Paul Richard James - Vagabondage Press

Transcription

Vagabondage Press LLC
New Directions in Art & Literature
Volume 2 – Issue 3 – Winter 2009/2010
Contents
Short Shorts
Interviews
Downriver – Thomas Cannon ..................... 3
The Secret (he thinks) He Keeps
- Karyn Eisler .............................. 29
How Do You Play? - Valerie O'Riordan ...... 49
My Pal Garmin - Matt Mok........................ 99
Looking for the Fatman - Brian George.....119
Fatal Attraction – V. Ulea........................130
Un Incident Dans La Rue
- Robert Wexelblatt......................140
Last High's the Lowest – Randy Kohl ........165
Artist Chris Mars - by Kim Acrylic .............. 90
Short Stories
Poetry
It's All Really Happening
- David Mohrmann .......................... 6
Mind Game – Martin DiCarlantonio ............ 24
The Magic Quarter – Anthony R. Pezzula.... 30
How I Learned that All the Houses
in Survillion Circle Should Be Painted
Heliotrope – Elisabeth Hegmann ..... 40
My Life as Mrs. Murphy – Lora Hilty .......... 64
Walking On Bird Feet – Susan Kay Miller.... 76
Around South Pass City - Roland Goity ...... 85
Encounters on Facebook – Maggie Collins .. 96
The First and Last Time
- Timothy Raymond ....................101
Truman Capote is a Volcano
– Anthony Bromberg ...................115
Literary Friction – Andrew Madigan ..........120
Two Colours – Andrew Charman ..............126
Theatre Games - Mickey Ellinger..............142
Doing Mr. Velvet – Gay Degani ................145
Empowerment Centers – Jay Baruch ........148
A Little Thanksgiving Brandy
– Milan Smith..............................159
The House of Fallen Dreams
– Craig D. Patton .......................168
Jesse Bradley ........................................... 5
Ariel Brand............................................. 19
Adam Byrn Tritt ...................................... 28
Micheal Lee Johnson................................ 39
Wendy Jane Cohen.................................. 51
Ben Heins .............................................. 62
Christina Murphy .................................. 106
Kate Bergen ......................................... 114
Matt Dennison ...................................... 125
Ayat Ghanem ....................................... 164
Austen Roye......................................... 167
The Battered Suitcase – Autumn 2009
Non-Fiction
Now What About Socks?
– Heather Van Deest ..................... 20
Proxy – Catherine Sharpe ........................ 52
The Welsh Chair – Ruth Russell .............. 107
Going Jewish – Terry Barr ...................... 131
Know Your Rights - Ami Sletteland .......... 163
Art
Paul Richard James ................................. 13
Sustainable Creativity
- Jennifer Van Winkle .................... 36
Gaëtan Henrioux..................................... 71
Chris Mars ............................................. 93
Lipstick Traces - Roger Woodiwiss........... 108
Photography - Oleksandr Hnatenko ......... 134
Patrick Fatica........................................ 172
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Thomas Cannon lives in Oshkosh with his wife and three children. His story “Part of the Gift” is
the lead article in the book "Cup of Comfort for Parents with Children With Autism". He has had
poems published in Literary Mary, The Poetry Explosion Newsletter, and Wisconsin Calendar.
His short stories have been published on the websites Sante Fe Writers’ Project, Fictional
Musings, and Long Story Short. His influences and heroes include Joseph Heller, Tom Robbins,
Ernest Hemmingway, John Updike and Raymond Carver.
Downriver
Thomas Cannon
He has been waiting to see the lake that had disappeared all day and walk along its bottom. He
thought he needed to see what no person had seen since the lake had been created.
Nan didn’t understand. Even now she is walking behind him, letting him know she is not enjoying
this. There had been a fight when he suggested going.
“Kurt, I want to go to the shops downtown. Why should we go just because you want to? What
about what I want?”
So Kurt had followed her shopping. What could he do? Argue some more? The weekend was to
work on their marriage.
He knows she is miserable now. She is walking on the wet sand and muck in flipflops and a white
skirt; mute as a water lily.
When he looks back at her, he only sees her bony wrist as she tucks her fine brunette hair back
behind her ear. A new shorter haircut he doesn’t much care for. He refuses to see the look on her
face.
He had looked just as ridiculous in his hiking clothes as they shopped. He knows he had the same
look on his face.
He stops to help her across a small trickle of water. But she takes a few quick steps and leaps.
She lands in the mucky sand but keeps walking. Mud has splattered on the back of her legs and
her skirt. He unstraddles the little stream and walks on.
They’ve been through rough spots before. They’ve always gotten through them. Just got through
them.
It was getting late, but he took in everything around him. He refused to be rushed. She had taken
so long at the shops, leaving him to mill around the sidewalks and watch girls in tight summer
outfits go by. His only purchases are still in the paper bag he carries with him.
So he studies where the water had cut a deep line into what had been the shore. He marches along
the sand with its branches and assorted debris. There are gullies and what seem to have been
sandbars. But the thing Kurt isn’t sure of is if this was how the lake bottom had been or if the
terrain had been created by the leaving water as a levy broke and the man-made lake flooded into
the Wisconsin River. Further away are stranded boats. He knew he would not make it that far, but
he wanted to check out the famous water-ski arena. The show is advertised on billboards all over
Wisconsin. He had snapped a picture of Nan in front of their sign stating that the show was “On
The Lake.” But he had stood so far back to get the big sign in that he couldn’t make out any of
Nan’s features in the viewfinder.
Nan is leading the way now. He wants to turn and race away and leave her here. She has ruined it
for him.
He begins to hear music. Pirate music, to be exact. The water-ski ramps and the boat sitting offkilter have some sort of pirate theme to them. Because there is no water, Kurt sees how the ramps
have wheels on them and must have sat along the bottom.
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Kurt walks past Nan and with his hiking boots, climbs up the steep embankment. He cuts through
brush until he sees the bleachers. He hears the music and loud voices. He sees the college kids in
brightly colored T-shirt uniforms sitting on a railing. He moves closer and sees a small audience.
Behind them are rows and rows of empty seats. On stage there is only a man rolling up a long
cord. People are attending a performance of nothing, he thought. For what could there be to see.
The next day, someone would tell him that they were still putting on the land portion of the show.
Some acrobatics and Kurt would remember that there was what looked like a Ferris wheel with two
round cages on either end. But at the time it was a revelation to see people come for a show that
was no longer there.
He sits down and takes a peach and a candy bar out of his paper sack. Two of the things he has
brought for a romantic picnic for the two of them on a lake bottom. Peaches were Nan’s favorite.
He holds the candy bar and the peach in each hand like he is comparing their weight.
Nan calls up to him. “Who’s up there? What’s going on?” She breaks their silence.
He bites into the peach. It is round and sweet.
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J. Bradley invented revenge in the year 103 CE. He loves like an empty wallet on a first date. His first
collection of poetry, "Dodging Traffic" came out October 2009 through Ampersand Books. Lust for him @
iheartfailure.wordpress.com
Jesse Bradley
Indented
Son, when you start writing poetry
you'll be tempted to say things like
"If I slit my wrists, I would bleed
rhetorical questions."
This is called a slam line,
a concept that redefines a moment
into asthmatics stealing oxygen
from an audience.
That's why slam poets are grateful
audiences don't have the text;
give them more than a moment
to figure out what you're saying,
they're gonna ask
"what the fuck was that?"
They'd write feedback on the margins
like an unpopular yearbook:
"This is filler. I hope you don't live
like you write because it sucks
when the focus of your existence
is stalling for time."
It's ok if you want to stretch your verse
like underwear and water wings
but be prepared to pluck the stingers
from your neck and forearms.
Failure is hard. I've learned to wear it
like Magnum condoms so I can fuck victory
from the jaws of defeat. You'll use it
to throw galas of pity; I won't stop you
from the way you treat your tears
like hors d'oeuvres.
Every writer needs a focus
so I give you this crucifix of Raymond Carver
nailed to a bottle of gin and a typewriter.
Look hard at the text engraved
in the bottle neck: "No tricks".
May this mantra snap at your back
when you crack your knuckles, think
of crafting lines that marginalia
and time eat alive, realize the poetry
in failure.
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David Mohrmann grew up writing stories. Later, for more than twenty years a playwright, he
taught much of that time on the theatre faculty at Humboldt State University. His most
significant contribution was in the area of political street theatre (specifically “Theatre of the
Oppressed”), inspired by its Brazilian creator, his mentor, Augusto Boal. Now retired from
teaching, David's primary focus is again the short story. Informed by the dynamics of
oppression, his work examines the oftentimes absurd ways in which we humans
misunderstand, abuse, or at least too defensively protect our minimal power.
It’s All Really Happening
David Mohrmann
i hold my breath
It sounds like knocking, though I suppose it could be someone getting bludgeoned in the backyard.
How can I be sure with Santana screaming in my ear? Gregg put him on and turned him up awhile
ago, claiming it would change his luck. What started as a friendly game of cribbage, a penny a
point like we always play, has now, eleven rounds and a six-pack later, passed beyond serious.
So far I haven't lost. Thanks to a couple of regular skunks and one double, I'm up nine dollars and
forty-two cents. Lucky for Gregg, game twelve promises to be the momentum shifter. It's his crib,
he's ahead ten pegs with only thirteen to go, and the odds of me getting a twenty-four hand are,
both of us understand, as likely as world peace. The weird thing is, I'm almost relieved. Because
I'm not used to beating Gregg Smith. It seems wrong somehow, a breach of natural order which
does not easily coexist with the joy I feel in every fiber of my being.
Gregg deals. I examine my cards with a nearly imperceptible sigh — hopefully sufficient to signal
my difficulty in throwing to his crib. Gregg, on the other hand, decides immediately. Grins when I
cut him a six. Oooh oooh oooh, it's one of those pitiful For God's Sake It’s Friggin Time grins,
sending a warm shiver into my brain, swirling there for a few delicious seconds, then flowing, like
firm oiled fingers, down my spine. I'm amazed, unable to remember Gregg Smith ever showing
weakness. He's the kind of guy who always manages to win, no matter what the score. He isn’t
tall, but tall enough to never, like me, look short. Unlike me, who the girls generally agree is cute,
Gregg isn't — but not cute in the inexplicably rugged sort of way they find irresistible. He wasn't an
athlete, or good in school, but such negatives made him seem oddly independent, an intriguing
stranger, a man amongst schoolboys. While I am, and know I am, naïve, Gregg is consciously
streetwise and cynical… apparently aware of things I can only guess at, things existing somewhere
outside my ability to comprehend. Finally, there is the fact of his extra ‘g’. His silver bullet. I mean
give me a break… Gregg Smith was born in Sacramento, son of a union carpenter, a fourthgeneration all-American kid, but his extra ‘g’ has mysteriously spawned the rumor 'he may be
European.’
“Is that someone knocking?” I say.
“Never mind,” he says. “Play.”
Instead, I hold my breath. It's a habit of mine whenever I feel scared. And yeah, sure, I get how
weird it is even as I'm doing it. Like I'm hoping the rest of the world might stop breathing along
with me. I suppose it offers a temporary sense of shelter, a short respite from reality. What I don't
get is, why the hell now? The miraculous six cut gives me the hallowed twenty-four hand, meaning
it makes no damn difference what Gregg is holding because I'm going to win again. I'll be counting
first and I'll be counting out — that's all there is to it!
“What…” says Gregg, “are you waiting for?”
Though this is, definitely, one of those perfect moments I might have the courage to dream of, I
would never before have presumed it might actually happen. I exhale in a rush, knowing we can
by-pass the one-by-one pegging exchange expected to come next. Like the gambler I am not, I
pause purposefully. I look Gregg Smith in the eye without a trace of emotion. I lay down my cards.
At first he seems confused, which adds to my hidden pleasure. He stares at the cards, finally
decides he cannot make them vanish, and lays his own face down in apparent defeat. Then comes
the stinger. “So?”
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So. One chilling word. No, not the word, it's how he says it that turns my formerly warm shivers to
flashing red lights, fills my mind with distant yet fast approaching sirens.
“So,” I say, trying my best to mimic Gregg’s cool, “the game is over.”
“Yup,” he says. He settles back in his chair, intertwines his fingers behind his head. “Game’s over,
Bucko. You lose.”
“Oh yeah… uh huh.”
“You got the count, OK, but how do you know I can’t peg out?”
“Because it’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Says Gregg.
I struggle to hold his stare. Can’t. Of course it's impossible, what's the guy talking about? And here
I must admit, try as I might to deny it, being a valedictorian has given me, if nothing else, a
certain sense of mental superiority, making it easy to believe (in a situation such as this, at least) I
simply cannot be fooled by the likes of Gregg Smith. Believe it or not, Bucko, I have the cards to
trump your silly bluff! Before I do, however, I'm admiring them one last time, my undeniable pairs
of sevens and eights, when I suddenly get slapped awake, like police in my rear-view mirror, by
the remote possibility — the one-in-a-fucking-million possibility — that he, by some sick twist of
fate, is holding the exact same pairs!
So? So?
So yes, okay, maybe it is technically possible, but — even so — I would never fall into the trap of a
quadruple match. It is the only chance of him winning and we both know I would never let it
happen.
“You’re saying you have matching pairs?”
Gregg leans forward. “Did I say that?”
“No, you didn’t. The point is, there's no other way you could —”
“What I’m saying,” says Gregg, his eyes impenetrable, “is you don't fucking know what I have.
That’s the point.”
remote possibility
Tired of knocking, I suppose, in steps Jerry Nash. The interruption is a slight relief, bringing with it
the frightening possibility of Gregg calling me a cheater in front of my friend. I hold my breath and
wait, looking at Jerry more closely than I have in years: at his faded blue overalls, his bare feet,
his straggly hair and chin of fuzzy whiskers. Jerry lives in the house next door — another of his
father’s Santa Cruz rentals. It was Jerry who ended up offering us this place for the summer.
Friends since fourth grade, we'd gone to Homestead High together, class of ‘67, though we did stop
hanging out during our junior year. I'd gotten into sports and student government while he focused
primarily on drinking and screwing off. Bummer, but he never did graduate. Rumor was he'd gotten
busted for marijuana. That was a couple of years ago and I haven't seen much of him since. He'd
grown his hair long, started hanging out with older guys, and wasn't particularly friendly the day I
delayed him on the street to ask if his Dad had any houses for rent. I was surprised when he called
later to say yeah.
Though we’ve been neighbors for almost a month, Jerry is usually off in his Volkswagen bus to
unknown locations and festivities.
The Battered Suitcase – Winter 2009/2010
Page 7
“Hey,” says Gregg.
“Hey,” says Jerry.
“Well…” says Gregg, “you got it?”
Jerry answers by tossing a plastic zip-lock next to my cards. “Not very good stuff. You can have it.”
“Thanks man,” says Gregg. He opens the bag, pulls out a bunch of leafy stems. I see what it is and
can't seem to help wanting that fact to be known. I pick up one of the stems, take a sniff.
“Smells OK to me,” I say, and instantly regret it — knowing, even if they don’t, how stupid I am for
saying it the way I do, as if this is a smell I am familiar with.
“Better than my socks,” says Jerry. He's looking at me, smiling like I've just missed a great joke.
But it's a friendly smile. Makes me feel taken off the hook.
“Got any papers?” Says Gregg.
Jerry reaches into his side pocket, pulls out a pack of zig-zags. He throws the papers on the table
like an afterthought, then slowly opens his hand, like a magician, revealing a tiny square of
aluminum foil. “I also got this.”
“What?” Says Gregg.
“Window Pane.”
“Forget it,” says Gregg. “What are you, crazy?”
Jerry fondles his fuzzy chin. “May be.”
“No maybes, man, that shit is dangerous. Thanks for the pot, all right, but you can take that shit
away.”
Jerry smiles, looks at me. “Mark?”
I can feel Gregg’s eyes too. No doubt, he expects my support. It makes me feel good. Encouraged.
Like a little kid feels when a big kid chooses him for his team. Which is what I truly want, I guess,
to be on Gregg Smith’s team. To be like Gregg Smith. At the same time — and this confuses me —
I feel totally fucked up for wanting that. And there's no chance to give it any thought. It doesn’t
make sense, I know, but somehow I trust to not do what is reasonable.
Jerry sees me waffling. “C’mon, man, why the hell not?”
A thin hesitation measures my last line of resistance.
in my tracks
As we're walking down the street it dawns on me. That we're walking. I have no idea where we
are, how we got here, or where we're going.
“We're not lost, right?”
“Not yet,” says Jerry.
“Wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks. In my tracks, I think. It's weird, as if I can see myself
stopping, in my tracks, before I actually stop. I look at the neon sign in a shop window. OPEN, it
says. I'm sure I've seen this same exact sign. I can’t remember where. “Have we been here
already?”
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“Could be,” says Jerry, as if speaking to a child. “If you, uh, don't mind there, champ, we're trying
get to the boardwalk, remember?”
the rush
After what must be less than a minute — for me like hours — I notice we're walking again. To the
boardwalk, I suppose, the thought of which excites me and hurries my step. Too bad I have no
idea how to get there and feel totally incapable of figuring it out. No, I didn't remember where we
were going, but I do remember once being there as a small boy, the then of that blending in my
mind with the now of this. I remember my Dad taking me and my sister for a whole weekend,
getting a tiny motel room across the street, the cheapest we could find so we'd have more money
for rides. It's a great memory, and maybe explains why — not wanting to ruin one of my few great
childhood memories — I haven't been back?
Who knows? Who cares?
What matters is, here I am, on my way, and it feels totally unreal, as if I am still the same excited
little kid, in my tracks, going with his Dad to the boardwalk.
“Colors getting brighter?” says Jerry.
Exactly what I was thinking, I think, and that’s what I mean to say too. The problem is, it takes a
lot of concentration to get the words out and by the time I eventually do I'm not sure they make
any sense.
“Feel the jaw? The tingling?
As soon as he says it I notice a thick feeling in my jaw. Not tingling, I wouldn't say. Don't know
what I'd say. Something strange for sure. Something I wish wasn't there. I move it around, my
jaw, my jaw — up and down, back and forth — astounded by the way it works. I open my mouth
and out comes a huge yawn. I feel my eyes watering, tears overflowing onto my cheeks, air
blowing out my nostrils. I reach up and massage the tears into my skin. Can hardly believe the
beating of my heart. Jerry's face looks like a painted flag waving in the wind.
“This is the rush,” he says. “It’ll last maybe a half hour, then mellow out.”
“OK. I mean, it’s OK. Really, it’s not bad.”
“No, man, it’s good. Everything's good. It’s strong, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” I yawn, eyes watering, heart beating, air coming in and out, in and out. I look across the
street at an old woman moving in impossibly slow motion. “Wow,” I say, meaning Do you believe
this? — convinced it must be part of the effect.
“Hey,” says Jerry, “Mark.”
And though my name does sound familiar, it cannot quite reach me.
“C’mon,” he says.
many things happen
On our epic journey to the boardwalk many things happen. When they do, like the impossibly slow
old woman or the grass I can practically see growing or the two blond kids shooting pistols at me
from the octagonal window or the Chinese men smoking purple cigarettes or the Hell's Angel or the
black and white dogs eating out of an orange garbage can, I can think of nothing else.
I am aware, as we get closer, there are crowds of people to look at — far too many people to look
at — and I instinctively know, without a trace of thought, to focus entirely on what's straight
ahead. Music comes from unseen places, mixes with shapes and colors, and I tell myself it's OK,
Page 9
it's natural, for a lot of very complicated stuff to be happening at once. I'm letting Jerry lead me
through it, glad I simply have to follow.
During our often delayed trip I've learned a few things. Things I’d already known, of course, and
now in a completely new way. It makes me laugh out loud at what I take for granted. Sidewalks!
Stoplights! Stars! Not to mention concepts like Fences and Laws! Democracy! Chains of drive-thru
fast-food restaurants! And the idea of God is simply inconceivable, which is, I realize, exactly the
point!
I would tell Jerry why I'm laughing if it wasn't nearly impossible to talk. Besides, I understand he's
been through this… probably often. To Jerry, it would be no great revelation that I have no fucking
clue what's going on.
I spot a woman walking toward us from far away. I can see she is older, maybe in her late
twenties. Dressed in black, she occasionally disappears as people move between me and my vision
of her. I refuse to be distracted. When she next emerges I see her face clearly: a soft yellow, the
color of luminous corn, like one of those plastic translucent Halloween masks, her mouth perfectly
shaped, her blood red lips opening and closing like a tropical flower on fast forward. Her page-boy
hair is a glowing pink that fits perfectly with nothing. From this distance I can’t make out the color
of her eyes, which might be why they most hold my interest. I watch them moving around inside
her head, seeing things, sparkling, eclipsing to a sharp dark line at every blink, then widening as
she's drawn, magnetically, elsewhere. Truly amazing. Absolutely unbelievable.
Suddenly, like lasers, her eyes find mine. Instantly closer, I feel the two of us locked into each
other… can feel myself being pulled toward her.
The feeling is more frightening than pleasurable.
I hold my breath.
That's when the lights go out and everybody screams.
lions and tigers and
Praying this must be temporary I try to calm down, confident Jerry will tell me if there's anything
to be done. Though it's pitch black, I know he's standing by my side. I close my eyes and see him
smile. Gregg Smith’s face goes floating by. Cards tumble graffiti-like from what must be inside my
brain. Cautiously, heart pounding, I take a few deep breaths. Jerry is talking but I can’t hear
because of the noise. I open my eyes and the lights flash on, and people, still as statues, begin to
move.
“Hey there, you with me?”
“Sure” I say, several bright faces passing as if disconnected from their bodies. One of them is the
woman I’d been watching. I turn around to look. Can't figure out where she went. Can't find her
pink hair anywhere.
“C'mon man,” says Jerry, “this is no time for that.”
It happens again by the merry-go-round. If I didn’t know better I'd swear the people are every bit
as fake as the big painted animals they're riding. Weird as such shit obviously is, it's better than
the sudden blackness and the screaming. What the hell's going on? I hear the same high pitched
voices over and over, and realize the screaming, too, is fake. No one's scared… not really… it's just
to trick me, freak me out.
I try holding my breath. I wonder if the fear I'm feeling is also fake, like the animals, the people,
the screams — something I'm making up to scare myself. But why? Why would I… ? I don’t
understand. As I'm trying to think it through the lights come back, lions and tigers and zebras
Page 10
stuck in mid gallop, people bouncing up and down on top of them, waving, and all I know is I can't
do this anymore. Or stop breathing. I turn away, gasp for air, start to walk. Eventually Jerry
catches up.
“Where you headed?”
“I don’t know.”
“OK,” he says, and off we go, simple as can be.
“I don’t get what’s happening.”
He looks at me and smiles his goddamn cosmic smile. “Well, yeah… what else is new?”
“No, Jerry, I mean it.”
“Uh huh, Mark, so do I.”
The lights go off. Everyone
What the fuck’s going on?”
screams
their
fake screams.
I
grab
hold
of
his
jacket.
“Hey, man, take it easy.”
The lights come bouncing back. People are looking around, looking lost. I drag Jerry to a nearby
wall, crouch down and pull him close.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“The lights… they keep going off.”
“Yeah, right, I did happen to notice.”
“You did? You knew it? Why didn't you tell me?”
“What?”
“How long is this going to last?”
“How should I know?”
“You mean you… you gave me this shit without even… without ever… ?”
“Wait, wait, I —”
“What am I supposed to… I mean, I mean how do I… ?”
“No, man, no. You don’t get it.”
“What?”
“The light thing,” he says (his head glowing like a Japanese lantern), “is real.”
it's all really happening
What am I supposed to say to that? I'm cold, shivering, and I can't help thinking maybe this guy is
as fake as the rest. I push him off, stand, try to get away. He reaches out with both hands and
grabs my shoulders.
“What do you want?”
Page 11
“Hey,” he says, “it's okay. Really.”
“No,” I shout, shaking loose, “it's really not, okay?”
“Wait. Mark. Will you please just stop!”
I do.
“Something's wrong here, am I right?”
“Yes!”
“Right,” he says, looking me square in the eye. “The lights. Something's wrong with the fucking
lights. An electrical short or whatever, who knows what? The thing is, they keep going out, OK?
This whole damn deal, Mark, it’s all really happening.”
I close my eyes. Hold my breath. It takes awhile to reconsider because I thoroughly believed these
blackouts were only going on inside my head… like I was having some kind of psychotic reaction.
I'd heard of people going crazy on acid, jumping out of windows, shit like that.
“You mean the lights are going out for you too?”
“For me, for you… for everyone, Mark. Get it?”
this same thing
I have to admit, I don’t. Though his words make sense, it's as if they're coming out of context, like
something crucial has either been left out or desperately needs to be added. I look at the bustle of
the boardwalk. At the people. I sit, and Jerry sits with me, like visitors from another planet, and we
watch without speaking. Then I have this thought… which does not seem the least bit crazy…
thinking this same thing is, like Jerry says, happening for everyone. Not the off and on lights, I
don't mean that. I mean how each of us looks through our own private selves to see what's outside
— filtering it in our own acceptable ways — making what is, in fact, the same, appear to each of us
like something different. We believe what we see, we defend it, because, and only because, it is
our personal experience, as if there's nothing else to think about. We make it ours. We own it. We
mistake whatever actually is for what best fits us. And here I am getting it, clearly — not what is
but why and how we miss it. Which changes everything. Which makes me a lot less sure of what I
see. Like the grouchy old lady over there with those crying kids. I mean yeah, that's what I see,
OK, but maybe she's a very loving person who's finally tired after a whole day with her
grandchildren, giving them every damn thing they want, the little brats. Or maybe I'm making that
up too and should flat out admit it. Which feels good, really good, getting how much I don't get.
And I realize the possibility of seeing everything the same… everything at once… the whole
picture… all the people I don’t know… will never know… living out their lives in ways I now, for the
first time, truly understand. Tears are rolling down my face and I'm wondering why is it usually so
strange to see? Why haven’t I ever seen it before?
Jerry puts his arm around my shoulder. “Mark,” he says.
“Yeah? Yeah?”
“Please… keep… breathing.”
Page 12
Paul Richard James is a Welsh born painter living in Hamilton, Ontario. Paul works on several bodies of work
at one time and his artwork is both traditional and radical in style and content. Paul considers himself an
Anarchist and has a great interest in street-based art. His “Art Plus Tax” paintings are political in nature and
are installed in site-specific environments. His goal is to create images that please the eye, the soul, and the
conscience. www.paulrichardjames.com
Paul Richard James
Study for Ophelia
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Paul Richard James
Jin
Treeline
Page 14
Paul Richard James
Demand the Impossible
Page 15
Paul Richard James
Phase 1 (Simply Not There)
Page 16
Paul Richard James
The Wound
Page 17
Paul Richard James
Slingshots
Page 18
After staying up into the wee hours of the night time and time again, Ariel realized that she must write and always
write so to subdue the constant nagging of her inner voices that tell her to put pen to paper. She is a recent high
school graduate and plans to major in English at the University of Connecticut. She was the co-editor-in-chief of
her high school's literary magazine. So far, she has been published in the literary journal, All Things Girls, and has
had two Op-eds published in the Hartford Courant.
Ariel Brand
The Summer Room
The red sky
blew its heavy breath
onto the folded linens
branded with sweat,
grass stains and tiny
holes from hungry moths.
In between the folds, you could
hear their whisperings,
a broken code of childhood
only certain ears could understand.
There
they'd lain
for summer nights long
in an empty white house
with wide-opened windows,
drifting on about Dickens
and Fitzgerald in paint-splattered
overalls, discussing the endless
elations and misgivings of men.
For hours, they watched
the seemingly barren walls
in the quiet harmonies of darkness.
But to them they were filled
with spoons of warm chocolate
and old newspaper clippings of unsolved
crimes.
His tsunami blue eyes
stared into hers, conjuring
a night of purple moons and
and lusterless stars.
Because the only thing shining
was her lips, cold and desperate
and a glint of shame.
What she saw in his eyes
was nothing words could
ever parallel, nothing the wind
could ever sing. She put her ear against
his and mumbled
"I can hear your thoughts."
And so the downpour began.
But no one knew why it had
rained so much, why the sun
in one sudden finger snap had
turned blue and the sky the
colors of fire. burning the falling
dust of forgotten dreams.
Page 19
Heather Van Deest lives and writes in Bangkok, Thailand. She recently received an MA in
creative writing from Antioch University, Yellow Springs.
Now What About Socks?
Heather Van Deest
Growing up, I did not think much about socks; they were something merely to warm your feet
during cold Ohio winters, a layer of cotton worn between skin and shoe, as necessary and
mundane as Q-tips or deodorant.
The socks of my youth were thin, threadbare things, the kind in which you could feel the grit in
your shoe rub against your heel with each step, the kind in which your pinky toe, shoe bound,
continually escaped through a small hole in the scratchy seam.
Utilitarian knee-high socks, black and white, brown and navy, along with a few misshapen pairs of
athletic anklets for gym class, littered my sock drawer. I had plenty of socks to choose from on any
given day, but only a few pairs that did not bunch up in the toes or slouch toward my ankles as
soon as I put them on, stretched a few years beyond use. Worse than both socks inching from
knee to shin to ankle was a single sock shrugging southward, leaving me yanking at one pant leg
throughout the school day, one sock up, one down, feeling off kilter like a dog with an injured paw,
limping its way through the world.
My socks were not fun, bright colored affairs; no rainbow stripes or purple argyle or lace-trimmed
pairs here. No miniature leprechauns in March or pumpkin-printed anklets for Halloween. In my
family, with two teachers for parents, socks were like meals; we always had what we needed, with
plenty of tuna noodle casseroles and Johnny Marzetti to go around, but trips to places like
McDonald’s, with the promise of a Happy Meal and the plastic toy prize hidden underneath the
crispy fries, were rare treats. My brother and I never begged for fast food, but we never said no
when my father pulled the Chevy Citation into the lot with the golden arches. It was the same with
socks, I didn’t ask my parents for new socks because it never occurred to me that I could.
In my teenage years, half way through the school week, after wearing the few pairs of socks that
didn’t fall down or chafe against my feet, after rotating my best pairs, giving them a break and
then sprinkling them with baby powder before sliding them on again a couple days later, I’d pad
down the hallway to my parents’ room before school. In the blue morning light, I’d rummage
through my mother’s dresser drawers, searching for a pair of socks to wear. My mother had lots of
socks and not one sock drawer, but two — one for lights and one for darks. Given all those socks,
you’d think there would have been plenty to choose from: cotton dress socks that hugged your
shin close all day; thick, wool socks especially for chilly nights; a whole plethora of socks for every
occasion, their seams not yet bearing the beginning of pesky holes. But my mother’s sock drawers
were merely a larger version of my own. If I was lucky, nestled among the ratty, faded pairs that
passed for white knee socks, some of which she’d probably had since college, might be a pair I
knew would not slouch until at least afternoon, or perhaps, a pair in black cotton with the heel
fibers still intact.
My mother never objected when I snagged socks from her drawer. She’d wear the leftovers
without complaint, dashing the baby powder into her shoes some days, until the weekend came
and it was time to do laundry.
Almost all of the socks in my drawer, and many from my mother’s, came from one place, from the
time I was in fifth grade to my post-college years — the Fleamasters flea market off Interstate 75
in Fort Myers, Florida. In the early ‘80s, my mother’s parents started “wintering” down south,
driving the twenty-plus hours straight from our small Ohio town to Vanderbilt Beach, near Naples.
Come Christmas, when the two-week school vacation arrived, my parents, brother, cousins, aunt,
and uncle would caravan to the Sunshine State and crash at my grandparents’ rented condo.
One of the highlights of our almost annual treks to Florida was a visit to the flea market, a
behemoth of stalls and makeshift shops spanning the length of several football fields, seemingly
Page 20
sprung out of dust and sand in the middle of Lee County, like some sort of tacky mirage in the
desert.
We’d split up and roam the stalls, us kids with the men — my dad, grandpa, and uncle — searching
for cheap trinkets, off-brand pocketknives for the boys, T-shirts and animal figurines made of
coconut shell for the girls, while my mom, aunt, and grandmother scouted fresh vegetables for the
week’s dinners and fingered fat, plastic-mesh bags of oranges — Florida’s finest.
“Now what about socks?” My grandmother would say, when we’d all meet up an hour or so later.
Grandma, looking like so many of the snowbird shoppers populating south Florida that time of
year, in her tan leather loafers and gray hair curled at the sides, would lead the way to the sock
stall, weaving through the countless shops with the instinct of a bird nabbing worms from wet soil.
At the turn of the corner, you could see it there, just ahead of you, the tables positioned end to
end, atop which rested stacks and stacks of socks in every imaginable color and style. Cotton socks
in darks, whites and neutrals for men and women; white footies and anklets and tube socks;
women’s nylon knee-highs in a range of work-day hues; puffy socks of the ‘80s era that slouched
on purpose, in neon orange, yellow and green; striped socks, argyle socks, socks with stars, candy
canes, horseshoes, snowflakes, footballs and Easter bunnies; thick piles of leg warmers, socks in
camouflage prints, and dainty rows of children’s sizes in pastels and all the primary shades.
The boys, the men, would find some nearby stall suddenly in need of exploring, removing
themselves from the perceived torture of shopping for socks, leaving the women to make their
selections for them. Studying the array of choices before me, I’d run my hands over the throngs of
neon slouchies, imagining how cool I’d look at school wearing the lime green ones with my Keds,
but at $2.99 a pair, I didn’t bother to ask my mother if I could buy them. The slouchies weren’t
part of the special sale, advertised from cardboard signs hanging from the front of the table: “5
pairs for $6, 10 pairs for $10.” The thing is, my mother probably would have said yes to the lime
green slouchies if I’d asked, but I knew that meant less money for something else later, something
I really wanted, like a trendy Limited brand Forenza sweatshirt from the Coastland Mall or more
shell rings to flaunt the fact that I’d vacationed in Florida.
It was like that most years. I’d anticipate a trip to the flea market, to the sock stall, remembering
the endless ocean of socks, imagining the lime green slouchies, or maybe another year, leg
warmers if that was the trend, but my practicality, my view of the world, the one I’d inherited from
my parents — you must always get the most bang for your buck — triumphed. In the end, I’d
always pick four or five pairs of the same dark, knee-high socks that qualified for the special 10-for
deal, the same socks waiting in my dresser at home, the scratchy, less-than-fifty-percent-cotton
pairs that would spring a hole like a leaky faucet almost as soon as I put them on seven days later,
back home in Ohio. My four or five new pairs of socks, combined with a handful of pairs for my
mom, and the same number she’d selected for my brother and father, altogether equaled twenty
pairs of socks for about twenty dollars. The ultimate bargain, no one could deny.
Only years later, after my family had stopped going to Florida for Christmas, after my grandfather’s
emphysema worsened and we grandkids had become adults, did I begin to learn that entire
chasms existed in the world of socks, that my flea market socks were, as suspected, cheap and
hole-prone. That the opposite end of the spectrum offered comfortable, top-quality socks some
people swore they could not live without. My first clue came in 1997. I was living on my own in
Columbus, working my first post-college job as a P.R. officer for a state agency. Many of my friends
worked in the same office, and at one of our frequent dinners, that week at my apartment, my
friend Andrew plopped his foot over his wife Sarah’s knee on the couch next to him. “Sarah just
bought me these great socks, what’s the name?” He asked her.
“Smart Wool,” she replied. “But they’re made with cotton, too, so they’re nice and comfy.” I
plucked at the thick olive-colored band circling Andrew’s shin, nodding my head in agreement,
imagining what the socks would feel like on my own feet, a woven wonder of wool and cotton in
Page 21
just the right proportions, so that the wool warmed your feet, but did not scratch, so that the soft,
premium cotton evoked goose down with each step.
Sure, I could imagine myself in those socks, but I could not imagine paying the price the socks
demanded, something probably close to ten dollars per pair. Not much had changed since my flea
market years. My sock purchases were still slim, still an afterthought, usually bought on clearance
from Target. I knew my friends probably got their Smart Wools at Galyn’s or Benchmark or some
other high-end sporting goods chain, but I couldn’t fathom spending more than a week’s worth of
gas for my drive to work on a single pair of socks.
Chalk it up to age or maturity, boldness or insanity. Call it what you will. But eventually, a few
years after I learned about Smart Wools, I bought my first pair of quality socks, a two-tone navy
and gray pair of Bridgedales with contrasted stitching for $7.99 plus shipping, from a discount
sporting goods catalogue. The purchase was an experiment, a testing-of-the-waters, after a hiking
incident that left me with sore, blistered feet and questions about what exactly I was accomplishing
with my supposedly practical, penny-pinching ways.
It was the summer I worked in Las Vegas as an editorial consultant, this time for a different
government agency. Steve, a friend of a friend from Ohio, was passing through Sin City for a
bachelor party, and phoned late one morning to fit in a quick hike at Red Rock Canyon, just outside
town.
We’d gotten a late start and by the time we hit the trail, the sun was high overhead. I wiped sweat
from my temple with the back of my hand, felt the scratch of my ankle socks, made of cheap
synthetics, inside my tennis shoes.
As we wound through the canyon trail, Steve shared the odd bit or two about his life, about his
marketing job back in Ohio, about his love of hiking — a relatively new pursuit. “Uh-huh,” I said,
following behind him in the heat, trying to sound interested, as my socks, stiff and itchy against
the skin of my feet, sunk slowly into the depths of my tennis shoes with each step. Attempting to
keep pace with Steve, I grabbed at one sock and tried yanking it back toward my ankle without
being too obvious, without slowing us down.
Stop, start, stop, start. I wrangled with my socks under the hot Nevada sun, convinced that one
last tug would somehow make them stay up around my ankles, where they belonged.
At the bottom of an incline, Steve paused and unscrewed the cap to the water bottle he’d been
carrying. A red bandana dangled from his back pocket. “I’ll tell you something I learned — makes
or breaks your hike,” he said. He threw his head back and took a big slug of water. “Socks.
Changes everything. I swear.”
“Yeah?” I said. The soles of my feet burned from the constant chafing and the back of my heels,
blistered and raw, throbbed like a bad sunburn.
Soon after that hiking trip, when the Brigdedales arrived in the mail, I slid them over my bare feet
and never looked back. Padding across the hardwood floor in my apartment, I could have sworn I
was wearing slippers, soft and thick, except these babies could breathe. I could even go the whole
day without once having to pull the socks up toward my shins. No more mornings spent wrestling
toes out of holes in the seams, no more grit rubbing the soles of my feet, no more slouching socks
that left my heels exposed like skin against rock.
Today I never pay full price for socks, but I don’t buy them on the clearance rack either. I look for
a good sale, usually online, or I buy in bulk. I know my mom would say I still spend too much, but
I’ve decided socks are something I’m willing to pay more for, the way you decide you’re worth the
occasional bunch of organic bananas instead of the cheaper ones sprayed with pesticides. The way
you don’t scrimp when you have to buy new contact lenses or tires for your car.
Page 22
Someday, though, I’d like to take my husband, and maybe a son or daughter if such a blessing
should come, to Florida for Christmas. We’d go to the Shell Factory on Route 41 and the Mucky
Duck for overpriced sandwiches and fries on the beach at Sanibel Island. We’d visit the Naples Pier
and Vanderbilt Beach, where my cousin and I bought shell rings from the gift shop at the Ramada
Inn all those years before. And for sure, I’d take my family to the Fleamasters flea market. We’d
buy oversized bags of fresh oranges, a few tacky trinkets made of coconut shell, and a T-shirt or
two. And we’d make sure not to miss the sock stall. Together, we’d ooh and aah over the stacks of
socks piled high on the table, at the rainbow stripes and the snowflake prints and the retro tube
socks. And even though we’d each have our own drawer full of soft, comfy socks back home, we’d
buy a few pairs, maybe even the lime green slouchies, just for fun.
Page 23
Martin DiCarlantonio was born and raised in Camden, New Jersey. He is the author of
four unpublished novels. "Mind Game" is his first short story to be published online.
He lives in Greenwich Village in New York City.
Mind Game
Martin DiCarlantonio
Turning thirty years old never bothered me. Neither did forty prove to be a particularly traumatic
event. Fifty, I must admit, got my attention, but even that milestone wasn’t enough to plunge me
into despair. I was in good health and physical condition for a man who had reached the halfcentury mark. People told me I looked at least five years younger than my age, and I tended to
agree with them. So I took comfort in soothing clichés — “You’re only as old as you feel” and (my
favorite) “Fifty is the new forty” — and moved on, undaunted.
Approaching my sixtieth birthday, however, turned out to be a much different story. There was
now no getting away from the fact that I was entering the twilight of my sojourn on this planet.
The final innings were upon me. And despair, indeed, did set in.
It’s difficult to put into words exactly how I felt. No overt signs of physical or mental deterioration
were apparent. I was still healthy and fit and working out regularly at the gym. My hairline was
intact, my stomach reasonably flat, my blood pressure under control. And yet, knowing that I had
most likely lived more than twice as many years as I had left to live gnawed at me day and night. I
was not obsessed with the feeling that my life was sadly incomplete. Like all mortals, I had had my
share of disappointments — a marriage that had ended in divorce, virtually no contact with my exwife and the two daughters the marriage had produced, a career in business-to-business publishing
that could only be called modestly successful at best. But I was a pragmatic man, not given to
grand ambitions. I made a decent living, had a good many friends, and was settled into a
comfortable relationship with an intelligent, green-eyed woman more than ten years my junior. We
lived in a three-room apartment in a co-op building in New York City with a wood-burning fireplace
and a tricolored cocker spaniel that greeted me every night when I came home from work with a
furiously wagging nub of a tail, absurdly happy to see me again, as though I had been gone for
weeks and not just hours. It was the high point of my day.
No, I was not an unhappy man, but for the first time in my life I had begun to think seriously about
getting old, becoming sickly and debilitated, and — here was the word that resonated above all
others — dying. I had no faith to speak of; I didn’t believe in heaven or hell or anything in
between. I was convinced that death was the end of consciousness, that just as we remember
nothing of all the billions of years that had passed before we were born, so too would we be
oblivious for all eternity to anything that transpired after we died. Perhaps there was something to
those reports of near-death experiences — the tunnel of blinding light, seeing loved ones who had
long since passed away, a vision of Jesus or whatever religious figure had been significant to you in
your life. But ultimately, I believed, thinking about the matter logically and without prejudice,
those final moments were almost certainly the result of a few final synapses in our brains firing
weakly and then flickering out, for good, forever.
Suddenly death, it seemed, was everywhere around me. I read horribly depressing newspaper
stories I had always avoided in the past. Stories about children dying in Darfur, dying by the hour,
by the thousands, of malnutrition, with swollen bellies. Their deaths were now painfully real to me,
no longer abstract. Most of them would never live to see the age of six, let alone sixty.
