktopped
schoolyard
groups of trousers & jumpers keeping
Psalm Something
Poetry
Peter Grieco
Buffalo, New York, USA
separate
in a calliope of sizes, heaped under heavy
winter wraps
'til sister empties her bell & we
fall in line, watching little cyclones of wind
lift
streamers of snow, resisting
order & it was easy to see self had no
boundaries
zigzags of sisters & brothers shading youngest
to oldest
or one saw turning one’s head
in the tiny church vestibule in stormy weather
most everyone one knew, their naked eyes,
raincoats, rubbers
mittens, hats & heard all one knows
in their voices down to one’s own thoughts
clutching the same books, anger, laughter,
favorite things
the full globe of parish families embracing
each other
in their children, Lord, Thou givest them,
they gather
Thou hidest Thy face, they are troubled.
155
If You Scared, Go To Church!!
Poetry
henry 7. reneau, jr.
Lindsay, California, USA
We are the Borg. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our
own. Your culture will adapt to service us.
Because we were warned of death
at an early age
—The Borg (Star Trek: First Contact)
we knelt in prayer/: If I should die
before I wake . . .
before the shapeless silence of God
Because some things
when they're gone
are gone forever
We knelt in the churchouse &
prayed as our fathers brothers
mothers sisters husbands &
wives were detained beaten illegally
framed in stereotypical
criminality & murdered
we must have faith
We prayed
as four Black girls
were Raptured to smithereens
because we believed
despite no dead Black anybody
156
has ever come back
to tell us our faith would ever be rewarded
& now
or over yonder
prayed & we prayed
because we blindly believed
had a conscience
that They
We prayed
as #wetoo were lynched castrated
& burned in Jim Crow effigy
in the here
We prayed & we
We knelt
in a Baptist prayer circle &
made ourselves easy targets
for white supremacist bullets
We prayed as we were told/: You can't live here
You can't enter that door
You can't sit
You can't/
You can't/
You can't/ You can't . . .
here
You can't go to school
there
For centuries
we've been taught
to conjugate prey into prayer
to turn the other cheek that hopefully
our racist oppressors would be
moved by guilt or sympathy
to make recompense
We prayed during moments of silence after each
& every latest racist police shooting statistic
We prayed as we marched were teargassed
rubber-bullet-ed peppersprayed
beaten & cuffed
& God
We prayed
as we endeavored
to bury ourselves
in the deceits &
deprivations of
everyday survival
ain't never gave a fuck!!
So many who bear the mark of Cain/: the Black
lives subject to breakable & what looks slowmotion
as calamity in real time/: a nation
of inequality &
in-Just-Us the police brutality & murders
of unarmed Black people
is not the anomaly but rather the exact moment
that white racism repeats itself
We kneel We kneeled We knelt . . .
against all racist cops in protest of Officer Derek Chauvin
who kneeled on the neck
of a handcuffed black man
(& the three cowards with badges
who stood by & did nothing/: Thomas Lane
J. Alexander Kueng &
Tou Thao)
even as he begged for his life
even as he
cried out for his mother
even as Death entered
& consumed him
(If one cop
murders a Black man &
a thousand cops do nothing then
one thousand & one cops
are murderers)
157
We knelt in a moment of silence
at the intersection of E. 38th
Street &
S. Chicago Ave.
for 8 minutes & 46 seconds
We knelt with our hands raised high
as Amerikkka looked on most often
with entitlement folded indifferent maybe wished
to be something new
& better
or having been taught to hate &
fear blackness would remain something ancient &
institutionally twisted
I kneel
in protest/: fashioning an incendiary
gas-filled bottle & red
rag jammed into the neck
the gas swelled to combust
Diamond lit match
& whoooosh!!
The conflagration
will continue to brew
with a singlemindedness &
ferocity
that will not be contained the flames &
columned smoke of justice
rising from the ruins
because some cities deserve to be burned
Note/: Throughout the history of the struggle by Black citizens, for equality and
inclusivity in all facets of American life, they have religiously employed non-violent,
and/or purely defensive measures, to garner the sympathy, understanding and support
of fellow non-Black Americans. And after centuries of marches, boycotts, petitions,
legal challenges to change legislation (most often, later amended to knocked
toothless) and praying to God like there's no tomorrow, Black people can still be legally
lynched with disproportionate draconian laws, chokeholds, Tazers, bullets, or a knee
to the neck. Who said things are better than they used to be?
Fatal fate
Poetry
Sandip Saha
Kolkata, West Bengal, India
Of Western Civilisation
Poetry
Jones Irwin
Dublin, Idaho, USA
A brick rubble road
from town to village
at one side paddy fields
on the other houses
among those a palatial
U-shaped edifice with
twenty-eight rooms
was her home.
Her husband fought
tooth and nail but
could not save it
as religious fanatics
captured it forcefully
evicted them mercilessly
they became homeless.
After her birth
she lost her mother soon
was married off as a child
but did not get affection
from her in-laws either.
Being driven out their home
her husband lost his business
as they migrated elsewhere
could live only hand to mouth.
Her eldest son was a cruel victim
of black magic by a close relative
he left study and fell sick seriously.
Her serving daughter died of cancer,
darkness everywhere, no hope at sight
death took her to its dreaded lap.
I
Sweet and juicy criminality they said
as if the fellas were some wreckers
of Western civilization when yeah
maybe they were seeking that but
let’s face it takes a lot more than
a couple of songs, a fair bit of sneering
and a few broken hearts.
What’s love got to do with it?, she
asked that first night wasn’t just
him then she was in fact the one
discouraging the use of condoms
and undue affection. Don’t do
drama y’see, I’m in it for the pleasure, me.
Which took him a little by surprise.
Only by a little though cos Mark was
hardly a romantic. Post-romantic rather
like Debord, Vaneigem and all that ’68 mess
where nothing gets cleaned in the revolution.
After a while the use of amphetamine affects
personal and mental hygiene for the worse.
That said, has its own sweet and juicy
aesthetic.
II
That’s how it started with
a lustful kiss and little else. Fine
they both thought. That’s all there is.
Best foundation for a revolution. Start
with an end to naivety. Look at reality
full on face. No botox tricks, please,
if I show you ME and you show me YOU. Next
let’s
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get the semtex and the cheapest bomb
making equipment on the market.
You track the ones you want to hit. Day
after day for a bit. Belfast. You build up the
record.
Bangor. Family train trips out by the coast.
Check the transport routes the times
the acquaintances. The weak links.
Not an exact science. But. With
diligence you can make progress. Just
make sure you’re not being watched by
police.
Or informers. Trust the tiniest sub-set of
breathers.
Simples. Soon the courage rises and the
desire.
Fix the date. No going back. We are in this
together.
III
Scratch that note earlier. It is a kind of love.
A special type. Not everyone could do just
this. An art of some sort. Helps to have ice
in the blood. A bad childhood. A degree
in the social sciences. Above average 2:1.
Wrote
well but somewhat dogmatic. Lack of
feeling the report from the state
psychiatrist put it. Who died not long after
in a mysterious and rather brutal accident.
Funny that.
We Are A Community National School
Fiction
Jones Irwin
Dublin, Ireland
I am Srisha and my friends are Majda,
Aga, Molly, and also Benjamin. All our gang is
from outside or so says Charlie. None of yus
are Paddies! Although of course he is a Paddy
even if he isn’t a bad guy. Still Charlie’s
not one of us either (nanananana) — two can
play that game you’re playin’ — and also
he’s a boy! So there!
Benjamin is a boy too obviously but I don’t
hold it against him, well only sometimes
– and anyhow he says he feels more like a
girl cos he has dreads. Really long cool ones
too, smooth and silky. His parents are from a
place in the Caribbean Sea where they drink
rum, apparently. Begins with a J, the place
he keeps saying, but it’s hard to spell just
right. Sounds sooo exotic to me, like. His
grandad and cousins still live there supposedly,
although I never know when he’s fibbin’
or not. He has such a poker face, it’s unbelievable,
he is deffo gonna make so much
money when he is legal age to play those
world series competitions. I’m a good speller
but he won’t even let me try the slippery
J word, the tease.
For some reason Benjamin can’t get the
reggae out of his head. It makes him dance
around the classroom tables sometimes
without warning which I enjoy but it can be
distracting when we are all trying to study
Maths, for example. Or Science — as it can
get messy with the liquids and even dangerous
with the experiments. That’s why he
keeps getting in trouble with our principal,
Mrs Fletcher, although she says she loves his
dreadlocks and wants to get some herself
next time she goes to the hairdressers. But I
don’t believe her, none of us do, it’s just one
of those things teachers say when they try
to keep the peace by lightening the mood.
There is absolutely no way that the school
board of management want a principal with
dreadlocks; total fact! This is Ireland, after
all. Why are boards of management always
so out of touch? My mum says they deliberately
choose the most annoying parents and
even the best teachers or principals can’t
get a word in edgeways. Silly, isn’t it, as if
they want nothing good to happen. Sometimes
I don’t understand why the world has
to be so upside down the way it doesn’t
work properly.
Dear reader, I’ll tell you a secret I haven’t
told anyone else and you have to promise
you won’t tell. Promise?! Ok, then. (Whispers)
I might be in love with Benjamin cos
I’m finding it hard to sleep at night and I’ve
been listening to reggae I asked my mum
to get me from the local library. Majda says
it can’t be love and it’s only infatuation as
love doesn’t happen if you’re underage but
the reggae fixation is still a bit concerning.
My mum thought it was weird that I should
be listening to music from the J country but
I just said we were doing something on Bob
Marley for a school project on racism and
she believed me. The way he sings the songs
reminds me of you know who. Woo hoo.
Now I can’t get the reggae outta me head.
Chika-chika-chika is how the guitar sound
goes again and again up down up down and
it’s flippin contagious. Do you know that
159
song One Love? It’s just amaaaazing—– I think
the whole world should be singin’ along with
it these days with Trump and all that anger
stuff going around on the internet. We need
to learn the words by heart and really mean
it when we sing it. It’s pointless unless you
mean it, that’s what Mr Carraher told us in
Social Personal and Health Education anyways.
There is another reggae song by this taller
guy than Bob Marley who still looks similar
— it’s called Nightnurse and he really means
it too. My mum actually preferred that one,
maybe cos she works as a nurse in the hospital,
well as a midwife which is something
similar or even better as you bring people
into life at the very beginning of everything.
God didn’t create the human being, midwives
did. That’s what my dad says when he
wants to get on her good side.
Talking about learning, we learnt about
gender inequality in our Goodness Me, Goodness
You! curriculum class and Benjamin lost
the argument that there wasn’t any — he
was outnumbered and we girls are louder cos
my mum says you gotta be better than the
boys to ever get heard as a woman. Especially
round here. Especially with male doctors
who apparently are just awful and hate
women speaking up or having any say at all.
I think Ben knew it was true about female
oppression but he likes an argument for the
sake of it and I don’t hold that against him,
as I’m a bit like that too. My mum says it’s
exactly the same for women and girls most
places and wouldn’t be any different in
India which is a relief in some ways. In other
ways, it’s just depressing. Imagine the whole
world like that! Still I felt sorry shouting at
Ben — although not for shouting at the rest
of the boys who are all really, really annoying
in a much deeper way of being irritating.
We even got to do the class on racism in the
end that was my idea in the first place — I’m
the biggest anti-racist in the class by far, no
in the whole flippin’ school by far! I said to
Ms Murray in the gender class that it wasn’t
just girls that were oppressed and she
agreed. Sometimes it’s whole peoples who
get messed about, like all of us kids when we
came to Ireland. My family came to Ireland
when I was four and I wasn’t accepted by
any of the schools for the next year (which
would be school going age of five average) as
I am Hindu. In Ireland, you can stop children
going to school because of their religion or
even the language they speak — except if it’s
Irish or English, of course.
That seems unfair to me. I just wanted to
learn about the world and become a more
developed person. Who cares where you
are from, it’s where you are going to that
matters! That’s an actual quotation from
Bob Marley I think or perhaps it’s the taller
Gregory guy. Some people couldn’t seem to
see that though. Oh yeah and sorry for any
words I spell wrong. I’m still only getting
it right as we missed loads of school at the
start, which wasn’t even my fault of course.
I’m just lucky to be able to spell and write
as good as I do.
The racism class was quite fun as the
teacher allowed us to bring in whatever
‘silenced voices’ we wanted to hear. She
explained first what silenced voices meant
by doing this mime where she looked desperate
to say something but it — the thing she
most needed to say — just wouldn’t express
itself and she used one of her arms to make
it look as if someone or something else was
like a barrier to what she needed and wanted
to say. Then we read this prize-winning
story by an American guy with a beard called
Fox 8 — the story that is, not his beard which
probably isn’t named as such as beards tend
not to be, right. Apparently it’s all written
by a fox which is mad as none of us knew
that foxes could write or talk but there you
go — the guy with the beard who is called
George Saunders must have transcribed the
whole thing but we didn’t get clarity of
who approached who? Was it humans or was
it foxes reaching out? The spelling is a bit
all over the place but not having the best
spellin’ myself, I completely get that and
feel sympathy as the fox surely never got
any proper schooling. He watches humans
and listens through a window in secret and
he gets all preoccupied and impressed with
the way adults tell their kids stories at night
in bed and the ‘gudnite kiss.’ This is because
for the fox this shows that humans can feel
love and that it gives foxes hope for the
future of the earth. How cool is that? Greta
that mega-child needs to meet this fox, as
she must get depressed trying to teach the
stupid global adults some sense on the environment.
But he ain’t no fool either, this fox talker
and writer. This is clear as Fox 8 also says
that cos of some of the things he saw and
heard in secret that he has to ‘think twice’ –
he spells it ‘twise’ and he spells earth ‘erth’
— about humans. For some reason, maybe
because of fox language itself, he calls humans
‘yumans,’ which made us all laugh, but
that didn’t lessen our sense of support for
this fox. All in all, it’s a flippin great story
160
and I totally underestimated foxes up until
now. Who would have thought, eh? It could
lead to a whole animal revolution. That’s
what Aga said as she is vegan and very strong
on human cruelty and hypocrisy when it
comes to animals. She got hugely excited by
the Fox 8 guy and she has written a letter
to see if she can meet up — with the bearded
transcriber but also with Fox 8. We all
wondered whether George was just really
uniquely understanding of fox language and
philosophy or whether this could be accessible
to all us if we just took the time to listen
properly to other species. I intend to try out
this new method of communication with the
hedgehog down the back of my garden, for
example.
The whole educational experience these
days was quite powerful and a few of us
were teary, as we recognized that feeling in
ourselves and not just the girls either. Boys
can cry too and that’s a good thing. When
teacher asked us how the mime made us
feel, a couple of us shouted out the same
word at the same time which was interesting
– FRUSTRATED. Then others said ANGRY.
But you know what – frustration and anger
can only get you so far and you mustn’t let it
eat you up or you won’t be able to fight back
as you get exhausted. So we didn’t and we
managed to fight back after all.
Because of me and Majda, Aga, Molly
and also Benjamin (yes even a boy wasn’t
allowed to learn!) — they had to start a
new school in Ireland. At first it was called
an ‘emergency school’ (which sounds very
dangerous as a place for small people to go
every day) but then it became a Community
National School and other kids, just like us,
had somewhere to go to learn and avoid getting
bored with our houses and our parents
and too much flippin’ Play Station 4, Bake
Off, and Bob’s Burgers. Now it’s our school
and we love it! Ireland isn’t such a bad place
to be after all. Well, let’s just say because
of our new school that Ireland is getting to
be a lot better. Even the weather is picking
up, although that isn’t all positive as it’s
something to do with global warming. And
also Ireland is way better cos of Benjamin.
Yippee ! — ooops, rather shhh.
An Ode to the Broken Heart
Poetry
Heidi Speth
St. Peters, Missouri, USA
Slut. Prude. Know-It-All. Dumby. Jock. Princess. Fat. Skinny.
The words of this society circle through my mind like grease-stained clothes in a washing
machine
All the filth spins in a roundabout
A mix of words, and bubbles, and good smells
But once the bubbles pop and the smells fade, all that is left is the words
The greasy words that prick us and embed themselves into our skin like splinters from an old
piece of wood
After all the picking and pulling and pushing and prodding
The little brown spear will finally shoot itself out of the red, bruised skin
But years later, the scar will remain, all that is left is the words
Words
Unkind words
That define us, they are always with us
They are the grease stains
And the splinters
Why can’t we live in a world where we don’t have to make up stories for our scars that
conceal
the painful truth?
Why can’t we live in a world where emotional scars aren't something to be ashamed of?
Why can't we live in a world that plants flowers in people's hearts instead of weeds?
Beautiful. Handsome. Knowledgeable. Giving. Appreciated. Kind. Love.
You are loved.
161
162
let it go
Digital Art
Vita Nocilla
Livermore, California, USA
An Ottawa Night Out
Poetry
Jean-Sebastien Grenier
Nelson, British Columbia, Canada
Another 527 Gladstone afternoon,
The stench of stale beer’s in the air.
Our recovery is the cruellest gruel
From a night obliterated by bouts of Kraken.
Three yolks break in a pan over conversation.
We ignore an alarm clock blaring
As we take turns playing Russian
Roulette with radio dials & Doom.
Escaping what truth of sunlight remains,
The Dom hosts our hangovers
Where we play contra the cruelty
Of pool punks. Colin sardonically quips
‘Bout how Barefax strippers are supposed Slavic
Bears castrated for bargain love. Some guy
Overhears & metal’s blaring as he’s breaking
Cues [must’ve had a girlfriend there].
We throw back our beers & bail before
The owners can throw the first punch.
Between bars, we hum the rust out
The notes of our mothers’ harmonicas.
Meandering about the wintery of York
Street without direction, we burst down
Those doors warmed by the burgundy glow
Of mirth. Each laughter is the rebirth of
A new story. Five minutes in Lafayette
And Marty’s already engaged in charades
With a lady at the bar, she brings her rose-gilded
Friends & they solicit flattery awhile at our table.
The emcee onstage is an impromptu violin queen
With invisible fingers & a folk fury. She makes it easy
For everyone to be sincere. We belabour roarin’
163
Wit under the late-night blur of an upbeat blues
Fiddle sawin’ swan songs. In the end,
The ladies feel our language tries too
Hard to be divergent and knock over
The Jenga tower via either accident or
Virtue. It collapses like some Tower of Babel
Proverb. In the ruins, euchres are sticking
Together over spilt beer & someone mentions Babylon.
Between bars, we weave woes together like
Zen spiders & hope our fathers can’t hear.
At the bridge where summer last set & browned
Out of our hearts, we feel a chill off the canal—small daggers
Weaving off Ottawa’s spinal cord. We’re damned
With the toxin of a late autumn fever dream.
Our soaring shadows sour over the cold ice.
Darkly drifting amidst inebriation’s insular abyss,
For a moment, I’m absolved of all boredom,
Purged from the anaemic guilt of being
Anything less than lingering lore.
At Babylon’s door,
Muse Molly beckons us in & our cascading corpse consciousness
With a kiss. The myrrh of aimless adoration wells, emerges through
Our six shifting pupils like nova-red pinballs in a skull blur.
I make eye contact and groan jokes to one of the coat check
Girls. The thought of sex melts me, & I tell her it could be us,
But she tells me to fuck off. Who could blame her?
I hardly look sober… Brothers, we guzzle down
One more nebulous brew at the bar
Before honestly allowing ourselves to fall deeply fathom bodied
On the dance floor.
Reinterpreting gravity, we exaggerate
Our wings & dive, grind our crowns off ladies’ whetstones.
Tonight, Babby’s is a woman’s thigh whelmed by neon
Worms bumpin’ harder than the washroom coke whores.
Far past twilight, souls merge with all colors of the strobe
Light oceans. Three divisions of our simulacra shape shift
Between midnight, imps & wallflowers. On & off the floor,
Droves of gothic follies jostle. Girls booty sway & orbit
‘Round us like crowds at the local arcade’s DDR machine.
A nearby blond peacocks & I twirl her by the hand &
She presses me against her waist. Each of us boys, dame
In hand don’t waste a beat. Before long, Molly’s gorge
On my oxytocin gore spontaneously combusts. Too much,
The gal runs off & disappears before the last minute of American
Idiot’s through. Could it have been my avant-garde mosh rhythm?
Nah. 2:30am & last-call’s lights flicker on.
I recognize too few souls. The club’s emptied steam. Colin & I
Smoke self-esteem cigarettes outside as Marty sweet chats
With some Swede chick. On the street side, would-be lovers
Swindle one another out of starlust for later use. Marty walks
Out the club alone. A block over, up Gladstone Street,
We’re celebrating, shouting. It’s a good night to have been alive.
Once home, we dissolve like Dali clock-puddles into endless
conversation.
Anything is Profound
Poetry
Brian Araque
Red Hook, New York, USA
I stand up to claim. I don’t think anything is profound.
I shove all my profanities into my back pocket.
I shave my head and call it quixotic
for the camera in their mind’s
eyes and my tongue
is at a junction with
sophisticated verbs or
lips and the bilabial aspirations
are just what colleges claim is air
or whatever you call the frustrating frictions
of me attempting to break the ineffable,
the everyday oh fuck, that’s all.
The sake of syllables.
164
Foreigners and Friends
Fiction
Murali Kamma
Atlanta, Georgia, USA
Waiting for his son to join him on the video
call, Satya decides it’s time to make the
big announcement. Although he would have
preferred to do it in person, that’s unlikely
to happen anytime soon. Not only do they
live in different cities, separated by almost a
thousand miles, but Nick and his wife, Sarah,
have a small child, making travel difficult
in these anxious times. Much as he longs to
hold his granddaughter, Satya knows that
neither he nor they are planning to go anywhere
far until it’s safer. And that could take
several months, if not a year.
When Nick offered to visit, Satya said it
wasn’t worth the hassle for a short stay,
given all the precautions they would have to
take. Besides, he was doing fine on his own.
“Better to be safe than sorry,” he’d written
in an email to Nick, realizing only afterwards
that clichéd language was like comfort food.
Reassuring, even if boring. Nick—or Nikhil,
the name his late mother preferred—is
Satya’s stepson. Of course, “step” has never
been in their vocabulary. Nick lost contact
with his birth father about two decades ago,
and Satya, who met Nick’s mother when the
boy was in third grade, has no biological
children.
Nick and Sarah appear on the screen along
with their daughter. The images blur, causing
dismay, but clarity is soon restored, and
to Satya’s joy, his bubbly granddaughter—
named Joy!—is in a talkative mood, providing
much delight for the first ten minutes.
He’s also thankful for the distraction, which
alleviates some of the tension that built up
before the call. Perhaps this sunny prelude
will make it easier to share his weighty, unexpected
news.
“So, Dad, have you thought about what I
said?” Nick says, shortly after Sarah and Joy
say goodbye and, to Satya’s chagrin, disappear
from the screen.
“About downsizing, you mean?”
“Yes. I realize now is not a good time to
move, but if we start the process, it’ll be
easier when things get back to normal . . .
or somewhat normal.”
“Well, Nikhil, I have something to tell
you,” Satya says—and stops, startled.
“Wow, Dad, you called me ‘Nikhil’ . . . it’s
the first time as far as I can remember!”
Nick’s eyes are wide open, though it’s
hard to read his expression because the
screen reads, “Your internet connection is
unstable.” When the image and sound get
distorted again, interrupting their conversation,
Satya is not annoyed by the glitch.
Taking a deep breath, he waits for the link
to be restored, which usually takes a minute
or less.
Twenty-nine years. That’s how long he has
lived in this house, which Satya and his wife
bought not long after they got married. How
strange that Nick thinks he can’t be home
alone anymore, as if their roles have been
reversed. True, the house is too big for one
person, and Nick can hardly be blamed for
thinking Satya is leading a solitary life. He
has been secretive.
Around the time Satya met Nick’s mother,
Meena, the county’s minority population was
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so tiny that perfect strangers would stop
Satya to ask questions. They were friendly
most of the time and just curious, but
sometimes the questioning made him uneasy.
On a few occasions at dusk, he saw women
cross the street to avoid him. While Satya
never felt conscious of his foreignness in the
city, here it was different—and in those early
years, when a friend in the city asked him
about his impressions of the county, an unexpectedly
ridiculous image would pop into his
head: a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with a
chocolate wafer stuck in the middle.
Satya didn’t say he felt like a wafer. He
said there was no problem, which happened
to be mostly true. Still, would he move from
the city to live there, his friends asked? No,
he answered truthfully. Nevertheless, despite
the warnings of well-wishers, he had no
qualms about traveling alone in the county
at night. Strangers who gave him hostile
looks were rare, vastly outnumbered by their
gracious compatriots. But Satya preferred
to commute from the city, not minding the
extra time he spent in his car. The city was
more vibrant, in any case, and he never felt
alone or out of place among the crowds or in
his high-rise apartment building.
His office building in the county had a
cafeteria, where Satya ate at least a few
times every week. While having lunch one
afternoon, he did a double take when he
saw Meena, and smiled sheepishly when she
caught him staring at her.
“No worries,” she said when he apologized
for interrupting her meal to ask a question.
“You’re welcome to sit here . . . I was also
wondering when I saw you.”
They got married within six months.
Oddly enough, from the day they met,
other people—colleagues and strangers—assumed
they were already a couple. Satya
soon learned that she lived not far away, in
the same county, since it was easier for her
as a single mother with a young boy. Meena
worked for a different company, so it was a
chance encounter. It was, in fact, her first
time in the cafeteria, and she was having
lunch there only because an errand had
brought her to the building. They chatted for
over an hour that day, marveling at the coincidence
of being from the same megapolis
in their native country. Would they have ever
met like this back home? Highly unlikely.
Some years earlier, one of Satya’s friends
in the city told him, there had been a
peaceful march in the county to protest an
ugly racial incident. A minority family, after
moving to a neighborhood that was de facto
segregated, had faced harassment, culminating
in a fire on the property. It was arson,
though a few residents claimed it was an
accident. Luckily, nobody was hurt. Satya,
surprised that he hadn’t heard about it till
now, wondered if Meena had. Without mentioning
the incident, he asked if she’d ever
considered moving out of the county.
“No, strange as it may sound,” she said.
“I don’t feel isolated here, really. Or maybe
I just got used to it. The biggest reason for
staying here is the practical benefit. I enjoy
the city’s hustle and bustle, but only as a
visitor.” She laughed before explaining, “As
a single parent, the lower cost of living is a
big plus. My son is used to it... he knows no
other place.”
“Call me Nick,” the boy said when Satya
first met him after school one day.
“But why, sweetie?” Meena said. “Your
name is Nikhil.”
“He’s your friend, you said . . . and my
friends call me Nick,” he insisted.
“Of course,” Satya said, smiling. “I’ll call
you Nick.”
It was only later, when her son wasn’t
around, that Meena told him about the teasing
in his class. “Nickel—that’s what they’d
called him. They said, ‘Hey, Nickel, can you
give me a dime?’ Or asked if he was worth
five pennies.”
“It’s hard for him, I’m sure, though I hope
there’s a supportive environment.”
“Yes, things are fine now, thankfully,” she
said. “His teacher talked to the entire class.
They call him Nick, and there’s no more
teasing. Could happen in other places, too, I
guess. Kids getting teased is nothing new.”
“Are there other kids like him?”
“No. But the school is great, I must say.
Still, I wonder if I made the right decision.”
“Well, kids are resilient,” he said, hoping
it didn’t sound glib. “I’m sure it’ll get better.”
Some of the people Satya encountered
back then didn’t know what to make of his
background. But although fascinated, as if
they’d never dealt with a foreigner like him,
they were also polite. Satya had no problem
when they asked questions—he saw himself
as an outsider. He didn’t find it intrusive if
somebody said, “Where are you from?” He
was an envoy, in some sense, and his “foreignness”
became a part of his persona. But
Meena, as Satya realized, didn’t share his
feeling of estrangement, at least not to the
same extent. Before they got married, he
agreed they should live in the county. Neither
of them was ready to switch jobs, and
166
he could see why Meena had no desire to
commute from the city. Also, she didn’t want
to disrupt Nikhil’s education and life. Satya
moved into the apartment she’d been renting
since her divorce.
When Ruth West, one of the teachers at
Nick’s school, said her neighbor was moving
to another state, Meena and Satya decided
to check out the house. Ruth made the
introduction. They liked Ruth, and the idea
of living next to her was appealing, especially
after they saw the neighbor’s sun-filled
ranch house on a quiet, leafy street. Ruth’s
husband, Tom, was just as warm and welcoming.
Without bothering to look at other
properties, Satya and Meena bought the
house and moved in. Nick was happy as well,
because the Wests had a daughter who went
to the same school, although she was older
than him by a couple of years.
Becoming close to other local families
wasn’t as easy for Satya and Meena, but it
hardly mattered because the Wests were the
only friends they needed, at least initially.
Gradually, like the tawny light appearing
in the sky, demographic change came
to the county. And then, just as night turns
into day, the shift was dramatic, to Satya’s
amazement. But in retrospect, the transformation
seemed to have been sudden
only because he hadn’t been paying much
attention to the steady growth in diversity.
Through the years, as Nick grew up, their
bubble in the neighborhood included few
people besides the Wests.
Hard to believe that Satya had moved to
the county three decades ago. And he’s still
here, living in the same house! As for the
Wests . . . ah, that’s what he wants to talk
to Nick about.
“Hi, Dad,” Nick says. “I lost you for a cou-
ple of minutes. Is it the same problem?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Satya says, and is relieved
when Nick doesn’t say anything more.
Satya’s internet connection came up a few
times in their earlier chats, and Nick advised
him to contact his service provider to
boost the speed. But he hasn’t done it yet.
Although Satya appreciates the video calls,
they are also oddly alienating. How cruel
that he can see and hear his granddaughter
without being able to touch her. He feels
mocked by the illusory closeness of technology.
There is promise, but no fulfillment.
While he can see why so many are thankful
for the virtues of virtuality during this
challenging time, he has his doubts. Maybe
he’s just old-fashioned—or eccentric. But he
can’t help being disenchanted by the abnormality
of these virtual calls, which can’t
erase the physical distance after all. The
participants seem disembodied, as if they
are avatars interacting with each other in
cyberspace.
Perhaps, he thinks, the key to having a
deeper and more authentic long-distance
connection is to make the physical separation
starker. Seems counterintuitive, but
Satya recalls how an airmail letter from his
parents, when he was a young graduate student,
arrived like a gut punch. It reminded
him how far away they were from him, how
unreachable.
“Dad . . . can you hear me? Hello?”
“Yes, sorry. What were you saying?”
“We’re worried . . . no, that’s not the
right word. We’re concerned about you
living alone in that house. It’s too big for one
person.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Satya says. “Besides,
I have some news to share.”
“News? What news?”
“Do you remember this picture?”
Nick leans forward, squinting, and chuckles.
“Wow, where did you find it, Dad?”
“Ruth gave it to me.”
“Ah . . . of course. It’s been years since I
saw the picture.”
It shows Nick as a teenager, with long
unruly dark hair and a cautious smile that
seems prompted. Slouching in a chair, he
is next to a youngish and attractive Ruth
at their dining table. Tom took the picture
before he sat to eat with them, Satya knows.
Their daughter is absent.
Putting the picture down, Satya wonders
if Nick is going to say anything about Ruth.
He hasn’t said a word about her so far. Nick
doesn’t; instead, his buzzing phone distracts
him.
“Dad, I have to take this call,” he says.
“Please wait. Won’t take long.”
Satya watches as Nick talks animatedly,
but there is no sound because he has muted
it on the screen. Pantomime, Satya thinks,
and though he’s not able to decipher the
hand movements or facial expressions, it
reminds him of the games they used to play
when Nick was a child. Using exaggerated
gestures, they would have a comical, imaginary
telephone conversation that included a
lot of laughter but no speech.
Satya and Meena were relieved when Nick
accepted him almost immediately. “Papa”
was reserved for Nick’s biological father,
whom he visited off and on until he became
a teenager, but Satya became “Dad” from
the day Nick’s mother remarried. Those
early years were memorable, and the close
bond Satya formed with Nick was a big help
in making him forget the disappointment
of not being able to have any children with
Meena.
167
But then, unexpectedly, after Nick became
a teen, they hit a rough patch. Looking
back, Satya realized that his Papa’s sudden
disappearance from their lives was the trigger.
Was the lack of diversity another reason?
Perhaps. While the county had already
begun changing demographically, their area
made slower progress. No doubt there were
other reasons, including hormonal changes,
for Nick’s increasing moodiness, and Satya
should have been more patient and understanding.
But he wasn’t. After losing his job,
Satya was going through his own stressful
period, making him explode in anger when
he thought Nick was being disrespectful.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Nick
shouted one day. “You’re not even my father!”
Meena was shaken. When her intervention
had no success, she threatened to walk out.
An uneasy ceasefire followed, casting a pall
on the household—and as Nick withdrew to
his room, barely communicating with them,
Meena turned to the Wests in alarm. The
summer vacation was about to start. In an
inspired move, the Wests, who were planning
to go on a long trip, invited Nick to join
them. He accepted, surprising Meena and
Satya, and even after they all returned from
abroad, Nick stayed with them for the rest
of the summer.
When the school reopened, Nick moved
back to his house and life was normal again.
Meanwhile, Satya, who’d found a new job,
began driving more locally to meet his clients.
Getting a closer view of the changes
underway, he was impressed by the county’s
growing density and diversity. The urbanization
was so rapid that, by the time Nick left
for college, the homogenous suburb they’d
moved to was now a multicultural hub. The
city had stretched to embrace them—or was
it the other way around? A newcomer who
looked like him, Satya realized, wouldn’t
be able to relate to the way he’d felt as a
newbie in the county.
The call having ended, Nick unmutes the
audio. “So sorry, Dad . . . I had to take the
call. My boss thought we were going to lose
an important account. But we’re fine, thank
goodness. What did you want to tell me?”
Those teen years are so distant now, Satya
thinks. Nick seems more like the parent
now—mature and deliberate—while Satya
feels like a son who, about to take on a new
role, is nervously seeking permission from a
busy man of the world.
“Well, Nick, I’m planning to get married
again,” he says, speaking fast. “Just thought
I should let you know. I’ll continue living
here, at least for the near future.”
“Wow!” Nick looks stunned. “This is big
news, indeed, Dad. I didn’t even know you
were seeing somebody. Do I know her?”
“You most certainly do, Nick. It happened
quickly. Ruth and I decided to get married
just last week, about four months after we
started dating.”
Nick doesn’t respond, and the expression
on his face barely changes. Satya wonders if
he has heard him properly. Is there a problem
with the sound? Will they get cut off
again?
“Wow,” he says again, finally. “I need to
absorb this, Dad.”
That’s his response? “You seem shocked,
Nick.”
“I am shocked. How come you didn’t say
anything till now, Dad? You know how to
throw a grenade.” He laughs.
Satya is disappointed that Nick hasn’t congratulated
him, though he’s not surprised.
Until the previous week, Satya hadn’t been
sure if Ruth would accept his proposal. And
how could he have—just two years after
their lives changed so abruptly—said anything
to Nick unless he was sure? But now, no
matter what Nick thinks, the weight is off his
shoulders.
The screen flickers, distorting the sound
and picture, before it freezes. Satya is not
unnerved by the timing. He’s actually grateful,
seeing the interruption as deliverance.
Before the connection is restored, it will
give Nick a chance to absorb the news, as he
said.
It’s been about two years and a month
since Nick’s mother died. Maybe not enough
time has passed, Satya initially thought,
given that Tom also died on that horrible,
unforgettable day. But life’s twisted path
was unpredictable, and Satya—who hadn’t
planned to remarry—began dating Ruth. In
all the years Satya had known her, it hadn’t
occurred to him that they could be anything
other than friends.
That fateful morning, it was foggy and
still before daybreak when Tom drove to the
airport to pick up Meena. Why had he gone
when Meena said she could easily take a cab?
Satya discussed this with Ruth many times,
and the most satisfactory answer they could
come up with was that Tom wanted to return
a favor. Tom felt guilty, or at least that’s
what they thought, because Satya, who was
out of town, had taken the Wests to the airport
many times.
Tom lost control of the car on the way
back, as he tried to avoid the skidding truck
in front of him, and they both lost their lives
in a fiery crash.
For several weeks after that awful day, Satya
and Ruth kept in touch, finding comfort
168
in reminiscences and mundane conversation.
Nick had a harder time dealing with the loss.
Although he was sympathetic to Ruth, Satya
knew he blamed Tom for his mother’s death.
When Ruth went to live with her daughter,
Satya kept an eye on her house and made
sure the yard was well-maintained. As the
months passed, he wondered if she was going
to sell the house and move permanently.
Satya, now retired, had no plans to move
yet.
And then, with no advance notice, Ruth
moved back to her house. When she called
Satya, he thought she was still at her daughter’s
place. Her decision to return was
sudden, she said, before thanking him for
keeping an eye on things. Later that day,
Satya picked up the mail that hadn’t been
forwarded and walked over to her house.
Ruth, inviting him in for tea, asked how he
was doing. She seemed glum, and her greeting
was uncharacteristically subdued. He
inquired if she was feeling okay.
“Not really,” she said, though she smiled.
After Ruth made tea, they sat in their usual
spots at the dining table. She put a manila
envelope next to her without saying anything.
Taking a sip of the fragrant brew, Ruth
put her cup down and said she’d been seeing
somebody when she was at her daughter’s
house.
“It didn’t last long, though, and was a
mistake,” she added calmly. “He was decent,
but the wrong man for me. What about
you, Satya? Have you thought about moving
on? You’re not seeing anybody, unless I’m
mistaken. Don’t you get lonely in that big
house?”
“You’re right, Ruth,” he said, shrugging.
“I’m not seeing anybody. I got used to living
alone, I guess. I’m doing okay, though.”
“Glad to hear that,” she said, putting her
hand on his arm. It was a simple gesture,
but something about her manner caught his
attention. He looked up from his cup.
