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HUMDINGER LITERARY MAGAZINE Unforgettable Fiction and Poetry @www.humdingerzine.com, P & E Readers' Poll 2006 TOP 10: Poetry E-zine, Literary E-zine, E-zine Editor Editor-in-Chief: Chris Goebel/ Editor: RS Prasanna/Editorial Assistant: Chronika McDowell/Contest Judge: Tim Bruderek Volume One, Issue Eight April 2006 Bookmark this page as a favorite; visit monthly. Links below. MAINSTREAM FICTION, COMIC FICTION, POETRY, SHAKESPEAREAN SHORT STORY CONTEST, SPACE EXPLORATION, 15 LINE POETRY CONTEST, POLITICAL FICTION, SCIENCE FICTION, AUTHORS INTERVIEWS, HORROR, and FANTASY Lost Things By Cortney Todd The Winner By Dennis Arlo Voorhees Into The West By Brian J. Eckert ALBERT By Edward Shaw Dutch Boy By Lorena Smith Swamp Life By J. Kane Some are Dead and Some are Still Under Cups By Anna-Lynne Williams Eight Months By Megan Renehan The Protagonist By Delilah Gomez Sanguine By Sarah Higham Joe By Lorena Smith A journal for Janie. By Suzanne Cosquer Empathy. In The Neighborhood of OUR Bodies By Brian Alessandro
She paid no mind to time. She didn’t venture into the living room. She didn’t want to skulk the periphery, being still like she were a piece of melting ice. Her daddy said that once. “Be like the ice in my glass.” And he pointed to his glass on the floor, thin transparent slivers floating in still amber liquid. “But it ain’t doin’ nothing,” Tamara said. “‘Xactly.” Lost Things
By Cortney Todd The wooden necklace coiled like a camouflaged snake beneath the dry leaves. It was hard to say if it was hiding or ready to strike or perhaps waiting to be found. Nevertheless, it was difficult to see. Only when the sun hit the leaves just right did the wood reflect the rays and look different from its blanket. Tamera had gone to open the window when Linda told her to. Linda and her daddy were smoking something thick and Tamera couldn’t help but cough each time she dared bring air anyplace past her throat. “Open that window, girl, if you’s havin’ such a hard time with it,” Linda snapped. Tamera cracked the window until it hit the dowel rods and that was when she spotted the necklace hidden beneath the leaves in the basin between the ripped screen and the sill. She might have missed it, if the wind hadn’t gusted and some of the leaves flown to the floor. She might have missed it if she had turned when Daddy yelled, “Shut that, girl. It’s fuckin’ cold.” But she didn’t turn and the wind had blown and she spotted the necklace, grabbing it just before her daddy whacked the window closed and smacked her good upside the head. “Go play.” Tamera watched her daddy rejoin Linda on the chair that had crumbly pieces of orange stuffing falling from its cushion. Each smoked a cigarette and passed a pipe back and forth. “You git,” her daddy said again. And Linda cackled like he’d said something smart. Tamera stepped over a filled ashtray and crossed the room to the kitchen that looked more like a large closet or small hallway. She ain’t my Mama. She don’t matter, Tamara thought, her bare feet picking up some of the ashes and dirt that was too common in this apartment to be considered unsanitary. She squatted in front of the stove where a small table would have fit. The kitchen was an extension of the rest of the apartment. Paint peeling. Muddy shoe prints marking the linoleum floor which was tarred and black where squares were missing. Dirty dishes piled in the sink and on the counter. Dusty, upside-down glasses rested forgotten on the floor beyond the rattling refrigerator. If there were a door between the living room and the galley kitchen, Tamera would have shut it. Instead, she ignored the noises coming from the living room; the intermittent flick of the lighter and the smacking Daddy and Linda’s lips made when they kissed, like bare legs peeling from a vinyl chair. She had squished as much of the necklace into her palm as she could. She opened her hand and let the necklace unfurl and hang from a finger. The beads had been polished and made Tamera think of the wooden seat her daddy had on his side of the car—shiny, fun to push a hand back and forth, to feel the rolling on her palm. She would run her hands back and forth on that seat forever if he would let her. Tamera let her free hand slide from the clasp, down the beads that enlarged until they gave way to four animals carved from mahogany that hung from the base of the necklace: lion, tiger, giraffe and elephant. The animals looked like they could have come from a box of animal crackers, if not for their dark brown color. Tamera thought of her mother. Long batik prints draping to the ground. Thick nappy braids poking like tiny mattress coils from the bright colored fabric she wrapped around her head. Wooden jewelry dangling from her wrists, ears, and around her neck. Her mama’s tiniest movements clacked the beads and carvings together like applause, like everything around her was special. Tamara remembered asking once when her mother held her, “Whatchusmell?” She burrowed her head into the billowy fabric until her nose pressed deep into her mother’s thick flesh, inhaling exaggeratedly. “Coconut and patchouli.” At six, they were still long words for Tamera. She tried walking the animals along the floor, up her leg, a circus parade. She couldn’t keep all the animals upright while making them walk like she thought animals should. So she took one in each hand, letting the other two drag as she crawled past the oven and refrigerator, toward the glasses in the back of the thin galley kitchen. The five upside down, mismatched glasses, each housed a dead cockroach. Tamera knocked the noses of the animals against the glass and imitated their voices. “Can you play?” asked the elephant. “Is this the zoo?” said the lion voice. “Zoo sure ain’t snap,” said the giraffe. “Lemme out,” she imitated a cockroach and shook the glass so that it smacked the roach’s body around, an airy shell, the meat long ago decayed. And Tamera laughed, because she had never seen anyone play with the dead cockroaches in back of the kitchen and it was funny making the drinking glasses be a zoo. She made the animals zookeepers, letting them tend each cage, tilting the glasses slightly to push in tiny pieces of dried rice and pasta and shriveled bits of green vegetable that she found on the floor. Feeding time. She paid no mind to time. She didn’t venture into the living room. She didn’t want to skulk the periphery, being still like she were a piece of melting ice. Her daddy said that once. “Be like the ice in my glass.” And he pointed to his glass on the floor, thin transparent slivers floating in still amber liquid. “But it ain’t doin’ nothing,” Tamara said. “‘Xactly.” Tamera had tried. She stood in the corner trying to feel her skin melting into the air, her eyeballs dissolving into her face, her nose, her lips, her tongue all one. She closed her eyes and sunk her feet into the floor, her ankles temporarily holding her up, liquefying and inching away so that her knees soon would support her. They had laughed. Her daddy and Janelle or Janice—Tamera couldn’t quite remember her name. “Whachudoing girl?” he said. “Nothin’.” “You go in the kitchen and play,” Daddy had said that time, much like today. Usually, the kitchen was boring. No toys. Sometimes, she’d pretend she was cooking. She’d grab a frying pan and make like she was flipping pancakes high and catching them. Or she’d lie on her stomach and try to get her feet to touch her butt. But today, the necklace made for a good game. Tamera played roach zookeeper until she heard high heels on the steps, followed by three short knocks and a woman’s voice that wasn’t Linda’s. Tamera forgot about her game and crawled the length of the kitchen to poke her head into the living room. Her daddy removed a patterned brown and white faux fur coat from the new woman’s shoulders, exposing long brown robes. Linda had left the room. “Who’re you?” Tamera asked. “You mind your business,” said Tamera’s daddy. “But I just wanna...” “I said, mind your business. Don’t bother us.” Her daddy walked across the room to his bedroom and opened the door. The woman followed, her swooping gold earrings jangled when she walked. She gave Tamera a wink as she flounced past with sleeves draping and robes trailing like an angel costume Tamera had borrowed from a neighbor one Halloween. Tamera rose from her position on the kitchen floor and stepped into the living room. Smoke still hovered low, but it smelled different. Fruity, almost like coconuts. She stared at the closed bedroom door. The woman had winked at her. Did she know her? Women often came and went through the apartment and very few gave Tamera more than a grunt or a “hey.” A wink. Who was that woman? Tamera held the necklace in front of her, letting it fall as intended. Where had it come from? Who did it belong to? And then the question she had pushed away in the kitchen, could it be Mama’s? When her mother left, it took a long time for Tamera to realize that she was gone for good. She often disappeared for two days or a week at a time and then would breeze back into the apartment like she’d never left at all, like all that time she’d been at the laundry or in the bathroom. One week, two, a month. Tamera hadn’t thought that her mama was really gone until Daddy started kissing women in front of her. Then she knew. So much time had passed between when her mother left and the realization that she was gone for good, that Tamera didn’t give her mother’s disappearance its proper due. She didn’t understand the tightness in her chest when she’d glimpse a woman far away who walked like her mother; or her curiosity when she’d pass stores she knew her mother liked and wonder who was inside. She didn’t cry or ask questions and her daddy didn’t offer any answers. The necklace was heavy in her hand. She decided to put it on. She fumbled with the chunky hasp behind her neck and pulled a chair over to the unframed mirror hanging alone on the wall. Tamera stood on the seat and peered into the glass. She traced the necklace in the mirror and thought she was pretty in her mother’s jewelry. Mama. Where did she go? Tamera hadn’t asked that question before. She had just accepted that her mother was gone, but now looking into this mirror she began to wonder. Did she take a plane or a bus? Did she run away? Did someone take her? And then another possibility. What if she got lost? She might be looking for the apartment right now. Searching block by block. Tamera could almost hear her calling, see her asking people on the street if they knew where she lived. She could be cold or hurt or scared. She might think I forgot about her, thought Tamera. She might think I moved the apartment or that we moved without telling her. What if she’s trying to come back? What if she saw me on the street and I didn’t know her and she’s mad at me? What if she thinks I don’t want her back? Her mama had worn robes and the color brown and jewelry that click clacked. She had smelled like coconuts. The woman had winked at Tamera. She had known her. How would her mother come back? She couldn’t knock on the door and show up like she did after a day or a week. If I saw her and didn’t recognizing her... Would she come back then? What if she had been in the apartment earlier and left the necklace in the window for me to find? She could be waiting for me to recognize her; hoping that I would smell her smell, see that wink, find the necklace, remember. “Mama?” Tamera whispered and looked at the closed bedroom door. Maybe it was a test. Maybe if she didn’t go in and announce that she knew who that woman really was, her mama would leave again. She crawled off the chair and hurried to the door. She didn’t pause when she grabbed the knob, though she wasn’t supposed to go in the bed room when the door was shut. This was different. Her mama was inside, waiting for her. She flung open the door. Her daddy was naked. So was Linda and her mama. They didn’t see her at first and then Daddy started yelling and running at her. “You know better. You don’t open that door. Shit. I’ll beat your hide. I will. You git. You git outta here now.” “Mama,” Tamera said, looking past her daddy scrambling toward her, at the woman in the bed. “I remember you Mama. I ain’t forgot. I know it’s you.” “You git,” her daddy yelled. “Mama. It’s me. Tamera.” “Yo, I think she thinks I’s her mama,” said the woman. “No shit,” said Linda. Linda and her mother laughed, their big breasts bouncing up and down. They laughed until tears spilt from their eyes. And suddenly Tamera wasn’t so sure. “But, ain’t you... ?” “You git,” her daddy pushed her out the door. “Yo’ Mama ain’t never comin’ back. Throw that into your ugly head an’ remember. Yo’ mama’s gone. Now git outta here!” The women were still laughing and saying things to each other like, “You ain’t no mama.” “Girl’s fuckin’ crazy.” “Mama, shi-it.” The door slammed and their laughter filtered through the walls. “Girl’s got no sense,” Tamera heard her daddy. “Her mama’s gone, long gone and I wouldn’t let her back in here even if she wanted back in. That woman is bitch times one hundred, an’ as far as I go, she be deader than bones turned to ash in a cemetery. Stupid Tamera. Her mama don’t want her; she don’t want her at all, an’ Tamera comes bargin’ in here just like her mama mighta done. She needs a good ole smackin’ around. A beatin’. Somethin’ to get that whole mama thing outta her head for good. Her mama don’t want her.” “She thinks I be her mama,” Tamera heard the new woman say. “Ain’t that funny? Ain’t that crazy?” Tamera stared at the closed door and crossed her arms over her chest like they might block the words from entering her body. Her mama was bitch and maybe dead. At least that’s what Daddy said. And he was gonna beat her for thinking about a Mama who didn’t want her. And Tamera couldn’t think of anything she wanted more than smelling that coconut and playing with her mother’s rings and bracelets as she hung from her hip, legs dangling. “Uh huh. Yeah baby. I like that,” Tamera’s father’s voice was lower now, almost crooning from the room and Tamera began to shake. It started in her shoulders and moved into her lips so that her teeth chattered. She started jogging in place to get warm and stop the shaking, but she still could hear the voices in the room where her mama wasn’t. She had to go. She slipped on her shoes and velcroed them shut. She rushed out the door, down the three stories and was still shaking when her shoes touched the pavement and she began to run. Tamera sprinted past the row houses and apartment buildings, not stopping to look before she crossed the street. Her arms swung wildly as she tried to get her tiny legs to move faster. Whenever a streetlight glowed red, she turned and bolted a new direction. She ran as though chased by a wild animal or someone with a gun. Familiar houses gave way to the unfamiliar. Long shadows disappeared with night. Still, she ran. Snot hung from her nose. The necklace bounced against her chest. Cold air razor-bladed her throat. Her arms and legs ached, yet a hand on her back kept pushing her away from that apartment; away from her naked daddy and the women in the bed, away from someone who looked like her mama but wasn’t. And then she fell. She skidded on the pavement and ripped open her jeans at the knee. Her palms embedded with stinging gravel. “Shit,” she said, clutching her wrist and looking at her knee. “Shit, shit, shit,” she said like she’d heard her daddy say when he’d hit his foot on the coffee table or break a dish. “Shit...” She began to cry. She balled up on the pavement, sobbed into her knees and stuck her bloody palm into her mouth, tasting the metallic flavor. Her hand and knee hurt, but no one came and finally her sobs waned to whimpers and she looked around. The sidewalk was dark and deserted, not a streetlight or porch lamp lit. The hollow sound of the highway moaned in the distance. Tamera pulled her knees closer to her chest. The sidewalk was icy on her butt. The cold air chilled her sweat and she shivered. She had landed next to some stairs leading up to a dilapidated Victorian house. Tamera crawled from the sidewalk and curled her legs beneath her on the bottom tread, which was warmer than the cement. I’m lost, she thought. The word echoed in her brain. Lost. It was a scary word. She had never been lost before. She stared down the street one direction and then the other. Nothing was familiar. She couldn’t even remember which way she’d run before she fell. It was so cold. The nighttime, city orange glowed through the low hanging clouds like a candle at the end of its wick refusing to go out. Tamera peeked through a slit between two houses and over the roof of a bungalow in the next block, and barely made out the high rises. They looked far away. Probably as far away as the apartment that she had run from. The orange sky and the buildings bothered her, made the outside cold seem like it came from inside her. She looked down at her shoes and wished she had put on a jacket before she left. She pulled her legs further beneath her for warmth and felt the necklace shift against her chest. It had been in that window basin for a long time. Her mama didn’t put it there to test her. Her mama was gone. She unclasped the necklace and brought the smooth wood to her lips. Mama’s gone. And now I’m gone too. The metallic taste lingered. The highway seemed louder. Tamera leaned her head against the railing and closed her eyes. Maybe I’ll be home in the morning. I’m not lost. This is just the laundry. I’ll be home in a couple days. Just a couple days. © Copyright, Cortney Todd Gene steadied the gun, found the target and snapped back his index finger. A second after the trigger released, a hard crack sounded, and the men watched as the edge of the sign flapped in the sudden thrust of wind the bullet brought… The Winner
By Dennis Arlo Voorhees Arlene wasn’t gonna go for this. He’d already been caught in the bar at ten in the morning by her sister. She was stopping in to buy cigarettes and just happened to pick the VFW out from any other damn bar downtown. The thing was, he was supposed to start work today, a lie he never meant to tell. It sorta fluttered off his tongue. He meant that he planned on buying the newspaper, scanning the classifieds over a bloody mary or four. By now, Gene knew this was not the appropriate next move. Flowers and dinner and maybe her kind of movie was right, but after about a fifth of vodka, no amount of tomato juice in the world could make him think straight. Gene was thinking maybe he should turn back. Bring the huge Texaco sign back to the old filling station and surprise his wife at work with one of those fancy coffee drinks. But what kind of man would that make him? A quitter, just another wannabe in Wrangler jeans and chew spit dripping from his bottom lip. Besides, Randy was already on his way to meet him down on frontage road. Gene would show him. They’d lean that old Texaco sign against the barbed wire fence on the edge of the land trust, and he’d prove he was the better shot. Randy was even going to bring one of his daughter’s dolls, this giant cartoon sponge Randy won for her at the state fair. That way there’d be a target and a souvenir for the winner. Their own little carnival. Gene pulled his Ford Ranger off the interstate onto a dirt road and up over a sun bleached pasture. This was the same place he and Randy would go drinking in high school. To his knowledge the kids still do, but they couldn’t go. Once you hit 30, you can’t go to high school parties. Not unless you wanted be a dirt chicken, and Gene didn’t need to earn any more derogatory labels. An idea of a fire pit, some stumps and tallboys of Busch, scattered among the dirt. It seemed like the leftovers of an accidental party. Why choose this spot? The scenery gave nothing. The land was too brown, like the fields had burned and never been reseeded. You couldn’t outdream the landscape. There’s a joke that you could see all the way to Billings from there, and you probably could, Gene thought. Since Randy wasn’t there, Gene started setting up. He dragged the Texaco sign from the bed of his truck. The sign was twice his size, but made from cheap plywood, so Gene easily dragged it through the dirt, over a slight incline, and rested it gently against the rusty barbwire. Perfect placement. From fifty yards away, shooting from the shoulder, the bull’s-eye hung there at eye level. Crudely painted circles, on an off white backdrop, the sign had to be stolen from a driving range or shooting range or something. If it wasn’t for the black stencils that spelled TEXACO, nobody could argue any different. Slowly, like a rumble in his stomach getting louder, Gene heard Randy’s truck grunting down the road. About fucking time. He accelerated toward Gene, slammed his brakes, and the truck curled a stop around the fire pit. He hollered, spit out some Copenhagen onto the dirt. Randy wanted to be a movie redneck. He played the part well and hardly ever strayed from the stereotype. “Took you long enough,” Gene said “I’m surprised to see you here. I figured you’d be on your knees at Arlene’s work, saying it was an accident how you got shitfaced all day. In fact, you should’ve done that because I’m the best shot in Sanders County. You want me to fire blindfolded?” Randy slapped Gene on the ass and spat some more brown juice on the ground. “I’ll let my gun do the talking,” said Gene, game face on. Randy laughed. “Oh shit I almost forgot.” Randy pulled out a fifth of bourbon from under the seat threw it at Gene. Gene took a long pull from the bottle and handed it back. They both looked out in the distance in the direction of the sign. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s a perfect fit. Let me go get Sponge and we’ll be ready to go.” Randy gave a split tooth grin pulling the stuffed sponge from the passenger side. “This thing has so many fucking holes in it, Darcy won’t notice a few gunshot wounds. I know you won’t even hit it.” Randy laughed and ran toward the sign. Watching him zigzag across the pasture made Gene dizzy. He was drunk, maybe too drunk. He imagined loading his gun and shooting just beyond Randy’s head. A bullet he could hear buzz by. No way. He’d heard stories. Randy would randomly jump, and get it in the temple, and he’d be in jail, and some college kid in New York would read the local paper and ridicule him on some syndicated radio show. They’d never ask him to explain. Randy was back, his gun cocked and loaded, squinting at the target. Leaning his rifle against the truck, he dragged a line in the dirt with his boot. “We shoot from here. We each get three shots. I brought a marker so if it’s close, we can trace the distance to the bulls-eye, and as you can see, I drew a new bull’s-eye right on Sponge’s chest, right where the old one was. Ladies first, Genie.” This time his chew spit landed an inch from Gene’s boot. Gene didn’t reply. He sipped the whiskey, secured the cap, and let it fall to the ground. Randy whimpered as Gene brought the shotgun to his shoulders. He could see the target. Darcy’s toy hung like a bad joke that no one but the joker would ever see. In truth, it looked ridiculous against the burnt vegetation and the red sun. He had the spongy heart in his sights, and he waited. Randy was sure to say something to throw him off. But after a while, he dug his boots into the ground, inhaled the dusty air and pulled the trigger. For a split second, silence. Then Randy hollering. Gene missed the entire sign. He looked at the gun. Maybe the bullet was broken. Randy laughed and approached the line. “This is gonna be easier than I thought,” he said, whipping the gun to his right shoulder like he was in combat. Gene wasn’t even looking when Randy shot. At the sound of the barrel locking, he turned around ready to hear a small explosion of plywood. Nothing. Randy’s bullet was probably still racing through the air toward Billings. Randy kicked the dust, chuckled. Gene knew how it felt. It’s hard to talk the talk when you’re too drunk to walk the walk. Approaching the line, Gene visualized a bow-hunting trip he took to the Yaak valley last summer. He remembered a buck that ran away with the arrow in his chest. He tracked him for an hour, until the deer fell dead. Neither of his friends, who lived there all their lives, had killed a buck with a crossbow. Gene steadied the gun, found the target and snapped back his index finger. A second after the trigger released, a hard crack sounded, and the men watched as the edge of the sign flapped in the sudden thrust of wind the bullet brought. Sponge was unscathed. Barely. Gene struck the northwest corner about a foot from the cartoon’s foamy heart. “Not bad. This might be a competition after all.” Randy laughed again, taking the whole wad of tobacco from his mouth and tossing it in the fire pit. Randy missed again. Gene’s next shot went through Sponge’s eye. He felt great. Suddenly, his day had been validated. He had a right to be this drunk at three in the afternoon. While Gene registered each silent epiphany, a smile sprouted from his lips, and he looked toward Randy, who had already loaded his gun on the rack in his truck. “Better luck next time. Loser retrieves the target and the prize.” Gene wasn’t the type of guy to rub victory in his competitor’s face. He kept it all for himself. While Randy cussed and kicked his way to the target, Gene thought about Arlene. He could stop along the interstate and pick some wildflowers. He’d buy a bottle from the bar for the two of them to split. On any other day, he’d go straight to her work, but the bartender at the VFW had promised a shot of Grey Goose to the winner. So he’d go, take the shot and dedicate the rest of the day to Arlene. Maybe they’d go dancing. Randy was ten yards away, dragging the sign like an angry mule pulling a plow. “You got lucky I had a bit more to drink. I started at my house this morning.” Gene didn’t even denounce Randy’s excuses. He was excited for the Grey Goose, for Arlene, for the flowers, for everything. Randy let the sign fall in the dirt. Gene examined his bullet holes. Beautiful. The sponge looked stunned, one plastic eye shattered and a tunnel through his head. Not exactly a cartoon ending for poor Sponge. He bent over and picked up the souvenir. Standing up, Randy hovered just above him. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s my daughter’s toy. You get the sign, not the sponge.” Randy was dead serious. “Come on man. Your daughter will have nightmares with that thing sleeping next to her. We named the stakes at the bar and this is what we decided.” Gene laughed a little, hoping Randy would realize the absurdity of the situation. But Randy grabbed the stuffed foam man like an alpha male cat. He may have well just pissed on the sign and Gene’s gun. “I may not be the best father, but I ain’t gonna watch a grown man walk away with one of her toys.” He threw it in the bed of his truck and jumped in the cab. “Okay. Goodnight Randy. Good shooting today.” Gene couldn’t resist. Randy turned up his radio and extended his middle finger, then cussed away into the twilight. The sign would have to do. Anyone could see the bullet holes. It was good enough. Loading it into his back, Gene tried to understand Randy. He couldn’t. Randy was Randy, a big dumb beast, with a hardass heart, ready for anything to get in his way. Almost beautiful, Gene thought. Close, but no cigar. Once he got back on the interstate, it started to rain. A freak shower, the sun still shining in its final hour. Gene didn’t look for it, but he knew there was probably a rainbow somewhere. It seemed appropriate, appropriate enough for Gene to guzzle the last of the bourbon he salvaged from the shooting site. He pulled up next to the VFW. It was still early enough, before happy hour so the bar would be empty. With the sign pinched between his hands, he dragged the thing into the open bar door. He felt the same happy pride he did when he dragged that buck back to camp, as his buddies hooped and hollered. Before he could say anything, Rhonda’s voice… “What the hell are you bringing this in for?” Gene didn’t reply. He brought the sign to the back of the bar on the stage and leaned it against the back wall. That way everybody would see it, and everybody would know the score. He skipped up to the bar. “One Grey Goose on the house, please. Make it one of them big gooses, all fat feathery.” He smiled. “You never answered my question,” Rhonda said bluntly, as she reached to the top shelf for the vodka. She wasn’t mad. “That there is proof of my convincing victory. Old Randy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, let alone that Texaco sign.” Rhonda laughed. She knew Randy. She knew he was probably livid right now. “To tell you the truth, you were the underdog in my brain. That said, congratulations.” Rhonda handed Gene the glass. He slugged it down in one swig and almost started for the door. “How ‘bout one more Bloody Mary, while I wait for Arlene to get off work?” Gene asked without really realizing it. Arlene. He’d forgotten the flowers. Still everything was okay. He’d buy a bottle on the way out, meet her after work. No, he’d go take a shower, put on that shirt she’d got him for Christmas, splash on some Happy’s and wait for her to come home. He’d light candles. Gene paid for his drink and found his regular stool. His newspaper was still there open to the classifieds. He sipped his drink, then shoved the whole thing down his throat. Through the glass, he saw forklift operator, hiring immediately, outlined in the bits of tomato juice left in the glass. Should he call from the bar? No, he was drunk. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Arlene’s face would light up if he told her he had an interview. That’s what he’d do. He’d call tomorrow for sure. Gene got up from his stool and studied the sign. He fingered the bullet holes. He had won. Gene was back. Back and ready for anything that might get in his way. Trotting like a movie star in some triumphant scene, Gene approached Rhonda and bought her nicest bottle of wine. On his way to the door, he blurted, “I’m back. In the saddle again.” © Copyright, Dennis Arlo Voorhees The West was built on the pioneering spirit and people not afraid to pack up and go at the sign of a better prospect. I was a ghost of that spirit, passing unseen through the countryside, seeking to set something right so that I could be at peace… Into The West Brian J. Eckert Day 1: The Danger of the Mission Becomes Apparent
10/5 The drive appealed to me in a primitive way. While dangerous, it brought the thrill of the hunt. Men use the same skills to drive as they once used to kill wild beasts. Hand-eye coordination. Stealth. Cunning. Aggression. I would need these to survive in the Blacktop Jungle. My adrenaline flowed. I was in a fight for my life. The highway is a grave foe. I quickly realized I would need both physical and mental resolve to overcome it. I fought the discomfort of sitting at a ninety degree angle for several hours. My legs cramped. My back ached. My mind wandered. I focused on the pain. I admired the scenery. During the early stage of the drive, I looked over my shoulder and saw my stuff piled high in the back seat. For a moment, I questioned what I was doing. I couldn’t decide if I was a man of destiny or a slacker dodging reality. I lost focus. I tried to hone in on the road but my mind eventually wandered. Many times I jerked out of a daydream and had no memory of the last several minutes of the drive. The flashing white lines hypnotized me. I operated by some primitive autonomic response during these periods; a subconscious auto-pilot. I questioned its reliability but knew I would have to depend on it. Mistakes are sudden and often fatal on the interstate. One moment of lapsed concentration would bring my journey to an end. I could have fallen into a trance, only to awaken to the squeal of brakes and a face full of glass. Flesh and bone are no match for steel, asphalt, and the grim physics of a high-speed collision Interstates are maintained by crude men who work with metal cages in rapid motion around them, always a split second from disaster. They wear bright orange vests, sunglasses, hardhats, work boots and a layer of road grime. Their faces are rough and prematurely wrinkled from years of smoking and physical labor. They have a well-earned reputation for standing around on the job, consolation for doing such coarse and dangerous work. Like most of the working class they don’t particularly care for their job, but take pride in what they do. They stand dignified and unflinching as cars and trucks breeze by at high speeds. They don’t give up ground. This is their turf. It is also the realm of truckers and their giant rigs. They are the cells of America, transporting materials to and from major areas. The interstate is their home. It belongs to them. Truck drivers are to the interstate what sailors are to the sea. They are living, working knowledge of it. At a certain point the two are inseparable, each a part of the other. Eighteen wheelers rule the road. All other vehicles give way to the giants or pay the price. They go where they want, when they want. If one is in the rearview, speed up or give way. When passing one, get it over with quickly. I became nervous every time I pulled along side one of the big trucks. They threatened to swallow me up at any second. Truck drivers are a strange and mysterious lot. They are inexplicably drawn to the open road; compelled to follow it. They are descendants of gypsies, not content to stay in one place for long. They are drifters in self-imposed exile. There are rumors that the sexual habits of truckers are similar to prisoners and sailors. Certain rest areas are meeting places for their raunchy late night encounters. I stopped for lunch at one highway exit and found a picture of a naked man holding his partially swollen member in one hand. I had stumbled into one of their sordid rendezvous. I gazed at the photo with equal parts revulsion and fascination. It was a relic of the seedy trucker underworld. . While deadly and full of sinister characters, the open road is also symbolic of freedom. It is the call of the wild. I felt savage and untamed. All I could do was turn up the music, slide on a pair of shades, and set the auto pilot for the other shining sea, stopping only when I ran smack into the Rocky Mountains. Perhaps I was no better than the truckers who eloped in their truck cabins. I had my own perverted motives. Days 2 & 3: A Temporary Relapse into Sanity
10/6 It was difficult to think of anything other than the 1700 miles of open road awaiting me. The frantic pace of the interstate had kept me focused on the drive, but now there was time to ponder my plan and have doubts. A comfortable bed and high-definition television blunted my wild edge. The journey seemed pointless. I was driving into uncertainty and away from prudence. The uncertainty led to fear. Fear began building inside me. It lurked within, threatening to rush to the surface and consume me. I felt it in brief surges. A cold tingle at the base of my spine. Paranoia. Disintegration of sense of purpose. Sensory failure. Panic. It rained as I looked out the window at suburban Pennsylvania. The rain brought out the smell of the land. Foliage was nearly peak. The drops of water fell at a steady, soaking pace. They beaded up on my freshly polished car and streamed down the side. The view was much the same as from my bedroom window in New Hampshire. For a moment, I thought I was still there. The past two days had been a daydream. I barely left the house my whole stay. I was just in another box in a different part of the woods. It was like flying into an airport and waiting for a connecting flight. I only saw the inside of a terminal. There was no real affirmation that I had changed location. I sat hunched over a steering wheel for 6 hours and watched the landscape go by, and then I was somewhere new. My primitive brain struggled with the concept. My emotional state made for a painstaking stay. I was glad to be with family, but the weight of the journey loomed overhead, consumed me, and I was anxious to move on. A rambler is not content for long. It is difficult for him to commit to one place. His mind is usually elsewhere—the next destination, the next road, the next safe haven. As a result he has trouble existing in the moment, and must take extra time and energy to do so. 10/8 I looked over a map at the names of the places I would be passing through: Joliet, Illinois; Portage, Indiana; Aurora, Nebraska. I would mean nothing to any of the people in any of these places. I would meet nobody, probably not so much as exchange pleasantries with a store clerk. I wouldn’t meet any interesting people or hear their stories. And they would never hear my tales, or know me, or what drives a man to pack up his car and speed off across the country. In part it's because I don't care about Brookville, Pennsylvania or Delta, Ohio. I'm afraid to make it happen in Gary, Indiana. I could meet a fresh, corn-fed blonde outside Des Moines, build docks on the banks of Lake Eerie, or teach school children in suburban Indiana. I could start a new life in any place. But for the moment, they existed only as romantic fantasies to distract me as I closed in on Denver. My new life in a new place awaited me there. All I could do was gun the engine up to 85 and blaze through the countryside, a shooting star in the night. Somebody would see me, car overstuffed with worldly possessions, way-out-of-state plates, riding along in a puff of blue smoke. I would be a momentary flash of light; a brief source of wonder. And then I’d be gone, another memory lost to the ages. The West was built on the pioneering spirit and people not afraid to pack up and go at the sign of a better prospect. I was a ghost of that spirit, passing unseen through the countryside, seeking to set something right so that I could be at peace. Day 4: A Ghost Story of the Open Road
10/9 I felt carefree and fresh for the first 500 miles of the day. Nothing could stop me. The rolling, misty hill country of East Pennsylvania leveled off as I made it through the western part of the state and into Ohio. I passed through the sprawling tributaries of the Ohio River Valley. I enjoyed the scenic view while it lasted. I was melancholy about the potential experiences off of each exit ramp. But by now I had given up such fantasies. The mission was paramount. I was a crusading warrior. There was nothing for me here or at any of these places. This cheesy sentimental crap could endanger the mission. With my sights aimed forward, progress seemed imminent, whether one second, one breath, one thought, or one 1/10 of a mile. The agricultural doldrums of the Great Plains loomed on the horizon. I stopped at a Subway in a small town. I devoured half a sandwich and stretched out in the parking lot. I sat on the curb and watched traffic go by. The view of the small downtown could have been from any town in America. This was a chance to fulfill my longing for spontaneous adventure in a random stop off the highway. The people were all around me, their stories waiting to be told. I could grab a local paper, find a job and an apartment and hunker down for the winter. The good times were waiting to be had. But now they didn’t seem so ideal. The place was ordinary and sad like any town. I was stalling. I knew the next leg of the journey would not be easy. Once I stopped I began to lose my edge, and I still had at least 350 miles to reach my goal for the day. The clarity of daylight faded, and with it my confidence. The dangerous, unpredictable night approached. I had my work cut out for me. The first tingle of fear crept up my spine. After 650 miles, the romance of the drive had worn off. My mind and body were weary. Hallucinations and fatigue set in. Fear took hold. I no longer had the strength to fight it. I didn’t trust myself. I hung in the right lane line well below the speed limit. Brake lights came on all around me like eyes opening wide with alarm. I tensed up and panick, momentarily paralyzed, as if time stood still and the last image I saw was seared into my mind’s eye. I snapped out of it and braked in a panicked and jerky fashion. I yearned for a roadside refuge. I felt as though I was in a dream and aware of it, but not in control of the situation. At one point my eyelids grew heavy and fluttered with drowsiness. I saw myself stay straight around a sharp curve and plunge into the abyss where I could sleep at last. I strayed off course outside of Chicago. I lost I-84 and headed north into the Windy City on I-294. I suspected some sort of primitive voodoo from the great city lured me there, an animal attraction. Fear gripped me. The road unwinded one frame at a time as I flashed between the frozen time of fear and reality. A slideshow of paranoid flashes. I was exhausted and lost in a foreign city. I tried to remain calm, fighting the fear with a blues music medley. I felt as though it was broadcast straight from the smoky, sour-smelling dives of the city that became a Mecca for bluesmen in the mid-20th century. I got directions from a heavily accented south-sider working a toll booth and regained course. I needed to stop, but not here. The barbarous city-limits of Chicago were not safe. I pushed on until I entered the Caucasian confines of Iowa. At approximately 11 PM, I finally decided to call it a day, and exited the highway in Davenport, Iowa toward the lodging signs. I selected a Motel 6, which at $33.99 was the cheapest around. The lobby clerk was a fat, sludgy-looking woman who could have been between 22 and 52. Age is nearly impossible to determine in their species. Speaking to another human being after 14 hours alone in the car was unnerving, as if she somehow knew I started to have delusions the last hundred miles. She couldn’t be trusted. This small town swine would turn in a swarthy out-of-stater in a heartbeat. The room was unremarkable but more than adequate. I left my car packed save a change of clothes and toiletries. I parked in front of my room so I could hear the car alarm. I had just laid my head on the pillow and given in to sleep when loud bass jerked me to attention. I heard voices in the parking lot and peeked through the blinds like a madman. Below was a group of black guys. Some hung back in the car, others roamed the parking lot. A few leaned up against my car, drinking forty ouncers. The music pumped. A mix of fear and anger swelled up inside of me. I looked at my car filled with worldly possessions. The sense to protect my belongings trumped fatigue. I stepped out onto the deck shirtless, pretending to make a phone call. I puffed out my chest and leaned menacingly over the rail. They ignored my car for now. I considered calling the police, but the thought of John Q. Law jarhead types showing up on the scene didn’t make me feel any better. I cursed my fate and considered breaking off a chair leg and running down into the parking lot with the splintered piece. I would attack the biggest one. Jam it into his eye socket. After about thirty minutes, they retreated to a room. Still wary, I decided sleep was more important. I laid down and it quickly washed over me. Day 5: All Psychotic Vision Quests Must Come to an End