Whenever Claire took our dog out for a walk and they were gone for longer than what seemed a
normal amount of time, I paced the apartment in a nervous sweat, certain that something awful
had happened. I dreaded the sound of sirens, of police cars and emergency vehicles rushing to the
scene of a terrible accident. I recalled the tragic death of a young woman in the East Village only a
few years earlier. She was out walking her two dogs on a Friday night in January when she stepped
on a Con Edison plate in the icy street and was electrocuted. What torment had her boyfriend or
husband gone through, waiting for her to return, alone in their apartment, hearing those sirens
wailing? Did a similar fate await me?
Page 24
Commuting to my office in a leafy corporate park in New Jersey, I was confronted every morning
by the grisly sight of deer that had been killed during the night as they tried to cross a highway.
Their bodies lay in grotesque positions by the side of the road, their heads and necks twisted at
hideous angles. I prayed they would not be there the next day but they always were. No one had
come to cart them away. Driving by, I would avert my eyes at the sight of their frozen carcasses.
At the rock-bottom depths of this despair, I found myself wishing that it was ten years earlier, that
I was turning fifty again, not sixty. What I wouldn’t have given for that to be true, to go back in
time, to have that full decade to relive. It wasn’t so bad then — fifty. What a joy it would be now.
While brooding on exactly this thought late one winter night, with Claire and the dog asleep in the
bedroom, a fire burning in the fireplace, and an Irish whiskey in hand, it occurred to me that I
could take this impossible notion and turn it on its head, in a way. What if instead of wishing it
were ten years earlier, I imagined that it was ten years later, that I was about to turn seventy
instead of sixty? How would you feel if that were the case? You think you’ve got it bad now. What if
you were about to turn seventy and you were wishing you could be sixty again?
There was something immensely liberating about this thought. As bad as things were, they could
be worse. On the eve of my seventieth birthday, I would be that much closer to death. By then,
infirmities and frailties would have definitely set in. My heart might be failing; perhaps I would
have been diagnosed with prostate cancer or a stroke would be imminent. Yes, things could be so
much worse. I carried this thought with me over the weeks that followed and found it to be like a
tonic, a balm for my troubled soul. I had those ten years to live over — not the ten years that had
passed but the ten years to come. You’re sixty again, you lucky man. You’ve got your wish. Now
enjoy this time that has been given you.
It’s all in your mind, I told myself. Another soothing cliché, but this one seemed to be working. It
really was all in my mind, the whole heart-wrenching business of getting old. The face that I saw in
the mirror every morning didn’t look so bad, even with the sagging jaw line and the puffiness
under the eyes, when I considered what another ten years would do to it. My body felt lighter,
athletic, energized; my pace on the treadmill at the gym quickened as I imagined the slow,
deliberate plodding of a man of seventy. My senses seemed heightened, more acute. How sharp
will your vision be, how sensitive your hearing, ten years from now, I wondered.
Everything I did, during every hour of the day, was framed by this single question: How would you
feel if you were about to turn seventy years old? And the answer was simple. A hell of a lot worse
than I feel right now.
“You’re taking this better than I thought you would,” Claire said to me as we finally celebrated
what had been, until recently, my most dreaded birthday over dinner at our favorite restaurant in
Chelsea. “You seemed to be in a funk there for a while.”
“I got over it,” I said. “It’s just a number. Sixty. A big number, yeah, but still just a number.
There’s nothing I can do about it, so why lose sleep over it?”
“That’s a very grown-up attitude.” Claire raised her glass of chardonnay. “Let’s drink to that. I only
hope I can be as mature about turning fifty.”
“You will. And if you have trouble with that, I’ll help you.”
“Thanks. I have a feeling I’m going to need some help.”
I made no mention of my newfound perspective on the aging process. I was convinced that to tell
anyone, even the person I was closest to in this world, about the time-warped prism through which
I was now viewing my life would only rob it of its power. It had to remain something preserved
deep inside me, my secret.
Page 25
Sustaining the curious vantage point of a seventy-year-old man proved surprisingly easy. I
welcomed the mind game, the cerebral calisthenics involved in this exercise. Eventually it induced
in me the exhilarating feeling that I truly had gone back in time. I began to see things as if I were
peering through the long end of a telescope. The most quotidian details took on an unexpected
poignancy when observed from the distant future. Walking into the supermarket near work where I
would go at lunchtime to pick up a salad, I would say to myself, “Remember this old Stop & Shop?
This salad bar?” I was amazed at how something so prosaic and familiar could suddenly seem so
new, even precious. What natural high was I on here? On my way back to the office one day I saw
two of our salesmen out on their daily constitutional — they had recently taken to walking briskly
for thirty minutes or so during their lunch hour — and I was charmed by the sight of them. There
was Blake, tall and ramrod-straight, with his wavy graying hair and moustache, and roundbacked
Peter, his arms swinging well out from his sides as he hustled to keep up with his companion. And I
thought, “Remember Blake and Peter?” They were no longer co-workers I ran into every day in the
hallway or at the coffee station, but visions from out of my past, long since gone from my life.
There was nothing that couldn’t be treasured, no matter how painful the memory, in this nearly
hallucinogenic state of mind. Driving back to the city at night, I would nudge myself on the
shoulder, as it were, and say, “Look! Remember the skyline at sunset, so unremarkable now, so
infuriating, without the World Trade Center towers?” Or, returning to the everyday, “Remember the
Holland Tunnel?” The signs that said “Keep in Lane.” This frenetic drive up Sixth Avenue, jockeying
for position in a river of taxi cabs on your way to the garage.
It was only a matter of time before I took this giddy thought process to its logical conclusion. Why
stop at seventy, I asked myself late one night, alone again in the chair across from the fireplace,
another Irish whiskey in hand. Or eighty? Or even ninety? Why not imagine this — you’re dead?
It’s a hundred years from now. Two hundred. You’ve passed on — and so has everyone you ever
knew. Maybe you don’t believe in an afterlife but imagine for just a moment that you were given a
reprieve from all the nothingness, the black void, that longest of sleeps. An angel awakens you and
grants you one last look back. And there would be your life again, from childhood on, set vividly in
a cosmic frame. Look at it all now. You want some perspective, try this on for size. Remember
turning the key in the door of your apartment in New York? Remember Claire and Raffles? The
woman who saved you from a life of despondency after the divorce; the lovable little animal, your
first pet. There she is, with the wagging nub of a tail, so happy to see you. And there she is, in this
same chair in the living room, with her glass of wine, awaiting your arrival.
What do you think of it all now? Is this finally enough to make you appreciate it, to understand
what you had, what it meant to be alive? At any age.
Could it be that I was over-thinking all this? That I was just a bit obsessed with getting old.
Possible. I know I was tired, with all these wheels spinning, and that I had to move from the chair
to the couch for the night. Claire would find me in the morning (it was the weekend, so what did it
matter?) with a blanket over me and perhaps the trace of a smile on my face.
That night I had the strangest dream. I was driving to work squinting into the harshest sun glare I
had ever encountered. For some reason flipping the visor down and putting my sunglasses on
didn’t seem to help. The light flooded into the car from all angles, not just through the windshield
but through the side and rear windows too and the sunroof overhead. Finally I turned the corner
onto the road the office was on and the light faded abruptly, leaving a negative, purplish image of
my surroundings pulsing on my retinas. Unable to see clearly, I pulled over at the curb and put my
hazard lights on, though there was not another car in sight. As my eyes adjusted to the more
natural light, I saw that the woods around me were alive with deer bounding through the trees with
wonderfully fluid, graceful strides. And somehow I knew that these were the same deer I had been
seeing every morning lying dead by the side of the road, that somehow they had made it through
to the other side, to wherever deer go after they have been killed trying to cross a highway in the
middle of the night.
Page 26
Again the angel asks, “Remember turning the key in your apartment door?” And there is Raffles,
lying in front of the fireplace, her freckled muzzle flattened on the marbled hearth, pointed toward
the door, waiting for you to come home from work. But this time there is no reaction. She doesn’t
move when I come in.
And there is Claire, slumped in the living room chair, holding a tissue to her eyes. Why is she
crying? Her brother Dan is with her, sitting on the ottoman in front of the chair, his hand on her
knee. Dan lives in Connecticut. What is he doing here?
“Do they know how it happened?” he asks her.
Claire looks at the couch. “The doctors said it must have been a blood clot. To the brain or the
heart.”
“How old was Michael?”
“He just turned sixty. Last week.”
“Sixty,” Dan said. “What a shame. He was still a young man.”
Page 27
Adam Byrn Tritt is a poet, essayist, therapist, shaman, social activist, humorist, and (according to
friends) a mensch. Adam has a bunch of initials after his name no one cares about and has been
published in scads of anthologies and magazines you haven't heard of. Aside from books of his you
haven't read, such as "The Phoenix and the Dragon", he also has the best-seller in a subject no
one knows about, "Tellstones: Runic Divination in the Welsh Tradition". He lives in Palm Bay,
Florida with his wife, son, daughter, a dingo and a large alligator all under a very big tree.
Adam Byrn Tritt
There is a picture of me in my daughter's bedroom.
On her night table, it would be the last thing she sees
Before turning off her light.
It is a photograph of me holding her in my arms.
In it, she is one year old and I am nearly twenty,
As she is now.
In the picture, I am holding her
As I am now.
Last night she swallowed a bottle of pills.
There is nothing unhealthy in my daughter's kitchen.
Processed foods and artificial colours would never
Find their way to her table.
She is a dancer for the ballet and vigilant with her body.
She regards it as sacred and believes
Others should as well.
She has done her best to keep everyone
Full of life.
Last night she swallowed a bottle of pills.
There are no prescription drugs in my daughter's medicine cabinet.
She questions doctors on the rare occasions
She feels the need to see one.
She must know why she needs the pills and what they will do.
She regards them as foreign substances
She should avoid
And would not take anything other than
An occasional aspirin.
Last night she swallowed a bottle of them.
I have a picture of me and my daughter in her hospital room.
On my night table, it is the last thing I see
Before turning of my light.
It is a photograph of me holding her in my arms.
In it, she is twenty-one years old and I am nearly forty.
A nineteen year constant, growing wider, growing wider.
In the picture, I am holding her
As I am now.
Page 28
Karyn Eisler has recently appeared in qarrtsiluni, BluePrintReview and Geist. She holds a PhD in
sociology from UBC, teaches at Langara College, and worked as a radio and television broadcaster
in a past life. She lives in Vancouver, Canada. For links to her work, go here
http://www.blueprintreview.de/about_Karyn_Eisler.htm
The Secret (he thinks) He Keeps
Karyn Eisler
He sucked back on the joint like he was kissing a lover with his eyes closed. She just watched and
coughed, concluded there’s no mistaking the smell of pot, figured there’s no denying the stench
sticks to hair and cloth. This made her think of his sons - sixteen, twenty and twelve. She
wondered if they knew what their dad did for fun, so asked straight out, “Do the kids know you’re
hooked on this stuff?”
He paused for a moment, took another toke, then he looked at her sideways - said, “Check this
out.” He picked up an orange and ripped off the peel, then squeezed the rind in half - forcing the
oil to spray onto his pants. He repeated the procedure on his head. He also sprayed his jacket.
When he was done he held the rind to her face, and in a slow happy drawl with his eyes half shut
said, “No. They have no idea. It masks the scent.”
4.
In
the
night,
in
the
night
Page 29
Anthony R. Pezzula is a retiree who enjoys writing as one of the joys of retired life. He has had stories
published in The Writers Post Journal, Midnight Times, Aphelion, Fictionville, River Poets Journal and
Pens On Fire. He also has had a children’s story published in Stories For Children magazine. He lives in
upstate New York with his still working, soon to be retired wife (life adjustment) of thirty-three years,
and their sixteen-year-old cat who has been retired for some time now.
The Magic Quarter
Anthony R. Pezzula
Mitch loved kids. He liked being around them, talking to them and playing games with them. He
figured this was either because he missed the joy he got from his own kids when they were little,
or he wanted to hold onto the “kid” within himself. He learned much from his own father on how to
relate to children, and picked up tricks and games from him and other adults that he put into
practice himself in his adulthood. When his kids were too old to hug, but young enough to still want
to play with him, he would engage in physical activities with them, such as wrestling, indoor
football, or whatever, so that he could keep that physical contact that would all too soon pass as
his boys advanced to adolescence.
His favorite icebreaker now with kids was his magic quarter trick. The child had to be old enough to
grasp the concept, but young enough to believe in the magic. He would show the kid the quarter
and while describing the trick and the need to select a magic word, he would slip the quarter to his
other hand, then behind his folded knee. After making it disappear he would make it reappear in an
unexpected place, like behind the child’s ear, or in a pocket. The trick never failed to win over a
child and bring joy to Mitch.
Once, when his wife Emily was babysitting for her cousin’s four-year-old son Brian, who was a
precocious child, borderline ADD, Emily asked Mitch to do the magic quarter trick with him to keep
him occupied for awhile. The first time Mitch did the trick, he made the quarter reappear behind
Brian’s ear. Brian, like the others, was amazed. He made Mitch do the trick over and over again,
and progressively tore the room apart looking for the quarter before Mitch could produce it fast
enough. Finally, Brian said to a worn out Mitch, “Do it again and make it come out of my privates.”
Emily and Mitch looked at each other in shock. Mitch had to turn away from Brian since he didn’t
want him to see him laughing and be encouraged by it.
“Okay, that’s enough magic for the day,” said Emily with a smile.
“Yes,” Mitch added, “let’s go get a snack,” he said wearily, leading Brian to the kitchen, as Emily
stifled a laugh.
Emily and Mitch met in college, and they were a couple almost immediately. He was attracted to
her carefree attitude, her wit, and her girl-next-door good looks. They married before they
graduated, and after five years getting established with jobs and a home, had their first son. A
couple of years later, their second son was born. They both enjoyed raising the boys, and
participating in all the activities that comes with that. She always told him that he was a great
father, and was thankful for all the time he spent helping her with the kids. The truth was that he
wouldn’t have it any other way. He treasured his time with them, and enjoyed every minute. Emily
equally enjoyed watching him with them, and she knew the kids would be okay having parents who
loved them so.
They were devoted to each other, and as time went on, looked forward to the “empty nest” days of
doing things together again, just the two of them. Fate intervened in their plans, however, when
Emily’s mammogram revealed a lump in her breast. She underwent a lumpectomy, and, with
Mitch’s support, came through the ordeal with her usual strength and positive outlook. They made
a good team in the sense that, while they shared a general optimism, Mitch often rolled with the
punches and was more accepting of what life had in store, while Emily was a fighter. He kept her
calm, while she got him fighting for what was best for her, or for them both.
One afternoon, during her convalescence, they were walking the floor of the hospital when they
wandered into the pediatric wing. Emily smiled as she saw a group of kids in one of the playrooms.
Some of them had their hospital gowns on, others had IV poles with them, and still others had
Page 30
street clothes, obviously siblings visiting patients. Emily looked at Mitch and said, “Why don’t you
go in there and entertain those kids,” as she tilted her head toward the room.
“They don’t look like they need entertaining, they look pretty busy to me,” he replied.
“Not that little girl standing in the corner,” said Emily motioning toward an obvious patient standing
alone holding a doll. It seemed like she didn’t know what to do and was too shy to mix in with the
other kids.
Mitch looked at Emily and shrugged his shoulders, “Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” he said to her, as they
wandered over to the girl.
“What’s your name?” Mitch asked her as he squatted down to her level.
“Heather,” she said shyly.
“Heather, that’s a real pretty name. Heather, did you ever see a magic quarter?”
She shook her head no.
“I have one here,” said Mitch as he winked at Emily, “want to see if we can make it disappear?”
She nodded yes. Mitch explained what they had to do, and now had the attention of a boy,
apparently Heather’s big brother, who joined them. As Heather was about to say the magic word,
the boy shouted, “Hey, he put the quarter in his other hand. This ain’t no trick, this is bogus.
C’mon Heather, let’s get outta here.” He took her hand and they left the room.
“Tough crowd,” Emily said, as she led Mitch out of the playroom.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe I’m getting too old to do that lame trick.”
“Naw,” she said, “you’re never too old. You just have to pick the right audience. You had her; she
would have been amazed like they all are. That brat just couldn’t let her enjoy it.”
“I don’t know Em, maybe I’m losing my touch.”
“Hey, you still got it; don’t let anybody tell you differently. I could see it in your eyes when you
looked at that kid. Don’t give up that trick, you’ll make a lot of little friends with it, and it’ll keep
you young.”
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get you back to your room, your lunch should be coming soon.”
“There she is,” shouted a nurse pointing at them, with several others following her. “You almost
started a panic, you’re not supposed to leave this wing, the monitor won’t work if you wander too
far.”
“Sorry, we didn’t know,” said Emily sheepishly.
“We thought you flat lined, you should have seen the rush to your room. Glad to see you’re all
right, but from now on, don’t leave this wing without telling someone, okay?”
“Sure,” said Emily. She and Mitch could hardly keep from laughing as they returned to her room.
“I could just see them running in here with all those ‘stat’ shouts and all, only to face an empty
bed,” said Mitch, “and here we are calmly off playing with kids.”
“It’s all your fault,” laughed Emily, “you big kid, you. You got me in trouble; they’ll probably punish
me by giving me two meals.”
Page 31
Mitch did keep at the trick, and playing games, whenever he was around children. Mitch’s favorite
child to do the trick with was Derek, his best friend’s son. Jim worked with Mitch, and they found
they shared a lot of the same interests. It wasn’t long before Jim’s wife, Sue, and Emily connected
also. Although they were younger than Mitch and Emily, they became friends and spent a lot of
time together. When Emily got sick, Jim and Sue were there every day giving their support. Sue
made many easy to heat up meals for Mitch while Emily was in the hospital, and they both visited
her often. When Derek was born, they asked Mitch and Emily to be his godparents, and they
happily agreed.
~
Derek was five now and there was something special about him; he was smart and loaded with
personality and energy. He reminded Mitch of his own sons when they were toddlers. Mitch decided
Derek was ready for the trick.
“Hey big D, c’mere, I want to show you something,” he said one day while they were visiting.
“What?”
“See this quarter?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a magic quarter that will disappear if we concentrate and say the magic word. Want to try?”
“I don’t want to say no magic word,” Derek said as he frowned.
“But it won’t work unless you do, trust me.”
“Yes it will, we can just conse’tate,” he said. Apparently he was in a mood to do things his way.
“I’m telling you it won’t work,” said Mitch.
“Try.”
“Okay, but at least blow on my hand, that’s part of it.”
This he agreed to, blowing on Mitch’s closed fist. He then opened Mitch’s hand and sure enough,
the quarter was still there.
“See,” said Mitch, “it won’t work unless you say a magic word.”
“That’s silly, why can’t it just dis’pear by itself?”
“’Cause it has to know that you believe in its magic and it won’t know that unless it hears a magic
word. How about it?”
Derek got that serious, thinking look on his face and finally said, “Okay, but what’s the magic
word?”
“It’s whatever you choose, as long as you concentrate and believe that it will work.”
Derek looked doubtful, but said, “Ok, how about ‘A’?”
“That’s not a word sport, that’s a letter. Try again.”
Um… peanut butter?”
Page 32
“That’s two words, but okay, that might work. Now shout it out and concentrate.”
“PEANUT BUTTER!”
Derek blew on Mitch’s fist again and opened his palm. No quarter.
“Open my other hand,” said Mitch, as Derek’s eyes grew wide. He opened Mitch’s other hand, and
once again, no quarter.
“Where is it?” Derek squealed excitedly. “Em, do you know where it is?” He said to Emily.
“No sweetheart, I don’t, where could it have gone?” She said, smiling at Mitch.
“Wait a minute,” Mitch said, “I think I see something” as he reached behind Derek’s ear and pulled
the quarter away.
The look on Derek’s face made Mitch smile. Emily laughed as Derek ran to the kitchen shouting to
his parents “Hey, guys, c’mere, you gotta see this.”
They did the trick countless times that night, right up until Derek’s bedtime. The bond was formed,
and Mitch and Derek became fast friends. As time went on he and Emily would visit often and Mitch
and Derek would invent games to play, or do physical tricks and wrestling that would result in both
of them laughing. But Derek would always ask Mitch if he had the magic quarter, and make him do
that trick again and again insisting that Emily participate and help him find the quarter after it
disappeared.
One night after returning home from one such visit, Emily was smiling at Mitch.
“What?” He said.
“Just thinking how young you look after you’re around kids.”
“Young? I’m exhausted, that guy can really keep you going.”
“Oh, you love it and you know you do. You’re so good with kids, and they love you. You have that
magic about you that reels them in. And I love you for it.”
“I wish I had magic for other things,” he said.
“We’ll get through this, we did before. These treatments will work and I’ll be good as new.
Watching you with Derek does wonders for me. I get such a kick out of the look of amazement on
his face every time you do that quarter thing. But even more than that, I love seeing how much
you enjoy doing that trick with kids. You become just as much of a kid as they are.”
“Yeah, it’s fun, but your being there makes it more fun,” he replied as he hugged her, cupping his
hand around her bald head. “I almost gave it up, remember?”
“Aren’t you glad you didn’t? Derek just loves having you do it, and so do I.”
~
Six months later she was gone. Mitch ached so much he didn’t think he could go on. His kids were
a comfort, but they were living out of the area now, and once they returned to their homes, the
emptiness consumed him. The only ones he found he could be around were Jim and Sue. They
weren’t afraid to talk about Emily with him, something he needed at first, and he wasn’t afraid to
shed some tears in front of them. They helped him get through those early days without her.
Page 33
“I really appreciate all you guys have done for me,” Mitch said to them one night when they were
at his house to help him go through some of Emily’s stuff. Derek was home with a sitter. “Have you
told Derek yet about Emily?”
“Yes, we told him the other night, when he was asking about seeing you two,” replied Jim.
“How did he take it?”
“I’m not sure he really understands the concept of death, but he does understand that he won’t be
seeing Emily again,” said Sue. “When we got that fact through to him, he cried.” Mitch felt the
lump in his throat and struggled to hold back the tears. Sue just grabbed his hand as they all sat
silent for a few moments.
“But he’ll be ok,” said Jim. “You know how resilient kids are, he’ll bounce back fine. He did ask
about you though, he wanted to know if you were okay and when he would see you. We told him
you were fine, and that he’d see you soon. He really misses you, Mitch.”
“I know I have to get over there, just not yet, okay?”
“Sure,” said Sue, “whenever you’re ready, but don’t get angry with us if we keep inviting you.”
“Deal.”
~
A few weeks later Mitch finally accepted an invitation to their house for dinner one Saturday, and
while Mitch was looking forward to seeing Derek, he couldn’t bear to do the magic quarter trick
again. It would bring back painful memories of Emily. He hoped that Derek wouldn’t ask him if he
had the magic quarter this time, but he knew he would. He decided he would convince Derek that
the magic was gone from the quarter so that he wouldn’t have to do that trick again.
Sure enough, shortly after arriving, and getting a hug from him, Derek enthusiastically asked, “Hey
Mitch, do you have the magic quarter?”
“Here’s the thing pal,” began Mitch slowly, “the quarter has lost its magic, that trick won’t work
anymore, let’s do something else.”
“How could it lose its magic? I wanna do it, c’mon.”
“I’m telling you buddy, it won’t work.”
“Yes it will, we just have to conse’tate like you tol’ me. If we find the right magic word so it will
know we believe, it’ll work.”
“Ok, give it a shot if you want,” said Mitch. This was painful for him since he knew he’d be
disappointing Derek, but in the long run, it was for the best. “Go ahead, pick your magic word.”
Derek looked deep in thought, and then his face brightened as the word he would use came to him.
“EMILY!”
Mitch jolted back as if trying to dodge a punch. Before he could say anything Derek was blowing on
his fist and peeling it open. No quarter. He peeled his other fist open, again no quarter. Mitch’s
eyes were as wide as Derek’s. His mouth plopped open as he stood up. No quarter fell from behind
his knee, and nothing appeared on the floor. He sat back down slowly as Derek jumped up and
down and began his search for the quarter to reappear.
“See Mitch, see, I tol’ ya it would work, where is it, where is it?”
Page 34
Mitch looked toward the ceiling, “Okay, now what Em?” He thought. As his eyes returned to room
level, he saw a glint in one of the cushions on the couch across from him. “Check out that couch,”
he said to Derek with a slight smile.
As Derek turned toward the couch he too saw the glint and ran over to snatch the quarter,
squealing with delight.
“Do it again,” he shouted, handing the quarter back to Mitch.
Mitch looked at the quarter, and then looked at Derek who was staring at him in anticipation.
“Okay pal, this time try a different magic word, let’s see if that works, okay?”
Mitch did the trick again, the conventional way, marveling as always at Derek’s reactions. It wasn’t
long before he was tickling Derek, laughing along with him and overwhelmed with the sound of
Derek’s laughter.
Page 35
Jennifer Van Winkle's new collaborative art series entitled "sustainable
creativity: new experiences>reused materials" derives from her
passion for making large-scale sculptures and installations, building
both objects and relationships, and her concern for the environment.
For summer 2009 she's an artist-in-resident at the Children's Museum
of Pittsburgh. In 2008 she attended artist residencies: Hambidge (GA),
Young Harris College (GA), Prairie Center of the Arts (IL), and Ragdale
(IL). Her work is in private and public collections. She's been an
adjunct faculty member of Virginia Commonwealth University and
Piedmont Virginia Community College. BFA, The School of the Art
Institute of Chicago. You can see more of her work online at
www.jennifervanwinkle.com and on YouTube at
http://www.youtube.com/user/jenvanwin
Jennifer Van Winkle
refuse/refuge
refuse/refuge (as in trash, not denial) by Jennifer Van Winkle was a collaboration with
Manual High School and Richwoods High School students in Peoria, Illinois, USA. Thousands
of plastic bottles, jute, black thread and PVC pipe was used to create this "village" in a 1,200
square foot warehouse.
Page 36
Jennifer Van Winkle
ImPartially Read, Partially
Processed & Partly Digested
ImPartially Read, Partially Processed & Partly
Digested was created as a collaboration
between students, faculty, staff and the
community at the Campus Gate Art Gallery at
Young Harris College in Young Harris,
Georgia, USA.
This large-scale labyrinth was constructed
from recycled cardboard and paper,
aluminum rivets, staples, painter's tape, jute
and screws. The labyrinth's walls were seven
to ten feet high. The art filled the entire
1,500 square foot space of the gallery. At the
end of the project, all materials were
recycled.
Page 37
Jennifer Van Winkle
PEEK
PEEK was a walk-in, site-specific installation on
the grounds of the Hambidge Center in Georgia,
USA. The installation celebrated Hambidge's
Annual Summer Festival on July 18th, 2009.
The design symbolized the essence of the artist's
process—the importance of the looking that
sometimes involves looking outside one's self in
order to see within. PEEK was made with natural
materials from the Hambidge property and
highlighted weaving as related to the legacy of
Mary Hambidge.
Page 38
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. Michael has been published in over 22
countries. He is also editor/publisher of four poetry sites which can be found at his Web site:
http://poetryman.mysite.com. His published works can also be found there. E-mail: [email protected].
All of his books are available on Amazon.com.
Michael Lee Johnson
Illinois Trains
Trains, love them, hate them
the way they play sound; songs they sing.
Transformers switch, vibrate the power
into poetry, shake notes out of the sky.
Short stretch, street to street, long stretches,
Chicago, Elgin, Rockford, though prairie towns of Illinois-running the same rails over, attached to many places.
Shrill sound of horns dig deep in bowel of urban earth
like backhoes; developers changing passing landscapes
with faint, greed filled faces.
As the trains pass to history, train sounds
fall silent, a minor key.
Page 39
Elisabeth Hegmann grew up in a musical family in North Vernon, Indiana, and was active in theatre
throughout her childhood. She received her B.A. in English from IUPUI in 2007 and her M.F.A. in
fiction from NCSU in 2009. Her award-winning short stories have appeared in Midnight Times, the
Abacot Journal, and other publications. She’s currently working on a novel set in a funny place called
the Apogean Islands in the Brimful Puddle.
How I Learned that All the Houses in Survillion Circle
Should Be Painted Heliotrope
Elisabeth Hegmann
I guess my big thoughts about villainy started when I was driving back to Survillion Circle and
passed the Wickershams standing in their front yard with paint dripping off their rollers. I just had
to laugh. I mean, what were they thinking, to paint their house heliotrope? Most people associate
heliotrope with that eccentric old musical utopia Musette, it being the background color of their flag
and all. And just earlier that day the mayor had ordered big signs to be posted on the Circle gates
telling the tourists to turn back: Renovations were Under Way, exclamation point. For months, the
residents and shop owners had drafted plans and signed contracts. Their cafes, art galleries, and
gift shops were all closed now, waiting for a posh and tasteful revamp. Heliotrope and Musette
could not possibly fit into those plans.
I thought of a better joke snailing along at the strict 15 mph speed limit on shady Survillion Lane:
what were the Peytons and the Robersons going to say? And what about the mayor of our little
hamlet of Logansville? He was very particular about the Circle, and I should know because he lived
next door to Mom and me. Making the yearly garden tour was very important to him, and he never
hesitated to lean over the fence with a few friendly words if he thought our weeds had grown a
little too tall. Our house was the real centerpiece of the Circle – an example of respectable light
yellow and cream Edwardian architecture, purchased nine years ago with part of my dad’s life
insurance.
As I pulled into the driveway, the mayor was on his riding mower with his headphones on. He
waved, and as usual I pretended not to notice him and went inside. Mom was talking in syrupy
tones in the parlor. It was her special voice for company. I dropped my keys to announce that I
was back from breaking up with Jacob Woodard, my halfhearted post-high school fling.
“Tulip?” Mom said. “How was your drive?” That was a euphemistic question, meant to check up on
my emotional state because she thought all girls were suicidal after break-ups. Mom never did
figure out that I was her daughter and not a girl on one of her favorite TV sit-coms. Even later
when I was on one of her favorite TV sit-coms.
I didn’t bother to answer her and I didn’t go in the other room just yet. I could tell from her tone
that a type of company was in the house that was not right. Maybe she was meeting with a client
here at home. She did that sometimes if it was a big account. People liked to see how Penny Paley
applied her decorating skills within her own home.
I decided to test the water and yelled, “Hey, did you see the weird stuff the Wickershams are doing
to their house?”
“Come in here,” she said, so I’d know right away that I’d said something wrong. I went. She was in
her blue linen ensemble and looking wrinkled, which was unusual for this early in the afternoon.
Sitting across from her, his feet propped up on the coffee table, was a man in a white suit with a
full head of gray hair and a paunch that stuck out over his belt. We stared at each other without
expression, though he seemed a little familiar.
“Not everyone is just crazy about your style either, are they?” Mom plucked at invisible threads on
her chair.
“What do you mean? My beret, or what?” I said for the benefit of the man in the white suit, who I
supposed would be sympathetic with my millinery choices since he was holding a wide-brimmed
hat in his lap. “Berets never go out of style, just so you know.”
Page 40
“You remember Mr. P.M.B. McFoyt? You were little at the time, though,” she said casually, knowing
damn well that I’d remember him once I heard the name.
Because it wasn’t like you would ever forget the name of a famous architect and designer your
mom worked with back in New York who had disappeared one night and was gone eight years, and
reappeared with people whispering (and the press trumpeting) that he had been in Musette all that
time designing a bunch of structures, a fact which he could neither confirm nor deny to reporters,
which confirmed it. Of course he couldn’t reveal the nature of any of the projects due to the
Musettian’s secrecy clause. But everyone knew he had done it.
Well, now it all came together for me: McFoyt, heliotrope, and Musette. And now I felt shy and
stupid about my berets.
“The mayor has decided the Circle needs to have a bold new image, and just an hour ago he asked
if Mr. McFoyt and his son Horatio could stay with us in our guest bedrooms,” Mom continued with
what might have been either real or artificial pleasure.
I looked around for Horatio, expecting a 40-ish balding guy with a gut to match his dad’s, but
instead this guy with shoulder-length brown hair walked into the room from the dining room and
leaned against the doorjamb. You mean grandson, I thought. He couldn’t have been more than a
few years older than me. I stared at his mouth, which had thin lips that turned down at the
corners. He didn’t say hello, but the corners moved up into a smile.
“He’s going to be redesigning the Circle over the next few weeks. Starting with our house,” Mom
beamed.
“Horatio or McFoyt?” I asked.
McFoyt laughed way too loud. “Me! Me, of course!” He said. “Your house will be the crown jewel in
a round, sparkling tiara.”
Huh. A round, sparkling tiara.
Mom then explained to me that I was to call him P.M.B., and that the letters P.M.B. didn’t stand for
anything whatsoever because naming him P.M.B. was the only avant-garde thing his momma ever
did, or so she always said. P.M.B. yawned. This seemed to conclude the introductions, so I tipped
my beret at him, P.M.B. returned his hat to his head in order to tip it at me, Horatio nodded his
head, and I went to my room to feed Jacob’s chameleons, which I had deliberately forgotten to
take back to him. Mom never did let me have anything furry.
And that was that. But I was really thinking now. I’d heard McFoyt was a maverick, always secretly
incorporating Musettian elements in his designs. I couldn’t help thinking he was the villain I’d been
waiting for all these years, the one audacious enough to come in and scare the Circle off its color
palette. If someone who had worked in Musette couldn’t do it, then nobody could. It’s true that on
one level Musette was just a utopia filled with musically talented folks. But it was also the one
place on earth most renowned for having a rebellious mystique, turning away almost everyone who
rang the bell at its gate. You may wonder why I don’t say more about the place, describe its
climate, break down its demographics, tell you its favorite food. Hell, it’s because I don’t know.
Who does?
~
By six o’clock the famous Paley party trays were arrayed in the dining room for the big bon voyage
party. All the residents of the Circle, including Mom, were supposed to leave for a few weeks while
the intensive renovations took place. P.M.B. wanted them to be surprised when they got back; and
as I saw it, they would definitely be surprised, though maybe not for the reasons they hoped. They
had all agreed to leave readily enough, but I was determined to stay in the Circle and be the very
Page 41
first person to witness the revelation of Musettian secrets. Before the party I announced to P.M.B.
that I wasn’t leaving the Circle during the renovations, and he couldn’t make me, and neither could
Mom since I was over eighteen now. He responded by laughing in his loud way and tipping his hat
in acquiescence. I did a victory dance alone in the kitchen and then had to make a quick escape
because one of the soufflés collapsed and the others might follow.
At seven o’clock sharp everyone from the neighborhood arrived. The Wickershams were so proud
of jumpstarting the renovations by doing their own painting that they walked around with their
hands held up in front of them for everyone to see. They laughed over and over that they had
scrubbed the paint spots on their hands for an hour but they just couldn’t get them off, that it was
like the scene with Lady MacBeth except, you know, with heliotrope spots instead of blood. And
that spurred a discussion about Horatio being an actor and his agent getting him a small part on
one of Mom’s favorite sit-coms with some vague promise of bigger roles soon. It delighted the
Circle residents, of course, to have both a celebrity and a second-generation soon-to-be celebrity
with us for a while.
Then the mayor of Logansville, otherwise known as our neighbor Larry Hatch, positioned himself in
the dining room next to the trays and announced to everyone who came along that he’d been
working for years to revitalize this town. Now McFoyt was here – McFoyt, he emphasized after a
pause. An old friend of the Paleys, and all. He had some interesting plans and hell, a little increase
in the tourism sure wouldn’t hurt. Translation: the recession meant business had been going
downhill for a long time and he was willing to take a risk to turn things around. McFoyt himself was
in the process of commandeering the dining room table to roll out a giant blueprint of the
neighborhood. I could tell Mom was pretty stressed out about having to move her trays of quail
pâté and chocolate quince bonbons to the sideboard. Everyone who knew Penny Paley knew that
the quail was always arranged to the left of the quince, but now quince was before quail and both
looked like they might slide to the floor.
The guests all crowded into the room and turned empty smiles in McFoyt’s direction like they were
brainwashed, and I suddenly had to escape from the house for some fresh air. As I worked my way
toward the door I passed Horatio standing in a corner. Without a word, he handed me the rest of
the bag of potato chips he’d been eating. Weird guy.
“I know what you’re thinking, Tulip,” he said, still crunching. “About Musette. If he gets drunk
enough tonight, he might let slip a few words about it.” He nodded to me abruptly like he had done
me a great favor, and went upstairs to his room.
Well, it was kind of a favor, and I felt encouraged by the discovery that he wasn’t mute. So I
scrapped plans for my walk and went upstairs to my own room and listened for the party to die
down so I could grab an opportunity to talk to P.M.B. alone.
After I was positive Mom had gone to bed, I went downstairs to find McFoyt and see if he was
drinking yet, and because I was really hungry and wanted to see if there were any leftover hors
d’oeuvres. McFoyt had already found them and was sitting at the dining room table drinking wine
from a water glass. The blueprints were serving as a tablecloth. He got another glass from the
sideboard, filled it with the merlot and pushed it toward me. I sat down.
He had a notebook on the table filled with tiny, cramped scribbles. He slapped it closed when he
saw me looking.
“What’s that?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. Judging by his reaction I was convinced it
contained Musettian secrets.
“I keep a record,” he said, “a thorough record of many things.” He filled up his glass again and
leaned toward me to distract me from the notes and whatever magic they contained. “What do you
want to do with your life, girl? What do you really want to do?” I realized then that he reminded me
of some character out of a beat generation book.
Page 42
“Drive around testing the potholes,” I said, and my voice sounded as flat and dull as I had been
feeling for the past two or three years.
“You know, you can do more than one thing,” he said. “I think it’s dumb how they try to force
people into just one career. As if you can pack up someone’s ambitions and passions into one nice
little box.”
I was nodding through all of this because I knew what he meant. “I guess I like some of what you
and Mom do. Also, I wish I could have been an actor. I just didn’t turn out pretty enough.”
P.M.B. didn’t seem to like this at all. He spluttered for a second and couldn’t spit his words out, like
he was one of those people who get offended by self-deprecation.
“No!” He yelled finally. “Wrong, wrong! You’re a beautiful girl with a face that expresses interesting
thoughts and passions, damn it!” He shook his head with what I guess I’d have to call vehemence.
He then whispered intensely, “Your face would be luminous and worth watching on either stage or
screen. Make Horatio introduce you to his agent!” He said nothing more, and I couldn’t argue with
that kind of eccentric forcefulness. He must have tired himself out, because he began to nod off at
the table before I could think of anything even remotely worth saying, other than a quiet thank
you. I went upstairs to bed confused and a little disappointed that I had learned nothing about
either Musette or P.M.B.’s possible schemes to corrupt the Circle with Musettian villainy. But I felt
happy with the compliments.
~
“How come you’re so young?” I asked Horatio at the breakfast table the next morning while he ate
his chips. “Did P.M.B. have a late life marriage?”
“Late life fling. Mom dumped me on his doorstep, since he’s got money.” He sighed and his
shoulders sagged as though that was as many words as he could manage at one time.
Through the window, we watched the exodus from the Circle. All the families were loading luggage
into their station wagons and pulling out of their driveways. I couldn’t believe that none of them
had realized the heliotrope relation to Musette and the danger it posed to their normality. I guess
they were all just looking at P.M.B.’s fame and thinking that fame always leads to more money.
Mom raced downstairs to catch her plane, pretending not to be concerned when she saw our
sideboard leaning precariously in the middle of the room. P.M.B. had set it there and declared it his
command center. It was a Gothic monster from some dead southern governor’s mansion and didn’t
really fit in with the house. I thought it might be fun to see how loud a crash it would make if it fell
over. Mom forced Horatio to carry her bags to her car even though he didn’t offer. He smiled and
stuck his tongue out at me as he walked by, but in the way that meant oh well, why not.
Mom was the last of the residents to drive out the gate, and I felt abandoned in the silence. Then a
worker started up a big machine and proceeded to dig huge gouges in our front flowerbeds. Within
a few hours, there were trenches all over the yard, and my suspicions were confirmed that P.M.B.’s
changes would involve more eccentricity than the Circle had bargained for. I asked Horatio to go
outside with me and climb down into the trenches to make sure they were deep enough that a
soldier could stand fully upright without being shot through the head.
“No Man’s Land?” I asked P.M.B. who was running by with his notebook. “World War I
reenactments?” I sounded way too delighted.
“Canals around all the gardens,” said P.M.B., grinning. “Gondolas and gondaliers. The effect will be
serene.” He was some liar – the effect would be anarchy. And anarchy was perfect for my mood.
This was the grand villainy against the Circle that I’d been waiting for.
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More workers arrived with all kinds of machines I’d never seen before. All I knew is that they were
tools of destruction. You could tell just by looking at them. I was reminded of footage I’d seen of
towns just after they’d been taken over by troops. The machines were loud and vulgar and smelled
awful after they started them up. It was hard to understand how they could have anything to do
with conveying secrets about a place as sublime as Musette, but it was easy to see them as
outright rebellion against the smooth lawns and hotel landscaping of the Circle.
After all the machines were driving around and it got too dangerous to be in the trenches, Horatio
invited me up to his room and told me that he was going to be in a war film in a few months. We
sat cross-legged on his bed, and he showed me the script.
“Can I visit the set?” I asked.
“Only if you help me with my lines over the next few weeks,” he said.
I flipped through the script and the grand total of his lines seemed to be “Unh?... Unh,” when
another soldier tried to wake him, and later on a death gurgle as he died. I looked up, and he
grinned and winked at me, looking a little like P.M.B.
“Are there canals in Musette?” I asked.
He gave me one of his shrugs, so I answered myself. “Maybe canals are how people get around, for
all I know.” I tried a different question that had been puzzling me. “How come you’re with P.M.B.
right now instead of on movie sets?”
“I try to keep an eye on him when I can,” he said. “Because I’m the only family he has.”
That seemed a reasonable enough answer to me at the time. And since Horatio was done showing
me scripts, I showed him the only thing I had worth looking at, which was the chameleons. Then I
kicked him out of my room so I could lie on my bed and think.
I know they say that Musette doesn’t – can’t – technically have a flag since it’s only a little utopia
off the coast of the southeastern United States, not a country. But let’s face it: it has a flag. The
celadon two-lined staff and three diamonds on a field of heliotrope. (Or, translated: a very specific
green on a very particular purple.)
And though I know now that it’s ridiculous, I really was looking for the familiar Musettian symbol to
appear on the houses P.M.B. had painted. I actually thought that P.M.B. might make such an
obvious declaration of his rebellion against the Circle – fly the flag, so to speak. But though more
houses continued to turn heliotrope, no symbol appeared that day or any of the days that followed.
~
“What do you want to do, girl? What makes you passionate?” P.M.B. asked over our bottle of wine
that night. Horatio was out poking around in the neighbors’ houses all over the Circle since they
had trustingly given their keys to McFoyt.
“Hit the road, maybe,” I suggested. “Go a long, long way. Europe, the west coast, or maybe even…
Musette?”