Smiling, she said, “I want you to open this
. . . I found them while going through Tom’s
things. I feel guilty about not saying anything
till now.”
Satya took the envelope and, without
speaking, pulled out what looked like a few
handwritten notes. He wondered if they
were letters that had been removed from
smaller envelopes. Unfolding one, he was
astonished to see Meena’s handwriting—its
neat characters, in black ink, were slanting
rightwards—on a lined sheet of white paper.
Dear Tom,
Thanks for the update on Nikhil. I’m so
happy . . .
Satya’s eyes blurred a little, and he
stopped reading after noting the date at the
top. Meena had written the letter during the
summer of Nick’s sabbatical, as they later
dubbed it, when he’d stayed with the Wests.
“How many letters are there?” Satya
asked. “Have you read them all?”
“Just these. I read only one, but you can
keep them. I’m not ready to read all of
them.”
“Neither am I, Ruth. But, sure, I can keep
them. As you might have already guessed, I
didn’t see any letters from Tom when I went
through Meena’s things. But I still have the
postcard Tom sent when you went on that
trip. Was that when they began—?”
“Meena might have destroyed Tom’s letters,”
Ruth said. “I know she felt bad about
how your relationship with Nick had deteriorated.
And Nick’s biological father had
dropped out of sight around the same time,
as I recall. She was worried . . . I think that’s
why she reached out to Tom. What puzzles
me is that Tom never mentioned these letters.
Made me wonder—”
“If there was something more to it? Do you
think they were more than friends, Ruth, at
least for a while?”
“No idea, Satya. Your guess is as good as
mine. My feeling is that they were very fond
of each other . . . and, as you know, any
marriage has its bumps. Tom and I were not
immune. The secrecy is confounding, so who
knows. But it doesn’t matter, not after what
happened. If there was anything more than
friendship, even briefly, I don’t need to know
now. Do you?”
“I don’t, Ruth. It’s history as far as I’m
concerned. I have enough memories to treasure.”
“Agreed,” she said. “I’m wondering . . .
would you like to stay for dinner? Nothing
fancy. Grilled salmon with steamed vegetables,
and strawberry ice cream for dessert. I
make fairly simple meals these days.”
“Sounds great,” he said. “I’d love to stay
for dinner. Thanks. Your dinner couldn’t be
simpler than mine. Opening a can of sardines
is not unusual for me. Let me know if I can
do anything.”
The internet connection is restored. Sarah
is back on the screen, to Satya’s surprise.
When Satya first met her, he commented on
the alliterative resonance of their names, to
her amusement. She’s sitting next to Nick,
but their daughter is not with them. Is she
sleeping? He feels a tinge of disappointment.
“So, Dad, we can talk again,” Nick says.
“But we need to do something about your internet
connection . . . unless you like these
pauses in our conversation.” He chuckles.
Satya is about to speak, but he realizes
that Nick isn’t done. That was just an open-
169
ing, and now, it seems, he and Sarah want to
say something about Satya’s announcement.
While Satya has an inkling, he can’t be sure
until they speak. He waits, eagerly.
in a hurry,
I push past a man
by tomatoes,
a man checking
eggs, and a woman
looking at
the toilet paper,
like walking
through a gallery
as a brightly
dressed tourist,
obnoxious
american
and loud.
Lidl
Poetry
D.S. Maolalai
Dublin, Ireland
SWAN SONG #7
Poetry
c-leo ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈valentino
Livermore, California, USA
I hear symphonies in my head, all along like a somber keyboard. The lone puppy
faced hush dart player in the pink room.
My angel doomed!
Two different times on two different clocks. And what of this electricity. Make me
blush, stay away. I snip away my hair to see the sun from here. And if you turned
on the lights you'd see the fingers attached to the glow; what do I want to do?
Sometimes the stars tell me to say your name,
spell it on a bracelet with beads. Enter plastic ponies into my keychain, the
lullaby of you like spring's honeyed air here in the valley. My little heart, made of
dirt stuffed with frog guts and sidewalk bottle caps,
loveletters, smoke and ash.
This town, a hole in my eye; the junkyard keeps me full, my eyes happy in
the frolic of an abandoned house.
My mom tells me this today as she makes afternoon ceviche, even though
it's been windy cool and unforgiving today, even though she hates the labor
and loves the fruit, she dirtied her hands and told me: her home where it
used to be, crumbled. Signs of neglect, window panes shattered. Rooftop
cross-eyed and grim, there's bigger houses now she said. And the people
moved and lived there; los burgos. Sounds like a pimple; sweet elote,
peppered lime a heart of gold in all your wicked time.
She told me she loved another, and I told you again: proud to regale
the tale, floral and in ecstasy.
Melodramatic! I have faith in
these afternoons, as one movie as sickly bloody and dark in colors: gray,
sullen blue and a washed out rag of clothes
gray plays into another.
Background noise, something to gawk at. Snowpiercer, alone in the springtime.
How do I do it day after day lug this wholeheartedly around. You ought to know
better! I complain like a kid. Close me up, peanut shell on the floor. I think maybe
I had wanted to
sin querer queriendo to forget.
Does that, has that ever happened to you? Enoki, baby! Roots
tattered.
170
Nap Time
Photography
Taew Fornoles
Pleasanton, California, USA
171
Waves
Photography
Louis Staeble
Bowling Green, Ohio, USA
172
Terminal
Poetry
D.S. Maolalai
Dublin, Ireland
I Shall Never Forget
Fiction
Teresa Beeding
Kansas City, Missouri, USA
renting a van
from the spot
by the airport.
walking slowly
with purpose
through a boneempty
lounge.
now, everything
has been taken from us.
this death has poured out
the house of its colour,
like a bottle
and the last drops
of wine. that is why
we are renting
a van now,
you see? that is why
we are here
at the airport.
no flights go out
of this building.
this building
is dead quiet
too. we walk
to the hire desk
through the newly
built terminal. our footsteps,
their echo
and crackle,
like stepping on snails
after storms.
I shall never forget your eyes.
Deep as the pits of Hell, splashed with the
colors of amber and fire. Spinning like galaxies,
inquisitive and ever-watchful. They set
my body to shiver; a reminder of days past
when we first consecrated our love, on the
banks of the Nile in the lazy, swaying reeds
and grass.
I shall never forget your face.
Tenderness is too dull a word to describe.
Soft as silk, but resolute and refined by
time. Rarely did you smile, but when you
did, it broke storms and set my heart ablaze.
The world meant nothing when you smiled;
it melted away, tearing down all that mattered
not. Only your smile.
I shall never forget your hands.
Strong, building nations that outlasted
the sands of time. When I became weak, fell
victim of our brothers, your sacred hands
once again taught me how to stand. Love
in its purest form is an embrace, something
so simple, yet never questioning and always
understanding. I felt it in your hands, saw it
in your eyes – your face.
I shall never forget your death.
Unjust, at the mercy of jealous wiles.
Swift, brutal, and unspeakable. Before the
sun set you were gone; before I could stop
him, you were gone. The river became a
cold and dangerous place. The lazy, swaying
reeds and grass became razor sharp, slashing
as I searched, gnashing teeth and weeping as
the willows that touched the merciless and
unforgiving waters we once loved.
I made a promise.
173
Love is a long-suffering beast. Hungry, cold
and tired, I searched without end, searching
for your remnants. Searching for your smile,
for your eyes – for your hands, that I could
lay in them once more and become warm,
fulfilled. Hungry, cold and tired I searched
until I finally found you. You had changed;
you were hungry, cold and tired. A piece of
you was missing, a part of your soul taken
from life’s horrific upheaval. Yet, when your
eyes opened, your smile widened, your fingers
brushed mine…I became whole in your
stead.
I shall never forget.
He Tramples the
Daisies
Poetry
Kerri-ann Torgersen
Livermore, California, USA
Roses are Red
Poetry
Lindsey Wentzel
Montgomery, Texas, USA
What a terrible house guest!
His heavy cloak drags keepsakes
off the mantel as he coasts by.
He leaves a trail of broken picture frames,
never offering to piece them back together.
And his hourglass
marks a ring upon my table.
I show him the door and request he leave.
“You’re not welcome. Please go.
She is not ready. It’s cold there down
below!”
I shove him out and slam the door.
But he creeps, waits by the oak
in the flowerbed
under her open window.
He tramples the daisies,
and marigolds bloom at his feet.
He climbs our tree,
one-by-one he snaps the limbs,
breaks them free.
He draws closer,
brushing aside the curtain
to watch my mother rest.
I yell from the door as he climbs in
to plant a kiss upon her lips.
Before I make it to her side,
he shrinks her down, tiny-sized,
and slides her deep into his pocket.
A beautiful bouquet, a spray
Trimmed, arranged and lovingly placed
Catches the eye of admirers, while carried on
a tray
Stretched toward the sun they faced
Beaming through the windows showily
A set so perfectly versed
All the buds opening slowly
‘Til one day they burst
into the grandeur of full bloom
Their sweet succulent scent flows
Throughout the blue room
into the hall it spills and blows
Creating its own, yet shared, space
Of warmth, comfort, beauty and grace
One day, the sun hides and when it returns
The union, once so strong, is broken
Trust waned; faith and courage burns
The former feelings but a token
Petals dried and wilting fall from the stem
One by one then two by two
As the leaves brown and fray like a hem
A magical marvel adieu
Has now become sad to view
The scent once so powerful
Now fades into a dank must
Looking abandoned for hours full
The vase sits collecting dust
The room once brilliant
Now sits dark and gray
The decaying process is indolent
But successful in its prey
Flowers are not meant to rejuvenate
Though their presence was graced
Their life passed, no matter how great
Even roses can be replaced
174
175
Hypnotically
Motivated
Photography
Louis Staeble
Bowling Green, Ohio, USA
176
the butterflies in my
stomach are free
Digital Art
Vita Nocilla
Livermore, California, USA
Dig
Fiction
Elizabeth Reynolds
Livermore, California, USA
There’s a pit on the outskirts of town. Jeremy
discovers it while tracking a line of ants
back to their hill, and he drags Lacey out to
go look at it. I go too, even though I’m not
invited.
We stand at the edge of the pit watching
the sand and dirt crumble away from the
edge of it. I try to figure out what it’s for. I
think it is going to be a swimming pool cause
it’s square and not very deep. Jeremy says
that there could be a cave underneath it,
and maybe the dirt has sunk down to try to
fill it. I think that’s dumb, though. Caves are
in mountains and pirate islands, not boring
little towns like Riverton. I tell him so, and
he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his
nose, saying, “That’s not true, there are a
ton of caves all over the place. I went to
one with my class and they said they discovered
it when someone fell in a hole in the
ground.”
“Oh,” I say, and I turn back to look at the
pit. “It’s too square, though.”
Lacey kicks a rock, and we watch it tumble
over the edge. “Someone dug this,” she
decides.
Jeremy and I stay quiet. Lacey is the
oldest of all of us, and she knows a lot. Even
more than Jeremy with all his books and his
glasses. She sits down for a minute, squinting
at the pit, then hums and stands, dusting
off her blue shorts and tossing her braids
over her shoulder. “Who dug it, Lacey?” I
ask, my eyes wide and eager.
Lacey shrugs.
“It was probably an ex-ka-vader,” Jeremy
says. “They have giant shovels that can
pick up a ton of dirt and throw it away. The
people who dug this pit probably used one
of them until all the dirt was gone and then
they left.”
Lacey draws the end of her left braid into
her mouth and crunches the tips of her hair
under her front teeth. After a moment, she
pulls it out just long enough to say, “No, this
was dug by a shovel.”
“How do you know?” Jeremy frowns at
her.
She shrugs again, putting the braid back
into her mouth. “Because.”
Mom orders a pizza for us because she
doesn’t feel like cooking. She hasn’t felt like
cooking since Dad left a few weeks ago.
The three of us kids sit on the floor of
the living room with paper plates and cups
of milk. Our dog, Bill, comes sniffing at the
pizza, and Jeremy pushes him away, saying,
“Stop Bill, you already had dinner.”
“But his dinner is just cereal,” I complain.
“It’s not fair for him.”
“He’s old, Kate,” Lacey says. “It’s not
good for him to eat pizza.”
“He’s not that old, he’s only four years
older than me,” I say.
“Ten is old for a dog,” Jeremy tells me.
“See his beard? He’s an old man dog.”
Bill does have a white beard and white
eyebrows that crinkle together when he begs
for food. He looks like a wizard dog. I slip
him a piece of pepperoni.
He snaps it up noisily and smacks his lips
177
as he swallows. Lacey glares at me.
“Maybe when Dad gets home, he can tell
us who dug that pit,” I say, sneaking in front
of Bill to hide the fact that I’m slipping him
another piece of pepperoni.
Lacey’s mouth twists as if she just ate a
sour candy. Jeremy looks at her and then
looks at me, his eyebrows coming together.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Jeremy starts to
say, only to be interrupted by Lacey.
“How stupid can you get? Dad’s
not coming back. Dad’s dead.”
Shortly after we discovered it, a big chainlink
fence was put around the edge of the
pit. We stopped playing around there after
that.
Mom can’t pick us up from school like she
used to, so Jeremy and I walk home together,
the hot concrete beating its way through
our shoes and burning our feet. ‘Cause
Lacey’s in middle school, she got a new bike
that she rides every day. Mom says I can get
a bike when I go to middle school ‘cause it’s
farther away than the elementary school.
“It’ll be better when the weather starts
getting colder,” Jeremy tells me, adjusting
his glasses, which keep sliding down due to
sweat.
“It’ll get better when the rainy season is
over,” he tells me as we squish home in the
rain.
“It’ll be nicer when the spring comes,” he
says through chattering teeth as we wade
our way through the snow piled onto the
sidewalks.
Lacey sails by on her bike, braids squished
down against her head by her bright blue
helmet. I watch enviously as she waves at
us, on her way home to get away from the
outside.
Mom wakes me up one night with a hand
on my shoulder. As soon as my eyes open, I
know why she’s there. “Bill’s dead,” I say.
I wait for her to respond, my throat starting
to ache tightly, tears clawing their way
up from my heart to my eyes. Bill had gotten
sick a few months ago, and Mom had taken
him to the vet tonight before I went to bed.
Mom nods. I fall back into bed and draw
the covers over me. Mom hugs me tightly
over the blankets and rocks me through the
tears. I hear Lacey wake up and ask what’s
going on. I cry louder as Mom tries to explain.
Lacey yells at Mom that she killed our
dog. I sob and tuck myself further under the
covers, clutching my pillow and my green
rabbit, Mr. Bun, to my head. I hear Lacey
yelling, and Mom trying to answer. Jeremy’s
voice joins in as he wakes up in his room
across the hall. I hear Mom grab Lacey, and
the door closes behind them, muffling them
further. I curl up in the sudden dark and quiet.
Eventually, I fall asleep.
Lacey tells me to get out of her room because
she has a test tomorrow. I tell her it’s
our room, and she calls me an idiot and tells
me to get out again. She’s in eighth grade
now, and she’s always kicking me out of our
room so she can be alone. I don’t think it’s
fair, but Jeremy tells me that it’s an older
kid thing.
Mom is at the kitchen table with her head
in her hands, staring at a letter. She’s been
getting so much mail recently, but it never
really seems like good news. I want to turn
on the tv, but it would probably make her
mad, so I sneak out the back door. Lacey’s
bike leans against the side of the house and
I grab it. I don’t really want to go anywhere;
I just want to feel the wind biting my eyes
until they might finally feel dry.
The house is always tense these days.
Lacey is grumpy from teenage girl stuff that
Mom won’t tell me about, Jeremy never
wants to play anymore, and Mom is always
working. She says that she wants to buy a
bigger house soon. Maybe then there will
finally be enough room for me.
I coil my brown hair up on my head and
cram the helmet over it, buckling it all
tight to my chin so not even one strand can
escape. I wheel the bike out to our driveway,
hit up the kickstand, and go.
I’m probably going to be in trouble when I
get home. It’s a school night. I pedal faster.
I love riding bikes, feeling the pavement
under me fly away. I wish I could stand on
the pedals like Lacey can, then I’d really
feel like I was flying. But even though I’m
almost 10, I’m still too much of a baby, so I
stay on the seat.
I swish my way right onto another street,
weaving back and forth to feel the bike pull
me this way and that. A left, a right, another
right, left. I decide to swerve onto Lark
Street so I can visit the pit. There aren’t any
lights around, just a big black square sunk
into the dirt. If it weren’t for the fence, I
would’ve missed it. I picture myself riding up
and suddenly the ground vanishes under me
and I fall deep down into that dark pit.
I stop Lacey’s bike, pop out the kickstand
carefully, and get off to creep towards the
178
edge of the pit, my hands coming up to grasp
the chain link fence. The cold metal rattles
under my fingers. I clench it a little tighter
than I need to.
The pit isn’t bottomless, I realize, as my
eyes adjust to the dark. I can see the bottom
if I squint. It’s deeper than it used to be,
though. And…
There is someone down there.
I can barely see them even when I squint,
but they’re there. They don’t have one
of those orange vests or yellow hard hats
construction workers are always wearing,
but they have a shovel, and they’re digging.
I lean in, looking harder, smushing my face
into the links of the fence, no longer worried
about falling in.
“Heeeyyy,” I call. “Don’t you need a flashlight?”
The worker ignores me, continuing to
shovel dirt up and over their shoulder. I press
further, “Heeeeyyyyyy!”
Nothing, just the crunch of metal against
gravel as they keep digging. I pull back from
the fence, my mouth twisted into a pout. I
run around the edge of the fence until I’m
closer to the worker, but when I stop to call
out again, they seem farther away than before.
I stomp my foot and run back to where
I started. Again, the worker is on the other
side of the pit, back to me, digging away.
The back of my neck itches as I realize how
cold it is out here. It’s cold, and it’s quiet.
Even the spring crickets aren’t chirping, I
realize. All that I can hear is the sound of
digging. I decide to leave.
I fast-walk back to the bike and grab the
handlebars to ride away. I glance back at
the pit, a small bit of guilt twisting on the
backside of my heart, thinking of the worker
all alone in the dark, but then I jerk my
head to the side to scratch the thought away
and ride off. Whoever it is down there, they
ignored me, so I won’t help them. Maybe. I
have to tell Lacey, though.
Lacey is curled up in bed with her phone
when I get home, so I crouch next to her, fingers
curled over the edge of the bedframe,
eager to share. “Lacey!” I whisper-shout.
“What do you want?” She doesn’t look at
me; her eyes are glued to her phone.
“Shh!” I press my finger to my lips. “Lacey,
I saw someone at the pit!”
“Seriously?” she asks, looking up. “What
were you doing out there?”
“Laceeeey,” I say, bouncing on my. “Why
does that matter? This is crazy! I’ve never
seen anyone ever working there! Do you
think it’s cause they’re only there at night?”
Mom opens the door and flicks
on the light switch. “Everything alright in
here?” She frowns at my outside clothes
when I should be wearing my pajamas.
“I wanted to get dressed for school so that
I don’t have to get up as early tomorrow,” I
lie expertly. I don’t think she believes me.
“Bed. Now. We’ll talk about this in the
morning, Katie.” Lacey had stuffed her
phone under her pillow when Mom walked
in and leans against the bedframe, acting
like she just woke up. When I don’t move as
quickly as Mom wants, she begins counting
down from five.
I spring up and throw on my pajamas,
flinging myself into bed just as Mom finishes
her drawn-out, “Onnnne…good night, Kate.
Turn off your light, Lacey.”
She closes the door behind her, and I stick
out my tongue at Lacey. She just looks at
me, her eyes dark blue like Dad’s were, and
suddenly it feels like he is standing right
next to her, watching me. I huff and turn
over, pulling the covers up to go to sleep.
It takes a while before Lacey turns off the
lights and settles down herself.
Mom grounds me for sneaking out. No
computer, no tv, no playing with friends
after school, I’m just supposed to go straight
home. Lacey would usually make fun of me
and try and make me feel worse, but she’s
really quiet this morning, quiet enough that
even Jeremy notices.
After school, though, when walking home,
I take a sudden turn on Jackson street and
head to the pit. Jeremy calls after me that
I’m gonna get in even more trouble, and I
shout back, “Only if you tell on me!”
I walk down Jackson Street, turn left onto
Palo Verde, right on Lark, until I’m standing
at the pit.
There’s no worker this time. I glance over
my shoulder, then take off my bright green
backpack, and dig through the notebooks
and pencil cases and candy wrappers to pull
out a small plastic orange flashlight. It was
Jeremy’s from when he was in Boy Scouts,
but he quit after like three months, so I
didn’t feel bad for taking it. I click it on so
the worker will see it, wind up and throw
it into the pit. It hits the side and rolls to a
stop near the bottom. It sits there, glowing
softly in the late afternoon sun, and I turn
back and run to catch up with Jeremy.
I furiously whisk the waffle batter together
as Mom puts the finishing touches on
Lacey’s presents. Waffles are birthday food.
I like mine with strawberry jam, but Jeremy
likes his with powdered sugar. Lacey eats
them plain. I think there might be something
wrong with her.
179
Even though Jeremy and I are up the
second we hear Mom’s call of ‘Waffle time!
Waffles, everyone!’ from the kitchen, Lacey
only stumbles out of her room just as the
waffle maker dings for the first batch. She is
wearing pink pajama pants and a large tee
shirt that used to belong to Dad. When Mom
sees it, she sucks in a breath but lets it leave
her without saying anything. “Just in time,”
she chirps instead.
Mom slides the first golden-brown waffle
onto a plate and sticks it full of fourteen
blue candles.
“Happy Birthday, Lacey!” I yell, buzzing
with excitement.
She smiles at me, pulling me into a hug
before blowing out the candles in one
breath.
I wiggle out of the trap of Lacey’s arms
and snatch the present I picked out from off
the table. “Open my present first!” I demand.
Mom laughs, “Let Lacey have a bite of
breakfast first, Katie,” she scolds half-heartedly.
“It’s fine, Mom,” Lacey grins, taking the
package from me. “I’m not super hungry in
the mornings anyways.”
Carefully, she unwraps the shiny green
wrapping paper. I had let Mom wrap this one,
but I picked it out, so it was from me.
Lacey gasps as she reveals the large paint
set, with brushes and tubes of oil paint and
a guidebook on painting technique, all held
in a pretty wooden carrying case. She looks
between Mom and me with big blue eyes
widened with shock and joy. “Thank you,”
she whispers, stroking the plastic film that
covers the set. I bounce with excitement.
“Let’s try it! Come on!”
Mom reigns me in, and we eat waffles
first until my stomach feels like it’s going
to explode. Afterwards, I drag Lacey to the
backyard, and we bask in the late fall sun,
drawing and painting paper after paper.
When they dry, I carefully hang up our finished
drawings in our room with appropriately
colored thumbtacks.
I stand in front of the bathroom cabinet,
studying my reflection. My hair is carefully
brushed, and I even curled some of it with
Mom’s curling iron. I hold Mom’s mascara
brush tightly in my trembling right hand. I
stare myself in the eye, golden-brown irises
staring back at me. I don’t know if I can do
this. What if I flinch and stab myself in the
eye and then have to go to the hospital on
what’s supposed to be my first day of middle
school? What if I mess it up so badly that
I look like a raccoon and then everybody
laughs at me, and my whole school career
is over? What if I’m the only one wearing
makeup and people think I’m a slut?
Lacey shoves open the door. “Come on,
Kate, you’ve been in here forever! Other
people need to use the bathroom, too!”
I jump, and the mascara glances across my
cheek. I look on in horror at the black streak
that now cuts across my face. This was
waterproof mascara. How was I supposed
to get it off? Lacey huffs at my expression,
an unwilling smile crossing her lips. “You’re
hopeless,” she mutters as she tears off a bit
of toilet paper to scrub off the mark.
“Laceeey,” I whine. “What am I supposed
to do?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs. “How are you
going to fix your face in only ten minutes?”
“What?” I whisper, glancing frantically in
the mirror.
“I mean, look at it! Completely unfixable.
You’re just going to have to deal.”
I roll my eyes and hit her on the arm.
“You’re not funny.”
She grins and takes the mascara from me.
“Look up,” she orders.
“You never do makeup! You’ll probably
mess it up worse than me!”
Lacey smiles tightly. She really doesn’t
wear makeup, though. Her hair hangs in
greasy braids off the side of her head, and
her skin is shiny and full of acne. I hoped
puberty wouldn’t hit me as hard as it had hit
her.
After a suspicious moment, I nod and let
her apply the makeup to my eyes. “It’ll
have to do,” she sighs again dramatically,
leaning back to eye her work. I look at the
mirror. I look the same, but my eyelashes
are thicker, framing my eyes and making
them darker. I twist my lips but accept the
changes. “Thanks, Lace,” I say, darting out
of the room to change out of my pajamas
into the outfit I had spent hours picking out
last night.
I glance back to see Lacey shut the bathroom
door, her face no longer cheerful. I
pause. It feels like I saw a mask slip, and I
didn’t recognize the person hiding under the
face of my sister.
The mail comes in one day just as I ride up
the driveway. Jeremy and Lacey had already
gotten home, each of them riding their bikes
much faster than me. Lacey gets out of high
school earlier than Jeremy and me, and Jeremy
told me it wasn’t cool to ride bikes with
his sister. Lacey is waiting on the porch and
jumps up as the mail carrier arrives, taking
the stack of mail eagerly and running inside.
I wave to the mailman as I follow her, slinging
my backpack onto the couch and follow-
180
ing Lacey into our room. “Did you get mail?”
I ask her.
“Go away, weirdo,” she snaps, pushing me
away from her stack of letters.
“But why did you take all the mail?” I
want to know.
“Why are you so stupid?” She counters.
“Shut up, Lace,” I snap, reaching for the
stack. One of the letters on it had a stamp
from my school.
She knocks my hand back and snatches the
letters away.
“What’s going on?” Jeremy asks, standing
just outside the boundary that divides our
room from the hallway.
“Kate’s being a brat,” Lacey whines. “Tell
her to leave me alone.”
“Why would we leave you alone? You have
our report cards. Maybe we want them,”
Jeremy smirks, raising his eyebrows at Lacey.
“Report cards?” I ask, looking back at the
stack.
“I don’t…shut up, asshole,” Lacey stomps
her foot. “Get out of my room!”
“I’m not in your room,” Jeremy taunts.
“And I have straight A’s. Mrs. Collins told me
mid-semester grades are arriving this week.
Afraid you’re gonna be grounded when mom
sees that you’re failing all your classes?”
“I’m not failing all my classes!” Lacey
shrieks, her blue eyes shining with frustration.
“Can you at least give me mine, Lacey?” I
ask.
“Fuck off!” Lacey screams at me, shoving
me hard. I stumble backward and hit
the side of her dresser, a half-open drawer
stabbing me in the side. My face crumples up
as pain radiates from where I’d been hit. My
chest tightens where she’d shoved me, and
my face burns. Lacey’d never cussed at me
before.
“I’m telling Mom!” Jeremy shouts, sounding
a little too happy to do so.
Lacey seems frozen, staring at me where
I sit on her floor. I sniff. It feels good, so I
do it again. Lacey turns her back on me and
tells me to get out. I run—the door slams
behind me.
There’s a pit on the outskirts of town. It’s
deep, with sloping walls leading down so
far that you can’t see the bottom. It’s been
there since I was a kid, with a large chainlink
fence blocking access. It was a joke
in our family that whoever had decided to
build something there had run out of money
and just left the pit to sink. We never left
it, though. Sometimes I thought we were
leashed to it, as if something about it tethered
us tightly to that pit. I don’t think we
could leave even if we wanted to.
I start to take down the pictures I had
painted with Lacey all those years ago on
her birthday. I’m supposed to be packing,
but instead, I sit down on the bed, holding
one of the pictures tightly. It was a stick
figure house, with a stick figure dog and stick
figure people floating around it. Vibrant colors
were splashed onto each figure, except
for one. We had been interrupted before
finishing by Mom, calling us in for dinner.
Lacey had shoved the unfinished picture at
me, shrugging when I complained about one
of the little stick figure girls sitting there in
black and white. “I can finish it later,” she
promised.
It’s been years since I’ve seen Lacey even
glance in the direction of a paintbrush. After
squeaking out a diploma from high school,
she had gotten a job at a local art supply
store, saying she wanted to take a gap year
to save up some money for college. That had
been four years ago.
Now, she works at a coffee shop, getting
up at three am each morning and dragging
herself home at one in the afternoon,
sleeping the rest of the day away behind
her closed bedroom door. I hear her sometimes
in the middle of the night, getting up,
clanking around in the kitchen getting coffee
for herself before spending 8 hours making
it for others, then slogging herself out of the
house to get to work.
Jeremy had taken off the second he graduated,
having been accepted to every college
he’d applied to. After he packed up and left,
I moved into his room, finally having a space
of my own for the first time in my whole life.
I’d had a video call with him last month,
where he counseled me on what I should
pack for my freshman year. He had flourished
in college, and he now considered himself an
expert on all things collegiate.
I applied to a few colleges as an undeclared
major. I never had a plan for what
I was going to do after high school, so I
ended up choosing a decent school with a
well-rounded list of classes, just hoping to
find a direction along the way. Some scared,
cruel part of me keeps whispering that I am
too much like Lacey. That I have no focus
and will end up crawling home after the first
month of being away. I have to keep shoving
those thoughts away, but they keep creeping
back.
I look around my ransacked room, my
belongings in piles dedicated by importance
– Must Bring, Might Bring, Leave Behind,
Burn. I look at the drawing in my hand again.
Burn? I carefully set it on the Might Bring pile
and grab a jacket out of my closet. I need to
181
walk, to think.
It’s late, but the heat of the summer’s
day left its reflection in the pavement, the
dark ground radiating heat back up at me as
I walk, directionless. My feet know where to
go.
My feet stop at the dirty rust-red fence,
peering down. The figure is there, digging. I
pull out my phone and shine the light down.
The worker is not wearing a high-visibility
vest. They are not wearing a safety helmet.
Instead, their brown braids bounce with
each hit of the shovel.
“Lacey,” I shout, cupping my hands over
my mouth, making the light of my flashlight
bounce up and over her. “Lacey, come
home!”
She ignores me. She always ignores me.
She keeps digging the pit deeper.
I look around for a door, some break in the
fence, but there is none; it was constructed
far too long ago for there to be such an easy
way in.
I shove my phone in my pocket and sink
my fingers into the chain, pulling myself up
enough to set my foot into a link. I slowly,
shakily, climb up, my arms straining, my
face hot from exertion. I reach the top and
pause, gasping for air, leaning my torso over
the top as a counterbalance to keep myself
from falling back down. There is a cease
in the sound of digging; Lacey has turned
toward me, looking at me like she had never
seen me before.
I gulp in a breath of air and swing my leg
over the fence, then the other one, sliding
down until my feet hit the very edge of the
pit. “Lacey,” I shout again. “Come here!”
She shakes her head.
I start edging my way into the pit, the
loose rock and dirt sliding around my foot as
I look for steady footing. Lacey turns away
from me and starts digging again. I inch my
way down, gravel sliding all around me, cutting
into my palms and backside. My heart is
racing, any second, it could all give way, and
we’d both be buried.
Stones start hitting me, she’d turned
her shovel to fling each scoop of rock and
dirt right at me. Each pebble an accusation,
a demand in her voice, telling me to leave
her alone. I grit my teeth and turn my face
away from the worst of it, continuing my
slide down.
When I reach the bottom, I march stifflegged
over to Lacey and grab the shovel.
She refuses to let go, and we stand there,
staring into each other’s eyes, neither budging
an inch. “You don’t understand,” she
finally whispers. “I can’t stop.”
“And I can’t let you keep going. Please
don’t ask me to leave you alone again,” I
say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
She looks around, looks up. “You see how
far away the sky is? How far away the road
is?”
I keep silent. I keep my eyes on her and
my hands on the shovel. She tries to jerk
it away from me, and I stumble but stay
upright. “I can’t walk away, Lacey. Please.
Come home.”
The light from Jeremy’s old orange flashlight
shines on us as we stand there. It had
rested in this pit for all these years, offering
what little light it could.
“It would be so easy to walk away,” Lacey
offers, her voice quiet in the chill night air.
“And yet here I am,” I say.
“Here you are,” she agrees.
The End is
the Beginning
is the End
Poetry
Kerri-ann Torgersen
Livermore, California, USA
Fingers gripping icicles,
Knuckles red and raw.
She wipes at frozen tears,
and waits for ground to thaw.
Spring casts rays of sunlight,
across the forest floor.
Flowers bloom and stretch,
toward bright beams, wanting more.
She plucks the blossoms from the earth,
And fills her wicker basket.
She drops a few but hurries past.
The rest are for the casket.
Knotted So Tightly
Poetry
Bobbi Sinha-Morey
Central Point, Oregon, USA
Three violets in a jar are now
age-brittle remains in a house
knotted so tightly in its place,
no loose string to unwind it;
it's like playing patience with
a short deck, and as I examine
the remains of what's left inside
my deceased parents' house
I cleared away the mementos
before anyone else could get
to see: my favorite rose print
paper, French saucers painted
by hand, my mother's woolly
mammoth tusk earrings. Yet
none of these memories ever
warm me while outside a cold
November reigned, the only
sound in the air the low notes
of a mourning dove that were
like breaths blowing over a
bottle; the hour so ripe it
balanced this tip of time, so
tiny it could sit on my fingertip,
and I whispered to myself no
haunting memory can trace my
heart or the shape of my world
182
Lost
Photography
Frances Fish
Monrovia, California, USA
183
Uncle Down Under
Poetry
Jilli Penner
Citrus Heights, California, USA
I don’t miss him
Most of the time
Said the developing adolescent
Grasping a freshly murdered rose
Staring at the fake grass
As if she could see right through it
Knowing at this moment
He wasn’t above her
Everything grows from the earth
And yet we penetrate it
slowly causing infection
Injecting decay
Shoving death
With the roots
I don’t miss his hands
Most of the time
The Cave of Bones
Poetry
W.F. Lantry
Silver Spring, Maryland, USA
There is a cave that beckons me inside.
I barely see the shadows lingering
along its walls, but notice how the air
seems sweet and bitter, both at once. The
steep
descent within seems easy, as if anywhere
I step is safe. Sunlight, backscattering,
casts a small glow, enough to light the way
where stone and silent waters interplay.
Down, down the path descends, until a great
cavern opens, held up by columns made
by water dripping slowly into deep
basins. Behind this limestone palisade,
the rough cavewalls seem to incorporate
layers of colored stone, exquisitely
detailed as if engraved beautifully
by careful hands. Along their edges, bones
in ordered clusters, undisturbed, still lay
where each was placed after their final
sleep.
They seem peaceful, protected from the
day,
from storms outside, from wind, at one with
stone,
where light and air and water coincide.
Sweatshirt
Poetry
Jilli Penner
Citrus Heights, California, USA
No amount of soap
Could ever scrub
The stains out of my mouth
I can still taste the way you smell
Your sweatshirt, now resides in the corner
It looked better than you
The way it brushed my thighs
...After all it was always softer
Than your touch ever pretended to be
I still smell it
Your scent lingers
I don’t want to smell of you anymore
Why should I?
It was a scent captivating at first but seconds
taste rancid
Even from all the way over here
184
Pat and I had to serve detention for
talking in Mrs. Pearson’s class. We showed
up just before three. The door was open,
but the room was empty, so we took a seat.
She came in a few moments later, seemingly
taken aback by our presence, but she quickly
recovered.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, moving to
her desk where papers lay in stacks facing
every direction. Mrs. Pearson was our English
teacher, and she was a harried woman, a
little nervous, her eyes always wide as if expecting
disaster at every turn. She was maybe
around 30 years old, not unattractive,
with pale skin, a lightly freckled nose, and
light brown hair that reached just past her
shoulders. She looked up at the clock in
front of the classroom. “You have ‘til four
o’clock,” she said.
Pat and I were seated right next to each
other at two desks in the back of the classroom.
Pat spilled out of his desk; it wasn’t
made for a boy of his size. I said something
to him in a low voice, and Mrs. Pearson
looked up from what she was doing.
“Excuse me. You two are in detention. No
talking. In fact, Pat, move up to that desk
please.”
She pointed to the desk in the front of the
row, and Pat did as he was told.
We sat there quietly for a while. I suppose
we could have been working on homework
or something, but we just sat there looking
at the clock in silence. Then we heard a
sniffling sound coming from Mrs. Pearson. We
looked over. She was seated with one hand
Dirty Hippies
Fiction
Ken Elliott
Huntington Beach, California, USA
holding a pen and one hand over her eyes.
She was crying softly.
Pat looked back at me. I shrugged. “Mrs.
Pearson, are you OK?” Pat asked in a soothing
voice. He could be very charming and
sensitive when he wanted to be.
She sniffed loudly, wiped her eyes, and
looked resolutely about her desk. “Yes...Yes.
I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
Pat turned back around, and it was silent
again save the occasional sound of paper
being shuffled on Mrs. Pearson’s desk and the
light sound of traffic in the street and occasional
bursts of laughter and conversation
from outside the door.
“It’s hard, you know,” she suddenly said.
We both turned to face her. “Life is hard.”
She was crying again. She placed her pen
down and looked at both of us. Then she told
us her life’s story.
She grew up in a small town outside of Des
Moines. Her dad was a failed preacher, an
itinerant farmer, and an alcoholic, so they
grew up with Jesus but no money. Her mother
stayed at home and sold cosmetics on the
side. She was an only child, raised on the
strict teachings of the Bible. When she was a
teenager, her father’s drinking accelerated.
He began to get a little too friendly with her,
so she decided to leave.
Pat slowly turned his head and stole a look
at me. I widened my eyes back at him. What
the hell?
“I had a boyfriend at the time,” Mrs. Pearson
continued. “Of course, my parents didn’t
know it. They would have killed me. He said,
185
‘Let’s go to LA.’ I had nothing to lose, so I
packed up, and we left that night in his little
VW. I never looked back.”