10/10 With one final push, I attempted to put the ghastly plains behind me and sped on toward Denver. It was a cold, crisp morning on the prairie. The sun was out and I felt fresh and rejuvenated. I had to treasure every moment of daylight. With darkness, paranoia and fear would return. I was a werewolf waiting to turn, fending off the beast within. I put Iowa behind me without a second thought and entered Nebraska. It marked a significant point in the journey: the last state I had to completely traverse. But it would require more miles than any other. As I moved into the cornhusker state and west of Omaha, my gas light came on. I saw a service station almost immediately but pressed my luck and continued. After 15 miles, I saw no signs and became a bit worried. I slowed down to conserve fuel. After 25 miles, the gauge was down as low as I’d ever seen it. I panicked. Any moment now, I expected the car to sputter and coast to a stop along the shoulder of I-80. At last, I found a station and brought my thirsty steed in for a drink. After filling up, I pulled along the side of the place and devoured half of a day-old sub. The sun sagged toward the west. A man in a Coca-Cola truck stared at me as one would a dangerous animal. He sensed the change coming over me. I growled, put the car in drive, and stomped down on the accelerator. I thought of Native Americans as I passed through the plains, home to the Sioux, Crow, and Blackfoot. As I gazed out across the prairie, I saw them standing proudly, wind moving through their long, raven hair. They maintained a balance with each other and the Earth that by comparison makes us look destructive, short-sighted, and evil. The farms and bulky machinery I passed were tokens of a society much further from utopia than the one it replaced. Unfortunately for them, they occupied some prime real estate. They were dispatched of like an infestation of insects. Nearly every last one was exterminated. If anyone has a good reason to fly planes into buildings, it is Native Americans. These were my thoughts as fear and madness regained control. I entered Colorado at dusk. Daylight was nearly gone, and I pushed on at a frantic pace. Only the occasional farm disrupted a landscape that was still very flat, yet slowly gaining the shrubby, arid look of the West. There was nothing east of Lincoln, Nebraska for nearly all the way to Denver. It was no man's land—no phone service, no other vehicles for dozens of miles at time. I pressed on at greater speed than ever. I didn’t want to break down here. No telling if help would come, or if it did what sort of demented local would offer it. I didn’t trust myself either. With the sun down, the possibility of resulting to bestial behavior was at a peak. I could easily snap and mutilate a good Samaritan. I passed undetected across the American landscape. My body ached and my mind reeled from hours of driving, crossing two time zones, and the slow ascension to the mile-high acropolis. At last the signs displayed the mileage to Denver. The first, at 268 miles out, prompted me to extol with a barbaric howl and pump of the fist. Those that followed were an excruciating countdown to the end of the journey. My mood lightened at the prospect of a warm plate, a cold beer, and a conclusion to the desperate saga. Just as I let down my guard, I was met with an icy winter blast from the Rocky Mountains. The mix of snow and rain induced a flare-up of fear.Visibility was very poor. I could barely make out the lines on the road. I fell in behind slow-moving traffic and held the wheel tensely, bracing myself for disaster. Fear had all but taken over. I considered shacking up in a hotel for the night and waiting until morning to finish the drive. I wanted to give up. But suddenly, I felt a surge of inspiration. There were only 50 miles to go. I realized how far I had come and laughed out loud. No snow squall was going to stop me. I was a man of destiny on the brink of reaching the Promised Land. With a wide grin, I moved into the left lane and barreled headlong into the storm. This was the final stage of my journey. The last test. It was the West's way of welcoming a new son. © Copyright, Brian J. Eckert He's saving up to buy a coffin. He says two or three years ago, before his eyes finished going 'pletely blahn’, he saw the coffin he wanted down to the undertakers' and he said ah'm gwine be barr'd in dat box! ALBERT By Edward Shaw ALBERT IS A BLIND man who sits in the alleyway behind a big department store downtown and plays the guitar every day except Sundays and holidays because there aren't any shoppers on those days. It isn't actually an alley, but a long driveway that goes around a curve into the middle of the building like a cave and stops. It's mainly for deliveries. When it rains or snows, the roadway will steam from the truck tires carrying the weather in. Where Albert sits, which is right before the curve looking in from the street, there is a door and a yellow walkway painted across the concrete where the people come from the north side of the store over into women's delicate apparel and imported gourmet delights on the south side. Every once in a while, someone will drop a dime or quarter into the cup hanging down from the neck of Albert's guitar by a piece of wire. When he first started playing there, Albert used to say thank ya’ and nod his head to everyone who would give him some money or would clap. But now, he just keeps playing his guitar and doesn't say much of anything any more. He still nods for actual cash though. Albert isn't a total alkie, if you get my meaning. He lives on Blaney Street because he doesn't make much money playing the guitar like he does at the department store. He's lived here a long time, and of course the street kept getting worse during the same time Albert's eyes were going bad, so he doesn't actually know much of a difference. But the main thing is Albert doesn't drink all his earnings up. He's saving up to buy a coffin. He says two or three years ago, before his eyes finished going 'pletely blahn’, he saw the coffin he wanted down to the undertakers' and he said ah'm gwine be barr'd in dat box! He says the price is one thousand even, 'cludin' de plantin', and he figures he's just about got enough time to save it up. Well this one time Albert sat in his folding chair tuning his guitar. Of course, Albert never really was in tune except by accident, because his ears weren't too much better than his eyes were by this time, but anyway he was tuning his guitar when his ears heard another guitar tuning up right beside him. Of course he thought he was going crazy he says, but before he could say anything, the other guitar said mind if I play a few with you? Nothing like this had ever happened to Albert before so he just said naw, whaddaya know. The other guitar said he would just play along with whatever Albert played if that would be all right. Albert still didn't know what to do so he just started playing "Life is Like a Mountain Railway" and singing the words. The other guitar joined in. He played a lot better than Albert did. Albert would just strum up and down on his guitar with his metal pick, of which he uses beer can tabs, mainly Stroh's. But the other fellow played the song all up and down the neck of his guitar and sang harmonies, as he called them, to every note Albert sang. A lot of people at the time said they thought it was an actual radio playing before they saw it was the two men in the alleyway. At first, Albert didn't know what to think so he just kept singing like he always does, with his head slumped over his guitar and his voice pouring more or less down into his shoes. But after the second verse, when it really sounded good to Albert and he heard how the other guitar's voice made his own singing sound a lot better and helped him stay on the right notes, Albert started really enjoying himself. He picked up his head, tapped his foot and sang as loud as his voice would go. When they finished the song Albert was smiling, which startled him for a second, and then he heard a lot of clapping and that startled him even more. It sounded like at least a hundred people. And then his cup began rattling with money. He says the onliest way he knowed it warn't rainin' money is that they warn’t nuthin' hittin' me on mah haid, which became his favorite joke around Blaney Street for a long time after that. All he could think to do was to keep saying thank ya, thank ya, over and over again to everybody in all directions. Then he reached over and touched the other guitar's arm and said d'ya know "Midnight Special"? and the other guitar said sure, what key? Albert told him "A" and they tuned up a little again. Then they played this new song and it sounded even better than the first one and everybody around clapped in time with the music and singing along with them at the choruses. And all during the song, people kept dropping money into Albert's cup. Some even put bills in. He knew it would be more money than he’d ever made in one day before, maybe even more than a week. He could feel the actual weight of the money hanging in his cup pulling the neck of his guitar down. When they finished the second song, there was more clapping and it sounded like there were even more people than before. There was more money too. So they sang another song, and then another one, and everybody had a really terrific time, especially Albert. Then finally it got to be the closing time of the store and Albert heard the people beginning to move away. Albert turned to the other guitar and said ah gots t'go now, Mistah, and then began putting his gear away. He moved very slowly. This was because his mind was concentrating maghty hebby on all dat money, he says. Ah knowed all 'long what ah should do, Albert says, but it sho’ ‘nuff seemed mah good angel done lef' town at de mos’ croosh'list moment. Listen, he said finally to the other guitar. Y'all bettah take ha’f dis h'yer money, hear? Yo' sho' 'nuff earned it. So he poured out all the money into his cap on the ground in front of his chair and listened for the other guitar to pick out his share. But the other guitar didn't say anything and Albert couldn't hear him taking any of the money. Then he felt his right should being patted and in a minute Albert heard the other guitar walking out of the alley whistling "Midnight Special." Thank ya! Albert called out. Thank ya, sir, thank ya! Of course, he couldn't see the other guitar waving goodbye as he turned up the street, and in a few minutes all Albert heard were the sounds of the city going home. Thank ya! he called out one last time, and then discovered he was crying. © Copyright, By Edward Shaw When I first heard the diagnosis, I was determined to pull him into my world. I sat endlessly trying to make him speak, make him look, make him do… Dutch Boy
By Lorena Smith JJ cried all night last night. Sometimes he does that. I long to help him but I can’t. He is autistic they tell me, locked inside himself inside a world that they tell me I have no access to. I don’t know what he wants. He puts his hands on my face and cries, “Mamma, mamma!” one of the few words he can say and I feel my heart break and shatter because I can’t help him. It’s like when water freezes and splits open the rock, there is no way to mend it, there is no way to stop it. My heart will always be scarred and broken by his tears. When I first heard the diagnosis, I was determined to pull him into my world. I sat endlessly trying to make him speak, make him look, make him do. And then slowly I began to realize that his world is beautiful too. So I stopped trying to yank him into my world and tried to go into his. We sit for hours at the fountain in town watching the water skip over the stones and cascade into the pool below. We fall asleep watching snowflakes drift lazily past the window, his cheek against mine, his hand holding my little finger. We watch a bug make his way up the wall. I learn things about him. He loves the color blue. He likes Led Zeppelin and country music. He can’t stand still when he hears the opening bars of a song he likes; he dances and giggles and gurgles till we all giggle too. He loves without restraint, without strings, without malice. His heart is so innocent and so pure. It is breathtaking. He sees things no one else sees. To me it is a stone; to him it is a universe. I once heard someone say that having a child with special needs is like getting on an airplane for a trip. You think you are going to Venice and suddenly the stewardess says you have landed in Holland. Well, you can spend your time crying for the gondolas or you can get out and enjoy the windmills. It’s not quite what you had expected but it is beautiful all the same. So I call him my little Dutch boy. To remember that windmills are as beautiful as gondolas. © Copyright 2006, Lorena Smith …Father took me and my brother in his lap and warmed us and told us to stop crying, and we did and that was when I heard the story of Omaca for the very first time…. Swamp Life By J. Kane My Father taught me everything I know about living off the land. He was a Native American Indian belonging to the Seminole tribe. The Seminoles never made peace with the white man, and the white man never took their “magic,” as my Father would say. He would tell me and my brother stories of days long gone, when the swamp was full of all sorts of fish and game. There was one story that I asked him to repeat over and over. It was about an Indian maiden by the name of Omaca who became a full princess and spiritual leader of the tribe. I loved this story partly ‘cause I was a girl, but mainly ‘cause I guess I wanted to be like her. We lived in the area known as the Big Lake, which was called Okijobi and is today located in Florida. “My father and his father and his father before him—before time—live here and the great spirits were here with us from the beginning,” my Father would say. He was a man of few words standing almost six feet tall, strong in build with burnt umber skin of leather; thick, black hair adorned his head and his arms were strong with big hands. I always remembered his big hands that never seemed to stop working. He would smile, but only with his eyes. His voice was soft and he never repeated an order, never. He was a “human being,” a true man and he deserved and demanded respect. I only saw him get angry once and that anger was directed at my older brother. Believe me, you didn't want to have it happen twice. My memory of my Mother goes back when I was only two or three years old. I remember her warmth and beauty and her singing me to sleep. She was said to be little in stature but big in heart. I remember one day crying and wanting to hold her close and be held, but she did not come when I called and I felt alone and scared. But Father took me and my brother in his lap and warmed us and told us to stop crying, and we did and that was when I heard the story of Omaca for the very first time. He began by telling us, “Long ago, when all this land and all the water and all the sky touched each other, there came from the heavens a great thunder and light, and there appeared the first of our people. Our great ancestor arrived without clothing and he was alone and cold and wet. He cried to the great spirits and wept and stomped the ground and asked them to grant him warmth. The Great Father, hearing his plea, took pity on our ancestor and sent down fire and this was good. The man thanked the Great Spirit. Time passed, and the man grew very lonely because he could see the other animals had been given mates and he too wished for a friend. He cried to the heavens and begged the great swamp spirit to send him someone so he would not be alone. The spirits heard his prayer and once again took pity on our ancestor. “In a dream, he was told to go deep into the swamp and there he would find a beautiful flower; this he was not to touch, but to burn as a sacrifice to the great spirit of the swamp, after which he would be rewarded. The man did as was seen in his dream and cut from a great willow tree a log that floated upon the waters and was pushed with a long stick. For this, he had seen in the dream. It was still dark when the man set out into the dark, jungle swamp. He traveled until he reached an opening, whereupon he was clothed and surrounded by a great and beautiful light. This he took as a good sign and continued on his journey. “The Great Spirit came down upon him in shades of many colors and he was warmed by the spirit and feared not. Looking up to the heavens, he followed the glow of yellow and orange and it sent beams cascading down upon a small island not far from where he was. Upon landing on the small island, he quickly spotted a beautiful flower. As he came closer to the flower, he heard a voice that was as soft and gentle as the sound of falling rain. The man bent down and there he saw a beautiful maiden attached and chained to the flower. He had never seen a woman and was unsure of what he should do. She was young and beautiful and spoke to the man tenderly. ‘Please grant me my freedom and I will repay you,’ she whispered. Our ancestor felt sorry for her and cut her chains and released her, but in so doing, killed the flower. At that moment, the woman turned into a giant red eagle and flew far up into the sky. “Our ancestor had angered the Great Spirit so much that he was forced to live in the swamp until his skin turned red as the fire from the heavens. The man lay down in his log boat and was about to give up, when out of the sky the eagle came and covered him and upon touching the man, instantly became a beautiful woman again. The man and the woman lived happily until they were blessed with a small child. The child was a girl child who they named Omaca. Which means from the heavens. It was she who would become a great leader of our people and lead us out of the swamp to Big Lake. It was her children’s children’s children who would fight the white men and guide our people when they would hide in the swamp.” My brother and I both slept and dreamed of our great ancestor, Omaca, and would fly above the swamp and bask in warmth of the light. My brother would dream of traveling with the Great Spirit in the log boat and they would enter the swamp and seek the beautiful flower together. My Father knew my Mother as a child and as is the custom they were joined (married) when she was 14 years old. He gathered from the swamp all the things that we needed. Moss for fire and bedding. Animal hides and frogs and fish of assorted kinds. He shared the knowledge of the different plants and what and how to use them. The deer would come and they too were used in many ways. The panther was a great teacher and we thought of them as ancestors and they were not hunted as such. Of the all the creatures we sought, the crock-a or big fish was prized most. His meat was tender, his hide strong, nothing was wasted of this animal. He too was considered part and parcel of our great ancestors and the Great Spirit. My Mother disappeared when I was five years old. They say she was taken by the old bull Crocodile that lives in the Big Lake swamp, but nobody really knows for sure. It’s not proper to speak her name; this would offend the spirits, but I see her face in the trees, feel her whisper in the breeze and hold her in my dreams. I have never even told my Father that I see her, only you. © Copyright, J. Kane We sat up on the roof of your apartment building and you told me stories that were hysterically funny but I could only laugh a little because I kept thinking that this is the person whose heart I broke, who is so funny and whose perfect jacket I’m wearing, and who doesn’t have any of the same brands in his bathroom now that he doesn’t share things with me… © Copyright, Anna-Lynne Williams Hands shaking, she grabs her keycard and purse and walks out to the car. She steels herself for his anger. Eight Months
