R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

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26 helping him if he refuses to help himself. I can’t cave in. She couldn’t will herself to say no and she wouldn’t say yes. She teetered on the dark brink of her choice. No matter which way she looked there was only the brown murk of frustration. Jake stood at the window where the late summer sun contrasted with the gloom of the hospital ward. The bruise on his neck looked larger then before, like she could see the imprint of the hand that made it. Guilt rose again, closing over her head as if she was sinking into a stagnant pond. “I’ll go talk to the doctors and see if they’ll approve your release.” *** The phone woke her from a deep sleep. Despite being snuggled under the new down quilt that she could ill afford, a chill permeated the room. Red and green Christmas lights from the neighbor’s house reflected on the fresh snow outside. The clock read three a.m. “Miriam Cohen?” “Yes.” “This is Officer Carruthers from the Greenfield Sheriff’s office. We have your son, Jake, here at the station. He’s been charged with vandalism and theft. He was painting a letter to Sylvia Plath on the side of the library, using paint and brushes that he’d taken from a neighbor’s garage. The judge will release him without any bail being posted if you’ll sign for him. When you come you might want to bring him some warm clothes and shoes. He was only wearing a bathrobe when we found him.” Jail, Miriam thought. He’s really done it this time. If I don’t go, he’ll stay in jail. David would be so upset. David never had to deal with this. I can’t help Jake. I don’t have the power to cure him. I’ve tried so hard. Forgive me. She looked at the picture of David, Jake and herself taken so many years ago. She had been happy then, truly and completely happy. Could she ever feel like that again? She closed her eyes and whispered, her chest tight and her hands cold. “I’m sorry, but I can’t come.” Miriam hung up the phone and wept. Shanna Lewis is a freelance writer, photographer and radio journalist. Her work has been broadcast on National Public Radio, Voice of America and numerous radio stations. Her freelance print work and photography has appeared in the Denver Post, the National Post (Canada) and many other publications. She is the recipient of six Colorado Press Association awards for reporting and photography.
In his modest wooden stall Pir Gul hunched over his sewing machine, stitching a man’s turquoise vest. Every stitch had to be perfect, an invisible part of the whole. So intent was Pir on his small task, he didn’t notice Ismail Jan and his grandson, Mullah, until they entered the shop, but, even then, he might not have looked up from the tiny world in front of his bespectacled eyes, had he not heard the uneven thump of Mullah’s gait. Zipping around easily on his four-month-old crutches, gangly as a camel, Mullah moved as quickly as when he had two legs. “Zaher said you still had some of the shoes from the engagement party,” Ismail said. “Mullah needs a new shoe. There is no point in buying two.” The old man wore faded trousers and a frayed gray turban, not quite as dark as the bags under his eyes. “They are in the wooden wheelbarrow behind the counter at the back,” Pir said. He bent back to his work and concentrated on sewing the left seam in a straight line. Beyond a table which held rolls of colorful cloth, ribbons and braids, the wobbly wheelbarrow held a motley collection of shoes and sandals piled in a cairnlike heap. Pir did not like to think about the shoes, let them be brought into his shop only because it would have been a shame to throw away perfectly good shoes. Mullah dug around in the wheelbarrow and pulled out a brown adult sandal with strips of leather that tied at the side. “That shoe is too big,” Ismail said. “Here is one that will fit you better.” “But this is Abdul’s shoe. I will grow into it, and I could not do better than to grow up like Abdul, could I?” “You must take a shoe that fits you. You need something sturdy that will not fall off and trip you up when you walk with the crutches.” “But baabaa-” “You think because you have survived a bombing, you are a man. You must not argue with your grandfather who takes care of you now that your mother and father and brothers are gone. That is being a man, Mullah. Respecting your elders, your country, your traditions.” “I respect you, baabaa. It’s just I don’t want anyone else to have Abdul’s shoe. Maybe I can take two. One that fits me and one to grow into. Can I not take two?” Pir looked over to where the two stood. Mullah held two leather shoes, one 27
Page 2 and 3: RJ Hembree - Publisher & Editor-In-
Page 4 and 5: 4 She glides slowly at first, this
Page 7 and 8: I am trying to write, to work. I dr
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Page 13 and 14: them to some internal revelation wh
Page 15 and 16: Sergio Troncoso, philosopher, econo
Page 17 and 18: ties years ago. It was a scandal, a
Page 19 and 20: disciplines. Do you feel it's a nat
Page 21 and 22: up.” “I’m cleaning! It’s sp
Page 23 and 24: “Have you been taking your medica
Page 25: was there? “You can’t live a no
Page 29 and 30: When he was done with the vest, he
Page 31 and 32: On the outskirts of the farming vil
Page 33 and 34: down at him as he walked through th
Page 35 and 36: ight on you.” She still held his
Page 37 and 38: Dear M, I wanted to let you know I
Page 39 and 40: I hope you’re doing well. --K Dea
Page 41 and 42: Dad cried. He sat at his desk, crie
Page 43 and 44: of her jeans. She glanced at the be
Page 45 and 46: the lacquer finish dulled as the wa
Page 47 and 48: “Do you think it just gave up and
Page 49 and 50: “Unlock the doors,” Bill ordere
Page 51 and 52: When I was asked to write an articl
Page 53 and 54: are important. You’ve only got to
Page 55: If you want to earn some serious mo

R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

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