Her words came out in a torrent, as if
she was afraid her audience would be taken
away before she could finish. She pulled
some Kleenex out of the box on her desk and
blew her nose into it.
“So we got to LA. Two broke kids—the
typical story, you know.”
We didn’t know.
“It took Doug a long time to find a job—
that was his name, Doug.” She looked over
at me. “You remind me a little of him, Jim.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “He was
a sweet boy, but he had a hard time in LA.”
“As for me, I was having the time of my
life. LA was the place to be back then. I
couldn’t believe there could be so much excitement.
We lived right above Sunset Boulevard.
I could walk right down there. Doug
had taken a night job doing security at some
warehouse, so I would just walk down to
Sunset and hang out until the bars closed.”
“You went to bars?” Pat broke in.
“Yeah. Oh, but I didn’t drink—not yet,
anyway. I just watched the bands. Everyone
played there. I saw Jim Morrison one time,
just walking down the street. Can you imagine
that? You guys know who the Doors are,
don’t you?”
We didn’t.
“Anyway, the drinking—and the drugs—
came later.”
I saw Pat flinch a little in his seat. Did she
say “the drugs”?
“It was when I met Danny. I was standing
outside of a club, The Whiskey, trying to get
in to see Three Dog Night. They were very
hot right then. That’s when I saw him. Danny.
He just walked up, so handsome and tall,
so smooth. Danny talked to the doorman and
took me right inside. He just walked up and
swept me away. It was the beginning. And
the end.” Mrs. Pearson paused and looked
off into the distance.
“So what happened?” I asked her. We were
fairly interested in her story by now.
“Well, we dated for several months. In
fact, we moved in together right away.”
“What happened to Doug?” Pat asked.
“He was heartbroken when he found out,
of course. He ended up moving back to Iowa.
Last I heard, he had taken over his family’s
farm and was doing pretty well for himself.
He belonged there. He never should have
left.”
We couldn’t believe what a whore our
English teacher was, but it was about to get
better.
“Danny’s the one who introduced me
to alcohol. Believe it or not, I had never
touched a drink before then. But he got
me to drink some wine one night, and I was
instantly in love.”
“With wine?” I asked.
“With alcohol. There was an instant
attraction. I guess that apple doesn’t fall
far...” she smiled sadly.
“What about the drugs?” Pat asked.
“That came next. It turns out Danny was
a drug dealer. That’s how he was able to get
me into the club that night. He sold to a lot
of the bands, so he had connections everywhere.
It opened doors for us all over town.”
“What kind of drugs?” I wanted to know.
“Just about everything: LSD, speed, pot,
mushrooms, all kinds of pills, uppers, downers.”
“And you did those, too?” Pat asked.
“I’m not proud of it, but I did. It was fun
for a while, and then it became... I don’t
know. It just wasn’t fun anymore. Danny
started fooling around. I never caught him,
but I know he was. He was out at all hours.
‘It’s my job,’ he would tell me.
I was becoming depressed, staying at
home, drinking and popping pills by myself.
I became so paranoid I couldn’t even leave
the house. I decided to kill myself.”
Pat and I sat there stiffly in our seats. We
couldn’t understand why she was telling us
all of this, and neither of us knew what to
say to her. She finally continued.
“I swallowed every pill I could find—and
we had a lot of them lying around. I washed
them down with what must have been a
half-gallon of vodka. I woke up in the morning
with people all dressed in white above
me, looking down, talking. I thought they
were angels.”
“You were in the hospital?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you stop doing drugs after that?”
asked Pat.
“I did. I turned my life around completely.
I found Jesus again, and he’s the one who
really saved me.”
The story was becoming boring again, and
I saw Pat slump a little in his chair. Pat had
no more questions, but there was something
I wanted to know.
“So what happened to Danny?” I asked.
“I married him,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You did?” Pat and I asked in tandem.
“I thought I could save him.” She looked
dreamily out the front door of the classroom.
“I’m still trying.”
186
“You’re still married?” Pat asked. “Is he
still a drug dealer?”
Mrs. Pearson gave a half-hearted laugh.
“No, those days are long gone. He still
drinks—a lot. Most days I come home, and
he’s passed out on the couch.”
“He doesn’t have a job?” I asked.
“He takes a job here and there. He can
never seem to hold anything down for long.”
Pat seemed to turn this over in his mind
for a moment, then he said, “It seems like
you married a man just like your father.”
Mrs. Pearson’s eyes welled up again, and
her hand reached out for another Kleenex.
“Yes. Yes, I guess I did.”
Pat looked back at me in a panic, and I
gave him a look that said, you idiot. We both
got up and walked over to her desk where
she was sobbing now, and we gave her a half
hug from either side.
She reached up and touched our arms.
“You boys are so nice. I shouldn’t be bothering
you with my troubles. I shouldn’t have
told you that story,” she blubbered.
Pat was paternal and soothing. “No, no,
it’s no trouble. We’re here to listen.” I
looked over at him, and I could see that he
was looking down her blouse.
I looked up at the clock. It was four
o’clock. Pat and I took our seats again as
Mrs. Pearson sobbed quietly at her desk.
Roses Shaded Pink
Poetry
Jilli Penner
Citrus Heights, California, USA
I’m watching the flowers die
Somehow slower
Than our relationship did
I wish they’d die faster
So I could toss them
No longer reminded,
Every time I sit at the table
They’re my favorite
Color
Breed
Scent
You once shared that title
Now all I’m left with
Paling shades
Wilting petals
Fading fragrance
Pricking memories
Your beautiful rose, no longer
Bachelor
Poetry - Tetrameter
Craig Kurtz
Charlottesville, Virginia, USA
She left me flat and broke my heart —
but it’s OK now if I fart;
who cares what she might bloody think —
I’ll trim my nose hairs in the sink;
she didn’t like to hear me snore —
but now they’re louder and they’re more;
the toilet seat’s now up to me —
I get to choose which way I pee;
and those big sneezes she disdained —
these days, they’re even more ingrained.
She used to be so embarrassed
but now imagine how I’m dressed;
and girls with those huge mammaries,
I’ll look at them as much I please;
those Tom Wolfe books I’d leave around —
who gives a damn now if they’re found?;
she used to say it’s unrefined
but I like junk if you don’t mind;
the toothpaste cap, the final straw,
but now I hardly brush at all.
Who cares now if I stay up late
or use the tub to masturbate?;
who cares now if I smoke again? —
she’s prob’ly out with other men;
who gives a crap if I get fat,
I don’t even live with a cat;
who’s going to check me for a tick? —
who’s going to perform a Heimlich?;
I get to live life as I wish
and who will care when I perish?
187
Fruit Bowl
Poetry
Elle Butane
Loyal, Wisconsin, USA
“Don’t fall in love with an apple,”
my mother always told me.
“Their skin is sweet and their flesh, soft,
but after the first bite, they always find a
way
to rot.”
How silly, I thought,
to fear the act of falling in love
with a fruit.
They’ve waited on trees,
sat still for paintings
for centuries.
They wait patiently in grocery stores,
in gas stations.
They roll their way into
lunch bags and lockers.
they are unavoidable.
The descent was easy,
seemingly harmless;
not unlike an elevator ride.
What’s the harm
in a little carving?
I drew flowers,
I drew love letters,
I drew peace signs.
Despite my pure intentions,
he still found a way
to rot.
188
Contained Chaos:
Growing in a Lab
Collage
Jennifer Frederick
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
Electrified
Photography
Taew Fornoles
Pleasanton, California, USA
189
The Girl from the Bookstore
Fiction
Kevin Wilson
Livermore, California, USA
Him:
Within the first thirty seconds, I had kissed
her. That’s how fast this moved.
I was killing time before the show, browsing
through the stacks in one of the bookstores
on University Avenue, when she came
up to me: wavy, light brown hair, brown
eyes, freckles. Shorter than me by a head.
She gazed up nervously, her voice just above
a whisper. “Um, hi. There’s this guy outside.
He’s following me. It’s giving me the creeps.
I thought if I was with someone...”
I snapped right into the role. “Hey! It’s
great to see you.”
Her face lit up into a breathtaking smile.
“Yeah! Likewise.” She opened up her arms,
and I gave her a quick hug. Gazing up at me,
she stretched out her neck and cocked her
head just right. I leaned down and kissed
her. I was taking a leap of faith, but by the
way she laughed, I knew I’d done the right
thing.
In my hand was a book I had just pulled
off the shelf. She took it from me and read
the title. “Love in the Time of Cholera. I had
to read this one.”
“I read One Hundred Years of Solitude. It
was long and strange, but I thought it was
great. I wanted to try this one.”
“Cool.” She handed it back to me. “So,
are you just here for the weekend?”
My steel-blue hoodie had the logo of my
school on it, so she knew I was from out of
town. “Yeah, I drove down from Portland
yesterday. I’m here for the show.” I named
the band, but she didn’t know it. “I’m
meeting up with the guys around five. I’ll be
kicking around until then.”
It was 1:30. “Just looking at books that
whole time?”
“Down the street, there’s a showing of A
Nos Amours at two. I streamed it once, but
I’ve never seen it in the theaters. I thought
I’d check it out.”
As I stood in line to buy the book, I kept
gazing down at her face, at those warm
brown eyes and the adorable splash of freckles
on her cheeks. She asked, “Are you still
going out with...?” She paused, as if she had
blanked on the name.
“No,” I said. There was still some pain
here, but I put on a brave face. “Amanda
and I broke up a couple months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. I felt her fingers
brush my sleeve.
“It’s alright. It was time for us to move
on.”
“I know about that,” she said, but she
didn’t say who she was moving on from.
I paid for the book and shoved it into the
pocket of my hoodie. Outside, she looked
warily around for that guy, but he must have
split. I thought she would leave right then
— the danger had passed — but she took my
hand.
“You want some company?” she asked.
“I’m up for a movie.”
Her smile lit me up. “Of course.”
190
We walked hand in hand down the street.
In the middle of the day, there weren’t too
many people around. Still, her eyes flicked
left and right. “If we run into anyone I
know...”
“...I’m an old friend from high school,” I
prompted.
She squeezed my hand and beamed that
breathtaking smile. “Yeah! That special boy,
my first real boyfriend.” I nodded, understanding
her innuendo. “You remind me of
him. Really, you do.” I nodded again. Her
brown eyes probed my soul. “Do I remind
you of her? That special girl?”
“Yeah, you do a little.” She let out a happy,
playful laugh.
That was the game we were playing. We
were acting out roles from each other’s
memories. I was him, and she was her.
The Stardust was a rundown art-house
theater, decades past its prime. It would
have shut down if it hadn’t been for the
university. They showed independent movies
and old classics like A Nos Amours, a French
film from the early 80’s.
I bought her ticket, but she refused the
offer of popcorn and candy. The chair armrest
didn’t lift up, but she nuzzled into me
anyway. I put my arm around her, like I really
was that old high school boyfriend.
I loved seeing the film again. The sound
quality wasn’t great, but I don’t know much
French anyway, so it didn’t matter. I even
stopped reading the subtitles for a while and
just gazed at the beautiful Sandrine Bonnaire.
As the end credits rolled, we stood and
stretched. “What did you think?” I asked her.
“It was good,” she said. “I liked the scene
between the father and the daughter where
he knows just by looking at her that she’s
now sexually experienced. She didn’t have
to say anything, but there was a change in
her, and he sensed it. For a moment, they
were co-conspirators.” She added wryly, “I
wish my dad had been that understanding.”
We walked into the bright autumn light. It
was now a little after four. “Where to now?"
I asked. "You wanna get a drink or something?”
She found my hand and gazed up at me.
“Where are you staying?”
I felt a shiver of anticipation. “Um, just
down the street.” I took a second to orient
myself, and then pointed. “Not the nice
hotel where the parents stay, but the other
one.”
Her eyes were steady; her voice even and
calm. “Do you wanna?”
“Absolutely.”
We started walking towards the hotel.
Desire was in her eyes. She let out a sudden
reckless laugh. It was a warning to me, in a
way. I should have known what that laugh
meant, but I wanted her so badly I couldn’t
think straight.
The hotel was narrow and ancient. It
looked like it had once been an office building.
The elevator was rickety and slow, so
we took the stairs, hand in hand. My room
was on the third floor with a window overlooking
the street. There was a queen bed, a
nightstand with a lamp, a chair, and a bathroom
with a shower tub. I hadn’t planned on
company, but at least the room was made up
from the night before.
Though tense with nerves and anticipation,
I tried to keep my cool. I unzipped my
hoodie and tossed it on the bed. Immediately,
she picked it up. She fished the paperback
out of the front pocket and set it
on the nightstand. With my hoodie pressed
against her chest, she disappeared into the
bathroom.
For a moment, I didn’t know what to do.
I took my phone out of my pocket, checked
the time, and put it on silent. I sat on the
bed and took off my shoes. From my wallet,
I pulled a battered condom packet. I set it
on top of the nightstand, and I put my wallet
into the drawer.
The door creaked open, and she came out
of the bathroom wearing my hoodie. It hung
on her like a shapeless dress. The sleeves
bunched at her wrists. “Hi.”
“Hi.” We kissed — longer, slowly, more
deeply than the first time in the bookstore.
Our hands wandered up and down.
She scooted away from me and over to
the bed. She unzipped the hoodie, showing
off her bare skin while keeping her breasts
covered. Then, she leaned back, raised her
knees and let me know she had left her
panties on the bathroom floor.
As I got down on my knees, she let out a
nervous giggle. “Is this alright?” I asked.
“Yes please!”
She toyed with my hair and purred as
I worked to build her pleasure. She whispered,
breathless, “Come. Come to me
now.”
I stood, undressed, and slid on the condom.
We lay side by side, kissing, gazing,
exploring. At that last step, I paused and
191
waited for her signal. Finally, it came: She
tugged on my hips, rolled onto her back and
whispered, “Now. Yes.”
I wanted to be great, or at least memorable.
But when I got started, I was nervous,
hesitant. We had only pretended to be old
lovers. I had no idea, really, about her preferences.
I started slow and gentle. She had
to prod me to be firmer with her.
Then, I had come, and there was that
awkward tidying-up moment. We both used
the bathroom. When I came out, I saw she
had slipped under the covers.
“Come lay with me for another minute. I
still need you.”
I slid into bed beside her. I thought she
wanted me to help her come, but when I
stroked her, she said, “No. Just hold me.”
She set her head on my chest. I kissed
her hair and ran my hand along her back. “I
don’t even know your name,” I said.
“No. Please, just this.” She kissed my rib
and settled her ear right over my heart.
I felt a sudden pang of sadness. In my
mind, I heard again that reckless laugh. I
should have known, if there was any hope
at all of seeing her again, she would have
slowed things down, stretched it out. We
both would have. It was only because she
had decided this would be it, that she went
all of the way, all at once. If I didn’t know
her name, even if I looked I would never find
her.
I wanted another kiss. I wanted to walk
her back to her apartment, though I knew
she wouldn’t allow it. As we dressed, she
wouldn’t even look at me.
On the way down the stairs, I offered her
my hand and she took it. We held hands all
the way down to the first floor, through the
lobby and onto the street.
It was nearly five. The avenue was bustling
with people; the road jammed with cars.
I held onto her hand for as long as I could.
Our arms stretched out, still clasped as she
walked away from me. She gave me one last
melancholy smile, and then the girl from the
bookstore vanished from my site.
Her:
From that first kiss, I knew all my guesses
about him had been right.
My Friday afternoon class was canceled,
so I walked to my favorite cafe. On the way
there, I spotted him: tall, dark-haired, wearing
a steel-blue hoodie. There was something
instantly familiar about him. I knew I
didn’t know him, but I wanted to know him.
I felt, somehow, like I already did.
He paused outside one of the bookstores
on University Avenue and held the door open
for an older woman, coming out with a large
purse and a bag of books on her arm. I saw
his smile, sweet and a little shy. I felt my
heart leap into my throat. He went into the
bookstore. On a sudden impulse, I followed
him.
None of this would have happened if
things between me and Steve were going
great. I mean, things were great at first, but
they hadn’t been for a while. We were at
the point where we needed either to get engaged
or break up. It was looking more and
more like the latter. We needed a catastrophe
to shake us out of our complacency.
And, what would be more catastrophic than
me making a pass at another boy?
Of course, I wasn’t thinking any of this
when I dashed into the store. I wanted another
look at the boy. That was as far as my
thoughts had taken me. He wasn’t as classically
handsome as Steve. He was more rough
around the edges. His hair was rumpled, and
there was already a five o’clock shadow on
his face. He had a quiet, thoughtful expression
as he browsed the shelves. Not in the
sci-fi or horror sections, but amongst the
literature.
I wondered: An English Major, maybe?
I couldn’t keep watching him from afar.
He was going to notice me at any second,
and I would have to look away, and maybe
I would just leave and go get my coffee.
That’s what I should have done if I had any
thought at all of staying with Steve.
I needed a reason to go up and talk to
this boy. So, I thought of one. Something
that had happened to me, that still to this
day gives me the creeps. Maybe it wasn’t
happening to me right then, but it was still
true and real. I thought, This is something he
will understand. He will know someone this
happened to.
So, I told him that a guy was following me,
and it was creeping me out. He gazed down
at me, thoughtful and concerned. Then, he
broke into a grin and greeted me like I was
an old friend. We snapped right into our
roles. Two friends reunite at the bookstore. I
offered him a hug, and when I stretched my
neck and preened for him, he kissed me.
It was the perfect "hello" kiss. Dry, closedmouthed,
brief, soft and yet firm, purposeful.
It knocked my knees together. I wanted
another one. I wasn’t ready to go to bed
with him right that second, but I was on my
way.
Back in high school, he was a drama kid, I
192
decided. He knew how to talk, how improv
a relationship out of nothing. There was skill
behind what he did, and practice. Maybe
he wasn’t a theater major — Who moves to
Portland to become an actor? — but he had
some connection to the liberal arts. He was
reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez for fun!
He wanted to see this movie, and, since
we were now oldest best friends and former
lovers, I went with him.
In the year plus of going to this school, I
don’t think I’d actually seen a movie at the
Stardust. Steve had never taken me there.
We were not the only ones, however, catching
the Friday afternoon matinee of A Nos
Amours. It wasn’t exactly packed, but there
were people in every row.
If there weren’t so many other people
around, I might have probed into my new
boy’s love life and shared a few secrets of
my own. Instead, I sunk my head into his
shoulder and let him put his arm around me.
A Nos Amours is a type of film that certain
guys are very impressed with. They involve
beautiful young girls parading around in
the nude, having sex with different guys,
and generally behaving monsterously to
everyone. The movie always ends abruptly,
because it’s more chic and French that way.
The boy from the bookstore could ogle that
actress and still feel he was doing something
high-brow. If Steve wanted to watch naked
girls having sex, he would just queue up
some porn.
I pondered my next move. Should I just
split after the show? Do we grab that longdeferred
cup of coffee? Or, do I push on and
do the last thing?
It boiled down to where he was staying.
Did he crash at a friend’s house last night?
The first chance I got, I put the question
to him. Answer: He had a hotel room. That
settled it. I wanted him. He wanted me. We
were doing it.
The place was a bit of a dive, but at least
he didn’t have a room on the street level.
And, he had already checked in, so there
wasn’t that awkward scene in the hotel
lobby, trying to secure a room while the
clerks gave us dirty looks. Yes, I was going to
his room to have sex, but I didn’t want the
whole hotel knowing about it.
In the room, he shed his sweatshirt. I
quickly scooped it up. It smelled of trees,
the ocean, of him. I took off my clothes in
the bathroom and put his sweatshirt on over
me. It was still warm from his body. I wanted
his scent on me.
The second kiss, third-fourth-fifth kisses,
long and tender, quick and hard. His hands
cupped my breasts, my bottom. My hands
ran up under his shirt, along his back and
chest. Then, he was on his knees in front of
me.
Oral sex is not my thing. I mean, I’ve given
it when I’ve had to, when I felt I needed
to. But, never in my life had someone gone
down on me. At first, I was thinking, You’re
really going to put your face down there?
And then, pleasure rockets are blasting
through my brain, and I’m thinking, You have
got to stop, or I’ll never be able to walk
away from you.
Of course, he used a condom. It was the
right thing to do. We weren't really oldest
best lovers. It spared us some awkward questions.
Afterwards, I slipped under the sheets,
so when he went to bed later that night, he
would remember holding me.
I laid in his arms and rested my head on
his chest. We savoured the sweetness of
those last moments.
I wouldn’t tell him my name. I really liked
him. If he lived closer, maybe we could have
made a go at it, but Portland is too far away.
I was not committing to a long-distance relationship.
He had done more than clear my palette.
He reset my compass. I knew now the type
of guy I should look for in a partner — more
gentle and thoughtful, literate, quick on his
feet. And yes, my next boy should give me
more of that just because he wants to.
My lover from Portland will find another
girl with brown hair and freckles. She will
know how lucky she is to find a boy so gentle
and sweet. He will take her all the way to
heaven, and afterwards, she will cling to him
and fall asleep in those strong arms, and she
will never want to leave.
And maybe sometimes, just before he falls
asleep, he’ll think of me.
193
Bespoke
Poetry
Laine Derr
Sedona, Arizona, USA
Our love grew up in a fitting room.
Our love, fine tailored, is pant-less.
Rhiannon
Poetry
Caleb Gonsalves
Roseville, California, USA
Undisclosed
Poetry
Charissa Roberson
New Market, Maryland, USA
There is a girl I talk to in my dreams.
Not the dreams where hopes and fantasies reside
Just my normal night time space,
If I could control this place you would occupy it.
Even my subconscious is mostly convinced,
That you and I will never be a complete unit.
It throws another girl in my direction.
She has the cutest dimples, and she smiles when I talk.
She looks at me like I could show her the world,
and I attempt too, I want to be bolder than when I’m awake.
Perhaps my fear is where our affection died.
or maybe I am killing it now.
I keep the “dream” girl alive, a one-dimensional fantasy
one that could never compare to you..
If I could control this place you would occupy it.
What does it mean to dream of a girl I’ve never met?
Am I trying to protect myself?
A day in the park can’t be ruined by a fictional character
She and I had the perfect day, on the beach
and around the trees, we biked and hiked and watched a movie.
Would you want to know the future if you could?
Would you want to know how you get from A to B,
And what B is, and the things you do to reach it?
The idea has been turned over and inside out,
Until almost nothing seems novel anymore.
And yet, if one could really see the future,
I imagine it would be more shocking and
Subverting than any storyteller has yet conceived.
Just look back, once, on your life so far—
Could you have believed where you would end up?
Five years before, could you have imagined yourself
As you are now? And that is looking backwards.
Imagine if you could see all the avenues forward,
All the split roads, all the choices great and small
Snowballing into a lifetime. Would you want to see
All the good and bad you could become?
Or would you rather let it surprise you, like a knock
On the door that could be ominous or benign,
Unknown until you open it?
A perfect day, I wish I could replicate.
If I could control this place you would occupy it.
I would rather adventure with you,
A flat fabrication, will never suffice
194
195
Lady in garden
Painting
Yim Ivy Wu
Danville, California, USA
196
Before the Ballet
Painting
Pat Wai
Livermore, California, USA
It begins with a fall.
Well, ma belle, you always knew it was a
possibility. And yet, you couldn’t dwell on it.
What was the point? You had enough to be
thinking about, had you not?
Cues. Entrances and exits. Costume
changes so fast as to challenge the laws of
physics. And, of course, you’d practised.
You’d practised this particular move like
hell. You’d trace lines in the air, burn the
choreography into your neural pathways,
embed the sequences deep into your circuitry
— never mind those pliant, biddable,
ruthlessly schooled muscles.
But it wasn’t enough. Something — what?
— something goes wrong. No really, what
was it, exactly? You’ll never know. Me, I see
it happen — no one knows I do, but I see
everything that goes on in this place. I see it
happen. I was there in the wings all along.
The jump. That jump. The landing… it was
skewed. Your leg buckles. You strain with every
sinew to keep it on course; you’re known
for your immaculate balance. But it happens
too quickly. Tonight, for some reason, some
flaw in the geometry, some hand of fate at
work — for some reason you know not, tonight
it goes wrong.
And in your head you probably heard —
how did you describe it just now? A cracking,
a snapping. No, a pop. Like uncorking champagne,
a soft but distinctively plosive plop.
Later, they might tell you lots of things. A
tear, a fracture, they’ll say. In the end nothing
but a sprain, perhaps, but the pain will
crackle up and down your leg in hot, sharp
Muscle Memory
Fiction
Kate Brock
Oxford, United Kingdom
shards, waking you at night, causing you to
cry out, reach for your lover (if you have
one — I think you do, by the look of you) and
you’ll remember when sprains were a playground
injury; weren’t they once a short-fix
remedy for missing games practice, getting
out of hockey? Or whatever it is they play
nowadays.
But you don’t know any of this yet. No,
no — for now, you’ve fallen headlong down
a deep, dark well. That saunter offstage —
that desperate façade of casualness — that
cost you, ma puce, didn’t it? They could see
it in your face when you crashed back into
the wings, crying out for an ice pack. I saw
it straight away, the fear in your eyes. The
knowledge. It’s a terrible knowledge.
Trust me, I know.
Your skin is turning clammy. Your eyes roll
back in your head, you flail for the glass of
water they proffer. Then you heave, and you
vomit it all back up again.
They shift you off the chair they’ve planted
you on, lie you on the floor. This room’s
scratched tiles are almost refreshingly, welcomingly
cold against your sweating back,
pressing their sharp cool through the flimsy,
floaty fabric of that costume. Careful, now —
it might feel good, this coolness, but you’re
going into shock, anyone can see that.
You’re turning cold. Why is no one smothering
you with a blanket? Doesn’t anyone know
what they’re doing round here?
It’s swelling, your leg.
Things are getting going, and you’re only
dimly aware of it all. Backstage is a flurry
197
of activity. More icepacks and elevation,
whispered conversations, slamming doors
reverberating through the shuddering building.
The tête-à-têtes you know will be taking
place somewhere in this cantankerous old
rabbit warren, though you’ll never know exactly
what was said. And yet, later — much
later — you’ll find yourself obsessed with
piecing together the jigsaw of how this day
unfurled. All you didn’t see, or hear said.
C’est normal, my peach.
The people in green overalls, they’re
handing you a contraption. Asking you to
breathe deeply into it, and when you inhale
a machine next to you makes a raggedy
wheeze, a bellows.
Relief floods your face. Gas and air. Good
preparation for childbirth! somebody jokes,
and you greet their tentative easing-of-thetension
with eyes that are swimming with
pain. There’s pain worse than this? This is
not succour to you right now. We can all
plainly see that those slim hips, that sylphlike
waist have never had a child squeezed
through them. That this is something so far
into your future as to be incomprehensible
to you.
Now you’re talking back. Something in
you has begun to rally. Good girl — I was the
same. You want to continue, of course you
do. You try to haul yourself to your feet. You
can do this, you’ve trained your whole life
for this, you can get back out there, you can
finish the job. The show must go on, you declare,
and half the people gathered around
you smile (they’re indulging you, mon ange).
The other half cringe.
Others arrive, more people, easing you
back down to the earth. I want to take you
by the shoulders, shake you into submission:
enough of the protests, enough of the melodrama,
chérie. Lie down, be quiet, I want
to tell you. You’re making promises you can
never keep, you’re burbling inanities. You
know not what you say.
This bit — oh, this bit is still hard for me
to watch whenever it happens, even now.
But, ineluctably, it begins: the sad reverse
metamorphosis. The indignity of being dismantled
of all the accoutrements that made
you able to get out there, on that stage.
They deconstruct you swiftly, ruthlessly.
Tights, hairpiece, dress, shoes, the lot. You
know, once they’re off, they’re never going
back on.
And now they’re fumbling you back into
your civvies, which are crumpled with sweat.
Your own clothes, ready for your exodus, are
your badge of reality, your failure.
And believe me, ma petite, you have
failed. They’ll tell you you haven’t, that it
wasn’t your fault, that these things happen.
But you and I know better. It was your own
faltering flesh and blood, your own expensively
honed limbs that gave way. Only you
are to blame. If only you’d kept your nerve,
kept concentrating.
Someone else is here now, someone is by
your side, holding your hand. He looks directly
into your eyes and speaks sweet platitudes
into your ear. You cling to him. This
isn’t the lover (at least, I don’t think so…you
may surprise me yet). But he is someone.
There’s something else here, some deep vein
of feeling that flows between you both. Later,
you’ll want to ask him, what did you say
to me that night? Out of all the things people
said to you — the tributes and commiserations
alike — this is what you’ll want to hold
on to. His words. Only his.
Then he’s gone, and other things are happening.
Other things, things you caused but
will never be privy to: emergency meetings,
hushed voices, footsteps in corridors, machinations,
cogs wheeling just out of sight.
The show must go on.
Gradually, it dawns on you: the show. Not
you.
Not you. The show.
Not your show. The show as it exists for
you — that show, your version of it, your part
in it — all that is done with. For you, this
night will remain forever suspended, unfinished,
a throbbing caesura.
They come in, now, the one who was holding
you when you fell, and the other one.
Your gang. Nobody speaks, nobody needs to.
You have all lived through something these
past few weeks. There’s a complicity. You
hug them around their waists (you can’t
stand up to hug them properly). The breaking
of the fellowship, the ties severed. Yes,
there’s a certain exquisite agony in that.
That parting of the ways. I remember it still,
I do.
It was messier with me, of course. My
story is far messier than yours. And yet, like
yours, it was an outcome that was, in some
universe, theoretically possible…but pushed
out of sight, out of mind.
Well. What choice did I have? I had to go
on that night. The show had to go on.
Did it not?
You, you swell. You inflate, your body muffling
around the wound, protecting itself.
Me, I gave way. Disgorged. Collapsed. Imploded.
Blood and water.
198
It took them a lot longer to clear up after
me, I can tell you. You, you’re a breeze. A
sweat-soiled patch on the floor, a discarded
shoe.
They’ll cart you away soon, spoiled goods
and all that. Maybe very soon. In fact — aha!
— here they come now. They’re picking you
up, thrusting their shoulders under your armpits,
helping you to stand; you’re tottering
like a newborn faun.
The sadness is rising in you, I see it. The
panic is ebbing and something else is taking
its place.
Resignation? No. Not quite. Not yet. More
people come, gather round. Some pull you
into an embrace, some shake your hand,
some lean in close and murmur soft things
under their breath. The atmosphere has
turned distinctly funereal: look! Look how
quickly your performance, and all you did
with it, has been transmuted to the past
tense. I’m not gone yet, you want to scream.
I can still do this, you insist, don’t be too
quick to move on!
But they will, of course. Everyone always
does. (Though, God knows, you won’t. Not
for a long, long time.)
Them, though — they’re fickle. Give it five
minutes and this plot twist, this unfortunate
little misadventure, will become part of your
company’s folklore. Mere gossip, fodder for
those who love to pick at the bones of such
things, question, point fingers.
Meanwhile, the violence and the heat of
it all will simply be absorbed, will permeate
the delicate membranes of this venerable
old workhorse of a building, soaked up by its
wood and dust and brick and paint. If walls
could talk, eh? What other stories could it
tell, this pleasuredome of ours?
Mine?
Dare it?
You’re passing into history, into anecdote.
You’re almost out of the door. Soon, you’ll
be in the clutches of another reality: harshly
lit, prodded, examined, dispatched. The
lights will illuminate the darkened auditorium,
announcements will be made, the day
will resume. But you’ll see none of that, of
course. You will never quite complete that
jigsaw.
You have to live with that, chérie.
Worse things happen at sea.
I realise trotting out lines like that won’t
help you. I know your sort. Girls like you fall
into a maelstrom, a frenzy of self-recrimination,
self-validation, melodramatic exchanges,
over-analysis, teary-eyed reminiscence.
Stay close, you’ll want to tell people, the
ones who were with you that day. I am in
pain, and I need you. Don’t leave me so
soon.
And, eventually, you’ll wonder whether all
this dredging of the past, all this scrutiny of
this one isolated afternoon, is cathartic…or
corrosive.
Well, my peach, I can’t answer that.
You’re looking directly at me. You’re
taking your last forlorn glance backwards as
they bundle you through that stage door.
For a moment, you fancy that our eyes
meet. As through a glass darkly. But your
head is still spinning, and you quickly clamp
your lids shut — struck by a fresh jolt of
pain, perhaps, or dizziness, or nausea.
They’re succeeding in escorting you out.
Yet even now, you want to take a stand.
Even at this late hour, you’re struck by an
obscure need to make a meal of it, to make
this even more overblown and awkward than
it already is. To run out (ha — pretty little
fool, if only you could still run!) under the
glaring lights and take a final bow. The bow
you’ve worked so hard all these years to
earn. The exit you think you deserve.
For a second, it’s almost as if you’re asking
my permission. I’m sure our gazes meet,
I’m sure you see me standing there. Your
eyes widen ever so slightly.
I suspect you think you are hallucinating.
Am I a vision or a waking dream? I’m
an incongruity, I know. Things mostly go to
plan around here. Our world is a well-oiled
machine, and we, the automatons. The
disasters — and here I mean the true disasters,
not minor soap operas like yours — are
relatively rare.
Your time is up. The script is rewriting itself
even as we speak. You’ve outstayed your
welcome, and you know it. Away with you,
there’s no more I can offer you. I don’t know
what happens next. I never got to see what
happens next. There are those of us who are
doomed to remain waiting in the wings.
Away with you. I’m bored of you now.
Somewhere in the bowels of the building,
in a dressing room that used to be yours,
there’s a swish of fabric. A speaker crackles.
Beginners to stage, please.
199
Synthetic
Blindness
Free Verse Poetry
Andreas Zignago
Livermore, California, USA
Your eye shines with a gleam of synthetic
chrome,
And yet the eye is blind to the dangers on
the street.
Your eye glows red with the flow of
information,
And yet the dead man who was mugged for
his money is not seen.
Your real eye lies in a dumpster,
And now so do you.
200
From Rubble to Relic
Corrosive Metals and Raw pigments
Jeremy Siedt
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, USA
Visual Currents
Digital Art
Kristin Ham
Plano, Texas, USA
201
Curtain Call
Poetry
Nezrin Hasanly
Concord, California, USA
Actors smile and cry when they finish a play,
Why can’t we finish our lives the same way?
When it’s time for the ultimate curtain call,
Why can’t we be proud of ourselves deep
down from the soul?
She Dances
Through Fire
Poetry
Alexandra Bartholomew
Reston, Virginia, USA
She dances through fire
And doesn’t get burned
Her skin alight in
Oranges and reds
Playing a dangerous game
Her movements are smooth
All from flirtatious hips
Her hands twist
Like vines around stone
She looks in ecstasy
How I wish I were she
She dances and dances
Well into the night
Until the first rays of dawn.
the snow
remembered
Poetry
Sam Kaspar
Ames, Iowa, USA
Pupils on cages
as clear as they look white
Huge, to innocent eyes
I awake to the inches of snow
crystallizing, growing up from the ground
after falling
which is lustre, which is shy
In a heavy wonder -- a sweat
glides down a smooth forehead
and I wish it was a cold one --
Still in the dusk the
Giant buildings topple at my every turn
of ancestral skeleton
keys -- round
eyes
Roll through the plain
fragrance recognized is bliss
and sights like mountains
the same, avalanching now
rhyming its weight with that below
with the icy rock
carving out the valley
that once was never there
202
Up the Cellar Stairs
Fiction
Brayden Wiseman
Logan, Utah, USA
Eyes combed the floor below as he
stepped gingerly down the creaking steps.
He reached the stairs’ end and felt the chill
of the concrete begin to spread up, through
his feet. As quickly as he dared to in the
pitch dark, he felt above his head for the
cold, metal chord.
A dim light emanated from the bulb which
now swayed gently in the dingy room. His
heart rate began to descend to normal as his
eyes adjusted to the light. Careful to avoid
any rogue nails, he stepped through a maze
of cardboard and canned goods. Eventually
he found the box which he’d been sent
for. Upon grabbing it, his mother’s voice
rang from above, spurring him along. With
a heave he hoisted the box to his shoulder.
Leaving one hand free for the return trip, he
returned to the bottom of the stairs. Uneasiness
crept over him once more. His eyes
flickered from the open door at the height of
the staircase, then back to the chain hanging
above his head. With a sharp inhale he
pulled the chord tightly and raced up the
stairs. Terror enveloped his being as his own
heavy footsteps pounded and echoed off the
concrete walls. An instant later and he’d
reached the top. Quickly, as if to catch that
which had been following him off-guard, he
jerked his head over his shoulder. The cold,
empty cellar stared back at him, void of his
pursuer.
To sit and watch the breaking of dawn had
become a favorite pastime of his in his older
age. Being a self-proclaimed old dad, he
prided himself on his unusually early awakenings.
Their back porch, elevated slightly
off the lawn, provided a wonderful view of
the sun breaking over the tops of the oaks.
Damon’s favorite moments occurred when
the steam rising from his morning coffee was
paralleled by the mist leaving the earth.
Picturesque, this morning the mist rested
heavily between the trees, and Damon was
feeling very content indeed.
As he sipped gently from his mug, his eyes
drifted lazily through the tree line at the
base of the Virginia foothills. Spots of auburn
and brilliant orange dotted the forest.
At the forest’s top, a rather plump pigeon
flew from one branch to another, and then
back again. He was often out on the porch
early enough to spot birds and other wildlife
beginning their day. Today Damon spotted
something nearer to the ground than a bird
— or perhaps he thought he did. The figure
was silhouetted dimly in the morning light.
He squinted and leaned forward slightly
in his armchair to get a better look at the
silhouette. Damon blinked, and the thing
seemed to be gone. His eyes opened, then
shut several more times, and he rubbed
them lightly, leaning back into his chair as he
did so. Perhaps this dawn was a bit too early,
even for him.