Megan Renehan Eight months. Eight long, wearing, unfulfilling months. 240 days. How many hours is that? She doesn’t bother with the math—she’s too tired. She has thought about him every second of the last however many hours of the past 240 days, but somehow she isn’t ready for this. He was the only consistency during the past eight months, always in the forefront of her mind. His face, his eyes, his smile. She imagines how he looks now, how he’s dressing and wearing his hair. She had looked at that face, looked into those eyes, every day for twelve years, and his features are etched into her mind. As long as those eight months have seemed, no amount of time could dull the sharpness of the details she remembers. As she stands in front of the hotel room mirror tracing her fingertips over the dark hollows under her eyes, she thinks about the night she left. Her memories start the moment she walked out the front door because remembering anything prior to that hurts her more than she can bear. She watches herself walk down the few steps to the driveway, suitcase in hand, wiping tears from her eyes. In her head she screams at herself to stop, to go back inside, but no matter how loudly she screams, she can’t change her actions, and she’s forced to watch herself get in the car and drive away without looking back. Her eyes follow the tracks of her tears in her reflection, but she doesn’t raise a hand to brush them away. Those tears are the only things that let her know she can still feel something. They turn her pain, her regret, her sorrow into something tangible; they turn it into something she knows how to handle. When she cries she can concentrate on the tears, and it’s almost a reprieve from the hurt that she’s struggling daily to learn to live with. She cries silently for a few minutes in front of the mirror; not moving, just watching the tears fall. Her hands rest on the counter of the bathroom sink, and she leans hard, unsure if her legs can hold her up much longer. A sob escapes when she can’t hold it in any longer, and that single sob opens the door to a flood of emotion. She collapses on the tile floor, buries her face in her hands, and stops striving for silence. The sobs come, uncontrollably as always, and she’s powerless. She’s learned not to try to stop the flood, but to ride it out. Eight months have given her too much experience with tears. Seemingly hours later, the ride is over, and she’s left where she started—on the bathroom floor, utterly exhausted. She stays there, pressing her cheek to the cool tile, trying hard to decide whether she feels better or worse than before the tears. Slowly she rises to her feet, purposely keeping her back to the mirror. She’s not yet ready to face the judgment in her reflection. She switches the bathroom light off on her way to the severely uncomfortable hotel bed, thinking only of rest. Exhaustion overtakes her the second her head touches the too-thin pillow, and she tiptoes near the edge of blackness, too tired to open her eyes, but too wary to give in to sleep. She lies there on top of the covers, struggling to keep from thinking all of the thoughts she wants more than anything to push from her mind. She feels like she’s sinking and can’t kick herself back up to the surface. The sunlight at the top of the water fades more and more as she stops fighting the overwhelming sadness and fatigue and is swallowed up by the darkness. When she wakes, she doesn’t open her eyes immediately, but revels in the few moments between sleep and wakefulness when her emotions haven’t caught up to her consciousness and she can breathe without the massive weight of sadness on her chest. Inevitably, it returns though, and she squeezes her eyes more tightly shut then opens them slowly, focusing on the palm trees gaudily adorning the wallpaper of the hotel room. She must get up; she finds the television remote and turns on the news so she can focus on something besides her own thoughts. She watches for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed and concentrating intently, doing her best to give the news story her full attention. Convincing herself that she can manage the mundanity of a shower without falling apart, she turns the TV volume up loudly enough to be heard over the spray and goes to turn on the water. She leaves the light off and avoids the mirror as she steps into the bathtub, and keeps her eyes closed as she washes quickly. Her thoughts are even louder than the television, and her mantra of the previous three days replays in time to her movements. I’m not ready. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I can’t do this. Rather than fight it, she allows her thoughts to come in time with the pattern and unconsciously moves her lips along with the words. Finished, she steps out of the shower, towels dry, takes a deep breath, and faces her reflection, albeit in the shadows of the darkened bathroom. Her eyes immediately fill with tears again, but she blinks through them as she works up the courage to turn on the light. She reaches over slowly and flips the switch, keeping her eyes closed. When she opens them, she’s surprised to see only her reflection, not the horrible, wicked person she’s been imagining. She takes another deep breath, stares at herself for a minute more, then moves to the bedroom to dress. As she’s choosing her clothes, she remembers the outfit she was wearing the day she left. She remembers exactly what he was wearing that day, too, as much as she wishes she didn’t. She’s constantly surprised that eight months hasn’t had the power to erase such insignificant details. She pushes the thought of him that day out of her mind—it’s too painful. She concentrates on dressing so she can leave the hotel on schedule. She’s set a time limit for herself even though he doesn’t know she’s coming. She’s going to see him at 2:00. She chose 2:00 because she thought he would be home. And because she knew she would have to prepare herself. She needed the morning to focus on the events that would happen later. Still murmuring I’m not ready, I can’t do this, she slips into jeans and a sweater. The bright red numbers on the clock warn she has only thirty minutes left to dry her hair and put on make up. She debates wearing make up, wondering if it’s necessary. She knows she’ll feel more comfortable with it on—more like herself, her old self. The person she was before she walked out on him. She concentrates on drying her hair before she has a chance to cry again. She’s prepared by 1:52. Not ready to leave yet, she looks desperately around the room to find something to occupy the next eight minutes. Finding nothing, she sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the carpet. She notices a stain by the foot of the bed and looks hard at it, wondering what it is. It looks like coffee, but maybe it’s soda. She holds on to these thoughts because they allow her to relax. She’s not nervous when she’s thinking of spilled coffee (or maybe soda). She doesn’t have to think about how he’s going to react when he sees her. She wonders if he’ll recognize her. She hasn’t changed very much, but eight months is a long time. She doesn’t know how she’ll feel if he’s forgotten her. But he couldn’t have forgotten her after twelve years, could he? She was only gone eight months. It’s not that long. He’ll remember her. She’s sure of it. Almost. Too soon, it’s time to leave. Hands shaking, she grabs her keycard and purse and walks out to the car. She steels herself for his anger. She doesn’t want him to be angry, but he will be. She has no idea what reaction she wants him to have. Anger, sadness, relief, frustration … those are guaranteed. But what if he doesn’t want her? She can’t hear that he doesn’t need her anymore. She needs him. She hopes that he’ll give her a chance to talk. Easy forgiveness is less than she deserves, and she knows she doesn’t want that. Guilt will overwhelm her if he doesn’t get angry when he sees her. The house looks the same as it did when she left. The windows are closed, the lights off. The only difference is that it’s daylight now. She left in the night. Like a coward. She sniffs back tears and focuses on the front door. From the corner of her eye, she sees the curtains move over the front window and knows she’s been spotted. It’s too late to turn back. You can do this. You have to. She chants in her mind. Slowly she gets out of the car and walks up the short path to the door. As she raises her hand to knock, he opens the door. She can’t speak, and her arm is frozen halfway to the door. “Mom?” her son asks, eyes wide. He starts to smile. “Mom!” She can’t stop the tears. She smiles and pulls him into a hug. She’s still scared, and guilty, but all of that gets pushed aside for the moment. Relief and happiness race through her as she holds him, crying into his hair. “I love you,” she tells him over and over, whispering it into his ear. “I’m home.” © Copyright, Megan Renehan Nearing the crack in the ice, I saw my brother’s face burning bright red as he gasped and his head fell under the water. I dropped to my knees, screaming his name. The Protagonist By Delilah Gomez I envy every single human who is in some dark little club with his arm around his lover and his hand wrapped around a cold beer. I want a lover. I want a beer. I rub my sinuses. My eyeballs feel parched as I no longer feel the threat of a Monday morning deadline. Fuck it. My sanity is worth more than writing this pious fashion column. At least, it's worth more when I'm not depressed. I can handle my manics. I get myself the fuck out of my house and on the streets. I have a few cigarettes. I write something. It helps. Depression, on the other hand, I'll be lucky if I make it from my kitchen to my mattress. But, anyway, tonight is neither of those psychotic episodes. It's just good ol' fashioned restlessness. I could really care less about women's upcoming fall fashions. Don't they know we guys aren't hard to please? Nothing is more classic than a bare naked woman. That's what I call "in season." I can't sleep until I feel either exhausted or satisfied, and after I pull on a pair of jeans up over my ass, I stick my arms in my sweater and leave to seek out just that. After escaping the rickety death-trap of a staircase, I emerge on canal street, sliding my sunglasses on because it makes me feel cool. Something tells me that all those years taking Spanish as a second language have proved fruitless when I begin down the dirty pavement, old gum sticking like tar, passing every lit sign in Chinese characters. I wonder where to go, catching a gander at the evening sky. Surprisingly enough, this is one of the few moments when I have been able to see stars. It looks clear, almost as if it had been polished, and I detect a few pinpricks of light glaring down at me from outer space. A chandelier ... I think. What? The sky? Yes, a chandelier ... a midnight chandelier. Hmm. I like that. I will try to remember it for the next thing I write. But, seriously, ... where to go? I walk along, past clubs, bars, all night eateries, and coffee shops. I walk along, but suddenly, nothing draws me the way the idea had only 3 minutes ago. I grow frustrated, but then a wonderful thought pops into my head. I'll go visit Lourdes. I've had an on-and-off-and-off-and-me-trying-to-still-get-with-her romance for about 8 months now. She's not exactly the friendliest girl, nor is she original or inspiring, though I must include she is quite beautiful. In fact, she's pretentious, manipulative, brooding and curt. She hates my work. She sees other guys, and I love her. I already know why I'm so in love with the girl. There's a whole crazy psychology behind it that my doctor explained to me. It's because I happen to be a very ... self-involved ... individual (I don't like to say self-centered) and the idea of someone rejecting me only causes me to grow obsessed with the idea of attaining that person's affections, which I will never do. Which only fuels the vicious cycle. Which only makes me want her more. It's crazy, but no one ever said Love was a sane notion. Lourdes lives in a two family house with her great-grandmother upstairs on an oxygen tank and in a wheelchair, blind as a bat and going deaf. There's a car in the driveway and her living room light’s on. I walk up the stairs, stand on the porch and try to peek through the window past the Venetian blinds. I can see people. The TV’s on. Old episodes of M.A.S.H. Clouds of smoke. Lourdes gets up, goes to the kitchen. The guy behind her has gray eyes like myself. I wonder if they remind her of me whenever she looks into them. She comes back from the kitchen and he follows like a puppy. When they settle, I can just see her back as she straddles him on the couch and I can only assume a slew of heavy petting and kissing ensues. There's a burning sensation in my chest. Jealousy, I suspect, and I dig my fingers into my palms when I see her bra go flying toward the TV. I can't bear to watch, but I do. I watch the entire time, even though I can't see much. I watch until he gets up, naked from the ass down and walks to her bathroom. He's getting rid of the condom, probably. Taking a piss too, I bet, now that his boner has gone down. She yells something to him, I can't tell what but I feel like vomiting. I consider leaving, but instead, wait until she fetches her bra from across the room, then bang on the front door with my fist. There's a pause. I bang again. She looks out her window with a sour _expression. Seeing me, she frowns, then pulls the blinds closed entirely. A moment later, she's out on the porch, tying her sex-tousled dark hair back in a ponytail off of her collar bone, so smooth it looks as if it had been molded from marble. "What the hell are you doing here, Connor?" she snaps at me. I kiss her mouth. I can smell him on her. That faint scent of the salt of semen and the taste of pot. She doesn't return the kiss, just looks to the window to make sure the guy isn't watching. "Just taking a walk," I reply, when she crosses her arms and taps her foot. "Just taking a walk in Astoria at two in the morning?" "It was a long walk." "Connor, you can't be—" "I wrote you a poem. I wrote it for you while I was on the train." I hold up my hand, the ink smeared with the sweat from my palm. "I don't care. Send it in an e-mail or something." "Here, I'll read it. There's no comparison when we hold up the moon, to the sweet complexion of your face. There's no—" The front door opens and when the guy makes eye contact with me, I make sure to give him a look like daggers plunged into a bleeding heart. "Lourdes," he asks, "who is this?" She shakes her head. "No one. I'll be inside in a sec." He hesitates, glancing me over, probably sizing me up, then goes back inside. "Who is he?" I inquire, not because I care, but because I want to talk. Her tone is harsh. She's always harsh. Even when she's high. "Can you please leave?" "Are you fucking him?" "That is none of your business!" Lourdes exclaims, and although I'm in pain, she still looks beautiful. Something about the grace of her fingers, even when they're outstretched on a flying palm. Something about the black cherry stain on her lips, slightly smeared at the corner. "I could be fucking the whole world and it still would be none of your business!" "Yes, it is. I love you." "Well, you know, Connor, we broke up three months ago, so could you do me a favor and stop?" Jaws leaps up and takes a chomp out of my heart, his fangs tearing it to ribbons with bits in between his teeth to pick out later as he sinks back into the black water. "Can I ... read you the rest of the poem?" "I have company," she concludes, then goes inside. The door shuts on my face. I hadn't expected to see all that I have seen tonight. I promise myself never to see her again, never to care. Never to write another love letter with her address on it. Never to utter her name to myself as I'm falling asleep...That's another New Year's Resolution that will probably be forgotten once the shock of her shutting the door on my face fades. She said it herself, men are like dogs, and if you beat us, we only try harder to make you love us. On the train, I watch the lingering youth of the nightlife making their way with half-mast eyes and heavy heads back to their homes. Hipsters drifting from coffee houses, adorned in their ambiguous-to-gender way with large bug-eyed sunglasses tucked on their heads and their vintage vests. Emo kids coming from underground shows with side parted bangs hiding a brooding eye and jeans that hug their asses like snakes shed skin. Yuppies leaving the strip clubs with lipstick on their snow-white collars and briefcases concealing the phone number to their best friend's wife's cell phone. Gangstas still pushing down 40's in paper bags, their braids tracing their skulls like roads out of the city and their bling weighing down their necks. The Homeless clad in shadows and the regrets of their pasts, the dirt under fingernails like crescent moons or Mona Lisa smiles. They stick to the walls and make sure not to be noticed, and I give into this wholeheartedly. Let them sleep dreamless in the corner seat, the sounds of the train's moaning the only lullaby they will know. And then myself, in the train window reflection across from the bench I am seated on. There is rain on the glass and it settles on my cheeks, giving the illusion of tears. The rain comes down harder. I stare into my own eyes. I wonder, with my messy brown hair, my melancholy gray eyes, my sad mouth ... I wonder if there has ever been anyone more lonely looking before. I say "Fuck you," to myself and put back on my sunglasses, so there is now only an _expression of indifference. The restlessness has become despair. I contemplate the way knives draw blood. I know damn well I won't ever come close to acting on these thoughts, but the desperation makes me feel all the more alive in this moment. Each exquisite twinge of pain to my heart makes me know I am here and no human has ever been born to feel just as much as I do now. My self-pity becomes tedious. When I awake, I'm at the last stop on the train, my head back, mouth wide open. I walk home, and on the way, cross paths with a 24 hour liquor store. The guy behind the counter has heavy bags under his eyes, and he cards me with the torture of monotony. I take home a bottle of wine, but I have no woman to share it with. Instead, I drink. I pace and smoke. I drink some more. Finally, I sit down at the computer, and drink and write until the last thing I remember is the protagonist of my novel meeting sunrise at the Grand Canyon. When I awake, it's to a firm shake from a hand clamped on my shoulder. "Huh? Wuh?" "Connor!" my mother snaps. How had she gotten in? I sit up, rubbing the keyboard imprints from my face as she states, "You've been drinking again." "No, I haven't." I tried to lie, more out of habit than shame. "Then why was your front door wide open?" Curse my drunken stupidity. My mother glares down at me from where she stands. Her eyes are as happy as a crow's as she tries to do something about my hair. "Get a hair cut. You look like Tarzan! At least go take a shower. Have you eaten anything?" I get up and walk wobbly to the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open. "Yeah." "When?" I run the shower. "Last night." "What did you eat?" "Ma! What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?" The water makes steam and I inhale deep so the moisture gets into my lungs. It makes me sigh when I undress and get in. "What did you eat? Was it junk food?" she accuses before I can even answer the question. By the way her nasal voice echoes off the walls, I know she's sticking her head into the threshold of the bathroom. "No. It was Brussels sprouts," I reply sarcastically. The shower curtain is yanked aside and my mother slaps my ass with her finely manicured hand. Her pearl earrings and Chanel suit are in sharp contrast with her below mediocre surroundings. She points at me, so her antique filigree ring sparkles in the shower mist. "Ma!" I shout, attempting feebly to cover my dick with my fists. "Don't you take that sarcastic tone with me, young man! You respect your mother!" I yank the curtain shut and I heard her voice fade as she mumbles all the way out to herself. "Who does he think he is? I may be 54 years old, but I know a thing or two..." When I get out, I sit down at the folding table in my kitchen with towel wrapped around my waist and water beads on my shoulders. She sets out before me a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake with drippy, sunny side eggs and a slice of burnt toast, the butter still melting on it. I didn't even know I had this much food. "Your toaster is broken," she concludes. I don't answer, just use the plastic fork and knife she found in the drawer with the other disposable silverware and cut into Mickey Mouse's head. Before I'm done, I've massacred him. "You should come home with me, Connor," she says from behind a Virginia Slims cigarette. It's staining her caps; I'm sure she'll get them bleached again soon. My mother, Antoinette Duval-Von Dyne. The widow Von Dyne. I was pretty sure she was lonely in that big brownstone off of 5th avenue, all by herself. It had been about a year ago. I hadn't been there, but I can imagine exactly how it looked. The two of them sitting on the yacht. My father's manservant, Curtis, pouring them champagne. The sun is heavy on the horizon, casting golden streams in their direction on the ripples. My mother is wearing an angora shrug. My father has his cigar. Then, bam! He grabs his chest with a clenched fist and my mother panics the way chickens without heads do as Curtis dials 911. My father dies from heart failure. They probably could have saved him if they hadn't been so far out on the water. My dad loved the water. I never could understand why he didn't love me. "I can't. I'm too old for that." She grows vexed, her little eyes framed with too much liquid liner swivel around in her head, repulsed by everything surrounding us: the folding table, the paper plates, the plastic knives, the greasy vent over the stove, the can of roach spray on top of the microwave... "Look at this place. You don't know how to take care of yourself. At least use some of the money your father left you." "No." "Why not?" "I don't want his money. He's not my father." I get up, holding the towel around my waist and go into my bedroom as she stalks me to the door, when I shut it on her. Here comes her superhero secret power—her nagging, nasal voice pierces the walls as if she is standing next to me. "When are you going to get over this writing crap? You went to college for 4 years for this?" As soon as I have my jeans on, I step out and gently take her by the elbow. "It was nice seeing you, Mom. Call next time before you drop in." "Connor!" she yells indignantly. Yelling is her specialty, but I walk her to the door and kiss her cheek, smelling rouge and some perfume to cover up the smell of cigarettes. "I'll talk to you soon. Get home safe. Wear your seatbelt." She knows she's insulted me, but she's too damn stubborn to apologize and I wave as she starts for the stairs. My front door shuts heavy as a bank vault. Monday morning comes. I go down to Mademoiselle's New York office and drop off the article. I hate e-mailing my stuff out. The Editor takes a look, and we shoot the shit for a couple of minutes. He's not bad looking, although his red hair recedes from his shiny forehead; not because it’s oily, but because it’s so freakin' squeaky clean. Kelvin adjusts his tie, then sits on the edge of his desk and it's clear he's checking me out. Instead of getting freaked out, I push the sleeves of my black zip-up sweater before my elbows and send the look right back. I flirt right back. Not because I'm gay, but because I enjoy receiving attention. I walk out of there with his number and a desk on the 15th floor. I will be writing the fashion descriptions for photo spreads. You know, the ones with the models falling over themselves because they look coked up or whacked out. Yeah, those. The effortless, unchallenging descriptions of clothes too expensive to buy. Things are looking up, but I feel isolated in this big city. So many people push past on the sidewalk, so many hustle across streets filled with inching cars and trucks, I wonder why not one of them loves me. I demand to be told why I do not know one single person amongst this crowd. Humans blow past me the way dead leaves cross my path on the wind. I frown and stuff my hands into my pockets like crumpled dollar bills, and brace myself as I attempt to cross the street. I walk home. The bowels of the city aren't all that appealing this morning. I walk the 30 blocks to my apartment, but on the way, I cross paths with Times Square. I don't have to walk through this blinking spider web, but the idea of possible human interaction attracts me. I have been feeling socially starved lately, especially since I last saw Lourdes. "Who is it?" he had asked. "No one..." she replied. No one...Was that who I was? My mother's resentment because I could