P.M.B. laughed with ferocity as though he absolutely approved of my plan. He talked about lots of
different wines from Europe and the west coast, and the work he’d done in those places, designs
and buildings he’d left behind him in his travels. And he even talked about the rare times that
wines had been smuggled out of Musette, and their achingly fine quality. But he didn’t say anything
off the record about the place, nothing that wasn’t open knowledge. I talked about the convicts on
the roads around here and how I felt like I was invisibly chained to the median. Then P.M.B.
belched and talked about the cultures where this was not just acceptable but mandatory. I asked
Page 44
what the case was in Musette, but he only looked at me, his eyes twinkling, and changed the
subject.
“Do you have a good strong handshake?” He asked. “Every woman has got to have a powerful
handshake.”
We practiced it, and before P.M.B. passed out we had a long conversation about all the couples
living in the Circle whose lives didn’t seem to mean anything.
“If that’s domestic bliss, then I’ll take anything but,” I said. “What I want is to be with one guy
forever with perfect understanding, like the ultimate team, and we would be friends and partners
first and then lovers after that, but the friends and partners part would anchor us. But it’s probably
not possible, huh?”
I looked to P.M.B. for the answer, but he had fallen asleep, so I went to my room and lay there
thinking about the vintage Musettian wines I’d never taste and suspecting that P.M.B. yearned to
go back there one day. There was no reason for him to avoid Musette as a subject so completely,
unless it was simply painful for him to talk about. I mean, he didn’t have to be that secretive.
Horatio came back from the neighbors’ houses and couldn’t sleep, and knocked on my door at
around 2:00 a.m. He had a bag of chips with him, but threw them away when he got inside my
door, saying that his agent told him over the phone that he had to quit in order to have the kind of
physique he needed for the war movie.
For a while he talked about the kind of career he wanted to have – offbeat projects with everything
always exciting and changing. After he had outlined his dream career, he was quiet for a while. I
offered to read him a bedtime story, and I meant it as a joke, but he said yes. I read three or four
tales out of Mother Goose and he fell asleep sprawled across the foot of my bed while I lay there
stupidly stroking his hair like he was my little cousin, and wondering what he thought of me. He
was weird like his father, weirder than me even, but he was gorgeous. Although, that might have
been more like a later thought. It’s probably closer to the truth to say that at that particular
moment I thought he was okay-looking in an offbeat kind of way.
~
Over the following days, topiaries shaped like strange birds popped up all over. Pipes from pipe
organs became a new fence in our yard. These were things that I could imagine being in Musette,
and I tried to think what its citizens would look like walking (or floating) among these
surroundings, playing their instruments or shopping or whatever it was they did all the time. A
truck drove in one afternoon, interrupting my thoughts, and deposited gondolas in the yard.
Horatio and I wanted to go out in the gondolas, but P.M.B. said filling the moats was the last step.
He had started calling them moats now.
P.M.B. charged around the Circle as usual ordering what went where, but I could tell that the
workers were pretty frustrated from the way they whispered during their smoke breaks. They built
a bridge, and I figured it was to go over the canal. Instead P.M.B. told them to attach it to the roof
of the mayor’s house, then mumbled something about the observation of the heavens. Later, the
workers brought in a gigantic piece of granite and placed a sculpture on top. I thought it would be
something graceful and shiny, but when I looked at it closer it seemed to be a giant stomach. I
couldn’t make any sense of it, no matter how hard I tried to make my imagination form it into a
Musettian musical instrument.
The workers looked even more annoyed during the few days it took them to put in a tiered fountain
with wide graduated steps and a pool to replace the steps leading to our house. P.M.B. said it
would be filled with water later, like the moats. We wouldn’t be able to get in and out of the house
without going through the fountain.
Page 45
The night after the fountain was finished, P.M.B. and I had our usual bottle of wine and he regaled
me with nostalgic tales of his late night adventures in motel rooms, one of which no doubt had
resulted in Horatio. But I barely listened. Instead, I examined the crummy, wine-stained
blueprints. And though I was no expert, I could see that P.M.B. wasn’t doing anything according to
the plans.
He was telling me the same story over and over about a monument he had designed in Belgium,
and the details kept changing. I interrupted. “P.M.B., it doesn’t seem like you redid Mrs. Roberson’s
front garden quite the way it looks here in the plans.” In the plans it looked tasteful. In reality it
was sprouting all kinds of man-eating plants.
“Oh, all taken care of,” said P.M.B. with a dismissive wave of his hand. “All taken care of.” With all
my heart I wished that were true. But I knew Mrs. Roberson wouldn’t see it that way.
I decided just to ask the question straight out, the question I’d been wanting to ask all along. “How
much is it like Musette? Or are these blueprints just a ruse while you improvise your own
flourishes?”
I tried to smile, but P.M.B. didn’t. He only looked at me like he didn’t know what I was talking
about. That phrase doesn’t quite do it justice, though. There’s just a feeling you get when you
know someone isn’t pretending. And P.M.B. honestly didn’t know what I meant. Worse than that, I
don’t think at that moment he could remember what Musette was, or even a blueprint. That was
how it crashed down on me all at once like the Gothic sideboard that what was really happening in
Survillion Circle might be Alzheimer’s or dementia or something else I didn’t know about, but it
wasn’t grand villainy.
P.M.B. looked flustered and tried to change the subject by asking his usual question, “So what do
you want to do? With your life, I mean?”
I had thought it was a game he was playing. We must have talked about acting two hundred times
in the past few weeks. Now I had a sick feeling. He wasn’t kidding. He didn’t know he’d asked me
that question every single night. He was repeating himself like the round in a song, and I was a
faceless shadow in his memory that he only pretended to recognize.
“You’ve asked me that, P.M.B., a thousand times before. I guess you don’t remember.” I hadn’t
meant to say it, but it was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I hadn’t wanted to call attention
to the fact that things had changed. And I hadn’t meant for the resentment to come through in my
voice. He flipped through his notebook filled with the scrawls of things that were slipping away in
spite of his efforts to keep them remembered and laughed his big booming laugh, but there was
fear behind the bigness. Then he fell silent and looked at me for help, his hands opening and
closing on his lap.
~
I went outside in the starlight to try to get my wits about me. I was far more disappointed than I
had any right to be. All the odd sights of the Circle looked changed to me now. I guess the
difference was that accidental villainy was not grand villainy. It was just helplessness and
confusion, and now someone else had to make decisions and be responsible. One of those people
was me. The other one was Horatio. I walked toward the Robersons’ house where I knew he was
probably playing with their TV.
It was the evening before the residents of the Circle would arrive back. The first thing P.M.B. had
done when the renovations started was to hang rolls of black plastic on the gates, preventing
anyone outside the Circle from guessing what was going on. He must have thought of it as a
pleasant surprise for everyone – not as the means of hiding a crime. As I walked, I tried to imagine
how the Circle might look through P.M.B.’s eyes. Really, it was beautiful in an odd way. But when
Page 46
the residents got back, it would be the most fireworks the Circle had ever seen, way beyond the
Independence Day show in the park. It was obvious they would put it back like it was before.
Horatio saw me coming and met me outside on the Robersons’ porch. “Well, I guess you’ve figured
it out,” he said. “Judging by the look on your face.”
“You couldn’t get your courage up to put him somewhere, I suppose,” I said with more hostility
than I meant to. “You didn’t want to put him on a leash, and you didn’t know what to do.” And
though I was mad at him, I also had to be mad at myself because I felt the same way. If he was
guilty of anything, it was the same thing I was guilty of: not being realistic about things soon
enough.
“I would have told you,” he said, looking desperate. “But I was afraid you’d call your Mom or the
mayor, and this was kind of like his last hurrah before I did something, I swear.”
“Just shut up,” I said, hating him for being as weak as me, and hating both of us for having
nothing smart to say.
In my fury I started walking toward the cemetery, maybe because a few days ago Horatio had
asked to see where my father was buried. It made no sense, but not much did. Horatio followed
me through the flowering pear trees into the fenced graveyard where all the Survillions were now
turning in their graves, several generations of them. It used to be that every house in the Circle
was owned by a Survillion. It was a safe little family enclosure protected by a gate and common
ties. Well, no more.
Spring Beauties were growing among all the gravestones. Their petals close up at night, but I
always felt bad crushing them under my feet. I didn’t go to my dad’s grave very often, so it took
me a few minutes to find it. Since he wasn’t a Survillion he was in a darker part of the cemetery
further down the hill. I showed the gravestone to Horatio with no particular ceremony. It might as
well have been one of P.M.B.’s abstract sculptures. By now, my father existed only in the phrase
“Your father would have been so proud of you,” which was a greater fiction than anything I’d ever
convinced myself about P.M. B. or Musette. Horatio and I stood on either side of the gravestone for
a while in silence.
“I know he’s got to go in a nursing home this time,” Horatio said.
“Maybe he’ll redesign it the same way he did the Circle,” I said, trying to sound humorous, but
what came through was still anger. I shifted my position to a circle of grass several yards away
that was free of spring beauties, and Horatio followed me.
They’ll put him on every tranquilizer they can find,” he said. “There won’t be any more designs.”
“Supposedly Musette gives older people a lot of freedom, if you could get him back in there,” I
said. “I’ve seen news stories.”
“I already looked into it,” Horatio said, “but you have to camp outside the walls, petition in person,
and sometimes it takes months just for them to say no. And he’s pissed off every friend he ever
had. I would do it myself, but this was my last break for a long time.” He shook his head.
“Then you should have already started the process instead of trespassing in people’s houses in the
Circle for the past three weeks,” I said.
Horatio nodded, but I backed off then because he looked like he was going to cry.
We walked back to the Circle and sat on the edge of the empty fountain. Even though it was past
midnight, P.M.B. ran by and asked us to fill it with the hose, and there was no good reason not to
Page 47
oblige him. When it had formed a thin puddle, we took our shoes off and stood in it and just looked
at each other.
~
They all arrived back at the Circle, one by one. Mom, the mayor, the Robersons, the Wickershams.
The mayor let out an angry whoop when he noticed the bridge on his roof. As the first star of the
evening appeared, I made a secret wish that he would trip and fall into one of the trenches. I don’t
deny that everyone had the right to be mad, but Mom ordered P.M.B. to go inside the house and
stay in the parlor as though he were a naughty child. She ignored Horatio as he tried to talk to her,
and she wouldn’t even grant me the dignity of getting angry with me for not warning anyone what
was happening. Instead she acted as though I didn’t exist. Which I didn’t, really. Horatio walked
along beside her trying to tell her he had made a mistake, but she just yelled, “You knew the
addled condition he was in all along, and you let him come in and do this, wasting the Circle’s
money.” Then she got on the phone making arrangements to have P.M.B. put somewhere, even
though legally she didn’t have the authority to do it.
P.M.B. had started the water cascading down the tiers of the gigantic fountain. Now that it was
getting dark I could see it had lights in it that slowly changed colors. I wished we had some
fireworks to shoot off and reflect in the water. Horatio waded out into the fountain and sat on the
edge, and I followed him.
“Well,” I said, “we have moats here, but the Circle residents came back with siege towers.” I had
thought that line up last night and rehearsed it in my mind, but it didn’t seem funny now. Horatio
smiled anyway, and took my hand, right there in front of everyone. For a while I worked on getting
over the shock of that. Then I leaned my head on his shoulder and we watched as more Circle
residents arrived back home. They gathered at the end of the walk to stare at the fountain.
Neighbors from outside the Circle came, too, on foot, on bicycles, on skateboards. Some pulled
kids in wagons, stopping and staring at each odd sight in turn. I laughed at them. They weren’t
even looking. Not really. They had only come to display looks of outrage and shake their heads at
one another. At work the next morning they would all be able to say they had seen the Survillion
Circle Disaster firsthand.
I wanted to become a millionaire and hire P.M.B. to transform everything on my estate in his
erratic way. I wanted to climb into one of the gondolas and row someplace where beautiful
madness like P.M.B.’s would remain untouched, where it wouldn’t be bulldozed into a ditch or
covered with coats of the old yellow and cream paint. That was impossible, so I had to think of
what was possible. And when it struck me what to do, it was so obvious I didn’t know why I hadn’t
thought of it before. It was this: the process to get P.M.B. into Musette was hard and Horatio
couldn’t do it right now; nobody else would do it – but I could. I could stay outside the walls until it
was done, and Horatio could be there when possible. I didn’t care anymore about discovering
Musette’s secrets, infiltrating its walls, or dissecting its mystique. What was important now was
P.M.B.. The time had come for comparing different evils and choosing the lesser ones, and now
that a villain had arrived and taken my hand I sure wasn’t going to let go. So I told Horatio my
idea, and he nodded the whole time and squeezed my hand, and then we went inside to talk to
P.M.B. about it. After that all I really needed to do was pack a suitcase and take the chameleons
back to Jacob.
Page 48
How Do You Play?
Valerie O'Riordan is currently studying creative writing in the University of Manchester.
Her short fiction has been published online in The Northville Review, PANK, Dogmatika
and Pequin, and she's now working on her first novel. www.not-exactlytrue.blogspot.com
Valerie O'Riordan
Hopscotch was the main thing in the schoolyard. Belinda jiggled the chalk in her palm and bit the
inside of her cheek. The other girls wriggled and baked in the heat. Belinda squinted, aimed, threw.
She missed. The little white stick rolled away down the slope of the pavement, rattled into the
drain with a splash. Belinda stared at her feet.
Sharon Kelly scowled and spat onto the tarmac. “I said we shouldn't let her play.”
The other girls nodded and muttered. They ringed Belinda, a freckled fence of denim shorts and
flowered blouses, scabby knees. Somebody prodded her back – she turned, apologetic.
“I'm sorry, I'll get you a new one,” she whispered, but they pushed closer. Sharon Kelly stamped
on her foot.
“I'll get you a new one,” she said, her voice strangled and high-pitched. She flopped her wrist in
the air and minced towards Belinda. “Lah-di-dah,” she said, and shoved Belinda backwards.
Everybody laughed. Belinda backed up against the schoolyard wall. Her throat hurt. She only
wanted to join in. They didn't play it at her old school. She had looked up the rules in the library;
she had practiced at home, imagining the lines scratched onto the kitchen linoleum. She jumped;
she spun. She counted to ten.
Sharon Kelly's face was an inch from her own. She heard the other's girl breath, a wheezing roar,
sweat beading her sun-peeled nose. Her lips curled upwards, the bruise on her cheek a sour
yellow-brown. Her dad's ring scraped a vivid arc from eye to nostril.
“It's still your turn, Buh-lin-duh,” Sharon said, and pulled Belinda's wrist. She grasped it with both
hands and twisted. The burn shot up Belinda's arm and she whimpered. Sharon let go and pushed
her into the first chalked square.
“One,” they all chanted, “Two!”
Belinda hopped.
Three, four – a straddled pause for breath, and then five, six, her leg wobbling, the chalked lines
wavering in the steaming heat. Seven, eight, she bent double, her wrist raw and sore, then nine,
and ten, a whip-round mid-air onto the other foot, and she stumbled.
“Out, out” called a couple of girls, looking quickly around for absent teachers, but Sharon shook
her head.
“She's still inside the lines – come on, Belinda!”
They all clapped as Belinda hopped faster and faster, her face hot, nearing the last square in a
rapid countdown, her arms out to the side like wings – six, five, four-three, two – Buh-lin-da! Buhlin-da! - and then she skidded home and stopped, teetering on the final square, one foot still raised
like a flamingo. She looked at Sharon.
“But you haven't got the chalk,” said Sharon, and pulled Belinda's empty palms towards her.
Page 49
The other girls whispered amongst themselves, took a few steps back, stood behind Sharon. They
avoided Belinda's eyes.
“You better go back for it,” said Sharon, and walked in a circle around Belinda, pulling her by the
hands to face the squares. Belinda twisted round on one foot. Her ankle gave way and she toppled
downwards, but Sharon had her arms and pulled her upright.
“Better get a move on,” she said, “we haven't got all day.”
Nobody counted or clapped this time as Belinda hopped. When she stepped on the line or placed
two feet in one square for a moment, nobody spoke, but they crowded tight around the chalk
outlines, a closed circle. Belinda's gasps and pants punctuated the silence. Her feet thumped the
hot tarmac and scuffed the chalk.
Up and back – up again. Her world narrowed. One foot, turn, the next. Sharon's face loomed,
receded. Belinda flew back and forth, her shoulders aching, the soles of her feet blistering.
Sharon Kelly turned away and yawned. The sky was blighted by a single cloud – it drifted closer,
and Sharon wrinkled her nose. The bell rang; children streamed past. Belinda lurched onwards –
nine, ten, turn.
“Come on,” said Sharon to her friends, and they moved away – walking at first, and then breaking
into a run, their shrieks of giddy laughter blasting the sinking quiet of the yard.
Only Belinda remained outside now. She jumped shakily, landing to the left and to the right of the
boxes, illegal moves, her legs trembling. She could do it, jumping, spinning. Her closed eyelids
threw up endless lines and numbers, white on black, and under her breath she counted – one, two,
three; one, two, three – as a teacher, puzzled, jogged slowly towards her, ringing an old brass bell.
Page 50
Wendy Jane Cohen graduated magna cum laude from Emerson College at twenty, with a double
concentration in screenwriting and literature. She has been published in the literary magazine Gauge and her
teleplays have been national finalists in the American Gem Short Script and Cinema City Pilot Competitions.
Currently, she works as a Writers' PA on the Emmy and Golden Globe winning show "Mad Men."
Wendy Jane Cohen
Elevators
from the Bonaventure Hotel
A marvelous phantasm—
the pulleys slither down,
each capsule submerged,
an intricate trance
of rising and falling;
from the tenth floor
the sliding brass gazelles
relinquish their glitter
to the night sky;
promiscuous teeth
enveloping hot wire,
these buildings
transcend, then unmake
their own kind.
Page 51
Proxy
Catherine Sharpe wrote for live performance in the 1990's before hunkering down to earn money in
promotional marketing until she was unable to breathe on the bus to work one day. She very
deliberately got pregnant and had a baby. Somewhat later, she was "divorced" without adequate
warning and, for consolation, got her MFA in Writing. She almost won a prize once when nominated
as a finalist in the Penelope Niven 2009 Nonfiction Award. Look for her short fiction and nonfiction in
Opium 9, Offsprung, and Errant Parent. Her first book, "Ambition Towards Love" is yet to be
published.
Catherine Sharpe
It was my turn to pick the sperm.
Which sounds fun. But not after all the donor profiles that Missy and I had labored over, after the
turkey-baster methodology, the intrauterine inseminations, the diagnostic laparoscopy, the
endometriosis excisions, the clomid, the injectables, acupressure, the fucking prayer circles — not
after all that failure. Two years of wooing my ovaries, devolving to ever more peevish, desultory,
mechanical demands. Each failure ratcheted up the science involved.
Dr. Fujimoto made the suggestion. We sat in his office at the UCSF Fertility Clinic for the initial
consult, Missy in one of the two client chairs. We were probably holding hands, inseparable in our
goal.
Dr. Fujimoto was small, buzzing with energy, a hand-talker. His office was untidy, as if he'd just
moved in and hadn't settled into the chrome glass leather sleekness of it all. He slapped the folder
in front of him.
"It looks like you've already tried most fertility tactics at our disposal. You're thirty-nine?" He
pointed at me.
"Yes," Missy answered for me.
"How old are you?" he asked Missy.
"Thirty-eight," I said.
Missy had zero interest in having babies. With her own body, I mean. Fastidious, she mumbled
about Rosemary’s Baby, and Alien — she thought labor was too much messy work. And maternity
leave would be dicey — she'd just started a new job. But she definitely wanted to construct a
family.
We all come equipped with the hope that the family we make would be the family we never had.
Dr. Fujimoto pointed at Missy. "We can fertilize your eggs, and put them in," Dr. Fujimoto glanced
down at my chart. "Catherine. If we can get a good harvest." He studied Missy. Could he tell just
by looking? He grinned. He couldn't repress his excitement, his Science Boy glee, his liberal,
democratic ideology — families for everyone! Even the lesbians!
"Well, I of course, well, that would be great, for me," Missy said. "But what is that like for you?"
She pointed at me.
I sat on my hands. I heard a new kind of excitement in Missy's voice — her progeny populating the
future while mine dissipated, floating like ghosts, floating up and away like the smoke from the
barrel of a pistol.
~
In vitro fertilization was the way to go. I had a womb; Missy had some eggs; we had a vision.
I could compromise. I wanted nothing less than the experience of growing and delivering a new
human to this earth. This was now possible. Forget the papier mâché volcanos, the detailed
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drawings of the Drosophila life cycle, the homemade rocket fuel. This was My Science Experiment.
If not exactly willingly, if not exactly as planned, I would exert genetic representation by proxy.
~
Donor Profile: 2517 Interview Notes
Donor 2517 is a charming man who comes across as intelligent and thoughtful. A self-described
“art monk,” 2517 has spent the two years since graduating college reading literature, studying
film, and creating children’s books (he graduated from an alternative college where he wrote and
illustrated a children’s book as his art thesis). Every time I met with him throughout his screening,
he was reading a literary “great work” — for example, Thomas Pynchon’s V or James Joyce’s
Ulysses. In appearance, donor 2517 is boyishly handsome. He has a slim build, clear green eyes,
well-proportioned features, and a strong chin. He has deep dimples in his cheeks. Although serious
in demeanor, he is quick to smile and seems quite playful.
~
“This is definitely the one I want.” I stated this with authority, confidence, finality, and then handed
Missy the full profile of 2517 for approval.
Missy swallowed a final bite of pizza and took the thick stack of papers from me.
At some point after Phoebe was born, I started to call 2517 "Will." My Will. Dear Will. It seemed
more personal, more friendly. I must have been lonely, but I didn't know why. You are never too
old for an imaginary friend, even an anonymous one.
~
Height: 5’6”
Weight: 140 pounds
Hair color: light brown
Hair type: straight, fine
Eye color: hazel
Complexion: Fair, rosy
Body type: medium
Ethnic origin: English, Lithuanian, French Canadian
Religion: born into Roman Catholicism, presently atheist, “my practicing religion is art”
Blood group/Rh: A positive
~
I sat cross-legged on the carpeting, wriggling while Missy slowly read the interview notes and
medical history. She was always so thorough, and steady, and predictable. I loved all this balance
for my erratic, volatile, unsteady charm.
I tidied the stacks of profiles on the coffee table, arrayed by my own system — No Way, After a
Few Drinks, and Supreme Unleaded. I listened to the pulsing swoosh of the dishwasher in the
kitchen. I picked a few crumbs out of the carpet and tossed them into my half of the pizza box. I
played with the little plastic pizza thingy, a doll-house sized table, picturing it with tiny folded
napkins, a bottle of Chianti, and a vase of flowers. Imagining a tiny bit of romance.
Missy looked up.
“So, do you like him?” I tried to sound all casual.
Of all the banks that I researched across this great nation, The Sperm Bank of California was my
favorite. I particularly appreciated the name. It resonated with authority; basically the entire state
Page 53
backed this sperm bank, it had gravitas, it had spunk, it had all the personality, by association, of
this western Mecca of gold-digging, suntans, Hollywood, and goddamn liberals. And, perhaps more
importantly, California was the most populous state, implying a kind of inherent fecundity. The
initials “SBC” could be used to coyly avoid the more graphic terms “sperm” and “bank,” but even
the initials rhymed with FDIC, holding for me that sense of governmental, even-if-you-fuck-up,
regulatory, emotional buttressing effect. I liked the security.
And there wouldn't be a shipping and handling fee because the bank was local.
A few short blocks away, blooming like yeast under a microscope, the agitated inhabitants of dorm
rooms and frat houses frothed on the UC Berkeley campus.
~
Describe your personality:
Before I begin, I believe there is something you should know. My family and friends have
commented to me on how different I am in person compared to my writing style. I am much more
serious on paper than I am in person. To be completely honest with you I can be quite silly or
downright bizarre in person. Joking around and laughing is my favorite pastime. As often as I can,
in whatever circumstances, I always try to enjoy myself.
~
“You think someone else is better,” I said.
“No. He looks good. Heart disease, grandmother, but who knows the real cause, right?” Missy
flipped to an earlier page of 2517’s profile. “On the father’s side. Otherwise in good health at 86.”
“But what do you really think?” I pressed.
“It’s just, well…”
“You don’t want him. Really, tell me.” I took the profile back, holding it in my lap.
“No, no! He seems good. He’s just not… very tall…”
“He’s taller than me!” I said.
“I like the dimples. And I like how honest he is…”
This seemed to do it. Missy tossed her paper napkin, all balled up, into the pizza box.
“Let’s do it,” she said.
~
Q: Why do you want to be a sperm donor?
A: My main reason for becoming a sperm donor is that I need the money. I am broke. I may be an
art monk and I may dislike materialism, but my idealism is tested daily and it does have its limits.
A monk cannot live by art alone.
~
I was born into a family of scientists, with the notable exception of my mother, whose job it was to
have all the feelings, cook and care for six, and whimsically rearrange the furniture after an
afternoon beer or two.
Page 54
On a rare visit home as an adult, before Phoebe was born, I lied to my father about the donor. I
lied and I really enjoyed lying, which doesn’t make me a terrific person.
Missy kept her mouth shut, neither adding nor subtracting from the fiction, but not because lying
was a moral dilemma for her. She just didn't want to attract attention and suffer another onslaught
of lawyer jokes. When my father was not showing his love through detailed criticism, he showed it
through humor. He taught me everything I know.
Because I did not care to defend my quirky choice of Donor Number 2517 (an art monk, for
chrissake), I told him that the sperm bank specialized in genius donors — scientists,
mathematicians, physicists, MENSA members, etc.. His face flipped like a chart on an easel through
a series of expressions — a tiny shadow of suspicion, then consideration, then delight, and finally
joy. Until now, he had never trusted my judgment.
“Of course, only the best for my baby!” I said. He chuckled, still studying me, not resisting the
desire to see a genius born into his kingdom, embracing the sheer science of it all. We shared that.
~
Dear Will. I imagined him handsome in an irresponsible, boyish way. I had an excellent
imagination. His hair might be thinning a little bit on his crown, so he wore ball caps. He was one of
those shortish, boyish, softly muscled men paused on the lip of doing something important,
anything important. He talked slow — people always hurried to finish his sentences for him. His
sometimes girlfriend (never mentioned at the sperm bank) was two inches taller, so she wore
ballet flats, the kind that cup the foot like a tea cozy. She parted her hair in the middle, combing it
straight down — no volume, no additional dimension to her head. She thought she was smarter
than he was. He thought she was smarter than he was. She was always on a diet; he was good
willed, good natured, refrained from carbohydrates, and shared dessert when they dined together.
I can imagine an entire relationship out of nothing more than a few interview notes. I've seen
marriages based on less information.
~
Sperm was rarely in my thoughts before my mid-thirties. When it did come up, it was a visual
hallucination, the result of standing up too quickly after a whole day on cigarettes and Diet Coke. I
called the little floaters in my peripheral vision “eye sperm,” as if my eyeballs were a slide under
high magnification.
I had nothing against sperm. As a child, I liked tadpoles. It was just that, until Missy and I wanted
to start our own family, I had no use for it. I admired sperm as another example of biological
ingenuity, second only to the round brilliance of an egg. Germ cells were germ cells but
parthenogenesis was not yet an option. A donation was needed.
We considered the experiences of friends who had either been adopted or abandoned, and the
almost uniform truth that, at some point, kids want to know all the players, make sense of what
started the whole messy process of life and love and family.
So we chose a donor who was willing to accept contact from adult offspring, after we had ushered
our miracle safely into his or her majority. We paid extra.
At our baby shower, the champagne was served in test tubes.
~
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Dear Will: Sometimes love just takes you by the throat, chokes the life right out of you, and there
you have it. I desperately wanted this to turn out like a romance novel. Well, a very modern one,
where the girl gets the girl and a girl-child. And a nice house. Forever, etc..
My anonymous Will. I wonder if I will ever actually meet you, if Phoebe will want to meet you.
Probably! Likely! Your donor status — Identity Release — a term so beautifully evocative of fishlike things: catch and release, swimming, small fry. Willing Will. Mister This Is Just the Beginning.
Mister The Least I Can Do. Mister Sperm.
You so selfless. Me so selfless. What is not to love? Nobody's perfect, right?
~
Interview Notes
Donor 2517 took Prozac for situational depression about two years ago: he no longer takes any
medication, and his depression is resolved.
~
So much of me was exposed when Phoebe was born. Phoebe’s big head interfered with her
traditional passage into this world. Her need to be free preempted my selfish desire to keep her
contained for as long as possible. That is simply the way of it, sometimes. A mismatch of anatomy.
Even though I was stitched back up, neatly at the bikini line, something inside was missing, never
to be seen again. I think it was my autonomy — I lost the comfort that my acts, small or large,
could be inconsequential.
Post-partum buried me like a sudden avalanche. One minute I was weeping quietly about my
failure to breast-feed, the next minute I was collapsed on the floor, wailing that with Enfamil and a
baby bottle, nobody needed me. Including Missy.
I'm not sure if I was predicting the future, or manifesting it simply by voicing my profound
insecurity. Some things you should keep to yourself.
For what seemed the longest time after Phoebe was born, she was unable to pick her own head up.
It was that heavy, that big. Although everything was fine, this worried me, that she was somehow
outsized for what was required of her. This worried Missy, too, I'm sure, but we never talked about
it.
~
Dearest Will: Sometimes, I can’t tell why Phoebe is crying. Hungry? Tired? Gassy?
I look at Phoebe and can’t believe that I'm not looking at some of my own chromosomes. That
uncanny resemblance — to me! — around the nose and mouth. I kid you not. Even my mother and
father are perplexed, having dug out baby pictures of me. Those dimples!
If I haven’t said it before, thanks much for the sperm. I really got a lot out of it. The sperm, the
egg, the embryo, the Diaper Genie™, the 529 Plan, the riptide of family life, the monotony of
responsible behavior, the numb quiet in the middle of the night. The whole nine yards.
Why was Missy so mad? I told her, if she wanted more spontaneity, she should plan for it on
Wednesday nights. What is her fucking problem?
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I am so tired. And bored. And boring, apparently. I am thinking seriously of reading Ulysses.
What's the plot anyway?
~
It was my idea, after Phoebe was born, to document each day of her development. Perhaps this
idea emerged as a natural consequence of my own repressed scientific ambitions. Missy
intelligently ratcheted it down to a weekly event.
The concept? To arrange each shot of Phoebe in situ with objects that depicted the week. Week
eight featured Phoebe with one of those black and white Magic 8 Balls, which reveals a random
(although predictably enigmatic) response to any question posed.
Phoebe was sleeping in her crib, wearing just a diaper, at some point during her 23rd week, the
perfect opportunity to strategically prop a picture of her 23 chromosome pairs against the crib rails,
the reassuring black and white result of amniocentesis.
Some weeks, the idea for the photo came effortlessly. Some weeks, Missy and I, sleep-deprived,
bitterly disagreed on the creative vision. Sometimes, scientific accuracy was abused when two
photos were staged within the same week.
Although I considered it a privilege to document Phoebe's life, and never a burden, one week when
Missy was out of town on business, all I could do was spell “thirty-two” with Cheerios. I made an
effort.
In retrospect, I wish I'd paid closer attention to the Magic 8 Ball. Instead of treating it like a toy, I
could have observed the devolution of my relationship with Missy.
Yes. It is certain. Most Likely. Signs Point to Yes. Maybe. Reply Hazy. Try Again. Very Doubtful.
Don't Count on It.
~
Whoa, Will. Now we really have an alternative family. These are some alternatives that never
occurred to me. Now I’ve really gone and done it.
What possessed me to log onto Missy’s work email? To be honest, it was probably because, when I
checked the search history on her browser, I saw some unusual URLs for lesbian bars in Denver.
Country Western bars. Bars for Two Stepping and line dancing.
What a coincidence. Her next business trip was to Denver. She had to complete the training of her
newest hire, “a great addition to the legal team,” as Missy described her.
Maybe I should have kept my hands to myself. And off Missy's laptop. But I didn't. I snooped
through her email and found their exchanges; each was in deep pain from their longing. For each
other.
I did violate Missy's privacy. And her trust. That was wicked of me.
But you, Will, know about self-control. You were perfectly qualified for your little job because you
were willing to refrain from other sexual activity. You were expected to discharge a full round of
buckshot. That was the deal.
How are things with you? Have you told your girlfriend yet about your generosity to me and others
like me? Ha ha! You don’t want to lie by emission! xo, me. P.S. — just as soon as Phoebe starts
pre-school, I’m going to try that Pilates thing or something. Really get back in shape.
~
Page 57
My parents are still married to each other. I don't understand it but I admire it.
I called them a few days after I kicked Missy out of the house in order to make her sorry for
cheating on me. This did not have the desired effect. Missy did not come back. Still, my parents
were supportive, in their own way.
"You can't be a nag. And don't be boring! Were you boring?" my father asked.
When my father got off the phone and returned to his workshop, my mother stayed on the line.
"Do you want me to call Missy? Do you want me to talk to her? She can't leave! We made her a
Sharpe!" my inimitable mother said. We Sharpes are very clannish.
Then she mentioned that my Dad may have "worked late" and "traveled a lot" when he was fortytwo, maybe forty-three. She simply declined to notice. I think she rearranged a lot of furniture.
"I could put two and two together," she said. "Even though your father thinks I can't do math. I
can. I'm just terrible with fractions."
~
How would you describe your enjoyment of and skills in the following areas:
Math: I really have not used my math skills since high school. I do not use math skills. I use
calculators. It is not that I dislike math… I like the idea and the philosophy of mathematics over the
crunching of numbers, equations, and formulas.
Athletic: I avoided participating in sports at school… I was, and am, turned off by the machismo
and posturing that invariably goes with team sports. There are, however, some aspects of sports
that do attract me… competing with myself.
~
I have a picture of Phoebe at the eight-cell stage, alongside two other embryos that never
successfully implanted. The fertility specialists routinely photograph the best looking embryos, just
prior to the blastocyst phase and implantation in the uterus. The remaining less-than-perfect
embryos, those that cannot be considered top quality, are evaluated, and graded based on cell
number, fragmentation, membrane definition, symmetry, and other strictly visual attributes, much
like cheerleaders. Some get implanted, some frozen, some discarded.
~
Musical, Artistic, Creative: These are my true and (dare I say it?) only passions in life… my
practicing religion is art… It has taken a while and much confusion and struggle, but I have realized
that what has given my life the most meaning is beauty and my main purpose in life is the creation
of beauty for others to enjoy…
~
Phoebe has wispy hair that is light brown and light weight. Her blue eyes are very big, even nestled
as they are into fat, creamy cheeks. Her upper back is covered in almost invisible fur, seen only
when she is turned sideways to the sunlight. Even when you cannot see the tiny hairs, you can
prove them to yourself by ever so lightly skating your fingertips across her back. The nails of her
great and second toe are flawed — like Missy's — they grow inward and are dangerous. They must
be rigorously and meticulously maintained with miniature nail clippers.
I never mind this intimate responsibility — it is a privilege to attend to another human's flaws.
Phoebe must be asked to sit perfectly still, like a princess, while I minister. I do this for our
daughter; Missy is too afraid that she will hurt Phoebe, cut her by accident. I am steadier.
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I think Phoebe will grow into a great beauty. I often suggest that she is likely to be a physicist
supermodel. One of the shorter supermodels.
~
Will, I feel used. I think you might be the one person I can really trust. Will. I love you more than I
love myself. Anyway, just letting you know that Missy took half the furniture — there are a few
blank spots and one completely empty room. It actually echoes, even when I just whisper “Missy
missing. Missy missing. Missy missing.”
Maybe I need a roommate.
I am having a hard time with Ulysses. Can you explain it to me, Will? You cannot leave me, I am
nothing without my imagination. You're like family that way. Will?
~
March, 2006 — Donor #2517 has reached the ten family limit and is no longer available. A limited
supply has been reserved for families adding same-donor siblings, available on a first come, first
served basis.
~
Two years passed. Our family divided like so much protoplasm, each eventually whole again.
~
Missy and I sat in hard plastic chairs in exam room C, while Phoebe touched everything she could.
We were there together — Missy, Phoebe and I — for Phoebe’s annual check-up, booster shots,
and necessary documentation before Kindergarten. Every now and then we try to do fun things like
this together. As a family.
I was quietly blowing up a latex glove while Missy finished filling in her parts of the form — insurer,
name of insured, home address. Because I got started on the paperwork first, I’d filled in my
information under the "mother" section. She had to cross out "father" and write in "parent." It’s the
petty things that give me my playful charm.
Pushed under my chair was a clear plastic bin — a disconsolate jumble of toys or toy parts. A
three-limbed Spiderman, an earless Mr. Potato Head with a stethoscope, a few mismatched train
parts — a shabby Thomas the Tank Engine caboose, a plastic cargo hauler, a passenger train sized
for those irksome Weebles that Won’t Fall Down no matter what you do.
With a foot, I eased the bin a little further under the chair. I could well imagine the dangerous,
germy appeal for Phoebe. She was, however, busy climbing onto and off the exam table, crinkling
the paper, testing out the precarious possibilities of the little drawers.
A nurse knocked on the door and breezed in to handle preliminaries. She was square and bosomy
and cheerful; she measured, clucked, hummed, pumped, and listened.
“Phoebe! Are you five? Wow! What a big girl! What’s your favorite food?” she asked, chart and pen
in hand. This was a test. Phoebe looked at Missy, then she looked at me. Nobody said anything for
a few beats.
“Well, Phoebe, can you answer the nurse? What did we have for dinner last night? Remember? You
said it’s your favorite…” Missy adopted an irritating sing-song.
“Steak.”
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“Right! And…”
“Mashed potatoes.” Phoebe looked at me. The nurse looked at me. Missy looked at me.
“She LOVES broccoli. And fennel. At my house. Don’t you?” I was ahead, two green vegetables to
one starch.
“Okay! Do you drink milk, juice, soda? How much per day?” the nurse asked.
“No soda,” we all said, in perfect unison. “About six ounces of apple juice a day,” I said. “I always
dilute it with water. Your house?” I bounced this back to Missy.
“Me, too. We only have steak once a week. I make sure she has milk every day.” Missy reported
this to the nurse as if she milked the cow.
“Phoebe! Do you looooove sushi?” I adopted an irritating sing-song.
“Yes!” she answered as the nurse finished her notes. “But really, my favorite food is breath mints.
Mommy gives them to me every time I get in my car seat.”
~
Will, it’s a brave new world of family. The invitations for the Annual Sperm Bank of California
Family Picnic still come to my address.
Meet and enjoy the company of other TSBC families, families built like yours!
What a crazy kind of family reunion — all those half-brothers or half-sisters — perhaps the
youngest as small as an embryo, the oldest a boy of ten or twelve years. A mob of a family, a
Greek chorus.
We are none of us without family. It is so much more complicated than I ever conceived. A failure
of my imagination, I suppose. Dear Will.
~
Dr. Bob came in just as we were swinging Phoebe up and down — I had the armpits, Missy had her
by the ankles. Phoebe was laughing, but we quickly swung her back up to the exam table. We sat
down and tried to act like responsible parents.
“Any questions, worries, concerns?” Dr. Bob asked, as he studied Phoebe’s data.
“Nope,” I said.
“Nail-biting,” Missy said. “Phoebe told me it was okay to bite your nails because her favorite cousin
Courtney bites her nails.” She said this, looking at me, only half-smiling. Me and my family, setting
bad examples.
“Oh, I'm sure that's genetics,” I said.
“A friend at work suggested that nail polish that tastes bad? Do you have any recommendations?”
Missy asked Dr. Bob.
“I personally never liked that polish," I said. "It tasted bad the whole time I sucked my thumb.”
Dr. Bob agreed that there wasn’t an easy solution, jotted some notes.
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“Phoebe, you seem like a healthy, strong little person. Are you excited about Kindergarten?” Dr.
Bob asked.
“Yes,” Phoebe, Missy, and I answered.
Dr. Bob finished graphing Phoebe’s height and weight. “Based on Phoebe’s growth, I can probably
give you a pretty good estimate of how tall she’s going to be as an adult. About five-foot-four.”
“Perfect!” I said.
~
“But she has a really big head,” Missy said. We walked together to the parking lot, studying the
completed immunization forms. "I guess I thought she'd grow into it more…"
“We're still going out for ice-cream,” I said.
“Quickly. Then I’ve got to get back to the office. Hey, bug. I’m so proud of you — all those shots.”
Missy squatted down for a hug from Phoebe while I unlocked my car doors.
“Thank you,” I said. “It was good to do that together.”
Phoebe climbed into her booster seat, and Missy buckled her in. I rolled down my window and
grabbed the tin of breath mints.
“Want one?” I held out the tin to Missy.
“Sure,” Missy said. She took one, stepped away, and then I handed the tin to Phoebe.
~
What are your goals and ambitions in life? I feel that I may have already answered this one
elsewhere.
Page 61
Ben Heins is an avid reader and writer of poetry, mentored by the late Dr. Len Roberts. His work has appeared
in several publications over the past three years, including White Pelican Review and Wild Violet, and his poem,
“Stone’s Weight,” took first place in the Lindsay R. Hannah Poetry Contest in April, 2007. His writing group, The
Winged Poets, have been meeting regularly since 2005. In 2008, Ben earned a BA in professional writing with a
minor in English literature from Kutztown University. He is currently enrolled in a poetry MFA program at
Rosemont College.
Ben Heins
Ben Is
I have seen the greatest minds of my generation drunken, self-conscious, texting
non-stop, and I’m not on Facebook, so I’m dead like you
and Tupac and Elvis, lol-ing in the Caribbean, and not
fantasizing about pistol-whipping kids in Chuck-E-Cheese
because they’re in MySpace; I’m not Tweeting with twats, not blogging on bullshit,
I’ve had it with BlackBerrys and Bluetooths and Warcraft and YouTube and lights –
Jesus
Christ! –
you wouldn’t believe how many red lights you see.
Len, things have changed since you’ve been gone.
but nvm im dun wit dat im lmao nd im not goin back
u can take nd take ur tmrw away nd ill b back anthr day
I’ve disappeared, I’m in the forest behind Dave’s house,
I’m 12 again and burning plastic army men, black thumbs, black
feet, I’m swinging unbreakable reeds
in that strange bamboo patch that Pennsylvania didn’t think could live and grow,
the one they cut down years ago –
that I was not 24; I was all of my years at once.
That there was no light – not one – in that box,
and just as I spoke my mind, I was proven wrong;
just as I reached for you,
the oak trees were mere toothpicks in the cosmos.
(for L.R.)
Page 62
Ben Heins
Untied
I think some day
I’ll write a poem
for you about this
pink room; this
space you’ve closed –
but it’s too much
to compose, and who
reads love poems
these days anyway?