Enjoying the crispness of the air for just
a while longer, he remained seated. He
drained the last of his coffee and gazed out
between the trees. It was quite odd, he
thought, that somebody might have been out
walking with the trees this early. For surely,
the silhouette had belonged to a person.
203
Damon hadn’t put his contacts in yet, but
he was sure that whomever he’d seen had
been walking on their two legs, not crawling
as the creatures of the forest did. Damon
dismissed the thought, chuckling softly. He
realized he was a bit upset at the prospect
of somebody waking up earlier than himself.
He headed back inside the house to ensure
that Ember was awake for school.
To little surprise, his daughter was finished
with her morning routine already. She greeted
him brightly as she always did.
“Hi Daddy. How was your coffee?”
“Bitter as ever, sweets. How’s your juice?
Did you find yourself some cereal?”
“I looked for cereal, but everything I
found was gross. I wanted toast instead.”
Bread sprang from the toaster. Damon
walked through the kitchen and began
buttering the toast for her, letting the smell
of weekday mornings wash over him. He
glanced through the window in the midst
of his buttering and whistling. The morning
mist had dissipated by now, and the
sun shone higher than the treetops. Ember
thanked her father as he placed her breakfast
on the table and kissed her forehead.
The following morning was much of the
same. He listened to birds, he drained his
coffee, he kissed his daughter’s forehead,
and now, he walked the dog. Ember loved
the mutt. The day he’d brought the pup
home, she’d remained by his side ad nauseum.
Their eventual separation when the
school bus arrived had been an ordeal.
Damon didn’t care for him much. He was
messy and poorly behaved. But Ember loved
him; Damon loved Ember; Damon walked the
dog. The cattle dog had seemed especially
loud and unruly today, so Damon intended
to take him on a longer walk than usual in
hopes of tiring the beast. Abandoning their
normal route, he steered the dog down a
narrow, paved path that led through the
woods which he overlooked each morning.
It was fortunate that he had worn a heavy
jacket this morning as the air in the dense
forest would have left him shivering without
it.
Damon allowed the dog to lead whenever
they reached a fork in the path. He didn’t
care much exactly where their walk led so
long as they managed to find a way home at
its conclusion. The dog steered them left at
the next intersection and up a rather steep
portion of the cracked asphalt walkway —
something neither Damon nor his popping
knees, were happy about. As they walked
further, the trees on either side of them
grew taller, older, less disturbed by human
encroachment. Eventually the two reached
a break in the pavement where a small
wooden bridge stretched over a stream that
babbled gently. The cattle dog led hurriedly
over the bridge. Damon followed absentmindedly.
Halfway across the bridge he glanced
to his side, just further up the stream. He
stumbled, and his foot caught an uneven
wooden plank. Quickly he returned to his
feet, eyes wide. Where he had glanced
upstream crouched a figure — a shadow —
the same shadow he had seen silhouetted
against these woods the day before. Damon
stared at what had startled him. It must
have been 20 yards away, and he anxiously
awaited its next movement. A moment
passed, and then another. It turned. It
seemed to face him, yet there was no face.
A shadow seemed to stare back, a silhouette
despite the sun resting high above the scene,
and Damon turned on heel with a yank of the
dog’s leash. He walked more briskly than he
ever had before while his heart threatened
to tear away at his chest. It wasn’t until he
was home, standing safely behind a heavy
locked door, that he dared to breathe freely.
That night Damon lay awake exceedingly
late into the night.
After seeing Ember off to the bus stop,
Damon sipped from his second cup of coffee.
His fingers shook slightly as he set his mug
back down on the wooden end table. While
he was positive they were nothing more than
harmless hallucinations, he still felt quite
uneasy about it all. And so, he’d drawn most
of his living room curtains.
His walk with the dog was much shorter
than average today. They walked along their
normal route and headed home about halfway
through. The dog whined and scratched
at the door when they had returned to the
house. Damon barely heard the incessant
scratching. As he removed his flannel jacket,
a flicker of light in the kitchen caught his
eye. Cautiously, he approached the kitchen
and rounded the corner. The microwave’s
door glinted with a dull reflection of the
late-morning sun. Damon sighed, defeated,
and slumped onto a barstool. His fingers ran
along his scalp.
“That was a dumb story, Dad.” said Ember.
Damon nodded in agreement. He gave her
a peck on the forehead and threatened her
with another story if she didn’t fall asleep
soon. As he left the room, he hesitated at
the light switch. Before his daughter could
notice his pause, he turned off her light and
204
exited into the dark hallway. Dread weighed
heavy on his heart as he thought of closing
down the house for the evening. Ultimately,
he decided it would be easier to simply
leave the downstairs lights on overnight. Doing
so would alleviate the stress of running
up the stairs in the darkness.
The clock ticked over to three, and Damon
sighed. He pushed his covers to his waist and
rested an open palm behind his head. Hours
had passed since he’d first lay down, just
like the nights previous. It had been nearly a
week since the most recent event. But just
as each night before, Damon’s focus was directed
to the room’s opposite corner. It was
a corner he knew to be benign, yet, he often
failed to last more than an hour before feeling
overwhelmingly compelled to check. He
glanced across the room to where the shadow
rested against the wallpaper. It taunted
him. His bloodshot eyes locked severely on
the corner while he reached his free hand to
the nightstand and clicked the lamp on. Like
each of the previous shadows, it belonged
to a potted palm frond. His suspicions were
unfounded and irrational. Damon clicked the
light once more, feeling a slight bit calmer
now that he’d recently confirmed the shadow’s
identity. At five he was finally bid some
sleep.
Ember shook him to life just hours later.
It felt that it had been only a moment.
Damon swung his legs over the side of the
bed and put on a strained smile for his
daughter, his hair somehow angled towards
both the ceiling and the floor. She ran from
the room, shouting something about hair gel
over her shoulder. As her steps echoed down
the stairs, Damon’s act ceased; his face fell
into open hands. He rubbed his eyes, patted
his cheeks, furrowed his brow. No amount
of mental preparation would seem to adequately
prepare for another day of torment.
With great reluctance he stood and made
his way downstairs. He and Ember talked
a bit about the kittens and hamsters she
longed for before she headed out for the bus
stop. As every other morning, Damon kissed
her and wished her good luck, then watched
from the front porch as she trekked through
the lawn and across the street to where
her friends congregated. Damon leaned his
shoulder against the doorframe and felt a
genuine smile spread across his face for the
first time in days — she’d done her own hair
this morning, and her twin ponytails bounced
with her step.
Ember reached the bus stop where
her classmates had already collected. He
watched as they excitedly greeted her. Ember
sat on a park bench, her feet not quite
reaching to the ground. On either side of her
was a friend from school. Damon blinked,
and it was behind her. It hadn’t been just a
moment before — a silhouette. It stood, not
two feet from her, motionless. This instance
was the first in which Damon could view the
entirety of the figure. Its form seemed to
blur and flicker despite its stationary stature.
The tightness in his chest was titanic. After
a moment’s registration, Damon tore off
into a run towards his daughter. His pupils
darted back and forth between Ember and
the shadow as he moved. Around the corner
came the school bus. Damon, when he was
20 feet away, heard the faintest sound, a
sound of vibration. The shadow buzzed in
the daylight, like a lamp which draws mosquitos.
He finished crossing the street and
saw his daughter enter the school bus safely,
yet the thing still remained, watching.
Damon faintly registered a weird look he was
receiving through his peripheral, yet his gaze
was locked, petrified on the shadow.
As it had the week before, the figure
turned to face Damon. This time, its movement
seemed more aggressive. It lurched,
and although it didn’t appear to take a step,
it moved closer to him. Damon cried out,
terrified, and attempted to turn too quickly.
He tripped and caught himself near the
curb. Without turning to see if it still gave
chase, Damon pushed himself to his feet
and sprinted home, eventually slamming the
heavy door behind him. He slid to the cold
tile floor as his quiet sobs filled the empty
house.
It was two in the morning; he’d been lying
in bed for close to four hours now. At this
point it wasn’t that he wanted to be in his
room or that he wanted to be alone with the
shadows of the corners. Exhaustion pushed
him here night and night again. He told
himself that lying in bed awake would offer
more rest than sitting, standing, or moving.
He told himself lies. At least he knew that to
be true.
His mind raced. The continued attempt at
rationalizing irrational events was beginning
to consume his existence. It seemed that he
could think of nothing else. Figures, watchers,
shadows, monsters. Ember hadn’t seen
them. He certainly hadn’t told her about
them, even when she’d been so insistently
asking about his tears and his sunken eyes.
She was young, and he was seeing monsters
in the dark.
Damon sat up in his bed, a curious thought
revitalizing that which was empty. Calling
them monsters in the dark was inaccurate.
Shadows were manifested in the sun and in
the light. His mind now travelled quickly. He
205
looked to the far corner where the faintest
tracing of the palm frond was still visible.
He threw off his covers and violently pulled
his sheet out from beneath the heavy duvet.
Walking to his closed bedroom door, he
rolled the sheet in his hands, stretching it
out lengthwise until it roughly matched the
length of the door. Damon crouched down,
breath shaking, and pressed the sheet into
the crack between the door and the hardwood.
His fingers pushed and molded its
shape until it blocked all light stemming
from the hall. Next, he examined each of
the room’s two large windows. He pulled the
blinds tightly until it seemed they could be
no tighter. Pulling the curtains to the first
window’s center, he cursed in the dark. The
dull remnant of midnight’s light still shone
through. Damon rummaged through his desk
drawer and felt what he thought to be a roll
of tape. Satisfied with the solution, he taped
each curtain to the wall, as well as to one
another.
The makeshift blackout curtains seemed
to do the trick. His bedroom was now so
dark, so void of shadows, that he navigated
back to his bed at a snail’s pace, his arms
outstretched. When he felt the headboard of
the bed, he returned beneath his covers.
Damon lay in bed, his head rested on a
pillow, and he would not have seen his hand
were it an inch from his face. He looked to
the palm frond, to its shadow, and found
nothing in its stead. Damon smiled and sunk
deeper into the mattress. He was asleep by
two-thirty.
Blue Flavor
Painting
Olga Sushchik
Pleasanton, California, USA
206
The drama of weather
Poetry
D.S. Maolalai
Dublin, Ireland
The Fall
Poetry
Vialsy Cabrales Esparza
Lathrop, California, USA
a lathering sea
crawls up and sticks
on the rock-face,
like a toddler's hand
touching the roots
of a tree. and we walk
on the top end
of the cliffside,
secure as wild squirrels;
wool jumpers,
warm coats.
distracted, you are walking
on gravel away from me.
you are picking up
stones, feeling the smoothness
and wearing of all
kinds of weather.
I watch from a distance, admiring
your figure like landscape –
the wind in your mouth,
your hair and grey eyes.
you could be a photograph
I'd quite like
to look at:
grey coat buttoned up,
your hands
on grey rocks. this is the first time
we've driven to moher
and I'm glad that we waited
until now to come –
it's best amongst rocks
and the drama
of weather. the sky
grey as water
and grey as limestone
cracking. rain
falls in curves,
with swooping
seagull movement.
wind goes like clotheslines
flipping in wind.
down in my pocket
my hand finds your hand. it's cold
as wet stones,
and emerges
and leaves stones
behind it.
Falling usually ends in two ways:
A rough awakening or a rough landing.
It begins with a slight sway,
with a hesitant smile and forgetting
Forgetting where and how to stand or what
you were even about to say.
I don’t know if it’s like being drunk
but you could say… the fall is intoxicating.
The pheromones and dopamine combined
can leave you hot and heavy
and though you may be inclined
to wait, it may get frustrating.
The fall is not at all about
the stuff that leaves you sweaty
other than some sweaty palms
It is the precursor to asking someone out
it’s about trying to see
if you’re ready for that first kiss
when there are bombs
going off in your chest
at sharing the same armrest.
My friend, the fall can be hell.
But falling in love is pure bliss.
207
“Can you see yourself with a guy like
me?”
The question stops me as I’m reaching for
his bedroom door. I turn around and look
into those large, deep brown eyes, and my
breath catches. I look down at him lying
on his disheveled bed. This is the guy I’ve
been bragging to my old college roommates
that I’m just using for sex, even though we
haven’t had sex…yet. Even though my sexual
experience thus far has been limited to two
boyfriends. The one-night stand was never a
concept I felt comfortable with.
Raised mostly by my Greek grandmother,
my adolescence was oppressive restrictions
and naiveté. I often joked that I was raised
like veal, confined to a small space and
force-fed. My grandmother, a product of
two wars, World War II and the Greek Civil
War, was the most sparing person I ever met,
environmentally conscious before it was
a movement. She would cut up the butter
carton to write her shopping lists, save all
manner of ribbons and rubber bands, and as
I studied at the dining room table, she would
cut an entire package of 200 napkins in half.
Why use 4-ply when two would suffice? She
also refused to waste food. I once saw her
eat a slice of green bread, dipping it into her
coffee to soften it.
My parents, who were high school sweethearts
in Greece, divorced when I was three.
My father returned to Greece and eventually
remarried, unencumbered by fatherhood,
except for the occasional summer. Knowing
Yes
Creative Nonfiction
Lara Abreu
Pleasanton, California, USA
my mother, I’m surprised he lasted that long,
but young love is innocent, and change is
difficult. Undaunted, my mother finished her
training and became a reconstructive microsurgeon.
She built a thriving practice by
working most of the time. As a woman in her
field, she fought her whole life, and kept on
fighting even after achieving great success.
Her small stature belied a strong handshake,
a steely gaze, and a titanic presence. She
expected me to earn straight “A’s” in school.
My grandmother had ingrained in her, that
unlike possessions, an education was something
no one could take away.
So it was us three ladies living together. As
a kid, I spent most Sunday’s translating my
grandmother’s favorite shows, even though
I thought Hee Haw and The Lawrence Welk
Show were pretty self-explanatory. Every
Easter my grandmother and I watched Jesus
of Nazareth with me translating, like the
story might be different this year. Earning
my driver’s license gave my grandmother
and me a sense of freedom. I drove her to
the Greek Orthodox church, to her friends’
houses for coffee, and the grocery store,
where I watched her compare prices of every
product before selecting her purchase.
I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up or
heels. When I was fifteen, my mom relented
and bought me a pair of kitten heels in
October but wouldn’t let me wear them
until after the holidays, saying they were an
early Christmas present. I would sneak those
shoes to school every day and put them on
while applying eyeliner and mascara in the
208
bathroom before class. I still remember the
beating my grandmother gave me the time I
forgot to remove my make-up before walking
in the house.
The first boy I was interested in was a kid
named Chuck. It was my junior year in high
school, and I had finally shed my baby fat
and my glasses. I learned to tame my mass
of curly brown hair into some semblance of
a hairstyle, no longer looking like the lead
in My Big, Fat Greek Wedding. At night, I
danced and sang in my bikini underwear in
front of my mirror, liking the way my body
looked. Chuck lived down the street from us
and I would walk Gigi, our toy poodle, past
his house in hope of attracting his attention.
One day, my grandmother saw me talking
with him from our fifth-floor balcony and
started yelling, “Maya, get upstairs! You
are sullying the family name!” Greek didn’t
sound very nice when shouted.
“Who is that?,” Chuck asked.
“My grandmother,” I replied.
Years later, my mom would joke about
how I gave the poor dog arthritis from
walking her so much. It was the one joke
she ever made, and I guess it was a little
funny. Not much else about my mom was fun
or funny. Sailing to America on a university
scholarship at eighteen, she did not understand
a lot of humor, nor was she inclined
to try. There was not a lot of laughter in our
house, but there was a hierarchy, and I was
the bottom rung. Everything catered to my
mom. She got the soft Charmin and I got the
scratchy Scott. She ate all the feta, I was
allowed the first bite or two.
“Your parents are divorced, your mother
works hard, you have to take care of her,”
was my grandmother’s mantra before she
returned to Greece when I was seventeen. At
that point, we were not getting along very
well given I was seventeen and she was seventy-eight
and disapproving of most of what
I wanted to do.
But taking care of my mom was not easy.
My mother was nuts; not bunny-in-the-pot
crazy, more like a narcissist-living-in-herown-world
crazy. She had no shame and never
hesitated to impose, either her opinion or
herself. She knew no boundaries and had no
filters. In a word, she was audacious. One of
the few times she took me to a movie, we
were seated, eating popcorn, when a large
man and his two kids entered the theater
and dared to sit directly in front of my mom.
Without hesitation, my mom tapped him on
the shoulder and said,
"You have to move. You are too tall and I
can't see."
Eyes like saucers, the man did just that.
And as the lights dimmed and the curtains
drew back, she put her feet up on the back
of his recently vacated chair. I cringed in my
seat.
Going out to eat with my mom was always
a gamble. Would she snap her fingers at the
waiter? Would she ask for a whole lemon cut
in half at the “equator,” the strangeness of
the request compounded by her thick Greek
accent? One Sunday she took me to Appleby’s
to celebrate my honor roll report card.
We sat in a booth with red pleather seats, a
stained-glass chandelier hanging above us,
perusing the menu. Our waiter greeted us
and poured some water. He was jet black
with a high-top fade and an easy smile. He
was so tall he bent at the waist to hear my
mom as she placed her order.
"I want the Caesar salad, but I only want
the light green leaves, not the dark green
leaves," she said, looking him directly in the
eye with an air of defiance.
Still bent, he leaned in closer and said,
"Say what, now?"
She repeated her request, this time with a
little more edge to her voice.
I leaned over and said, “Mommy, this is
Appleby’s. Your salad comes out of a giant
bag of mixed greens and is thrown on your
plate. There is no choice of leaves here.”
Audacity was the key to her success in her
career and her failure in our family, but it
also gave me an interesting life. I traveled
the world with her to plastic and reconstructive
surgery meetings where she would present
her incredible work on restoring function
to paralyzed limbs and faces. During her
career, she conducted extensive research
on nerve repair, pioneered new procedures
and published extensively. She helped her
patients regain function to their paralyzed
limbs following a traumatic accident or
tumor excision and her talents were sought
after throughout the globe. This did not
leave much time for family or socializing.
Hence, at these meetings, she would drink in
the accolades of her peers while oblivious to
their resentment. She wanted this for me.
“If you go to medical school, I will buy you
a Porsche,” she would say, over and over. Or,
when I tried to talk to her about my interest
in writing and history, “If you want to waste
your life studying nonsense, get your father
to pay for college.”
There was no room for me in our relationship,
just her. Following her advice, my col-
209
lege career was pre-med classes, long labs,
and teaching assistants I couldn’t understand
interspersed with classes I enjoyed.
College certainly lessened my guilelessness,
but drunken frat parties and hooking
up with different guys was not my style. I
dated the same guy for the latter part of
college and after graduation, I returned
home at 22, single, despondent and aimless.
I slid into a job in her office assisting the
practice manager and working with our population
of Greek patients. I again followed
another one of my mother’s terrible suggestions
and applied for the surgical assistant
program at the local medical school. The
curriculum began with regular anatomy and
physiology at the beginning of the summer.
Having missed the start of the program, I
jumped right into advanced anatomy…how
hard could it be?
The first time I saw him rounding the
corner of our classroom hallway, lab coat
billowing around him, I wanted him. I hadn’t
felt this clench of desire before. Tight green
scrubs stretched across his broad chest, just
a hint of black, trimmed chest hair peeking
out the deep “v” of his neckline. The top
was tucked loosely into the cinched waistband,
accentuating his narrow waist and
muscular thighs. And those eyes, intelligent,
inviting, intense and framed with the longest
of lashes. He walked through the throng of
students milling around, waiting to gain entrance
into our classroom. Holding my gaze,
he extended a tan hand and said, “Hi, I’m
Andre.” I closed my mouth and placed my
hand in his, feeling his callouses rub against
my soft skin. He was the only student to
acknowledge my presence in this hallway,
the others choosing to ignore the new girl. It
didn’t hurt matters that he was also pretty
smart. Actually, super smart and, man,
would I need his help.
That morning, our class entered a sterile
laboratory. Stainless steel tables lined up
in rows with trays of gleaming instruments
on them. The linoleum floor reflected the
harsh fluorescent lights above our heads. We
weaved through the tables to the back of
the room, sat in high-school desk-chairs and
listened to a lecture on intestinal suturing.
Interesting enough. During the lecture, I
heard thuds in the back of the room. I kept
looking back to see the source of the sounds,
but couldn’t see over the heads of my classmates,
all furiously scribbling in their notebooks.
Once the lecture was over, the source
of the thuds was revealed.
Anesthetized dogs were lolled on their
backs, ready for our clumsy hands to cut
them open and locate their bowels. The horror
didn’t end there. In pairs, we had to “run
the bowel,” this meant squeezing a length
of bowel to empty it. As the class began
running the bowels, the distinct sounds of
flatulence filled the room. Elbow-deep in a
dog’s abdomen, I’m surrounded by the sound
and smell of sleeping dogs farting. No one
else seemed phased by this. Some students
laughed; others tried to cover their noses.
I threw up a little in my mouth. Maybe I
shouldn’t have skipped the summer classes
to hike and camp across the country.
“I bet you didn’t see this coming
when you woke up this morning.” Andre’s
voice pulled me back to reality and his alluring
presence.
“What, this? This is fly,” I gagged, trying
to remember if I had eyeliner on. I liked
the way the liner made my hazel eyes look
greener.
The lectures were no better. Words like
gubernaculum, glabella, and gnathion were
tossed around like rice at a wedding. Looking
around, everyone was nodding and writing.
I was just staring, eyes glazed, stomach
churning. The day we received the results of
our first test I happened to walk into class
behind him. Tight, acid-washed jeans, biceps
stretching the worn blue fabric of his Reebok
t-shirt, he walked like a satiated panther,
smooth and confident. I again felt the quiver
of desire. The daydream ended abruptly
when the professor handed me my test with
a big, fat “F” on it. I slumped in my chair,
eyes stinging, cheeks burning. He was acknowledged
by our professor for scoring the
highest grade in the class.
After class, I pushed past students standing
in groups, chatting and comparing grades
that were posted on the bulletin board. I
went to the cafeteria for lunch and saw
him at a table chatting with Chris, another
classmate.
“…and that camel toe can’t be comfortable,”
I overheard. They both looked at
me as I approached.
“Who are you talking about,” I asked,
smiling widely.
“Do you even know what we’re
talking about?” Chris asked.
“Sure,” I smirked.
“What do you think we are talking
about,” Chris raised his eyebrows.
“When a girl’s pants are too tight and
the material gets wedged up her labia and
looks like a camel toe.”
Two pairs of eyes widened. I laughed at
their incredulous expressions and Andre
joined in.
“Hey, do you think I could study with you
210
sometime?” I looked directly at Andre. “I’m
super lost and you obviously know what
you’re doing.”
“Sure. I work 3 – 11 pm and then head to
the anatomy lab. It’s usually just Chris and
me in there.”
With the scent of formaldehyde permeating
and surrounded by dismembered bodies,
the nights of the ensuing weeks were spent
learning the anatomical anomalies of the different
cadavers in the lab. He was brilliant
and kind and helpful and delicious. He was
easy to talk to and open about his past. He
had attended the US Military Academy West
Point until being expelled.
“Why were you expelled?” A chink in his
perfect armor?
“A buddy and I snuck off campus with
two girls to see a movie. The next day I was
called into the Dean’s Office and asked if I
left campus the night before. Not wanting to
lie, I admitted that I had.” He shrugged and
shook his head. “My buddy got caught and
ratted me out. I guess they wanted to make
examples of us, so they expelled us. I joined
the army instead of burdening my parents
with repaying my tuition.”
“That’s a tough break. But you left out
one important detail…what movie did you
take those girls to see?” I innocently peered
into his eyes, trying not to smile.
Andre rolled his eyes and quietly mumbled,
“Dirty Dancing.”
One night, he walked me to my car, it
was close to 3 am. I was leaning against the
driver’s side door, holding my keys, feeling
the tension of desire in my body. The humid
night air created halos around the parking
lot lights. The heat of the night felt good on
my skin after the coldness of the anatomy
lab. Weight shifting, our eyes pulled each
other in. Silence and staring. Wanting and
waiting.
“I, uh,” Andre cleared his throat. “I’ve
enjoyed studying with you these past few
weeks. It’s been fun.”
“As if,” I smiled. “You have helped me a
lot and I’m grateful.” My eyes moved from
his eyes to his mouth and back.
“Do you want to go to the beach with me
this weekend?” Andre moved closer, placing
one hand on the roof of my car.
“Sure, sounds fun,” I fumbled with my
keys. He gently lifted my chin, peering into
my eyes as he slowly leaned in and grazed
his lips against mine. My stomach flipped and
my hands fainted to my sides, dropping the
keys. My eyes closed as my head fell back,
waiting for the kiss to deepen. Instead, he
bent to retrieve my keys and opened the
door. He smelled so good, like Irish Spring
and man. I snapped my mouth shut and
sagged into my car.
“Great,” he smiled, “I’ll pick you up
around noon on Saturday.” He gently closed
the door and stepped back from my car.
Drive, you idiot!
My euphoria was short-lived. As I opened
our front door, my mom jumped on me like a
spider on its prey.
“Where have you been? It’s three o’clock
in the morning,” she yelled, eyes boring into
mine, hands digging into my shoulders.
“I was at the anatomy lab, studying.”
“Alone?”
“No, some of my classmates were there.”
I tried moving past her, but she held on,
nails engaged.
“Who?”
“You don’t know any of them. I need help
and nights are when we can all meet.” I
looked her straight in the eyes, unblinking.
She had this belief that she could tell when
someone was lying by implementing her
“blink” test.
“Wait here.” She turned and went into her
office. She returned holding a pager. “I want
you to take this and keep it with you so I can
always reach you.”
“What? There’s no need for this. I always
tell you where I am…”
“I called you and you didn’t answer your
phone.”
“There’s no reception in the anatomy lab,
I’ve already told you that. I was on my own
for four years in Boston and now you want to
track me everywhere I go?
“Maya, I’m not going to tell you again.”
She grabbed my shoulder and waved the
pager in my face.
“No, Mommy, this is crazy. If I lived elsewhere,
you wouldn’t know what I was up to
anyway.” I jerked out of her grip and headed
for my room.
“Fine, take the pager or find another
place to live.” she held my leash in her extended
hand. I closed my eyes, trying to find
the words to convey my rage but nothing
emerged. I walked back, grabbed the pager
and slammed my door behind me. I walked
into my bathroom and kicked a hole in the
wall, just across from the toilet and below
the toilet paper holder. Humiliation and
anger seethed through my body, blunting the
pain.
I fucking hate you! Why do you always
make me feel this way? No matter what I do,
no matter how good I am, it’s never enough.
The tears fell hot and mad down my
cheeks, painting paths of fury and resentment
along the way. The bright colors of my
211
wallpaper blurred together. I closed my eyes
against the stupid colorful triangles that I
had wanted to change for years and focused
on the seething red behind my eyes.
I will find another place to live. I promised
myself. I can’t wait to get the fuck out of
here.
I also couldn’t wait for Saturday. I showered
and used the hairdryer for the first
time, trying to straighten my curls. I debated
on whether or not to apply make-up and
opted against it.
No one looks good in drippy raccoon eyes.
At noon, Andre pulled up to our house
and rang the door. I hoped to leave before
introductions had to be made but was disappointed.
Her small body was rigid and her
hand on the doorknob blocked his entry and
my egress.
“Hello, Dr. Terzis, I’m Andre, one of
Maya’s classmates,” I heard him say while
extending his hand.
My mom just stared at him and said, “Why
are you here?”
“Maya and I are going to the beach
for a bit.” He didn’t stutter or flinch.
I rushed forward, opened the door
wider, breaking her grip, and leaped outside.
“Mommy, I see you’ve met Andre.
We’re going to the beach for the day. See
you later.” My light tone and short smile contrasted
with the beseeching look I gave her.
Please, don’t make a scene.
“Take your pager.” She turned and
walked back into the house.
“Hey, sorry about that, she can be
pretty intense,” I said, looking hard at him,
trying to decipher his thoughts.
“No worries. She’s pretty impressive.
I work in the lab at the hospital and have
heard a lot about her and what she does. I’m
sure her work is pretty intense, too.”
I looked at him, head cocked to one
side and frowned slightly. Then I shook my
head and almost skipped to his car as gratitude
and relief washed over me.
“Do you mind if we make a quick stop
on the way to the beach,” he asked.
“Sure, I don’t mind.” Do you mind
if I imagine you shirtless while you drive, I
smiled to myself.
We pull up outside a rundown building
with bars on the windows and a cage
around the front door. I had never been to
this part of town; all the buildings looked
similar, peeling paint, lawns that were more
dirt than grass, trash strewn about. Even the
houses had bars protecting the windows and
doors.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It’s a pawn shop. Stay in the car, I’ll
be right back.” He walked to the trunk and
started unloading stereo equipment.
“I’ve never been to a pawn shop…why are
we here?”
“My paychecks don’t align with when my
rent’s due, so I have to hawk my stereo to
cover the rent. When I get paid, I come back
and buy my stereo back.” He was nonchalant
and easily carried his stereo to the caged
door. He rang the doorbell and I heard a loud
buzzer. He opened the door and disappeared
inside. I caught a glimpse of a cavernous
room lined with shelving units, sagging under
the weight of random items.
Growing up, money was tight, but we
always had money for food and rent. Before
my parents divorced and my dad returned
to Greece, they would give my grandmother
a weekly allowance for food and cigarettes.
She stretched the money for our meals,
packed lunches for my parents and even
some treats for me.
I never worried about money. Andre
shoulders this financial burden alone.
When Andre returned, I asked, “How often
do you have to do this?”
“Every month. Once I’m done this program
and start working as a surgical assistant, I
won’t have to do this anymore. But until
then, Mr. Bourgo and I have a standing date
twice a month.”
The beach was beautiful but the view of
Andre in his bathing suit more so. We swam,
played frisbee, and laid on the hot sand. He
told me about his family and their emigration
from Cuba when he was seven.
“My parents had to work five years of hard
labor to earn their exit visas. My dad worked
in the fields, cutting sugar cane and my
mom cleaned the palaces and homes of the
wealthy military families. They were treated
like traitors by their friends and neighbors
the whole five years. At the airport before
leaving Cuba, a soldier grabbed my sister’s
teddy bear and cut it open with his knife to
make sure we weren’t trying to smuggle any
money or jewelry out of the country.”
I drank in the cadence of his voice and the
poignancy of his story.
“I’m so sorry for your family’s experience.
My grandmother and her family were forced
to leave their homes in Constantinople
during the Armenian genocide of 1922. They
fled to Thessaloniki with only the belongings
they could carry. She was twelve when this
happened and remembers it clearly. I think it
shaped who she became as a person, and she
shaped me.”
“Well, I like the shape of you,” he smiled,
running his finger along my hip bone and
212
down my thigh. Shivers ran down my back
and something fluttered in my belly.
We looked at each other and all traces of
humor evaporated, along with all the moisture
in my mouth. I tried to lick my lips, but
my tongue just stuck in one place, like a pug
with a huge underbite. His eyes drifted down
to my tongue and enlarged slightly. Imagining
what I looked like, I couldn’t hold back
the embarrassed snort and tried to roll away
to compose myself. He caught me before I
could move and pulled me closer to him, the
length of his body heating mine. Holding my
face in his hand, he ran his thumb over my
lips and smiled.
“You don’t ever need to be embarrassed
around me.”
Moved, I smiled back, but then my
thoughts darkened as I thought of my mom.
“Thank you for that, but you don’t know my
mom very well yet. Embarrassing me is her
special talent.”
Andre dipped his head and outlined my
lips with his tongue. I felt the warmth spread
over my body and opened my mouth. He
tasted of salt and sun and my body softened
in his arms. When he pulled back to look
at me, I ran my fingers down his face and
grinned.
“Want to come over to watch a movie
next weekend?” he asked.
All I could do was nod.
At home, I showered and lay on my bed
thinking about Andre and his lips. Smiling, I
drifted to sleep until my mother came home
and woke me up.
“Were you with the gorilla again? He is not
worthy of you.”
I sighed. “You don’t even know him. Why
do you call him that, anyway?”
“Look at him, he is big, ugly and hairy.”
“That’s rude and I like the way he looks.”
And feels.
“I don’t want you wasting time with him
anymore. You need to focus on school and
maybe increase your hours at my office.”
“He’s the reason I am actually passing my
classes.” Exasperated, I rolled out of bed
and went into my bathroom.
She followed me in and wrapped her arms
around me. “Baby, I love you and only want
what’s best for you.”
“I know. I love you, too, Mommy.”
“So, we agree, no more gorilla.” She left
me standing there awash in resentment.
The following weekend, I went to the
house Andre shared with three roommates
in a not-so-great part of town close to our
school. My knock was greeted by the sounds
of barking and yipping. He also shared the
house with three dogs, Zeus, Dillinger, and
Nico, named after Steven Seagal’s character
in the movie, Above the Law.
“Do you want something to drink?” He
gracefully moved into the small kitchen just
off the landing, opening the fridge.
“Sure, I’ll have a soda if you have one.”
I walked towards the living room, just past
the kitchen, taking in the blank walls, torn
linoleum, and mismatched furniture. The
worn living room carpet held a scratched
dinette set with four drab chairs, the stuffing
missing from two of them, one lumpy,
mustard brown sofa, a glass-topped side
table with the lamp leaning against the wall
and the tv stand holding nothing but the tv.
Clearly four guys lived here.
“Oh, the VCR is in my room,” he said.
“Oh, uh…” I gulped, eyes widening.
“But I can bring it down here if you want.”
“Uh, no, that’s ok.” I stammered. The
room suddenly felt really warm, like my
face.
Stop acting like a dork, it’s just a movie…
in his room…
His room held even less furniture than the
living room. His pride and joy was his stereo
system and I was happy to see it in its natural
environment. The two black speakers,
almost my height, flanked his tv, which rested
on a rickety stand holding the aforementioned
VCR, his receiver, and some movies.
The rest of the room was taken up by his
massive, single-ballast, king-sized waterbed
held in a bulky wooden frame with twelve
drawers. No desk, no chairs, not much light.
The single-ballast made sitting on the bed
difficult. Our vastly different weights created
an imbalance in the mattress, forcing
me to either sit perched atop the bulge his
weight forced, or sit incredibly close to him
and share the space formed by water displacement.
After a few awkward attempts at
perching, and a lot of laughter, I rolled into
the valley his body had created. We made it
about a quarter of the way through the movie
before our hands explored the contours
of our bodies and our lips tasted what our
imagination had been drinking in over the
last several months.
“Beep beep beep beep beep!” My pager
blared and I knew it’s my mom.
“Sorry, it’s my mom paging me.” It sounded
utterly ridiculous even to my ears. I fell
back against the mattress, closed my eyes,
and dropped my arms over my face.
“That’s a relief. I thought you were selling
drugs.” He laughed and sat up in the
bed, with a lot more coordination than me.
I wished I did sell drugs. I pulled out my flip-
213
phone and dialed the number I have called a
ridiculous number of times.
“Maya, where are you? You should be
home, studying, not wasting your time with
that gorilla.” Her insult sliced through me,
resurfacing wounds, old and new.
Voice shaking, hands sweaty, and nausea
clawing up my throat, I said.
“I won’t be coming home tonight.”
I gently closed the phone, shutting out her
incredulity and dominion.
I covered my eyes with my hands and then
ran them through my hair. I turned to look
at Andre, sure he wouldn’t want to see me
again, especially now that he knew I came
with a crazy, pager-abusing mother.
“I’m sorry, I have to go.” I turned towards
the door.
“Maya, wait.” Andre gracefully rolled out
of bed and wrapped his arms around me,
pressing my head to his chest. And that’s
when he said it,
“Can you see yourself with a guy like me?”
214
Galapagos Love
Photography
Lara Abreu
Pleasanton, California, USA
Love Poem With
Natural Disasters
Poetry
Matthew Andrews
Modesto, California, USA
After All
Poetry
Heidi Speth
St. Peters, Missouri, USA
We might burn this resort down,
you and I, the way our love swallows
like a spreading fire. Don’t stack wood
too high in the pit, they warn us
at check-in. Observe quiet time
after ten. But how can we?
If our lips are silent, the earthquakes
in our skin still tremor with passion.
We are a danger to this place,
to its manicured gardens, its pond
asleep in the field, its discreet fountains,
for we come together as swirling clouds,
as floodwaters rushing through doorways,
as electricity thrust down from heaven
itself.
Slut. Whore. Waste.
These words do not define me
Yes, they are spat at me every day
By both friend and foe, lover and enemy
But they do not define me
My skin is like leather, while these words wear
on it, I will not give in
I will not let these words ruin me, I will not
let these words destroy me
It is not always easy,
Sometimes, I too, want to curl up and cry
I want to hide in the back of my closet and let
the monsters kill me
Piece by piece
That’s not the point though
I don’t quite know the point, perhaps it is not
giving up
Perhaps it is that I am worth more
I am not a word but so much more
After another day out on the town
Having countless words thrown at me without
a peep of protest from anyone
I went into my room
My eyes flickered from sticky note to note
card
Strong. Courageous. Beautiful. Hero.
He didn’t leave me much when he passed
Just a ring and some notes, the notes that
surround me
Build me up, tell me my worth, these words
affirm and assure me
They say you shouldn’t let one person define
your worth,
But sometimes, you have to do what you can
to keep yourself from insanity
My eyes scan the notes
It is going to be okay
Even if this society and everyone in it doesn’t
believe in me
At least he did
And that will be enough for me
For now, and maybe
Forever.
215
A Summer with
You, Again
Poetry
James Harvey
Nottingham, England, UK
A Ritual Adventure
Poetry
Elaine Monasterial
San Pablo City, Laguna, Philippines
Summer sun competing with you to kiss my
skin
Goosebumps from her infinity of light, a
golden glow
Accompanied with the blindness of love
A sense of serenity, but
Let me kiss your skin before the sun
Because I’m sick of waiting patiently
Forget the betrayal
While lying on her, the leather's soft
Pillows break my fall
Is this love?