never go home to her and sleep in that big empty house with the echoing family room. Lourdes' 2 AM burden because I love her unconditionally and she hates it. My father's failure because I wasn't Harvey... Harvey was my older brother. He had political aspirations. He was in law school. He had plans to take over the family practice once he passed the bar. My father said the sign would read "Von Dyne and Von Dyne." I remember him musing over this from behind his cigar when they both looked at me, hurriedly scribbling all my nonsense thoughts onto a pad as he said, "Don't you want it to read, Von Dyne, Von Dyne and Von Dyne?" I shook my head no. No, I didn't want to be a defense lawyer. I didn't want to keep criminals from going to jail. I didn't want to one day run for senator or mayor or president of the United Fucking States of America! "Oh, you just want to write your incomprehensible poetry and live with all the other fairies in Greenwich Village, bitching about how we need a Liberal in office?" my father mocked me in a condescending tone. Harvey snickered, the same way my father would, and replied, "If you become a faggot, I swear I'll act like I don't know you." He tried to make it sound like he was joking. He was serious. He always did that. The both of them thought I was gay, no matter what I said in my defense. Poetry slams, all night coffee houses, war protest marches, a Barnes and Noble credit card; those weren't things a real man indulges in. A real man read the New York Times, smoked a million cigars, went fishing out on the boat with the boys every other Sunday and drank scotch on the rocks while seated before the hearth filing taxes. Five years ago this January, we flew up to our winter retreat in Maine. Harvey and I spent the afternoon gathering logs for the fire when we got into a fight. That evening, after arguing again at the dinner table and everyone taking his side (as usual), I escaped the cabin and walked down to the lake. It was like a frozen mirror. I walked out onto it, my headphones blasting in my ears and I was overtaken by staring at the Milky Way, zoning out in deep thought. I watched my breath exhale into steam and float away. They were thought bubbles, filled with anger and drifting off with easy sighs. I felt better and turned around to finally head back for the house. Just as soon as I turned to start the trek to the cabin, I saw a splash and a hand flailing up from under the ice. I yanked my headphones off and ran toward it. Nearing the crack in the ice, I saw my brother’s face burning bright red as he gasped and his head fell under the water. I dropped to my knees, screaming his name. I reached for his arms under the surface, the ice water numbing my muscles and making them cramp when I felt his gloved fingertips and grasped tightly to them. Pushing the frost away from the surface, I could see his face pressed under the ice, trading his ruby cheeks and lips for a purple tint. I reached for my pen from my pocket—it was all I carried, and stabbed at the ice, straining to keep my fingers locked around his as I could feel him slowly being dragged from my grasp. His eyes pierced mine—the same tombstone gray, but the ice wouldn't give. I gave a yell of defeat, threw my pen aside and reached further into the water with my other arm, hoping that I could pull him out through the hole he fell in, but I felt his fingers slipping away. With one more grab, I felt the glove, but pulled it back to me empty. His body drifted away under the ice. My mother said he had gone looking for me. She said he was sorry. That would have been the first time I had ever gotten an apology from my brother. The last time I spoke to my father, before he sent me away to boarding school, we got into an argument. He had said to me that the wrong son had died that night. He was mistaken. Both sons had died that night. I disowned my father. Times Square is still all around me. Tourists file past; theatre snobs hurry to the box offices and police officers shuffle on foot. A group of Catholic schoolgirls giggle as they unboard a yellow school bus, their smooth thighs exposed in shades of cocoa, caramel and buttermilk with stockings pulled up past the knee. I stop and stare as they move with the grace of blown glass, their young fresh bodies huddled together, excited about being in the city, glancing over their shoulders at the sights around them. They push their perfect hair from their shoulders, and cast seductive glances knowing damn well they are unattainable to whomever may be looking. A few bat their eyes at me. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes. I imagine my hands sliding down over their firm, supple asses, riding up under their little pleated, hiked up skirts and pulling down lacey white panties to moist virginal folds of flesh hidden at the joint of their legs. When all is said and done, I've popped a few cherries. Reality returns. There are some points and gestures toward me. The nun in charge sends a glare like a death ray. I look down. I think she sees my boner... I get out of there, literally turn around where I stand and walk in the other direction. I yank my hood up so no one can see the flush in my face and decide to stop being creepy. When I get home, in the safety of my apartment, I sit down at my computer and go back to my protagonist. Last I left him, he was in his car and watching the sunrise at the Grand Canyon. Out of nowhere, I make one of those freshly-turned-16-years-old Catholic schoolgirls appear in the back seat of his station wagon. I let him pull her panties off with his teeth. I make her gasp and arch her back. I make him get off on her golden olive cleavage. I unzip the fly of my jeans and beat off into the kitchen sink. Panting, I return, dropping into the computer chair. I backspace everything I had written about the schoolgirl and prepare myself for the real conclusion, the one about how the infection had destroyed all people, everywhere, and how only my protagonist remained. "...When he realized that for miles and miles around, people, good or bad or indifferent, no longer existed. He finally accepted that shopping malls had become ghost towns and hospitals cemeteries. That playgrounds were funeral pyres and highways black ribbons to nowhere. He could drive forever and still, there would be no one. Only the carrion corpses of creatures that once held opinions. "He put his car into reverse, then back into drive and with his foot on the petal as if it was made out of lead, zoomed head first into the Grand Canyon." © Copyright, Delilah Gomez There is no clear line in time that marks when my father’s drinking moved from a functioning level into full-blown alcoholism. Sanguine Sarah Higham I caught my first glimpse of him. As he stumbled toward me, my heart picked up its pace and sank into my stomach. I could run: dart across the street and blend into the dense Oktoberfest crowd. He hadn’t seen me. I could have bolted, but instead I made my way to him. He greeted me with his toothless grin, exclaiming, “Sarah, Bungi, you’ve grown; you’re a woman.” “Hello, Daddy.” My voiced quivered as I hugged his bony frame. His breath was scented of liquor and cigarettes. His cheeks had sunken and were ruddy with popped blood vessels—the mark of a man far too fond of drink. Together we weaved through the crowd and found a patch of green on the Harvard Square common. I sat beside him, still shaken by the deterioration of his appearance. He was all smiles, remarking about the Indian summer weather. He unzipped his worn duffel bag and out spilled the pages of his poetry. Next, he pulled out a brown bagged, forty-ounce beer and two paper cups. His trembling hand offered up a cup of warm beer. On that day, I drank with him, matching each of his Merit cigarettes with my Camels. It had not always been this way with my father. I can still see him now. He’s in the backyard of our home, watering his corn. He stands casually, serene with his weight shifted to one side. An elbow placed upon his hip. In one hand is the green garden hose, in the other a green bottle of Rolling Rock beer. A Merit cigarette rests between his lips, which he smokes slowly, relishing it. His tall, slim frame moves with grace across the lawn. His long fingers direct the garden hose to water every tall stalk of corn. His hazel brown eyes furrow in concentration, giving him an outward _expression of sagacity. His thick, wavy brown hair, his pointed nose, and squarely defined jaw line, combined with his wide mouth make him striking. After everything has been watered, he snaps the fresh peas, then picks and shucks the corn. The dinner bell, which hangs from our back porch, sounds. My brothers, sister and I scurry home from neighborhood games and wash up for the feast he offers his family—butter and sugar corn, steaming hot on a plate. There is no clear line in time that marks when my father’s drinking moved from a functioning level into full-blown alcoholism. As a child, I chose not to see a problem until it had progressed to a point where it could not be denied, when the insidious disease had taken over. It had its grips upon him. That day I spent with my father on the common was my nineteenth birthday. The air temperature was unseasonably warm. Green leaves, yet unturned, clung to the trees. People passed by us and more than a few stared as we sat there, drinking flagrantly, smoking incessantly. He read aloud some of the poems he had written—his mind was still sharp. I filled him in on what was going on in my teenage life. He wasn’t surprised that it had not ended well with my last boyfriend. “I wasn’t going to say anything but he didn’t know his shit from Shinola. Remember, Sarah, a good man will treat you like a princess; Sarah means princess.” I was done being ashamed of the man my father had become. I had no power over my father’s drinking, so I joined him. I needed to hold onto what was left of this lovely man, my dear father. The sun set, spangled in salmon pink. The clouds darkened against the backdrop of sky, signaling time to say goodbye. After kisses and clasping of hands, I walked away with a pang in my stomach. It was the familiar fear—that this visit may be our last. Shortly after, my fear became a reality. My father had succumbed to his illness. It had finally taken him. Although he has passed, he lives on. I choose to remember him as a talented writer, a charismatic man who burned it on both ends. He had a contagious passion for life. Once in a while, I’ll find myself sitting a certain way, listening to a damned good song, and as I smoke a cigarette and sip my drink, it is as though he courses through me. I look in the mirror, see the brown eyes staring back and realize—I am like my father. In retrospect, I can fully appreciate the value of the time spent with him on the common. It was the first and only time we shared a drink, an opportunity for us to talk one on one as adults. I faced my fear, put aside my shame and have no regrets. Shame and regret are wasted emotions. © Copyright, Sarah Higham And I wanted to hug him and tell him that I knew what it was like. To hear the gunfire and be scared to death. To wake up one morning and know that you weren’t invincible. To feel your heart beat so fast that you thought you would die from that alone.
Joe
By Lorena Smith I meet all kinds of people at the Bar where I work. People coming from work, people going to work, people meeting friends, people trying to forget friends. It’s a place where people take a rest from life. They come in to talk, to be silent, to remember, to forget. You learn who is who pretty quickly. The ones that are starting on something new. The ones who are enmeshed in the old. Last night, I met Joe. He had returned from Iraq the day before. He is the kind of person who walks into a room and commands all the attention. Smiling and laughing. Seemingly happy to be back, happy to be there. He talked to everyone, he answered all the questions. He received numerous thanks gratefully and took no notice of the ones who moved their drinks away and sat at another table. He was unfailingly courteous, even to the people who would not leave him alone. He was beautiful. There is no other way to describe him. A perfect specimen of youth, of exuberance. He could have been the guy the Marines used in their recruiting posters. He didn’t seem in the least afraid. All his stories were triumphant. All his friends were heroes. He spoke of no one who had died. He briefly touched his eye when I asked him why it was black. A tiny shadow passed across his face. “Shrapnel,” he said. And then he ordered another Jack and Coke and the moment was passed. Later in the night, I stepped out for some air and Joe was outside, alone for once, smoking a cigarette. His green shirt was tight across the chest and open at the neck. His jeans were baggy and held up by a thick black belt. He was just a little taller than I am. He smiled and said how nice the cool air felt. “It’s always hot down there. You’re always hot.” We talked for a while and he said how he loved what he was doing. He said he always wanted to be a soldier. There had been nothing else he wanted to do. Ever since he was a boy. When he left, he shook my hand and said it had been nice to meet me. And I wanted to hug him and tell him that I knew what it was like. To hear the gunfire and be scared to death. To wake up one morning and know that you weren’t invincible. To feel your heart beat so fast that you thought you would die from that alone. To lie in that oppressive heat for hours and want to scream because nothing was happening but being too afraid to move your legs or arms in case someone shot you. When you lie to yourself and know all the time that it is a lie. When you don’t talk about your dead friends because it makes you come to terms with your own mortality. When you answer questions and smile and smile ‘till you don’t know who or what you are smiling about. When the things that matter to those back home matter so little to you. I know what it’s like to be suspended between being “there” and “here,” those horrible few weeks when you’re neither here nor there or anywhere in your head. But some things there are no words for. So I shook his hand and said it had been nice to meet him too. And we both smiled at each other. © Copyright 2006, Lorena Smith Janie didn’t go home last night . . . A journal for Janie. By Suzanne Cosquer
Be sure to read Suzanne Cosquer’s “Why I Wrote ‘A journal for Janie’” following the story! A journal for Janie. By Suzanne Cosquer Mon Sept 25th, Been back at school almost a month now. Spent the first half of summer with Mom, second half getting high on Carter’s sweat, (cold tea with a dash of vinegar) and the steaming tar like substance some Mexicanos were using to resurface the running track. They were cool with us, especially when school catchment area weirdo, the one and only Pigeon Man, positioned himself at the far end of the park bench in his grey flannel shorts and began pecking at one of Alvin’s “buy six, get one free” ice popsicles. One of the Mexicanos asked, “This man over there, he think is a race today?” “No,” Carter informed them, pulling his crumpled t-shirt over his head, “he just likes ogling fourteen-year-old boys rollerblading round a track in lycra shorts.” The Mexicanos didn’t understand though, because they wiped their hands on their handkerchiefs and squinted at one another, waiting for someone to translate. I, CONNER DAVIES, WILL BEAT THIRD MEMBER OF THE GANG OF FOUR CARTER O’NEIL’S AS YET UNBROKEN ROLLERBLADING BEST OF 1 MIN 4 SECONDS BEFORE THE CLOCKS GO BACK. I have to. I’ve got the price of a new pair of blades riding on it plus my reputation (the gang of four just might accept me as their reserve member). That and getting Janie Porter to talk to me (another ten bucks), I only said yes to that bet because if I win, I’m one step closer to inviting her to the Christmas dance. If I lose, I could always ask old Alvin to give me some hours stocking shelves or sweeping up. Stepbrother Simon reckons if you can prove to a girl you’re faster, stronger or funnier than another guy, then height doesn’t come into it. What would he know? Dad has gone with Helen on another “erase further traces of Mom from the house” expedition. Helen now wants a fountain centerpiece over the new interlock as well as the hallway floor replaced with fake marble. As he gave one last lingering look at the scratches barely visible on the hardwood between us, Dad held up his hand, traffic cop-like to me. “And don’t go bombarding me with the new rollerblades versus the cost of Helen’s spa visits speech as soon as I come in the door, okay Conner?” I can hear Simon shooting baskets on OUR driveway. Bounce bounce, bang ping, ricochet, garage door, metal frame, tarmac. Repeat seventy times. He’s whistling “We are the Champions,” that Dad’s been playing to death in the car recently. Helen says music connects us all. I don’t know about that. When I pointed out Simon to Carter in the CD store the other day (headbanging to some grunge band he reckons he’s on first name terms with), Carter laughed so hard his voice went back up an octave, “That’s your new brother? Talk about pock face loser. Jeez Conner, your Dad must be really fucked up.” I think Simon heard because when I was lying in bed that night, he came in and sat on my chest, dug two fingernails hard into my cheeks, then left without saying a word. School stop press: JANIE PORTER HAS BEEN MOVED! I can now smell her strawberry mango hair gel AND steal glimpses of her buttocks through the hole in the back of the chair (when Johnno and Carter’s fat heads are turned toward the whiteboard of course.) I think Mr. Whittaker knows. Whenever I slouch forward, cupping my hand over my chin, he gives me one of his three second warning looks, then says, “I hope we’re concentrating at the back,” which must be code for “If you carry on much longer Conner everyone, even Janie will notice and then it’ll be you branded as the class freak instead of Jeremiah ‘corpse eyes’ Baker.” I can’t help it. It’s her hair (burgundy streak this week). Like the flyaway bits have been airbrushed out. Her teeth look like pearls, sculpted to fit her mouth. I don’t like the way she dresses so much. As if someone’s cut up her clothes and hurriedly stuck them back on to her so that her less attractive parts have no choice but to seep out. But get this, Mr. Whittaker is putting on a Spring production of “Oliver” and wants us all to audition. I fancy myself as Bill Sikes although that’s more suited to Johnno as he’s big built and can’t sing a note. I could always practise my blades on the weekend. If Janie gets to be Nancy though (I somehow see her in the part), I’d rather be Fagin. That way, at least I earn myself ten bucks, plus we get to sing together. Dropped into Alvin’s on the way home (Helen wanted some smokes). I swear Lena Baker from registration class is stalking me. She looked up from the Celebrity Living she was pretending to read, “Oh, hi, Conner,” she said all innocent, “you going to the audition tomorrow?” She couldn’t have said it louder. I tried giving a cool flick of my bangs, but of course, old Alvin got wind of it. “You is putting on a show at the school then?” “Yeh. Oliver,” I muttered, catching the smell of antibacterial soap (the one that Mum used to keep by the sink) on his charred looking hands. He leaned over the counter and pulled my visor down over my face. Then he did that wheezy high-pitched blues man’s laugh and shook his fuzzy grey head, as if he’d just heard something shocking. “Ah, the youth, them is always wanting to try on someone else’s hat.” “Whatever,” I replied, slapping Dad’s crumpled note on the counter. Alvin reached up in slow motion for a packet of Menthol Lites. “She still breathing in the weed, then?” I noticed Lena’s cock her head to one side, frowning hard. “Yeh,” I said, for some reason louder and in her direction, “Dad says it makes her less anxious.” Alvin swiveled on his stool and winked. “Well, there is worse things we can die of I suppose,” he said, handing me the packet. He leaned forward and when he beckoned me over the counter; I noticed tiny patches of pink lay splashed on his brown leathery cheeks. Like someone has flicked him with a paintbrush. “Do you think she will ever buy one of them there magazines?” I count the pubic looking hairs that make up what’s left of his sideburns and shake my head, “Not a chance, hey Lena—” She gasped, shoved the magazine in the rack and turned to me. “You taking the beaver path?” She nodded. “I’ll come with you.” As we came out of the shop, I saw him at the bus stop over the other side of the road, pretending not to watch us, his long neck jutting out from his grey overcoat. His greasy hair was scraped up on both sides and his eyes seemed to have slipped even further down his chinless face. As we passed him, he slid his hands in his pockets and jerked his head up, as if he’d sniffed us. “Who’s that?” Lena asked. “Pigeon Man,” I told her. Told everyone about the auditions over dinner. “Consider yourself, a girl,” Simon sang, helping himself to another plateful of Helen’s tofu plus something yellow plus rice efforts. “Well, I hope it’s just a small part,” Helen said, lighting up and pushing her half-finished portion aside. “It’s okay,” I assured her, “my workload isn’t heavy this term.” Next thing, she was glancing at Dad, then me, then at Dad again who suddenly rammed his chair back and thundered across the soon-to-be-hacked-up hallway. He hadn’t even reached the steps to the basement before we all heard him yell: “FOR CHRISSAKES HELEN, YOU WON’T HAVE TO GO PICK HIM UP.” Thurs Sept 28th, Janie didn’t go home last night. She told Annika after cheerleading practice she was going to meet some new friend for a coffee, then she’d walk home after. Well, she still hasn’t got back. I know all this ‘cos the cops came into the gym just as I was about to launch into the chorus of “Got to pick a pocket or two.” We were standing on the stage in our homemade neckerchiefs and rolled up trouser bottoms and the officer with the