Dazed, naked, I lay
on a plastic mattress,
watch you rise,
wrap the beat-up
bathrobe around
sweat and funk
and skin that tastes
like Italian food,
nipples sharp, hard,
I wait for you
because I’m scared
of everything
outside – my fulltime job, the endless
Turnpike – I’m all
alone outside this
Exit
Where squirrels left nuts in the glovebox,
the driver’s manual and old napkins,
pillows suddenly left behind.
Trunk hood open, birds’ nest in the hatchback.
Good sleeping space for raccoons,
once they pulled the splintered glass
to get in that sweet spot, the way-in-the-back,
where ragweed pokes through the sunroof.
A bee hive in the engine block, exit down,
where headlights saw too much;
a mosquito troupe nestled in the exhaust pipe.
And deer, curious, gnaw the brake lines,
though these things cannot be blamed on them –
axles like dandelions, heads bent,
float toward the fall light.
pink room; this
space you’ve closed –
a poem, cocooned, left
to that unknown place –
I grow jealous of
that long robe,
and when I am
just cold enough,
untied, you come.
Page 63
Lora Hilty is a recent graduate of Ohio State University, earning her BA in English upon returning to
academia after living a rich and fulfilling life. She has gathered moments for fictional fodder from
experiences gained from life in many places throughout North America, utilizing them to imagine
and create short stories, each unique and wound with threads which explore and explain something
of the underside of human experience. This is Lora’s first published story. She currently resides in
Ohio and spends her days reading, writing, and submitting works for publication.
My Life as Mrs. Murphy
Lora Hilty
I will get rid of them both, and save myself in the process.
In my mind the words beat a rhythmic song until soon they were all I could think about. I breathed
them, ate them, pondered, and weighed them, and soon the thought took root, fleshing itself out
with detail and purpose in the hours and days that followed the first inkling.
I became Mrs. Murphy in an unsavory way, two young people exploring and fondling a naïve sense
of love in the back seat of a red Chevy Nova at the drive-in theatre in Heath, Ohio. The impending
birth had been enough to convince us to leave behind the familiar warmth and solid concrete of the
town we had known since childhood, and we went north, feigning happiness and dodging rice, and
contented ourselves in sparing our families the embarrassment of my pregnancy. John and I
rushed to purchase the old logging house in Merit, Michigan with the money his father had given
him for a down payment, and we were eager to move forward and cover our mistake.
The house, a large white turn of the century two-story, had a cellar with a dirt and gravel floor and
is roughly situated on thirty-three acres of tired land long grown up with weeds. The small Dutch
community was in the Northern part of the state, and we were outsiders due as much to the lack of
Dutch heritage as being newcomers to the town. We were called Flatlanders in local vernacular as
the landscape there had rolling hills and Ohio did not, and we are referred to in town as Mr. and
Mrs. John Murphy.
Jane was born on a snow-covered afternoon in February, the pain coming fast and hard, curious for
a first born. She had rushed into the world and arrived on my kitchen floor, a mixture of blood and
disaster. Although small and lethargic she was complete. I strained to see John’s face when it was
done his eyes wide and strangely comical and it was then that I first knew that he wasn’t a strong
man, unable to take control and steer the boat, so to speak. His expression has remained
unaltered since that day and echoes the dumb drive behind his once handsome face. I had
experienced raw panic for the first time and I knew I was alone in it. A helpless flutter squeezed
upon my chest and took my breath and I had wanted to run, to find some way out of the rural
nightmare.
Jane’s tiny body screamed to be acknowledged from the first day forward, bent and frail, but
tenacious. Her muscles began to wither and stiffen within two years after birth, and we realized the
gravity of her problems. It happened in stages, first the news that she wouldn’t be a normal child
followed by the realization of exactly what that meant.
As she grew, she lived rough and stubborn and battled the essence of nature with her every breath
while licking the remnants of existence with a lolled tongue. Her eyes danced dangerously about as
she struggled to focus, and her arms beat the air as she fought to master them. I suppose she was
the epitome of life’s terrible lessons, a kind of purification process, perhaps.
I busied myself with the daily chore of bathing, feeding, and dressing her as she wailed, a siren
that pierced my ears with never ending demand. There were days filled with hospitals and nights
driving home in the beat up brown sedan we had purchased for the purpose. Defeat swirled thick
around our lives, but she didn’t know. Neurological, congenital, and terminal were all were terms
I’d come to know well, but the gist of it was that no one was to blame. But I knew the truth. She
had been our drunken mistake.
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I loathed the old house with peeling white paint and the stale smell of urine and sweat that had
become a permanent fixture there. Time added weight, building and grinding, until every part of
me, each hair, each breath, and each cell in me was soaked with despair so great that it was
almost missed as indifference took its place. When I looked at Jane, a wild and spasmodic lump, I
no longer thought of her as human.
It was late summer of Jane’s seventh year and I had awakened early, rolling from the bed so I
wouldn’t wake John. I studied him before reaching for the white cotton housecoat which served for
clothing most days while he was away. His t-shirt was thin and streaked with the stuff of his world,
hot-dogs, pork rinds, and beer from Tubby’s Pub in town. I watched his breaths wheeze from loose
lips, sputtering as tired lungs and heart kept the air moving somehow and shook my head,
remembering the trim and handsome boy with blonde hair and large muscles which rippled under
his shirt as he moved. I hurried from the room, shaking off the memory of a sweeter time and
resigning myself to the present.
Jane waited patiently for me in her room and greeted me with an open smile when I stumbled in.
Her missing teeth enhanced a face filled with promises not kept. She giggled as the morning sun
played across her face and tickled her nose through the open curtains. But soon, the saliva
escaped from her open mouth and revealed the lack of intellect behind the angelic face. I pulled
back, unable to get beyond what I knew to be a life sentence. Frustration edged inside, flaming up
even as I fought it down. It wouldn’t do to loose composure in front of John. I regained control and
gathered Jane’s clothes from the heavy bureau drawer.
I could hear John groan as he turned in bed and adjusted his weight to the center, his bloated belly
filling my absent space. I held my breath and winced at the sound of him, waiting for the snoring
to resume regularity. Jane had soiled the bedding again and I struggled to slide the bulk of her
aside after removing her clothing and cleaned her body with soap and water carried in from the
kitchen. I worked to dress her in a powder-blue jumper and ankle socks before lifting her into her
chair, my breaths labored and my hair messed as I strained under her weight.
I took a deep breath and paused to straighten myself in the mirror above the bureau, a gold
framed monstrosity given to John by his mother. The dark circles under my red- rimmed eyes told
of hard work with little sleep. I pushed the hair back from my face with the back of my hand and
pulled the small lines from around my mouth, stopping briefly to examine the teeth within. My
lower molars had become tender and loose to the touch, and my gums were swollen despite the
vitamins forced down sometime between morning coffee and dinner. The swelling had spread to
my throat and cheeks and resulted in my meals tasting like the tin cans from which it often
originated. I swallowed hard and considered the lines which folded my forehead and the sallow skin
which begged for sunshine and rest and let my eyes drop to my body. A smile trembled in the
corner of my mouth as I ran my hands down my sides admiring the thin frame and looked away,
realizing that it too would be changed with time.
Jane began whimpering, that tweeting little sound that comes from a mouse trapped on sticky
paper, and brought my attention back to the routine. She had slid from her chair, wiggling this way
and that, as she did sometimes in an effort to gain my attention. I slapped her promptly, knowing
that if I gave her any room to misbehave, she would. She made the whining sound again and her
nose was running and soiled her shirt. Just leave it to her to ruin a perfectly wonderful sunny
morning. I wiped her nose roughly with a tissue from the bureau and she began to wail, saliva
oozing from the corner of her mouth. I slapped her again for good measure.
I rose to set myself in order, wiping the sweat from my brow before straightening my nightgown in
the mirror and lingered there, clipping my bangs back with a hair-pin from the bureau. Jane’s cries
had softened, puttering out as she tired with the effort. My skin had reddened, flushing with the
effort of bringing my blood from a rolling boil. My nose began to bleed and I wept, unable to deal
with the new crisis. I grabbed a tissue from the bureau and clamped it tight.
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My stomach turned as I realized that Jane’s cries had awakened John. My throat tightened and pain
wracked my stomach and caused acid to escape into my throat. I swallowed hard and pasted a
smile on my face. I could hear him breathing in the doorway, wheezing like the rats in the cellar
when in labor.
“Morning,” I managed.
“What’s to eat?” His words were heavy with sleep, fused to his palate by his hangover. I took a
peek from across the room. He stood sweat-stained in the doorway, his robe open and his shirt
rolled up. I put my head back to get the nose bleed under control.
“Give me a minute and I’ll see what I can do.” I headed toward the door, squeezing past him in the
doorframe, avoiding contact. He slapped my left buttock as I passed and held his hand there to
squeeze. I winced and held my breath to make myself smaller as I slid past and made my way into
the kitchen.
I inspected the bacon, thick-cut and a little slimed, but decided that it would do. I waited for the
grease to pool before adding the eggs and was topping them with cheese as I listened to him
cough in the bathroom.
“I hope you want cheese eggs.” I called to him from the kitchen.
I heard his feet slide across the linoleum.
“Scrambled,” he muttered, dripping coffee over the counter as he slid toward me and placed his
face in my neck. My muscles tensed as I attempted to steer clear.
“Too late,” I said, knowing that he’d grumble.
“Then why’d you ask me if it was already too late?”
“To get on your nerves,” I said with a smirk. He was using the bottom of his shirt to wipe his nose
and it made me gag.
“I saw Feona Boscher in town yesterday and she told me to tell you hello,” I said.
His eyes opened wider.
“Why’d she want you to say that to me?” His face began to color and I swallowed. Late nights and
tired mornings smelling of stale perfume that I didn’t own were explained in an instant.
“I thought maybe you’d know,” I ventured.
“She’s just a dumb kid,” he muttered, opening the paper and dismissing me. “How long ‘till food?”
I slapped the plate onto the table and flipped the switch on the black and white television perched
on the counter beside the refrigerator. Ted Koppel was reporting that Roe v. Wade had been
decided. My stomach turned and I listened, the tears welling up and felt hot on my cheeks when
they spilled over. This is no kind of life, I thought as I wiped the tears away and hurried to make
the rice cereal for Jane.
That’s when it happened — when I was making the cereal for Jane. It was a flash of perfect and
complete clarity, an epiphany really, the single sentence which planted itself firmly in my brain. I
will get rid of them both, and save myself in the process. The thought had surprised me at first,
but the more I rolled it around the more it became a real answer. I eyed John from my perch in
front of the stove and considered it, imagining my life returning to the one I once new, washed and
dressed without disgrace or failure.
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~
Jane was easy. I was dusting the roses for beetles when it came to me, the tan powder sliding
from the can in a brilliant display of effective elimination. cMy finger slid down the side of the
package as I searched for the active ingredient. Chlordane. I let my eyes drop further, skimming
the list of side-effects if ingested. The list was long, headache, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, tremor,
mental confusion, and death.
I watched the beetles for hours that day, inspecting each twitch of their round hard bodies for a
measurable death song before deciding to use it. I emptied the contents into a plastic container
and placed it under the hutch for safe keeping. Just a few sprinkles on her meals each day would
cause much damage quickly.
I added the powder to her meals in small increments, measuring the effect before adding more.
Two days into the treatments I began to be bold, sprinkling larger doses until I could see that her
health had taken a marked turn. She vomited and her face twitched. Over the next few hours, the
face twitch had turned into facial paralysis and she began convulsing. The resemblance to her
existing condition was remarkable, wonderful, and elegant. I called her doctor, Dr. Franklin, in
Manistee to cover my crime.
The child was somehow sweeter through the poison; the memory of her smile was as sweet as
honey. It was as if both Jane and I knew this was necessary, Ted Koppel had confirmed it, and she
would wait to greet me on the other side in that lovely way she reserved for the morning time,
when everything was quiet and new. It was a visionary way to do it, really, as clarity had come to
me in soft whispers of insight; the rightness of it enriching my life as the plan became reality and
the secrets of this path were visualized.
Dr. Franklin arrived dutifully at 9:00 in the morning before shaking off his coat, hunching his back,
and proceeding into Jane’s room. I made tea while he worked, humming softly in the kitchen as he
examined her mouth and ears and the tremors which wracked her small frame. He shook his head
and muttered to himself before exiting the room and easing the door closed.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Murphy,” he said. His eyes were downcast and the emotion in his voice brought
tears to my eyes. “There’s nothing I can do for her but make her comfortable. I’ve placed an I.V. in
her arm to get her hydrated, but other than that...” He shook his head. I almost felt sorry that her
condition stumped him so.
“I think I should arrange a squad to take her into Manistee.” He was resolute.
A pain stabbed my stomach and I bent under it. My lip began to sweat as I realized that if he took
her to there she might be saved. I struggled to stand and he placed his hand on my shoulder,
comforting me and calming my nerves.
“Please… please,” I begged. “She’s been through so much. We’ve been through so much. Please…
let her die at home.” I began to cry, my lips trembling and my voice cracking under the secret
stress.
“You’ve got something there...” he sputtered, scrambling for the handkerchief tucked neatly into
his gray suit-coat. He placed it firmly across the bridge of my nose and squeezed. I shook off my
surprise as I realized my nose was bleeding again and looked into his eyes as he worked on my
nose. I watched as his brow furrow, deep lines creasing an otherwise handsome face.
“How long has it been since someone’s taken a look at you?” He muttered, and guided my hand to
my nose with his free hand.
“I’m fine. I’m okay, really, Dr. Franklin. This will be over soon.” I was embarrassed, and wanted
him to leave. I closed my eyes and shooed him toward the door. “Really, I’ll be fine.”
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“Are you sure you want to do this alone?” I could feel his eyes study me, examining me.
“I’m sure, doctor,” I said, “John will be home soon, within the hour,” I lied. “I know he’ll want her
here.” I met his eyes with my own and held my breath as he nodded his head affirmatively and
turned toward the door.
“You’ve been through so much already,” he said. “It won’t be long now. Are you sure? I mean, are
you really sure you want to do this?”
I nodded, relief spreading over my limbs and calming my trembling skin.
“Call me if you need me. Anytime, Mrs. Murphy, and I mean that.” He looked tired, worn under the
weight of his job. “You’ve got my number. Don’t hesitate to call.”
My breaths came easier as he stepped out of the door. I closed the heavy door before turning
toward Jane’s room and stopped to pick up the small plastic Tupperware container under the dining
room hutch which held the remainder of the insecticide, the tan powder which was the key to my
freedom.
I checked the time on the large wrought iron clock which was hung on the wall facing the door in
Jane’s room and considered the strangeness of my work on this day. It was curious, the power I
felt in knowing that was her last day, or moment even, dependant on how fast the powder did its
task. Jane’s small body trembled as each labored breath escaped her mouth. She was pitiful really,
a scar, a burden, a nightmare, all caused by one error in judgment. I clicked my tongue, enduring
was surely no kind of life. Jane died as the powder found its way into the small slice I had placed in
her I.V. that night.
~
The funeral was small. Various neighbors and John’s friends from work shuffled in and out of
Bruniks Funeral Home bound by some sense of duty and respect. None had ever met Jane, or seen
her picture. All they knew was that she wasn’t right, and that had been enough to keep them
away. I nodded as they passed and lined stout bodies along the snack table, whispering and
motioning toward me with a free hand. Snatches of conversation reached my ear, “For the best...
They both deserved better... She’s at rest, now… Look at him, he should be ashamed.”
Dr. Franklin appeared briefly, driving in from the city to offer support, and merged with the sparse
attendees. He patted my hand and lingered, unsure of what to say. His eyes said everything. You
are free, they crooned. You are still young and you are free, now. He had given me sedatives to
help me get through the event, and he had genuinely touched me with his steady concern for my
well-being. He paced around my in front of my chair, his sturdy legs slightly bowed. He smelled of
cologne and I thought him handsome in his black suit and hat. I didn’t take the pills. I needed full
control.
It was a closed casket at my request and I placed a small picture framed in blue on top of it. I
glanced at it from my chair in the corner, a comfortable wing-back with a nice paisley print, and
had to avert my eyes, break away from Jane’s blank stare.
I searched the room and found John, munching a plate of sausage links wrapped in breading and
talking with Feona Boscher in the narrow hallway. He whispered something into her ear and I
watched, recognizing interest in her young eyes. She twirled her blonde hair with one nail bitten
finger as she slid her frame along the wall toward him. Her eyes never left his as she licked her lips
with her young pink tongue. I was queerly amused and disgusted at the same time.
~
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Jane was buried the following day in a graveyard next to the church on Bickel Hill Road. Few came,
as hard rain forced a postponement for several hours. Those who braved the bad weather were
bent under a driving rain which began halfway through the service. Before it had ended, the sky
opened up and sent lightening flashing through the surreal scene and scattering the group. I stood
strong in the driving rain, eager for the storm to rip the world in half and swallow this place. Pastor
Venstra, the pastor from the Merit Christian Reform Church, ended the ceremony abruptly in order
to save those in attendance from certain electrocution. I was relieved, but the finality of it
disturbed my sense of progress and clouded my thoughts. I joined John for the trip home in his
blue Ford pick up truck.
We never spoke of Jane after the funeral, but now and again I would think of her, as I knew he did.
There was never any real sorrow or pain with her passing, but a solid feeling inside indicated that I
had done the deed well. I felt justified in my action and comforted myself with the knowledge that
this special gift that I had given her was intricately complicated, and would be difficult for others to
understand.
~
Six months and three days after giving Jane to the Lord, I tested the step, four from the top, with
my toe before carefully stepping over it on my way to the cellar. I canned peaches for two days,
stacking them neatly into the milk crates for John’s convenience when hauling them to the cellar.
He was readying himself for the chore, and I went as far as clearing some shelves in the cellar for
the new installment of canned goods. I couldn’t help to make one last adjustment to the bolts, just
another eighth of a turn to insure his accident on the way down before calling him. I could hear his
heavy footsteps, and wondered what the pacing was about.
It was always a big deal when John was to do something for me, a lot of grunting and moaning
accompanied his effort. I smiled to myself, knowing this would be the last time I would hear these
awful sounds. I tapped my foot as I waited for the appearance of his trousers at the top of the old
wooden stairs. The minutes ticked by and I listened to his sliding gait — back and forth, back and
forth — and wondered why God would have made a creature so flawed that it couldn’t gain enough
ambition to lift its own foot.
I looked around the filthy cellar and was irritated with the condition. I had asked John to clean and
sweep the cellar not more than a week prior in anticipation of this moment. He had been consistent
to the end, sweeping just enough to fool me from the doorway and neglecting the rest. My nerves
wore thin and I could no longer contain the rage that I’d kept hidden for so long.
I shook my head and grabbed a bucket filled with garbage from the far corner, the contents
shifting and settling in. I peered in, the dim light of the cellar making it hard to focus, and clucked
my tongue as I discovered the mess it contained. Broken thermometers, no less than twenty,
mixed together in shards of clear and gray glass. I eyed the quicksilver pooling at the bottom and
shook my head. What the devil is John doing with all these thermometers? I began to climb the
stairs to confront him.
I took the stairs, two at a time, my feet light as I neared the top of the steep incline with the
bucket in hand. I pulled back, but realized too late that my stride had lined up with the loosened
stair. I was forced to follow through with my step or fall down the length of them. I swayed like a
clown on a tight wire before it gave under my weight and I fell through.
Freefalling is a unique experience as, for the slightest moment, I felt wonderful. The moment was
brief as my chin cracked hard on the stair in front of me and my head smacked back to catch the
one behind. I felt weightless and time slowed as the ground rose to meet me with brutal clarity. My
forehead hit first, somewhere above my eyebrow but below my hair line. Glass from the bucket
showered down and covered the dirt and gravel floor around me. I felt a piece stick into the skin
behind my right ear before the bucket hit squarely on the back of my head and bounced off. I
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caught my breath. I’d fallen through the stairway instead of down it, and could appreciate the fact
that my small stature had saved me from the length of the stairs that I’d planned for John.
I waited for pain to come but none followed. I could feel the warmth of the blood which seeped
down my right cheek from a wound of unknown origin. I closed my eyes and forced my breathing
to slow and become more rhythmic before unconsciousness enveloped me in its warm embrace.
~
I woke slowly, unsure of where I was and why I was there. The memory of my mistake became
clear as my eyes strained to adjust to the dark space. I struggled to raise my head and managed
to lift it from the dirt floor before my eyes adjusted to the gloomy light and focused on the boots
which were in front of me.
“Help, John,” I croaked, as I lay my head back onto the floor, the effort of lifting it had become too
great and make me pant like a dog in the summer heat.
He didn’t answer.
“John. Help me,” I stuttered, the words caught in my throat and threatened to choke me.
He grabbed my body and rolled me roughly onto my back. He held the wrench I had used to loosen
the bolts in his right hand, and was slapping it against the palm of his left. His mouth was set, a
fierce clench to his jaw. He issued no concern for my predicament, but looked squarely into my
eyes for the first time since Jane had died. He promptly slapped me across my face before I lost
consciousness.
~
I was in the hospital for several months, and had resigned myself in that time to the truth that I
would be forever bound to the wheelchair, as my legs were lifeless weights of flesh at the end of
my body. John brought me back to the house on a sunny day in April, settling me into the room
which had once been used to care for Jane. I shuddered when I thought of her, and had inspected
the details of my new position from all angles without finding a solution. I spend my days alone in
the room, remembering her short life and waiting to join her on the other side of this curtain. I
have not spoken to John of the fall, or the events following it, but pray daily that he has remained
ignorant of my intention on that day.
I have lost all interest in meals as the metallic taste which permeates everything inside my mouth
has intensified, and I have found that a curious abundance of saliva now builds in my mouth and
makes swallowing difficult. The pain in my abdomen consumes me, and is relieved only by the
sleep induced by Dr. Franklin’s medications.
Mornings are best, as my pain is masked by the sun which plays across my face and tickles my
nose through the open curtains. I wait patiently for John in my room, and don’t make a noise
before he enters. I greet him with an open smile and eagerly wait to be removed from the bed of
soiled linens. I often sit in my chair and listen to Feona Boscher’s lilting laughter as I search the
gold framed mirror tucked above my dresser for John’s familiar face throughout the long shadow of
my days here.
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Gaëtan Henrioux lives and works in France. This young artist has just finished his studies at the Ecole
Nationale Superieure of Applied Art in Paris. During his studies he has participated in exhibitions in London,
New York, and Paris, His canvasses are unique spaces where he sets up modern scenarios using different
people who act out in unexpected, natural or theatrical ways. Sometimes their funny faces end the colourful
surroundings transgress into frightening tragedies. However if you look closely enough you can see that
above all they are paintings - a combination of strokes, forms, and colours that, confronted with an image,
create new dimensions which exist only in painting. www.pixeljaune.com
Gaëtan Henrioux
Harassment
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Gaëtan Henrioux
Projection
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Gaëtan Henrioux
Cigarette
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Gaëtan Henrioux
Intrus
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Gaëtan Henrioux
Astroboy
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Susan Kay Miller is originally from New Haven , CT and after passing through Paris and Boston, has made
Brooklyn home for over 25 years. Her poetry has been published in Icarus and Neshama. This is her first
published short story and she's very excited. She saw a battered suitcase on her way to work the day after it
was accepted. Still at her day job of hospital social worker, she continues to write fiction and is somewhere in
the middle of a novel. She has studied with Sheila Kohler and Joseph Caldwell and thanks friends and family
for encouraging her over the years.
Walking on Bird Feet
Susan Kay Miller
The plane soared above the clouds, while Liane shifted in her seat, exhausted. She pictured the
land below desiccated and parched, longing for rain. She was on her way to New York to where her
mother lay tethered to life supports, to life. Without any direct flights from Albuquerque to New
York, she and her husband Paul barely slept, leaving home in Luna Plata at four thirty to make the
six o’clock plane for their connecting flight in Houston. Her head rested on Paul’s shoulder. He was
there to make sure she’d get to her mother; to the hospital’s ethics committee to discuss her
mother’s “end of life” wishes. As next of kin she held her mother’s life in her hands. Twenty-nine
year old Liane felt too young for this role and felt at fifty-four her mother was too young to die.
It appeared her mother, Cecilia, had been making progress after the stroke which occurred almost
two months ago. She had been able to get out of bed with help and was beginning physical therapy
and was talking. Then the pneumonia hit and finally sepsis. Her black hair streaked with gray
turned white.
Long-distance, the doctors told Liane she was next of kin. She’d come to hate this term. The words
were clear, but the succinct clink sounded so technical, lacking the intimacy they implied. Since her
parents were divorced, and she was the oldest child, she was more next of kin than her
grandmother, or uncle. Her younger sister Ada could have done it, but the doctors called Liane.
To breathe or not to breathe. To breathe her mother had a prosthetic tentacle, a blue tube from a
hole in her throat to a ventilator. She’d become an amphibious creature of land and limbo who
needed machines to keep her alive. This image haunted Liane and popped up unexpectedly,
whether she was at the car wash or baking cookies with her first graders.
Half-dozing, Liane thought about the doctors who had been calling to get her consent so often,
they must know her cell phone number by heart. She heard relief in their voices, when they
realized she spoke English. Her mother was Cuban-Chinese which everyone everywhere seemed to
find so cool. The combination of the lotus blossom meets bougainvillea charmed people. A tanned
diva with mango juice dripping between her breasts, dancing a wild mambo, she was not. Besides,
her mother had liked to create her own dances and sway to her own rhythms.
Liane realized that her mother could never have done this for her. So much of her mother’s life had
been spent bouncing in and out of psych wards. Liane once remembered seeing a piece of paper
from a doctor’s office referring to her mother’s condition; rule out schizophrenia; rule out bipolar
disorder with manic features; rule out bipolar disorder mixed type. Rule in woman who stayed up
all night singing or drinking, screeching like a bird, doing jig-saw puzzles; bringing you ten new
dresses, five pairs of shoes and three dolls.
Liane remembered those other gifts. She remembered the vacuum cleaner with the five foot long
nozzle adorned with ties her mother scavenged from the trash. The discarded Christmas trees and
branches blown down in a storm. One day’s bounty yielded black patent leather shoes, still
wrapped in lavender tissue paper in a turquoise box.
Her thoughts returned to the phrase “next of kin.” First in line to toll the death knell or deny its
clang. Liane need only scribble a letter expressing Mom’s wishes. Her wishes. Thoughts of her
mother’s wishes weighed on her. Writing the letter was strong medicine.
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Liane was getting carried away. Although she and her sister Ada were legally next of kin (the nok,
as she and Paul joked about her title), they had not been next to her mother very much after their
father remarried and they’d moved to Florida. Her step mother Ruth, had been as much of a
mother as had her “blood is thicker than water” mom.
The flight attendant’s announcement broke her reverie. “We have begun our descent into New
York’s LaGuardia Airport. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. The temperature
on the ground is a sunny seventy-two degrees.”
A warm spring day in New York. May was supposed to be merry. Liane always thought of New
York, Brooklyn to be exact, as home. Florida and New Mexico were addresses. That was a secret
she’d kept to herself. Some funny feeling in her heart always reminded her of this, and it was
happening again as the plane taxied to its berth.
“Everything’s going be all right honey, I promise.” Paul hugged her.
What exactly would be all right? Surely, not her mother’s condition. He probably meant she’d get
through these next few days without falling apart. She sighed and said nothing, as she fished
through her purse pocket for a piece of gum to quell pangs of nausea.
Liane was avoiding the fact that she might be pregnant. She was already about fourteen days late,
and she was never late. She imagined a clump of cells, fat juicy pearls growing inside her that
would become a baby. Instinctively her hand moved to her belly. She would buy a home test kit at
the drug store and tell Paul when she knew for sure. There was enough to deal with.
Until her mother got sick, she’d been craving a baby and looked forward to starting a family, but
now she wanted to avoid responsibility. Dealing with her mother, even long-distance, drained her.
Though she knew it would be over soon, she needed a break.
It would be a case of bad timing. They wanted to move and travel, have a little time to goof off.
They’d discussed postponing a baby for another six months or so. But a baby would be a joyful
event and were she pregnant now she could share it with her mother as strange as that seemed.
From the airport they hopped in a cab and soon arrived at the Radisson Roebling in Brooklyn
Heights. The hospital was in Brooklyn about twenty minutes away. Their hotel room was generic
Pottery Barn meets The Bombay Company: a four poster cherry wood bed, with a matching dresser
and desk. Drapes blocked the streaming light.
Liane climbed onto the bed and wished she could sleep the day away. Paul was up and seated at
the desk, lap top out, checking his email. He’d been hired to write an article about archaeological
vacations in New Mexico that was due day after tomorrow. Liane told him he didn’t have to come to
the hospital. It would be enough to know that he was waiting for her.
She heard beeps coming from her cell phone. Two new voicemails. She wasn’t ready to listen. She
took off her clothes and changed into a white-t-shirt and stretched across the bed. A square white
light fixture stared down at her. She was going numb.
Liane curled up under the covers and tried to nap for a couple of hours. Dozing on the plane hadn’t
done it for her.
Paul tapped her on the shoulder. “Time to wake up, my little Noknok! My very own next of kin.”
She longed to be to be cradled in his arms and just breathe. She fell back on the bed and pulled
him on top of her.
“As for you my dear,” she said, “I’m your next of skin.” She lay clinging to him, but her desire
curdled into sorrow, and the weight on her heart flowed salty down her cheeks. Paul held her, his
nearness soothing her.
“How about some lunch? Want to call room service?” he asked.
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“Sure. Let’s spend a hundred dollars on Caesar salad and cheeseburgers,” she blurted, getting up
and opening the drapes.
“Well, we could go out…” He offered, while turning off his computer.
“It’s fine. I’ll have… hmm? Ginger ale, white toast and chicken soup.” She stood behind him
massaging his shoulders.
“Do you feel okay?” He asked, turning toward her.
“Nerves and no sleep. You know my stomach.”
She felt closer than ever to Paul. He’d been so understanding during her mother’s illness — the
ordeal of traveling back and forth, the phone calls at all hours asking consent for various
treatments and tests that had to be explained in lengthy detail. Paul had even passed up an article
that would have included several days in Mexico to be with her. Yet she wasn’t ready to tell him her
period was late, because he might feel burdened and she wanted the news to make him happy.
Although Liane knew Paul would love her to be pregnant, she wasn’t sure if she were ready. The
absolute, no escaping responsibility of it, the wailing reality of it terrified her. Would her brain and
body morph into her mother, when she became a mother? Questions dropped like wet ink, black
and viscous on the crinkled surface of her wishes and fears.
“Mommy come back. Mommy come back.” She pictured herself crawling on a shabby rose colored
carpet, covered with stains and crumbs. She was wearing a caramel and red dress that tied around
the waist. She could see her thin arms and the puffy capped sleeves. She was playing with a doll
and a stuffed animal, a puppy, and she was distracted by the voices of her father and
grandmother, talking in whispers that heated to shouts. She must have been about four or five.
About a year after Ada was born. Her mother had gone to the hospital but not to have a baby or
have her tonsils out. “No it’s not your fault LiLi,” they reassured her. “Mommy’s nerves needed a
rest.” Liane’s grandmothers took turns watching her and Ada. Dad picked them up after work at
5:30 on the dot, and they drove home. They said her mother was relaxing in the hospital for very
nervous people that didn’t allow children to visit. She thought that was mean and sad, but realized
when she was older it had been for the best.
Liane had arranged to meet with the ethics committee at three thirty that afternoon. She leaned
against the pillows propped against the headboard and thought about the meeting. The social
worker had reminded her to bring the notarized letter and she agreed, though it wasn’t done. She
had tried at least five times only to toss her efforts in the wastebasket. Ada had offered to help and
so did Paul, but Liane persevered alone. She guessed at her mother’s wishes, not knowing for
certain what they’d be. Her mother had seemed to inhabit an altered universe, her brain
percolating with visions and voices she could quiet with medication, but usually didn’t. Had she
ever chosen how to live “her life”?
Liane didn’t want to fill a page with boiler plate clichés. Or how once, over tea, Mom mentioned she
wouldn’t have wanted “to live like that’’. Even the sincere letter she ached to write felt like a
betrayal. Liane felt a wave of nausea and ran into the bathroom. Dry heaves. She gagged and
broke into a sweat. She doused her face with cold water and felt better.
“Sure you’re all right ,” Paul asked from outside the door. “Fine.” She emerged and stood near him.
“Every time I start that letter…” Room service arrived and she surprised herself by scarfing down
the soup and toast. With an unexpected surge of energy she jumped in the shower and changed
her clothes. She decided to run out to the drug store and buy a test kit before going to the
hospital, even if she took the test later. She convinced Paul to work on his article while she went
out for some air.
Walking through the aisles of the Duane Reade Pharmacy, Liane felt her shoulders rise. She
imagined voices whispering, “You didn’t tell Paul. Why so secretive?” Her sense of the ridiculous
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rushed in to save her, and she laughed at herself. She was a twenty-nine year old married woman,
she was supposed to buy pregnancy tests! What was the big deal?
Liane chose a brand a friend had used and sauntered toward the counter. Her sweaty palms and
tightening throat betrayed her anguish. She was trembling, as she put the bag in her purse and
headed back to the hotel. They’d have to leave for the hospital soon. She’d write the letter
afterwards.
“I was beginning to worry,” Paul said when she entered. “I think we’d better get going.”
“You’re right.” They only had about twenty minutes before the meeting started. She didn’t want to
be late either. They took the elevator to the lobby and asked the desk clerk to call them a cab.
Most of the people on the ethics committee wore white coats — a passel of albino penguins. Did
albino penguins exist? Shouldn’t they prove she is her mother’s daughter? What if she had been
switched at birth? How come they didn’t ask for a DNA sample? She realized she was distracting
herself and “came back” when Paul took her hand. She counted the people in the room to ground
herself. There was a rabbi, a woman minister, two doctors, a nurse and the social worker.
One of the doctors explained how life supports were keeping her mother alive and that
unfortunately there was no medical treatment available to restore her health. He spoke softly and
with few words. He looked at his pen and at Paul as much as he looked at her. When he asked if
she had any questions, Liane suddenly felt shy about the questions she did have. She remembered
how much her mother used to love to walk for hours on her scavenger hunts and realized that she
would never be able to do that again. Oddly this realization helped clarify things for her. The social
worker, a blonde Russian woman in her forties named Dina, spoke to her in a soothing tone and
acknowledged her painful predicament. No one was callous or indifferent, yet they did need the
letter before they could do anything. It was more about “undoing”, Liane thought. She squeezed
Paul’s hand and felt her heart and mind go blurry.
“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” she told them in little more than a whisper. The social worker handed Liane
her card.
Liane and Paul stopped in the gift shop to buy flowers for her mother and candy for themselves.
White roses with a crimson border were one of her mother’s favorite kinds. She’d carried them at
Liane’s wedding.
Walking to her mother’s room, Liane recalled a forgotten memory, vivid as a dream. Liane could
still see her mother’s face pale in the dark hallway of their Brooklyn apartment. One finger on her
lips, insisting on silence, her mother would point down toward her own feet to remind her to walk
on tip-toes. It was a strain for Liane, who was about seven, but she concentrated hard on the task.
Her mother had explained this was the only way they could avoid rousing the ghosts and other
spirits sharing the house.
Liane walked gingerly to the armchair where her mother stood, holding on for balance. The
refrigerator gurgled in that late night way and the sunburst clock on the living room wall ticked.
Her mother began to argue in a strange language. Though frightened at first, Liane had to keep
herself from laughing out loud. Her mother’s shadow was twitching across the wall. Liane’s aching
feet flattened on the carpet. She pushed her face into a serious look and observed her mother’s
tantrum. She cleared her throat as her mother continued, changing her voice to a twitter. Liane
went up on tip-toes again right on time, a beat before her mother glanced down at her feet. She
remembered the warm smile and her mother’s adoring glance. She recalled how they tip-toed into
the kitchen, the linoleum floor creaking. Her mother turning back to smile; Liane smiled too. Her
mother told her that the ghosts had gone back to sleep and appeared to be dreaming. That’s why it
was important to walk on bird feet to make sure you didn’t wake the ghosts and make them angry
and grumpy, because you never know what they do.
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Liane had never seen a ghost, but she was afraid of them. Her mother told a story about a
husband and wife ghost who had followed her mother from Cuba, or possibly from China. Her
mother swore they even slipped into bed between her and her husband, making the sheets like ice.
Walking on tip-toes hadn’t been enough.
Liane’s father, James Joseph “Joe” Hogan, laughed at the idea of ghosts, especially a husband and
wife duo of them! “You’re mother can’t help it,” he’d say.
Now Liane found herself walking on bird feet. Tip-toeing toward her mother who lay unconscious in
her hospital bed. She wished they could discuss the letter and that her mother could let her know
what she wanted. “Please give us a sign, a nod of your head, a map with a key to a secret box.
Something! But there was nothing.”
~
Back at the hotel, Liane went straight to the desk. She tore off a sheet of paper from the pad
provided by the hotel. The room was too bright. She popped up and closed the drapes, then
rummaged through her purse for her favorite pen. Before sitting down again, Liane went to her
suitcase where she’d put the stationery she’d brought for the letter. She then settled into the chair,
holding the sheet of ivory bond pinched at the edges by her fingers before she placed it on the
desk. She wrote:
“To Whom It May Concern:
This much I know. My mother Cecilia Fu Dorado Hogan is a free spirit. Although we never discussed
what she’d want to do should she become dependent on artificial supports to keep her alive, I am
sure she would not accept this option. She was someone who had to come and go as she pleased
and follow her own thoughts and impressions of what was meaningful to her, even if it appeared
frivolous or irresponsible to others. She especially loved to spend her days walking through the
city.
Since she is no longer able to live life her way, I believe she would…”
Liane stopped. What had to follow tugged at her heart. She went to her purse and took out a
photograph framed in a silver rectangle. The picture was taken on her wedding day almost two
years ago in the bride’s room of the Aquamarine Club in Clearwater. It showed Liane with her
mother and Ada who was her Maid of Honor. Her mother stood between them, smiling, holding
each daughter‘s hand. She wore a pale pink linen dress with a scooped neck and short sleeves. A
strand of pearls fell below her collar bone. Her hair was still salt and pepper and she’d been
keeping up with her meds and stopped drinking. Liane stared at her mother’s image. She longed to
re-enter that moment and absorb the joy shining from her mother’s face. Liane set the picture on
the desk.
“Want me to read what I’ve written so far?” She asked Paul, who was stretched out on the bed
reading.
She handed him the letter. “I know what has to come next, but finishing it… it feels like I’m
finishing her.” She sat down, enthralled by the photo. That whole week her mother spent in Florida
before the wedding became a golden bridge between the memories from her childhood and the
stroke that stole her back into the netherworld. It wasn’t fair.
“I can fill in those last few words, if you want.” Paul asked. His voice startled her.
“What do you think? Would she like it?”
“Yeah, she would. It’s fine. It’s personal, the way you wanted it to be.”
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Liane reached out her hand and took the letter back. Pen in hand, she took a deep breath, brushed
away her tears and wrote. Her throat tightened, and she looped her long hair around her fingers.
She reviewed the last lines:
“My mother is no longer able to live in the way she wanted to live, and I believe she would prefer
to be removed from life supports, as there is no hope of her recovering.”
Sepsis was storming her blood and she didn’t stand a chance. All the medical reports sounded so
graphic, almost obscene, and Liane couldn’t bear to listen to the doctors expound on the details of
what was ultimately claiming her mother’s life.
~
Staring at the letter, Liane thought, “this mere sheet of paper should have crushed the desk.” She
felt delivered from this weight of words, this stone that fell from her heart. A raw feeling filled her.
The letter rested where it was placed, no different than had it been a shopping list. She reread it to
make sure it was complete and had some degree of dignity and affection. Paul reassured her it was
fine and even better for not sounding as if it had been drawn up by a lawyer. Her mother lived in
the younger part of herself and the words came from there; she was glad she could express
something truthful without a lengthy excuse about her mother being mentally ill. Her mother would
appreciate that.
The letter was written in longhand and she decided that was fine. It was now ready for the notary’s
stamp. Liane wanted to escape into sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t. When her phone rang and
Ada’s name appeared on the screen, she grabbed it.
“I’m flying out of Tampa tomorrow morning at eight. I should get to the hotel around noon.” Liane
couldn’t wait.
“Why don’t we walk over to the Promenade and go out for dinner,” Paul suggested.
“Why don’t you go for a walk and I’ll take a swim,” Liane suggested. “I could meet you in about an
hour.” When he left she surprised herself by changing into her bathing suit, rather than taking the
test. But the thought of getting in the water slowed her down and she went to her purse where the
test was secreted.
~
The Promenade had been one of her mother’s favorite haunts. She and Ada would often find her
there writing in her journal, gazing at the skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge, jotting her impressions.
Once when they were walking across the bridge, a tourist with a Polaroid had granted her mother’s
request to take their picture. Though the sky in the picture had turned a strange blue green with
time and they all had red eyes, Liane cherished the photo. Another picture on the Promenade
included her father as well. It proved that they’d once existed as a family, clicked into the
ephemera of life.
Liane and Paul sat on a bench in the softening twilight. He put his arm around her and she rested
her head on his shoulder. The lights of Manhattan were a vertical galaxy. Liane felt her chest
tighten, as her gaze fell on Paul’s hand entwined in hers.
“We should walk across the bridge sometime. It used to be one of Mom’s favorite things. When we
get home I’ll dig out a Polaroid of her, Ada and me on the bridge. I think it was about this time of
year, too,” she said.
They were quiet, taking in the iconic landscape of the City and the bridge, the thoughts of her
mother fading away from life.
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“I’d love to walk across the bridge some time and take some new pictures,” Paul said.
They instinctively moved closer to one another as dusk silhouetted the skyline. This was the
moment to tell him, but she began to tremble and remember those walks with her mother and the
letter she’d be taking to the hospital and the words caught. Then the lilacs’ perfume awakened the
excitement and joy she’d wanted when she told him.
“Paul.” She swallowed back tears.
“Li what’s the matter?” He moved closer to her.
She smiled while tears spilled. “We’re pregnant,” she said exhaling, as they folded into one
another.
“Oh, babe, wow! That was your secret.” With a tender, almost shy gesture, he placed his cupped
hand on her belly and she felt the warmth from his hand radiate. Liane lost herself in Paul’s
embrace and while they kissed she felt his tears warm on her neck. The two of them moved into
the world of the three, a shift in the shape of them.
“I took the test before I came to meet you,” she responded, while a wave of happiness surged and
she surrendered to it.
“I can’t wait,” he gushed gathering her in his embrace. “We’re going to have a baby.”
“In about eight months,” she laughed. It seemed so far away and still unreal.