Ocean of feelings flood my brain
Taste, smell, energies align
We used to bike together
But now we’re solo
Left index twitching
Seeing in twos
Wishing that’s the universe’s way
Of bringing me back to you
Meet me outside my consciousness
Numb yourself to my dream world
Watch through rose-tinted glasses
Our relationship grow
Until the morning, when life goes on without
you
A green Door slowly
opened its mouth to me — presented an
Elysian wedding in luminous chinaware,
and white fripperies
And lots of
Tart. Sweet, fruity tart — oh Felicity!
Lemon tart. Strawberry tart. Mango tart
perching on willow slabs crowded
in lavender for me
I entered the Door
In my chiffon wedding dress.
A cloudburst of kisses filled the gloaming.
But not for long. I heard the gods doffed
the tart on my platter. The gnomes were
starving
And ate my tart.
So, I ran into the night, like a loca —
tucked in my arms my wedding dress.
Tall Tikas were ranting why I was very naked
when in fact I was carrying my dress
And I fainted
On the amorseco-filled grass.
The mimosa meshes whispered that I had to
eat twigs to survive — and forget all
about the tart.
All the sweet and fruity tart!
So, I gobbled all the lonesome, loathsome
twigs on Earth. All the tellurian spirits bowed
at me
On that peculiar, moonless night. Because I
was still
carrying my white dress
And I did not die.
216
Mark watched Leonard hug his grandchild.
My grandchild, Mark reminded himself,
Leonard’s great-grandchild.
Mark was sitting in his parent’s living
room. He was a grandfatherly age, 55, and
the girl, his granddaughter, was a grand
daughterly age, not yet 3. His own father,
Leonard, was 78, too old to be the grandfather
of a young child kind of age.
Mark had grown up in this house, but he
sat on an olive green armchair in the corner
of the living room, by the TV, like a stranger
with poor manners, one whom a certain kind
of woman might see with their legs kicked
up and say, “well make yourself at home,
won’t you?”
There was a fire burning. Leonard had
made a big show of starting it. Mark had
made a big show of stoking the logs with the
iron poker. Leonard watched him critically
while he did this and mumbled to the women
of the house that he wished Mark would
learn to let things be.
Mark and Leonard sat in opposite corners
of the room, as far away from each other
as possible. Leonard was on the long, tan
leather sofa where everyone else, all the
women of the family, sat. Mark sat alone,
like an island to himself, he thought. If he
said this out loud, his mother would say he
was a sensitive man who thought too much.
His father might roll his eyes and groan, so
Mark kept it to himself, but yes, it was true;
he was an island to himself. Nothing truer
would ever be.
There was a large, octagon-shaped glass
A Father's Touch
Fiction
E. Alexandra
Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA
table that separated the two men and Mark
pretended to be watching the TV, but he was
actually watching his father and the girl’s
reflection played out on the glass-like another
TV.
Mark watched the way Leonard held his
arms around the girl, the way she sat in his
lap, the way he draped his long arms around
her body in a casual, relaxed, comfortable
way. A kind of way that said he had been doing
things like this, this hugging and loving,
all his life, although Mark certainly did not
remember it that way.
The girl had gone easily to Leonard in the
way young children do. To Mark though, she
had approached, crawled to his feet as he
sat in the green chair. He had leaned down
and waved his fingers in her face, she had
smiled, but she had not crawled into his lap.
She had frozen at his feet, looked him as if
he was surrounded by glass, some hardened
force, like she was coming across a closed
door, some block she knew she would not
be able to move through. She had looked
at him, smiled, and then turned around.
The girl had rejected him easily and with
certainty, cruelty, Mark thought, in the way
young children do.
She had rejected him and crawled to
Leonard’s feet instead, and Mark had
watched as Leonard did not wave fingers in
her face but held his long arms down. He
watched as the girl accepted, crawled into
his lap, and he had watched amazed because
his whole life he had been certain, as certain
as the girl was of him, that his father
217
had been a closed door, something enclosed
in glass.
He watched them now and was jealous
that his own father was bouncing the girl on
his knee, feeling the girl’s squishy diapered
bottom against his denim-covered legs. Why
had she chosen Leonard and not him? He
wondered angrily. Was it the way his father
had held his arms down? The way that said
she did not have to accept him, but he knew
she would, and how exactly had Leonard
learned this, Mark wanted to know.
For instance, Mark knew that if he had
held his arms down for the girl and she had
turned away, he would have never, ever,
ever done it again. He would have taken it
personally, taken it as a personal insult, and
Mark also knew, somewhere, this belief had
to do with his own failings as a parent. The
need for his own children, the girl’s mother
for instance, to respond when he reached
out, to never reject him, and to always be
excited when he reached out. His ex-wife
had once accused him of expecting a “goddamn
parade” when he came around. Well,
what could he say? He had not known another
way.
Mark watched Leonard now and again
thought, how had he known to do this? To
hold a child in his arms in this relaxed,
gentle way? Had someone taught him?
Shown him exactly how along the way? And
if his own father had known how to do this
all along, why is it he himself had not also
learned? How was it that his father had not
taught him? How was it that it had not been
passed down, either by word, or, ideally and
most importantly, by his father’s own touch
against his skin?
He tried to remember, but he could not
remember. He could not remember the
touch of his father on his own skin.
The girl crawled down from his father’s
lap. He let her go with a squeeze and a kiss.
She crawled down, but she stayed playing at
his feet. His father was watching the race
on the TV. The girl’s mother passed in front
of the TV. Mark did not remember his father
ever yelling at the girls, any girls, to get out
of the way, to let him watch the TV, never
once, as he had so often yelled at him. He
thought of this and thought that perhaps his
father was a different man than he remembered.
He thought perhaps that he had remembered
him wrong or that he might have
changed into a more gentle man with age.
Mark thought this, and Mark took a chance.
“Dad, who’s winning the race?” he said,
and when he did, he hated the way his voice
sounded: as if he were holding his breath.
It was the voice of a man who was used to
being ignored.
“Oh hell, Mark, I just put it on,” he said
dismissively, and then Leonard leaned forward
with the remote, his chest against his
thighs, and said to Mark, “you can change
it.”
Mark did not really want to change it, but
he watched as his father leaned forward.
The space was much too far for them to
reach without one of them standing up, and
Mark knew with utmost certainty his father
would not be the one to stand, and so Mark
did. He rose from his chair, took five steps
towards his father, and as he did, his mind
raced at what exactly he would put on the
TV.
He did not know. He did not really care
about the TV, but he felt as though this was
a game in some way, as if his father were
handing over the reins, and Mark had to
prove he knew how to take those reins, even
if this was all just about TV.
Mark was not sure what was correct to
put on TV, but he was sure sitting down,
letting this be was the wrong answer. Just
as earlier, poking the flames of the fire, not
letting it be, was the wrong answer. This was
the game his father played, a shifting set of
right and wrong to which Mark was always
falling on the side of wrong.
Mark stood in the living room of his parents.
He looked around at his daughter and
his granddaughter, their eyes on him; what
would he do? Would he do the right thing? He
did not know. He did not know what to do,
but he would stand and take the remote anyway.
And as he did, he would not think about
what he would put on TV. He would focus
instead on his father’s fingers on his, and he
would commit all his energy to remembering
what his father’s touch felt like on his skin.
218
I'm Part of
Something
Beautiful
Poetry
Alexandra Bartholomew
Reston, Virginia, USA
I have come to accept
That I’m not the protagonist
The dashing hero
The one who’ll lead us to a brighter day
I’m a background character
In the grand scheme of things
I’m the muted strand
Next to the brightest color
Making it pop out
I may not see the whole tapestry
But I’m there just the same
I may never have a Cinderella moment
That’s okay
I’ll support the lucky one
I may not be Robin Hood
I don’t want to be
But I’ll join his merry band
I know I’ve impacted
People I’ve never had a chance to meet
I know I’m important
Even when I don’t know why or how
The tapestry I’m woven in
Is beautiful
I’m there next to the brightest stars
I’m there with details
I’m there
Not to stand out
I’m a part of something beautiful
Though I’ll never know how much.
Starry Nights
Poetry
Alex Phuong
Alhambra, California, USA
Van Gogh Post-Impressionism
Optimism overpowering pessimism
Even in the darkness
Light shines through and through
Even before the break of dawn
Even if a doe has no fawn
Life exists all around the Earth
Lives that begin at birth
Starry nights with dots of white
Stars shining pure and bright
Starry night, starry night
Let us all shine through
And do more than just do!
My Father Reads
Meditation XVII
Poetry
Lilly Constance
Falls Church, Virginia, USA
In the incandescent living room
Of my home during summertime,
I sit and talk with my father
About birds, old books, and the question of
heaven.
My home is a library
Of endless volumes, peeling spines aligned,
Of rosaries hanging from coat pockets,
Of crowded spice jars spilling,
Of paintings of the Spirit.
My first lesson in curiosity — or perhaps I
should call it wonder —
Was the first time my father handed me a
book
And taught me that life lies open to us.
I recall this as he gingerly removes one from
the shelf,
It’s yellow ochre cover crumbling at the
corners,
Issuing a smell of dried leaves
That we both breathe in before he begins to
read.
I have read Donne before,
But had not realized that Donne’s words in
my father’s words,
My father’s words
Are what cultivate my wonder.
This I understand when his voice breaks
And tears begin to roll down his cheeks
Catching and becoming light as they fall.
Taxi Cabs
Poetry
Nezrin Hasanly
Concord, California, USA
Everyday and every moment we come across
different opportunities
Like a city pedestrian surrounded by taxi
cabs of different varieties
But when we're surrounded by so much, it
can be easy to see nothing
When searching for our purpose, we can get
drained from overthinking
And when the night comes, we've walked for
so long and are weary
Seeing one taxi cab then is a blessing that
has entered our journey
But the driver won't stop until you choose to
raise and wave your hand
So make that first step and don't let your
goals get crushed to sand
219
Paper Bird
Painting
Olga Sushchik
Pleasanton, California, USA
220
Travel
Painting, Oil on Canvas
Yim Ivy Wu
Danville, California, USA
221
Sam Epps nodded to the next person in
line. She came forward, a curvy woman with
medium length black hair and caramel-colored
skin, dressed rather conservatively in
a suit, low pumps, and subdued brown tie.
"Mr. Epps!" she crowed. "I've been a fan of
yours since — gosh! I don't know when!" She
handed over a copy of House on Fire! his
thriller about a man who was "blessed" with
a pair of inhumanly strong robotic hands he
acquired after a horrible car accident left
him mangled and a double amputee, and
Sam signed it as she leaned in and handed
him a business card, which had written on
the back: "Excelsior Hotel. Room 134." Her
voice became husky. "Come by when you're
through, and we'll see what else I can find
for you to sign."
Sam smiled. "I might just do that," he
said, handing her book back, after which she
turned and walked away. The next person in
line was a teenage goth kid, his face mostly
clear, but with a small red pimple at one
of the corners of his mouth. "Why are you
wearing a hat inside?" the boy asked.
"Keeps my head warm," Sam replied,
provoking a short bark of laughter as the boy
handed over his dog-eared paperback, Leviathan
Wakes, a mystery about a humorless
detective trying to find a nano-augmented
dwarf with ten bodies to his name.
After the boy, there was no one else. Sam
looked at his gold Rolex: 10:01 at night. He
left the unsigned books on the table he'd
been sitting at (the bookshop's owner, Adel
Swart, told him to do this earlier) and picked
The Wearer of Hats
Fiction
Sergio Hartshorne
Rociada, New Mexico, USA
up his messenger bag, said good night to
Jack Smith, the security guard on this floor
of the mall, and exited through the doorway
on the east side of the building. The night
was cool, rare for New Atlanta, this partly
explained by the puddles on the sidewalk as
Sam walked to his car, a Neran Triton, which
was the equivalent of a twentieth century
mid-cost-range Mercedes, back when that
company still existed. He got in, throwing
his bag carelessly in the back, sighing loudly
behind his black-out tinted windows, locking
the doors, and taking off his white Panama
hat, after which a strange thing happened,
which couldn't be seen from outside the
car. His form shimmered as though it was
a hologram disintegrating. His eyes, which
before now had been amber orbs of the type
so many had become ice blue, cold pinpricks
of light. His skin vanished, replaced
by a silver polymer which glowed even in
the muted light. His clothes shimmered and
faded away, leaving him resembling what he
actually was: a sentient robot, anatomically
incorrect because while most would call him
"it," his creator had called him "boy" as he
became gradually more senile, forgetting
that his creation wasn't in fact his biological
child, and Sam guilty of what wasn't
technically a crime, but would no doubt
be severely frowned upon if anybody found
out, impersonating a worldwide bestselling
author. After all, he thought, he did in fact
write the books, so why should anybody care
that he wasn't human?
*
222
Sam pulled into the underground garage,
lit by soft orange LED+ Bulbs. They were
supposed to last 20 years, but actually had
a life-span of about five. Sam had had to
replace them three times, which was how
he knew. He turned off the car and got out.
He was greeted by a shiny white and black
bot which came up to his chest and had
two stocky manipulator arms (six-jointed)
and who traveled on tracks that looked like
they'd been thought up by a twenty first century
tank engineer with a fetish in Advanced
Industrial Miniaturization. It also had a bar
of lights set into its head, which flashed in
alternating reds and blues.
"EPP-C!" it chirped in a high nasal voice.
"You have returned! Would a molecular scrub
suffice for today? Or perhaps a deep nano-polishing?
Nothing like a long, good soak
in a bath of nanites to get that city grime
off!"
B-112 was a bot that had appointed itself
Sam's butler after he had discovered it
rusting in a dumpster in a deserted, condemned
portion of old Los Angeles and had
paid an exorbitant sum to get it discreetly
shipped here, after which he had cleaned
and repaired it as much as his limited skills
allowed. He had been able to do little to discover
its programmed function, but suspected
it had once been a security bot.
"Just the scrub," Sam said. "Do I have any
mail?" he continued.
A door in B-112's casing slid back and one
of the bots arms reached inside and pulled
out an envelope and handed it to Sam. It
was expensive-looking, and the return address
was from the Bureau of Technological
Maintenance and Supply, which was a fancy
way of saying that this department answered
calls for repair of obsolete appliances. The
central heating unit for the living quarters
section of the complex (tastefully furnished
with Vermeers and Botticellis) had been
dying in slow wheezes, and humans, Sam
understood, hated being cold, so to let it
go un-repaired when he had to sometimes
entertain guests would be completely unacceptable.
Sam headed down a dimly lit corridor towards
the East Wing, followed by B-112 who
chattered about the weather, gave the sporting
news for 10 major sports and then the
daily updates on the World Stock Exchange.
*
Sam sat in the molecular bath. The odor
of tannin wax mixed with motor oil would
have made a human being sick to his or
her stomach, but Sam was able to turn off
his sense of smell when he wanted to, and
besides, he had no stomach to be sick to. He
was turning over a proposed plot twist in his
latest story, a prologue to what he planned
as a space opera featuring the heroine Karla,
who had the curves his publisher wanted to
show off in the series of flouted illustrations
that Space and Starlight wanted to put on
the first page, but which Sam refused to
make the main selling point. It wasn't that
he was stuffy about sexuality; no, humans
and the way they experienced the world
through their bodies fascinated him, but he
was insistent that Karla Rednica was most
notable for her keen mind, and her Ph.D
from a fictional, but prestigious university in
nano-medicine, as well as for being the captain
of her own ship in the Torallian Navy.
The plot twist he was pondering concerned
the scene where she was gravely
wounded and had to be implanted with an
artificial heart. He wondered: Will people
buy that a woman with such an injury could
recover in three months, in time to be ready
for the Battle of the Red Dwarf? He was
using a tablet that incorporated holographic
real time input (meaning that he could move
whole lines of text,or discard them, with a
flip of the finger.) He tried twelve different
forms of the scene in half an hour, but was
satisfied with none of them, so he saved the
latest version, stepped out of the bathtub
and used a coarse burlap sack to scrub off
most of the residue of the cleaning solution
and then let a spray of high pressure water
get rid of the rest.
The maintenance man was supposed to
come in two days. Sam hated to wear it,
because thought it looked stupid, but he had
the type of hat worn by humans when they
were in their pajamas. He would try to meet
the repair man early in the morning so that
any oddities could be excused as him not
being quite awake just yet.
*
The time between his last public appearance
and the appointment with the maintenance
man passed in the way all meetings
that people dreaded — like lightning going
from a cloud to the ground in an energetic
thunderstorm. Sam was not immune to this
emotion; his creator had given him the gift
of emotions, and just like human beings, he
couldn't switch them off at will. It was, he
often thought, the one thing he wasn't at all
sure he was grateful to that man for.
B-112 was safely out of sight in a back
room well away from the offending piece of
equipment. His other housemate was J-13,
223
an aerial drone who had become sentient
after her owner had delegated almost every
function of his life and overclocked her with
the unintended consequence that she could
choose a gender and run away and accidentally
found Sam, when he was coming back
from a meeting with his agent, as she flew
around muttering curses, earning uncomfortable
looks, and several passersby were
calling to report a malfunctioning AI. He had
only saved her by claiming that she was his
and that he would get her "fixed" as soon as
possible. She was also out of sight because
she had developed an almost violent hatred
of human beings and castigated them loudly
whenever they were mentioned, and would
no doubt curse even more in the presence of
one in person.
Sam was dressed in his pajamas (generated
by the silly looking hat in physical form
as well as visually.) The guy was 30 minutes
late. When he finally showed up at the door
and banged on it loudly, Sam saw the man
was dressed in a greasy green coverall with
a broken zipper that went only about two
thirds of the way up, unshaven, stubbly, and
with what looked like tomato juice stains
on his white tank top, and a gun-metal-gray
tool box in one hand.
Sam answered the door and exchanged
greetings, not forgetting to curse the Braves
for sucking so bad this year and accompanied
Fred (his name was embroidered on
the coverall) inside, leading him past Sam's
bedroom, where he had Brahms playing at a
tastefully low volume. "You like the classicals,
huh?" Fred said in a Bostonian burr. "My
wife too. Always playin' those guys with the
hard-to-pronounce-names like Chekevksy."
"Ah, Tchaikovsky. One of my favorites."
"Yeah. That dude."
As Sam let the man into the domicile,
he saw that the man's name sewn onto the
coverall had a thread hanging loose, but he
thought nothing of it. Fred started humming
tunelessly. As they reached the heating unit,
he ceased humming for a second, scratched
under one armpit, and set his toolbox down.
He used a pneumatic, hand-held screwdriver
to take the cover off and then, after fiddling
with the on/off switch, (he had to crouch
to do this, it being low down for a man his
height) he stood up and said: "I'll need some
parts from my van before I can fix her," and
started walking back to his vehicle.
As he came around the corner that would
take him to the front door, Sam saw Fred
run full tilt into something very solid with
a loud clang! that turned out to be B-112,
who stood there, manipulator arms fidgeting,
muttering "Bad! Bad! License plate not
registered!"
Sam came up and helped Fred stand, saying:
"Sorry. It's only my laundry helper bot.
He didn't mean anything by it."
B-112 chirped a loud chirp and blared out
at extremely high volume: "J-13 scanned his
van! It belongs to Terraria Corp., also known
as a front for the National Security Agency.
He's an impostor EPP-C! An impostor!" Fred
began to reach into his coverall, but before
he could, B-112 shot forward and grabbed
both his arms with two of his manipulators.
Sam walked around to stand in front of
Fred. He reached out, grabbed the loose
thread in his name patch, and pulled. It
came off with a tearing rip! Underneath was
another patch, that read "George."
"Raise his arm, B-112." The bot did, and
Fred was revealed to be holding a large monkey
wrench.
"What did you plan to do with that, Mr. No
Name? My friend here can tear off your arms
as easy as pie."
"Please," the man said "I was only sent
here to reconnoiter! We heard a report of
a famous author who was an unregistered,
hostile, Extra-Planeter, masquerading as
human. My bosses don't need to know what
you really are."
"And how do you know what I am? Hmm?"
"I know EPP-C is a bot designation. I studied
as an engineer in college."
"Give me one reason I should believe you."
"Family."
"How so?"
"You have a family. These bots. I have a
family. I'd do anything for mine, and you for
yours. You can kill me if you want, but that'll
just give the anti-botters a reason to have
you all hunted down."
"So. We have a problem. Either we can
trust you — to what? Certify that me and my
family are no threat? Or that I'm human and
the others don't exist?"
"I've read some of your work. It gets dark
sometimes, no denying that, but I'm willing
to swear that you're no lunatic. I'll tell
my superiors that you're a non-issue. I can't
promise they'll leave you alone, but seeing
as how you haven't killed anybody, and
you don't seem to be caching weapons for
the AI uprising, I think they will. But you
should really think of a way to explain why
you keep turning down so many beautiful
admirers when they offer to make love to
you. I don't know. Tell someone you're gay or
something..."
There was a more than fair approximation
of recorded laughter from Sam's audio units.
"I'll think of something."
224
A Tiny Dialogue of
Metaphysical Poets
Poetry
S. T. Brant
Las Vegas, Nevada, USA
The cruelty of the Moment is unassuagable.
It is not a moment if it isn’t felt.
How many moments do we have? (…one feels
so little…)
We have some…
but to describe them?
Pinion’d, are we, by incandescences
That sail our senses off the world.
Our tongues trill the air where our vessel’s
failed.
Chaotic symmetry
Painting
igor zusev
Seattle, Washington, USA
225
Moral and Natural Philosophy
Poetry
Robert Beveridge
Acron, Ohio, USA
We were on our way to the Tearoom to see Parker
Posey’s Parkinson’s when the call came over
the Bearcat. Oh, shit, I said, here we go, we’re gonna
miss at least one opener, but when duty calls, you
know. So I pulled over and fired up the GPS,
fed it the cross streets I’d never heard of,
kind of weird in a town that’s known for having
seven stop lights, at least two of which don’t work
on any given day, and off we went to chase
a part-time ambulance and a very pregnant woman
in an olive pea coat with a maroon knitted cap
between five-six and five-nine with dark hair
and dark eyes. Our dispatcher does not have
a flair for the dramatic. Within seconds we were
off the complete opposite way of the club,
of course, because that’s the way these things
happen. But here’s where it gets off track,
bucko. We got a few blocks past the 7-Eleven
on Stansberry, you know, where the abandoned
warehouses and stuff are, and we were
somewhere else. One minute I had the old
Taylor tannery in the corner of my eye
and my mind was lost in thoughts of my
first girlfriend and all the times we spent
in the office there, and the next minute
Janice’s voice cuts into my reverie what
the hell? and I look around and there’s…
nothing. All the buildings that should be
near us are gone. We can see some off
in the distance, but for a good two
or three blocks in all directions, nada.
And let me tell you, my friend, when the GPS voice
breaks in and reminds us we need to turn at the second
226
right, I jumped so hard I still have a bruise on the top
of my head. I still couldn’t see any other headlights,
no blinkies, where was the ambulance?, but turn I did,
and a block later, my eyes bulged out like golf balls
and Janice curled up in the fetal position, all the air
got sucked out of the car, like a huge POP but reversed
even with all the windows shut. Good thing I was so
shook up because I had to slam on the brakes so as
not to rear end the bus that was all the sudden right
in front of my face, and I can hear the wails where
a second before there was desolate silence and engine
purr. So I hop out and run over and you know how
all the rest of that goes. I mean, babies come out
the same way most of the time. I’d never seen the mom
before, which again seemed a little weird in a town
as small as this one, and the dispatcher had failed
to mention that “dark” meant “orange with flecks
of umber” when it came to her eyes, and at least twice
I got so distracted by them I almost forgot to mention
that she was supposed to push. And don’t quote me
on this, if you do I’ll tell everyone you were drunk,
but I swear when she screamed I thought I saw fangs.
Small, but there. But I was concerned with other parts
of her anatomy, and they all seemed usual enough,
and the kid on the way did too, Bob’s yer uncle.
One more good push and…there we have it! Clips
and snips and the ubiquitous white blanket
with the blue and pink stripes and mom held
her baby boy, growling and naked, pure white
as slate. I let go a breath I didn’t know was trapped.
Do you know what you’ll name him? She looked
at me, slick with sweat, knitted cap lost somewhere,
hair a limp explosion, eyes half-lidded. Not an ideal
mindset for conversation. And she could have slurred
something else, but I thought she said Buer before
the driver shooed me off with a curt thanks, closed
the door, and headed off to the hospital.
We did indeed miss at least one opener. Got there
halfway through the second. Easy to admit we both
laid out for doubles as soon as we got to the bar,
and we did it again less than two minutes later.
Jesus, that was weird, Janice said, and grabbed
my hand. Her fingers were still cold. That doesn’t
make much sense in July, not here. I leaned into her
shoulder, drained another highball. I’ll be happy
if that never happens again, yep. We turned back
to the stage and had no idea who that opener was.
We could see their instruments but all I could hear
was desolate silence and engine purr.
To my apartment and all the
spaces I make my own:
Poetry
Therese Pokorney
Chicago, Illinois, USA
when I moved here they told me not to decorate the walls
they gave me a long list of prohibited items:
candles, tacks, tapes, and paints
my cubicle now is gray and bleak
made from the same stupid plastic as public school desks
every inch of my untethered soul was pushed to the back of the
drawer
the ones that hold spare change, paper clips, miscellaneous magnets
we called ours the junk drawer
so behind the stacks of sticky notes and loose rubber bands
i prayed that the girl with paint-smeared fingers would return
hoping it wasn't too late for her to choose another path
227
The child believes it looked better the way it was before, before. The universe, curving,
theoretically foldable, a suspension bridge from here to there, made mostly
of imagination, a seemingly religious juxtaposition, warping the Divine
about a confluence of man-made smithereens.
Incredible, how it all goes on, with, or without us. Earthling as witness, as designated
accident waiting to happen.
As perfect test monkey of inter-dimensional beings,
supernatural visitations or extraterrestrial machines of flashing lights &
a mastery of Time & space & gravity. Crash-test dummy, or the perpetual abductee
/: gone, with the archangel ominous crow
in the frayed black coat.
The Signs and
Wonders of the
Inter-Dimensional
Warrior
Poetry
henry 7. reneau, jr.
Lindsay, California, USA
after the mural by Alex Reisfar—Davis, CA
Always, our horizons, blighted by docking ships of commerce,
monopolies of power & fascist governments of Machiavellian wickedness
beneath a cloudless cerulean sky at midday, as a convergence of Buddhist monks
approach the call of Bodhisattva, & a guileless child gorges on the Apple of Eviction.
The Great Spirit of Creation rises from the waters,
an exposed heart of benevolence beating reckoning
like a blackened column of smoke rising from scorched earth,
as twin swimsuit beauties frolic at the riverbank.
Behind us a wrecked life, random cause & effect so much deadlier than blind hope.
Ahead of us, ghosts & demons & Ragnarok,
conjured
from a bright, howling knot of intangible fear & the cryptic energy of covetousness
deciphered by crow-skulled priests of augury & doom, a scattering
of ruined prophecies of ash
into the rock & roil of river rapids.
Foregrounded, like smoke on the water,
a reptilian, Cheney-esque incognito
arises to offer flowers to a haloed child, a tainted fragment of truth
crammed into the hypocrisy of authority,
an intangible evil, in lieu of candy
or cute puppy, in lieu of mewling kitten/: distraction, distortion & denial to disguise
the fangs of the wolf.
Most soon left agog in wonder & awe. The hearts sewn on sleeves, like drunken
shadows, stumbling headlong towards a glittery destination—a harvestmoon
bright comeuppance. Their lives, a deserted stretch
of super-highway into the middle of nowhere.
& despite the worrying Blue(s)
on my mind, if i don’t go, how will i ever know what’s on the other side?
228
229
Sunny Afternoon
Digital Art
Kristin Ham
Plano, Texas, USA
A Happy Green Chlamydia Plush
Creative Nonfiction
Mercury-Marvin Sunderland
Olympia, Washington, USA
A happy green Chlamydia plush.
Dark green sprigs of “hair” on the scalp.
Black, teddy bear eyes.
An open, grinning green mouth.
An orange tag.
It’s cute.
It’s soft, and it squishes easily in my
hands.
The sound of my laptop running.
The pain of a brand-new UTI.
Cramps.
A headache.
Lack of water.
I haven’t drunken anything in a while.
There’s a window behind my laptop
screen. The sun just came down.
I pull down the blinds.
My arms are heavy and sore.
My glasses are smudged. I have to clean
them yet again.
The Chlamydia plush has factory seams. It
was featured once in a Valentine’s Day ad
from the Giant Microbes company. They
featured a sexy bedroom with all the STD
plushes. All of them smiling, sitting on the
bed, waiting. Waiting.
I lie on my bed and take a big swig of
water. I sit back at my desk with the
Chlamydia plush. I fidget with my septum
piercing.
It’s been a long time since I last had sex.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. It’s not
like I haven’t been asked to. But there’s a
pandemic going on.
At first it was said by King County Public
Health that Coronavirus won’t spread
sexually, you just gotta wear masks while
doing the do. But all I could think was
why the fuck would i want to have sex
while wearing a mask. I thought about
it but masks do not exactly steam up
the sexytimes. I appreciate masks and
understand the importance of them but
if you’re telling me that the only way I
can have sex in a pandemic is by doing
it entirely masked, then I’d just rather
not be having sex right now at all. Sex
is not socially distanced. But then they
discovered soon after that Coronavirus
is sexually transmitted after all. So
it’s a good thing I didn’t try the Covid
sexytimes.
The plush is comforting to squish. It’s
cheerful and fun and brings a whole new
meaning to Toy Story, or the 19-billion
other versions of that same joke every
adult makes about that kids’ movie.
The fur is shiny. Welcoming.
Squeeze.
And release.
230
Why You Shouldn't
Run in Flip-Flops
Poetry
Deborah LeFalle
San Jose, California, USA
I suppose he figured
going for an afternoon run
in flip-flops was an okay idea
peripheral vision caught his shirtless image
for a nanosecond
whiz by my kitchen window
loud moaning and groaning
came next
frightful tumble he must have taken
small group of neighbors gathered
we saw he was coherent
but obviously in some degree of pain
perhaps mostly embarrassed
a call to 911 just the same
skid marks on back
reddened scrapes on elbows, knees and toes
with bits of shredded skin hanging off
ugly cut on right temple
blood trailing down side of face
pressure, pressure
What was he thinking?... maybe he wasn’t
tried to comfort him
stayed until
EMTs came and carted him away
doubting flip-flops
will be part of his running regimen
in the future.
To the Man who
told me
Poetry
katie pfeifer
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
Your scathing words missed my heart
Instead went in a corridor
Of my brain
Which worry looks like paintings
Hung in a museum
For my soul to question.
You see
I wish the robbery was the hard part
The warm gun to my petrified neck
Even my artery couldn't pulse
His bleak eyes
Turned into a painting
My soul is drawn to
Wishing it could concentrate on something
else.
But his eyes couldn't emulate
The man who stood in front of me.
To the man who told me
My parents would enjoy my benefits
When I die
What am I supposed to say?
Thank you?
Take care?
Did you fantasize the blood that flows down
my neck?
Or wish for my heart to stop?
Could we switch?
So your mind is staring at the kid’s painted
eyes
And I leave the museum
On Our Hill
Poetry
Mike Ball
Hyde Park, Massachusetts, USA
Daily, even in brutal weather,
one neighbor traverses our steep hill.
This claudicated climber clomps
her twisted left foot and sets it
firmly at each stride. We all wince
at her struggle, but she stays on task.
She keeps us honest, we who find
the weakest excuse for inertia.
She is a warrior who does not roar
nor clang sword to breastplate.
On her route, she always greets the couple.
Like matched salt and peppers, the frail pair,
two sallow grayheads, police their wee,
yet lush, triangular garden twice daily
at an intersection named for a long-dead
WWI soldier of low rank at just one
such street meeting that Boston insists
on calling a square, (We could look South
to Savannah to see how squares are done.)
Four spindled forearms recall white birch,
though not as thick, smooth nor pale.
These two also walk our sheer hill daily.
My eyes greet hers as she strives upward,
and my mouth says, “This is some hill.”
She glances at her man shuffling, lagging,
“This hill is the only thing keeping us alive.”
They advance together in joint measure,
steadily and slowly as a fog cloud arriving.
231
Labyrinth
Poetry
Sameen Shakya
ST Cloud, Minnesota, USA
I told you childhood stories to cheer you up.
Of course I would.
My mouth ran like water into your ears
With stories cherry picked from years
Gone by. Some made you laugh,
Some made you still,
Soon enough I’d opened a labyrinth
And before I knew it, it seemed
You and I were roaming the dark halls
Of my memories and I couldn’t help
But guide you deeper underneath.
Bless your heart you didn’t judge
But patiently trudged along to where
This guileless guide was taking you.
The deeper the darker but you held my hand
Through Freudian slips and traumatic lines
That made me stumble and catch my breath,
But you just smiled and I felt safe
Till the carvings on the wall smoothed out
And the floor gave way to marble steps.
I came across a memory. The happiest.
One I hadn’t told you yet. Of my father and I
On the porch of my childhood home
Looking at the stars, when he held me up
And pointed at the hills, kissed by dusk,
And said some wise words forgotten,
But the feelings still clung to my chest.
I told you all this while you kept smiling.
Looking around I didn’t know when we
Walked into a garden from the labyrinth.
What do you want to talk about now?
Somehow, they both knew they would
end up back at the cemetery. Dad’s grave
was against the far wall, in a quiet spot
where the churchyard dipped, and, without
mentioning it to the other, they sought out
the nib of his headstone after the warden
had let them in. They looked for it as sailors
look for a raft. It takes time for the earth to
settle after a burial, a fact that was news
to the sisters when the undertaker took
their order for the stone— square, no fussy
decoration, just the basic information, like
the man himself — and the stone had only
been up a few weeks. They scanned the
graves to find it — there it was — and something
leaked from them both, their hearts
exhaling, the grief at his loss flowing across
marble and granite to the stone that had
his name. They’d overseen it being set in
the earth, which seemed an act of finality.
But then Margo said on the drive home
that churchyards could be good places for
answers, and here they were again, today,
notepad in hand.
They hadn’t phoned ahead, but the
church warden didn’t seem surprised to see
them and opened the gates to the cemetery
without comment. Later, when Margo
emailed him to clarify something, he said
they’d been the third visitors to the church
that day. The need to assemble the dead
into a line stretching back from the self to
a point it could go no further had increased
in these days of genealogical websites and
history shows on the television. The warden
had led them to the gate, tucked away down
The Tenburys
Fiction
Rebecca Burns
Leicestershire, UK
the side of the church. He nodded his old
head as they passed through, the cords of his
neck bare and obscene in the spring air, and
then disappeared, back to his warm office
and the kettle.
“Did you print out a map?” Margo asked.
She meant of the cemetery, for they’d used
the Satnav to drive to the church — Margo's
lad had programmed it for her. Barbara
nodded and let go of her sister’s arm for a
second, to reach inside her handbag.
“I don’t think we’ll need it,” she said
quietly.
Margo hummed in that way of hers, not
quite signaling agreement. She was the braver
of the two. But what they’d found in the
days after Dad died had made the scaffold of
who she was move in its foundations. She’d
been stripping Dad’s bed, for the sheets
were new and shouldn’t go to waste, and
there the envelope was. She’d opened it.
And then she had shrieked, a piercing knife
of sound that brought her sister wheezing
into the room in a hurry. Now Barbara saw a
searching look in Margo’s eyes, there day after
day; a restlessness that the steadiness of
the WI or the bridge club or Margo’s grandchildren
couldn’t satisfy.
There might have been earlier visitors
to the graveyard, but Margo and Barbara
had stepped into the web of family history
timidly. Clearing the house after Dad died
had taken a lot of time, sucking up hours
and weekends that should have been spent
with their grandchildren. The place was cold
— no need for heating after he’d gone — and
232
their dentures rattled in their heads as they
emptied cupboards and drawers. Neither had
thought much about looking into their family
tree before the old man’s death, but the envelope
of papers and certificates they found
in the space between his mattress and bed
frame was a wound. It split open like the sea
and, unless they found out more, threatened
to overwhelm them.
Today spring had started its tentative bud,
and the air was soft and damp. Rain fell
apologetically. From the gate they followed
a path running alongside the far wall, graveled
and levelled for those coming to lay
flowers. They skirted the edge of the churchyard.
Margo went first, testing the ground.
Where rain and weather made the path
slippery, she turned and held out her hand
to Barbara. Barbara’s hip replacement had
made them children again; Margo remembered
them at the park with a paper bag
of sweets, helping her little sister onto the
roundabout and egging her on. The ground
was quietly treacherous, and they picked
their way over unfamiliar earth carefully.
They reached the bottom of the churchyard,
near to Dad, for that seemed a sensible
place to start. St Jude’s stretched above
them, square tower and weathervane stubborn
against years and storms, and thieves
stealing brass from the roof. A crow sat on a
piece of guttering and surveyed them with
the wicked currant of its eye. Mango, who
hated birds, shook her walking stick at it.
“Fuck off!”
“Margo!” Barbara’s gasp. Then she started
to laugh. “You can’t say that here. Really,
your language at the moment.”
Margo shrugged. “Don’t have to keep
those words in my head anymore. Who’s
going to tell me off? Not him.”
She didn’t need to say she meant their
dad.
Barbara shook out the map, the paper
already moist. She wasn’t sure if her clammy
hands were to blame or the air itself, but
she handled it delicately. “There’s a cluster
of Tenbury graves up ahead, and to the
left.”
“Remember Gordon Tenbury at The Bull’s
Head?” Margo said. “Dad sometimes played
dominoes with him.” She thought of their
dad, lining white slabs of ivory with black
dots in a neat pattern. The dominos had to
touch each other with rigid exactness. He’d
tidy up other players’ pieces as well, driving
them nuts.
“He was her cousin,” Barbara said faintly.