chunkiest keys on his belt pointed to us randomly and asked a question about Janie. Did she wear a lot of make up? Was she confident talking to adults? Did she use chat rooms? He told us they might be making house calls. I don’t know why, but I had that feeling in the balls of my feet like I was standing on the edge of a window ledge. Surely, no one believes she’s been kidnapped. I was sure she was okay. Nothing like that ever happens around here. I pretended to wipe my nose, cup my hands around my mouth and whispered to Johnno, “They won’t come to your house, ‘cos the bummy smell your neighbour complained about last year is still on record.” “Well, your crazy Dad had better not refuse to let them in this time,” he hissed back. I felt another pumping. This time in my cheeks. The officer said something about the first twenty-four hours being crucial. I could see Lena and some of the others shifting their weight on their feet. Why wouldn’t they let us sit down? In a way, I wanted them to come to the house. Perhaps Annika told them something. About how Janie really does want to go with me, but doesn’t want anyone else to know. I understand that. I know it’s important for the guy to stand taller than the girl. Dad says he was pint sized too right up until college. Perhaps if we went to the movies. That way we would be sitting down and in the dark. When Mr. Whittaker was seeing the cops out, Carter began singing his audition piece, “Janie’s gone with some old perv …Gone to suck a dicky or two …” Next thing, Mr. Whittaker ran toward the stage, leaped up and grabbed Carter by the shoulders. Then he shoved him into the wings like some damaged prop. I’ve never seen Carter squeeze his eyes so tight. Wisps of Mr. Whittaker’s hair flew up then fell flat again. He had his fist clenched behind his back and he glared tight lipped at Carter who looked like he was about to throw up. Then Mr. Whittaker took a step back and crossed his arms. His fingertips were making shiny indentations in his leather elbow pouches. Someone was hammering out the first bar of Beethoven’s Fifth somewhere behind fireproof doors and I tasted sawdust and puke in my throat. “The first rule of theatre as demonstrated by Carter,” Mr. Whittaker’s voice was unusually low and raspy, “projection, projection, projection. Pity your foul mouth yet again found a way to soil your own talents, boy. Now get out of my sight.” After that, Mr. Whittaker made us sing the first verse of “Where is Love?” I was glad when I saw Johnno at the back screwing his face up and putting an invisible megaphone to his ear. I didn’t want Carter putting in more practice time on the track than me. Then Mr. Whittaker started waving around an imaginary baton at the back of the gym. “Good Conner,” he bellowed out in front of everybody, “one more time.” Rollerbladed all the way to the running track, then didn’t feel like practising. Instead, I sat on Pigeon Man’s pew and remembered the athletics session last semester when Janie was waiting her turn in the long jump queue. She was dressed in pink toweling shorts. At first, I thought she was naked from the waist up, but when I began hunting out her nipples I realized they were underneath a flesh-coloured lycra top. It was then I got that lurch in my groin that I get when Dad drives too fast over a hump in the road. She was chewing black gum. From a distance, it looked like someone had a drilled a hole in her face. Every time she blew a bubble she would glance down the line, then roll her eyes into the back of her head when someone landed in the sand. I never saw her jump as the bell went for recess. A few weeks back during free study, she looked up as I passed her terminal. She didn’t have to. There was no one else in the room. I was about to say Hi but she just clicked on her mouse and glanced past me toward the door. Seconds later, she was gone. When I got home, Dad was smoking one of Helen’s Menthol Lites on the driveway. I thought about telling him about Janie. I didn’t have to. He’d just seen her photo on the TV. Mon Oct 1st, Everyone is talking about Janie, Janie, Janie. Like she landed a part in some movie. They put up posters of her, on the supermarket door, the mailbox, even Alvin had one. Did you see this girl? Call this hotline. It’s a nasty photo too. Like she was drugged up at some party. She doesn’t look like that at all. The girls kept being excused because they couldn’t stop bursting into tears and the boys strutted around, CSI like, offering up their theories. Like Carter. “Already kicked the bucket,” he said, leaning backwards as far out of the classroom window as possible, “age, statistics.” Johnno thought she’d run away with a musician, but only because he tried to make out with her at the end of the school dance and she blew him off saying, “Like, are you a rock star or something?” Then we all filed into the gym and suffered some woman police officer droning on about not taking lifts with strangers. Duh! While she was doing the roleplay, I looked over at Mr. Whittaker. He was the only teacher not watching the reenactment. He had his hand covering his goatee and was staring over our heads toward the mural in such horror you’d think someone had suddenly taken a knife and started slashing it. I thought I might go tell him afterwards to count me out of the auditions, but after the bell went, he just threw on his Gortex and headed out toward the parking lot. Stop press: PIGEON MAN ENTERS ALVIN’S He had his scarf pulled right up covering his face. I was sitting on the stool wondering whether I should offer to sweep out back. Lena (who accosted me in the foyer and suggested we walk home together) compared the labels on two different brands of herbal lozenges. Pigeon Man hovered up to the counter and stared right at me. I indicated with my thumb Alvin would be back in a sec. He looked down at the chocolate bars and grabbed four of the same brand. Alvin came back and stopped dead when he saw him. He took Pigeon Man’s money and shoved it in the till, slammed the tray shut. Then Pigeon Man said, “Fifty.” “What?” Alvin answered. “I need fifty cents back.” Alvin opened the till again and held up the two coins before dropping them into Pigeon Man’s greasy hand. Then—get this—Pigeon Man SALUTED and said, “Thank you, kind sir.” When he was gone, I jutted my chin out and pecked at the air. Lena smiled, but Alvin just watched Pigeon Man through narrow eyes until he’d crossed the road. “Go home now, Conner,” he said in a low raspy voice, as if he’d just caught me shoving candy into my pocket, “just go on home.” Helen’s friend Sylvia was in the kitchen. I heard a cork being prised out of the neck of a bottle, liquid pouring and the odour of mint mixed with sulphur creeped around my half closed door. “But they’re saying now there is a drugs connection.” “Well, why else would she get into a car with an older man?” “Well, it was only someone matching her description.” “And there’s me happily jogging every night down the beaver path.” I lay on my bed and imagined their heads pressed so closely together their skulls exploded and blood spurted out the top like a fondue fountain. Weds Oct 2nd, Volunteers with dogs combed the corn field. Simon saw Daryl “steroids” Porter openly weeping during the TV plea for witnesses. “Whatever you’ve done, please come home Baby Sis,” was all he said before they cut to a still of the school. No one handed in any assignments. I’ve got that stomach-doing-a-double-flip feeling almost all the time now. Carter was betting she’s in a suitcase at the bottom of the stony swamp (50-1) and Johnno reckoned she’s in a shallow wooded area near the military headquarters, decapitated (40-1). As I slid off the desk, Johnno looked up. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” “For a walk,” I say. I emptied what was left of my lunch into the toilet bowl. When I came out, Lena had her nose in some textbook in her usual place next to the staff bulletin board. I don’t know why, but I slumped down next to her. “Gosh Conner, you look awful,” she said. I sniffed up the rest of the phlegm that kept escaping from my nose. Her pimple free face was inches from mine, her huge green eyes blinking back at me through immaculately polished glasses. It felt comforting. “Why isn’t Mr. Whittaker here?” She shook her head softly as I clutched at my stomach. Suddenly, a girl from the year above us ran past holding a rolled up newspaper close to her chest. “NOBODY IS TELLING US ANYTHING,” she screamed out to the empty reception area. I looked at Lena. “We’d better get to registration,” she said. I nodded in agreement, but neither of us moved. Dad didn’t go with Helen to Bridge Club tonight. “Course not,” said Simon flicking the channels for more shots of wooded areas, “got to keep an eye on you, hasn’t he?” The news came on then; suddenly the screen turned black. Behind us out of the darkness, I heard Dad’s voice. “Conner? Do you want to call your mother?” I flashed a look at my watch. It had already turned midnight in England. I imagined Mom’s slender fingers reaching out toward a ringing handset, then turned and nodded to the shadowy figure that I did. Fri October 11th, I have left the preceding pages blank. Out of respect. Besides, I have all the clippings from the day after they found her. Still can’t believe it. I heard Johnno and Carter have been suspended (they were both half right). They’ve constructed some kind of shrine outside the school gates. All the smokers congregate there now instead of on the running track. We’ve had assembly every day. The priest floats around the corridors, whispering something about forgiveness. Everyone in our class is going to the funeral except me (Dad said I can go visit Mom). The marble flooring has been put on hold and Alvin is making a packet on bouquets. Pigeon Man has vanished. “And no bad thing,” Alvin said. Mr. Whittaker came back today. I hung around after last recess. His briefcase was lying open on his desk. You couldn’t miss it. One of those 5X8” dead girl high school photos. She had silky hair like Janie’s and was about my age. He gave me one of his three second warning looks, then he pulled it out and handed it to me. “My daughter,’ he said, “lives in New Zealand with her mother. I’ve spent most of the week sitting in front of my neighbour’s webcam. This Janie business. It was hard to see that empty desk.” I felt the popping beneath my rib cage starting up again, then my face screwing up, as if I was walking against a snowstorm. And for some reason I was back in my bedroom hearing the sound of a diesel engine outside thinking, As long as I can still hear the taxi there’s a chance she’ll stay. Mom’s always changing her mind. Then it got louder and I heard the car door slam and it was reversing and I was jutting out my bottom lip like a two year old, clutching at my belly that seemed to be pushing something out. I let out a whimper and I felt ugly, so ugly. “She’s gone. She’s gone,” I kept saying and I couldn’t stop the phlegm. I felt Mr. Whittaker take the photo from me, his hush puppies squeaking as he got up. “I’m going to shut the door Conner.” Later, when I was helping him carry his files to his car, I told him about Helen and her best friend in tears at the kitchen table, drinking sherry and hugging each other. “And how did you feel about that, Conner?” “I wanted to punch them.” As I placed the files on the back seat, Mr. Whittaker ducked into the front and pulled out what looked like a giant leather photo album. “I thought it might be nice to keep a journal during the rehearsals,” he said, “you know, photos, costume designs, progress reports, that sort of thing.” “I can do it,” I said, “I like keeping journals.” Mr. Whittaker inspected the spine like it was a library book, “I thought perhaps we could dedicate it to Janie, put it on display on information nights, you know, so that no one forgets.” “A journal for Janie,” I said. Mr. Whittaker cocked his head in approval and I noticed that up close, he’s not much older than Dad. Walked Lena home again. It gets dark early now. She asked me if I’d like to go to the movies sometime. I wish I hadn’t just shrugged and said whatever. “If we go in the evening no one will see us,” she said. Sat Oct 12th, Told Dad about getting the lead role in the Spring production. Are you sure you gonna be okay with all of this, Conner?” He flicked off all the lights as we headed slowly up the stairs. “Oh yeh,” I nodded, “Mr. Whittaker says he’s gonna make sure I’m the coolest Oliver Twist ever.” Later on, he came in, wound the hands back an hour on my alarm clock, then slipped five notes underneath it. “It’s okay,” I said, “I’m not so into the rollerblade thing anymore.” “So go to the movies then,” he said, spotting the pen that was spilling over my covers and replacing the cap before dropping it into my giant mug, “just give me back the receipt, you know, for Helen.” “For Helen,” I droned and for some reason, that made him smile. Then he gathered up my curly bangs in his fingers and piled them on the wrong side of my parting. And I lay there not moving, breathing in his cologne, his sugary coffee breath, long after he was gone downstairs. Stop press: Simon has just barged into my room asking me if I want to go to his basketball tournament next Saturday afternoon. “No thanks,” I told him, then for some reason because his face fell, I felt I ought to let him in on my secret. I think I can trust him now not to tell anyone. “Another time,” I said, “I’m taking my girlfriend to the movies.” He fluttered his eyelids, clutched at his chest and pirouetted out the door in his slippers, singing falsetto fashion,“Wheeeeeeeere is love? Does it fall from skies above?” I find myself laughing, just a little. © Suzanne Cosquer Why I Wrote “A Journal for Janie”
By Suzanne Cosquer A journal for Janie came out of two things. After reading Gordon Neufeld’s “Hold On To Your Kids,” I became interested in the idea of peer orientation: that process that happens to adolescents when they stop listening or even liking their parents and begin taking their cues from their peers. We live in a peer orientated universe, states Neufeld, where maturation and individuation are seen as the enemies of attachment. I wanted to explore the idea of attachment, what attaches us to others: primitive senses (the smell of soap on Alvin’s hands), identicalness, a sense of belonging, loyalty (to bullies even), a sense of recognition. I also wanted to explore the idea of what impact the senseless murder of an adolescent girl can have on the community and on those who knew her outside her immediate family. I wanted to make a story that shows the angst of being a teenager today as well as focusing on what happens during an impending tragedy as well as after. Whom do we judge? Whom do we trust? Whom do we turn to in order to seek refuge from the horror of it all? Unfortunately, the tragedy that befell Janie was based on a true event and was something that affected me and the community in which I live for several months. I wanted to see if anything positive can come out of such a tragic event. Can it actually make lives turn around for the better? In Conner’s case, it does. His distant father finally wakes up and recognizes his needs; his relationship with his stepbrother takes a turn for the better; he discovers he has a talent for something as well as a mentor in Mr. Whittaker; he finds sexual love and Janie’s memory is sealed forever in the form of a popular musical that we all know and love about orphaned adolescent boys. I like to believe that good things can come out of horror and tragedy. “A journal for Janie” is a dedication therefore to all those adolescents who, because of others, never completed the often arduous but ultimately rapturous journey to adulthood. Copyright © Suzanne Cosquer Empathy. In The Neighborhood of OUR Bodies By Brian Alessandro (2/06) WGAE, INC. Registered 1970s. A young Quaker couple in Nebraska is so hyperaware and hypersensitive of each other that when one gets sick the other suffers too. Their empathy engages them. When their love affair compels them to premarital sex, God punishes them. With the emotional avalanche too mighty, one dies, and the other follows almost instantly after. Thirty years later the couple find each other once again, reincarnated into two men in New York City. They are drawn to each other, falling in love all over again, hurting each other without intention with their unwieldy emotional eruptions. Will God again damn them for their dangerous attraction? Empathy. In The Neighborhood of OUR Bodies By Brian Alessandro (2/06) WGAE, INC. Registered “Father. God. You created me with all of this awareness and sensitivity, this empathy. With all of these needs and desires and fears. I’m your responsibility. So, you’d better listen. Here it is. Either help me with this torment. Make it stop or end it all in me now. End me with it. Now.” And then Jonathan takes a break, breathing in, exhaling out. Relaxed in his skin, he eases away from his anxieties. I as their maker respond. In this new neighborhood of their bodies, the future comes fast, all of it at once, not sparingly as it happens ordinarily in present tense: unmanageably unwieldy, splitting, multiplying, mutating. Always. Multitudes of loss. Multitudes of disease. Multitudes of fear. Everything forward and yet here now. Here they are again, with a masochistic desire to thrive. Again. With me as their casting director and sharing a passion named love, the new people replace the old. This time they manifest as men, Jonathan and Burke. Straight men in this world punish gay men with murder, the boys think simultaneously. Though femininely feline, they are masculine brutes. Harrowingly handsome. Deadly sexy. Dangerously engaging. They elicit sensations in each other of which they were otherwise unaware. They pose to one another a threat because they awaken that part of them that they wish would keep dormant. They are their nature. Ripe. Regal. Real as they are. As they know themselves to be. You and yours. And still they pine for each other, withdraw from each other. Lovers, friends, soldiers in arms, some alms for the cowardly, the meek, the careful. I allow them their lust, their infatuation, their guaranteed love. They don’t understand these emotions. They come and go without any apparent prompting. They’ve never once commanded their company. They invite themselves without announcing their arrival. They stay for as long as they please and take souvenirs of them when they go. All they are is hurt. The real kind of hurt. The type that hides, bottled up, though occasionally peeks out of seclusion to suggest its presence. The very type that permeates each breath and flattens the affect. The real kind of hurt that dwells on desperately lost periods of a too swiftly gobbled up past and anxiously awaits in disproportionate anticipation every possibly dreaded instance that is forthcoming in a frighteningly uncertain future. These are the hours that weigh, bringing the mood lowest, and blinding them, my innocently conceived creations, of hope for escape. Here in Manhattan Jonathan stands tall. Burke watches him move. They observe each other, closer than ever before, analyzing the movement, implementing their gaze, spellbound, the bodies are so light. Memories flood, shaping them—emotions recalled, molding the persons they have now become. Past lives rushing through them. They wonder how long it has been. It has been a long time. Some thirty years and in landscapes different than this one, more rural, feelings full. Here at the New York Public Library of Bryant Park, Jonathan hesitates to approach Burke. Counting waves ashore new lands, he fears hurting him. Doing what people do to their beloved on the way down, when they leave damage for others to repair, dents for them to bang out, spider-webbed windshields to be replaced. “Leave something of yourself to remind them of who you were and how you lived,” Jonathan once told Burke in other forms of another galaxy. “It was life on your own terms.” They were artists of affection and always they were trying to ascend their gradations of gladness. They became a moody bunch, governed by their openness to everything alien. With stances wide and eyes cast down, they miss the novelty of their arrival and instead get lost looking back. Still they do not speak. Still they only stare. Past the benches and gargantuan clay pottery housing pluming bales of rich ivy, through passersby, still they only stare without speech. Threatening rot, they escape. Dipping through the clouds ablaze, they almost burn out. They are on fire. For quickening closure, they take their drama as petroleum, compartmentalize the tragedies and move on toward a new being. They are unbecoming. They want too much, expect it all. Spoiled. Numb. Dumb. Sentimentally removed. Toppling themselves over with excess. Soon, they no longer feel, unable to know excitement and joy too, disrupting nature’s perfection, unsettling the generous balance. In the house of details, they can see sounds and hear images. While defining their happiness, they hesitate. If his contentment means her sadness, he will abstain. Only goodwill remains genius. Jonathan and Burke, formerly Warren and Veronica, young Quaker kids in Nebraska, were last in love in 1976 at the moment of their death. In that breezy and pastoral place, Omaha, they suffered quietly. There was life, going astray. Death came, but only after decay. People suffered. They struggled. The loneliness and the loss paralyzed all feelers. Isolation set everyone further apart. No one engaged each other. Absence permeated even in their presence. Ordinary. The ordinariness of their malaise startled no one. Everyone was held together, bound by commitment, loyalty, and love. Love, the one emotion there regarded as pathology. Detachment offered the possibility of emancipation, a new type of freedom. “Warren,” says Veronica, strolling beside him through a wide-open plain of browning corn and thinning grass. “Where am I going? “Going?” he asks, touching the small of her back as they drift slowly. “I’m dying.”