Though usually avoiding public affection, Liane nestled close to Paul and let his tears fall in to her
hair. She looked up at the bridge with its lights spangling hushed indigo of evening and thought of
her mother’s life ebbing and of the life growing still tiny inside her.
~
The next morning Ada arrived looking gorgeous. She came through the door in a white leather
jacket, Louis Vuitton summer purse and luggage in white with bright colors which Liane loathed,
but Ada loved. She wore bone white skin- tight jeans, gold Mephistos and a black t-shirt. Her mane
of chestnut hair was swirled through a clip and then hung draped to the side. Liane melted and
hugged her longer than usual. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed her.
“They pulled me into security again,” Ada told them, drinking from a bottle of Japanese tea,
sprawled next to her sister on the bed while Paul sat on a chair near the desk.
“Must be your irresistible beauty,” Paul blurted. “That runs in the family of course,” he nodded
toward Liane.
“When they asked why I was going to New York, I said I was going to try and stop my sister from
killing our mother,” Ada mused, placing the tea bottle on the bedside table.
“That’s really funny, A,” Liane retorted.
“I’m kidding. I’m trying to lighten things up in my twisted way.”
“If you want light, here, read this.” She handed Ada the letter.
While Ada read, her face softened, grew pensive.
“She’d want you to say this. She’d like it, Li,” Ada gazed at the letter before handing it back to
Liane.
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Ada continued, “When I read about sharks always having to move, I thought of her. Her endless
walking. She’d get so tan from being outside all the time. No getting her to day treatment. I saw
her in Union Square Park when I came up one summer. She was feeding birds and jabbering away
at them and laughing as if she were telling the funniest stories. At some point I thought they were
twittering back to her. She didn’t see me and I didn’t feel like telling whoever I was with that she
was my mom.”
“I know that feeling!” Liane groaned.
Paul and Liane smiled at each other and then Liane spoke. She couldn’t keep from telling Ada the
good news. “We’re going to have a baby, Auntie Ada!”
“That’s so wonderful!” Ada gushed, choking back tears and embraced Liane and Paul.
“It’s going to be a winter baby,” Liane said, holding Paul’s hand.
“You have to tell Mom,” Ada said.
“I will. I just wished she’d be here when…”
“She’s here now,” Ada sighed.
Liane placed the letter in her purse and stood with her hand on the clasp, as if she could stop time
by playing freeze tag with herself.
With Ada’s approval of the letter, Liane had no excuse to delay getting it notarized and bringing it
to the hospital. Time seemed to be speeding up. They met Dina in her office and stood while Dina
read the letter. “It’s fine. I’ll let the doctor know we have it.”
This was the turning point. The irreversible set in motion. That dreaded and longed for moment
had arrived with its clash of reason and emotion. The letting go would begin. It was world askew.
Liane held Paul’s hand as they walked to the elevators. She noticed how quiet and somber Ada had
become after the letter was given to the social worker. Ada trailed behind them staring at the
ground. Paul and Liane stopped to wait for her.
Through the maze of corridors where doctors scurried by, orderlies pushed people to surgery, to CT
scans, MRIs, intercoms announced codes, the three trudged in slow motion. It all blurred into
cacophonous static until they reached her mother’s room. There, a cavernous silence filled Liane.
She tiptoed on bird feet hoping her mother would magically recognize their secret walk.
They stood at her mother’s bedside and drew deep breaths. They linked arms as they stood there
before her. Her white haired mother was still as a doll. Her round face with closed eyes lay against
the pillow, her body a slim bulge under a white blanket. Blue plastic tubes flowed about her neck
while the monitors and vent thrummed to a hollow tune.
Liane felt frozen and tense. It was like stepping into a void, a lonely, unfamiliar place. Although her
mother was right in next to her, where was she really? Liane knew she could have done this long
distance, she could try and wish herself elsewhere, yet she would not have wanted to be any place
else. Her mother needed them there and they needed and wanted to be at her side.
The letter was handed in. Part of her wanted to take it back, say they’d changed their minds, but
she knew she wouldn’t. Liane was stung by deep longing. She was buffeted against the present;
the moments scraped and cut into her. Tears rolled down her cheeks while she leaned across the
bedrail and stroked her mother’s hair. Ada sat in a chair and bowed her head and whimpered.
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Liane reached for her mother’s hand which did not squeeze hers back. Could she feel Liane’s hand?
Her mother’s eyes were closed. Was she dreaming in Technicolor or floating in white light? They sat
there together, her mother perched on the cusp of life and not life. Liane placed her mother’s hand
on her belly, and covered it with her own.
“There’s a new heart beating,” she told her. She squeezed her mother’s hand and thought she saw
her smile. Soon they’d be coming in to take her mother off the ventilator, draw the curtain around
her bed. Closing her eyes, Liane imagined her mother in her pink mother-of the-bride dress, hem
fluttering in the breeze, while she rose to heaven on bird feet.
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Roland Goity lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, and edits fiction for the online journal
LITnIMAGE. His stories appear in dozens of literary publications, including Fiction International,
Underground Voices, Bryant Literary Review, Talking River, Eclectica, Scrivener Creative Review,
decomP and Compass Rose. www.rolandgoity.com
Around South Pass City
Roland Goity
“Car’s pulling up”, he says, hand shading his eyes as he hunches below the halfway-drawn drape of
the store’s window. “Looks like a rental, Annie. Go check it out.”
“Whatever you say, Hambone. What, ever, you, say.”
I walk out the door and down a pair of wood plank steps to the gravely, hard- packed dirt at the
edge of the lot. Two fellows exit the sedan as if on cue: doors swinging open in tandem, heads
popping up in synch, doors doing a double-thump when slammed shut. Both look to be somewhere
in their twenties. Driver’s a smooth-featured blond; other’s a lanky redhead, taller by a few inches.
The guy from behind the wheel, the blond, begins a speedy gait to the door. “Restroom inside?” He
asks, as he passes. I nod only when he’s already inside the store, out of view and earshot. Then I
say, “Yep.”
Soon, the other fellow, freckled like Howdy Doody, approaches. He flashes a goofy smile going by,
and says, “hey”. Once again, though, I wait until he’s behind my back and the tinkling of the bells
above the door stop ringing after it closes. Then I too say, “hey”, and begin giving the car — a
rental, all right — the old walk-around. All part of a game Hambone likes to play with the road’s
vacationers and travelers, the bulk of our business. South Pass City, the old pioneer settlement, is
the only place around, and it’s not even a real town, only a historic site. What’s more, the highway
isn’t on the way to much local. It’s mostly designed to get people to other parts of Wyoming ASAP.
So odds are good customers are just passing through, never to see us again. And Hambone always
likes to mess with ‘em.
When I get back inside, the redhead is slowly twirling our kiosk display of postcards. The scenery
of the Wild West is passing before his eyes. “Where’s your beer at?” He wants to know.
I nod toward the other side of the room, to the corner where the brewskis and soda and ice cream
hide behind rows of paint cans stacked chest high. Soon, he’s investigating every shelf of the
refrigerator/cooler, while his friend is nowhere to be seen. Guess he’s in the can, as the restroom’s
one of the leading attractions here. The store’s a bit of everything: bar and liquor store, grocery
and market, hardware supply center. Even serves as the area post office.
Hambone’s behind the register counter, where I go up and whisper, “Sunbird rental. Idaho plate.”
“Good going girl”, he says to me. I see him reach down for the double-barreled sawed-off he hides
behind a stack of folded plaid blankets on a shelf inside the counter.
The gangly redhead has pulled out a pair of bottled six packs. Now he’s fishing around for
packaged ice in the freezer area. “You don’t know how lucky you are, boy”, Hambone’s voice
booms once the fellow’s finally gathered everything he needs and makes for the register.
“Excuse me?” Our customer says, puzzled. He sets everything on the countertop, and I wander
over to ring him up since Hambone has other ideas in mind.
“That a seven or 10-pound bag of ice, you got?” I ask. “Looks to me like a seven.”
I’m speaking rhetorically to interrupt things, tired of screwing with customers, and hoping
Hambone might lay off these guys. Give the game a rest. But I look at him and he’s just getting
started, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt to unveil the cornucopia of prison tattoos on his
forearms. It’s embarrassing how proud he is of those tats.
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Hambone goes, “I said you’re a lucky bastard. Must have a rabbit’s foot on you or somethin’.”
“What do you mean?”
Redhead’s suddenly fidgety and nervous. Anxious. He reaches a hand to the back of his neck, then
takes a look down the dirty hall to his left and sees the bathroom door’s still closed. His friend’s
probably constipated or something.
“You’re lucky all right”, Hambone says, again drawing the young man’s gaze. And I mean this kinda
lucky, and he lifts the shotgun above the counter in full view. Ka-pow, ka-pow, blood-squirtingeverywhere kind of lucky.
“Holy shit! What for?”
Hambone pauses, gives me the eye, as if to say, should I tell ‘im? Another of his tricks. I nod
stupidly.
“Bank robbery in Farson, ‘bout an hour ago. Got a call from the Sheriff’s office about a getaway car
northbound on the 28. We been on the lookout since, right Annie?”
“Right”, I mumble.
“Farson? I remember the signs. We were passing that town around then. That’s a trip.”
“There’s more. The guys who knocked off the bank were drivin’ a Pontiac Sunbird. Turquoise green,
just like yours.”
The redhead reflexively puts his hands up to the side of his head. I’m not sure if he’s about to
wiggle his brain around or has plans to surrender.
“No shit? Man, it wasn’t us. We didn’t even stop in Farson, much less rob their bank. I’m totally
serious. We’re just out here backpacking.”
“Backpacking, huh? In a car going seventy-fuckin’-five on the highway? I don’t think so”, Hambone
says over the young man’s protestations. “But you ain’t who we’re looking for, that’s true. The
sheriff said the car had Nebraska plates. You boys got somethin’ else. What is it again, Annie?”
“Idaho.”
“That’s right. Idaho plates on your Sunbird. Sheriff said the car involved in the stickup had
Nebraska tags, definitely Nebraska.”
The redhead looks like he’s on some cloud or something, stunned to a stupor, as if he’s just gotten
word of a death in the family, or that his lottery number was called. The sound of the toilet flushing
and a faucet running break the silence. Then comes the creak of the bathroom door from where
the stocky blond emerges.
“Kenny, get over here”, the redhead calls.
“That was weird; I was pushing out pellets like a rabbit”, Kenny says, loud enough for us all to
hear. “Must be all that freeze-dried food.”
“You won’t believe what almost happened”, his friend says.
“What?” Kenny asks. “You couldn’t get the beer?”
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“Oh, he got that, up here on the counter”, Hambone says. “But he almost got a whole lot more.”
Hambone takes to laughing, a big blustery bellow that comes from the gut. Choreographed but
convincing on account of all the practice he gets.
“Something going on?” Kenny asks.
“We almost got shot”, his friend says excitedly, arms gesticulating and the volume of his voice
wavering. “Nearly a homicide case of mistaken identity.”
“That’s sixteen-forty-one, including the ice”, I say, out of the blue, having just realized I still need
to deal with the sale at hand.
Redhead grabs his wallet from his back pocket and finds me a neatly pressed twenty. He gazes at
me just a split second before turning back to his buddy, who is so befuddled he squints his eyes as
if the conversation itself has rendered things out of focus. “Our car”, Redhead tells him.
“What about the car?”
“Matched a getaway car in a bank robbery to the south of here”, Hambone offers. “Same make and
model, same color. Only one difference.”
“The license plate”, says the redhead.
“We were told to look for Nebraska plates”, Hambone says.
“You guys got an Idaho plate on that car”, I say.
Poor Kenny looks as confused as ever now. His eyes had scanned each of our faces as we spoke in
turn, but with him always a face behind. He’s still staring at me a good thirty seconds after I’ve
done talked.
“I was prepared to do the unthinkable”, Hambone says.
“The unthinkable?”
“Show him the gun”, Redhead says with an eager smile, and Hambone obliges. Kenny does a
double take, turns to his friend and appears to mouth: “Holy shit!”
Redhead laughs since it’s just what he had said if I’m not mistaken. He’s obviously excited by the
whole game we’ve played, thinking his fate had hung in the balance but that he’s now got a new
lease on life, like someone who’s overcome a terminal disease. Only in this case, the doctor was a
quack and the original diagnosis was no better than a kick in the crotch. But, of course, he doesn’t
know that.
For me at the moment, Redhead’s attitude is good to see. If I’m going to get roped into playing the
game, I’d rather the duped contestants come out the better for it. Not like last month one time
with the family on vacation from down south somewhere, out of Georgia, or Alabama, or maybe
Florida, it was. They came into the store loud as a New Year’s party, the kids laughing it up and the
parents bickering. The father, a whale of a man, likely three-hundred plus, was already breathing
pretty heavy when Hambone upped the ante and did his thing. The poor Southerner must not have
heard the whole spiel, had thought it wasn’t a could-have-been but an act-in-progress. He either
fainted or had a heart attack, we’re still not sure. He went all weak-kneed and fell back against the
whole display of paint cans, knocking over a perfect pyramid I had built. Hambone immediately
applied ice and unscrewed a half pint of whisky, pouring a shot or two down the man’s throat,
which seemed to revive him. His wife has screamed at me to call 9-1-1 and I had pretended to do
so. When her hubby snapped out of it, and Hambone explained to the woman that he’d brandished
the gun only to describe what a close call they’d had and nothing more, and that her husband now
Page 87
appeared ship-shape, the wife forgot about the direness of the situation, and the supposed
emergency call I’d made. Any further noise about things was squelched when Hambone threw in a
twenty-four ounce package of smoked Wyoming trout — on the house — when they finally sought
to purchase what they’d come for. We was lucky.
By now I’ve opened the register and counted out change. “Here you go”, I say, bills in my left
hand, coins in the fist I’ve made with my right.
“Thanks”, Redhead says. He pockets the money and proclaims, “It’s great out here in the Over
Yonder. Quite a style of living you all got.”
“Oh yeah?” Hambone says. “And where you fellas from?”
“California”, Kenny says. “Santa Barbara, more exactly.” He’s now pretty much sidled next to
Redhead, ready to drag him back out the door.
“That’s right,” his friend says. “We’re on a backpacking expedition with a few little road trips
thrown in. Flew into Idaho Falls and we’ll eventually circle back. Three weeks by the time we’re
done. We did the Tetons first and then the Wind River Range. We’re now heading to Yellowstone.
It’s sort of a last hurrah.”
“Last hurrah?” I echo. Now I’m getting curious.
“We’re getting married end of summer.”
“Well, well, well. What do you know…?” Hambone says, smacking a thigh. “One of them same-sex
marriages, huh? Figures, you boys from California…”
It’s hard to say who boils over first. But Kenny who looks as if he’s just consumed the winning
entry in a hot chili cook-off, says, “No, man, not to each other. To our fiancées, our girlfriends.“
“We’re just buddies”, Redhead says. “In the old-fashioned sense.”
“Sorry to be so mistaken”, Hambone says, raising a hand to his face to wipe off a smirk.
“We graduated school a year ago, but things are going to be hectic soon,” says Redhead. “In a few
weeks I start work at a consulting firm. It’s run by my future father-in-law. Kenny and his girl are
moving to L.A.”
“I’ll be in production at a film studio. Steph is a model: J. Crew, Ann Taylor, and such.”
“So this is our last foray to adventure for a long while,” Redhead says. “Who knows? Maybe our
last one ever.”
“And how’s it gone, so far?” I ask.
Our two visitors regard each other quickly, and get giddy. Kenny seems on the verge of laughter
before straightening himself out to say, “It’s been fantastic. Absolutely amazing.”
“Yeah, this is such a beautiful state”, Redhead says. “A few times, though, the wilderness has
kicked our ass — lightning storms, bear encounters, getting totally lost in the middle of nowhere —
but that’s all part of the fun, I guess.”
“You two are getting a lot more out of your visit than other folks we see”, I tell them. “Most just
drive their cars into old ghost towns or fish out our creeks. The big spenders go to dude ranches
and pretend they’re John Wayne.”
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Hambone clears his throat and smacks the counter, never one to sink into the background lightly.
“So you like it out here, do you?”
“Oh yeah”, Redhead replies. “Might go a little stir crazy after a while, but it’s been an awesome
place to visit.”
Hambone shakes his head and slides the shotgun back off the table. He returns it to the back of its
shelf, burying it back under the blankets. Then, as the two young men ask me what I know about
the lake and campground to where they’re headed, Hambone grabs a box cutter, ducks into the
back, and starts opening the latest shipment of feed and grain that just arrived. Busy work and
nothing more.
“Thanks a lot”, Redhead says, after I hand him a quick sketch of directions to the place. “Shall
we?” He asks the other, who grabs the six packs while Redhead grabs the bag of ice. As they pass
back out the door, Redhead turns and smiles at me. “Thanks for the hospitality, he says. And I
sure hope they catch the guys who robbed that bank. We’ll be on the lookout now, too. G’bye.”
Through the window I see them pop the car’s trunk. They open a cooler, place the beers in, and
bust the bag of ice open and let the cubes rain down on top of the bottles. Then they hop in the
vehicle, pull out of the lot, and are northbound on the highway. Once the sound of their engine
fades away all I hear is the sound of Hambone, cutting through packaging tape and the thwop,
thwop, thwop, as he tosses one feedbag after another on the center island shelves we’ve built in
the back.
“They’re gone, you know”, I shout over my shoulder to him.
The backroom suddenly goes quiet and then Hambone boulders in, coming to a rest at the counter
only after he’s bumped into it hard enough he utters a grunt. “What a pair of fools those two were,
Annie.”
“You think so?”
“Scared shitless, it looked like. Almost hard to believe they’ve survived as long as they have out
there in the wild, the California dimwits. Surprised they can even build a campfire.”
“They seem to be doing okay for themselves, Hambone. Traveling around, returning home to good
jobs and women who wanna marry them. Even on your days off, you just putter about around
here.”
Hambone simply shrugs at me, knowing it’s true.
“And this store is the only thing you know”, I continue. I open my arms wide and slowly begin a
counterclockwise gaze about the place. “Behold your past, present and future. This is your career.”
“You always do this”, says Hambone.
“And we both know I’m the only woman in the county stupid enough to let you touch her, and that
won’t last forever.”
“Yeah, yeah”, Hambone says, waving me off like he’s shooing a fly.
A glint of light shines through the window and then we both look up. A burgundy minivan pulls into
the lot, kicking up a plume of dirt. Hambone runs over by the window. Soon the dust cloud outside
settles and things are back in view. “Annie”, he says, “get ready to do your thing. I think we’ve got
ourselves another rental.”
Page 89
An Interview with
Chris Mars
by Kim Acrylic
TBS: When I think of someone who really puts their inner
demons to creative use I really think of you. The last time
we spoke, "Tolerance", your book of beautiful and
sometimes morbidly dark paintings was fresh on the
shelves — how have things changed for you mentally and
career wise for you since its release?
CM: I am glad you like the book, thank you!. The release
of Tolerance is still recent so generally what motivates me
now are many of the same themes that Tolerance houses.
I have enjoyed the positive feedback on the book and
hope that the encapsulating of my work — along with the
written essays — helps to more clearly explain the
message overall.
TBS: How would YOU describe your book, "Tolerance"
Chris?
CM: I would say that it is a very good marker for me as
in a document of what I have done thus far. It puts
forth accurately my sentiments and motivations in a
single place and it is paced well. I think that the
attention and skill that Sally and Bob Blewet put forth
in laying it out was well applied and successful. It's a
real nice book and I am proud of it.
TBS: How did you come up with the title for your book
and your pieces?
Artist Chris Mars was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota,
where he still lives and works today. His pieces are held in
numerous public collections including The Minneapolis
Institute of Arts, The Erie Art Museum, The Tweed, The
Longview Museum of Fine Arts and The Minnesota History
Center. Public exhibition venues have additionally included
Photo by Marika Garland
The Mesa Museum of Contemporary Art, The American
Visionary Art Museum, Laguna Museum of Art, The
Steensland Art Museum, Fredrick Weisman Art Museum
and Art Center South Florida, among others.
Upcoming exhibitions include Billy Shire Fine Arts in
Culver City, California from December 22, 2009 through
January 2, 2010 and The Phipps Center for the Arts in
Hudson, Wisconson from Janury 22 through Febraury 21,
2010.
His debut monograph, TOLERANCE, was published in late
2008 by Billy Shire Fine Art Press. In addition to his
painting, Mars endeavors in film and animation and is an
accomplished musician with four solo albums available on
on Polygram and Bar None.
You can find Chris's latest art and film work as well as a
schedule of his coming exhibitions at his website at
http://www.chrismarspublishing.com/
CM: We kicked around a few different titles while the book was in progress and we landed on
Tolerance. It struck a chord. We let it breathe for a while and it held up, so...
TBS: It has been said many times that your brother, who has schizophrenia, was a huge
inspiration for your book. Can you elaborate on that?
CM: I visit Joe regularly and continue to tell him how his life has and does inspire me. He likes
to hear this. He is a constant reminder of society’s tendency to become fearful of that which it
does not readily understand; a propensity to dismiss or judge others — whether these
“others” are close by or far away or numerous. What Joe went through, what so many like
him go through, and in a broader sense what whole populations of people go through, are an
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expression of this lack of understanding and prejudgment of individuals and societies.
Meanwhile it is heartening to see some progress toward alleviating these attitudes. I think we
are in a better place now than where we have recently been as a society.
TBS: Does your brother do any form of art or have you ever suggested it to him and what
does he think of your work?
CM: I don’t think I’ve ever noticed Joe participate in the arts. I know he appreciates music,
mostly classical, and he is very complimentary towards my work and knows he is a part of it.
TBS: Your first book was dedicated to Sally Mars, your wife. Was she a big influence on your
book along with your brother?
CM: Yes, absolutely. I so much appreciate her continued encouragement and also that she
tells me the straight truth about whether or not I am nailing it down. Beyond these valuable
traits concerning “what I do”, we share so many common interests and views. Sally is a
wonderful photographer and writer and has a great eye and mind for art. It is one of our
favorite subjects to talk about. Sally is the love of my life and I am thankful for this. To feel
happy and loved and in a good place only serves to enhance creativity. Hopefully I give to her
as much as she gives to me.
TBS: It is stated in your book that your artwork was done with vegetable ink and recycled
paper — what is your take on our environment and global warming?
CM: I think that what the majority of scientists tell us, and what we can observe for ourselves
with the rapid melting of the polar caps and mountain tops, there is cause for alarm. To the
denialists I say, who the hell cares what is causing it, let’s come together and try to help stop
it if we can. Pollution sucks anyway you look at it, so what's the point in protecting big
polluting money driven interests when you can latch on to big “non-polluting” money driven
interests, (If that’s your bag)...what’s the point of being lazy about it?
TBS: Any plans for a second volume? Or even a new medium?
CM: I’m still very captivated by oil painting and will continue to do films. Beyond these, I don’t
see delving into a new medium—maybe silk screen at some point. There are quite a few new
paintings since "Tolerance" and also many unpublished earlier pieces—pastels and
scratchboards, mostly — that have not made it into a book. So I would like to proceed with a
new one in the near future
TBS: These days do you have any new muses, anything different that really brings forth the
creativity?
CM: I’m still pretty much in the middle of milking the muses I have, I don’t know if I could
handle any more! If anything, perhaps a more abstract direction that has to do more with
dreams than reality.
TBS: Chris, you list confronting xenophobia as one of your personal interests — what can you
say about that?
CM: Being the visual creatures that we are, there exists the potential to prejudge in a kneejerk fashion what is even a little bit “out of place”. Put this with the constant media barrage of
dividing people over differences, while neglecting our commonalities, and the soup becomes
Page 91
toxic. What is forgotten is how more alike we are than different. Though I think and hope,
that on the whole people are beginning to see through this, thereby slowly improving our lot.
TBS: What has been the highlights of some of your recent exhibits?
CM: For me the highlights are always the feedback that I get from the museum/gallery
directors and workers and all the people who take the time to attend the exhibitions. When
working largely in solitude for long stretches of time, guided so much by my own compass, it
is nice to hear what people think of the work in person. I truly appreciate this.
TBS: Your work is very detailed; every little bone,vessel etc is done to the finest detail. How
long does the average piece of work take you and how many times do you have to do it over
until you feel it's what you were aiming for?
CM: They vary from a few weeks to a few months depending on size and complexity. I usually
do it in one pass without going over it again. There are sometimes a few touch ups after the
fact. if something bugs me or can be improved upon, though these are usually minor.
TBS: Do you have any specific rituals that you observe before or during a painting—any music
that inspires you?
CM: Music is more of a distraction, I can tolerate a bit of jazz, but usually I listen to a book on
tape, or silence. Prior to painting, I sometimes have a “procrastination conversation” with
Sally—it's a bit of a ritual. It's funny when she notices that I’m doing this, but what better way
the to procrastinate, or begin, than by talking with her?
TBS: What kind of art do you enjoy and is it anything like the things you have created?
CM: I do love to look at paintings, but really anything that people do well creatively, I enjoy—
drawings, photography, good writing and take in many movies.
TBS: Which artists do you personally think have gone under the radar and why do you think
this so often happens in the world of art?
CM: I am a big fan of the painter Beksinski, I think his geographic location and some degree
of personal isolation limited his “exposure” during his lifetime. But I believe too that art lives
longer than the person who created it, and think that people will continue to find Beksinski’s
work, and will continue to be moved by it.
TBS: What do you think makes for a successful art project?
CM: To really enjoy firsthand what you are creating and to love it thoroughly, no matter what
the response of others.
TBS: In closing, what should we be looking for from Chris Mars in the future?
CM: More paintings. More films, I am about to start on another short. And another book
before long.
You can find Chris's latest art and film work as well as a schedule of his coming exhibitions at
his website at http://www.chrismarspublishing.com/
Page 92
Artist Chris Mars was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where he still lives and works today. His pieces are
held in numerous public collections including The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, The Erie Art Museum, The
Tweed, The Longview Museum of Fine Arts and The Minnesota History Center. Upcoming exhibitions
include Billy Shire Fine Arts (LA, CA) and The Phipps Center for the Arts . His debut monograph,
"TOLERANCE", was published in late 2008 by Billy Shire Fine Art Press. You can find more of Chris's work
online at http://www.chrismarspublishing.com/
Chris Mars
Something
Page 93
Chris Mars
Auto
Page 94
Chris Mars
Flushing
Page 95
M ag g i e C ol l in s l iv e s i n N e w O r le a n s , L ou i s ia na . S h e w ri te s ab o ut o r al a nd c u lt u ra l
t r ad i ti o n s of t he C re o le s of S ou th w e st , L o ui s i an a. A n e x c e rp t f r o m h e r no v e l " Th e
C u r s e of th e Mu l at t o" , w h ic h i s b a se d on a f o lk t al e , w a s p ub l i sh e d i n th e sp ri ng
e d i t i on of L ou i si a na C u lt u ra l V i s ta s m ag a z in e . S h e p l a ce d a s a f i na l i st a t th e W o rd s
a nd M u s i c Co nf e r e n c e f o r he r no v e l " T he C u rs e of t he M ul at t o " . S he w a s a l s o
f e a t ur e d at t he L ou i si a na B oo k F e st iv a l f o r th e sa m e no v e l. S he e n j oy s w r it i ng i n
N e w Or l e a n s a nd p lay i ng F ar m t o wn o n Fa c e b o ok .
Encounters on Facebook
Maggie Collins
You can’t explain away a coincidence. They are here and there among our reality. Reality is so
final. Coincidences are so…
There were once two faces on Facebook. Two people exchanged thoughts, now lost in cyberspace
somewhere. Like <Last> or number 150 of a discussion board. These two Orbit-sized gum pictures
on Facebook once held a coincidental conversation.
One face was a cute black chick with a fake fur collar and a flipped hairstyle like Jackie O. She
enjoyed writing and reading things that caught her attention right away in the Poets and Writers
Registry. If something caught her attention, she would leave them a comment/critique. This was
how she met the other face. Her life was fast like the beat up car she drove. She only watched
television in case something like swine flu or a terrorist attack will threaten her life. Let’s call her
the…
Lady with the Fake Fur Collar
The other face was a damn good editor. Despite his caustic attitude to all, he enjoyed the arts —
classical music, literature, poetry, and art. Like everyone he is addicted. He loved his animals more
than many people he knows. His profile picture was a black cat perched on a weather beaten fence.
Let’s call him…
Cat PerChed on a WeAther Beaten FeNcE
The last time I had this feeling, I gave a reading to the Chase Visa credit card collector in 1993. A
powerful feeling came over me, and I guessed that he was an Asian-American with a dead sister
who was reaching out to him. Sometimes it is hit or miss, but I feel I must try to reach out to you.
I have some really weird coincidences in my life. When my uncle died, I had a dream that someone
was telling me something in French. I didn’t know what it meant until I woke up and Google
translated it. I think that coincidences are weird. Some lady on Facebook says it has something to
do with the Celestine Prophecy or the Mothman Prophecy. Coincidences are going to catch up with
this world and when we can’t explain them anymore, weird stuff is going to happen. You know
there is a whole coincidence thing with Hurricane Katrina, Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy,
and the 911 Attacks. I think that God speaks to me in coincidences. He is letting me know that he
is talking to me, and I can’t explain him away.
I don’t believe in God. And please slow down.
Most writers don’t. It is like their M.O. It fits right into their Prozac, depression, agnostic, atheism,
and plain meanness. I am the only happy, God-loving, St. John’s Wort–taking writer who believes
in God on Facebook. I don’t tell many Christians about my gift because I fear being labeled a
soothsayer even though I don’t seek out people. They would take me to the proverbial bonfire and
burn me at the stake…
Page 96
Every time I look at that black cat with green eyes (Profile Picture), I get the creepies.
Ailurphobic?
I am getting that you are an overweight man with black hair.
Never.
Slow down, you are typing too fast, and I can’t keep up.
Someone is showing me a picture of beach with hills and cottages.
UMMMM
*********
Suddenly she feels a presence in the room with her. She smells something burning; she rushes
downstairs to see what it is.
When she returns, she writes…
*********
Listen, I don’t know what is going on but I smelled something burning, and nothing was burning.
Now I really think someone wants to give you a message.
My sister paints pictures like that, but she is not dead.
Somebody who knows your sister is showing me this to let you know that I know what I am talking
about. Who is dead in your family and may want to give you a message?
My grandmother is dead, but she died a long time ago. I think that you are probably just
empathetic. You have strong feelings about others. I don’t think that it is anything about God.
*********
Page 97
He is eating a salad in between typing to the lady who he has recently added as a friend. He
actually thought that her writing wasn’t all that bad, but she is nuts. It’s weird that she has
guessed about his sister’s painting. It hangs in his room now. He wants to ask about his
grandmother, but he doesn’t want to become a part of Looney Tunes. That stuff rubs off. He is
listening to Madame Butterfly. Huge, towering bookcases and books line his office. The Comstock
Review sits neatly on his desk. This is kind of weird, but it is just a good guess. He now takes a
puff of his Cuban cigar and looks at her profile picture waiting for a response; he stares and waits
for quickly appearing letters.
Oh, well, I have to go now. My baby is on the floor making copies of his face and hands on the
copy machine.
She waits for a response…
So long.
The conversation now lost in the blogosphere. The print text is gone forever. But the exchange
between humans, spirits, and cats is somewhere in their memories in the memory space if not
cyberspace.
They both click the green start button. Right above it sits the red button that reads:
Shut Down
Page 98
Born and raised in Queens, New York, Matt Mok moved to New Hampshire when someone offered
him a wheelbarrow full of cash to work for them. One day, he decided to give writing a try and to
his surprise, a few publications have accepted his stories. Matt resolves to one day dream up a
brilliant idea which he will turn into a completed novel. He currently resides in Hampton, NH, where
trees and fresh air still scare him.
My Pal Garmin
Matt Mok
I grew tired and listless during my drive back to New York for the holidays. The highway route was
monotonous and slow; I was just one among many driving at this languorous pace. I tried different
things to stay awake, screamed to shock myself into alertness, blinked my tired eyes to lubricate
them, sang badly to Christmas songs on the radio. Nothing worked. I focused on the road – or tried
to – and merged onto the next stretch of highway.
I had only endured an hour of the drive when my distaste for holiday gatherings had grown into
unchecked frustration, leading me to punch in HOME on my Garmin GPS device. Family gatherings
over Christmas were overrated anyway. I would call and say I was snowed in. I could see a few
flurries already.
"Continue for three miles," said the Garmin in stilted speech. Even though its voice was just a
combination of sound files, it sounded familiar, almost human.
I yawned, blinked the sleep from my eyes. I would need to stay awake a little longer, even as I
was driving farther away from my original destination.
"So, Garmin," I said, "Have you been doing this long? You know, giving directions and all that?"
Of course there was no response, but I continued my side of the conversation.
"Man, I am really sleepy. I hate these long drives, don't you? Exhausting. And for what? It's the
holidays. Blah, blah, blah. Why do I have to drive three hundred miles to see family? I talk to most
of them every week. The others I don't normally see anyway. To be honest, I'm glad I decided to
turn around. It's warm at home. I can make some cocoa. Or read a book. There's a book I've been
trying to finish. I brought it with me too, but –"
"Make a U-turn."
"I know you're supposed to be smart, have all this fancy GPS stuff inside you, but we humans call
this a highway. I can't make a U-turn here. In fact, I think it would upset a lot of these other nice
people if I did."
"Continue thirty six miles and exit right."
"Well now you're making more sense. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I don't think I would've gotten
much reading done. Mom would have put me to work the minute I stepped through the doorway.
Dad would've spent the day trying to get me to take some new job at the company. Some of the
extended family are fine, when they aren't pestering me with personal questions. Then there's the
strange shifty category of family friends. I swear I have never seen some of those people before in
my life, yet they know my name and more about me than I'm comfortable with. Oh! And the food.
Actually the food is pretty good. Mom makes this chicken and it is so –"
I only had forty more miles and I'd be back in the peaceful confines of my apartment, but there
was something telling me that I needed to turn back, that I owed it to the holiday season to make
the trip, that I might even regret it if I didn't, that Mom would throw a fit if I didn't show. I
punched in my parents' house for the second time that day.
"Recalculating."
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"Yeah, yeah. I wanted to see if they'd like my present anyway. I got them one of your friends, a
slightly newer model. Should be funny though. I got them a laptop last year. It was like introducing
cavemen to fire. Hey, anybody ever tell you you're a good listener?"
"Exit right in point one mile."
"Already? Okay."
"Exit right."
"Right-o."
I was so drawn into my one-sided conversation that I hadn't bothered checking the exit number.
There were two exits very close together, no more than thirty feet apart, one heading east, and the
other west. I took the first one, realizing my error too late.
"Recalculating."
"Damn."
Page 100
Timothy Raymond grew up in southeastern Wyoming. Currently he studies contemporary American
literature at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, where he also teaches writing. His stories have
appeared in The Owen Wister Review, 50 to 1, and Signatures. You can read his other work here:
traymond-birds.blogspot.com.
The First and Last Time
Timothy Raymond
I watched Nick sling the big white dog onto his back. We were in the woods about fifteen miles
outside of town. Paul was with us, but we called him Pants for reasons I can’t remember now.
Nick had a juicy red car. Earlier that morning he and I were outside of our apartment smoking
cigarettes, when he asked me to get the cooler out of the trunk of his car. Inside was a dead dog.
“Nick,” I said. “Come here.”
He walked over.
“There’s a dead dog in your trunk, Nick,” I said.
“Huh,” he said.
“I’ll get Pants,” I said.
Inside Pants was sniffing at markers. He gladly followed me back to the car.
“That’s Luna,” he said.
“This is your dog?” Said Nick.
“No,” he said.
“Luna means moon,” I said.
“That’s beautiful,” said Pants.
“Whose dog is it?” Said Nick.
“It’s the landlord’s dog,” said Pants. “Luna.”
He got in there and moved the dog around a little. It was creamy and round, really just like the
moon. I imagined the dog floating up in the sky, cold and hard and dead in the big of the universe.
“How did a dog get into your car?” I said.
Pants said, “Luna.”
“How did Luna get into your car?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said Nick. “Frank, how would I know that?”
“It seemed like a fair question,” I said.
“We have to get rid of it,” said Pants.
So we got in the car and started driving. I sat up front and Pants was in the backseat, looking at
the seat itself, like he was trying to feel the dog with his mind. Nick looked over at me and
gestured a bit with his head in the direction of Pants. I nodded back. In a few months Pants would
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get blamed for the dog, and Nick and I would sell him out to keep the apartment. I don’t know
where Pants is now.
It didn’t matter. None of it really did. Pants just stayed at our apartment because he had nothing.
He liked the shape of our place. We did too. It was shaped like a horseshoe, and for that, Pants
always thought that it was lucky. For all I know it was lucky like the stars.
When we got to the woods outside of town, Nick got the dog and carried it on his back. We didn’t
really know where we were going. Pants was jumping around through the brush and trees like a
soldier. I just felt dizzy and tired with it. We made our way out until we found a thin creek.
“Here,” said Pants.
“What?” I said. “Here what, Pants?”
“We’ve got to bury the dog here,” he said.
“In the creek,” Nick said.
“Oh,” I said. “Should we say something first?”
“Like what,” said Nick. “Frank, what in the world would we say?”
“Here, Earth,” said Pants, “is Luna.”
Nick looked at him and then looked up at the sky.
He added, “Yes, Earth, the dead dog that we found in my car.”
Pants was nodding his head and whispering, “Yeah, yeah.”
“This doesn’t seem right,” I said, without really meaning it.
“This is what water is for,” said Pants.
“Not bad,” said Nick.
Nick walked up to the edge of the creek and held the dog high up above him. I was surprised that
he could hold a dog that big as far above his head as he did. Sometimes friends surprise you that
way. He took a step back and then lunged forward, heaving the dog into the creek. But the water
was shallow, so the dog was still visible. It just sat atop the water like some kind of ridiculous
moon-dog savior.
“The water looked deeper than that,” I said. “It really did.”
They chose me to go in and get the dog, because I hadn’t contributed enough to the saving of our
lives from the law. So I did. I took off my shoes and waded into the creek. The water was cold on
my skin. I looked down the creek, first one side and then the other, and daydreamed about
swimming all the way back to the apartment.
“Come on,” said Nick. “Frank.”
I looked down at the dog and felt bad. It wasn’t bad like I was wrong, but just bad because I
thought a dead animal was supposed to be beautiful. The way Luna looked, the whole scene was
just crude and mechanical. I looked back at Pants and Nick, their expectant faces kind of dim. They
appeared to live lives that were based on forgetting. The two of them looked like they had
forgotten a lot of things without realizing it.
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About six months before any of this, Nick and I had walked into our apartment to find Pants lying
on the couch, pretending he was sick. He made gestures with his hands like his stomach and heart
were exploding inside of him. This was the first we had seen of him. We knew he was faking, but
the what the hell did we care.
Nick looked at me and had said, “well.”
“Sure,” I said.
After that Pants mostly spent his time wandering around the building talking to people and looking
in windows.
So I looked at Nick and Pants. Then I took off running up the opposite side of the creek, away from
my friends. It seemed like the right decision at the time. But I didn’t have my shoes, so when they
came after me, they caught up pretty easily. Nick tackled me to the ground, pushing my face into
some plants. Then he got up and I lay on my back.
“Where the hell?” Said Nick, panting.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s enough already. Let’s get out of here.”
Back in the car my face started to itch and redden. Pants checked it out while we were driving.
“I think there’s poison ivy in those woods,” said Nick.
“Yeah,” said Pants, looking at my face. “Yeah.”
“How about that,” I said. “A rash.”
“We should take you to the doctor,” said Pants.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“No,” said Pants. “We should.”
So we stopped by a clinic that we eventually just saw on the side of the road. I went in and signed
some forms and waited. Nick and Pants sat in the waiting room with me. I scratched my face until
my fingers started to itch too.
“Do you have a cigarette?” I asked Nick.
Outside I smoked and tried not to touch my tongue or lips with my hand. It was difficult but I got
the hang of it. The smoke in a way helped sooth my skin.
Back inside I saw that just Nick was in the waiting room.
“Where is he?” I said.
“He went in for you,” said Nick.
“But how?”
“How should I know?” He said. “Nobody knows anybody here. What difference does it make?”
Most likely he was right. I was pretty sure that the doctor wouldn’t tell me anything about the rash
or give me anything but aloe. The whole trip was Pants’s idea, why not let him do what he needed
to do.
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When he came back out he was quick and secretive. He told us to meet him in the car. He talked to
the receptionist for a second and then met us outside.
“I got the desk girl’s phone number,” Pants said.
“Let me see,” I said.
He showed me. It was written on the back of the doctor’s business card.
“I also stole his prescription pad,” he said.
“Let me see that,” said Nick.
Nick looked at me and then handed me the pad.
“It’s real, I think,” I said.
“Of course it’s real,” said Nick. “You think Pants just put that together in the examination room?”
“I’m just saying,” I said.
“I didn’t,” said Pants. “That thing is real.”
None of us had any money, so we went back home. It was Nick’s idea to call Evans and find out
where he was working. I guess I never told you about Evans. He was technically in on the lease
with Nick and me. We just never really saw him. He painted houses for a living, and sometimes he
would come back to the apartment and sleep on the couch or on the floor somewhere. Not even
Pants could talk to him easily.
Evans was painting at a house not that far away, so the three of us went to meet him. He let us
help him out, and when we were done painting, he gave us some of the money that house’s owner
gave him. We went to a bar to get a little drunk. Pants told Evans about the prescription pad, but
Evans didn’t really say much. Nick sat at the corner of the table and practiced writing out
prescriptions. His handwriting was too good at first, but in time the scribble was down.
Finally Evans said, “Let’s take what’s left and get some valium.”
“Good idea,” said Pants.
Nick drove himself and Pants to a supermarket to get the prescription filled. Evans and I just
waited at the horseshoe apartment, soaking up luck. It must have worked, because shortly after
they left, Pants and Nick came home with some bottles of pills.
On the coffee table, Nick split the pills into piles, handing each of us a small handful.
“How many should I take?” I asked.
I had five pills in my hand.
“God,” said Nick. “Frank.”
So I took them all, drank them down with some water. The others followed suit. And for the next
few hours we sat around like spheres of light.
That was the first time that I did valium. I did it one other time a few years later, after Pants was
gone and after Evans had fallen from a ladder. Nick was still living in the horseshoe apartment,
doing I don’t know what. Eventually I had decided to get out of town for a little while, so I took a
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sleeping bag and a backpack to the interstate and started hitchhiking. A trucker had picked me up
when it was getting real dark outside.
“Thanks,” I said.
“What are you doing on the road?” He asked.
“Just thought I would get out of town,” I said.
“What do you do?” He said.
I didn’t know exactly what to say. I looked in my bag and pulled out a bottle of water that had
some alcohol in it too. I offered him some, and he accepted.
I said, “I take lives.”