They’d spent a fortnight drafting a Tenbury
family tree. The names were alien
to them, like Latin words for flowers. The
sisters started the tree from an unexpected
point; names found on a certificate their Dad
had hidden, seeds he’d smothered beneath
the fibres of his bed that his children discovered
in the unbalanced days after his death.
Seeds they’d held in the palm of their hands
and allowed, tentatively, to grow.
Over the past weeks they had struggled to
wield census returns into an ordered shape,
one they could plot on their tree, and sieved
through pages and pages of online genealogical
results. Then Margo suddenly remembered
their childhood name for one of the
Tenburys — “That’s Juggy! The lad with the
huge ears we’d see at the park — remember
him, Barbara?” — and the unfamiliar names
suddenly started to make sense. It was as
though they were walking through a garden
and pointing out flowers — “Primula, otherwise
known as primrose. And that’s bellis
perennis, but we know it as a daisy.”
After that the tree became easier to manage.
Names became memories, shuttered
glimpses into the past. They remembered
one Tenbury who worked at the small co-op
in town, others in the year above at school.
“Such a ridiculously large family,” Margo
muttered, when they found a census return
listing ten children. “How could they remember
who they all were?”
Always, though, the names that started
it off. A woman and a child’s, and their dad
in the space that recorded the father. Those
names were the acorns from which the paper
tree grew. Barbara had found the woman’s
obituary online, and leaves were added,
green shoots that opened to the light. And
now here they were, back at the churchyard.
They edged back up the hill to a gathering
of headstones. Margo’s walking stick clicked
the path and she breathed heavily. Barbara
listened, her own chest opening and shutting
like an accordion. What a terrible thing to
grow old, she thought. Our bodies change
shape and aren’t what we know anymore.
When Margo stopped to rest, Barbara slipped
an arm around her sister’s waist. Margo had
grown fat since retirement, and Barbara’s
hand came to the middle of her back. Margo
smiled, the skin around her nose shining.
She’d taken diabetes tablets in the car before
they stepped into the churchyard.
The crow yacked, the guttural sound
propelling the sisters on again. They shuffled
off, keeping to the edge of the graveyard,
feeling their way on the outside. Then they
came to the graves they wanted to search.
233
These headstones were more ornate than
Dad’s. Wider, thicker, made from heavy dark
stone. The lettering was different on each —
maybe there’s fashion to all things, Barbara
thought, even gravestones. Flowing, complicated
script covered older stones, while
the words carved on those from more recent
years were functional and simple. But all
had the same pointed top, a Tenbury shape,
marking them out as a clan.
There were about twenty headstones like
this. Margo and Barbara glanced at each other,
wariness passing between them, and then
stepped off the path amongst the stones.
Swollen feet and thick ankles stepping over
a threshold, leaving the gravel path and
walking into thick, uncut grass. Barbara felt
a click in her heart, a nudge inside, her body
telling her this was it, she was moving into
a space where everything she thought she
knew about her dad and how he raised them
could be up-ended.
They moved between the graves, reading
the inscriptions and seeing the vines of
family linking Tenbury to Tenbury. Grandfather
resting with Grandmother, their children
nearby, a brother, two small graves for
infants who died of the flu in 1918. Margo
hurried Barbara past those, thinking of her
sister’s own loss and the pot of ashes on the
windowsill in Barbara’s bedroom that, even
after all these years, sent her sister to bed
on a particular date.
It didn’t take long to find the stone they
were there for. They stood in front of it and
observed the faintly elaborate lettering.
Not as flowery as earlier inscriptions, not
as functional as the block letters on graves
from the seventies onwards, but oddly between.
“Gloria Tenbury. Beloved daughter of
Gerald and Doris. Died 11th August 1946,”
Margo read. “Well, there she is. No mention
of her son, or that she was a mother.”
“Only a mother for a day,” Barbara murmured.
For the first time since they’d known
about the woman, the unspoken chapter of
their dad’s life, she felt sorrow. “The obituary
said she died the day after the boy was
born.”
“Poor woman,” Margo said. “Not so unusual
in those days, but still.”
“I had hoped for more information,” Barbara
said. “I’m not sure exactly what, but
something.”
Margo hummed. She was looking away, at
another Tenbury grave nearby. “There’s Gerald,”
she said, and pointed to another grave.
“And Doris, next to him.”
“Do you think he’ll be here?” Barbara
meant the boy, named on the certificate.
“Maybe not. We couldn’t find a death record,
remember.”
“He might still be alive. Our brother, out
there somewhere.”
“Do you hope he is?” Barbara didn’t look
at Margo but instead shuffled amongst the
headstones. They hadn’t spoken about what
it would mean if the boy had lived, and
grown into a man. Maybe he looks like Dad,
Barbara thought. She imagined an old fella,
belly scuffing the top of his trousers, lopsided
grin, ears that curled in at the top like
an elf. Dad had always laughed at his ears.
When he was in hospital, after his first operation,
Margo’s son had brought in his Lord
of the Rings DVDs and they’d all sat in the
day-room, poking Dad when the elves came
on screen. “That’s your tribe, Grandad,” Ben
had said, making his Grandad snort around
his mask.
“I don’t know if I want him to be alive or
dead,” Margo said. She’d ducked her face
into her scarf, as if burrowing out of sight.
“He’d be much older than us. He might have
carked it.”
“I keep thinking...” Barbara hesitated.
Another headstone nearby, a Tenbury name
she thought she recognised, of a chap who
ran the local snooker hall. “I keep thinking
about Mum and if she knew.”
“Me too. No reason for Dad to keep it secret,
really. I mean, the boy was born before
he met Mum.”
“Who knows what happened?” Barbara
sighed.
“Dad knew.” Margo’s voice was flint, sharp
in way that made Barbara look up. Margo’s
face was almost hidden by her scarf but her
brow was creased. “He knew, and he didn’t
tell us. It would have been nice to have had
a brother, especially after Mum died. It was
a lot, you know, looking after you and the
house, after she’d gone. Making sure you
went to school. Another pair of hands would
have been welcome.” Her voice trailed off.
Barbara imagined her mouth screwed up like
a scrunch of paper, a tongue tasting lemons.
“I can’t see him,” Barbara said. She
meant the boy, their brother. She waved a
gnarled hand over the headstones, like a
bridesmaid sprinkling rose petals. “If he was
going to be buried in this churchyard, this is
where he’d be.”
“Unless he was cast out. Son of an unmarried
mother.” Margo shrugged. “That kind
of thing happened back then. Maybe he was
adopted and had his name changed.”
“I suppose...I suppose it’s up to us how
much we want to find out,” Barbara said. “It
would be a strange thing, at this time of our
lives, Margo. To meet our older brother for
the first time. Are you ready for that? Could
234
you be ready?”
Silence, filled only by the flap of the crow
who had landed nearby and was watching
them from its new perch, the top of a Tenbury
grave. Its head jerked from side to side,
abrupt and pointy movements that made
Barbara feel sick.
Margo’s face appeared from beneath her
scarf. She looked at the bird and then at
the graves, and then at her sister. Her feet
moved awkwardly on the uneven ground,
her weight rolling from side to side. “I really
don’t know,” she said.
Super-fast trains, super-slow trails
Creative Nonfiction
James Sievert
Aesch, Basel-Landschaft, Switzerland
It makes you glow with admiration. The
train is clean, fast and on time. The staff
is friendly and helpful. The interior design
is sleek and stylish. Outside, the green and
golds of the Italian countryside and the red
rooftops of the lived-in spaces rush by. You
almost wish the train wasn’t zooming at
200 miles per hour. But you are happy and
amazed that it is.
This is Italy? Yes, this is the Italy that gets
things done. That cuts through red tape.
That privatizes high-speed rail, which turns a
profit. This is the Italy that gets you from Milan
to Rome in just over three hours. That’s
about the distance from San Francisco to
Los Angeles. But not the time it takes to get
between those two cities.
Poor California. Will the state ever finish
the one project that will radically change
life in the Golden State? High-speed rail.
HSR, they call it. I sit here comfortably
on this super-fast Italian train, enjoying a
drink, the train speeding more than twice
as fast as the cars on the motorway parallel
to the train line. I close my eyes and dream
that my train has just penetrated a series
of tunnels under the San Gabriel Mountains
and into the L.A. Basin. California has earthquakes
and mountains! High-speed rail can’t
be done! Wait a second. Italy has earthquakes
and mountains. And yet, it has built
a well-loved, well-used and well-functioning
HSR system.
Americans have blinders on. They see only
the cost of the initial outlay. Not the benefit.
The reduction in stress. The rise in levels
of joy. Let’s not forget job creation. And the
environmental benefits.
America has trains, of course. They are
wide, spacious and slow. If you loved travel
in the nineteenth-century, you’ll love riding
the rails in the U.S.A. Twenty-minute cigarette
break at the next stop. San Francisco
to L. A. in twelve hours. It’s relaxing, all
right. But impractical. At least the wi-fi is
good. You’ll have plenty of time to work.
In the 1970s, Governor Jerry Brown wanted
to leapfrog to the twenty-first century by
constructing a high-speed rail system in California.
Bizarrely, they called him “Governor
Moonbeam” for wanting to build something
as practical, beneficial and earthbound as a
fast train from L.A. to San Francisco.
On the issue of high-speed rail, America
is a ludicrous place. I hope I’m wrong, but
high-speed trains will never roll in California
or elsewhere in the country. The vision
is lacking, the inertia overwhelming. The
litigious nature of U.S. society allows every
mile to be contested. Libertarians rant that,
on a high-speed train, individuals are rounded
up in collectivist pens. I guess that’s what
I saw in Europe. Mindless zombies sitting on
socialist trains with photoshopped smiles.
Alas, high-speed rail will never happen in
the U.S. So be it. Italy has fast trains. And I
love them.
The beauty of public transport in Italy
(and in Europe in general) is that there is
some form of transport to take you the last
mile as well. It may not be fast, but it’s
cheap. It may not be a money-spinner, but
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there are no politicians clamoring to save a
few bucks at the expense of the public good.
The high-speed train whisked us from
Milan to Bologna in one hour. And the next
day, the local train rumbled into Forlì, a typically
prosperous Italian city on the Po River
plain that has the expanse and emptiness
of a Mexican town – complete with mangy
stray dogs – but is much more posh. Exit Forlì
station and you go out to – nothing. No bar,
no restaurant, no people, one taxi waiting.
A large parking lot to your left, where buses
occasionally come and go, completes the
sense of a spatial void. Waiting for the buses
are mostly men listening to loud music. Men
shouting African languages into cell phones.
And women with large parcels and bundles.
It is a happy, friendly scene. The bus arrives
to take us from the flatlands to the mountains
– to the village of San Benedetto in
Alpe.
With no machine to buy tickets in sight,
we board the bus without one. But this is
high-tech Italy. The driver tells us to download
an app called DropTicket, and to purchase
the tickets through the app. Now, this
assumes a lot. But it’s a safe assumption in
Italy: that you will have a cell phone, and
that you will have a data plan connected to
it. If you don’t have both of these items, you
can ride the bus for free, or so it seems. We
manage to download the app and buy the
tickets. No one checks if we have actually
done that. But I am happy to pay the three
euros for the ride to do my small part to support
Italy’s fantastic public transport system.
Soon we are on our way for the one-hour
ride up to San Benedetto on the Acquacheta
River, near a waterfall immortalized in the
writings of Dante. This is the first village
inside Casentino National Park, our destination.
It was Sunday, and San Benedetto was
teeming with visitors. The restaurant attached
to our hotel was full, the bar was
overcrowded. In these pandemic times, social
distancing and mask-wearing seemed to
have been forgotten in this mountain village,
which was odd considering that everywhere
else we went Italians were in strict compliance
with these norms. Generally, there
was no pressure to wear masks. Just gentle
reminders to do so with a quick pointing of
the index finger at the mouth. San Benedetto,
on the other hand, was maskless.
We were chastised, however, for attempting
to remove two bottles of beer from the
refrigerator in the bar. There was a sign on
the fridge with a hand in a circle, a red line
through it.
“No, no,” shouted the bartender. “No
touch!” He raced over to the fridge and
grabbed the beers for us.
“Scusi. But, you know, the virus.” I smiled
at him, he at me, and we apologized to each
other.
Outside, we watched the cars and many
motorcycles go by, quickly downing the
beers. We then headed out on the trail
along the Acquacheta, hoping to reach the
waterfall. As it was late summer, the river
was low. But the sun was hot, and the late
afternoon found nearly naked people lounging
on the stones of the wide riverbank and
children splashing in the shallow water.
We pushed ahead, walking rapidly, until
reaching the waterfall – which contained
no water and only rocks were falling. In his
Inferno, Dante wrote that the Acquacheta
River “reverberates” as it falls, “fed by a
thousand torrents.”
I’ll call that poetic license, or bad timing
on our part. It was spectacular, nevertheless,
a rock face embedded in the mountain
where in wetter times one could imagine
water roaring down the cliff, as Dante must
have seen it. At the top of the waterless
waterfall we saw groups of people sitting on
the rocks. They waved to us and we waved
back.
An hour and a half later, back at the
hotel, it was good to see an empty restaurant
compared to the crowded space of the
afternoon, as most of the Sunday visitors
had retreated back to city life. A table in
the corner next to an open window was the
perfect place to be when there’s a pandemic
in the back of your mind.
Soon plates of pasta were placed before
us, piled high with slices of black truffle.
Behaving very un-Italian, we ordered a big
bottle of good, cold beer. But the waitress
didn’t blink. It tasted so right at the end of
this warm and thirst-inducing day.
The next morning, the sun was already
touching the mountain tops when the bus to
Muraglione rolled up perfectly on time: 7:45.
One passenger stepped off, and we boarded
the empty bus (except for the driver). It was
like having your own limousine. We could
sit wherever we wanted, mask on. The road
climbed through the forest and wound up
and around the mountains. It was a Manichean
world, as we moved back and forth
between dark shadows and blinding sunlight.
The driver flipped the sun visor up or down
accordingly.
Up at Muraglione it was pure light. From
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the bus we saw that the sign for the bar said
“APERTO”, but I checked with the driver
anyway.
“Si, aperto.”
The driver asked if we were going to catch
the next bus going down the mountain and
through the valley to Florence.
“No, we’re walking,” I said. He smiled,
took off his sunglasses and followed us into
the bar for his morning ritual.
We had a double espresso and admired
the pictures on the café walls. It was a biker
bar, with photos going back to the Fifties,
many with scantily clad women and leather-strapped
men straddling their motorcycles,
or other photos of very large groups
smiling proudly with their Ducatis and Harleys.
Muraglione means the Big Wall. A commemorative
wall was built in 1836 to mark
the completion of the first road that traversed
the mountains from Tuscany to Romagna,
which back then was like going from
the former West Germany to East Germany.
It just wasn’t done. On the one side was the
(somewhat) liberal Grand Duchy of Tuscany,
and on the other the (very) conservative
Papal States ruled by the Pope in faraway
Rome.
The Wall is about thirty feet high and two
hundred feet long, and it divides the road
in two for this length. The road winds up in
hair-pin curves from the valley below, levels
out at the pass and then disappears into
the spruce forest down the mountain on the
other side, past San Benedetto to Forlì. From
Muraglione you have a splendid view of the
lowlands below and the twin peaks of Monte
Falterona and Monte Falco in the distance,
two round, bald heads that are the highest
points in Tuscany.
After loading up on two double espressos
at the Muraglione bar, we snaked our way
down the mountain for a couple of hours to
San Godenzo, where we stayed in an agriturismo,
which are Italian country homes where
some rooms have been converted into tourist
dwellings. Usually the owner lives there,
too, and cooks for you. Do you like stone
houses with two-feet thick walls and massive
wooden beams and interiors permeated by
the smell of smoke? Do you like heavy, dark
oak furniture and long olive-wood tables and
copper pans hanging on the walls and picture
frames taking up every available wall
space? This setup is either very wholesome
and homey, or oppressive and dreary. Maybe
a Tuscan country home is your dream. You
live with olives, grapes, tomatoes and basil
– chestnuts if you’re higher up – and publish
a best-seller about the good life. Which is an
oxymoron. This is simply life in the Italian
countryside.
“I will prepare a little dinner for you,” the
madam of the house said upon our arrival.
We had an inkling of what was to come, because
in Italy “a little dinner” does not mean
literally “a small portion of food.” It means
“some” dinner, as in a lot. The appetizer
of various tasty salami, slabs of wonderful
cheese and strips of red and yellow bell peppers
dripping in olive oil was enough to feed
the whole Italian army, it seemed. We barely
got through that when the huge plates of
spaghetti with a ragu sauce arrived. We
politely turned down the main dish and the
dessert.
“You will try the digestivo,” she said,
which was meant to be a question but sounded
like a command.
“Yes, I need something after this huge
meal,” I told her.
“But you must guess what it is made of.”
That was definitely a command.
Pears? Cherries? Some local herbs? We
guessed wrong, of course. It was a wonderfully
bitter walnut-based liqueur, made right
there at the agriturismo, that helped settle
my full stomach.
The next day, we headed out after cappuccino
along with bread and heaps of
butter and local honey. Destination? The
village of Campigna. The steep ascent from
San Godenzo – there are only steep paths –
soon entered a chestnut forest. The chestnut
trees are not native, but planted. A long
time ago. The thick, round, robust trunks
– sprouting spindly new branches – of these
chestnuts indicated that they were a couple
hundred years old. They are nicely trimmed.
In earlier times, chestnuts were the staple
of Italian mountain communities. The wheat
fields for growing pasta-ready grains were a
world away in the flatlands to the south. In
these mountains, you made bread and pasta
with chestnuts.
Hunters were gathered around a campfire
when we emerged from the chestnut forest
on a ridge. We were now a few steps outside
the boundary of Casentino National Park,
hence the presence of the hunters. They
looked as you might imagine hunters would
– bearded, stocky, round-bellied, dressed
in camouflage fatigues. They were not busy
stalking game, more intent on consuming
their coffee and talking about the hunt than
actually doing it. They offered us coffee.
We chatted for a few minutes and moved
on, and then encountered another group
of hunters. Suddenly, a volley of gunshot
caused my heart to jump. I looked up and
saw a small bird quickly lose altitude and fall
into the nearby bushes.
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The trail now entered the national park
again, and we were glad to leave the guns
behind. The agriturismo outside San Godenzo
stood at 1,800 feet. Monte Falterona, where
the trail was heading, tops out at almost
5,100 feet. That’s more than three thousand
feet of climbing over just about five miles. It
was a tough trail, and my legs and back and
heart and lungs took notice. Joyfully.
The weather was splendid, with large
residual white clouds casting shadows across
the long view, and then suddenly releasing
bright sunshine. Upon arrival at Falterona,
after many ups and downs, we slumped immediately
on the grass, backpacks serving as
pillows, my L. A. Dodgers cap protecting my
face from the bright sunshine. But there was
little time to rest. Since it was late summer,
it would be dark by 7 p.m. It was getting
close to four o’clock, and a couple hours of
hiking were ahead of us. At a critical juncture,
when our legs were very tired and the
way forward unclear, two angels appeared to
direct us. Take this path to the left for “half
an hour,” until you come to the road, then
turn right. The path to the road was longer,
but easier. Not a straight down crashing
through the forest, but a gentle glide. We
changed our shoes along the way and enjoyed
the soft feel of the earth underneath.
The Chalet Burria in Campigna would
provide our accommodations. It was a bulky
wooden structure that stood along a windy
road that weaved through the forest of pine
and spruce. The chalet was a step up from a
ski camp – but not a large step. September
was between seasons, and it felt a lot like
that at the chalet. The entrance was gloomy,
with no one at the bar or reception. I rang
the bell and a middle-aged woman walked
downstairs. She started to do a few hand
gestures when she realized that we were not
Italians.
“Avevo paura che . . .” she began (trying
to say that she was afraid I wouldn’t be able
to communicate), but I launched into a brief
monologue in my sparse Italian about how
beautiful it was to walk through the forest to
arrive at her chalet. She smiled, and a look
of relief fell across her face. We both agreed
that she looked like Meryl Streep’s sister.
The rooms upstairs were small and
seemed to be built for a rough winter rather
than a mild summer. The walls were thick,
the windows small. Outside, a rain began to
fall. Inside, we went downstairs for dinner
to discover that we would be the only guests
dining that evening. A small table had been
set, with a standing lamp shining on it like
a stage light. The restaurant was dark and
empty, but the minestrone soup was wholesome
and warming.
During the night, a fog had settled over
Passo della Calla near Campigna. This pass
was again a dividing line between Tuscany
and Romagna. At dawn the next day, we took
the trail heading south from the pass, along
a mostly level ridge that gave us glimpses to
the east and west, once the fog had lifted.
The forest grew thicker, the views from the
clearings longer, and beautiful rock formations
that looked like sculptures lined the
path. On the path I suddenly saw a large pile
of poop. It looked like it was from a dog, but
bigger, and with bristles of hair sticking out
of it. This was not from a dog, but from the
canine family.
It was wolf poop. I am not a scatologist.
But I know from my study of Italian wildlife
that the wolf population has recovered
throughout Italy since a low point right after
World War Two. Wolves roam the length of
the peninsula, hanging out in remote mountain
locations during the day, venturing into
more inhabited areas at night. They eat
primarily wild boar. Hence the hair bristles,
not fully digested, sticking out of the poop.
It’s a tell-tale sign. So, the next time you’re
in Italy . . .
Well, you won’t see this kind of poop
unless you hike into the high mountains. And
only if you’re lucky – or unlucky, as the case
may be.
Walking Casentino National Park’s wellmarked
trails – mostly empty of humans
– will take you from village to village, each
about a day’s hike apart. We were now on
our way to Camaldoli, which we reached
from the main trail by taking a steep descent
to the eponymous hermitage. It stands at
about 3,500 feet above sea level.
Benedictine monks have been living and
praying at the Camaldoli Hermitage for a
thousand years. Having time on their hands
over the centuries and a beautiful forest
outside their door, they also kept bees,
gathered herbs, and made some excellent liqueurs,
no doubt the latter for the cold winter
evenings. Or for sitting out on a moonlit
summer night.
You can buy such products at the Camaldoli
Hermitage shop, where the brothers
still make and sell their wares. It’s also a
good place to grab a quick espresso and a
chocolate bar. It’s safe to say they weren’t
offering chocolate and coffee a thousand
years ago. It’s for the modern-day tourists,
of which there were plenty, as buses carrying
pilgrims can easily reach this site from the
lowlands below. We made it there the hard
way from the uplands above.
Camaldoli lies another hour’s walk down
the mountain from the hermitage. We
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stumbled into the village’s main road a bit
rubber-legged from the day’s walk. But happy.
The beer mirage that had been flashing
before our eyes finally became a reality
when we sat down at a restaurant along
the stream rushing down the mountain and
through the town. One beer became two,
with the second one even tastier.
Dinner that evening was the hearty fare
that Tuscany’s mountains offer in abundance:
mushrooms and truffle on pasta, washed
down with deep red wine. The truffles were
rich and strong, and I felt like I might have
to brush my teeth extra-long later to remove
that richness. The mushrooms had a deep,
earthy quality, and the pasta was the house
tagliatelle that tasted like they had been
made that same afternoon. In fact, they had
been.
The path from Camaldoli to Chiusi della
Verna is the heart of the Way of St. Francis,
a trail that has garnered a lot of attention
now that the St. Jacob pilgrimage route
across Spain is jammed with hikers. On our
way out of Camaldoli, we encountered only
a handful of tourist hikers, and none after
a stop at Badia Prataglia, a village about a
quarter of the way to Chiusi della Verna.
One of the hikers we met was a German
woman who was doing a pilgrimage to
Chiusi della Verna and beyond, all the way
to Rome. It was a package tour, with a van
picking up her suitcase in the morning and
delivering it to her next hotel so she can
walk the whole day with a light daypack.
“You are carrying your own backpacks,”
she asked in amazement. “Must be heavy.”
“Yes, I want to earn my entry into the holy
sites of St. Francis.”
I immediately regretted my remark,
thinking that she might feel her trek was
not strenuous enough to earn any merits. In
any case, we helped her to get settled in a
restaurant in Badia, as her Italian language
skills were nonexistent. Then we left her in
her rustic but cozy hotel and went on. With
our heavy backpacks.
After Badia, the path rose steadily,
cleared a ridge, and then meandered down
to a river valley and the village of Rimbocchi.
This was a hot and dusty stretch that
placed that beer mirage squarely in front of
my consciousness. Rimbocchi was the right
place at the right time, for both a meal and
to turn the mirage once again into reality.
What separates the casual pilgrim from
the big-league hiker is the trail after Rimbocchi.
The map didn’t do it justice, though
we could see that the topographical lines
were very close together. It was an indication.
The reality was that we were basically
climbing the face of a mountain like a wall.
We called it The Wall. Not like the commemorative
wall back in Muraglione two days
ago. It was a no-switchback, straight-up-themountain
wall that a true pilgrim genuinely
has to want to do. Otherwise, from Rimbocchi
a bus can take you directly to Chiusi della
Verna in fifteen minutes. Which is the bus
that the pilgrims take. We weren’t pilgrims.
Just bad-ass hikers who wanted it badly, but
who probably would have taken the bus had
we known.
It was rough. An hour of an unrelenting
climb up The Wall. In my mind, I even moved
passed the beer mirage stage, and started
imagining I might even have some kind of
religious experience. This was the Way of
St. Francis, after all, and we were headed
to Chiusi della Verna, where St. Francis
received the stigmata. I didn’t feel any hand
pain. But my feet were definitely hurting.
The legs, too, even though they aren’t part
of the stigmata. But I figured they could be
included as part of climbing The Wall.
As in all religious experiences, after the
pain comes the pleasure. It’s a rough road
to the stars. I think I found paradise in the
cool, dark beech forest that greeted us once
the trail leveled out and headed down gradually
to Chiusi della Verna. Sunlight cannot
penetrate the stately posture and broad
leaves of the beech. The hot and dusty trail
entered a mysterious dream land of multicolored
mushrooms pushing up through the
forest floor and large rock formations laced
with deep green moss. We had entered the
foresta magica – the magic forest. It took
great effort to walk straight, as my eyes
were moving in every direction to take it all
in. This enchanted forest was a place where
you could relax the body and mind, cool the
brow, and keep moving and yet feel like you
were floating. Keep walking and yet feel like
you were dancing. I remember thinking that
this would be a place I could even lie down
in and die and feel peaceful about that.
St. Francis surely visited this enchanted
forest, though there is no historical record of
it. It is only a half hour walk from this mountain
to the sanctuary where he lived part
of his life, sleeping at night among the rock
formations and crevices along with other
followers of Christ. Once we passed through
the enchanted forest and took a steep downhill
path, we arrived at the sanctuary. It
stands on a cliff, and from the large terrace
that spreads out from the church you can
look far into the distant Arno River Valley.
I stood there and wondered what St. Francis
would have thought when he looked out
at this view. All I could think of was that I
believe in Jesus, but I’m not sure that Jesus
239
believes in me. And then I felt bad because
I didn’t know if such a thought was sacrilegious
or blasphemous. It didn’t matter. I
gave up thinking and focused on the beautiful
moment at hand.
This would be the last stop on our fourday
walk through Casentino National Park.
You can end your trip in Italy in only one
way, in the same way it began. You have a
wonderful meal of homemade ravioli made
of chestnut flour, stuffed with ricotta cheese
and mushrooms. You have enough red wine
to make you feel clearheaded and tipsy at
the same time. And you have a wonderful
cook to tell you all about it.
“The mushrooms and truffles come right
here from the mountain behind the sanctuary,”
said the hotel innkeeper.
“I guess that makes them holy,” I said.
“Well, the pasta must be sacred, too,” she
added. “The guy who makes our pasta also
makes the wafers for Holy Communion on
Sundays.”
And the next day you are on a sleek highspeed
train, heading from Arezzo to Rome at
two hundred miles per hour, passing through
tunnels and into the Tiber River Valley. And
you are astounded how the ancient and the
medieval and the modern stack up side by
side by side.
The train was only half full due to the
pandemic. That’s because only half the
tickets are allowed to be sold. Every other
seat is marked off with red tape. As the
train rolled into Rome, the city that gave the
world the concept of red tape (that other
kind that prevents governments from getting
things done), I said a little prayer – all that
time with St. Francis got me feeling quite
religious – that California may overcome its
own red tape, and that high-speed trains
may yet come to the people of that great
state so that they may ease their stress even
as they accelerate their travel time. This
was my prayer: that I may be able to admire
the beautiful California landscape as I speed
through it at 200 miles per hour.
Terminal
Sonnet
Richard Stimac
Maplewood, Missouri, USA
At airports, I always feel a bit sad.
Arriving, and departing, both, as one,
Reminds me how nothing is ever done,
At least for good, and really not for bad.
When there’s no more of a good-bye to add,
Someone says, “Ends are something new
begun,”
We see--or am seen--in the setting sun
A lover depart, who can’t not turn mad
At the loss of it all? For sure, I can’t.
The endings, and beginnings, so misnamed,
Like terminals, combining one as two,
Make me so want to hold still, God, to rant
Against the sky, once so pure and untamed,
A promise I believed was pure and true.
Summer Streets
Poetry
Taunja Thomson
Cold Spring, Kentucky, USA
A rainy-day girl by nature
or nurture, I have come to love
sun. I clothe myself in orange,
bounce on its beams, savor
its thick gold rays as they drip
onto pavement.
These days I find I must wear my antlers
in broad daylight (invisible tho they be,
they remind me of my fierceness)
& my heart in my own hand.
I embrace the oily tangerine
circles I paint onto my cheeks—
we are all clowns, after all, all thumbs
& big feet & blundering down
the lanes of life. Traffic jams
& overturned cars & fires
& water on our faces—par for the course.
(Have I mixed (up) my metaphors?)
So let it rain spangles & ooze opulent
gold. I’ll follow each sequin,
each blink/wink, each jazz
& dazzle, wrap myself in shorts
& sleeveless titan tops
& warm my soles on summer
streets.
240
Where the Yellow Flowers Bloom
Fiction
Joseph Vitale
Livermore, California, USA
The waves had been crashing through impossibly
open waters for thousands of miles.
The vast open body of water centered itself
around one single vessel. This was a rather
small wooden boat, it had been beaten down
by the waves, and the constant downpour
of rain had done its job to weather away
at the boat. What had once been a sturdy
and well-designed craft had become broken
down, dingy, and almost unable to sail. Yet
still, it remained afloat. By design the boat
was only large enough to carry one person
at a time. If someone did happen to come
across a fellow traveller, who seemed like
their boat was crashing beneath the waves,
there was not much one could do. You could
offer supplies of what you could spare for
the day and try to point them in the direction
of where the yellow flowers bloomed,
hoping the voyager would be strong and
courageous enough to follow close behind.
You could always look back and check on
these fellow travelers, encouraging them to
keep going on the journey, but it was each
individual's choice as to whether or not they
would stay where they were or keep pushing
through the storms. At this time however,
there were no other sailors. The small and
broken boat carried a single man. His name
was Dante.
Dante was just like any other person;
nothing about him was incredibly unique or
special. There was nothing wrong with Dante
either; he was a good man and an honest
person. He did not bring much with him on
his voyage. Outside of his regular clothes
he had brought an extra coat to keep him
warm, a fresh pair of clothes for when he
had arrived, plenty of rations to survive him,
and some books that had carried the knowledge
he had gained from others who had
been on this voyage before. He referred to
these books often when he needed inspiration
and guidance. Dante did have one major
flaw however. This fault was that whenever
he would see another boat, he would go till
no end to attempt to help its passenger. The
rations were never an issue and Dante loved
sharing what he had learned in his books. His
hope was that the same information contained
in those pages that had helped him,
would boost the spirits of others and allow
them to continue over the waters feeling
encouraged. This was where his issue was
lying. His support for others would tend
to cost him his energy for the day. Dante
would end up becoming too tired and he
would have no choice but to close his eyes
and rest. This would allow his boat to drift
aimlessly stagnant over the frigid waters.
He would only hope he could preserve just
enough energy to be prepared in the instance
where the waves would try to incase
him underneath. Inversely, since Dante knew
how tired he could feel after spending his
time helping others, he had been known to
refuse help and guidance even when deep
down he knew that he needed it. After some
time, people who could help came far and
few between.
There was a place where the yellow
flowers bloom, an island to be exact. While
241
this promised land was but a rumor to some,
it was a home to others. Where the yellow
flowers bloom could only be found by following
the mustard colored petals that laid atop
each wave. The flowers tended to create a
fairly straight line allowing Dante to follow
the pattern with ease, shifting the majority
of his focus to weathering what currents
were around him. The soft amber hued
blades were the only thing that would never
fall under a surge of water. Through his journey,
the waves would have tendencies to rise
so high that Dante would begin to lose sight
of the flowers that drifted through the seas.
This was always a depressing feeling for him.
However, as torrents became ripples, the
flowers would find their way into eyesight
again, and a glimmer of sunshine would
spotlight the petals, reflecting a warm and
cordial feeling of hope. Those were the moments
Dante found the peace to keep going.
Dante had been journeying for what felt
like years. Maybe he was only on the waters
for months; truthfully he was not sure. Time
had a funny way of binding to itself, blending
all the long dark nights into one terrible
cold storm that seemed to never reach an
end. The only other thing that would occupy
his mind was lucid visions of the land of
where the yellow flowers bloom. He would
often picture himself sitting down amongst
the flowers, taking in the sights and smells
of the land that was created. He liked to
imagine it would have everything he would
ever need. Dante envisioned a place that,
outside of visual beauty, there would be
constant warmth, and if a strong rain came
on, there would be a stronger affirmation
that it would soon pass and everything would
be okay. Dante would lean back in his boat,
close his eyes and be unable to contain a
smile when he would think of this place.
Where the yellow flowers bloom was merely
a place in his head for now, but deep down
he knew he possessed the strength to make
it to the end of the journey and find it.
It was a typical day, frigid, and both physically
and emotionally draining as any other
would be. This specific day however did hold
one major difference. At sunrise, Dante had
found what he had been looking for through
the entire voyage. The petals in the water
had become more consistent in numbers.
They connected to one another surrounding
themselves around Dante’s boat, creating
what would look like a bridge that elevated
the remains of his boat above the water and
carried him to shore. Dante took several
minutes to reflect on the times where there
may have only been a petal or two every
several yards. He remembered how he would
focus on those trace amounts of flowers that
would keep him hopeful, each petal holding
just a glimmer of opportunity in front of
him. It appeared that he would no longer
have that problem. Dante removed his waterlogged
shoes before stepping onto his new
holy land. He had kept away a fresh set of
clothes saved for this occasion, tucked away
in his coat never to breathe real air until he
had arrived. Slowly, almost as if he did not
believe what was in front of him was real,
he pulled out his fresh garments, replacing
the old tattered ones.
When he was ready he took a deep breath
and placed his first step on dry land. It started
with a vast sandy beach, golden grains
that seemed to stretch on for miles in either
direction. What stood about fifty yards
in front of him was a kind-looking dirt trail
that led uphill. Dante placed his second foot
down in the sand. He felt the air for a minute.
It was a lot for him to process at first,
all he had known for so long was the cold
and the waves. The warmth brought back
memories from before the journey. Before
the boats and the storms, Dante was a happy
kid, who often found himself playing out in
fields of grass. He had wondered if those
same childhood meadows held yellow flowers
of their own, or if they were just something
his memory had placed there to ease his
mind during the journey. Perhaps he was too
young and carefree to even notice the absence
in the first place. He wondered deeper
if his younger self had even needed the flowers
in the first place. Maybe if he had never
been under the waves, he wouldn’t have
longed to reach the land where the yellow
flowers bloom.
Some time had passed standing in the
sand, and Dante began to take steps slowly
one after another, feeling each one. He
could feel the sand sweeping over his toes.
One splendid step after another. He could
not help but smile. Once he had reached
the end of the beach, and the mouth of the
trail he took a moment to look back. His
footsteps in the sand created a connection
to his past, all the way to his small boat.
Dante noted that his boat was not in as bad
of a shape as he recalled on the waters. He
smiled, admiring the damaged vessel that
had carried him so far. He turned his head
away from the beach, and began up the
trail.
The trail Dante traversed was a simple,
242
dirt pathway. It did not wind much nor did
it cause any form of concern in its pathway.
Instead it was an easy and relaxing hike.
On each side of the trail, a border of well
bloomed flowers lined his walk. The flowers
swayed in unison, as if they were one
with the calm breeze. The trail was rather
short, only taking up a few minutes of time
to reach its closure. At the top of this hill
and the end of the trail, Dante again looked
back at the water. His eyes zeroed in on his
boat. Perhaps it was the distance, but Dante
had looked at the vessel and admired how it
looked, and how it did not seem as damaged
as he had once thought.
Where Dante had now stood, atop the hill,
at the closure of the trail, was the place
he had set out on his journey for. When he
turned his head around to lay eyes on the
land, he was overwhelmed with joy and
warmth. The place where the yellow flowers
bloom — it was everything he imagined it
to be: A flat landscape, every inch covered
with yellow flowers. Dante walked into the
flowers finding a soft grassy patch where he
sat down, allowing the yellow blossoms to
surround him. The land was everything he
imagined it would be. It was a visually beautiful
place. His hill overlooked the waters
where he had come from. The blue hues of
the water coordinated with the greens and
yellows of his hill. It was warm where the
yellow flowers bloom; here Dante would
never have to cover up and shield himself
from harsh weather like he had to out on the
water. The land assured him everything was
alright now. Where the yellow flowers bloom
was no longer a place in his head, the location
was something he had manifested. It
was a place where he was happy, and he had
found peace.
Dante from time to time would look back
onto the water and see his boat docked by
the shores, and while damaged, he realized
the boat was not nearly in the terrible
state he had thought it was. The land of the
flowers had healed him, restored him from
the hurts the storms had brought. All that
was left was Dante, his new found home and
happiness, and a story of success he would
share with those he encounters in his future.