“Veronica,” he hisses, disapproving mostly of his own demonic thoughts betraying his sense of hope. “Surely you know that I am.” “Don’t talk about this.” “But we must, because it’s really happening. This is really happening, Warren.” “Veronica.” “Where will he take me?” “Who?” “Our God. The one with empathy. The one that watches. This one that judges and takes us away when he’s ready.” Warren balls a fist, brings it to his bottom lip, bears his mouth into it, muting his inside wail, quieting the screams of his soul, strangled, beaten back, submissive. “That’s where I’ll wait for you.” “That’s where I’ll find you.” Warren pulls her closer. A wind picks up. Their God arrives. Here I am. The hyperaware ones, those hypersensitive poets, they who were most affected for knowing most, emerged from the fray. They, Warren and Veronica, feeling for everyone, dying for each other, offered services to amend the transgressions, doing that goodwill to ease the burden, to fill their void, to eliminate the empty times. Drawing toward one another, Jonathan and Burke, considered it. Time aged them, robbed them of those they loved, each other, and delivered the union entire into death, on a slow march hurried to the end, even as it offered fresh and profound experiences, shaping them, saving them. They named these emotions fear and sadness, not knowing what each day was to bring, undefined at dawn—promised daily loss, gain, renewal—and then they were left grateful, for having known it all offered joy. Despite their best efforts, everything deteriorated in the end. Jonathan, standing now, moving toward Burke, fearless, resolute, recalled the decline. Burke, readying himself for the approach of his born again lover, also regained the time, looking back on a past life lived elsewhere. Jonathan as Warren and his Burke as Veronica, they were judged, outcast, and put down, my smite teaching them. When she was down, he was down, when he became ill, she became ill, and when she died, he followed soon after. That was the sad affair of their love epic. And now here in New York, they, these courageous visionaries, are again one. Always, for the thirty years of their reincarnated births, they meandered through a maze of mediocrity, ignorance, and apathy. Amid this sea of degenerate materialists, this flood of selfish metropolitans, this torrent of perverted narcissists, they looked for each other, half hoping to find each other, praying never again to see one another. Jonathan is now before Burke. They are thirty. Thirty years aged. Thirty years further removed from each other. Thirty years evolved in this present existence. They live their little drama within the greater and even more dramatic dilemma of life itself. Seeing one another now, and again, like this, in the guise of men, they know, their libidos are cosmic. They are angels returning, holding, taking cool possession of pornographers to rekindle the soft thrills of the flesh. Now Jonathan touches Burke’s left pectoral muscle, contacts his nipple, hardening it, remembering the breast before it, corroding, eating through. “Will he get us again?” asks Jonathan. “Again, probably,” Burke answers, maybe without the rot of cancer this time. “Were you expecting this?” “I expected it. I knew you would find me; I would find you. “ “Like this? In this form and place, this strange galaxy?” “Life. It’s a bitch, right? And then you die, again, then you die?” “No, it’s not that life is a bitch and then you die, but more a matter of life is a bitch but then you die; you get the opportunity to die, break free, go off liberated, and return again, just like this.” “We’ll hurt again. Hurt each other again.” “He hurts us. Jonathan,” his warm hand still pressed to Burke’s left chest, feels his heart murmur, beat skipping, swelling, warming. “God does his work. We do ours. If he hurts us it’s because we allow it.” “Not again, not this time.” Jonathan smirks, mischievously as he did as Warren. “I feel you, Veronica. I always have. I could never help myself. When you got sick--” “You got sick too,” Veronica continues, cutting him off. “I know it, sweet one, but it’s Burke now, here. My new name, it’s Burke. “ “I’m Jonathan these days, for the last thirty years or so, my whole new life.” “Jonathan.” Burke absorbed the name. “You’ll always be Warren to me.” “Maybe if we live no discernable life, no patterns, no routines, nothing familiar, an unpredictable existence, the ambiguity makes sense. He’ll never find us, he’ll never get us. We’ll cheat him this time.” “Death is necessary for us to continue, but so is life.” “When we go again, as we will, damning each other, incurring his wrath; we must do so healed, otherwise we’ll be sent off again disrupted, sent wayward.” “With our demons working for us, we’ll know bliss.” Burke touches Jonathan’s permanently planted hand, fiery palm imprinting itself in his tough tissue, and presses it deeper into his hull. Interpretations inside flourish. Inside the Smiling Room, they’re free. While on their Joy Sequence, they become complete once more. They suffer who watch their loved ones age, die off, after witnessing the sadness. They are pained who see it all happen, the change, the bad transformation, and especially those who remember their histories, what it was like before and how it is all suddenly different. Now they are the ones left to mourn the passing, to notice the loss, to feel the absence of what was once familiar and comforting. All alone in a lonely world, they know well the collapse of who they were and can never be again. Warren, now Jonathan, and his Veronica, now Burke, seek a return to that history of bittersweet memories, to the happier humdrum before the alterations of era and place and people, a swift and permanent stay in that vacuum of hope, to the moment before everyone dear got old and died. They are the selfish starfish that needs to hold on, grasping tighter their tentacle fingers around the reigns of time, coiling them desperately. If they can’t go back Home again for an indefinite stay, then better to forget it all, erase it absolutely. Still they try—frantic, rushed, harried—to stop the motors of this terrible momentum from churning forward, but instead they merely grapple with the air, rip, ferocious and frenzied, through each other, trying to hold on. To salvage some bit of a false security, they claw outward, mercilessly gouging into themselves, expecting nothing less than an absolution, an immortal residence. Through Bryant Park they stroll as they had thirty years ago through the browning corn field of thinning grass, into their Omaha. Jonathan, as he had as Warren, keeps pressed his warming hand to the small of Burke’s back, receiving it repeatedly like Veronica had. The togetherness strengthens them, edifies their bravery. “God watches us,” says Burke, glancing up to the Heavens. “He narrates our story,” replies Jonathan, stroking a mammoth fern leaf jutting from the manicured earth. “He’s dictating all of this, making it up for us as he goes along.” “Determined to see his story unfold as he wishes.” “What more can we do?” “What more can we say or hope for?” “There’s this.” “It’s the only right thing, my love.” “He’s a great storyteller.” “Bringing us back again, putting us back together like this. Again.” “God bless him.” “Yes, God bless God.” “That our awareness, our empathy should extend so far as to know this brilliance.” “This genius. Our sensitivity brings us nearer to his genius. We are a part of his design.” “Embrace it as I embrace you.” Courageously, they walk on, fortunate-full, the lovers try to recreate the lives they once had, the love they long ago shared. There comes the dark, though, my dark, the one I use to test them, toy with their assured arrogance, and humble kindly. Thoughtfully. Desire still thrives. The dead cause them envy. Their fear of going once again, and returning no doubt evermore, is really a fascination in the shape of a wish. Pain and burden, free in extinction, they long to be rid of the maintenance of their bodies, expired and at rest. For now, as I plainly see, there are more promises to keep, as they kiss, publicly, profanely, obscenely, before the herd of the mediocre: the ignorant, the apathetic, my play things, loving and touching, whispering and holding, clinging to this moment, already ready to pass. © Copyright, Brian Alessandro COMIC FICTION I am possessed of innate modesty, and I was reluctant to let go the last garment until a fellow in a tunic jerked it from my grip. I’m not used to parading around in the buff among strangers, and certainly not in church… AMANA FROM HEAVEN By Les Combs I’m ashamed to tell how I died. I mean it was so dumb it was embarrassing. I drove to my apartment building this morning to get some papers I needed and had forgotten. Preoccupied, I dashed from my car without bothering to look around … or up. I failed to notice a refrigerator being hoisted to a third-floor balcony. There’s no elevator in the building, and I guess this route looked easier than three flights of stairs to the deliverymen. When a distraught voice yelled, “Look out!” I reacted in time to see the bottom of an almond frost-free Amana blocking out more sky by the millisecond. Can you believe it? Done in by a bunch of Iowans. I know. You think this story is going to be like that old joke. The one where three guys were in the Pearly Gates reception room. St. Peter called the first one over and said, “What happened to you?” The guy said, “I was on the sidewalk outside this apartment building, and a refrigerator fell on me.” St. Peter directed him to another office and called the second guy over. “What’s your story?” The second guy said, “My wife has been cheating on me, and I came home early to try to catch her in the act. I rushed upstairs, threw open the door and there was my wife in a negligee. I couldn’t find anyone else in the apartment. It made me so angry I picked up the refrigerator and threw it out the window. All the stress and exertion caused a heart attack.” St. Peter nodded, sent him on his way and called the third guy. “Let’s hear it,” he said. “What’s your story?” The third guy said, “I was hiding in this refrigerator…” My story may begin like the joke, but there the similarity ends. In the first place, there is no Pearly Gates reception room. It’s more like an army induction center, only bigger. You know how many people process through there every day? Millions. It’s a growth industry. Lots of organization is needed for an operation of that scale. They run a very tight ship. I happened to be in a stream of people entering, twelve-abreast, through Gate IV. Aesthetic-looking cadre in mid-thigh, white tunics urged us to move faster. I don’t mind telling you that I was surprised to find our first stop was the showers. The cadre told us to discard our clothes, every stitch, before entering. No one spoke, no chitchat or protests among the recruits. In fact, they all acted as though they were on Prozac. I looked this way and that, leaned out of line to see what was happening ahead, but I was the only one gawking. Everyone disrobed like zombies, everyone but me. I am possessed of innate modesty, and I was reluctant to let go the last garment until a fellow in a tunic jerked it from my grip. I’m not used to parading around in the buff among strangers, and certainly not in church. The atmosphere in heaven, as you might imagine, is somewhat churchy. You may not believe this, but the showers were coed. In their subdued state, none of the other recruits seemed to notice. I noticed. When I first glimpsed the plump young lady next to me, I noticed right away. I turned my shower to COLD and kept my eyes lifted in an attitude of prayer. “Pure thoughts, pure thoughts,” I intoned to myself. It wouldn’t have worked in life, and it didn’t work then. I made a dash for the exit in a crouched position. A tunic-clad cadre seized me by the arm, appraised my condition and led me down the hall. “You have much to learn,” he said, the disgust fairly dripping from his voice. “Shame, shame.” I hung my head and followed, meek in my chastisement. We entered a small room with a REMEDIAL ATTITUDE CHAMBER sign over the door. There were no furnishings, just off-white walls and ceiling. The deep-pile white carpet beneath my bare feet felt nice, though. My escort turned to me. “You must think you are in Muslim heaven,” he hissed. “You’re not. This is Southern Baptist heaven. There are no seventy virgins for you here.” His unfriendly demeanor seemed to mellow a bit. “Gate IV is for Southern Baptists, Gates I and II for Muslims, III for Episcopalians, and so forth.” He explained further, “Each religion’s followers go to a heaven that is exactly what that religion preached on earth. If abstinence was preached, abstinence is what you get. No matter that you sneaked about, indulged in strong drink and fleshly pursuits in life. Here you will eschew all worldly pleasures, as you were taught in Sunday school.” That seemed plain enough. “Is it too late to convert to Islam?” I inquired. I swear his eyes bulged and his neck reddened. “You may not convert,” he answered. Haughty. He seemed haughty to me. “There is only one direction you can go from here, and that is down.” He emphasized that pronouncement with a southward thrust of his arm, like an umpire calling a third strike. “What you will do now is get back in line, take your shower and subdue your passions.” I traipsed down the hall again, still buck-naked, but determined to succeed. I failed. Lord knows I tried, but I failed again. Miserably. I had taken my place at the end of the shower line when something soft bumped against me from behind. I turned and started to scream, “Allah be praised,” but caught myself in time. She was Salome, Delilah and Bathsheba all in one well-distributed package. She didn’t look one damned bit like any Southern Baptist I’d ever known. She stood so close a Bicycle playing card couldn’t have been inserted between us. I was led back to the Remedial Chamber, disgraced again. After a thorough dressing down, the cadre gave me a three-strikes-and-you’re-out warning. The thought of being consigned to the nether regions sobered me. I surely didn’t want to chance going there. Better a known devil and all that. After some deep thinking, an idea came to me. I asked the cadre, “Do you have ice cubes?” He blinked and then seemed to read my mind. “Follow me,” he said. He led me to the cadre break-room and handed me a Zip-loc bag. There against the wall stood a side-by-side freezer/refrigerator, an Amana. Crystal chunks tumbled from the door dispenser. I took my two-pound icepack and headed once again for the showers. Thank you, clever Amish in Iowa. If the ice supply held out, I was sure my days in heaven would be unnumbered. © Copyright, Les Combs The pen felt so right in my hand. I drew three x’s, then some dots and then I wrote the Preamble to the Constitution in a matter of seconds… THE RUDE PEN By Carmine Capobianco Once I had this pen which was very rude to me. Oh, sure, when I first saw it in the window at the stationery store, I could not take my eyes off it. I would walk past that window every day to look at it and hope that nobody noticed me just gazing lovingly at the pocket clip. “What if someone bought that pen?” I whispered to myself anxiously. “What if someone bought it and it was the only one like it in the world?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out everything in there. I looked at a blue pocket comb, a key that I just carried hoping someday to find its lock, a fake credit card that I got in the mail, a dollar bill I folded into the shape of a hamburger and two pennies. I had a two dollar bill. What if the pen was expensive? What if it was one of those French pens that costs five hundred dollars? I had to know how much it cost. I looked around. There was hardly anyone on the street. I could go in the store and ask. No one would see me go in. I could go in really quickly, stay by the door and ask the price. If it cost too much, I could just leave and risk embarrassment. I was going to do it. I pulled the door and was momentarily startled by the jingle of the four bells hung on the handle on the other side. The old man behind the counter was stapling single sheets of paper and tossing them on the floor behind him. He didn’t look up at the sound of the bells so I cleared my throat. A piece of something slimy suddenly appeared in the back of my mouth and I winced when I swallowed it back down. Without looking up and continuing to staple his paper, he said in a soft high-pitched old man’s voice, “How may I help you?” “I, uh ... there’s a …”, I stammered. “How may I help you?” he repeated a tiny bit louder. I pointed to the window, even though he wasn’t looking at me and tried again. “There’s a pen in your front window.” The old man stopped stapling and took a breath. He slowly lifted his head and looked straight at me. He had one brown eye and one pale blue eye and he very deliberately smiled at me. “Yes,” he said. “The pen. In the window. Very beautiful, don’t you think?” I had to get out of there. That blue eye was freaking me out and I couldn’t ask him how much the pen was. I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded. The old man stood up and his stool fell over, but he ignored it. “Would you like to hold it?” he asked. Still unable to speak, I nodded again. The old man came from around the counter and walked past me toward the store window. He smelled of moth balls and root beer. He gently pushed a sliding door aside and reached, grunting, into the display. When he withdrew his hand from the opening, he was clutching it! The pen! The pen I loved! “This pen?” he asked, holding it at my eye level. I just stared at it. It seemed to glow from within. I said nothing and continued to look at this pen, realizing that it was even more beautiful up close and without the glass in front of it. “This pen?” he asked again, louder. I looked away for a brief, brave moment into his blue eye. “How much is it, please?” The old man shuffled back to his post behind the counter. He bent over and I thought he was going to set his stool upright. Instead, he stood tall with the pen in one hand and a one foot square piece of black velvet in the other. “This is a very expensive pen.” He laid the pen gingerly on the velvet square. “Pick it up. You know you want to.” I approached the glass counter where the pen glowed miraculously on the black velvet. I could not take my eyes off it. I wanted it more than ever. “Pick it up,” commanded the old man. I was breathing heavily and my heart felt as if it were going to burst through my chest. My kneecaps were vibrating and I felt a bead of perspiration crawl down the back of my neck. I reached toward the pen and saw my right hand shaking a little. “Pick it up,” he said again more forcefully. I ran my index finger along the pocket clip. I was touching it! I was touching the pen! It was so smooth and cool to the touch. I so very carefully lifted it and I could feel a surge of mild electricity run up my arm, into my shoulder, across my back and down my spine. My throat was dry and my feet were wet. “Write with it,” said the old man, pushing a sheet of stapled paper in front of me. I looked at the paper, then back at the pen. I slid my thumb up the smooth cool pocket clip and gently clicked the button at the top to expose the point. I was having trouble breathing as the tip of the pen touched the paper. I drew a little circle. The tip glided effortlessly on the paper. The ink was blue, a bit darker blue than his eye. I drew a coil. The pen felt so right in my hand. I drew three x’s, then some dots and then I wrote the Preamble to the Constitution in a matter of seconds. I finally spoke. It was as if it were someone else’s voice. My throat was dry and, still breathing heavily, I managed to slowly ask, “How much is it, please?” The old man smiled again and said, “It’s very expensive. It’s from France, you know.” I had to have this pen. I needed this pen. I was in love with this pen. Price no longer mattered. I would give him my two dollar bill to hold it until I could come up with the rest of the money. I would find a way. I would have to find a way. “How ... much?” The old man watched as I turned the pen toward my face. I wanted to kiss it. I wanted to put it in my shirt pocket and stick my chest out all day to draw attention to it. I could never again be without this pen. Never. “It’s very expensive.