He laughed out loud. He laughed the laugh of a bear, and I joined in. It was funny, though I
wouldn’t be sure why until awhile later.
“I like that,” he said. “Hey, I’ve got plans for someone like you.”
“I wish I could just sleep for now,” I said.
“Sure,” he said.
He gave me some pills. I tried to remember how many I had taken the first time, but couldn’t, so I
guessed and drank a few down with the water and alcohol.
“I’ll wake you when we get to Adair,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “No, wait, wake me when the sun comes up.”
“When the sun comes up,” the man repeated.
“Yeah,” I said. “Wake me when the sun comes up. I want to see the sun rise while I’m on the
road.”
“Whatever you say there, chief,” he said.
That’s what I was looking for all along. The way he said it. I nestled into the door and laid my head
on the window. I thought about the sun coming up and pushing the moon back down into the sea.
And then I drifted off high and deep like a balloon.
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Christina Murphy lives and writes in a 100 year-old house along the Ohio River. Her work has been published in
Counterexample Poetics, Blue Fifth Review, Modern Short Stories, Crescent Review, Greensboro Review and
Descant, among others, and has received an Editor’s Choice Award and "Special Mention" for a Pushcart Prize.
Christina Murphy
Dimensions of Heart and Time
in the twilight garden,
snow shakes free
from the hidden silence
as deepening shadows
to golden luster fall
here the wise heart embraces
the bitter or sweet
with tender absolution
knowing all the while
what the heart can bear
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Ruth Russell started writing when her bossy older sister set up a newspaper in their shared bedroom
sometime in the 1970s. Since then she has concentrated on memoir stories and personal essays. Her
work has appeared in Prick of the Spindle and is forthcoming in Gold Dust Magazine. She lives in
Manhattan and is working on a memoir called ‘Don’t Ever Cut Your Hair’ about growing up in Wales in
the 1980s. Ruth blogs at http://ruthrussell.wordpress.com/
The Welsh Chair
Ruth Russell
The Welsh chair sits in the corner of my living room. Shiny, highly polished and the color of fine
dark chocolate, it looks tiny compared to the bulky American furniture that surrounds it. Its
slender, slightly tapering legs and spindly crossbars underline the fact that my ancestors were
puny, undernourished Europeans, Wales not being known for its abundance of anything, even now.
The chair dates from about 1840 and was handmade by my great, great grandfather, or so the
story goes. It does turn up in old photographs from time to time, being sat upon by my fiercelooking great grandmother, who is wearing a tall black Welsh hat and has a woolen shawl draped
around her sloping shoulders, or clambered on by my father as an infant, who looks like a grumpy
Shirley Temple with patent black leather shoes and short curly hair.
While I was growing up, the chair sat, dusty and unloved, in a forgotten corner of whatever house
we happened to be living in at the time. Occasionally Dad would notice it and remark on its
Welshness, mentioning how his own father had remembered it sitting in his house in North Wales
when he was just a boy. Naturally we were uninterested, both in Dad’s stories and in the chair as
anything but a place to put coats or occasionally sit on if other, more comfortable options were
unavailable.
When Dad died in 1987 he didn’t leave a will, so his sizeable debts and random collection of
antiques and junk fell to myself, my brother and my sister, 19, 16 and 20 at the time. I didn’t want
the chair, and as the mortgage company promptly foreclosed when they learned of my father’s
death, soon I would have nowhere to put it in any case.
I didn’t want the chair because on the night Dad was taken to hospital, never to return, I’d sat on it
by his side in his shabby bedroom listening to him gasp.
“I’m dying Ruth, this is it,” watching him try to write some final instructions: the cancer we later
found he was suffering from had affected his motor functions so he couldn’t work the pen. When he
gave me the piece of paper it just had some desperate squiggles on it, and it got thrown away over
the next few days before I could look at it again. I sat on the chair crying quietly, waiting for the
ambulance, while Dad railed in a despairing croak against life, the conservative party who were in
government at the time and, in particular, “that fucking, scumbag bitch” Margaret Thatcher.
He also cursed Wales and the day he ever moved back to “this God-forsaken hell hole.” Before he
slipped into unconsciousness he turned towards me and bitterly said his last coherent words: “This
place is finished. You should get the hell out of it,” followed rather incongruously by, “and don’t
ever cut your hair, you or your sister.”
The chair finally ended up in the small, brown studio apartment where my sister had been living
since leaving home two years earlier, and I never told her, or anyone else, why I didn’t want it.
Years later she asked me if I would take it (and some other relics from that unhappy period) off her
hands, as she no longer had enough room for them since her two sons were beginning to grow up.
The chair had been stored in a damp garage so had lost some of its shine: part of the back was
beginning to break away from the rest in soggy splinters and it was missing one of its crossbars,
although the seat remained intact. I wanted to throw it, out but my husband insisted on taking it to
a professional furniture restorer, who surprisingly made it look like a rather impressive genuine
antique. The chair sat in my living room in London, with my great grandmother’s Welsh hat placed
carefully on the seat, and came with me when I moved to New York. Every time I look at it I
remember my father, who I like to think would approve of the fact that I have both emigrated and
kept my hair long.
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Roger Woodiwiss is an artist living and working in Bedford, England. Under the heading of '398
Productions Unlimited' he creates a diverse body of work in a variety of media, including painting,
print, photography, installation, drawing and text pieces. The 'Lipstick Traces' project looks for the
extraordinary in the ordinary by recording everyday examples of traces of the past in the form of
visual echoes, vestiges, ghosts, remnants, and imprints. http://www.398productions.co.uk/
Roger Woodiwiss
Lipstick Trace #5
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Roger Woodiwiss
Lipstick Trace #14
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Roger Woodiwiss
Lipstick Trace #3
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Roger Woodiwiss
Lipstick Trace #15
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Roger Woodiwiss
Lipstick Trace #8
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Roger Woodiwiss
Lipstick Trace #4
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Kate Bergen lives in Westchester County, NY. She is 28 years old and works as an accounting
supervisor for an international non-profit organization. She has been writing since childhood and has
had works published in a number of literary magazines including 2-RiverView. Her poetry has also
won acclaim in local poetry contests such as the Greenburgh Poetry Contest. She is an active
participant in NaNoWriMo & Script Frenzy and hopes to one day publish several best-selling novels,
make millions of dollars and disappear to a tropical island for the rest of her days. (Hey, everyone can
dream, right?) The collection of Kate's poetry, "A Ghost for Every Season" can be found at
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/a-ghost-for-every-season/4433337
Kate Bergen
Sea and Sky
And the sky, a cloudy-eyed courtesan
Opiate-calm and enamored of the sea,
Who is the mirror clutched in her pale palm,
Reflecting her blues for the sun to see.
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Anthony Bromberg currently writes, teaches, and lives in Austin, TX with his wife and their three
cats. He studied creative writing at UCLA. He is currently at work on his first novel inspired by the
life of his friend, Sancho Garcia.
Truman Capote is a Volcano
Anthony Bromberg
"Truman Capote is a volcano."
"What?"
"Truman Capote - the writer - he's a volcano."
"No, he's not. He's dead. You're not making the least bit of sense."
"Well right, he's dead, but all the same."
"Have you been listening to me at all?"
"Yes, of course."
Ten minutes earlier:
They were outside. It was March, suspiciously resembling summer. Only an intermittent
breeze cooled things off when it was active. The lawn they sat amidst was healthy and
long, surprisingly so - though, for all that, not unkempt. It was a Monday. They had both
taken off from work, and they were at the park.
It had been a good idea to come; neither could remember whose idea it had been; both
credited the other. It was nice. There was no one there. However instead of lonely, they
both felt serene - or at least that the park was serene. They were convinced at that
moment that parks were infinitely less complex than people. It was nice just to be
outside. They had brought a blanket and were reclining on it. They were wearing
sunglasses, but no sunscreen it being March after all. Later they would discover slight
sunburns just on their necks, just where the collars didn't cover. They subconsciously
missed the presence of the dog they didn't have. They felt out of time.
They were dressed casually, polo shirts, sweatpants, greys and whites, as if wanting to let
the scene of natural beauty take center stage. They were, somehow, just props in the
park's world. Some greater drama was going on. That was the underlying feeling they got
anyway from the rustling of the leaves, the quiet growing of the grass, and the gentle drift
of the clouds across the blue.
Just at that moment, no volcanoes were going off in the world, not one, not anywhere.
"Well, this has been a hell of a week."
"Yeah. A long one."
"At least your job hasn't been threatened."
"Is that really what you think she meant?"
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"What else could it mean?"
"Oh, I don't know - anything."
"Like, if you don't do this, you won't work here anymore."
"Sure, for one, but other things too."
"That's helpful."
"You're welcome. I feel fat and out of shape sitting here in this park and doing nothing."
"Well we're talking. That's nice. I've missed talking to you this last week, and then they
were in town for the weekend. Do you think I'm supposed to be doing this job?"
"Even lying back on my elbows I feel my stomach flopping over my waistline. I'm
disgusting."
"Do you think the housing market is going to get any better out here? Have you heard
anything? I'd like to start talking about moving again. I still think that's a good idea."
"No, I don't know. I don't have any idea. That breeze is really nice."
They each took a breath and sat up a little; stony silence reigned.
"What would you do if I quit?"
"Quit? Quit what? Me or the job? If you were going to quit me, I'd be a little pissed off,
actually."
"Well, the job then."
"I don't care; it's your job. Do what you want to do."
"We'd have a lot less money. Things would be a lot tighter. You've been talking about that
new BMW hybrid. That'd be out the window."
"I don't care. We could just come live in this park. Then maybe I'd get some exercise and
wouldn't be so ridiculously out of shape. Maybe that's the best thing that could possibly
happen."
"I'm serious."
"Me too."
"No, you're not."
"I am. I feel terrible about myself. My body's a lump. I wish I liked this park, but I don't. I
really hate it. It makes me resentful. I never spend any time outside, and so now I can
feel all of this little block of nature judging me. And what's even worse than that, is I can
feel how inadequate this park feels. It resents being a park. It resents my presence. It
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resents the whole city around it. It feels lost. All of these trees and grass just in the
middle of everything, isolated. It's awful. And I hate it here. I don't like it. I don't like
being outside. I'm not made for it. Give me a desk; give me a couch; give me a bed. I
don't want a beautiful lawn. We have that yard. I never want to be in it, so instead we
come here and this is even worse. I thought it would be nice to get away, even if it was
only five minutes away, but this is ridiculous. Being in a park really emphasizes how
meaningless and stupid our whole modern existence has become... This whole thing it just
hurts
me."
There was no vitriol in the speech. None. Just something else. But was the park listening?
Could its feelings get hurt?
"No, you're not, though. I'm trying to talk about something important, and you just don't
give a shit."
"I listen, but sometimes, you know, other thoughts as well. That doesn't mean I'm not
listening."
"That's how it feels to me. You don't care."
"Of course I do. That doesn't mean Truman Capote can't be a volcano too."
"You're being a real jerk. You know that? I'm trying to talk to you."
"I'm sorry. But I'm right too. I don't know what to say, but I do know Capote is a seismic
event."
"You don't even like Truman Capote."
"No, that's true. I'm not a big fan. But I'm right."
"Okay. Well, what do you mean?"
"Well, remember how Hollywood put out those two big volcano movies just at the same
time? Yeah. At the exact same time, like it was some volcano competition. Well, I was just
thinking about how weird it was that they did the exact same thing with Truman Capote.
He's not exactly a big action-adventure blockbuster volcano epic."
"Okay. No."
"But he is, too. That's the thing. When you look at it, he really is just like a volcano in this
context."
"What in the world made you think of this?"
"I was talking to Ted, and he said he and Georgina had watched that movie, "Capote," the
other day. They had really enjoyed it you know. Georgina's a huge Catherine Keener fan,
and you know Ted and true crime. He loves sympathizing with the absolute dregs. It was
a really good movie for both of them. They liked it."
"Do you have a crush on Phillip Seymour Hoffman?"
"No, I was just thinking about it."
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"Okay."
"Well, it's just kind of a nice metaphor don't you think? This destructive volcano, this
incendiary lava flow is something both Ted and Georgina like, and they hardly ever agree
on anything."
"Since when don't they agree on anything? They may not usually like the same movies,
but that's hardly what you're saying. I guess maybe it's a park image though. Maybe it
works in this stupid park. And besides Truman Capote is not a volcano."
"Yes he is. It really makes sense. Thanks for indulging me. I was listening, you know."
"Okay."
"Thanks."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well, which did you like better "Dante's Peak" or "Volcano"?"
"Can I be honest and say I didn't see either of them? Because I didn't."
"That's funny. Neither did I. I wish I had known you back in high school. Those old
pictures of you with a ‘fro are just ridiculous."
"Believe me, it looked even more absurd in the mirror."
Then, looking off into the distance, they noticed someone on the other side of the park
walking a cat.
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Brian George lives in south Wales, UK. His short stories and poetry have been published
in a number of print and online journals, including New Welsh Review, Poetry Wales,
Cadenza, Tears in the Fence, Prick of the Spindle, Birmingham Arts Journal, and
Everyday Fiction. His first collection of short fiction, "Walking the Labyrinth", was
published by Stonebridge Press in 2005.
Looking For The Fatman
Brian George
Momo pulls his baseball cap tighter over his head. Bloody sun. He drags his feet across the road,
away from the church. He can feel the shape of the cobblestones through the soles of his trainers.
Jesus, where is that fatman hiding? Salaud. Show yourself. He puts his hand in his pocket, scrapes
a fingernail over his wad of notes.
He makes it into the shade on the far side, but the sweat keeps pouring down his face. Then the
chill shakes him, and the snot starts to dribble from his nose. Putain. What a bitch.
He looks across the road, back at the great mass of the basilica. The whiteness of the stone stabs
his eyes, and he lets them wander upwards, towards the Virgin watching over the old port far
below. The titch Jesus she is holding seems to be waving his arms about, like a fan at the Stade
Vélodrome. Momo can hear the roars, the pounding chants from the south terraces: Allez OM! Oé,
oé, oé! He shudders an instant, realising he couldn’t name a single player in the side now, still less
kick a ball about if someone chucked one to him across the street.
Somewhere behind his eyes an image is swimming, a memory from his days in St. Antoine. A boy,
sharp-eyed, muscles like the blade of a knife, running rings round all the others on the concrete
waste land, sending some dorky little goalkeeper the wrong way and sidefooting the ball between
the bomber jackets they used as goalposts. For the tenth time that afternoon.
Golden boy, he says aloud, where did it all go?
He scratches at the goosebumps on his arm, and the touch of different fingernails is upon him.
Fingernails painted a different colour every day. Red, turquoise, emerald. Purple on the bad days.
Marie-Laure. He tries saying her name, but the consonants catch and scratch at his throat. He
retches.
Marie-Laure Leblanc. She came from a good family from the southern suburbs. House in L’Estaque
overlooking the bay. Cleaning lady and gardener paid for out of Papa’s inflated salary. The first
thing her parents asked Momo was where he came from. As he answered he watched the corners
of their mouths curl. Saint Antoine? Vraiment? Intéressant…
Momo looks up again and feels Our Lady staring, pointing down at him. He whimpers. Leave me
alone. No, wait, she’s not pointing at him. She’s showing him where the fatman is hiding!
He squints up again. Our Lady is swathed in yellow light, but her hand is pointing down the little
ruelle behind Momo. He swallows hard, turns and shuffles down the alley. In a dark doorway that
stinks of piss, the fatman is waiting. He licks his fingers, counts out the notes Momo hands him. He
spits into the gutter, yawns, then feels in the back pocket of his jeans. Momo snatches at the drab
little package the fatman tosses at him.
The fatman has disappeared into the maze of little streets to the left. Momo walks back up the
alley, past the sweating bags of garbage. There are spiky weeds poking through cracks in the
cobblestones, but Momo sees a riot of flowers, purple, green and red in the hammering Marseille
sun.
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Andrew Madigan lives in the Hilton Hotel in Al Ain UAE, where he plays rugby, edits an Okinawabased journal, and works for the local government.
Literary Friction
A Documentary of the Very Near Future
Andrew Madigan
Hugh Brockden Kunstler was one of those dull, self-absorbed men who liked to flaunt his lack of
commercial success, as if this were a sign of genuine talent or depth. Or Art. Brock, that was what
he liked to be called, never grew tired of talking about himself or disparaging the great many
people who were considered his superior. In other words, he was a writer. You know the type.
Unbearable and filthy, to a man.
Yes, man. The women aren’t nearly so bad. They generally have the wit and self-possession to
keep their dirty habits caged up between the Acknowledgements and the Typeface Note. The
scribbling men are a different breed, however. A gurgling stew of insecurity, they plague our
countryside like a swarm of incessantly shrieking cicadas. (Yes, that’s a mixed metaphor. Abusio!
Catachresis! Oh well. I’m no writer, thank God.) When they aren’t assigning their own “difficult”
novels at state colleges in the Middle West, leering at bright freshman girls perched in the front
row, they’re getting drunk in Lower East Side dives, pathetically weeping in the laps of aging
slatterns or on the acrylic shoulders of businessmen. Public humiliation. They seem to crave it.
You’d think their writing would be humiliation enough.
As he used to enjoy saying, Brock wrote literary fiction. Not that trash they sold at the
supermarket, formulaic love stories for disaffected housewives. In his compendious diary, which
seems to annotate even the most ephemeral of his thoughts, Brock discusses his work: “It was
borne of the postmodern impulse, perhaps, yet it drives much deeper into this fragmented fictive
fray [note to self: reuse this phrase]. My oeuvre is, one might argue, post-postmodern, for it does
exude the… cosmic sang froid, undaunted at the horror of our post-nuclear age, in which there is
no faith in the possibility of faith, in which there is no spiritual quest, in which all of our desires are
simulated and mass-produced, yet my writing takes this to the next level…” It was never quite
clear what this “next level” entailed. Perhaps he was thinking of “Flay Mignon,” his controversial
story about a dominatrix-cum-chef who beats Presbyterian ministers with a spatula and tenderizes
meat with a cat-o’-nine-tails. Who knows. Never trust what a writer says about his own work. Or
about anything else for that matter.
A review of Brock’s only major work, Sole Food, a novella about technologically savvy extreme
eaters, had this to say: “Kunstler manages to convey the tedium of our virtual world through an
ironic appropriation of the relentlessly boring minutia of everyday life.” Brock somehow managed to
persuade himself that this was intentional.
Why all the food imagery? Maybe because Brock had been starving for so many years. This, sadly,
was another sign of his greatness, or so he said. True artists starve. They are unappreciated and
they starve. They will never arrive at the appointed hour, if they show up at all. They will say nasty
things. They will lie. They groom erratically and, at dinner, they will be absent when the check
arrives. They have unusual facial hair and own but a single blazer, which they are likely to wear in
combination with just about anything, regardless of color, pattern or texture.
Speaking of attire, Brock did have one story without food in the title. “Dungaresque.” It was about
a man whose button-fly jeans had a buttonhole that was too big, so the button kept slipping out.
What a premise. So much comic potential, so many embarrassing moments, so much room for
tragedy. “The buttonhole had grown larger,” he wrote, “when a bundle of threads, whose function
was to keep the hole snug, came loose. ‘Look at the shape,’ Emory thought, ‘the almond-eyed
beauty of my buttonhole.’ Indeed, it had the oversized, rather saggy look of a postpartum vagina.”
It’s hard not to hate the man who wrote that. Writers are always comparing things to other things,
things which aren’t at all like the first things. Rubbish.
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I was there, a few years before his death, at that trendy place in the East Village where the wait
staff sports genital piercings and track marks, where they serve nothing but Thunderbird and veal
sashimi in a mango confit. It all started when Jordan Brackish, who makes radical documentaries
about vegetarianism and male circumcision (you know, the one with the famous poster, a bloody
fish scaler on hospital sheets), suggested that Brock write a potboiler.
“Nothing would be easier,” he’d claimed, “but I’ll never sell out.”
“You’ll never sell, period,” someone muttered. We tried to laugh discreetly and Brock pretended not
to hear.
We don’t know why he did it. Maybe it was to impress Jordan, though we always thought he was
gay. Maybe it was to prove something to himself. Maybe it was for the recognition. Maybe it was
for the money. In any case, Brock sat down to write a juicy bestseller. This was, I’d say, about four
years ago, in the summer. He bought six reams of paper, a dozen notebooks, a case of pens, a
travel-sized coffee pot with stainless steel carafe/mug, five cartons of cigarettes (French, Gitanes),
and an extra battery pack for his laptop. He got in his car and drove north on I-95, took to the
smaller roads, and pulled into the driveway of Yahoo, the prestigious internet writer’s colony where
Willard Martini, the progenitor of cyberfunk, once famously coupled with Ruth Cindy Hops under a
conifer.
Brock begged and pleaded, but they wouldn’t let him in so he drove to the nearest motor lodge
and, with much bitterness, began to write a steamy historical western homosexual romance, Gay
Riders of the Purple Sage.
Where to begin? First, Brock sketched the narrative arc on a large piece of construction paper,
which he then taped to the wall. He drew a large red arching arrow, along which he plotted the
exposition, dramatic conflict, crisis, climax and dénouement. Dénouement. He liked saying that
word. It made him feel so… continental. He smoked another Gitanes and considered the literary
merits of a beret.
Brock also made story boards, which he carefully arranged in a stolen Pet Milk carton beside the
desk. He summarized each scene on the shiny white side of the cardboard that comes with a new
dress shirt. The dress shirt expenditure was inordinate, perhaps, but Brock considered it an
investment. He would soon be rich and famous.
The next step, before writing, was to make a series of index cards, each one inscribed with a rule,
something to guide him towards a marketable novel. “Likeable Characters,” read the first one,
which was followed by a series of equally simplistic slogans:
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
Dramatic, not Didactic.
Make Readers Empathize with the Protagonist and his Conflict
Action v. Subtext
No Learned References, Abstruse Themes, or Classical Allusions
Relate, don’t Alienate (aka, heart v. head)
In this way, Brock was industrious for several days. Afterwards, when the writing began, things
slowed down. He couldn’t stick to the rules, for one thing. His main character, Buff Bluestein, was
loathsome even by anti-hero standards. When he wasn’t robbing the poor or insulting children, he
was taunting the crippled and elderly. He also enjoyed kicking his mother (compared to Bluestein,
Mersault was a model son). According to Brock’s diary, Bluestein was a symbol of the vulgarity,
lawlessness and sexual/racial integration of the frontier. He was, it seems, trying to deconstruct
the mythic archetypes of the Old West. When an editor told Brock that this had already been done,
most notably by filmmaker Albert Rotman in McDougal and the Tramp, he scoffed. “But it hasn’t
been done like this!” he screamed (meaning, I guess, in his post-postmodern style). “Thank God,”
the critic mumbled quietly, shaking his head.
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We all know what happened next. Brock couldn’t write a potboiler. After a few chapters, he
stopped. He had failed. He convinced himself it was an act of integrity.
In the weeks and months that followed, Brock became obsessed with making money. Look at film,
he told himself. Even if it doesn’t make big bucks at the box office, there’s video, cable, network
TV, airplane showings, foreign rights, Japanese TV, product placement, merchandizing tie-ins, ad
infinitum (yes, I know, but Brock did think using Latin phrases). Why can’t I do something like
that?
That’s when it hit him. The story he’d been chewing on for the past year or two — the satire, the
one about the handicapped orphan who overcomes adversity, rises to the top through hard work
and sheer will, then is discovered to be a junkie racist, the one about how our emotions are
manipulated by superficial things like a pair of leg braces — was the perfect vehicle. What could be
more profoundly marketable than a satiric look at adversity? Everyone’s tired of those weepy
stories where you’re supposed to have unconditional love for the less fortunate, right? Brock had
also stumbled upon the ideal narrative form: the Dramatic Monologue. Everybody likes those.
The more Brock considered the idea, the more right it seemed. Product placement would be a
cinch. Starbucks had recently unveiled its new line of wheelchairs, braces, crutches and
prostheses. We could work out a deal. What kid wouldn’t want to play with, say, the detachable leg
of a scrofulous anti-hero. This novel is gold, baby! As Brock dreamed of success, he let his
imagination run wild. He figured it’d be no time before Winnie Harpo, the doyenne of American
letters, begged to include Spiritually Crippled in her book club. And he wouldn’t stupidly decline,
like that guy who wrote The Stipulations, Franz Jansen. No, he’d take a huge bite out of success.
That would make him a billionaire overnight, especially since Harpo had gobbled up Barnes &
Noble, Borders, The New York Times, Princeton University and Crown Books. Without the approval
of her literary Gestapo, you could hardly sell a pamphlet anymore.
When Brock finished Spiritually Crippled, he sent it off to The Manhattanite, one of the most well
regarded literary magazines in the world. They’ll love it, he thought. Brock was sick of all the
people who didn’t “get” his writing. He didn’t expect all the dimwits in Ohio, or wherever, to
understand his work, but when the right kind of people were unappreciative, that hurt. The editor
of Prairie Orchard Review, for example, said that his work-in-progress, Diehard: The Novelization,
was “utter crap, in every possible respect. No, no, no!” This genuinely bothered him. Writers have
feelings too, Brock screamed aloud to himself. We’re not monsters! I’m not sure either of these
assertions are true, or that Brock even believed them, but that’s what he said.
These editors don’t know the first thing about Literary Fiction, Brock thought to himself the next
day (yes, he always thought about his Craft in Capital Letters). He was still brooding over the POR
rejection. They wouldn’t recognize the Real Thing if it bit them on the ass. What did S. Fritzgerald
say? Write for the bus drivers of your own generation and the espresso vendors of the next. What
did he mean? Embrace the proletariat, that’s what. So, before Brock sent off his dramatic
monologue to The Manhattanite, he tweaked it a bit. The hard-working cripple overcoming
adversity and ultimately succumbing to vice became a penniless commie transient wandering
through the Dust Bowl looking for fellow travelers and good regional theater. The subtext was the
same, of course, which is all that really mattered to Brock. With serious writing, nothing truly
important is on the surface.
Short on money, Brock got a job with a temp agency while he waited for The Manhattanite to
accept his work and, therefore, to irrevocably change his life. He had no skills to speak of, though.
He couldn’t type, operate a fax, or use a computer. At the assessment interview, Brock had
laughed confidently:
“I can write,” he told Mary, a secretary who administered the skills test and personnel
questionnaire. “I am a wordsmith? What more do you need?”
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Although Mary had a number of things in mind, she didn’t respond to this question. All she said
was, “Please. Don’t touch my things.” Brock had been fingering her knickknacks and framed
pictures as if he were a buyer at an estate sale. Mary had always considered writers a dubious lot,
like everyone did, but she’d only observed them from a comfortable distance. Now that she had
one up close, she feared for her life.
Because he had no marketable skills, Brock was assigned to a vast telemarketing enterprise in
Paramus. He had no idea how undesirable such a job was, but the fancy headset convinced him
that he’d been given a position of some importance. The wide open space of the room, filled with
so many discordant voices, made Brock think of the stock exchange floor. In his mind, he was a
burgeoning Captain of Industry.
In the mind of his supervisor, however, Brock was a menace. He refused to wear a tie or shave
regularly. He was not prompt. When a potential client was on the phone, Brock refused to dish out
the spiel as scripted. I’m a writer, he figured. I can whip up something much better. Yes, of course.
Pretty soon, he wasn’t addressing the sales pitch at all (he was ostensibly selling bulk orders of
magazines, seeds, light bulbs, pens and, now that they were collectible, issues of Lighthouse).
What he did, instead, was pitch his ideas for film and television scripts. Some of the people actually
begged him to talk about Lighthouse and all things Jehovah’s Witness, anything but his writing.
Eventually, Brock was fired. He started drinking at some of the more dicey bars in the Bowery.
They were cheap and filled with “colorful characters.” It was like research, he told himself. After a
few weeks, however, he was banned from even the most unruly basement dives. Probably because
they’re intellectually intimidated, he thought.
When Brock received a packet from The Manhattanite by registered mail, he was almost too
excited to open it. Registered mail! It must be an acceptance letter. As he tore open the envelope,
he noticed a handwritten note, which was always a good sign:
Please do not submit any more of your work. Seriously. You might consider not writing again. Ever.
Regards, the Editor
Is this some type of joke? What’s wrong with these people? They’d sent back the manuscript. Brock
read from the opening paragraph:
Johnnie Pinko was a theater-loving prole from the Midwest. He was a crippled orphan,
too, but he got over that. He scoured the Dust Bowl which, like the Gobi desert, was
a vast empty stretch of nothingness (and spiritual nothingness, too, the worst kind)
looking for…
How could they reject this? It’s gold, baby. Gold!
Brock went into a deep depression. He nearly gave it all up, in fact. He seriously considered
throwing away the back-up copies of his high school journals, but that would be madness. One
day, scholars would need a complete edition of his works, juvenilia and all. He also thought about
getting a job, a real job, but that was only depression talking.
In the end, Brock wondered what all the fuss was about “selling out.” He decided to become a
prostitute, to sell his writing to the highest bidder, no matter how insidious the content. Hollywood?
Australian soap operas? Advertising? Writing “authentic” dialogue for reality TV? Book jacket
blurbs? In the end, he decided to embrace the real thing. Pornography. This is where his career
had always been heading, and he could finally admit it to himself.
Just one problem, his nom de plume. Brock wanted to keep his real name in reserve, for “serious
writing,” just in case it worked out one day. (He was an eternal optimist.) Steve Adore? Johnson
Biggs? Chap Hienie?
The man who started life as “Brock” began his new career with a letter to Rustler, a prominent
men’s weekly:
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Literary Friction
I’m an 83 year old writer who’s lived a very quiet
life. Until now. Granted, I look almost identical
to actor Jon Donson and am hung quite nicely.
I’ve enjoyed reading your letters for many years
but never thought anything like this would
happen to me. Well, it did. I had what I thought
was a terminal case of writer’s block, until Rosa
came along, all 6 feet of her. Long story short,
I entered her 7 times on the first night, a feat I
haven’t been able to achieve since my 20s, and
I felt more inspired to write with each sexy
thrust. By the end, my manhood was seriously
chafed, like a wheat stalk, because of the powerful
friction. Tired though I was, I sat down at my
desk to begin writing again... –Max Rodman
That’s right, legendary pornlettrist Max Rodman began life in obscurity. For years, he’d been
hammering away at Literary Fiction under his given name, Hugh Brockden Kunstler, but without
success. Now it was all starting to happen.
But we know what happened next, sadly. Just six months after his first letter appeared in Rustler,
at the peak of his talent, Max Rodman was savagely murdered under mysterious circumstances.
The forensics team is still removing balled up notebook pages from his ears, throat, and other
orifices. We still don’t know who killed him. It could have been just about anyone. He had so many
enemies and so few admirers. He was a writer of Literary Fiction.
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After a rather extended and varied second childhood in New Orleans (street musician, psych-tech, riverboat somethingor-other, door-to-door poetry peddler, etc.), Matt Dennison finished his undergraduate degree at Mississippi State
University where he won the National Sigma Tau Delta essay competition (as judged by X.J. Kennedy). He currently
lives in a 100-year-old house with "lots of potential." His work has appeared in Rattle, Spoon River Poetry Review, Cider
Press Poetry Review, Natural Bridge, A Cappella Zoo, Monkey Puzzle, Marginalia and G.W. Review.
Matt Dennison
Must Still Be Good
Twisting topless awkwardly
in the mirror, looking over
shoulder—torquing neck
to cracking, stretching skin
with left hand above, below
arm, turning head right,
turning head left, looking
in vain for the expiration date
on this container of aging flesh.
Dusk to dawn—
dark circles grow
with dark coffee
Singing at nighttime
I forget the meaning
of my words
Ex-wife's razor—
surprisingly good
seemingly free
Dry day, empty house—
the barely swinging door
applauds
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Andy Charman is a freelance business analyst and technical author who also writes literary and crime
fiction. He produces brochures, technical manuals and training material for finance corporations and he
helped design the award-winning software for BidRoute.com. His short stories have featured in Every
Day Fiction, the Global Short Story Competition, Cadenza, the Jacqui Bennet Writer's Bureau, and
Ballista Magazine. He claims he's working on a novel, but then—who isn't? Andy lives in Surrey, UK, with
his wife and daughter. www.apcharman.com
Two Colours
Andy Charman
The tap squeaks as he spins it open. He rubs his eyes and waits for hot water. It is five months
now since José Luis started working on "Two Colours" and it has taken over his life.
No more coffee with Richard. Cafés, bars, restaurants — they've all ceased to exist. He pulled the
telephone cable from the wall and told his daughter to phone before visiting (she still turns up
Sunday evenings, tight-lipped and disapproving). As for Maria, his Portuguese cleaner, having been
banished again she'll need a whole book of flattery to be coaxed back to work — but no matter; all
that counts now is the painting.
At his age, and with this painting, it is all about memories, constantly begetting one another. Just
this morning he woke to the recollection of his grandmother singing a lullaby, just a tune with too
few words. Catalina — big white moon. He could have been no more than four years old.
All he wants is to represent the past with these two colours. One of them is simple; he can select it
from any number of tubes. It’s the first one, the ancient, memory-laden essence that eludes him.
He has tried many paths; first oil, then eggshell, then every source of pigment, emulsion, stain,
dye and tincture without getting one shade closer.
When steam interrupts his thoughts, he leans over to scoop up some water and splash it over his
face. His hands scrape against a week’s growth as he wipes the water clear then he blinks at his
reflection.
It's strange to him, his face, like a brother he has not seen in decades, and he is resentful of the
lines of concern. He wouldn’t mind his appearance if it had been etched by his enjoyment of life,
but the smile lines are faint. It was acts of defiance and resistance that caused the scars — those
and the pain. So his own face is a stranger to him. It is a boundary that he lies beyond.
He wipes his hand down his cheeks once more, clearing the water from his oily skin. His eyes
twinkle back. He can certainly still cause trouble. Most often he makes mischief with paint and this
new work will surely have them chattering again. What has José Luis done now? Two colours? Just
two? But what does this mean? Surely that’s been done?
As he shuffles through to the studio he wonders whether he’ll tell them; whether he’ll even hint. He
knows his enemies cannot be dismissed as fools, so he may need to. But there! The explanation
should be in the painting. Either you paint it or you don't!
So it all comes round again, and he's in the middle of the studio, staring at the floor trying to see
the colour. Trying to see how it could be. But not seeing it. His head comes up and he speaks out
loud in Spanish.
"Well you can't paint it if you can't see it, can you?"
Such thoughts bring him to seriousness as he breaks open a new box of brushes, but they are
forgotten when he pulls one out. It is the largest and he holds it up to admire. In all his years of
painting, José Luis has never lost his reverence for the simple brush. It is still an object of beauty
— that crown of sable, flaring from the metal crimp to such a sumptuous bulge before tapering to
its delicate tip. He turns it in his hand. In colour it is inimitable — the hairs blend through the
subtlest, most elusive shades of blond. His lifetime has been homage to this object, but now he
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sighs heavily as he contemplates it. Perhaps it is time to move beyond the brush —perhaps he has
found its limit.
The brushes go on the table beside his easel and he clears yesterday’s canvas from the stand with
only a moment’s consideration. It is white still — a broad rectangle of white, as rough-edged as his
chin, painted onto grey-blue backing. But like the others he has discarded, it is not the white he is
after.
He does not mean to express purity; that is the crucial point. His childhood was not pure any more
than any other. He can see, now, cast onto the petrol-blue oil, drifting over the glistening lines, a
face. It is Jesús, holding out a pair of sandals, offering them with hands that are grained with dirt
and the tyre rubber he made them from. And God knows, his brother was no angel, stealing tyres
from the truck stops, but his teeth were white. They were white, even and all on display in the grin
he offered over the shoes.
They were the same white as the cotton sheets that dried in the sun; another memory-image that
comes back regularly. The whole village was decked with sheets; great white sails lined along the
hillside where the houses grew out of the rock; an ever-present obstacle in the alley ways and tiny
streets. And though the women only ever wore black, it was the white sheets that were hung
outside to dry.
It is all in the past now, the village is deserted and the villagers gone, leaving just the bitter-sweet
taste of roasted red peppers. And yet, to José Luis, it seems as recent as a list of things he should
be finishing today.
And perhaps he would never have painted if there'd been no more colour. If it had all stayed white,
maybe he'd have lived simply and died young like his father. Or maybe he too would have moved
to Calahorra. Life in a wood-floored apartment; spare time on a scrub-ground olive-grove, wearing
slippers and track-suit trousers. The superstitious would spit.
Maybe portraits. Léon saved him from the refugee camp because of his obsession. Brought him to
Paris to watch him grow (so he said) and if it hadn’t been him, surely someone else? He'd always
have painted. Maybe landscapes. Mischief gets into the world through his paintbrush. It was meant
to.
He is cleaning his glasses; slowly, needlessly. What to do when they're clean? He's staring at the
blank canvass.
There is nothing he can change. The Fascists came; his brother swore and spat into the dust, then
disappeared into the hills. Gone was his white grin. And when the war was done and the Fascists
were coming back to murder them all, his mother took him into the night and they walked to
France. Walked!
His glass-cleaning has to stop; his mother by the side of the road, feet encrusted with dirt and
blood, her arms wrapped around her head in a pointless attempt to hide her sobbing moment of
desperation. Light of dawn so cold; them without shelter; days since their last meal. Then the
wonder of climbing the Pyrenees near Jaca and looking back on the valleys and plains they had left
behind. Thought they'd made it.
The bullet that took her left enough life for just two words. She chose "Learn French". He has relived that moment so much; just a month ago he woke to the echo of a single report.
So at last he sighs, stands, puts on his glasses and turns to the box from Austria. What claims they
made for this stuff, and how much they charged. The tube is quite normal. It squeezes onto a clean
board with promising clarity. A fresh brush; its last unblemished moments. Then a shimmering slug
is curled on the palette, coaxed onto the canvas, and, with a precise stroke, drawn across the
centre of the frame.
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Without blinking it’s inadequate. Teeth start chewing at gums. When a patch is complete, its thick
rails showing the subtlest shadows of rise and fall, the conclusion is set. Nothing was so plastic in
his youth. His youngest years were undoubtedly white, but not in this way.
He sighs again and pulls the wasted canvas onto his lap. It sits like a cat that eats only the
neighbours’ food. Defeat is always so absolute.
It is not that this whiteness is wrong, but it is not enough. He slaps the brush on the table and lifts
himself to his feet.
The view from his studio is not a luxury, it is a tool. He has a wall of windows with clear a sight of
the roofs of Paris like his palettes, brushes stencils, moulds; they are all of them tools.
He leans against a bench and peers. A dull, hazy morning. The distant Eiffel Tower is a vague
streak in a grey wash. At fifteen, he stood at the end of the Pont d’Léna and watched the German
officers walk around it. Of course they loved it. That was the fascist through and through. So
irredeemably obvious. They hated to think.
His head touches cold glass and he wishes he still smoked. Why did Fascists hate art that was not
obvious? Why was that? Not a big thing. Why burn it? Why kill someone for painting it? Why did
they not find it possible to leave it alone? Why did they kill Léon? Georges? Gods. As exalted as his
brother.
Breath steams glass. He turns towards the bookshelf. Maybe someone explained the thinking of the
Fascist. Perhaps there is a book on this loathing of art that is not obvious.
He could be more figurative. He could be literal. He has a photograph of his brother and everyone
knows what Léon looked like. But then it would multiply like a virus. He would irk God to get every
detail. Maybe the other way; more abstract; further from painting.
He stays on the bookshelf. Words maybe. Not outside the painting. Not explaining. But in it. Fabric.
His lips purse. His being weighs the possibility.
He sits slowly at this desk. A learner driver. Cartridge paper has fine, tiny ridges; watermark.
Texture. Indian ink for a quill-pen. And then the words.
It is not white at first. It is everything; fried chorizo; chanting songs and the clashing tambourine
on the night of San Fermin. Garlic soup on the floor when the handles broke from the pot. JuanJosé blowing raspberries at the back of the priest. Frost-fall on the terraced fields. Uncle Pedro's
belligerent pig. His uncle walking the donkey down to the market in town, five hours down in the
morning sun, seven hours back up at night.
The studio behind him shrinks into nothing as the papers fall round him like shorn hair in a barber's
shop. He stays at it until the rumble of his stomach becomes undeniable.
Cold asparagus flan from the refrigerator. Crumbs on his lap as he reviews, page by page of smelly
Indian ink. Food done, he continues.
A life has many parts, so he starts to focus. The French did not welcome so many Spaniards.
Socialists. Communists. The refugee camp was hidden, miles from a town. Léon got help from
American friends. Release papers; he offered José Luis an apprenticeship. Offered it. As though he
might decline to live. The wind always blew there. Same time every day.
His eyes run across it, taking in the colour and the words. He's nodding. The afternoon overtakes
him as the words get better. Light seeps from the sky without a sunset. The desk lamp is enough.
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"Yes. Yes, that’s it."
He decides on a set of words, writes them out. Rejects and re-works them. Reads, nodding. Writes
them again for the perfection of the hand. Nods more.
When he turns, the studio has been replaced by darkness and Paris' streetlamps. He finds the wall
switch. Strip lighting pinks and blinks and stutters into brightness.
The canvas is where he left it, so he tears the superfluous paper from around the words. Bottles,
cans, plastic files are pushed aside until the tube of craft glue emerges from under the bench. The
back of the paper is covered, then it is on, centred in the canvas. Big enough. He steps back.
Smiles.
It is like arriving home, to see such a thing. Like walking past the house where his uncle lived,
climbing the steps and into the cool air of his mother’s kitchen.
His bottom lip starts to quiver. He rolls his jaw to keep control, blinks and banishes the tear to his
cheek.
This is it. This is the whiteness of his youth.
He sits back on the chair, head on fist and reads and reads and reads it again.
He has done it — better than ever he thought he might. Of course, with no paint at all.
"There it is."
For completeness he reads his painting — Two Colours — out loud.
"White. Like billowing clouds that bloom over coastal mountains too enormous to believe in, crystal
sharp edges, white bulges, white movement — impossible to know. White that dazzles; white like
the sheets my mother used to cast into space like the sails of tall-ships bound for distant salt-laden
seas. White like teeth. White like horizons and dawns. White like the moon and hope-filled dreams
of tent walls flapping in mistral winds. White like frailty. White like surrender. White like hope.
Red."