Somewhere Between
Near and Far
Poetry
W.F. Lantry
Silver Spring, Maryland, USA
Mud season. Ice is melting. Underground
rivers abandon courses, welling up
in ponds along my pathways, spilling out
across these beds, along dark ruined frames
left out all winter in the elements.
There’s Spring somewhere, not far away, but
not
arriving yet: frost, hushed, descends at
night,
and blizzards aren’t unheard of still this
month.
But I can feel the season rushing on,
can feel the sun’s increasing daylight
warmth.
My sheltered seedlings still aren’t leaping up
the way they should be at this time of year.
Perhaps a little heat will wake them now,
and they may be emboldened by long days,
or maybe they are wise enough to slow
their growth: the Spring is somewhere in
between
the near and far, and lingering is best
in this mud season’s long uncertainty.
Reflection
Poetry
Liz Fortini
Pleasanton, California, USA
Many steps lead me there, along a beaten
path,
in a rustling, teasing wind. The sound
and now a glimpse from the headland,
churning up foam by sweeping gusts, a river.
Tributaries snake out like branches and leave
me
to wonder their destiny. Currents rouse from
pools
of night to ebb and swirl willy-nilly. A flash of
Chimera
rides a crest, her scaly tail twists below the
dance
of the eddies. The depths take hold
of my inspiring muse and won't let her go.
An illusion, as the sun's rays project an
image
of the waves. Suddenly, the wind drops.
Lessening waves along with my spirit
lightly calm. Smoothness below the water's
surface
is forged and my worries aren't reflected
anymore. In my thoughts I compose rhymes,
this day in May.
243
244
Neverland
Photography
Caleb Gonsalves
Roseville, California, USA
Lake Effect
Poetry
Julie Benesh
Chicago, Illinois, USA
Lake Michigan is big and old as the
universe. It keeps me hydrated and washed
and flushed. It keeps me cool in the summer
and warm (in my apartment) all winter, like
board-shorted firemen whose bittersweet
fragrance sings me to sleep. My sweetheart
Beau says blah-blah something about Ship
and Sanitary Canal, blah-blah something
about glaciers, but I know what I don’t know,
and that ain’t it. Not a fan of some science
teacher-God Who, if He wanted us to have
babies, would have made labor feel better
than sex. The Lake loves me like Baby Jesus,
Mother Mary and Bill Murray. Let science be
science and God be God.
Forty-six years ago in a rented bus full of
horny, sleep-deprived ninth graders I rode
past my future, right by my current home,
high (23 stories) on LSD (Lake Shore Drive)
not even noticing its unprepossessing façade
— like some kind of metaphor — blowing
past my years-to-be in St. Louis, Naperville,
Champaign, the marriage that took up my
20s, even 15 years in Streeterville getting
closer, closer to home.
Shelter is a roofless sky, an endless horizon
where the sharp glow of clouds rain rainbows
on the beach. At dusk I cross the Drive with
my ninth grade self to catch fireflies on my
tongue. Every cat we’ve known between
then and now will follow, but they won’t
show up on video, and I will never write
any of this down. C’est la vie. The Lake will
laugh, buoying up Bill Murray in board shorts
forever and ever, amen.
Rain
Poetry
Nezrin Hasanly
Concord, California, USA
Youth has no age
Dance proudly in the rain
Make the thunderstorms of your life
a mighty parade
245
Babbling Glide
Poetry
Sam Kaspar
Ames, Iowa, USA
Shrill voices cut out
and the first wet calm of the lake
is shredded by our powerful oars.
The coach stays hushed
the motorboat idles
and the long wooden shell finally glides
by the sleepy shoreside
graceful, in a quiet rush.
We won’t stop at the end as engines
of hot empowered muscles keep pumping.
Determined, our bodies pulling hard
propelling the boat back to the sea
the babbling glide of water says
That I am strong...
...and always will be.
Hydroponics
Poetry
Jean-Sebastien Grenier
Nelson, British Columbia, Canada
With little static, vinyl grooves incubate
Under the voodoo talon of music.
The garage floor’s late December concrete
Numbs his feet. Musing on old loves, he refines
& internalizes a talent for less abstract
Uses of the word mythos.
He’s hunched over a utility sink
Shaped like the top half of an hourglass
And concentrated into the art of bending
Water like a spell-casting octopus.
Shaking his Sisyphean petri dish like an etch-
&-sketch, frustration has him begin again,
Sifting for some sign of love in the grime.
Rolling to the bottom of the basin bed, little eggs
Settle like sediment, statues stiffer than stone.
He studies the bigger picture like tea leaves.
Third eye locked in a cyclopean focus,
He filters through an infinitude of silhouettes
As if to decipher the root code of all rosy Rorschachs.
The ultra-neon peach, teal & even UV neonates,
They unveil flowerily like a synchronized swimming
Arrangement. The phantasmagoric image sequence morphs
From a marathon mob to swaying coral,
The mushroom cloud of an atom bomb,
Then two lovers walking in a fog.
The fading blue flash of an orgasm…
He picks one of the wiggles like a pseudo flower,
But the physics are all wrong, so he slices them up
Into smaller bits. But before his hands can cut
The water conclusively, they evolve into koi fish.
They swim
Away, down through the sink spout, toward the sewers,
A tangled labyrinth of pink copper spouts & gray bamboo shoots
Built and based on the blueprints of his brain.
Turns out the numb nymph was another utter myth
Made up of thought as much as the rest of them.
Liquid lightning pours forth from hindsight & strikes,
Finally midwives some novel sugar dream’s fixed form.
Beneath the water’s surface, a thoughtful white noise
Hatches, drones. Wiggles emerge & rise like fruit flies.
They dance colourfully suspended in his liquid space.
246
Sunflowers
Collage
Jennifer Frederick
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
247
Peace
Painting
Yim Ivy Wu
Danville, California, USA
248
Daisy
Haiku
Sarah Riensche
Castro Valley, California, USA
Five golden petals
Circle a sunny sphere
Radiating joy
More than Me
Poetry
Marie-Anne Poudret
Dublin, California, USA
What calls you beyond Round Hill?
I see you stare above its line of trees.
What is more than me over there? Stand
still!
Though, for you, ev’ry day my heart I spill,
you sigh, and I’m anxious you feel the
breeze.
What calls you beyond Round Hill?
I am yours, you know it: my glass you fill.
Don’t drink the brew of waves and seas.
What is more than me over there? Stand
still!
See the house we built, the children we
willed!
Don’t they give you joy more than frill or
sprees?
What calls you beyond Round Hill?
Love rest in my arms! Its kindness you feel.
Feel also the truth of my tears!
What is more than me over there? Stand
still!
Your heart has stopped when you followed
your will!
I fought the clutch of Death: jumped your
heart’s freeze.
What calls you beyond Round Hill?
What is more than me? I’ll watch for you__
still.
A Joy I Once Knew
Poetry
Bobbi Sinha-Morey
Central Point, Oregon, USA
It came to me again, a joy
I once knew, so singular
and refined in its hope; a song
coming from our music room
so awful even the mice covered
their ears; and, before me,
an upside-down teacup, a tiny
white doily on top for two
miniature dolls handmade by
Parisians, a memory that always
stayed the same over time pillowing
my head for the dreams that lay
ahead seeing miracles crystallize
before my very eyes and my heart
brightened by day, a life given me
249
The Pool
Poetry
Taunja Thomson
Cold Spring, Kentucky, USA
Summer Lights
Poetry
Mary Elliott
Santa Barbara, California, USA
1.
Years ago, sun-steeped hot Sundays spelled
delight—
afternoons at my aunt & uncle’s pool:
above-ground, vinyl on the outside, aqua &
smooth
on the inside.
My cousin Susan, twelve years older than me,
helped me change into my swimsuit
upstairs in their attic, bedrooms for her
brothers—
I remember her short blonde hair, blue eyes,
the way her face curved
into an indulgent smile as she assured me
no one was coming up the stairs.
2.
Then, what I had been waiting for—that first
wave of cold hitting my feet, my ankles, my
knees,
thighs as I climbed down the ladder
into the pool, then leaped the last bit to the
bottom,
immersed up to my chest,
shivering with heavy breaths, until the cold
became only cool.
3.
I strode in slow motion, cleaving water and
humid air
while cicadas sang a long lullaby to put
summer
to sleep.
I kicked & floated & jumped, water holding
my poses
for seconds at a time so that I could imagine
myself hovering right above earth—
a superhero, powerful, never
degraded.
I pushed off from the sides and, just for a bit,
I launched myself beyond the reach
of words’ gravity.
4.
Hours later, as twilight stretched over
horizon,
my parents called me out of the pool.
But before I climbed out, Susan descended
the ladder
& we splashed each other in the face,
her winning the competition & me giggling
hysterically,
losing my breath, droplets on my eyes,
the bliss of a purpling sky
through my lashes.
Suppose I say lightning bug?
Find the drawings --
From that Summer,
We did at the old lake house.
Will you remember it?
If I wrap them in an envelope?
Get an old photograph,
Sent as a love note?
So when the darkness comes,
like now in Winter,
you’ll know my bug,
That you can light up,
From the inside?
I’d give to you,
A field full of fireflies --
Near the old cabin.
Remember how they’d land,
On your fingertips?
They’d first grow dim,
then brighten their glow?
Your fingers --
Like antennas,
Knew exactly what to do--
Lifted them up,
you’d let them go.
250
Relax
Painting
Yim Ivy Wu
Danville, California, USA
251
Act 1
Scene 1
Setting: On October 6, 1964, WALT
DISNEY is dreaming up Edison
Square at Disneyland.
His trusted Imagineers are
hard at work dreaming up
the plans for the shows and
attractions within the land.
The land would slated to be
completed in two years.
Characters: Walt Disney-61-years-old.
Wears a Blue sweater with a
white buttoned up shirt.
Marc Davis-49-years-old.
Wearing a black suit with a
red striped tie. Imagineer.
Ward Kimball-48-years-old.
Wears a White striped shirt.
Long hair. Imagineer.
Betty Kimball-Wears a yellow
dress.
Thomas Norton-60-years-old.
Wears a grey suit with a red
tie. Executive for General
Electric.
At Rise
The scene takes place in the
Zorro Building at the Walt
Disney Productions studio
lot.. WARD is sitting at his
desk. Marc enters.
Marc and Ward
Experimental — Play
Peter Zimmer
Pleasanton, California, USA
MARC
Ah, there you are, Ward.
Goes over to shake his hand
WARD
Hi, Marc. It is a pleasant surprise to see you
working away at the studios on a Saturday.
MARC
Yes, about that…
WARD
Well? Why did you call me on my day off?
MARC
I am not sure you heard from the others
here. But Walt needs to all of us to meet for
a new project.
WARD
Confused
Why does he need to meet with us? Is he
going on another research—
MARC
No. Just meeting. With us.
WARD
Marc, what’s going on? You had something to
tell—
MARC
He wants to build a new land.
WARD
Well, it’s about darn time. Another one
based on one of his True-Life Adventure
films?
MARC
No, not that. Completely new. A risk worthy
move.
WARD
I have a hunch you are not telling me something.
252
MARC
Think of progress and the light bulb.
WARD
Well, what is it? Golly gee. I have stuff to
do at—
MARC
Edison Square.
WARD
Sounds very intriguing.
MARC
You and I are going to work on it.
WARD
How?
MARC
I am going to take the lead on this project.
WARD
Wait just a minute. You can’t—
MARC
I am closer to Walt. I am funnier.
WARD
Hold on there, Marc. Do you ever see my
character sketches from Snow White?
MARC
You need practice. Look at my caricatures
for the Jungle ride.
WARD
Pulls out the sketches for the ride
Ok, where are the funny faces? Too realistic.
MARC
Ward, that’s the point. Realistic but funny.
I went to the San Francisco Fleishhacker
Zoo. That’s how I went with the realistic
approach.
WARD
Why does it matter? How did you get your
start at the studios?
MARC
Oh stop it.
Pause
You see, Ward. Remember? I spent my time
in San Francisco. One day I saw an ad in the
San Francisco Chronicle. Walt Disney was
looking. Looking for new animators. So I a
sample portfolio to the studios on Hyperion.
Dipped my toes into commercial art.
Laughs
Artists back in the day frowned upon commercialized
art. But anyways. I got a
telegram. It was from Walt. It said ‘Dear
Marge, please come down to the office.
Might have some openings. Walt.’ I couldn’t
believe he called me Marge!
Laughs
That son of a gun. Turns out Walt read it my
name wrong. He mistook the ‘c’ for a ‘g.’
Back then. Walt hadn’t begun dipping his
toes into full length feature films. Still producing
those silly symphonies. The depression
hit artists tough. Walt knew the only
way he could recruit more artists. Through
Chouinard Institute. I remember Don Graham.
One talented fella. Taught me so
much about animation. Changed my view on
everything. One day. Don asked ‘Marc you
should be teaching these classes.’
Laughs
Never saw myself as a teacher. So here I
was. Going in. Face first. Into teaching
Disney animation to the young bucks. What
a treat it was. Boy I miss those golden days.
WARD
Tell you what, I can take the lead on Edison
Square.
MARC
Oh please. Tell me what to do.
Beat
Go ahead.
WARD
Ok, go back to your office.
MARC
Ward, are you serious? Are you serious?
Rolls eyes
See this is why your soup scene got cut from
Snow White.
WARD
No. Walt didn’t have enough money.
MARC
Oh come on. You are going to fall for that
trick? Walt just didn’t like your scene.
WARD
But I still want the lead.
MARC
Ward, stop. This is so childish. You are not
going to—
WARD
No no. Mickey Mouse is our boss.
MARC
Ward, what does this accomplish?
WARD
You need to prove to me. Prove to me.
MARC
Prove? Golly have you lost your marbles.
WARD
Prove to me. That Walt can trust you with
Disneyland.
MARC
Because I get more projects with Disneyland.
Now please. Stop it.
WARD
Absolutely not. Absolutely not. You are on
your own, Marc.
MARC
I can’t do this on my own.
WARD
Sure you can. Your pride says you can.
MARC
Just leave, Ward.
253
WARD
He likes us both.
MARC
Walt has given me a chance.
WARD
I have too. I know about your new group
WED Enterprises. You are trying to exclude
me.
MARC
Ward, I want to lead. To make sure I can
have you approach me. In case you need
help.
WARD
You do have a point.
MARC
What do you say, Ward?
WARD
Would you treat me any differently?
MARC
I will put in a good word if you do it on less
pay over here at WED.
WARD
Oh, I was wrong. You want my money.
MARC
Tell you what? Ask Walt.
WARD
No!
MARC
Why not?
WARD
No…I won’t…let you…You are going to get us
both fired.
MARC
Fine. Be that way. But it is your career.
WARD
Oh, no it is your career that’s going, too.
Once Walt looks at these pranks, we are
both hung out to dry.
MARC
Ward, please think about this.
WARD
No I won’t.
MARC
Not until you stop trying to be a worry wart.
WARD
I won’t give up. This is my career! This is
my life! This is my passion!
MARC
Ward, I should have just done it myself.
WARD
Why do you even want to argue?
MARC
Because I want to do more things at WED.
To make Walt happy.
WARD
You have the capacity. To do that.
MARC
This is all your fault.
WARD
My fault? Oh buddy boy, don’t start that.
MARC
We are not getting anywhere.
WALT is heard coughing offstage.
WARD
The man is in the forest! The man is in the
forest!
MARC
Oh he will like this.
WALT DISNEY
Fellas, did I miss something?
WARD
See? This is a stupid idea.
MARC
Oh, he’s going to be fine.
WALT
Marc, what are you doing?
MARC
Nervous
Well, Walt. I am just telling Ward here
about Edison Square.
WALT
Raises eyebrow
Now, Marc. Are you here to tell me something?
About Ward? Fellas, did I tell you I
need all of this in two weeks.
To WARD
Kimball, what the heck is going on?
WARD
Walt, I can explain.
WALT
Ward, if Marc gives you trouble. You settle
amongst each other. No fighting.
Faces MARC
Now Marc, where is my square? Did you
bring me something?
MARC
Well Walt, I am just putting together the financials
on every detail. I have been looking
at how much the paint will—
WALT
Puts his hand on MARC’s shoulder
Marc. Marc. I have a building full of employees
who take care of that. I wouldn’t have
you go all out on this project. Why are you
concerned about costs?
MARC
Because I am concerned with this project.
Failing.
WALT
Marc, have I told you about failing? Sometimes.
You have to go through a good failure
in your career. It’s going to be fine. We
get so much. So much repeat business down
here. One guest will tell this individual.
The next person will tell another. It will
all pay off. You know how? By meeting the
public needs. The public needs something
new. For Disneyland.
MARC
Walt, what if—
254
WALT
Raises his voice a little
Marc, I told you. I didn’t pay you to think
No it won’t work. I want you to stretch your
imagination.
MARC
But…
WALT
Marc, I hired you for a reason. Don’t make
me regret it.
MARC
Yes, Walt. I’m on it.
WALT
Looks at WARD
Ward, let’s go get lunch, ok? I’m famished.
WARD and WALT exit. MARC is left in Ward’s
office..
End of Scene
Act 1
scene 2
MARC sits in his desk at WED. WED stands
for Walt Elias Disney Enterprises.
WARD enters
WARD
Marc?
MARC
Yes, Ward. How’s Edison Square coming?
WARD
Fine—-
MARC
Is it coming along?
WARD
Yes.
MARC
Why do you need me then?
WARD
Ok, Well—
MARC
Is there is something you want to talk
about?
WARD
No. Not at all.
MARC
Walt will be so pleased.
Pause
Have you heard from him?
WARD
Yes. He’s coming by next Friday.
MARC
By golly gee.
Pause
Well, must get a move on.
WARD
I agree.
MARC
Ward, you don’t seem confident.
WARD
I’m fine.
MARC
Really?
WARD
Yes. I’m fine. Honestly.
MARC
You’re very quiet today.
Pause
How do the sketches look?
WARD shows them to MARC
Color? Looks good. Humor? I see plenty of
it.
Pause
Wait. Why does the style look too modern?
WARD
Well, Marc, it’s supposed to be clean and
mod —
MARC
Walt wanted an aged look. Edison Square.
Carousel of Progress. Progressland.
WARD
It won’t look old. By gosh, Marc. Is that
what Walt really wants?
MARC
It’s going to be fine, Ward. Trust me.
WARD
Marc, you know what Walt—
MARC
Well, goodness sakes. I know Walt wants the
whole land to look like how it was. When
Thomas Edison was alive. Ok? Can you
please include me on things?
Ward
But I’m not even finished with all the concepts.
And it just seems—
MARC
Ward. Trust me. It’s fine. Really.
WARD
I don’t think so.
MARC
Stop worrying. Besides, there are some gags
in the Carousel of Progress.
WARD
Marc, how did you come up with all those
gags on the Jungle Cruise? The African
Veldt?
MARC
Ok. So, you know I studied up in San Francisco?
WARD
That’s. That’s great, Marc. But how—
MARC
It’s easy. You put some sight gags in Edison
Square. Problem solved.
WARD
That simple?
MARC
Some of the simplest. Make for a better
experience.
WARD
You seem convinced. Ok.
MARC
Ward, what is the problem?
255
WARD
I need for this project to succeed.
MARC
And—
WARD
The studios have nothing exciting going on.
No new animated films. Nothing. We have
done everything. Golly gee, we haven’t had
anything going lately. Not since…One Hundred
and one Dalmatians. It’s getting very
stagnant over there. And you know Walt.
Walt is focusing on Disneyland. This is his
new toy.
MARC
Hmm. And you want to join WED permanently?
Walter Elias Disney Enterprises?
WARD
I do.
MARC
Ward, you are a great worker. You know.
Hmm. I have talked to Walt and he knows
the Studios is not what it used to be. Like
you said, Disneyland is his toy. I can put
word in. You know?
WARD
I hate to ask, but—
MARC
What? I don’t—
WARD
It’s not your problem.
MARC
Ward. You belong on this project. This was
made for you. The characters. The gags.
It’s a perfect fit.
WARD
No.
MARC
Yes. I believe in you. You were assigned to
work with me on this project.
WARD
Ok.
MARC
You don’t seem—
WARD
Walt depends on me. He loved my work on
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Pinocchio.
I don’t want—
MARC
You’re not going to let him down, Ward. As
long as you keep him interested.
WARD
But it’s about my—
MARC
Yes?
WARD
I shouldn’t say much.
MARC
Ward, you can trust me.
WARD
No, we have a job to do.
MARC
Seriously. Tell me.
WARD
She wants me. To. Give up my railroad. My
Grizzly Flats railroad.
MARC
Why?
WARD
She says it’s too much money to run. I need.
The extra money. For the rolling stock. The
new water tower. It’s a full-sized train. I
have to refurbish it once and awhile. It
needs so much work, Marc. Believe me.
MARC
No. Ward, you love your Grizzly Flats Railroad.
WARD
I know. But golly gee. I have to please the
wife. She’s my everything.
Beat
You know what I love about trains? The
sounds. The whistle. Sitting in the cab. You
know what it feels like? Grabbing the throttle?
It’s heaven. Pure bliss. The best seat
in the house is the cab.
WARD finds his bag next to the desk and
shows MARC the EP Ripley’s rolling stock
blueprints from Disneyland
Here she is. The EP Ripley. Golly gee! I
remember taking this beauty out on the
track in Disneyland. Feels like it was yesterday.
I told Walt I wanted to be part of the
designs on the EP Ripley’s rolling stock. Walt
was sure thrilled. He told me, ‘Well, Ward.
Sure. But don’t cut corners.’ As if. I would
never cut corners on a train. Ever. Trains
are my life. I remember when Walt decided
to have hardwood inside the cab. And I
mean the hardwood looked nice.
WARD draws a picture of what the cab of
the EP Ripley was supposed to look like.
Here. Tongue slats. 19th century panels.
Neat huh? Just the way I liked it. On opening
day of Disneyland, that’s where the fun
begins. I went on a grand circle of tour of
the Santa Fe and Disneyland Railroad. The
EP Ripley. Engine number 2. Breathtaking.
It felt real to me. By golly, she was strong. I
sat in the cab. Of course. Where else would
I be?
WARD laughs
I closed my eyes. I could smell the diesel
fuel. Like I said, Marc. Heaven. Disneyland
is the happiest place on earth for a reason.
Even on Black Sunday. The EP Ripley looked
mighty fine.
MARC
How much do you need?
Pulls out money
WARD
Marc. Put that away. Really.
256
MARC
Ward. You’re a great animator. A great
companion. To all of us here.
WARD
Walt will find out.
End of scene.
Act 1
Scene 3
Marc discusses the long shot view of Edison
Square with Ward.
MARC
A story based on the growth of man’s inventions.
Thomas Edison. Uhh. Electricity will
be shown around everywhere on each side
of the street. Ummm. New iron work on
the fences. The iron work should be welded
in a certain way. To make the fences look
worn down. You can’t have these fences
look like they are brand new. No no. None
of that. There is going to be a huge. And
uhh. I mean huge. Statue of Thomas Edison.
The statue should have Edison standing.
Here he’s going to be on a pedestal.
We are going to have red roses around the
pedestal. Remember, the colors should be
attracting others. Not distract. Edison will
be standing. Holding his lightbulb. Holding
it in his left hand. We are going to have one
of our animators design it. You know Blaine?
Blaine Gibson? He was an in-between animator.
On Alice in Wonderland. Fantasia.
I think you worked with him. He is at Walt
Disney Enterprises. Golly gee! He’s going
to do a good job on the statue. He worked
with a private instructor in sculpting. You
should head over to the model shop, Ward.
Pause
You know Walt wants General Electric to
sponsor Edison Square. We are going to have
a uhh…big show. The Carousel of Progress.
You know how Walt got his inspiration for the
show? From the playwright. The playwright
Thomas Wilder. Wilder wrote Our Town.
But back to Edison. It’s going to be uhh…
rotating theater. We will have these scenes
with animated figures. The father in the
first scene will be sitting down telling the
audience ‘Welcome to the carousel of progress’
and then uhh…the entire scene goes
into the Sherman Brother’s song “There’s a
Great Beautiful tomorrow.” I love the Sherman
Brothers. Remember the Enchanted
Tiki Room over in Adventureland? They
worked on that ride too. But anyways. It’s
going to be a beautiful show.
WARD
Please. Show me more of your sketches
from the Jungle Cruise.
End of scene.
Act one
scene 4
4 months later. WALT is at WED Enterprises
in Glendale with the President of General
Electric. They are on a soundstage with
MARC AND WARD. One of the mock rehearsals
for The Carousel of Progress.
WALT
Hi, Mr.?
Shakes his hand.
THOMAS
Mr. Norton, Mr. Disney. Thomas Norton.
WALT
Hey, whoa there! No. No. Call me Walt. We
go by first name basis around here. Ok Tommy?
THOMAS
So it seems.
Coughs
Shall we begin.
WALT
Marc, do you have the sketches? Storyboards?
The pitch for Edison Square?
MARC pulls everything out of his briefcase.
MARC
Thomas, brace yourself.
MARC sits on a chair with a fan.
THOMAS
Walt, what is this?
WALT
Easy there, Tommy. Marc and Ward want to
give you a little rehearsal of the show.
THOMAS
Fine
Looks at watch
I don’t have all day.
MARC
Fanning himself as one of the characters in
the show.
A story based on the growth of man’s inventions.
The Carousel of Progress will have this
figure. A real life human audio animatronic.
Narrating the show.
THOMAS
But why? Is this based on the seasons each
year?
MARC
Yes. He’s hot. The character is responding
to heat. It’s called humor.
THOMAS
I know what humor is, Mr. Davis. Don’t make
me feel dumb. Proceed.
WALT and MARC look at each other. Roll
their eyes.
MARC
We are going to have a uhh…big show. The
Carousel of Progress. It’s going to be uhh…
rotating theater. We will have these scenes
with animated figures. Like I said. They’re
called audio-animatronics.
MARC continues to sit down. Grabs a ciga-
257
rette from his pocket. Leans back.
Welcome to the carousel of progress.
THOMAS
Do you have the entire script for me, Mr.
Davis.
MARC
It’s Marc.
THOMAS
Yes. Erm. Marc. Where is it?
MARC pulls out the 100 page script.
Ok. Continue.
MARC
Narrating
Now a carousel goes round and round without
getting anywhere.
THOMAS
You’re going to have music? Why act it out?
Who’s this?
MARC
Rehearsals. The music is not ready yet. This
is Uncle Orville. Our show. You listen.
THOMAS
Oh, not ready yet. That’s surprising. I am
not sure how much I can—
MARC
Don’t you want to see the dog?
THOMAS
Sigh.
Very well. It can’t be that bad.
WARD sits where the dog is supposed to be.
MARC
Rover.
THOMAS
Wait who?
MARC
The father’s dog. The family pet.
THOMAS
But why do you need him? What’s his purpose?
MARC
Ward, show him.
WARD tilts his head. Moves slowly to work in
the same motion as the audio animatronic.
Each motion. Each blink. Each bark he omits.
Defines his personality.
THOMAS
Dogs are dogs. You don’t need this money just
for the dog. To what? Provide limited action?
MARC
It’s gag worthy.
THOMAS
This is absurd.
MARC
What is?
THOMAS
This darn rehearsal.
MARC
So? It’s going to give you flavor. You know? A
great show leaves a happy audience for Disneyland.
We need to please our guests.
THOMAS
Fine.
Yawns
MARC
Continues to narrate the show
With progress, my wife and I can spend more
time. We have the electronic babysitter. The
television.
THOMAS
You got to be kidding. This has to be the
worst. The worst acting. Ever.
If we are sponsoring. We get to choose what
the dog’s name is. You don’t get to have the
say—
WALT
Now Tommy, you are mainly sponsoring the
Carousel of Progress. But my men did an
awful amount of—
THOMAS
Walt, these men are doing a terrible job at
acting.
MARC
Thomas, I think you need to be a little open
minded. We are animators.
THOMAS
Open minded? Is that what you want? What
happened to collaboration?
MARC
Hey hey. We’re the creative forces.
THOMAS
Show me the rest.
MARC
Thomas—
THOMAS
Yells
Show me the rest. Now!
MARC
MARC presents the sketch of the parade.
We are going to have a parade. Full of Horseless
carriages. They will follow in a single file
line. Mickey Mouse will be on the first float
with Thomas Edison.
THOMAS
You’re going to stick one of America’s inventors…on
a float…with a Mouse?
MARC
Thomas, the land should present the past with
respect to Edison. And have a creative touch
of—
THOMAS
All of this looks awful. First you have a character
doing nothing. You screwed up the
Carousel of Progress. You name the dog Rover.
You stick Edison with a darn mouse. Real
peachy.
WALT
Now I know we are not perfect, Tommy. But
my men are willing to meet you halfway.
They’re hard workers. Just like your employees
over at General Electric. They are developing
products for all of us at WED Enterprises.
The end product will sure be amazing.
THOMAS
These men lack imagination. They lack a certain
sense of what a project should be like.
MARC
You have liked nothing I have shown you. For
crying out loud. Like Walt said, we are just
getting started. Give us more—
THOMAS
Both of you. Both of you have wasted my
time. My precious time.
MARC
Excuse me, but we value our time. I assure
you it is definitely not wasted. Not one bit.
WALT
Looking at THOMAS
Now Tommy, I have been accommodating to
each sponsor that has come through Disneyland.
Richfield oil. Dole. Carnation. That’s
how Walt Disney Productions operates. Thomas,
you are a reasonable human being. A
fellow storyteller after all..
THOMAS
All you have brought to this meeting is nonsense.
Utter nonsense. If you don’t…If you
don’t make changes to Edison Square. I will
tell our CEO we are dropping out of the sponsorship.
WALT
Thomas, we will plus it and make the proper
changes. From one gentleman to another,
let’s be reasonable. Key word is reasoning
here.
THOMAS
I’m demanding changes. Get rid of Mickey
Mouse. Get rid of the whimsy. This isn’t your
Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs.
WALT
But this is also our project at WED Enterprises.
Whimsy? That’s what made Walt Disney
Productions famous. I’m very proud of Snow
White.
THOMAS
You’re too proud—
WALT
Tell me, would you change your ideas on the
phonograph?
THOMAS
No, but—
WALT
How about your television broadcasts in the
20’s?
THOMAS
No, but this is different—
WALT
Without television, I wouldn’t be able to
broadcast my dreams. My future for Disneyland.
To a million viewers watching in their
living rooms.
THOMAS
This is different—
WALT
Tommy, your creations. My creations. We all
have our magical touch. The Midas touch.
You would never get rid of the uniqueness to
your products, would you?
THOMAS
No, but—
WALT
Whimsy. That’s what made Mickey Mouse
dance. Whimsy. That’s what made seven
dwarfs yodel. Whimsy. That’s what made
Alice use her imagination in Wonderland. All
of my creations are products. Products. Just
like your creations over at General Electric.
They are simply products. Products.
THOMAS
Walt, you left me in the dark. You have no
idea how these sketches look awful. Terrible.
You didn’t leave any room for—
WALT
Tommy, it’s not a big deal. Look at the big
picture here.
Walks towards sketches with THOMAS
Edison Square. Progress. A man’s dream.
General Electric’s touch will be soon seen in
the land. It’s all going to work out. You just
need to have patience. With all of us. We
can negotiate.
THOMAS
No! I know what you are trying to do. Sweet
talking. I have more authority than you do.
Don’t make me. Negotiations are over. You
got it? Got it?
WALT
Tommy, don’t forget you are going to be
one of our lessees in Disneyland. Now, you
wouldn’t want to miss out on that right? I’m
just getting started. Forget about the tight
corners inside Disneyland. We will make this
right. Not for you. Not for me. For the people.
THOMAS
No, I persist that you focus on this task. Now.
I came here for a reason.
WALT
Didn’t I say I would deliver? Thomas? Just
think of what this next version will be like.
Whimsy but still have enough for General
Electric. Does that sound like a good idea?
WED Enterprises is full of great ideas. But
everyone has doubted us. From Snow White.
To Disneyland. Everyone believed we would
fail. Fall right on our faces. But we prevail.
Always have. Always will.
THOMAS
Walt, this is no time for persuasion. I am putting
my foot down.
WALT
Thomas, just make it work. Why don’t you
come with me to Disneyland on Thursday?
Check everything out? I will arrange a limo for
you.
THOMAS
I have seen enough Disney magic. Thank you
very much.
WALT
Who would turn down a visit to a magic kingdom?
Ride the monorail? Experience the
Rocket to the Moon over in Tomorrowland?
Travel on the Rivers of America aboard the
Mark Twain Riverboat?
THOMAS
Play time is over. It’s all business. Stop playing
with your toys.
WALT
Tommy, Disneyland is my toy and it is part of
my business. Why can’t it be both?
THOMAS
I came here. To do business. How hard is
that? Your artists here are horrible. I mean
dreadful. Ideas to present to me. Acting out
lousy scenes. It’s very apparent I can’t take
you seriously. None of you seriously. Disneyland
is a fantasy.
WALT
Oh no Tommy, Disneyland is very much real.
So real you can touch it. Smell it. Feel it.
See it. Everything that you encounter with
Disneyland. Has been thoughtfully planned
out. To every detail.
Beat
Ok. Well I will call your office tomorrow to
make the plans.
THOMAS
See! You don’t listen! I never agreed! To anything!
Good day to you gentleman.
WALT
You enjoy the rest of your day now.
Picks up the phone
Lucy, please escort my friend Tommy out. We
are done here. Thank you.
Hangs up
THOMAS NORTON exits.
WALT
Boy that has to be the most annoying man.
Lacking imagination. What crawled up his
butt?
MARC
What should we do, Walt?
WALT
Take the night off, Marc. Go to your wife.
You can call Ward over the weekend. Discuss.
This Tommy pencil pusher will get his Edison
Square alright.
MARC
But he means business, Walt.
WALT
So do we, Marc. So do we.
MARC
I have a bad feeling about this. What about
the money? Do we have enough to finish up
this project?
WALT
Marc. Marc. If I wanted you to be concerned
with money. I would have contacted our finance
department. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.
You need sleep.
MARC
If you say so.
WALT
See you later, Marc.
End of Scene.
The Mountaintop - The Second Act
Experimental — Play with Annotations
Eden Kidane
The Second Act
Stage Directions: In my analysis of The
Mountaintop by Katori Hall, I will have
the author as God. The setting is a version
of heaven that looks like the way people
imagine a picturesque small town and is
ruled by God and the Angels as the second
in command and everyone else like citizens,
and time moves faster. The play will continue
after MLK dies and Camae brings him to
heaven…. Part 2 of the play.
Location heaven on top of a big hill overlooking
the part of heaven Martin Luther
King Jr. will be residing in. It’s a beautiful
sunny morning with a slight breeze.
KING
continue - far...away.
Looks around.
Where am I?
CAMAE
Heaven.
KING
Softly
Really… I’m dead.
CAMAE
Yup, you shu is Preacher Kang, dead like the
rest of us.
KING
It’s different then to how I imagined.
Thought it would be more
CAMAE
White.
KING
Ya.
CAMAE
Ya thought the same thing myself, but naw
heaven looks like the future promise land
with jus a few added bonuses.
KING
There’s more.
CAMAE
Cou’se (of course). Everyone got they own
house and can live with who they want, they
also got their own flat-screen TV
KING
Flat-screen?
CAMAE
Ya the TV’s here this big
throws her arms out in demonstration
and this thin
holds out her fingers, her pointer, and
thumb about three centimeters apart.
And that ain’t even the best part bout it,
you can see everything happening to the
people alive, it’s like changing the channel
jus read the instructions you’ll figure it out,
shoo I figured it out, it’s easy.
KING
Wow, its got everything here (he says with
an air of wonderment)
CAMAE
Shu does (she says with a smile).
KING
So where’s my house in this glorious land.
CAMAE
Over there (she points out to the stone
french manner, she smiles knowing that he’s
in for a surprise when he walks in)
KING
(Softly) That’s all mine
261
CAMAE
Shu is. Hold my hand, lemme take you there
He grabs her hand, and in a flash, they are in
front of the manor.
KING
We got here so fast, can I travel round like
that too?
CAMAE
Sorry Preacher Kang, you don’t got the wings
(she gestures to her breasts much like she
had done in the motel)
Analysis: I am referencing to the book when
Camae told King that her angel wings were
her breasts. All the important roles in
heaven are women (God and Angels), and it
is their femininity that makes them powerful.
The Gender roles in heaven combat the
way humans lived; In life being born a man
simply put men at a more powerful position
and so dying a woman simply put women in
a more powerful position.
KING
(shocked) what, so there are no male angels?
CAMAE
No sir, all the angels are women. Most of
the men don’t do much of anything here.
KING
What!? So what is there to do in heaven
when you are a man?
CAMAE
I mean when you’re young most of the men
talk to each other or watch their families or
what’s happnin on earth, sides you act like
there’s no women here too. Not all women
become Angels
KING
Oh, and what do you mean I’m young? I’m 39
years old and what does age have to do with
anything?
CAMAE
I mean your young in heaven years you still
gotta explore, after a while, people get
bored of it all, want to do somethin with
themselves. So they get a job like St. Augustine,
he was the one who picked up the cell
before patching God through, I mean its just
somethin to pass the time, not like there is
anything to gain.
KING
So I just spend my days here doing nothing?
CAMAE
Well no I just told… (She trails off as she
looks past King there is someone walking in
their direction. She yells out) Hey, Malcolm
come over here.
King’s eyes widen as he realizes what she is
saying
MALCOLM
enters the scene
How are you Camae, heard what you shouted
at ‘me’ (he says in a joking matter).
CAMAE
What? How?
MALCOLM
Seriously
Gives her a deadpan look
you told me when your first day was and I
wanted to see it, then I remembered a leader
was supposed to die that same day from
God’s board of major events that change the
world and put two and two together. I was
watching TV Camae.
CAMAE
Oh right.