“ The old man could tell I was enamored. He knew I wanted this pen. He even said, “I can tell you are enamored. I know you want this pen.” “How much?” “I could give you a special deal. It’s the last one” That was exactly what I had! I could buy it! I bought it! I finally had my own pen—a perfect pen that I would never lend out. Never. I would write checks with it and really funny stuff in the bathroom at McDonald’s. I would own a beautiful silver pen with the thing that clicked in and out at the top. I could click it whenever I got sad. I paid the old man and went home. I signed the back of my fake credit card. I circled things in the newspaper. I wrote a poem at McDonald’s. I took my pen everywhere in my shirt pocket. We were a team. Me and my pen. My pen and me. The next week, the pen became really rude and wouldn’t go into my pocket. I’d put it in and it would jump out. I’d put it in again and it would jump out. I’d put it in and have to walk with my hand over the top of it to prevent it from escaping. People began to stare. Some may have even known I had a rude pen. Fine, I thought. I’ll wear it behind my ear. It’ll make me look like I use it all the time. People would say, “My, but that’s a beautiful pen behind your ear!” An hour after I put my pen behind my ear, my pen began to eat celery. All I heard all day long was, “Crunch, crunch,” and “Get me some salt, stupid.” I began to get angry. I was so mad at my pen. I began lending it out when my pen wouldn’t write for me when I wanted it to write. “I don’t feel like it,” it would say. Finally, I lent it to this guy at the bank and told him to keep it. Now I am developing a relationship with a burnt sienna crayon. © Copyright, Carmine Capobianco Everyday this man without a name had only one agitation, an itch impossible to scratch. Wyonna was a few steps below the stereotypical sadist… Mechanics By David Young Everyday he walked to the same office building. Everyday he passed the same security guards. Everyday he used the same ID card to unlock the same opaque door and enter the same office on the same floor as the day before. It was the same day for this man with no name at the same desk that he sat at countless times before. Similar days rolled into similar months that compiled similar years and slowly stole the similar seconds from his life. This man with no name was leading no life but instead a mundane, repetitive existence similar to that of a machine. That is what he became, what evolution prescribed for this nameless man. He became mechanized. Everyday this man without a name had only one agitation, an itch impossible to scratch. Wyonna was a few steps below the stereotypical sadist. She had only one concern in every moment that equaled the sum of her business days, only one ideal she was willing to beat, torture, maim and emotionally kill anyone to obtain. This need was her own self-satisfying authority and superiority over her constituents. Her physical frame matched her twisted needs, as she appeared more like a beast than a human. Wyonna stood around five feet with the greatest portion of her mass resting in her upper body. This large mass was supported by two stubby legs which defied the very idea of physics. Her most unusual characteristic, however, was her extremely long and hairy arms that could easily palm her kneecaps while she stood upright. She resembled more of a silverback gorilla than she ever could a human being, let alone a female human being. “Hey you!” Wyonna screamed at the man with no name. Her voice vibrated throughout the office. Quickly and quietly, the other employees retreated to their cubicles or tiny offices. “You are three minutes late. I am docking your morning pay!” The man retained the same joyless face and dead eyes that he had countless days before. He had learned not to make any retorts to her inexorable barks for there would only be more. The man remained silent and walked to his desk. Co-workers stared at him with pity as he walked by, and some offered remarks of sympathy, but he didn’t listen anymore. He couldn’t. He could no longer grasp their complex concern for him. He quietly sat at his desk and checked the monthly figures. All morning, the nameless man heard his co-workers talking about the incident amongst themselves. They all feared Wyonna, but he didn’t. Fear was one of the many multifaceted human emotions that Wyonna had slowly and painfully ripped from his being until the fear dissolved in her hand and the torture felt normal. Nobody really spoke to the man without a name. They couldn’t. There was nothing left in his remains to relate to. They would have had the same outcome if they attempted to converse with the coffee machine, or the photocopier. She had hacked away at his personality, his soul until all that was left was the most basic and simplistic of motor functions. She became his succubus devouring his will to think, to fight, or be anything except her dangling prey. Everyday was the same. Like clockwork went this man’s life. Everyday he arrived and he left leaving nothing behind. No humorous comments, no insightful words or phrases, no smiles or gentle greetings. A perpetual mechanism shielded from the world, guaranteed never to feel again. A person with emotion would be frightened of such a horrible fate, but not this man. It happened too quickly to fear. Now he feared nothing. He felt nothing. Now he was driven by an order built on clock ticking throughout the day. Eat, sleep, work; these were his values, his ideals, his virtues. These were all that existed. He had once loved and was loved in return. He had once dreamed and anxiously looked forward to his own future. He had once felt the praise of others and given praise. These ideas of passion, ambition, and gratitude were lost on him now; smothered by the stubby leg of a woman-beast interested in her own satisfaction. She had turned him into something less than human, less than an animal even. She had killed the man once known as Stephen Jenkins and replaced him with a living, breathing, nameless calculator. Everyday through the ordinary chatter of employees, the nameless man occasionally heard questions about his situation. They would ask why he put up with the abuse. They wondered how he allowed such cruelty instead of finding a better job. It was simple. Who would want a soulless bag of flesh? He was fully aware of what he had become. His ignorance had never overwhelmed his perceptions. He understood his place as a simple cog in the institution. He was a replaceable part that did not necessarily keep the corporation running, but would be a mild nuisance to repair. He had accepted his fate through thoroughly logical self-debates that became much easier to exercise as passion and ambition became non-existent. Wyonna stood in the doorway of her corner office. “Hey you! Come in here now!” He knew she talked to him, and so did everyone else. He slowly stood and walked toward the horrid banter of pop music exuding from Wyonna’s office. The other employees whispered as he walked inside and closed the door. The shrieks from the banshee could be heard from blocks away as Wyonna verbally tore into the nameless man. He did not move, twitch or shift as she executed her bout on the living corpse. Words shot through his scarred self repeatedly. Had this been his first day, or even first year, he would have shivered from each passing syllable. Now he only stood, motionless, emotionless, staring at his attacker through dull, grey eyes. “Are you listening to me?” she howled, exposing her pointed mandibles. He ritually nodded and the assault continued until her final phrase that moved the man for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. “You’re fired!” Her voice bellowed with the authority of a depraved sociopath. His eyes opened wide and his lower lip slightly fell. Wyonna smiled her sinister smile that she had been waiting to use for a very long time. She had done the impossible, breaking an already shattered individual. He didn’t say anything and she smirked to show her undying glee. She had surpassed even her wildest expectations with the man lacking a name, and then she joyfully ordered him out of her office. As he removed himself, she followed him to the doorway. “Ahem,” she said as she stood in all the glory of a silverback gorilla. He turned and looked into the beast, thoughtless, emotionless, waiting for her next soul-shattering statement. “I want your desk emptied and you out of here by the end of the day.” The nameless man returned to his desk. He sat down and took a moment to think of his next move. He thought within the confines of logic and rationality until the moment turned into hours. He thought until logic and rationalization made no sense whatsoever, and he remained in these obscure thoughts until they made complete sense. He knew what was wrong with him, what was missing. Through his mental processes, he came to the only possible conclusion: she had taken a part of him. He needed it back. Five o’clock arrived unusually fast and the office cleared out with the exception of Wyonna and the nameless man. He stood from his desk and moved to her slightly opened office door. She hummed along with some musical number that he was not familiar with, but then again it had been so long since he had listened to any genre of music. He quietly opened the door and stepped inside. She looked up with slight confusion and annoyance. “What do you want?” she asked as she turned her attention back to her paperwork. He didn’t answer. He looked down at her with the same emotionless face and eyes that remained devoid of anything remotely human. He looked at her, not menacingly, but not appropriately. She stood ready to demoralize the nameless man once more when, without warning, she felt his fist bash against the side of her face. Her head spun around quickly, spraying blood and teeth against the wall. The beast collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The man without a name stared at Wyonna for only a brief moment. He was not sorry for striking her and he felt no remorse for his actions, but he was slightly surprised by how easily she fell. He quickly and methodically ransacked the beast’s office, searching for what he needed. He searched for blood to replace the oil in his veins, for the heart to replace the rhythmic motor pounding in his chest; for the mind to replace the overworked CPU residing in his head, for the soul to counteract the vacuum that had been placed within him. For two hours, he searched every inch of available space for the rest of himself, but only found illegible paperwork. He thought and thought, until his logic ventured further into the obscure, and he stared at Wyonna. Her lifeless, ape-like body started to move again, and he knew she would be fully conscious at any moment. He was not anxious for her impending awakening, nor did he feel compelled to run from the scene. Instead, he thought about where she had placed his belongings, his qualities of necessity. That’s when it came to him. That’s why he couldn’t find anything in her office. She had them. The nameless man grabbed Wyonna by the hair and lifted her heavy-set body from the ground with almost a mechanical strength, like his arms had been replaced with hydraulic pumps. She let out a deafening scream and he threw her with ease into her own black leather chair. In a daze, she scanned the room in an attempt to gain some perspective and remember where she was, and found her tortured victim standing over her. He was no longer the victim as he searched for his missing pieces. She began screaming profanities at the man without a name. His face remained vacant. His eyes searched and his mind processed the information. She attempted to stand and was pushed back down. Without warning and without breaking his blank face, the nameless man threw his arms forward and plunged his thumbs into the corners of Wyonna’s eyes. She screamed as her eyeballs were quickly and viciously plucked from their sockets. A mix of viscous fluid, blood and tears flowed from her newfound orifices as a thousand thoughts raced through her mind, all leading to the fact that she would never see anything again. Her eyes were disregarded as hastily as they were removed. Her eyelids hung awkwardly with nothing left to support them. The nameless man grabbed Wyonna’s hair and held strong as his free hand searched the empty sockets. Only a stream of various human fluids was seen. She cried out in horror as he fidgeted with her open wounds. He realized then that his parts must be elsewhere, and he scanned her body again. He saw her mouth, gaping wide from the rush of sensations her mind took in. He stepped to her side and forcefully tilted her head back. She began to scream again, but he didn’t listen. He easily wedged his hands in her mouth, his left against the upper jaw and his right against the lower. Without hesitating, the nameless man ripped and snapped the jaws apart. Her bottom jaw broken in a multitude of places and dangled by the folds of fat and skin; it bounced against her neck and blood ran from the torn skin on the corners of her mouth. Wyonna’s screams became dull and barely noticeable and were interrupted by various gurgling sounds. The nameless man was far too fixated to concern himself with the noises she produced, since his mission was to recover what was taken. He shoved his hand down her permanently opened throat and searched incessantly for his missing pieces. Wyonna gagged, kicked and waved her hands about in agonizing torture. So violent was the nameless man’s search that he ruptured soft tissue, connective tissue, and various organs. Her lungs were squeezed from the inside, her diaphragm convulsed under the stressor; her heart took a pounding from his penetrating hand. He was so enthralled in his search for himself that he did not notice his former boss die from asphyxiation. This nameless man soon concluded that searching by means of touch was not nearly productive enough and he needed to see in order to discover. He removed his moist and bloody arm from Wyonna’s throat and threw her lifeless body to the floor. He found a fairly large pair of scissors in his former employer’s desk and used them to eviscerate her corpse. He sliced open her abdomen and watched as her innards fell out. Her intestines, both small and large, her stomach, liver and both kidneys oozed out onto the maroon colored carpet. He scrupulously went through each organ to be certain he didn’t overlook anything. After he turned each once functioning body part to mush, he tossed it aside and moved on. After he finished with the inside of the torso, he moved on to the head. Using the scissors, this nameless man cracked Wyonna’s head like a coconut and pried it open. Her brains fell out onto the floor in an amorphous grey mass. He cut through the grey tissue and found nothing satisfactory. The man without a name worked tirelessly and meticulously throughout the night, removing flesh from bone until all that remained were her skeletal remnants spread across the floor and a heaping mass of inconsistent human meat. Once he had finished and found nothing that he needed, the nameless one sat down again and thought. He thought about where she could have hidden his provisions. He became lost in his newfound obsession and he did not realize that his co-workers had started arriving for work. The man with no name was found at roughly around nine in the morning. By 9:15, he was handcuffed and escorted from the building. The horror shocked everyone, but at the same time, nobody in the office was surprised. The police quickly identified the body with the nameless man’s cooperation, but they were unable to discover his name. He had no forms of identification in any of his pockets and when the police asked him, the man quietly replied, “That’s what I was trying to find.” “The way she treated him in particular,” one female co-worker told a police officer, “I am not surprised. He got it worse than any of us, but then again, what he did is unspeakable!” “I see,” the officer said looking down at his notepad. “You wouldn’t happen to know his name, would you?” The woman looked at her fellow distraught employees. They were all dumbfounded. None of them could recall his name. Wyonna had never used it, and after some time, he stopped speaking altogether. A few names were thrown out, but none close to Stephen Jenkins. © Copyright, David Young POETRY
COLLECTION OF POEMS By Sylvie Morgan Flatow I’m Fine Kept feeling differently the same. Shady sunlight, day-breaking behind grey fabric-ated windows, clogs tapping off her heels on the way out of his converted farmhouse, seeing rocking chairs rock across the street, and choosing a very red cranberry juice over black coffee helped. Turned over onto her stomach last night, eyes not on him this time because that old mumbling feeling showed up and no, nothing's wrong, i'm fine, i'm just ready to sleep now. I don't believe you, he said, and how can anyone believe anyone when they say "i'm fine." Found her hand under the blanket. Had been talking of Iraq and George W and she kept sighing in and out of what seemed to be a melting of two differently the same angers. This anger, it's within all of us and it's so unfair that we have to harbor it and understand it because she was now old enough to see life as beautiful and tragic, flawed but perfect. The way she knows she’s seen herself - greedy and absorbed, sensitive and full of love. Reaching in in in, and then reaching out. feeling 50/50, but totally unbalanced. Rainwater from the trees shook down on his red Celica and they both watched until it stopped. He kissed her; she said "thankyou." he said "for what." she said "irrelevant." he smiled, said he'd call her, she said "great" and they walked off in opposite directions, her hands in jean pockets, carrying yoga clothes from yesterday and feeling her age. The same difference settled in as she stood on 116 waiting for the bus but feeling like a pretty hitchhiker, the bottom of her Lee’s wet from the dew, the air fresh and breathable, and cars speed-limiting by. Everyone's running out of time, he’d assured her, not just you. How I Remember It we used to celebrate birthdays at the stroke of midnight. used to drink to get drunk like it was right to invite the boy so your friends could evaluate and celebrate nothing/everything by taking too many pictures and forgetting at once that you really barely even knew the person of the basement you had all gathered in to play the part of a birthday girl for. There’s a pink feathered boa around your neck that you’re stroking but you wish midnight would outlast the length of these friendships. The English Major At 16 Main street, above Russell's Liquors, 2nd floor towards the back - there's an art studio where the quintessential middle-aged Amherst woman comes every Tuesday evening for a drawing class. The ginger tea brews and boils as she rolls up her Lands End sleeves and takes out the charcoal pencil set her husband bought for her over the holidays, ties an apron around her back like a smock. She speaks softly with six other neighborly women, including the petite teacher who is dressed like Park Slope, Brooklyn. "It's my birthday today so I brought in some sliced banana cake," one of them extends. At 5:25 PM., the English Major blows in from the cold, introduces herself, grabbing the stool by the window and bringing it to the middle. Two heaters warm her knees as she begins to think up authentic poses for these women's pupils to flicker up and down at. Thirty seconds for this one and thirty seconds for that one. And this one. And that one. This one. Twenty minutes in a position she has to fool herself into believing she can do in real life when she is not on display. The 75-minute pose. She sits there, thinking of everything she forgets to think about during a day. She gets told that the shadows falling across her body are like zaps of sun on a cherry wood. She listens to the squeak of the floorboards as Park Slope makes her way around the studio telling each woman little secrets about the English Major’s form. Measuring her with their pencils in the air. Now change. Other People’s Parents By Sylvie Morgan Flatow i would've written in dull pencil on post-it notes that had shitty adhesive. with lint all over it. i would've written atop my thighs, still speeding through massachusetts, past towns that no one cares about. the face behind my face disgusted with the moods and the crabby aromas that seeped like cigarette smoke deep into my arms, crawling fierce and tight around my neck as i smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. trying hard to think of code words and code phrases, code names, anything - just so i could be able to express how wrong and sad it all felt. catch all of it. document what it was that was making me want to crash already - this slow rapid pulsating thump thump, slower, slower, slower... and then boom!fast. slow. sick. because i recognized the dysfunction. quickly remembered. what it feels like to be the main character. the hot kitchen lights on your lies and your fresh mouth and your scowls. wrapped together like an unwanted holiday grab bag, goody bag in this girl body, so small but so what your parents never dreamed they would have to reason with. so small but so what. living beneath your hate, face up so that you have to see it all the time, for people you're supposed to love and things you’re supposed to want and ideas that have yet to be molded into what will become your opinion trying to wrestle it away, losing, sometimes winning, mostly losing. © Copyright, Sylvie Morgan Flatow Collection of Poems
By Faith Brody
Battered Beauty
Wondering if my battered beauty
looks as goode in the mirror
as it does on you…
My bent, buckled butterfly wingz
get beaten in the wind
every now and then,
but fatherz love their daughterz still
and mother’z sometimes envious too
but the British backlash
getz itz power
from some pretty prude.
So what'z it mean?
We dined on the couch,
watched a candle burn out,
watched my life crash down.
As I turn to you and I wonder why these
baubles don't mean something more than
what they are
and they sit in the closet
and they stare at me back
and I look at the cat
and there's a gate;
There's a wire—
anything,
I wonder,
to get me out alive...
Some women crave to be bumblebees
but I choose to fly
in my delicate handz,
not frisky or like some cow to sit,
to buzz around men's headz;
we're flies to annoy and pester them...
But they can dream and pretend that we're unlike them,
that we talk too much and enjoy the giftz.
He wantz to murder my image and water me down,
a story without a sound,
make my gutz fall to the ground,
and I'm here and I'm here
and no longer around—
An embittered journey to embark,
here's me with my journal and my ploy
and to me,
he's just a little boy.
So shallow they come and in England he rules;
They alwayz think they know and he tellz her—
"find a subject"
and then you'll find your voice, uh huh...
So there he goes to mock her style,
unravel all that'z deep—
that creep, he'll get a shiner yet
for trying to poison me.
He shook her withered bones and said:
"I told you so,
now make me cum and make me try to forget you.”
But he knocked her down into gorgeous dance stepz,
trespassing on her maiden lawn;
it'z not my voice now
but I've won yet another tragick
victory
from a misplaced blonde
in another rotten century.
It'z a shame;
maybe you can come clean.
Do I have to give up my toe shoes just yet, just now for you?
When he was alive I used to sleep all nite
and skip this class, hug the beat generation;
We all thought we were so important,
some influential high class stuff.
No wonder he's up;
he's unborn love.
But you—
You are the sky
and the sky's the limit
and the sky's all I can take
and all I could want
when my body feelz like this
unwanted bruised on boredom bliss.
I never wanted other than to shimmer
and move away from this
Beatnik joy;
It'z nothing now; it'z meaningless;
he's killed the scene with his coffeebeanz and his madcap ravingz
and he doesn't even look like
one of us.
Here in the heart in the sand here we are and we belong
and if you're going to make a documentary,
please don’t make anything that paintz a shamed enlightened me.
These breakdownz are breakdances,
done by the damned, by the brooding moody wizardz.
My friendz and I,
we've all reached the sky;
we've all got our chances—
I read it somewhere or I saw it in a movie.
You have your advances;
now do it; take your chances
and take my heart—
just try to steal me away.
I won't fake anything goode for you,
not like he'd want me to.
Now drench my soul in pixie fire.
In my picnic basket I'm safely tucked and
I want it all
for you.
© Copyright 6/24/2004, Faith Brody Eternally Alone
By Faith Brody He helped make my fantasy of bohemian love and hell come true. He fought survival, and internally, we grew. He was the one love I had to pay for, and we prayed for recovery day by day. He made a stronger sympathy when the struggle blew out. Now etched in stone, eternally alone, and I sleep by myself at night too. And though I wanted to give myself up to a thousand bodily assailants, this one was really beautiful. This one, I wanted to keep. This one stroked my softest curves while I fell fast asleep. On paper it looked pretty but in reality it was the worst. He died as a cause becoming a ritual, forgetting the game and where he came from. I spent the last years trying to make sure his world didn't fall apart; but happiness was never his strength anyway, and like I told you, I had to pay. "This is what you get," he told me. "This is what you get," he said. So this is where the truth lies: the heart dies and just like that, love expires? The beats skipped his heart. It wasn't a sound that I could make to try and take back— what we had dreamed so long about when we shook off those bad times and fake daydreams that other people had. No, it wasn't like that, and we never knew how much time we had. There wasn't time enough that they could envy us, but now they can envy me for my despair, and the fact that it's real and not just poetically poured out into my coffee diary. For this is what they see of me: I once was a woman and I still am, but a part of me has faded and I don't give a damn. © Copyright, Faith Brody Lip Gloss Melt Down
By Faith Brody With pouted lipped perfection she storms into the room, a perfect time to recognize those lip gloss let downs... She stood there, in the mirror, to compare thigh fat with her friend and she told her of her new lover, with his big daddy hands and how he strokes her into midnight into gorgeous into nothing; as the time evaporates and the day fades to skylines, nothing but high notes and they turn from awake into dreaming... The tunnel floods quickly with a new type of tired, some kind of lamp light, staying up too late to study. Her goals, they flow so quickly, so freely to the mountains; she wants to be a panther, an eagle, anything to tramp and kill, collect and pick the scabs of suicide at another angle. Prestige ruled her home when she was younger, picking daisies and her mother filled her head with feminine thoughts. She was dressed in an antique lace pinafore and sometimes those pin curls still adorn that pretty little head of hers. She turned mountains into mole hills when she'd downsize all their problems but make her midriff size growing the biggest one of all. He didn't care for her candid shots but he was weak and a sucker for any strand of life— |