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V. Ulea is a bilingual Russian-English writer, a scholar and a film director, the author of Quantum
Manifesto. She has received a Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania where she teaches courses on
decision making in literature, film and the game of chess. Her books have been published in the US,
Canada, and Europe. Her book, "About Angels, About God, About Poetry" (Livingston Press, 2002) won
The Top Book Award at the International Book Fair "The Green Wave." Her cycle of poems, "Letters from
Another Planet:, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her works have appeared in the Literary Review,
Fatal Attraction
V. Ulea
Her gravitational field was a maelstrom of midnight obsessions, a vortex of multiple personalities, a
whirlpool of parasomnias, and it pulled him in, sponged him, imbibed him, so he became a chain of
bursting molecules, an unbound liquid of passion, a train of subatomic particles jumping the tracks,
and much more, and much less, both at the same time. He heard some distant voices (did they
warn him? did they encourage him?), but he kept falling - falling down, falling apart, falling into
pieces, free falling, collapsing and disintegrating incessantly on every twisted somersault toward
the unfathomable…
Soon it was over.
“I’ve just discovered a massive black hole,” he announced, tearing himself away from the
telescope.
Irene Frenkel resides in the Philadelphia area and works in oil and pencil. She received her MA in Arts from the Moscow
Institute of Graphic Arts. She received a grant from a Ministry of Culture of Schleswig-Goldstein Land and a Fellowship of a
Jewish Museum in Rendsburg (Germany) for her outstanding work. Her works have also appeared in journals and
magazines, such as Sein und Werden, Golden Visions, and many others. They are included in anthologies, books and poetry
collections, most recently, "Snail", a collection of V. Ulea’s short stories. You can find their collaboration at
http://www.crossingchaos.com/Snail_by_V_Ulea.html
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Terry Barr is a professor of English at Presbyterian College in Clinton, SC, where he has taught Modern
Literature, Film, and Jewish Studies for the past 23 years. His work has been published in the American
Literary Review, the Journal of Popular Film and TV, Southern Jewish History, Studies in Popular Culture,
and in the edition, "Half-Life: Jew-Ish Tales from Interfaith Homes". He lives in Greenville, SC with his
wife, two daughters, and three cats.
Going Jewish
Terry Barr
When my wife, so very subtly, told her extended family that I am Jewish, the menorahs
started raining down on our house.
We now have six menorahs — six more than I ever had growing up in the small town of
Bessemer, Alabama, fifteen miles southwest of Birmingham — and I suppose it’s not a
bad item to collect. More meaningful than the comic books, stamps, and baseball cards
that filled my childhood bedroom. For our first menorah, my wife and I selected a blue
ceramic piece, the individual candle holders forming a wailing wall that now shows the
inevitable scars of former flames scaling the crevices — scaling as if they needed to see
exactly which liberator awaited them on the other side.
The other five menorahs were all gifts from my wife’s family, most of them I’m sure,
purchased from the close-out tables of various Marshall’s or TJ Maxx’s. Gold-plated; trainshaped; mock-velvet painted; even an electronically-lit three-foot tall drapery, its eightpronged beacon spread like a peacock’s tail.
Every woman in my wife’s immediate family has donated to our cause, although I’m not
really sure what our cause is. I never asked for the menorahs, was fine with our ceramic
blue. And while I am relatively new to Jewish holidays, I don’t think it’s customary to light
six or eight menorahs for Chanukah, although I do see how a new one every night might
keep things fresh.
What I’m saying is, you don’t see people buying multiple Christmas trees for their
Christian friends. Still, it’s good to be so supported; this is what family does, although I
will admit to feeling somewhat peculiar when I consider that neither my Jewish father nor
my stereotypically Jewish grandmother ever contributed to my collection: ever matched
my in-laws’ menorah-gifting.
So while I have no idea what was going on in my in-laws’ minds — my wife simply shrugs
and says, “They just love you!” — I proudly display their gifts as each holiday season rolls
around. Things got even stranger when my mother-in-law gave me a menorah two years
in a row, and while I wondered whether she thought menorahs are traditional Chanukah
gifts, I later learned that there was more to this story — that, as in all things, this
extremely gentle, polite but determined woman has her reasons.
My wife’s oldest sister, on the other hand, simply loves to give, and it is her menorah gift
that I love most. Kilned from clay, eight rabbis join hands and reach to the sky, in joy, in
wonder, in thanks for their Chanukah liberation. Their hands open for the candles; their
joined arms symbolize the solidarity that kept them alive, these golem-Maccabees. A oneof-a-kind piece, now scorched with twelve years of flame and embedded with blue-redyellow-white candle wax, its meaning and resonance have buried themselves in us. My
sister-in-law can be a real pain-in-the-ass; she is also the person you’d most want around
in a time of crisis.
And she knows that art tells us most deeply who we are.
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Through this gift she expressed her love in a way that I’ve rarely felt.
It was only years later, however, that I was made to wonder whether she was expressing
something else.
At this year’s Chanukah celebration, we’re in for a surprise. We’re all sitting around our
dining table — that 8-foot long, French-antique pine country table that I wanted ever
since watching Antonia’s Line, a Danish film that celebrates family and feasting and…
identity. My in-laws are all gathered with us on this night, and so in addition to the cheese
latkes — my daughters’ favorites — we’re also serving a Persian dish: Chicken and
Zeresht polo with the golden-orange saffron rice and ruby berries similar to cranberries
but which you can’t find naturally in America. As we pass the homemade yogurt, obtained
from the local Arabic market, and wait for the chai to finish steeping, my sister-in-law
pauses loudly and proclaims: “You won’t believe what I found out this week.”
We could barely guess, didn’t have time to think, though, I imagined that another Persian
relative had arrived from a distant shore. Instead, she declares: “Mom just told me that
BOTH of her parents were Jewish.”
The room goes still; the rabbis in the corner, still reaching for the sky, smile.
No one asks, “What?” We all simply turn to my mother-in-law who is looking around the
room as if some new presence has invisibly entered.
And then she tries, but fails, to smother a giggle.
My sister-in-law says, “And when I asked her, ‘Mom, why haven’t you told me this before,’
you know what she said?”
Another pause, but as if on cue, my mother-in-law answers, “Because nobody ever asked
me!”
Thinking back on it now, I guess that’s true. The rumor was that one of her parents, or
maybe a grandparent, was Jewish. My wife didn’t even know this until ten years ago, and
it seemed to me that she didn’t really care when she DID find out. Perhaps she simply
wanted to remain in her Persian dreams, her clear past. Perhaps she didn’t want her
family images cluttered and confused by one of a ruffled but wizened old man, complete
with sidelocks (peyiss), unruly gray-black beard, long black robe and dusty fedora.
But I, of course, am ecstatic with this discovery. I say to my mother-in-law, “But you
could have told me… you know how interested I would have been!”
“You didn’t ask me!” she repeats, as if this is truly some kind of answer.
And so I turn to my wife as this new realization sinks in: “Your Mom is Jewish!”
But her expression hasn’t changed. We can all see the surprise that still fills her sister’s
half-Jewish being, but for my wife, it is as if nothing can really disturb her sense of self
any more.
“Who wants tea” is all she says.
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“Wait a minute,” I hold her down. “Don’t you see, not only are you half-Jewish, like me,
but according to orthodox law, you’re even MORE Jewish than I am.”
She settles back into her place. Meanwhile, our two daughters are watching us, expecting
what?
Moments pass, and then she looks at me.
“AM NOT!”
And then she smiles, her whole face, not just the mouth-corners that would indicate that
it’s only a “for-show” smile. And I can see her black, lustrous Persian eyes shining,
amused by me, us, this tapestry of life.
And then we’re all laughing, my daughters too, though I imagine that none of us can say
exactly why.
Then I think of all the menorahs, even the electric one that my wife’s Khaleh sent, and I
ask my mother-in-law if her siblings know this truth.
“My first brother, the one who was sick, knew, but he didn’t care what anybody was. He
accepted all. But my other brother, the doctor, and my sister, they don’t like it. They don’t
want to know this.”
I think, “But your sister gave ME a menorah.”
I say, “How did you find out?”
“When I was ten, I walked into a room. There, my mother and my aunt were talking. But
when they saw me, they just got quiet, and suddenly I knew. And then, we moved to
another town, and all the time I was afraid that everyone would ask and would know who
we were. So I stayed quiet. And no one said anything.”
And she’s right. No one did say anything. Until that week, and then that night, the miracle
of Chanukah.
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Oleksandr Hnatenko was born in Ukraine. When he was 8 years old, he got his first camera and wanted
to photograph his uncle’s wedding. After the wedding, he realised that there was no film in the camera...
It was his first photo-experience. Now, more than 10 years later, he’s photographing again in Vienna,
Austria. gnato.deviantart.com
Oleksandr Hnatenko
ioq
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Oleksandr Hnatenko
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Oleksandr Hnatenko
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Oleksandr Hnatenko
one more summer
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Oleksandr Hnatenko
The Machine 2
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Oleksandr Hnatenko
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Robert Wexelblatt is professor of humanities at Boston University’s College of General Studies. He has
published essays, stories, and poems in a wide variety of journals, two story collections, "Life in the
Temperate Zone" and "The Decline of Our Neighborhood", a book of essays, "Professors at Play", and
the novel "Zublinka Among Women", winner of the First Prize for Fiction, Indie Book Awards, 2008.
Robert's work can be purchased at Amazon.com
Un Incident Dans La Rue, Vite Mais Lent Aussi
Robert Wexelblatt
Around noon last Wednesday I was heading back to my office from the district court. Saint George
Street was full of traffic, as usual. I was wearing suspenders and carrying a leather briefcase. I had
on my unbuttoned overcoat, also a muffler, though no hat. I feel it gives me an advantage to show
my hair, which is thick and still mostly black, because so many of my colleagues are going bald.
Still, I could have done with a hat. A chilly, powerful wind was blowing through the city; people
walking north leaned forward while those going south were swept down the sidewalk by an invisible
hand. Everybody lowered their chins and fastened their eyes a few feet ahead, intent on not falling.
At the corner a man in a quilted jacket was selling roasted chestnuts from a cart with little windows
in it. He danced back and forth in the steam, stamping his feet and rubbing his arms.
Outside the Hochberg Building I caught sight of Dillon, a colleague. I had heard his wife was ill and
wanted to ask after her; but as I was moving north and Dillon south, he flashed by me and my
greeting was blown back in my face. At each corner eddies of wind blew bits of refuse and
newsprint in whirls. Particles of grit were driven into my cheeks. It was useless to smooth down my
hair, though I could barely repress the impulse to do so. The saplings planted last year on
Callowhill Street were bent halfway over while the flags on the Bellevidere snapped back and forth.
People making their way to lunch swayed like a field of grain in a cyclone.
As I came around the corner of Filbert Street the scene changed. Half a block ahead traffic was
stopped, horns blared into the wind, and the people on either side had slowed, some moving
tentatively toward the curb.
The sort of vehicle you associate with suburbs, a large station wagon, was pulled up in the middle
of the street, blocking traffic. I was able to see right into the windshield and, so far as I could tell,
only one person was inside.
It's just those crucial things we aren't sure of believing to which we give our deepest attention. Do
my children love me? Does God exist? Am I a decent human being? If faith keeps us from asking
such questions then faith is inhuman. Grammatically speaking, it seems to me, the only correct
attitude toward life is interrogatory.
What was there about a traffic jam on a blustery day that should turn me so philosophical? Was it
merely a traffic jam? No. That's what I have faith in, I suppose, because it's just this imperfect,
negative faith that provokes thinking and thinking makes me feel more alert and so more alive.
The routine of daily life is something we really do believe in. We take it for granted. Yet who grants
it but ourselves? Our habits, mores, expectations, upbringings, our media, even the evolutionary
wisdom that prevents us from drawing attention to ourselves — all are on the side of order, of
being able to predict what's going to happen next. We relish suspense so long as it is boxed in
some play or book. Suspense, in other words, is a strictly aesthetic pleasure, not a moral one.
Morally, suspense always resolves itself into the question of how rapidly predictability can be
restored.
Consequently, when a late-model station wagon stops dead in the middle of a busy center-city
street at midday, in midweek, when the engine continues to run so that it's not a mere matter of
running out of gas, when a woman of thirty-five or forty, a matron dressed demurely in a pale blue
blouse with brown, shoulder-length hair, sits behind the wheel of this vehicle with the doors locked
and stares straight in front of her, oblivious of the horns behind her and the faces pressing in on
either side, the catcalls and curses, you can't ignore it. Something is happening or is about to
happen.
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Something is happening that doesn't happen every day. And something must be done about the
riddle, the dissonance resolved into a dominant major or, if needs be, minor. Summon the police,
call an ambulance, phone the husband, the principal of her children's school. Action, notification,
publicity. Quick, quick.
I walked up the sidewalk pushing forward against the wind, my hair blown back, grit striking my
eyeballs like grapeshot. A small taut man in need of a shave leapt out of his taxi, beside himself
with rage. I could see his mouth moving. He actually tried to push the station wagon. I saw his
tight leather jacket getting tighter, his red face more red.
I continued making my way toward the car. I was now in the middle of the street. Naturally, I
didn't think of myself as part of the crowd closing in on either side. The first siren was sounding
faintly behind me. I saw her plainly now, staring straight ahead, not at me, but at the point in
space I occupied, at my x and y coordinates. In every dimension but one her gaze and my body
intersected.
The turbulent wind went on blowing noise, paper, motes. The buildings appeared to sway like old
elms. What fascinated me was the woman's stillness. Here was the dead center of the city in the
midst of a whirlwind of horns and shouts, deals and transactions, lawsuits and mergers. In the
middle of the week, the middle of the day, in the middle of a whirlwind, that woman sat utterly
still, fists on the wheel, eyes blank as a check on an exhausted account.
If she has failed, then what caused her failure, this woman somebody else married? Or is she just
mad? I had a sudden idea: maybe this was a performance, not an incident but a happening, a onewoman show of protest, a commentary. A woman alone in a locked car, bunging everything up, on
a busy, blustery day. It made me weigh contrasts: inside/outside, city/suburb, married/single,
loving/indifferent, moving/still. As soon as you call something art it ceases to be entirely senseless.
It can, for instance, become an intelligible declaration about senselessness. But whose? My own? I
was thinking of all the things that placed me outside the station wagon and those that put the
woman inside. Where I stood everything was blowing around; where she was all was calm, or at
least unmoving. I think it must be the stillness that attracted and repelled me. Lack of motion
always arrests us, suggesting serenity or death.
I stopped ten feet from the car. Slowly, the woman removed her hands from the steering wheel.
The crowd shuddered, surging in. She pulled her blouse over her head.
I can't help thinking that people who are reduced to stillness or hysteria by their lives, destroyed
by living, have the advantage over me. Why? The most apathetic of audiences are not superior to
me in detachment. For years I've felt as though I were living behind an infinitely long wall. Such a
wall would have to be a round one, which is to say a prison yard. A person inside such a wall might
be aware that he is baffled yet never suspect that he is actually trapped. In this wall somewhere is
a door, or just as likely hundreds, thousands of identical doors, which anybody would take for the
same door. Whenever I stand before this door, or one of the thousands like it, I'm suffused with
hope. I don't want to be but I am. Hope invades me. It doesn't matter what happened last time,
the time before that; hope still hits the beaches undaunted. So, I run up to the door filled by this
aggressive, alien hope, grab the knob and turn for all I'm worth. The door's locked. There is no
lock. I stare dumbfounded, knowing how useless and painful it is to beat on the door. I wonder if it
might be opened from the other side. That is the secret hope, a hope inside hope, that there's
someone on the other side whose case is the same as mine. Perhaps if we both were miraculously
to arrive at the door at the same instant — but then I shrug, the way one does at romantic
dreams. The door is both a possibility and a torment; to be tantalized is to be punished.
I drew closer to the station wagon. The woman was thrashing now, making herself naked in the
car, tearing off her bra, her skirt, everything. Then the crowd closed in.
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Mickey Ellinger is a freelance journalist whose beat is stories that give voice to under-represented
communities. This is her first published fiction. www.mickeyellinger.com
Theater Games
Mickey Ellinger
"A story must be told with as much intentness as if the
teller’s life depended upon it."
~
Margaret
Atwood
“Great! Myra and Peggy are here. Let’s get started.” Sally was so great about being encouraging
without being perky or giving us grief because we were always late. Wise woman that she was, she
knew that Myra was resisting being in a drama class for the disabled. Before the MS stole her
supple grace, Myra was a locally famous improvisational comedian and a drama teacher herself.
She led the theater games, a standard exercise in the non-violence trainings for the Pledge of
Peace. When we were getting worked up to go sit down on some railroad tracks out at the Naval
Weapons Station or in downtown San Francisco intersections, after the legal briefing and before the
prayer, Myra would step into the circle, pausing just a beat to let us appreciate how she moved.
We were all a little in love with her, extended ourselves to do what she asked, maybe daydreamed
for an instant about her asking us to kiss that mobile, laughing mouth.
After Myra started to need a cane she still came to actions, still led the games, until that awful
afternoon when she stood in front of us and went blank, tears rolling down her cheeks, until
someone else named the game and I took Myra’s hand and helped her sit down and rest.
The slide was pretty steep after that. Now Myra is a participant in Sally’s class, along with Bill,
almost horizontal in his power chair, Mary, Sarah and Rachel, who always came together from the
assisted living center down the street, and Lydia. Lydia’s been in a chair most or all of her short
life. She’s a fair-skinned redhead, green-eyed, freckled face and hands, bright red nail polish a little
chipped. She looks like a rutabaga, pendulous breasts, short useless legs dangling. Tonight she’s
wearing a purple beret on that red hair; makes her look like a neon sign.
We know how the class works by now, pull into a lopsided circle, shake what we can: heads,
hands, booties. We close our eyes tight tight tight and squinch up our faces. Then we open our
eyes open our mouths stick out our tongues, growl, yowl, howl. Reminds me of the song about all
God’s critters having a place in the choir... some just clap their hands, paws or anything they got
now.
“Who’s got an idea for a scene?” Sally calls them scenes, not skits or role plays; she is very serious
about what we’re doing as theater; if it’s therapy, that’s just a bonus as far as she’s concerned.
Tonight it’s Lydia who says, “What about when you go into a store and the clerk talks to you like
you don’t speak English or else maybe you’re four years old.” “And they don’t want you to touch
anything,” adds Bill. “Or try on anything,” says Rachel. Lydia laughs. “Oh yeah. Crip cooties. I’ve
had those plenty of times.”
“Who wants to be the clerk?” Asked Sally. Silence. “I will,” said Myra. This was the first time she’d
ever volunteered to play a role; she rolled right up to the front where we set up the scenes. Sally
didn’t say anything to draw attention, and I relaxed back into my chair.
Lydia got to be the shopping crip, of course, since it was her idea. She backed up, adjusted her
beret, and came purring into the stage area, stopping a few feet from Myra. “Excuse me.” Myra
turned away from her and picked up an imaginary phone. “Ladies lingerie, may I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” said Lydia. “I’d like to see...”
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“Just a minute,” Myra said into the phone. “I’ll be right with you,” she said to Lydia, slowly and a
little too loud. She turned back to the phone, while Lydia craned up to look across the counter
Myra’s gestures had created between them. Myra went on. “So then I told her that if she thought
she could talk to me like that she had another thing coming. So then...”
“Excuse me,” said Lydia again. “I am still waiting.”
“I’ll have to call you back.” Myra put down the imaginary phone on the imaginary counter and
peered over it at Lydia with a toothy over-bright smile. “Now, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to see some brassieres, please,” said Lydia.
“They’re right over there.” Myra waved vaguely to her left.
“I see that,” said Lydia, “but I can’t reach them. Could I ask you to bring me everything you have
in a 38B in white?”
“Oh. I see. Well, yes, of course, I’ll be happy to accommodate you.”
Lydia turned to us. “She’s had her ADA training, folks. Note appropriate use of the word
‘accommodate’.”
Myra mimes riffling through imaginary racks and putting items on the counter slightly higher than
Lydia’s head. “I’m afraid these four are all we have.”
“That’s fine. I’d like to try them on.”
Myra flinched visibly. “Try them on?” She took a deep breath. “Well, yes, of course you would.
Anyone would.”
Lydia turned to us again. “Yes, just like anyone else. Just like an able-bodied woman. Pretty pushy
for a crip, don’t you think? That’s what that independent living assertiveness training will do for
you.”
Myra handed the imaginary bras to Lydia. “There you are. The fitting rooms are right over there.”
She waved and reached for her phone.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Lydia says to us. Then to Myra: “I’m going to need some help.”
Myra sighed, put down the phone. “Now what? I mean, how may I help you further?”
“I’ll need some help trying them on. Getting off my sweater and bra and getting these on me.
Especially hooking them. Do any of them have front closures?”
Myra made a face as if someone had just made a really stinky fart, then smoothed her face back
into a professional smile. God, she is still so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that. I’m
the only person working in this department. You could buy the ones you like and try them on at
home, then return the ones you don’t want to keep.”
Lydia smiled too. There were an awful lot of teeth showing. “But there are no returns on
underwear. Perhaps you could call someone else to see to the counter. I believe I’m entitled to
help in the fitting room. That’s reasonable accommodation of my disability, I’m pretty sure.” She
waited.
Myra turned crimson. “Pretty sure! I’ll say you are pretty sure, pretty sure that you’re entitled to
take up my whole afternoon and to make me wait on you hand and foot. I don’t see why you
people can’t bring someone with you to help you, someone who’s used to handling handicapped
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people, who’s comfortable with deformity, someone with nerves of steel and a strong stomach.”
Her voice was getting louder and higher. The rest of the room was still as a stone. We were all
holding our breath.
Myra crumpled and began to sob. “Oh, oh, oh. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came
over me.” Her mascara was running and her beautiful face looked like a mud puddle that kids had
ridden through on their trikes.
Lydia turned to us. “And there you have it, folks. Once again the forces of pushy cripdom triumph
over prim propriety, reduce normally well-mannered sales people to blubbering apologizers, and
assert their inalienable right to put their lumpy mismatched tits into new harnesses.” She swept off
her beret and bowed with such a flourish I was afraid she was going to tumble out of her chair.
“Bravo!” Sally jumped up while the rest of us were clapping and exclaiming. Somehow she
managed to hug both Lydia and Myra at the same time, getting the last of Myra’s mascara on her
cheek. “What power! You really had me going there. I was ready to call the manager myself.”
“Will you come shopping with me next time?” Asked Sarah. “Yeah, me too.” “We’ll be a brigade,
the crip consumer crusade.” “We’ll strike terror into Sears and then... Nordstrom’s! Who knows,
maybe Macy’s.” Everyone was talking at once.
Well, that was it for that night. Sally tried to get us going on another scene, but we were spent.
After a false start or two, we gave it up. “Go home, you guys, sleep well. What a workout! For next
week I’m going to see what I can suggest that builds on what we did tonight. Myra and Lydia, work
on your characters, and the rest of you help us think about how to make some more scenes. I
think we may have us a play.”
I found a tissue for Myra to mop her face, and kept quiet until we’d gotten into the car, the chair in
the back, gotten out of the parking lot and were headed back to her place. “You were really on
tonight,” I started. “You were fabulous.”
“It’s easy to be the bad guy,” said Myra. “That’s always the juiciest part.”
“Sure, but there’s way more to it than that. You know that. That’s the most powerful improv I’ve
seen you do since Second City. So what do you think about the idea of working on a play? I’d love
to do it if you did.”
Myra looked out the window as the familiar Berkeley streets slipped by. As we pulled into the
parking lot of Savo Island Village she finally answered. “No, I don’t think I’ll be going back.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t stand being around all those cripples.”
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Gay Degani has been published in print as well as online at Night Train. 3 A.M Magazine, Tattoo
Highway, and others. "Spring Melt" was a finalist for The 2nd Annual Micro Fiction Award and was
nominated by Every Day Fiction for a Pushcart Prize. “Monsoon” was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s 2008
Fiction Open and “Wounded Moon” was short listed for 2009 Fish Prize Anthology. She recently won 1st
place in the Women on Writing Winter 2009 Flash Fiction Contest with "Beyond the Curve." She is
currently—still—working on her novel, What Came Before. You can find Gay's work online at
www.gaydegani.com and http://wordsinplace.blogspot.com/
Doing Mr. Velvet
Gay Degani
All the dead bodies end up in Riverside County and my cousin Emma says one more won’t matter.
We’re on the 10 freeway, slipping over the San Bernardino-Riverside line, Emma up ahead in Mr.
Velvet’s gold Cadillac DeVille, Mr. Velvet in the trunk. I’m following behind in Emma’s station
wagon. It’s about two in the morning and I’m staring at a shitload of cars traveling in both
directions. This is exactly why Californians need more day spas. They don’t know enough to stay
home and get a good night’s sleep.
We’re not bad people, Emma and I, but she says we’ve worked too hard planning our day spa to
waste time going to court to prove my innocence. And since she’s the sole heir to Mr. Velvet’s
House of Hair in the event of his death, she doesn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to
herself. If anyone asks, Harold Warren Velvet went to Vegas.
We’re deep in the desert when Emma exits the freeway and turns onto a gravel road. It’s as dark
and lonely as a hair salon on Monday mornings; the clouds like spit curls around the moon.
There’s a thump behind me. A sudden shadow. A voice: “For all have sinned and fall short of the
glory of God.”
I scream and jerk the steering wheel. The wagon sways and bumps over the shoulder, spewing
sand and grit. I don’t throw up; I pee my pants.
In the rear view mirror is Jesus himself, all riveting eyes and bearded chin.
“Gilly?”
Shit. The Almighty knows my name.
The stink of fries and heavy sweat helps me to calm down. This particular smell belongs to Holy
Roller, the guy who preaches in the middle of the intersection of Baseline and Haven back in
Rancho Cucamonga.
“What the hell are you doing in Emma’s station wagon?” I ask.
“Hiding from the cops.” He starts to slide between the bucket seats and into the front and I swat
him back. Emma’s gonna be hotter than an uncertified curling iron about this new development.
“Is that Mr. Velvet up there?” Emma’s taillights flash red across Holy’s hairy face.
We’ve caught up to the Cadillac, its bumper recognizable, so I hit the brakes, fishtailing a little, to
let the Caddie move ahead.
I met Holy Roller my first day washing hair and sweeping up at the House of Hair where Emma’s
been the head honcho forever. He was digging through the dumpster out back and said to me, “I
used to be in the Truth and now I’m not. I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.” I
bought him a couple Whoppers and been feeding him ever since.
Up ahead, Emma turns off the road and into squishy sand. The clouded moon turns the yucca trees
into bandits, the boulders into bears. We’re finally in the middle of nowhere.
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Emma parks the DeVille on a ridge of rocks. She’s not gonna like having a witness our crime, so I
stop a distance away.
“Holy,” I say. “You gotta stay in the wagon and be quiet, you understand? I mean it.”
“Fear not, little flock.”
A long gulch stretches below the ridge, willows on both sides. When I reach Emma, I lean against
the Caddie’s front grill to keep from shaking apart.
“Don’t wimp out on me now, Gilly. It’s your neck, don’t forget.”
“But I didn’t mean —”
“No one’s gonna believe that now, so let’s get this car in the gully and light it up.”
She’s right, of course. Emma’s always right, and yet…
I glance over my shoulder, but the station wagon’s dark and quiet.
Mr. Velvet went stiff back at Mr. Velvet’s House of Hair. We had to work to pack him into the trunk.
Now we heave him up, smacking his head on the metal rim of the trunk, and carry him to the
driver’s side of the DeVille. The plan is to put him in the front seat like he was driving the car out
here for god-only-knows-what-reason when something went wrong, but he’s too rigid, so we just
slide him in along the front seat.
“That Mr. Velvet in there?” Holy Roller. Popping up next to me.
“Ah, Gilly,” says Emma. “Dammit.”
“I didn’t ask him to come.”
“Yeah.” Emma turns and looks Holy straight in the eyeballs. “Gilly’s in trouble and I’m helping her
out. Don’t screw with me. You go wait in my car, you hear?”
“Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am meek and —”
Emma grabs his arm and pulls him back to the wagon, me hurrying behind.
“It was an accident, Holy. I was washing his hair —”
“You don’t have to explain to the likes of —”
“But I didn’t murder Mr. Velvet. I was washing his hair —”
“Shut up, Gil —”
“He jumped up when I sprayed him with water and slipped —”
“Stop it, you stupid, stupid girl.”
“And hit his head.” I’m hanging my own.
Holy halts, looks from Emma to me and back to Emma. Says, “So when you put the plastic over his
face, Emma, you were helping him?”
Her body goes stiff. “What plastic, you idiot?”
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“I was hungry so I was looking for Gilly through the window. And when Mr. Velvet moved, you
covered his face with Saran. Held it there until he stopped moving.”
I stare at my cousin, my life-long best friend. “You were gonna let me think I killed —”
“Don’t believe this junkie —”
Fumbling for the wagon keys in my pocket, I drag Holy with me.
“Where are you going?” Emma starts after us.
I shove Holy into the passenger seat, but Emma grips my shoulder. I shrug her off and slam the
door. She grabs at me; I push her hard and haul it around the car.
“Stop this foolishness right now.”
I jump into the driver’s seat, lock doors. She's there, hammering on the roof, peering in the
window, her face violet with rage.
I slam the accelerator. The wheels churn sand, then shoot us forward. We hit the black top hard,
and Holy Roller says to me, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he
were dead, yet shall live.”
It isn’t until we see the first billboard for the International House of Pancakes, and Holy Roller
mutters something about Whoppers, that I roll down the window and poke my head into the cool
morning air. Behind us, at the foot of the mountains, I can still see a rod of smoke twisting to the
sky.
Emma, if nothing else, is a practical woman. Somehow she’s managed to light up Mr. Velvet in his
Cadillac crypt, sticking to her plan. And if I know Emma, and I guess now I do, that means she’s
not going to let anything or anyone stand in the way of her transformation of Mr. Velvet’s House of
Hair into Emma Elkins European Day Spa and someone’s going to have to take the blame for doing
Mr. Velvet.
I turn to Holy Roller. “What do you say we take a vacation? I need to ponder awhile on the strange
ways of the Lord and his children.”
“Jesus spent 40 days in the desert, didn’t he?”
“I’m think I’m done with deserts. How about the beach?”
“I hear they got good weed in Ensenada.”
I say, “Amen.”
Page 147
Jay Baruch’s short story collection "Fourteen Stories: Doctors, Patients, and Other Strangers" (Kent
State University Press, 2007) was Honorable Mention in ForeWord Magazine’s 2007 Book of the Year
Awards in the short stories category. His fiction has appeared in Other Voices, Bryant Literary Review,
Hamilton Stone Review, Another Toronto Quarterly, Inkwell, Segue, Ars Medica, Salt River Review,
Tattoo Highway and others. He lives in Rhode Island, where he practices emergency medicine and
teaches medical ethics at Brown Medical School. http://www.jaybaruch.com
Empowerment Centers
Jay Baruch
Patient 0478 sifts through sacks of lethal pills, brushes his fingers along knife handles, swings at
the noose hanging from a steel-enforced beam. He nods pleasingly at the many stations in the
Suicide Stress Test. Noah sits up, rubs his bloodshot eyes. The patient might actually kill himself.
This rarely happens in Noah’s work as a Sitter at the East Side Empowerment Center. Thwarting
such attempts is the very reason he sits for eight-hour shifts behind a bolted-down metal desk in
the locked, soundproof room.
Straining to quietly push back his chair, Noah spills the display of Empowerment Center flyers on
his desk. The flyers describe in flowery cursive the purpose of the Suicide Stress Test,
euphemistically called SST. What better way to test the seriousness of patients’ claims to self-harm
than to give them the opportunity and the support to end their life? The cover boasts a glossy
photograph of former SST patients — a rainbow of race and ethnicity. Smiles explode off their
faces as they hold slices of pizza weighed down with toppings. The caption: You can have it all.
On a good day, a person who is real, a true threat to take his or her life, stresses Noah’s nerves to
the snapping point. This morning it’s worse. A sleepless night leaves his body heavy, his head
clotted with fatigue and confusion. Lauren left him the night before while he was out with his friend
Perk. Gone were her clothes from his bureau and closet, her espresso maker, his radio-alarm clock.
Her long pieces for the local newspaper drew notice for their insight and clarity. Noah is baffled she
didn’t leave him a simple note.
Lost to Noah stacking flyers, Patient 0478 knocks on the bullet-proof glass of the converted phone
booth. Once inside, he touches the revolver welded to a movable, metal arm. Noah resists the urge
for alarm. He didn’t have time to oil the arm’s stiff joints this morning. To press the gun barrel to
the temple, or inside the mouth, requires great effort.
The paperwork sent with Patient 0478 states he’s a recently fired mortgage broker. He wears the
residue of prosperity: an uncombed mane of salt-and-pepper hair; a wrinkled monogrammed dress
shirt that smells of tar and French fries; a flushed face that Noah finds kind and trustworthy. If
Patient 0478 doesn’t have much to live for, Noah suspects he has much to lose. His excellent
health insurance only confirms Noah’s security. Studies show people rarely attempt suicide with
coverage this good.
Patient 0478 chuckles at the adjustable headrest. He raises his chin. A thoughtful, bemused
expression lights his face. He recognizes that this desire to end his life was rash, even silly, Noah
thinks, when Patient 0478 pulls the trigger and takes the blast in the chest.
~
While Environmental Services completes a terminal clean on the room and Patient 0478 is carted
off to the morgue, Noah sits shell-shocked in his supervisor’s office. “This death might qualify as a
negligent demise,” says Mrs. Curling. Her flat, unemotional gaze peers over stylish Tortoise shell
eyeglasses.
“Tell me Noah, according to the SST manual, when should a Sitter initiate active intervention?”
Noah holds his answer. He’s shaking too much. He’s drinking vending machine coffee, which makes
him shake more.
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“Guideline 2.1 states intervention is indicated only when a patient demonstrates commitment to a
course of action that will result in imminent harm.”
“Yes. Imminent harm,” says Mrs. Curling. Her face twists in pain when he finishes quoting the
manual verbatim. She’s chunky, attractive, with large gray eyes. He would consider her beautiful if
not so fearful of her judgment. She reads paperwork Noah filled out twice, the first draft
erroneously completed in blue ink, not the official black.
“You’re my best Sitter,” she says, sighing with disappointment. “But if you’re found at fault, it will
be your second negligent demise, and grounds for dismissal.”
Noah sits across from her desk, muscles cramping, pretending that he isn’t fully vested in his 401K
in two short months. He’s exhausted. He can almost convince himself that what happened was a
bad dream. The moment plays in his head over and over. The gun flashes. The body flails
backward. Noah flinches every time. Shocked. Sickened.
“Do you think you could have prevented this, Noah?
“I don’t.” His voice trembles under the weight of the words. “I don’t know.”
~
“I can’t believe it happened. I can’t believe I let it happen,” Noah tells Perk later that evening.
They’re sitting in an uncomfortably bright bagel shop. “Maybe it’s an omen, maybe it’s time to call
it quits.”
“Chill out. Your girlfriend leaves you. A patient kills himself. OK, not a good day. But you get paid
to sit. When my trust fund runs dry, I want your job.”
“The job has changed,” mumbles Noah, watching Perk eat egg salad on poppy. A mouse scurries
out the wall, hugs egg and celery droppings. Appetite gone, Noah finds courage for coffee, careful
to sniff the powdered cream before spooning.
“Two years ago, before Empowerment Centers, sitting meant babysitting suicidal or crazy ER
patients committed to a psych hospital. They might wait days, even weeks, for a psych bed to
open. My job was simple: guard them so they don’t hurt themselves or take off. That’s it. I was
paid by the hour to sit, read and sketch in my journal. When they created Empowerment Centers
to decompress the ERs, I was at the right place at the right time. More money plus bennies. It’s a
different place now, and a different job.”
“Every fairy tale has a fairy and a tail,” says Perk, cocking a fiendish brow.
Noah empties sugar packets on the table, fingers designs into the white granules.
“Diego Morales, my first negligent demise, back in the ER days, wasn’t really my fault. I was
watching four other psych patients, way too many. The ER was crazy. A woman was found stonedead in the corner of the waiting room, not answering when her name was finally called. In the
chaos, Diego bolted. I never saw anyone run so fast in a johnny and bare feet. The waiting room
cheered. A new empty bed. When the ambulance entrance doors opened, Diego turned and smiled
at me chasing him. It was a playful smile, not mean or spiteful. But with his eyes turned he never
saw the ambulance pulling in until it crushed his head.”
Perk slams his hand on the table. “That’s a bad day,” he says. “Lauren and this guy with the hole in
his chest, they got what they wanted. Let’s get loaded and celebrate.”
~
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Noah’s nerves are fried circuits the next morning when Patient 0401, a Swallow and Wallow, steps
in for her SST. A Swallow and Wallow is someone who ingests or allegedly ingests pills,
immediately calls for help, then demands to be left alone. Patient 0401 bathes in the attention
from the no-nonsense women surrounding her stretcher: her mother, a sister, and two clinging
preschool children. Noah gives the family a sympathetic nod as he leads her into the room and
locks the door. To have such an army of love behind you must make the world appear small, or at
least master-able.
She rolls her eyes, as if pitying Noah and his job. “My boyfriend is coming.”
He points to the sign on the wall. No family. No friends. Especially no boyfriends or girlfriends. “For
the next hour it’s you and…” Noah sweeps his hand to display the numerous suicide options.
Explanations aren’t necessary. Her old records reveal three previous visits, fights with three
separate boyfriends, three alleged overdoses.
Patient 0401 is young, narrow-waisted, with suspicious dark eyes and a charcoal-painted mouth.
The charcoal was meant to absorb any pills. She spit it all over the nurses. The ER doctor forced a
gastric tube down her throat; equal parts punishment and treatment. Once medically cleared, she
was sent to the Empowerment Center for the SST.
Normally Noah isn’t so vigilant with Swallow and Wallows, but Mr. Curling ruled the gunshot blast
to the chest a near-negligent demise. She put him on warning, told Noah what her boss said: he
was holding onto his job by a pubic hair.
He sits behind his desk, follows Patient 0401’s every movement. She appears to shrink while
looking around, crushed by the cruel reality of the place. If you truly desire to end your life, the
room must feel like Club Med. But if you don’t, the mandatory hour in the company of so much
opportunity and truth begins to hurt.
Pounding at the door ruptures the silence.
“Hector?” She wails.
“The room is soundproof,” says Noah. “Focus on why you’re here.”
“Says who?” She asks. “You? You’re no shrink. Maybe a shrink-a-dink.”
“How lucky you are,” he says, picturing her worried family outside the door.
Mascara tears run down her cheeks. “You don’t understand me. Nobody does.”
“That’s a lot to ask for.”
“Fuck you,” she says, then settles into the sweet calm typical of most Swallow and Wallows.
The virtues expected from Sitters as listed in the SST manual — trust, sympathy, and patience —
are foreign to Noah at the moment. He sits on his desktop, reminded how Lauren had been a
Swallow and Wallow. They had talked as the hour counted down. She believed Noah possessed a
penetrating mind. Noah thought the SST cornered people into insight and he was simply a lucky
bystander. Perhaps Lauren finally realized this herself and left.
Patient 0401 studies his ID badge, crinkles her nose. “Noah?”
He nods.
She shrugs, shakes her head. “Noah is like a Bible cartoon character. All those animals in a line,”
she says. “Adam isn’t cartoony. Eve isn’t cartoony.”
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“Fifty-three minutes and you can go,” Noah says.
She gestures to the room. “Tell me, do you think Noah was a savior, or evil for allowing the rest of
the world to drown in the flood?”
“This is only a job,” he says. “I’m not saving the world.”
“But you’re here to save me, aren’t you?”
Disarmed by her charcoal smile, Noah can’t find an answer.
“You look like that actor, who plays all those crazy people. What’s his name?”
“Steve Buscemi,” says Noah, who shrugs knowingly.
“But you’re better looking.” She offers her hand. “I’m Maria.”
Noah nods, awkwardly holding the complement. They talk about Hector and her children the rest of
the hour, not Genesis. Afterwards, she signs the departure packet: a declaration that she will not
hurt herself and will seek help if she has the urge to do so; a psychiatric referral for the next day;
and a coupon for a free large pizza.
~
Two long days and nights have passed. He no longer believes Lauren will return as inexplicably as
she had disappeared. He calls Lauren’s parents, her sister and best friend. They don’t answer;
don’t return his messages.
His head is filled with cement. Sleep pulls but he can’t soften enough to go there. He tries the bed,
the couch, even the floor. When the phone rings, Noah snaps at the phone as if it might fly away.
It’s not Lauren. It’s Patient 0401.
“Hector is shit,” she says.
He hears cracks in her voice, silence in unexpected places.
“Why are you calling me?” He asks. “How did you get my number?”
“I thought you cared about me.”
When I’m at work I care,” says Noah. “I’m home now,” he pauses. “With my own problems.”
She hangs up. The caller ID taunts him. Will she do something stupid? He starts dialing, then
stops. “She’s a Swallow and Wallow, right?” Noah reminds himself.
Relax.
~
“Forget Lauren. Call up this Maria Wacko and fuck her brains out,” says Perk, pushing his and
Noah’s empty beer glasses towards the bartender, a beauty they’ve nicknamed Corset Girl.
“Seriously, Perk,” Noah says. His brain floats in beer. It feels good unless he needs to think. “I miss
Lauren. I want Lauren back.”
“OK. Go get her.”
“I can’t.”
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“Why not?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Exactly,” says Perk. “Because she doesn’t want to be found. She’s gone.”
“But why? I deserve an explanation.”
“Nah. How long were you two together? Six months? You barely accumulated memories with real
nourishment.”
“We bought stuff. Coffee mugs, towels, even bedsheets. We started a life.”
“It was self-preservation. There was no way she was sleeping on your disgusting linen.” Perk
pinches tobacco from a packet, rolls a cigarette. “She thought you sweet, but un-ambitious, an
unfortunate part of her charitable phase.” He tells Corset Girl where to set the beers, as if they
aren’t the only people in the bar at 11am. “Focus on Maria. Fuck her kidneys out. Fuck her until
she needs dialysis.”
Corset Girl sweeps her raven hair streaked with hot pink off her shoulder, waits for payment with a
stiff brow. Perk tips her very well. The hatred in her green eyes softens. Her black leather skirt and
a tightly laced corset give the impression of impenetrability. She’s too radiant and serious to be
tending bar in a dump, Noah thinks.
She allows Perk to smoke at the bar.
“Such a treat,” says Perk.
“It’s your funeral,” she says.
Perk points to the cigarette in his hand and giggles. “This is harmless. My DNA is carcinogenic. My
dad died of lung and throat cancer. My older brother died of a brain cancer.” Dredging tragedy
makes him winded. He catches his breath. “When I was a kid, our hamsters grew furry tumors. The
Habittrail had a hospice unit. Even my dad’s sailboat had a mastectomy.”
Cutters slice their skin to kill the pain. Noah thinks Perk uses puns the same way.
Corset
Girl
is
speechless.
She
restlessly
dumps
pretzels
into
shallow
bowls.
“My mother died of breast cancer,” she says, staring across the room to the St. Pauli Girl poster
above the jukebox as she manufactures a smile. “I’m not used to mastectomy being a punchline.”