MALCOLM
snickers
KING
Wait, you heard her, US?! (Mainly referencing
when Camae yells into the sky)
MALCOLM
Sure did.
KING
Oh jeez, I’m sorry bout that. Camae was---
Malcolm cuts him off
MALCOLM
chuckling No, No hard feelings. I know what
you mean. Still smiling Camae was jus pullin
your leg
KING sighs in relief
CAMAE
Hey, that was funny. Still is.
She giggles
Her eyes widen
Holy… I almost forgot I have to go file the
report. Malcolm can you show KIng around?
MALCOLM
Sure, That ain’t a problem.
CAMAE
Thank you, I owe you one
She smiles, then promptly disappears.
KING
So hows heaven been treating you
He says a little awkwardly
MALCOLM
An easy smile on his face
It’s been paradise. Here let me show you
how the house works.
They walk up to the front door
MALCOLM
So the door will only let you open it, an
amazing creation really. Course anyone can
leave but no one can just walk on in.
262
KING
He grabs the handle, turns it then pushes.
As he walks in he looks around and smiles;
he’s home at last.
I..it...it looks li..like home
He stutters out.
MALCOLM
Ya the houses will look like your version of
home, there are probably gonna be some
changes but nothin significant
KING
They really do got everything here, don’t
they
MALCOLM
Ya, heck Gods even got this board with all
the important things that’s gotta happen
KING
Happen for what? The future
He says jokingly.
MALCOLM
You are a smart one; no wonder you like
talkin all the time
Analysis: comment on his civil rights approach
KING
barely batting an eye at the last comment,
he explodes at the first
What!! She knows everything important
that’s gonna happen…. Everything!!!! But,
but whyyy---
MALCOLM
Hey, hey calm down I know its a bit disheartening
at---
KING
DISHEARTENING!!! She could have stopped,
stopped so many things---
MALCOLM
No no no she couldn’t have, it’s confusing at
first; I know that was me when I first found
out. It’s what the world needs to advance if
she did anything other than what happened
there would be a worse today. Do you get it?
We are on the best path she is keeping us on
the best path for the best future.
KING
So all the war and death and mistreat-
ment---
MALCOLM
If it wasn’t then it would have eventually
happened, it’s jus like that saying ‘everything
happens for a reason’ that reason is for
a greater tomorrow
KING
I wanna see it, I wanna see HOW it all works
WHY it justifies all of… all of…
MALCOLM
Fine, fine lets head on over to the TV
Both are now on the long brown couch staring
at the TV. MALCOLM turns it on using the
remote and changes it to the wanted channel
immediately; KING knows just by looking
at MALCOLM’S movements that everything
he is doing is instinct, second nature, and
wonders if that’s the path he is headed
down. With nothing to do in Heaven but look
at the TV, he knows that it will be. He just
never knew how soon that would be.
MALCOLM
Hey see look at that, it’s just as Camae said
(He is pointing at the screen, it looks as if
it’s glitching out but its flickering through
the events before and after his death)
KING
But everything can’t be set and stone just
like that!
MALCOLM
That’s right it’s not, what do you think God’s
job is; she makes sure the world stays on the
right path for the best outcome. Sacrifices
have to be made, that’s jus the way things
got to be she has the worst job; she has to
‘play’ God.
KING
So there is nothing we can do
MALCOLM
Nope just sit back and watch it all happen
KING
But I should help or I should---
MALCOLM
Lemme stop you right there, trying to do
anything will jus mess things up the best
thing for you to do when you die is nothing.
Hey why don’t you check in on your family,
didn’t you want to see them?
MALCOLM
changes the channel
they see mayhem turning through most of
the channels
KING
What’s happening?
MALCOLM
stops on a random channel and as they are
looking the see riots of outrage the aftermath
of KING’S death.
KING
Me.
End of Scene.
Analysis: The ending is MLK realizing the
effect of his death caused. It is also a nod
to the fact that it ends before even looking
in on his family in true MLK fashion, he will
always be more concerned with the future
than his family. For the religious aspect
of everything (Malcolm X was Muslim MLK
wasn’t)whatever they believe and practice is
what they see and hear. The story is primarily
focused on Martin Luther King’s point of
view so we see the name God and only one
level. If the story was heard from another
person with a different religion they would
see what they believe. Heaven is perfect
and accepts all who are good at there core.
263
Works Cited
Hall, Katori, and Faedra Chatard Carpenter.
The Mountaintop. Methuen Drama,
2018.
Academic Works
An Extensive Analysis of The Life of J. D. Vance
Academic Non-Fiction
Megan Mehta
For many people, the definition of success
depends on one’s income, happiness,
or quality of life. For J. D. Vance, author of
Hillbilly Elegy, success meant escaping the
toxic aspects of Appalachian culture — the
vicious cycle of poverty and domestic violence
that plagued his family for generations
— while preserving the positive aspects and
strong connections with his cultural identity.
An unstable homelife, drug abuse, and
lack of adequate material wealth nearly
destroyed his life. Nevertheless, opportunities
to develop and practice perseverance,
support from family members, and a dash of
luck helped Vance build a prosperous adult
life.
The outcome of Vance’s story is rooted
within his cultural legacy, the behaviors
and attitudes he subconsciously inherited
from his parents and environment. Malcolm
Gladwell, author Outliers: The Story of
Success, explains the significance of cultural
legacies as “powerful forces [with] deep
roots and long lives. They persist, generation
after generation, virtually intact… and they
play such a role in directing attitudes and
behavior that we cannot make sense of our
world without them” (174). In other words,
our cultural legacy influences our mindsets.
It is the authority of how one navigates the
world; therefore, to an extent, cultural legacy
dictates one’s future.
The impact of cultural legacy is observable
in the lives of Vance’s family members.
His grandmother and grandfather, whom he
lovingly refers to as “Mamaw” and “Papaw,”
are self-proclaimed proud “hillbillies” that
moved from Jackson, Kentucky, a poverty-stricken
and extremely isolated area of
the Appalachian Mountains, to Middletown,
Ohio, in hopes of creating a better future for
their children. Gladwell describes the areas
that most “hillbillies” are from, as “remote
and lawless territories” where “people are
steeped in violence” (Gladwell 167). Mamaw
and Papaw transplanted their culture into
their new house. Positive aspects include
having a tight-knit family, supporting neighbors
and friends through tough times, and
fierce loyalty. Negative aspects include
having personal issues, regardless of what
they are, remain private. What happens in
the family stays in the family, and getting
third-party help or involvement is heavily
frowned upon. Domestic violence and constant
yelling, norms in Appalachian familial
relations, created an unstable homelife for
Vance’s mother and her cultural legacy made
it difficult for her to get help. Her brother,
Jimmy, recalled that Mamaw hurled a flower
vase at Papaw after he came home drunk
one night. At other times, Mamaw sabotaged
Papaw’s wardrobe, hid his wallet in
the oven, and “devoted herself to making
[Papaw’s] drunken life a living hell” (Vance
43). Papaw was a violent alcoholic, but
Mamaw was a “violent nondrunk” and “she
channeled her frustrations… [into] covert
war” (Vance 43). In Appalachian culture, “no
aspect of this homelife is concerning” (Vance
43). Domestic violence is so ordinary that it
almost becomes customary.
265
Since these demeanors were a part of
her cultural legacy, Vance’s mother, as an
adult, acted in a similar malicious manner.
She created a precarious homelife for Vance
and regularly physically and verbally abused
her boyfriends. These dispositions are entrenched
in the Appalachian cultural legacy.
Vance reiterates this idea, explaining that
his mother’s “struggles weren’t some isolated
incident. They were replicated, replayed,
and relived by many of the people who, like
[Vance’s family], had moved hundreds of
miles in search of a better life. There was no
end in sight” (Vance 142). As a consequence
of his mother’s behaviors, multiple strange
men frequently entered and exited Vance’s
personal life. His family continuously moved
from one house to another, and the lack of
having a permanent safe place-- a home--
amplified a sense of instability. In turn, he
began developing adverse childhood experiences
(ACE).
ACE introduced a whole new set of tribulations.
Paul Tough, the author of The Atlantic
article “How Kids Learn Resilience,”
explores the consequences of a disturbing
homelife. He discovers that toxic stress “can
cause an array of physiological problems
and impede development of the prefrontal
cortex, the part of the brain that controls
our most complex intellectual functions, as
well as [the] ability to regulate ourselves
both emotionally and cognitively” (Tough 4).
In other words, children with ACE struggle to
perform in school on a neurobiological level.
Throughout Hillbilly Elegy, Vance reiter-
ates the notion that his household turmoil
contributed to poor grades. In turn, Vance
developed learned helplessness, the fixed
mindset that one does not have control over
their future, so it is meaningless to make an
effort to succeed.
Although Vance’s background presented
complicated issues, these disadvantageous
circumstances taught him how to adapt to
new environments and strengthened his
grit. In Gladwell’s words, “As is so often the
case with outliers, buried in that setback
was a golden opportunity” (Gladwell 124).
When Vance found refuge in the peaceful
atmosphere of Mamaw’s house, he began
focusing the extra energy he was exerting to
cope with unstable environments into school
instead. Vance explains, “those three years
alone with Mamaw-- uninterrupted-- saved
me…. My grades began improving immediately
after moving in” (Vance 137). His enhanced
adaptation skills, as well as Mamaw’s
strict rules to achieve good grades, pushed
Vance to overcome adversity.
A compulsion to impress Mamaw and
inclination to make her sacrifices meaningful
heightened Vance’s determination
for success. This attitude easily observable
after she bought him an expensive graphing
calculator. Vance felt that he “had better
take school work more seriously” because
he “owed it to [Mamaw]” to accomplish in
an academic setting (Vance 137). Amy Chua
and Jed Rubenfeld, authors of The New
York Times article “What Drives Success?,”
explore which factors fuel children of immigrants
to achieve. They conclude that the
primary motivation is rooted in “an acute
sense of obligation to redeem their parents’
sacrifices…. [they] feel that ‘family honor’
depends on their success” (Chua and Rubenfeld
4). Although Vance is not an immigrant
and Mamaw is not his mother, there is significant
symmetry between his mindset towards
hard work and the attitude children of immigrants
have towards justifying their parents’
sacrifices because there is a notable amount
of resemblance between Mamaw’s story and
that of immigrants. This outlook on work
ethic sustained Vance’s motivation to accomplish
during his service in the Marine Corps
and throughout his academic career at Ohio
State University and Yale Law School. Angela
Duckworth, author of Grit: The Power of
Passion and Perseverance, elaborates on the
benefits of endurance, explaining that “grit
still predicts success. Regardless of specific
attributes and advantages that help someone
succeed in each of these diverse domains of
challenge, grit matters in all of them” (12).
In other words, advantages are meaningless
without grit; perseverance determines
success. Thus, despite his disadvantaged
background, Vance achieved upward mobility
because he was consistently determined to
overcome adversity.
The impact of cultural legacy and Vance’s
rationale to impress Mamaw is also discernable
when considering how religion shaped
his mindset. Mamaw was a non-churchgoing
Christian who was powerfully influenced by
her faith, often citing a compelling combination
of strong work ethic and God as
the key to success. She deeply instilled the
notion that Vance “should never despair,
for God had a plan…. God helps those who
help themselves” (Vance 86). In turn, this
attitude significantly affected his convictions
regarding the power of hard work and persistence.
In Vance’s words, “To coast through
life was to squander my God-given talent, so
I had to work hard. I had to take care of my
266
family because my Christian duty demanded
it” (Vance 86). Through his perspective,
adequately repaying Mamaw for her support
meant serving God by creating a successful
life. Ignoring his talents would starkly contrast
Mamaw’s principles of prosperity. As
such, Vance felt obligated to triumph upward
mobility, regardless of the challenges
that he may encounter. Even after he eventually
grows out of his faith, Vance continues
to be dramatically impacted by Mamaw’s
religious values. Although adverse childhood
experiences (ACE) and religion helped Vance
develop a powerful sense of perseverance,
the support he received from Mamaw and his
sister, Lindsay, is priceless. Lindsay shielded
Vance from a significant portion of their
mother's destructive behaviors, drug use,
and lifestyle. Vance describes her "as more
adult than child" because she consistently
filled the role of a parent. Vance explains
"depend[ing] on her so completely" that he
"didn't see Lindsay for what she was: a young
girl, not yet old enough to drive a car, learning
to fend for herself and her little brother
at the same time" (Vance 82). Despite her
young age, Lindsay was not a naive child.
She carried herself with the composure of
a mature adult and raised Vance. Her support
provided a buffer between the constant
exposure to drug use, including the potential
to have more ACE, and became a compelling
role model. Similarly, Mamaw and Papaw
were the authority figures who provided
enhanced security by protecting Vance when
his mother became unruly. Despite the toxic
aspects of Appalachian culture, the "tight
family bonds" and prioritization of "loyalty
to blood above all else" saved Vance (Gladwell
168). Together, Lindsay, Mamaw, and
Papaw provided stability, asylum, and love
to help him overcome the challenges ACE,
and boosted his willpower to accomplish.
In adulthood, Vance's wife, Usha, supports
him in a complementary manner by helping
him adjust to life outside of Middletown and
Appalachian culture.
Despite Vance’s grit and reliable support
system, luck and advantages that are not
initially obvious have monumentally propelled
his success. Unlike his peers, Vance
was incredibly privileged in the sense that
he always had a reliable support system, and
all the opportunities to develop his grit fell
perfectly into place at the right time. Vance
supports this notion, clarifying that “despite
all of the environmental pressures from my
neighborhood and community, I received a
different message at home. And that just
might have saved me” (Vance 60). He is
lucky that Mamaw understood the value of
education, and that Papaw strengthened his
love for learning. They nurtured “positive
mindsets and effective learning strategies,”
the key attitudes that develop academic
perseverance, which is not typically encouraged
in Appalachian families (Tough 18).
In a similar manner, the Marine Corps
helped Vance realize his potential by showing
him that resilience, self-control, and
determination leads to success. The military
dismantled Vance’s fixed-mindset by promoting
tolerance for failure, then providing
opportunities for redemption. A repetition
of this process bolstered his determination,
confidence, and grit. In turn, this encouraged
the development essential aspects of
growth-mindset, such as “competency [can]
grow with effort”, he can succeed with adequate
effort, and that all “work has value for
[him]” (Tough 20). The military transformed
Vance by completely extracting all characteristics
of a fixed-mindset and replaced
it with a growth-mindset and positive attitudes.
They effectively wiped away a majority
of the toxic inclinations in Appalachian
mentalities.
Likewise, Vance had substantial social
capital that helped him navigate life after
escaping Middletown. Professors and classmates
helped him develop his "practical
intelligence," which includes 'knowing what
to say to whom, knowing when to say it, and
knowing how to say it for maximum effect.'…
It's knowledge that helps you read situations
correctly and get what you want" (Gladwell
101). Without compelling communication
skills and capable practical intelligence, it is
highly unlikely that Vance would have succeeded
in college, much less, even applied
to Yale Law. Vance reinforces this idea,
explaining that his social capital, the "network
of people and institutions around [him
had] real economic value" (Vance 214). His
network helped him gain access to unique
opportunities and learn how to navigate
institutional systems. Receiving guidance
and having mentors aided Vance in making
instrumental career choices that fortified
his success. Referring to both social capital
and cultural legacy, Gladwell reiterates the
conviction that "Successful people don't do
it alone. Where they come from matters.
They're products of particular places and
environments" (Gladwell 119).
Vance’s story highlights the toxic aspects
of Appalachian culture by embodying the
challenges of upward mobility among working-class
white people. Notwithstanding his
childhood, he built a prosperous life. However,
this would not be possible without a
strenuous childhood fueling an invigorating
sense of grit, a strong support network, and
267
a sprinkle of luck to assist him along the
way.
Works Cited
Chua, Amy, and Jed Rubenfeld. "What Drives
Success?" The New York Times [New
York City], PDF ed., 25 Jan. 2014,
SundayReview sec.
Duckworth, Angela. "Showing Up." Grit: The
Power of Passion and Perseverance,
PDF ed., Simon and Schuster, 2016,
pp. 1-14.
Gladwell, Malcolm. Outliers: The Story of
Success, Kindle eBook ed., Little,
Brown and Company, 2008, pp. 224-
49
Tough, Paul. "How Kids Learn Resilience."
The Atlantic, PDF ed., June 2016,
Education sec.
Vance, J. D.. Hillbilly Elegy, Kindle eBook
ed..
Community College Stigma
Academic Non-Fiction
Caylia Love
Choosing which college to attend is an
important decision for both students and
their parents. From the moment their child
is born, some parents immediately begin setting
aside money for their future endeavors
with college. Other parents start at an early
age to instill the idea of college, and when
their children reach a mature age, they influence
their children’s choices of potential
colleges. Students themselves are encouraged
to think about this decision as early as
their middle school years. However, students
are mainly faced with this decision during
their time in high school. Counselors have
meetings with students every progressing
year, asking the same questions about their
futures and what they plan to do with their
lives, explicitly their plans involving higher
education. While universities and community
colleges are both options for higher education,
many people tend to gravitate towards
universities instead of community colleges.
For years, community colleges have been
viewed as inferior and looked down upon as
a means of education. But why is that? Research
shows that community college holds a
negative stigma because of common misconceptions,
the practice of elitism, and false
contrasts between community college and
university educations.
Common misconceptions made about
community colleges heavily contribute to
the surrounding negative stigma. Misleading
statements are formulated because there
is a lack of knowledge and experience with
two-year institutions. Admissions counselor
for the Community College of Aurora, Gabriel
Fischer shares his experience saying,
“There's this idea out there that the education
received at a community college is not
as good as the education received from a
four-year school. In my experience, having
attended two different four-year schools
as well as a community college, employers
don't seem to be as concerned with where or
how you came to know something.” Here he
addresses a widespread perception people
hold about community colleges, lack of
quality. Since community colleges differ in
how and what they deliver as far as curriculum,
people use this to reason that they
somehow lack quality education. However,
Michaele Charles, a frequent writer for
higher education institutions, points out that
state regulations exist for community college
coursework. Specific standards must be met
to transfer to another college or university,
meaning that courses aren’t easier because
they’re from a community college. This
additional information adds to the list of
misconceptions; people are under the false
impression that community college courses
are easier because they aren’t the same as
four-year universities, which are widely perceived
as prestigious in everything. Fischer
addresses another myth, a prevalent idea
that an individual won’t become successful
or important with a community college
education. This misconception can be attributed
to how society defines success, and
more often than not, community colleges
are not considered an outlet to success. In
268
my personal experience with weighing my
college options, I made assumptions about
community colleges based on what I had
heard from others. I thought classes would
be easy, a limited number of options for
classes would be offered, and it would only
be a steppingstone to a real education. Essentially,
I believed community college to be
another version of high school. Because of
all this misinformation about what a community
college involves and offers, these institutions
cannot escape a negative stigma of
being “less than” the four-year colleges and
universities.
Educational elitism and its misconceptions
also influence how individuals view community
colleges as inferior. Elitism in higher
education is the divide between elite universities
and standard colleges. If the comparison
were to be made between Harvard University
and Las Positas Community College,
it’s clear which would be considered elite or
superior. I faced a similar comparison when I
was applying for colleges and discussing my
options with my family. My mom and I had
gone to visit my grandparents at my aunt’s
house one day, and my cousin asked me what
I was thinking of doing after high school. I
explained that I was applying to both community
colleges and universities but would
most likely attend a community college first.
My mother then chimed in, adding, “I told
her it’s better to just go straight to a university
and get a better-quality education that’s
well worth the money; that’s what I did.”
Her comment made me feel that the educa-
tion I would be receiving was worthless compared
to a university education. This concept
is an ever-growing issue that continues to
contribute to the perception that community
colleges don’t nearly measure up to other
prestigious institutions as far as quality.
Elizabeth Von Mann of the American Council
of Trustees and Alumni organization reasons,
“These price variations send a clear message
to potential students: Not all universities are
equal. With Ivy Leagues and state flagships
constantly inflating the cost of attendance
with little to no drop in demand, middle and
lower-class students believe that a ‘quality’
education is locked away in an ivory
tower.” This statement showcases how this
idea of elitism could significantly affect
how one would view community colleges as
lowly when comparing them to a four-year
institution. Discussing what contributes to
elitism, Steven Brint, professor of sociology
and public policy, and Charles T. Clotfelter,
professor of public policy and economics and
law, claim that the most critical structural
divisions among institutions in the U.S. are
attributed to selectivity, wealth, the highest
level of degree offered, and the governing
authority. Additionally, professor of international
higher education, Simon Marginson,
continues with this idea, reporting,
“Institutions divide between ‘selecting’ (or
‘status-seeking’) universities and colleges…
and ‘student-selected’ (or ‘student-seeking’)
institutions that are easy to enter. This
tendency to elite/non-elite bifurcation of
institutions is ultimately driven by the absolute
scarcity of highly valued social opportunities,
or in the theoretical terms of social
science, the zero-sum character of positional
competition. The number of stellar careers
is limited and only some university 'brands'
and degrees carry a high probability of such
careers” (81). Several current-day situations
exemplify this elitism concept within
higher education, but most recently is the
college-admissions scandal. This scandal is
when parents have used bribery to gain admittance
for their children into distinguished
and reputable universities. The classification
of which higher education institutions
are considered elite has severely impacted
how community colleges are perceived and
overlooked.
In addition to elitism within higher education,
community colleges and universities’
contrasts affect superior performance
perception. Each of these institutions holds
different characteristics that could make
one appear better than the other. Beginning
with community colleges, Dr. Khadijah Z.
Ali-Coleman, a higher education professional,
narrows their identifying features as
open admissions, affordability compared to
other institutions, and courses being directly
applicable to the workforce. Jonathan Turk,
associate director for research in the American
Council on Education Division of Learning
and Engagement, contributes to this
idea by commenting, “[c]ommunity colleges
accept 100 percent of applicants with a
high school diploma or equivalent credential
and offer high-quality educational opportunities,
all while keeping their tuition low
to maximize access. This should be viewed
positively rather than with skepticism.” This
comment shows how even seemingly positive
community college features still raise doubt
within individuals’ minds. In consideration of
contrasting universities, Anthony P. Carnevale,
director of the Georgetown University
Center on Education and the Workforce,
observes that the more selective institutions
269
will spend more on their students, which
translates to other benefits. Benefits include
better graduation rates and better offers of
access to jobs and graduate or professional
schools, all of which are better than less selective
colleges. There is truth to this: The
schools that spend more on their students
and resources can produce services superior
to schools that don’t. Such contrasts
are represented in one community college
student who went to attend a four-year
university who explains, “I think community
colleges have a lot to offer, but people must
properly evaluate such schools [for themselves]…While
I enjoyed attending community
college at the time, I realized that the
education I received was not as rigorous
compared to the classes I took at university
[and thus] [t]he transition from community
college to university can be very difficult for
some students” (Kaeppel). While these are
just some of the contrasting features between
a university and community college,
these identifying aspects alone provide further
incentive for holding a prejudiced view
of community colleges.
After discussing the presented evidence,
an accurate answer is proposed to why a
stigma exists around community college.
Community colleges have a surrounding
negative stigma because of misinterpreted
statements, the growing attitude of elitism
in higher education, and the contrasting
characteristics of a community college and
a four-year institution. Now that these ideas
are brought to light, what can be done to
properly respect community colleges within
our educational system? An essential first
step involves educating people on what a
community college entails to eliminate the
misconceptions. While it is a seemingly in-
significant solution to solving the concept of
elitism, it is a proactive step, nonetheless.
There’s nothing wrong with having preferences
about which form of higher education
to pursue, but these two-year institutions
deserve more credit than they’re given.
Works Cited
Ali-Coleman, Khadijah Zakia. "Essential Pathways: An Examination of How Community Colleges Compromise Their Unique Contribution to
American Higher Education." Higher Education Politics and Economics, vol. 5, no. 1, 2019. Opposing Viewpoints, doi:10.32674/hepe.
v5i1.1141. Accessed 10 Dec. 2020.
Brint, Steven, and Charles T. Clotfelter. "U.S. Higher Education Effectiveness." RSF: The Russell Sage Foundation Journal of the Social Sciences,
vol. 2, no. 1, Apr. 2016, pp. 2-37. JSTOR, doi:10.7758/rsf.2016.2.1.01. Accessed 10 Dec. 2020.
Carnevale, Anthony P. "The Great Sorting." Chronicle of Higher Education, vol. 58, no. 40, 6 July 2012. eBook Collection (EBSCOhost),
lpclibrary.idm.oclc.org/login?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&drlh&AN=77939635&site=ehost-live. Accessed 15
Dec. 2020.
Charles, Michaele. "Let's Bury Some Community College Myths." Writing the Front Range, Front Range Community College, 20 July 2011, blog.
frontrange.edu/2011/07/20/lets-bury-some-community-college-myths/. Accessed 3 Dec. 2020.
Fischer, Gabriel. "Rumor Has It: 5 Myths about Community Colleges." The Fox Call, Community College of Aurora, 30 Apr. 2012, www.ccaurora.
edu/blogs/fox-call/outreach/rumor-has-it-5-myths-about-community-colleges. Accessed 3 Dec. 2020.
Kaeppel, Kristi. "Challenging the Stigma of Community College Students and Alumni." That Wasn't on the Syllabus Blog, U of Connecticut, 17
June 2019, gcci.uconn.edu/2019/06/17/challenging-the-stigma-of-community-college-students-alumni/. Accessed 19 Nov. 2020.
Marginson, Simon. "Systems and Stratification." The Dream Is Over: The Crisis of Clark Kerr's California Idea of Higher Education, University
of California Press, 2016, pp. 81-90. The Clark Kerr Lectures On the Role of Higher Education in Society. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/
stable/10.1525/j.ctt1kc6k1p.16?seq=1#metadata_info_tab_contents. Accessed 10 Dec. 2020.
Turk, Jonathan. "Erasing the Community College Stigma." Higher Education Today, American Council on Education, 26 June 2019, www.
higheredtoday.org/2019/06/26/erasing-community-college-stigma/. Accessed 25 Nov. 2020.
Von Mann, Elizabeth. "How Elitism Affects Higher Education." The Forum, ACTA, 22 July 2020, www.goacta.org/2020/07/how-elitism-affectshigher-education/.
Accessed 3 Dec. 2020.
270
Round and Around We Go
Academic Non-Fiction
Laura Riley
Gregor Samsa opens his dreary eyes. He
sits up in his bed, his back and neck aching
from a poor night’s rest. He slips on his work
uniform and exits his room. Heading into
the kitchen, the wafting smell of eggs and
bacon motivates his empty stomach to keep
moving. He scarfs down his breakfast, following
it up with a glass of milk, and offers
pleasantries to his family and housekeeper.
He heads to work. The commute is boring
and lengthy— the same greys and blues
rolling past his eyes as he rides on the train.
When he arrives at his stop, nothing has
changed. He may be a travelling salesman,
but there are only so many people you can
meet on the job. The same stories, the same
decor, the same reasons for not wanting to
buy. He gets back on the train to go home,
the thought of dinner seeming to make the
engine run slower. He arrives home, takes
off his coat, and sits in his usual spot at the
dinner table. He eats food— nothing special,
but it hits the spot— chit chats with his
family, and heads to bed. He has a long day
of the same old same old to get back to in
the morning. This repetitive cycle— Wake
up. Eat. Go to work. Come home. Eat. Sleep.
Repeat— is the cornerstone of the Samsa
household. Gregor is responsible for the
family finances, and his story can be found
everywhere you go. Once Gregor has his
transformation, his baton is passed back up
the family tree to his father, who assumes
the responsibility as a corporate drone.
While viewing this through a Marxist lens,
the harsh reality of the underclass workers
comes to light. Gregor’s father’s uniform is
a symbol of the working class. It represents
their identity, the cruel reality of the need
for money, and just how much the droning
day in, day out of work can take its toll on
an individual.
There are countless ways to interpret
a text. With each lens, new aspects are
brought to light. Symbols, as seen under one
lens, can be remarkably different in another.
The same goes for the characters, the
themes, and the intricate relationship of
how all of these things react to one another.
The Marxist critical lens takes all these
aspects and analyzes the dynamics of social
class and the struggles that go on within
and between them. With this lens, the text
becomes so much more than a quirky tale
about how a man became a massive bug.
It shows the struggles to need work, and
the harsh struggles that go along with it. It
shows how it seeps into home life, and how
that reality never truly leaves you. To those
who look through a Marxist lens, literature
is not simply “works created in accordance
with timeless artistic criteria, but… 'products'
of the economic and ideological determinants
specific to that era” (Abrams 149).
By viewing Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis
through the Marxist critical lens, the “products”
of this era come out in many ways.
One in particular is the uniform of Gregor’s
father and the rich symbolism that goes
along with it.
Gregor’s father’s uniform is a symbol of
his status as a member of the working class.
271
After Gregor’s transformation, his father had
to take up work in order to cover his debts
and the household finances. This uniform,
which was a “tight-fitting blue uniform with
gold buttons, the kind worn by messengers
at banking concerns,” is how his work
identifies him (Kafka 38). The concept of a
uniform is to hide any sense of individuality
and make the worker who wears it a part of
an easily identifiable mass. The person who
dons a uniform sheds the hats and baggage
they own from their personal lives in exchange
for making money. When the uniform
is on, they are of use to the company. Mr.
Samsa, when those polished gold buttons are
shining, is a means of profit. He becomes a
means to bring in the money required for
his family to survive. In the eyes of the bank
for which he works, however, that uniform
means he is forced to sacrifice his time and
energy to make his bank more profitable.
The money they give him is just like dangling
a bone in front of a dog. Mr. Samsa must
wear that uniform; he does not get much
of a choice. He must fit in as a cog in the
turning wheel of the industry. Additionally,
he can never truly shed the uniform. The
reality in which he lives and his need to
work and survive can never truly be taken
off. This can be seen in Mr. Samsa’s refusal
to take off the uniform, even while sleeping.
Gregor's father “dozed, completely dressed,
in his chair, as if he were always ready for
duty and were waiting for the voice of his
superior… the old man slept most uncomfortably
and yet peacefully” (Kafka 41). His
work life is not left at the door. It follows
him through, affecting his life, his sleep,
his mentality, and every other aspect of his
daily life. This is the reality of members of
the working class. They grind because they
have to. While those above them exploit
their situations, those below have no choice
but to chase that bone. It is an unfortunate
reality that shines its dim, ugly light through
those golden buttons.
Such exploitation of the working class has
to force even a retired old man back into
the workforce. Gregor’s father, before Gregor
suddenly was unable to provide for the
family, was certainly of no use to those who
are tying the bones to the strings. Mr. Samsa
used to be seen “sitting in his bathrobe in
the armchair” and would “shuffle along with
great effort between Gregor and his mother…
wrapped in his old overcoat” (Kafka 38).
Such an old man who could barely walk surely
should not be putting on a uniform to go
work full time at a bank. Mr. Samsa, on those
walks, needed the help from a walker to be
able to keep up the slow pace. Despite that,
“he was holding himself very erect” once he
got back to work (Kafka 38). Gregor’s father
is a very weathered man. Perhaps the inability
to work was merely a facade. Mr. Samsa,
with so many years on him, might have had
a realization about the reality of working—
about how droning and fruitless the labor
is— and placed the responsibility into Gregor’s
hands. Just as how Gregor’s company
was using him as a means to bring in profit,
his father was using Gregor as a means to
bring in money for the family. Gregor is “so
quickly discarded by his father as soon as
he can no longer earn wages” (Mir 4). This
harsh treatment of his son forces him to
wear the dehumanizing uniform again. There
is no sympathy for not being able to work—
only a stamp of a lack of value. With that
knowledge, Mr. Samsa brushes off his dusty
work persona and gets back to the grind. For
them, that is just the way it is.
The machine that forces the laborers to
turn and turn no matter what also holds no
sympathy for the wear and tear it does on
the cogs that allow it to function. Mr. Samsa’s
uniform, when he is first seen putting it
on, is in good condition, despite not being
new. A little while later, however, his uniform
“[begins] to get dirty in spite of all
the mother’s and sister’s care, and … [is]
covered with stains and gleaming with its
constantly polished gold buttons” (Kafka 41).
The wear on the uniform is representative
of the wear that work does to its user. The
longer Gregor’s father has to be a part of
the grueling day in and day out, the more
it breaks him down. Any shiny new piece of
him when he started has been worn away.
Any individuality and sense of self that had
originally stayed with him in the beginning
days of his work has been sanded down. With
this, he becomes truly integrated as part of
the machine. He is truly a cog, just like the
rest of them. Forever replaceable— a dime a
dozen. In the article “On Kafka’s The Metamorphosis,”
his “labour has turned [him and
Gregor] into working commodities” (Fenlon
2). This wear and tear follows him home. It
makes Mr. Samsa burn out, falling asleep in
his chair with his uniform still on. It is uncomfortable,
but he is used to it. And that is
exactly what they want. With him too burnt
out to be able to do anything else, all he can
do is get back up and go to work. It makes
him obedient, and any resistance held within
him to try and change something about how
unfair it is is drained out of him. He be-
272
comes complaisant. The uniform will remain
stained, and it will blend in, becoming part
of the routine.
Viewing just Mr. Samsa’s uniform through
the Marxist lens shows a world of struggle for
the working class. The uniform represents
the status one has as a member of the working
class, and how it never truly leaves you,
no matter where you are. It shows how even
a decrepit old man can be forced upright,
all in the name of needing money to survive.
It represents how much work tears away at
you, and causes one to become a sanded
down cog in the machine of society. The
Metamorphosis is so much more than just a
story about a bug. It paints the picture of
how society functions. It shows the reality
of what it is like to know nothing but how
to work. What Gregor and his father experienced
is not exclusive to them. Where there
is one cog, there are more. They are found
everywhere, continually replaced to make
the machine stronger. The baton of who
works may be passed down, but the cycle
continues, and the cogs turn, just as they
always have.
Works Cited
Abrams, M.H. "Marxist Criticism." A Glossary of Literary Terms. 7th ed. Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace College Publishers, 1999. 147-153.
Fenlon, Joshua. “On Kafka's The Metamorphosis.” E-International Relations, 26 June 2013, www.e-ir.info/2013/06/21/on-kaftas-themetamorphosis/.
Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. Translated by Stanley Corngold, Bantam Books, 1972.
Mir, Shabir Ahmad. “Explicating Kafka's Metamorphosis within the Ambit of Marxism.” International Journal of English Literature and Social
Sciences, 21 Feb. 2019, ijels.com/detail/explicating-kafka-s-metamorphosis-within-the-ambit-of-marxism/.
273
The Truth Behind The American Dream
Academic Non-Fiction
Matthew Aboudi
During the late 1800s and early 1900s,
there were rapid waves of immigration
and industrialization in what is now called
the Gilded Age. People from all over the
world, inspired by stories they heard of the
“American Dream,” sought to achieve it
for themselves. The American Dream is a
concept which offers everyone a chance for
social mobility and the ability to accumulate
wealth through hard work and dedication.
I believe that the American Dream is an
overexaggerated belief in how much social
mobility there actually can be in America,
and as a country, we have never offered
truly equal opportunity to all immigrants due
to America’s history of racial injustices and
social inequalities.
The promise for social mobility based only
on a person’s abilities and achievements is
hyperbolized today. It may have been true in
the past, that anyone could work their way
to the top, and there have been notable examples
such as John Rockefeller and Andrew
Carnegie — both of whom attained massive
wealth during the Gilded Age by having the
foresight to see the upcoming railroad industry
and positioned themselves to greatly
benefit from it. James Truslow Adam expands
on his Definition of the American Dream
offering that “[i]t is not a dream of motor
cars and high wages merely, but a dream of
a social order in which each man and each
woman shall be able to attain to the fullest
statute of which they are innately capable,
and be recognized by others for what they
are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances
of birth or position” (Adams). Under
ideal circumstances, I would be inclined to
agree. However, we must recognize that social
mobility and achievements have always
been inherently unequal because of America's
past racial and economic injustices to
people of color. The most obvious example
that comes to mind is slavery when discussing
America’s racial history, but a more contemporary,
and infamous racial policy was
redlining. Redlining, from the 1950s, was
a practice that outright barred Black (and
other minority) families living in so-called
“red” zones (neighborhoods with significant
African-American populations) from getting
mortgages and loans from the bank.
Practices like redlining and segregation
have proven how selective our society is
when it comes to allowing for social mobility
for non-white individuals.
Nativism has also played a massive role in
the limited degrees of social and economic
mobility for immigrants. Nativism refers to
the ideology of prioritizing the interests of
native-born Americans over that of the
immigrants (“Nativism”). Beliefs like “the
immigrants are taking my jobs” and “They’re
unAmerican” usually stem from this train of
thought.
Persecution against immigrants took many
forms. The Alien and Sedition Act of 1798
sought to make it difficult for immigrants
to become American citizens, even going as
far as to give America the ability to deport
immigrants on arbitrary guidelines such as
deeming the immigrants too “dangerous”, or
274
because they immigrated from a “hostile”
nation. Contemporary examples include
President Donald Trump’s fear-mongering of
America’s necessity to build a physical wall
along the southern U.S.-Mexico border, and
the ever increasing military budget which
grows in the name of protecting Americans
from "terrorists". These instances of nativism
clearly poke holes in the American Dream’s
promise for success and serve to highlight
how limited and exaggerated the American
Dream is.
The American Dream has become an exaggerated
concept due to overlooked racial
and economic inequalities that prevent the
dream from being a reality. Social mobility
does exist, but not to the extent that one
might think after hearing stories of success
and a “better life” in America. The American
Dream seems to be a quickly fading bragging
point that will no longer have relevance as
more and more countries catch up economically
to offer levels of opportunity beyond
what we have to offer.
Works Cited
Adams, James Truslow. The Epic of America.
Little Brown, 1931. “Nativism.” Merriam-Webster.com
Dictionary, Merriam-Webster,
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/nativism.
Accessed 30 Oct. 2020.
2021