“She needs a hug,” Noah whispers to Perk.
“She needs a good…” Perks says, thrusting his fist piston-like. He finishes the pint in a long
effortless gulp.
“Say something to her,” Noah says. “You like her. It’s obvious.”
“Are you serious? You’re giving me advice on women?”
~
An earth-shifting quiet fills Noah’s one-bedroom apartment that evening. He’s reminded of his
parents’ arguments before they broke up, he and his younger brother listening in the bottom bunk
under a tightly drawn blanket. His brother is now bouncing across Eastern Europe on a Fullbright.
His parents each remarried several years ago but still busied themselves with the old demons:
money, alcohol, trust.
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Noah can’t get out of his head. The next few sleepless nights creep by never-ending and when
mornings come, they’re muddy and difficult to negotiate. He starts arriving early for work. He
cleans and oils the revolver, sharpens the knives, secures the noose. He focuses on these details as
if they’re acts of meditation, only without the calm.
Patient 0430 is muscular and broodingly handsome, the type who appears in bronze light in
cologne advertisements. The paperwork states Patient 0430 swallowed pills after his girlfriend
broke up with him. “Another one?” Noah thinks, as Patient 0430 uses his piercing light blue eyes to
burn Noah’s presence into smoke and ash.
“I just oiled the gun,” says Noah, meeting his icy gaze.
Patient 0430 ruffles his black hair, stares hard at the door. Noah has noticed this tendency before,
patients hoping to be rescued by the very people they want to escape.
“The knives are freshly sharpened,” Noah says. Using the anatomical poster on the wall, he traces
the path of the jugular vein and carotid artery.
“You think this is a joke,’ says Patient 0430. “But you know nothing about me.”
“You told people you want to kill yourself,” Noah says. “Why should I stop you?”
Patient 0430 grabs a knife, turns to Noah. “You’re questioning my seriousness?”
“What did you hope to accomplish by taking pills?” Noah says, backpedaling. He knows the blade
aimed at him can carve easily through a Thanksgiving turkey, bones and all, and slice breadcrumbs
in the stuffing paper-thin. He knows this, and yet he can’t shut up as he falls back into his chair.
“Will your girlfriend feel bad for you?” He asks Patient 0430. “Will she now think, ‘On second
thought, this person really has hit shit together and perhaps I made a horrible mistake in
judgment?
No,
she’s
going
to
run
as
far
from
you
as
possible.”
Patient 0430’s knuckles his eyebrow. “Are you stupid, are you thick, or do you have a death wish?”
He says.
“The knife concerns me,” says Noah, “But you? Not so much.”
Noah is mindful that the biggest mistake a Sitter can make is downplaying threats. His hand gropes
for the panic button behind the desk. Never before has he needed it, and wonders if it works when
no help arrives. Patient 0430 now towers close. Noah breathes him in, thinks he’s too good looking
to stink this bad. Noah concludes that now might be the time for fear and self-defense, when
Patient 0430 grins, spins away, drops to his knees. Noah expects to hear the knife fall. Instead, the
sharp blade glistens under the man’s chin. Noah moves his lips in silent prayer, ashamed by this
need for cheap faith. Losing his life doesn’t frighten him as much as losing his job.
“I can’t know what you’re going through,” says Noah, “but it must be painful.”
Patient 0430 lifts his head for a moment. A critical pause. An opportunity. Noah leaps over the
desk, kicks the knife away and tackles Patient 0430. He imagines this heroic stunt executed with
dream-like grace. Saving a life, rescuing someone from harm, heats his blood. He feels molded
perfectly to the world. He even feels a strange kinship with Patient 0430 now. But Patient O430 is
convulsing with laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re not an athlete, are you?”
Noah finds the knife, pushes it into Patient 0430’s hands. “Use it, or move on.”
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Patient 0430’s hums as Noah rushes through the exit packet. He rips the psych referral slip into the
tiniest pieces, waves the pizza coupon as if a winning lottery ticket.
~
Mrs. Curling calls Noah into her office the next day to discuss Patient 0430’s responses to the
online satisfaction survey — using a 0 to 5 scale — patients rarely fill out.
My emotional needs were honored: 0
I was given the time and space to contemplate this difficult time in my life: 0
Other comments: The next time I feel like killing myself I’m going into the woods with a rifle and
blowing my brains all over the whistling birds and wildflowers. The people at The East Side
Empowerment Center don’t deserve the opportunity to save me. I shared the pizza — which didn’t
suck, but wasn’t NY pizza — with my girlfriend and we’re now back together. May I suggest a soft
drink coupon as well?’
“He’s a crackpot,” says Noah. “The worse kind of crackpot. He’s not genuine.”
“The client comes first,” says Mrs. Curling.
“Client? Isn’t he a patient?”
“You’re not a doctor. Neither am I. It doesn’t matter. We provide a valuable service,” she says.
“What’s important for us, right now, is responding to this complaint.”
“If he really wants to off himself, send him a list of isolated woodlands.”
“We don’t want people killing themselves at home. We don’t get reimbursed if that happens.”
“Most of them are manipulators, attention seekers.”
“But we also identify folks with serious mental illness. The SST is about hope and you were glib and
disrespectful.”
“This guy was never going to kill himself, or me,” says Noah.
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” he says.
“The hole in Patient 0478’s chest argues otherwise.” An acid-reflux cringe squeezes her face.
“Damn it, Noah. Where’s your head when you need it most?”
“You’re firing me, aren’t you?”
She shuffles papers as if she expects the answer to fall from the sheath.
“I’ll be vested in the 401K in a week. Can’t you wait seven days?”
~
Noah trudges up the stairs to his third floor apartment. The hallway light flickers with each heavy
step. Lauren’s absence makes his studio feel smaller. The futon couch, the mattress on the floor,
the two chairs at the round breakfast table stare at him, dusty and disappointed. Thinking of
Patient 0430 makes him disgusted with himself. He rubs his forehead to forcibly expel Lauren from
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his memory. She left him and he’s hurting. Even if she returned now, it would remediate the
leaving but wouldn’t touch the hurt.
Noah calls Perk, leaves a message on his cell. An hour later he calls again. The urgency to talk to
someone is unbearable. What courage it took for Maria to call him, only to be coldly dismissed?
Was Patient 0478 expecting something from him in the milliseconds before the gun popped? Noah
wonders what would have happened if only he had asked, “How are you doing?” A few words might
have been enough to allow the trigger urge to speed by. A few fucking words.
Noah walks downtown, hoping to run into a forgotten someone, hoping that something unexpected
will happen, which never does when you’re wishing for it. He studies crowds filling the sidewalks,
picks out those who might attempt suicide and those who might actually succeed — an
occupational hazard. Depressives can sense other depressives. His depression accounts for his
success as a Sitter, which is ironic, since a psychiatric history disqualifies impressive candidates
from entering the profession.
Noah visits Corset Girl, asks if she’s seen Perk.
“He’s spared me lately,” she says. She’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and no make-up. Without her
Gothic corset she looks vulnerable, like a turtle without a shell.
The bar is empty, though it’s after 11pm and other bars on the strip throb with live music and
insane screaming.
“He’s misunderstood,” Noah says, “and he’s a quarter of your clientele.”
“You’re a good friend,” she says with a lopsided smile.
“So is he,” Noah says.
She throws a coaster on the bar. “What can I get you?”
Noah orders a pint. “So you’re an actress-something?” He asks.
“I’m beyond hyphen. I own this pit.” She sips too slowly from a glass beneath the bar. Noah can
tell she’s drunk. “This is my end of the rainbow.”
Noah
downs
half
his
beer.
He
desperately
wants
to
say
“Do you miss her?” Asks Noah. “Your mom? Do you still miss her as much?”
something
kind.
“Do you really care?” She asks, pursing her lips with suspicion.
“I care enough to ask the question and listen to the answer,” says Noah.
She takes his glass though he’s not finished with his beer. She briefly lifts her head while topping
him off. Noah sees a soft light, a glint of promise in her gaze. Later, she doesn’t ask him to leave
when closing. She locks up; cashes out. She leans heavily on him as they walk to his apartment,
presses her head against his shoulder. He swells from the thrill of holding someone, the confidence
found when counted on for support.
Entering his apartment with her, he breathes through her nostrils air that is heavy with stagnation.
Before he can apologize or make excuses, she leaves his arm for the bathroom and runs the
shower. He finds an extra towel, puts it to the sniff test, and knocks on the door. Through the dim
light he makes out her shadow behind the shower door. Unsure if it’s desire or numbness that
drives him, Noah sheds his clothes and stands behind her. He tests her bony shoulders, her
butterfly tattoo with its wings drained of vivid colors, as if her skin was rigged like an electric fence.
She leans back. He moves self-consciously, as if they’re actors in a bad porn movie. She gently
kisses his lips. Mad groping follows, then she pulls away and lets out a scream. He freezes, as if
Page 155
now stuck in a bad horror movie. She jumps from the shower, porcelain skin dripping. She dresses,
trips while slipping into her flats, cowers from Noah when he offers his hand.
“What is it? What did I do?” He asks, suddenly sober, still frighteningly aroused. She screams
again, flings open the front door. “I thought you were someone else.”
~
Someone else? Noah wonders, gulping coffee, popping ibuprofen. He’s wrung out, wrinkled, and
hung over. He needs Ricki Lee Jones at this moment, her first album, or even Pirates, her second,
but can’t find either in his CD stacks. Lucinda Williams is missing. And Tom Waits. John Hiatt, too.
Noah can’t believe Lauren would take the music he curls up with when the black cloud socks in, the
friends he looks to for comfort until he finds his way out.
Too washed out for anger, Noah naps until late afternoon, then shrugs down the block to Hugh’s
Bruised CDs. He flips through a mess of loosely arranged stacks. Hoping to stumble upon one
replacement, Noah is amazed to find every one he desperately needs. What are the odds, he
wonders. A thin smile lifts the corner of his mouth. Maybe his luck is changing? He rubs the
scratched plastic cases. An unexpected familiarity warms him. He studies each one, then hangs his
head, sick with certainty.
“My ex-girlfriend sold you my CDs without my permission,” he tells Hugh.
“What did you do to make her do something like that?”
“Why is this about me?” Asks Noah. “Can’t she just be insane?”
“It takes two to be crazy,” say Hugh. “At least two.”
“I lost my job. I just want my CDs back.”
Hugh strokes his beard that reaches a belly that Noah hopes is filled with kindness in addition to
donuts. Powder streaks his CBGB T-shirt. Noah haggles a price for two CDs. He’s grateful to return
home with bits of his life he didn’t realize were missing.
~
These tiny reclamations feel like worthy accomplishments. A week goes by, Perk still hasn’t
returned his calls. Noah’s anger shifts to concern when an automated message states his number is
out of service. If Perk left town for Harvard Law, he’d believe it. If they found Perk’s body in the
gutter, he’d believe that too. But he’s ashamed by one cruel fact: he doesn’t know where to look
for him. He never visited Perk’s apartment. They always met on neutral ground, shared with each
other only what they cared to reveal. When they said goodbye, Noah assumed Perk stumbled back
to a similarly lousy apartment with sloping floors, a running toilet, a refrigerator filled with
condiments, white bread, peanut butter and whatever beer was on sale at Safeway. Noah realizes
he has no choice but to visit Corset Girl. She isn’t a friend, but she’s a link.
“Has Perk shown up?” Noah asks, careful to keep his tone flat.
She shakes her head wearing a big smile. Regardless of who she thought he was a few weeks ago,
her eyes sparkle now. He fixes a long, piercing gaze upon her. She stands nervously. She finally
turns away. He can’t figure her out, but thinks he’s tapped something soulful, fragile, and alluring.
She would take her life, if it ever came to that.
“What would you like?” She asks, throwing a coaster on the bar.
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“I came for a coaster,” says Noah, brandishing the round disc like an Olympic medal and steps
away. Her twisted expression could be mistaken for pleasure or pain. He stops, approaches the bar
again. She crosses and uncrosses her arms, tugs on the corset, moves haltingly as if conceding a
hug, but definitely not a kiss.
She gasps as Noah snaps her in a headlock and pummels her head with nuggies. His knuckle
grates against her scalp. “Are you crazy?” She says, fighting him off.
“How can I be someone else?”
He feels the heat from her nostrils. His touch lightens, until his fingertips comb softly through her
thick hair. Her defensive grip on his wrist relaxes. Noah can’t tell if she’s pushing him away, or
guiding him. This intimate confusion lasts only for an instant, when, from behind the bar, she
wields a short steel pipe, grip padded with tape. “Don’t you know I can kick your ass?”
“You didn’t,” he says.
She raises her head, face flushed. “You came back.” Her lower lips quivers.
Noah kisses her forehead and floats out the bar.
~
Noah sleeps hard that night. He wakes into a lighter body and spongier world. He visits the
Empowerment Center to speak with Mrs. Curling. “I heard there were two negligent demises this
week. Give me another chance?”
She stares off as if fighting a distant glare. “This job isn’t good for you,” she says.
“But…”
Her raised hand staunches his attempts at denial.
“I know about your depression,” she says.
“That’s nuts,” he says.
“I knew from the moment I met you.”
It isn’t the depth of the depression, but the open recognition of it that makes him as weak as he’s
ever felt.
“We can’t protect people from themselves. People with serious problems don’t start whistling and
skipping after a psych visit and a free pizza.”
“We’re weeding out the low risk folks.”
“Some people are supposed to succeed, right? Why else should the knives be sharpened, the gun
cleaned and oiled? Let’s be honest, here. Bad outcomes are expected.”
Mrs. Curling looks away. “We provide choices.” She clears her throat. “I’m worried about you,
Noah. Why would you want this job back?”
“It anchors me. Without it, I’m afraid I’ll disappear.”
~
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Noah begs Hugh again to return his CDs. “Sorry, dude,” says Hugh. “I’ve got two cats to feed.” He
agrees to remove them from the racks so only Noah can buy them. Noah reacquires the first Tracy
Chapman CD. Noah thinks he’d feel resentful or frustrated doling out money for things that were
rightfully his and stolen away. But he cherishes them anew, more than if they were simply pulled
off the shelves covered with dust.
Noah can’t find work. Rejection feels like a blow to the back of the head. If not for the treks to the
CD shop, he has little reason to dress and step outside.
~
Late one morning, still in bed, Noah dreams that Mrs. Curling lures him back with a huge signing
bonus. His first patient, Patient 0508, stuns him with joy. Perk doesn’t say hello. He’s thin, feral,
and stares ravenously at the sacks of pills, the noose, the knives, the shooting booth. Perk cases
the room in oversized wingtips. Standing in the middle of traffic, he reportedly said he was waiting
for a vehicle with good karma to hit him.
“Where have you been?” Noah asks. “I’ve left tons of messages on your cell.”
“Incommunicado,” Park says, as if it’s a hedonistic island off South America.
“You don’t just disappear like that.”
“Aren’t we free to do as we please if it doesn’t interfere with the freedom others?” Noah notices he
hasn’t looked back at the closed door.
“Didn’t you think that you might be missed?”
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“I thought you might want to talk,” says Noah. “Really talk.”
“Then what?” Perk laughs sadly. “Eventually the talking stops.”
Perk coughs, then sighs and mouths the gun barrel.
“Stop it,” yells Noah. “Do you really want to die?”
Perk removes the barrel. Their eyes lock. “I’m tired of distracting myself.”
Noah springs up from bed, drenched in sweat, shivering. He calls Perk’s cell — still out of order.
Craving a cup of coffee, he crumbles at the lightness and sound of a package with only a spoonful
of grinds. A storm of tears, violent and fast-moving, carves through his body. When it’s done, he’s
left exhausted, emptied, but also repleted. He looks around. The mid-day sun bleaching his
bedroom window is the only witness. He changes into a dry T-shirt that he picks off the floor.
Slowly, as if pacing himself, he collects scattered laundry, rips the sheets from his bed, and even
dumps out a few bureau drawers. He stuffs it all into two pillowcases, enough dead weight to pull
him off-balance when first flung over his shoulders, and marches to the Coin-O-Matic.
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Milan Smith has published 31 short stories in various magazines, including Pear Noir, Everyday Fiction,
Midnight Times and Crimson Highway. After he got his B.S. degree in business from the University of
Florida, he worked in the business world for two years, and hated it. Then he got job as a reporter for a
year, and hated that. Finally, he decided to try writing, and now works part-time at night and writes
during the mornings, and he loves it.
A Little Thanksgiving Brandy
Milan Smith
It was Thanksgiving Day, Edna had worked all morning on dinner, slicing and mixing and
baking, as well as keeping the kids out of the way – some of these “kids” being in their
30s – and sometime while stuffing the turkey, she lost her bottle of brandy. True, she’d
been a little tipsy, and she’d been in a panic to hide it before her husband Daniel saw it,
then right after that came the boys, Robert and Joe, and their wives, Cindy and Lisa, and
the grandchildren. Now they were all in the living room, the men watching the game, the
children playing with the new puppy, the women talking about Cindy's third now coming,
all of them out of the way and out of sight and here Edna was and not able to find the
damn bottle.
She had looked inside the drawers, the cabinets, the refrigerator, and nothing. Edna stood
in the middle of the kitchen, twisting her apron and muttering, "Where, where, where?"
She looked in the potato salad, the beans, among the pies, all through the leftover mess
on the counter, and even the trash. Nothing. All this free time to take a few sips, and now
the bottle up and disappears.
Edna walked to the door of the kitchen and peered in the dining room. It was empty, and
she could hear the TV announcer from the living room, as well as Daniel's sudden
booming laugh and the titters from Cindy and Lisa.
Well, since they were busy, Edna could look around, and so she did. She walked to the
bathroom and checked in the cabinets, but nothing. She walked back and checked the big
hall closet, then the linen closet. Again nothing. She headed back to the dining room and
stood by the table, twisting the apron in her hands.
She tried to think, but her mind just wouldn’t work. Now, she thought, if I had a little nip
at the bottle, that would clear my mind up right quick. But she had no clear impression of
where it could be. She tried the master bedroom, and while passing the living room door,
she glanced in and saw Robert's two boys petting the puppy, while their father watched
from the love seat. Back in the kitchen, Edna stood by the oven mumbling to herself,
"Where did that silly thing get to? Where, where, where?"
From behind, she heard Robert's voice. "Ma, what's the matter?"
Edna whirled around to face her son, a tall, bony blond. "Nothing at all,” she said. “Why
do you ask?"
"Because you've walked up-and-down the hall a dozen times. What’s wrong?"
Edna looked past Robert to the dining room, and saw no one. "You mustn't tell anyone,"
she said. "You have to be absolutely quiet. If your father knew, oh, I'd be so miserable."
"That's fine, ma, what's the matter?"
"You promise?"
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"Of course."
"Well, honey, you know when I cook, especially on Thanksgiving, I like to take a nip every
now and then, don't you?"
"You do like your brandy. You need me to get another bottle?"
"No, no. It's just that your father gets awfully upset when I drink, and so I've been very
careful, you see, to hide it. And I have half a bottle left, but it seems I might’ve hid it too
well. I mean, I can't find it."
"Oh, ma.”
"Well, shush, I'm a grown woman, and if I want a little drink now and then, well, that's
my business. But you know how your father gets."
"Alright," Robert said, "so when was the last time you saw it?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe an hour ago."
"Tell me everything that happened. What were you doing when you last saw it?"
"Well, I was making stuffing when I sent your father out to the grocery store – I had
forgotten the cranberries – and I took a sip or two. I felt pretty good, that's very good
brandy you know, that you gave me for my birthday –"
"Yes, ma, but what happened then?"
"Well," Edna said, twisting the apron in her hands, "he came home, and I got flustered
and put the bottle away, then I finished stuffing the turkey, and taking out the apple pie,
then put the turkey in the oven, then opened the cranberries, and you came and I rushed
out, then, well, I don't remember what happened. Oh, if your father knows, he'll just get
upset, and I don't want to ruin Thanksgiving just because he's a grump."
"Alright," he said, "so you definitely left it in the kitchen somewhere? Maybe in one of the
cabinets?"
"Well, I think so. Of course, I've been taking nips everywhere. The bathroom, the
bedroom, out in back."
"And you're not drunk yet?"
"Boy, I can hold my liquor," Edna said. "And don't you forget that!"
"Okay, okay, shush," Robert said.
They then heard Daniel's voice rise up from the living room. "Everything okay in there?"
Robert leaned out the kitchen door. "Everything's fine, dad. Everything's going right on
time." He turned back to his mother. "Okay, you check the drawers, I'll check the
cabinets. But be quiet."
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Edna sniffed at him, and began to open drawers, while Robert opened the cabinets, taking
care to look behind bowls and glasses, the glassware clinking as he searched. Both were
thorough, yet within five minutes, they'd found nothing. Robert then looked inside the
refrigerator and microwave. Still nothing. As Robert crawled under the sink to look, Joe
walked in.
"What're you looking for?" Joe asked.
Robert started up, slammed his head on the sink, and swore. "Keep it down," he said.
"What’s going on?"
"Just keep quiet," Robert said, and cussed some more. “Look, you know how dad feels
about ma's brandy?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, she's trying to be discreet about it. Understand?"
"Sure, but what are you looking for?"
"Well," Robert said, "you see, she sorta misplaced the bottle."
Joe turned to his mother. "Alright," he said, "how do you do that? Lose a whole bottle in
your own home?"
"I don't know," Robert said.
"Oh, shush, both of you," Edna said. "Now look, Joey, I can't find it. Either help me look,
or you go back to the living room and keep your father company, but either way keep
quiet."
Joe agreed to help, and all three searched the house, again going through the bathroom,
the bedrooms, the hall closets, and even looking outside under the bushes. Nothing. They
all met back in the kitchen.
"Where the hell can it be?" Joe said, barely a whisper. "Are you sure it's not in the trash?"
"Of course, I'm sure," Edna said. "I had half a bottle left."
"Well, try everything again," Robert said. "Just be careful, don't make too much noise. If
we don't find it this time, I'll see if I can find someplace still open." Joe nodded and all
three turned and walked out into the dining room, and then froze. Daniel stood before
them, staring hard at each one, suspicious.
"What's going on?" Daniel asked, his voice ringing off the walls, and his fat, white
eyebrows twitching. "For half an hour, all three of you have been running around, getting
into everything. You think I'm blind, or I can't hear? What're you up to?"
"Nothing, dad," Robert said. "Nothing at all."
"Bullshit," Daniel said. He pulled a chair from the table and sat down facing them.
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"Now, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on. And neither are you."
All three began babbling at once, trying to reassure Daniel, giving conflicting stories.
Daniel listened to them for two minutes, watching each of them in turn, then threw up his
hand for silence. They fell quiet, and waited.
As Daniel began to speak, an explosion from the kitchen shook the walls. The children
screamed, and Daniel fell off the chair as the oven door blew out of the kitchen, flew
through the dining room, then the living room, and crashed through the front window. The
turkey followed close behind. All four rushed to the window and watched the oven door fly
like a frisbee, skip off the road, and fly another 20 yards. The turkey hit the ground and
rolled almost as far. All were in awe and said nothing as Cindy and Lisa and the children
gathered around. The smell of hot brandy wafted in from the kitchen, followed by a cloud
of gray smoke.
Robert turned to Edna. "Ma," he said, "what’d you do?"
Edna blushed and began to twist her apron. "Well, Robert honey, if I remember right, I
got a little flustered when your father came home. You know why."
"Yes?"
"Well, in the rush, it seems I put the bottle in the turkey. With the stuffing."
"Oh, ma," Robert said.
"I meant to take it out," Edna said, "I really did." Daniel glared at his wife, but said
nothing. Edna looked from one to the other, then at the wives and children. She sucked in
her breath, then let it out. "Well, boys," she said, "could one of you run up to the store
before it closes, and get us a small turkey?”
“Yes, Ma,” Robert said.
“Oh, and since you're up there anyway, why don't you pick up a little, teeny bottle of
brandy?"
Page 162
Ami Sletteland lives in Eugene, Oregon. She writes a blog called, My Crumbling Empire, and is regularly
heckled by her mother. She is a psychology student, and has a collection of over sized gold dollar-sign
necklaces, she likes to wear them while cleaning. People tell her she eats too much salt, but she doesn't
let that get to her. She owns a copy of The ButterCream Gang, enjoys the Oxford comma, and she just
spent her last dollar on wax lips and a mustache comb. http://mycrumblingempire.com/
Know Your Rights
Ami Sletteland
Since most of what I do is mediocre, my art has become leaving behind secret and confusing
messages for people. Bacon in a tree, a shoelace smoothie in a church parking lot, and for my old
landlord, a coffeepot full of vomit. To me the messages are loud and clear. Bacon in tree; I'm
bored without you. Shoelaces in a blender; there is no God. Coffeepot vomit; you're a jerk and a
shitty landlord.
I may get this from my father who, instead of leaving notes behind, leaves shoes to let you know
he stopped by and you’ve missed him. I am the only one who can decipher his cryptic messages. If
the shoe is upside down, he just got out of jail and wanted to say hello. Sideways shoe means he
will stop back by in a few hours. Shoe with laces removed means when I see him I must refer to
him only as Rich Kennedy, that being the alias he came up with to use while speaking to police
officers. He believes it acts as a subliminal tool. No one wants to mess with a Rich Kennedy.
My aliases have been far less effective. I was going by Awesome McCoolrad when I was arrested,
the arrest resulting in the aforementioned eviction. The arrest itself was pretty standard: histrionic
friend freaks out and calls an ambulance because she believes I have consumed too much alcohol
mixed with too much Valium. Police show up, demand I accompany them outside, I remind them I
am of age and drunk in my own home, they get me outside hogtied and deposit me in the back of
the police car. After the event, I pressed charges and the harassment began.
It started with officers spontaneously showing up at my house to “have a look around.” I incited
their rage by politely refusing to let them in. After the fifth attempt to enter my apartment, an
officer shouted through the door that he was coming back with a search warrant. I invited him to
do so. In the meantime I turned my fog machine on full blast and sat waiting on the couch with my
sunglasses on.
The officer came back saying he had obtained a search warrant — impossible in such a short period
of time, but why waste a good bottle of fog juice? I let him in. When he asked what was going on, I
told him that I had my fog machine going (by this time you couldn’t see your hand in front of your
face), reminded him that it is perfectly legal to run a fog machine in one’s own home, and invited
him to look around while I relaxed on the couch.
Later, the officer contacted my landlord to let her know I was running a “rat factory” out of the
apartment and the unit should be quarantined. Having a pet rat apparently constitutes a “rat
factory.”
I’m not even sure what one does with a rat factory, but I imagined rats with clipboards and goggles
training other rats in the ways of factory work. “Here is where you punch your time card, this is
where you hang your coat, and this is how you spread the plague.”
My landlord visited me a few days later and asked that I move within three days. My reaction was
to flee to San Francisco. Leaving behind most my belongings, I tacked up the panic attack disorder
pamphlet explaining my behavior, puked in a coffeepot and walked out the door. The police were
coming at me full force for filing charges against one of their boys, and my old “Don’t you know
who my father is?” line wasn’t working on them. They knew I was young, poor and probably didn’t
know most of my rights.
Now I know that the next time the police come knocking on my door, it is well within my rights to
respond with a lacquered copy of 1984 and a clip-on mustache pushed through the mail slot.
They’ll understand what I mean.
Page 163
Ayat Ghanem is a poet and writer whose inspiration lays in her plural origin and multi-cultural experience. Of Algerian
roots, French born and British educated, she discovered literature in words of all alphabets and colours. A wanna-beacademic, she is currently wishing her PhD to materialize without her intervention and just writes itself out of smitten
love for her. Her poetry has appeared thus far in Poetry Super Highway, Lynx Poetry and Mastodon Dentist.
www.ayatghanem.com
Ayat Ghanem
Another Year
The moon had danced too fast
its revelation's heralded end unexpected
Unable to finish the task
she picked up her load and
carried on falling.
A Grain of Night
A long fingered dawn pointed at my bed
a grain of night I found
I measured it, in it was
space enough to fall in and out of
despair and desire. I lifted it
it weighed my burdens
and its load
It kissed me and caressed my brow
then burst leaving me with
respite and anchor.
Page 164
Randy Kohl is a Chicago-based writer and consultant. When he is not developing, creating and executing
Marketing projects, Randy also serves as Senior Writer for the Chicago Bar & Bistro Project and
contributor to the Radio and Internet Newsletter (RAIN). His works have appeared in Backhand Stories,
Perigee: a Publication for the Arts, Kaleidoscopic Resonance and Pology Magazine among other fine
publications. His interests include travel, story time with his daughter and anything with words.
http://www.chibarproject.com/ and http://launchpadchicago.blogspot.com/
Last High’s the Lowest
Randy Kohl
Time played tricks in the basement. No clocks there, no windows by which to judge the passing
light. Hours stretched like a drum skin across the shell of eternity. Whole days disappeared like a
spoonful of sugar in a cup of steaming tea.
He looked at the vial standing on the bench. One hit to last until God knew when. And she wanted
it. Her eyes — glazed, fixed and unblinking — spoke volumes.
“When’s he coming back?” Her whine an only child’s whine.
“Who knows?” He said. “You know the drill.”
“Why don’t you have a hook-up?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Do you know how much I hate it when you answer a question with a question?”
“You do?”
~
He finished the Coca-Cola. Rinsed the can in the sink between the junked washer and dryer. He
unsheathed a safety pin from its clasp and fought against the stored energy in its spring,
straightening it into a miniature rapier. He set the can down on the counter, using both thumbs to
exert equal pressure near the base. The thin metal skin gave, forming a small caldera in which an
object could lie. He gently stabbed the can with his sword, until a pattern emerged in the deepest
part of the crater. A question mark.
He took a ball-point and dealt a death blow to the can’s flank. He touched the opening to his lips,
using his index finger to regulate the flow of air through the carburetor. A fully functional,
disposable pipe at the ready and twenty minutes killed.
~
He only wore long sleeve shirts now. The sores along his forearms had become noticeable,
unsightly. He wore bandages underneath when they wept their infected tears. He willed himself not
to scratch, but the itch emanated straight from his marrow.
But deep down, despite the uncomfortable shirts and the sunglasses and the innumerable lies, he
knew he no longer fooled anyone, not even himself.
~
He despised her because he wanted to fuck her. He despised himself because he knew he couldn’t.
She slouched semi-prone, the hem of her sundress fallen to her lavender panties. The creaminess
of her inner thighs suggesting a false innocence. She tapped the sunken futon mattress beside her.
Consent was not an issue. Not when she was high, but only when she was high. It had happened
before, another way to pass the time until the re-up arrived. But the binges had grown in intensity
Page 165
and frequency since the last time. Remorse and no little bit of rage welled, just as the first bite of
withdrawal began gnawing at his insides.
~
He lit a cigarette and dragged only once. He didn’t really smoke. He tapped the cigarette over the
can, creating an ashen nest over the question mark. In its center, he rested a crystalline egg no
bigger than a grain of kosher salt. A ritual like any religion. The grandeur both more intense and
more fleeting.
The drug melted on contact with the flame, a lifetime’s dreams and failures encapsulated in a
momentary chemical reaction. The matter transforming from solid to liquid to gas. A trinity that
offered no faith.
~
The high peaked before the last of the smoke escaped the holding cell of his lungs. Her mouth
sealed around his, like a trembling, needy lamprey. They called it a ‘shotgun’, not a kiss. And if it
were a kiss, none had ever been exchanged with more earnestness or less emotion. It was the kind
of empty contact that left him as cold as a leeward stone. The itch along his arms returned anew.
~
At least six nonverbal cues announced a change in her demeanor. With the drugs gone, any
invitation was withdrawn, evaporated like the smoke along the floor joists above them. In a way,
this made him feel better.
“He’s not coming back is he?” She asked with no expectation of an answer.
“Abducted by cops. Arrested by aliens. Your guess is as good as mine.”
She shook her head with a mixture of puzzlement and frustration. She gathered her bag, smoothed
the loose-spun cotton of her dress where it clung to the symmetrical hemispheres of her behind.
“That wasn’t a question.” He said.
She ascended the warped wooden stairs, the complaints of the treads beneath her feet the only
sounds of farewell. And then she was gone and he could no longer remember whether her beauty
was real or only a figment of what she had been an addiction ago.
~
Perhaps he was high enough to make it home. To find a dark place under the covers where he
could fight toward an imitation of sleep. But he knew he couldn’t leave yet. If he did, he would
return and he never wanted to see the basement again.
The Dude would be back, sooner or later, a baggie of sea-foam white salvation in his pocket. And
then he could finish what had begun almost thirty hours ago. He had learned to accept the irony,
embrace it as the gospel, after failing so many times before. It was easier to drive to rehab, if he
were good and high first.
Page 166
Austen Roye has been previously published through Vagabondage Press, Chrysalis Press, and is to be featured in the
"Little Red Book" series through Lummox Press. He has completed four collections of poetry including "Your Manuscript
Was Recycled", "I’ll Be Damned", :Target: Audience" and "The Burn Means It’s Working". He is currently completing
work on his novels, "Too Bad, Kid" and "Greatest Hits". He currently lives in Cleburne, Texas and can be reached via email: [email protected]
Austen Roye
As It Is
That pain in the pit of your stomach
is there in order to bring you back to life,
to make you remember who you are
and where you stand among the
circumstances.
That pain is there to shake you awake,
to mask the dullness of everyday life,
to make light of your
plastic tragedies.
It provides you with a notion
of what real pain
feels like.
It pushes you out onto
the stage.
And if you buckle it only means
something terrible is dying within
you, clawing its way back toward
the light.
And when it passes and the feeling
subsides, a flat tire will be a flat
tire, rather than a valid reason to
walk into oncoming
traffic.
An end will be an end.
A cut will be a cut.
A sickness will be a sickness.
Everything:
what it is
as it is
and anything
but the end
of the
world.
Page 167
Craig D.B. Patton’s stories have appeared in various publications, including Aeon Speculative Fiction,
BOOK OF DEAD THINGS (Twilight Tales), NORTHERN HAUNTS (Shroud Publishing), and HELL IN THE
HEARTLAND (Annihilation Press). Additional stories are forthcoming in All Hallows and Shroud Magazine.
Most of his time is occupied by juggling two small children and attempting to keep the household on an
interesting heading. All of the following story is true, including the parts that are not.
The House Of Fallen Dreams
Craig D.B. Patton
She asked me one day if I wanted to go with her to The House of Fallen Dreams. I had no idea
what it was. I said yes. I would have gone with her anywhere.
~
I met her in freshman English. The alphabet had placed her seat right in front of mine. It was the
only time I ever thanked God for alphabetization. She sat down, introduced herself, and asked if I
liked Chaucer.
I knew he was a writer. I thought one of his books might be called The Cathberry Tales. Something
like that. I said yes, I loved Chaucer.
She smiled, and I knew she had seen right through my lie. I was naked before her and I loved her
from that moment on. But I could not understand why she had taken such an interest in me.
I didn’t waste time wondering about it.
~
“Tell me a story,” she said. We were drifting in a canoe down a sleepy river the summer before
senior year. She was leaning back on her elbows on the thwart behind her seat, letting the sun
caress more of her skin. I was trying not to stare too much at the swell of her breasts, visible over
her shoulders. She was like some half-naked goddess in her bikini top and shorts.
“Once upon a time…”
I could not go on. My tongue felt lashed to the floor of my mouth. My brain was broadcasting a test
pattern. I was embarrassed by my emptiness and felt guilty for failing her.
She said that I lived in a snow globe, not the real world, and that was why I could never tell
stories. My experience was too limited. My life too finite. Too clean.
I didn’t care while she was in it.
~
She was an only child. Her father worked long, hard days at something honest. When he was
home, he was either mowing his lawn or sitting in front of the television – “relaxing”. It was a strict
rule not to disturb him, so I mostly knew him as the silhouette of a head above the back of the
family room couch. Her mother shopped. She was on a two-part quest to find better deals than her
neighbors and to have better flowers and decorations in her yard than theirs. The low point was the
motion-activated garden gnome that called out “How’s the weather up there?” whenever someone
got too close.
She kept telling me stories about things that happened to the garden gnome. Someone painted it
like a barbershop pole. Someone dressed it in a ballerina costume. Someone put a snorkel and
mask on it and left it in the neighbor’s swimming pool.
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“Someone?” I asked.
She winked. “Someone.”
~
She was in the front row on opening night. I’d made her promise she would be since the whole
thing was her idea.
Sophomore year. Lynnfield High presents… Dracula! I was Dr. John Seward, caretaker and scholar
of the insane, honest and noble suitor to beautiful, doomed Lucy, who turns him down.
Being someone else for awhile would be good for me, she said. Give me permission to let go. After
I won the part, she called me John until the run closed. To help me live inside the role, she
explained. I called her Lucy one day, but she waved it off, telling me it would shatter the illusion.
“I’m proud of you,” she told me during rehearsals.
“You were great,” she told me backstage after the opening, handing me flowers and giving me a
hug.
It meant more than all of the applause. And I did feel different. Freer. But it faded as soon as the
wrap party ended. I could pretend to be someone else for a while, but I had to go back to being
me.
If that disappointed her, she never let it show.
~
The House of Fallen Dreams was in the woods beyond her family’s property. We climbed over the
rock wall at the border and started down a narrow path, pushing aside the vines and bushes that
would one day reclaim it. A development had been started back here when she was a baby, she
said, but they had only built one house before the project failed.
The land the development sat on was really an ancient kingdom, she said. Knights had battled in
the empty lots. Horse drawn carriages had bounced along the roads. But the land was cursed,
which was why the development had failed.
I asked her how she knew all this.
She pointed at an ancient, gnarled oak and said she used to have tea with a nymph who lived in it.
“What happened to her?”
She shrugged. “Faded away. Like everyone else.”
~
The fall of senior year, one of my friends asked me if we were finally going out. He was always
interested in who I was into and he was always into her, so it was an obvious topic of conversation.
I told him I didn’t know.
He launched into a speech about how hot she was and how we were together all of the time so we
obviously dug each other and how, if I had any balls at all, I’d ask her out.
Page 169
She was driving us to the movies in her rusted out Plymouth wagon with the sun-bleached wood
paneling when I asked if we were, in fact, going out. Tina Turner was wailing about something on
the radio.
She shut her off and told me we weren’t going out. She told me I needed to live in the moment
and not worry about how to label it. She told me my friend was an idiot. She told me we would
forget this conversation and enjoy the rest of our evening.
And we did.
~
It was a raised, split-level ranch. Half of my friends lived in them. Branches lay on the sagging,
moss-covered roof where there weren’t holes. The windows were empty, the bare plywood walls
stained with mildew. Thick vines grew across the cracked, concrete front steps. It was a ruin more
than a house and I told her so.
She gave me a wistful smile. “Don’t judge a book…”
I stared at the ground in embarrassment, scuffed at dead leaves with my foot. We had so little
time left. In a few weeks we would be in college, a thousand miles from each other.
She went up the steps. I followed her in.
~
She had boyfriends, of course. There was a parade of boys who I loathed with feverish intensity.
They were too boring. Too self-absorbed. Too ordinary. They wanted too much of her time. Too
much of her body. Too little of her soul.
I never said any of those things to her.
Once, junior year, we were alone in her house, working on homework, when the current boyfriend
dropped by. He barely acknowledged me. Just plopped down on the couch, almost on top of her,
and began pawing at her. She deflected his advances for a while, but eventually she asked me to
leave. I walked out shaking, my face hot with shame and rage.
But it was me she called every night before bed.
And it was me she took out to the house.
~
The inside of the house was empty. It was just framed up walls and hallways. You could see right
through to the outer walls in every direction. The slanting beams of sunlight coming from the
windows only emphasized the gloom.
There was nothing there. Nothing remarkable about it.
Except her.
I would not repeat the mistake I had made outside. I said nothing.
“I used to come here all the time,” she said.
“Your fantasy world?”
Page 170
“Mmmm.” She nodded, walking to stand in one of the sunbeams. “Except this was the real world.
Going home felt more like fantasy.”
I waited.
“But that’s all over now, too. Now it’s just an empty house.”
I wasn’t sure which house she was talking about anymore. I shuffled my feet, trying to decide
where to put them.
She turned and looked at me. “My parents are divorcing.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I guess it was just time to stop pretending.”
“That’s awful. I… God, I’m so sorry.”
Again the shrug. “It’s ok. But my Mom’s moving back to Pennsylvania….”
I nodded, not understanding.
“I’m going with her.”
My mouth dropped open. “Wh-“
She looked at the floor. “Yeah.”
“But, we’ll never…”
“Maybe I’ll come visit. Maybe you will.”
But we never did. We faded from each other’s lives, until my memories of her felt just as fictional
as Chaucer’s tales or John Seward’s struggles.
~
I’ve told many stories since that day. They are on pages and on line and on stage and on screen.
Except for the ones I make up for my children each night. Those are entrusted to their memory
and mine.
In each one, the protagonist encounters obstacles, overcomes them, is changed by them, and wins
the girl or the boy or the peace or the world.
Except when they don’t.
Because that’s just the way some stories go.
Page 171
His paintings have been called “a sublime blend of Tim Burton and Botticelli” by the Baltimore Examiner.
Patrick Fatica attended Ringling School of Art and Design from 1990 to 1994. He moved to Orlando ,
Florida in 1995. He spent the first few years developing a production company then went on to direct
several original plays and short films. A few years later, he and his two business partners created 2
music venues in Orlando called Back Booth. After almost a decade of traveling down different artistic
paths he dedicated himself to his painting. With over 30 shows between 2007 and 2008 Patrick’s PopSurreal portraits have spanned across the country. www.patrickfatica.com
Patrick Fatica
We Will Fold and Freeze Together Far Away From Here
Page 172
Patrick Fatica
I Will Be With You When You Lose Your Breath
Page 173
Patrick Fatica
Gone From Me, Soft and Sweet
Let Me Hold Her Close and
Keep Her Here With Me
Page 174
Vagabondage Press LLC
New Directions in Art & Literature
The Battered Suitcase
STAFF
Fawn Neun ..................................................................... Chief Editor
Maggie Ward .............................. Assistant Chief Editor, Art Director
Deb Perry ....................................................................... Art Director
N. Apythia Morges ........................................................Fiction Editor
Alice Bigelow................................................................Fiction Editor
Tania McIntosh.............................................................Fiction Editor
Laura Foxworthy ..............................................Fiction/Poetry Editor
Anne Murphy ............................................................Assistant Editor
Linda Evans ..............................................................Assistant Editor
Kim Acrylic ...............................................................Assistant Editor
Michelle Frank ...................................................................Art Intern
Ruth Lily ................................................................... Editorial Intern
Copyright for all art, poetry, lyrics and short stories in The Battered Suitcase are owned by their authors and their work is
published by permission. For permissions information, please email us at [email protected]
Page 175

Paul Richard James - Vagabondage Press

Transcription

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