Adelaide Magazine No. 39, August 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

“I know to go to the damned side!” “But he told that trooper we were taking
him to Six Flags, and when she does report
The ride continued until Justin felt the car it they’re going to put everything together
shift. He moaned and put his hands over his because you said going to Six Flags was all
face as Josh wheeled into a gas station, shut he talked about yesterday, and she heard
off the engine, and jumped out. Maggie him say it right in front of you when she got
sighed and looked nervously back at Justin home. You said so! You should never have
before hopping out of the car and heading used that story on him.”
to the front of the store. Stepping past the
front of the car, Josh bent over in the weeds “She won’t even remember that,” said
with his hands on his knees. Still covering Maggie, throwing a paper towel into the
his face, Justin could hear Josh making dry bushes where Josh had been. “She couldn’t
retching sounds and cursing in between. even find his pajamas if I didn’t remind her
Maggie came running back with something which drawer they’re in.”
in her hand. She wrestled the door open to
the restroom, and in a few seconds came “Well, I’ll bet her memory gets real
back out with dripping paper towels. If Jus- clear when she realizes her son’s been kid-
tin’s seat belt had not kept him strapped in, napped!” Josh and Maggie both turned
when she pulled the door open he might at once to look at Justin who sat glumly
have fallen out. She hurriedly began wiping propped against the back seat, his face pale
the back of the seat. Josh returned to the with sweat.
side of the car. “This is going all wrong,” he
said. “This is going to go down bad, I can “Fuck,” muttered Josh. “I’m telling you, I
feel it.” got a bad feeling.”

“Everything is going to be fine,” she said, “Maggie,” Justin called, his voice soft and
moving to the mess on the floorboard. pleading. “I don’t feel good.”
Justin looked down at his lap. His legs were
wet and bits of dried food stuck to his skin. The cruiser passed behind Josh’s car and
One of his hands was sticky, and he saw that circled the front of the building, and Josh
something brown and mushy was stuck be- made a little “huh” sound of panic while
tween his fingers. He wiped it on the seat. pushing the sweat from his lip with the
“When I get this cleaned up–” back of his hand. “This is going bad. It’s not
worth it.”
“That trooper was on to us,” said Josh.
“The money will make it worth it. Just
“That trooper did not suspect anything think about the money we’ll get. We’re al-
because do you know why?” Maggie stood most there, Josh,” she said, trying to keep
up from the car and put her face up close her voice a whisper, but Justin could hear
to Josh’s. “She doesn’t know. It’s been ten her.
hours already and she hasn’t filed any report
because she still doesn’t know. That’s how Josh pointed a finger at the boy who had
he didn’t suspect a thing because like I told not moved. “We’re gonna get caught,” he
you a hundred times, she doesn’t even get muttered, and then he reached into the car
home until after six and she doesn’t even and tried to pull Justin out, but the boy was
know what’s happened. No one knows.” strapped inside. Josh jerked the seat belt
free and pulled Justin out by his left arm
so hard he stumbled. Josh pulled him to his

49

Adelaide Literary Magazine

feet, kicked the back door shut, and led him Sitting down between the two bushes,
to the front of the car. Justin pulled his knees up to his chest
and shivered. Cars passed, some pulled
“Josh! Stop it!” Maggie was waving the in; people got out, went inside, and came
dirty paper towel at him. “No!” out again with drinks, cigarettes, or snacks.
He watched the road for Josh and Maggie.
“Get back in the car.” They would be back soon, he was sure.
Once he had been at place outside with his
“What are you going to do?” Maggie ran mother that had candy, games, and rides,
after him and tried to take Justin’s other but mostly what he remembered was that
hand. “You can’t leave him here.” there had been ponies and an old man who
limped. The old man had helped him onto
“Get in the car or I’ll leave you, too,” a brown and white pony, and then they
Josh’s face was red, and the hand he had on walked around in a circle with his mother
Justin’s arm was pinching the boy so hard he walking beside him. Justin had been so ex-
began to cry. “See, see what I mean,” Josh cited he had wet himself atop the saddle.
said, releasing his grip from Justin’s arm. His mother had been angry, and she left
“Now get in the car.” For a second Maggie him there with the man and the pony while
hesitated and looked down at Justin. Be- she went to get something to clean him up
fore she could speak, Josh grabbed her by with. Justin waited with the man who said,
both shoulders, pushed her back toward “Reckon she left you for good?” He laughed
the door, and into the driver’s side. He kept a high-pitched chuckle, but Justin just felt a
pushing her until she was in her seat. Justin sick feeling in his stomach while he waited
could see her mouthing something at him for his mother to return, the same sick
while holding her hand to her ear, but he feeling he felt when the policeman told him
couldn’t understand what she was saying. Six Flags was on the other side of America.
Josh put the car in reverse and quickly
backed out from the parking space. In sec- The sky was growing darker, and Justin
onds they disappeared back onto the road. huddled down in the shrubbery. He kept his
Justin watched them go until he could see eyes on the entrance to the station, looking
nothing but tiny red dots from the back of for Josh’s blue car, the one with the loose
the car. trim on the driver’s side. Several blue cars
came in, but none with Josh and Maggie.
The air was very cool, and the mess on Some came around to the restrooms, but
his legs had dried to a milky crust. He felt the people who got out were strangers.
better in the night air. The sick feeling that They couldn’t see him anyway; he was
had settled around him began to lift, and balled up small and hiding. Soon, Justin
he stood in the darkened silence beside began to feel sleepy, and his eyes drooped.
the station. The police cruiser came back The sound of the cars became more distant,
around the building, and he instinctively and he was drifting.
backed further into the shrubbery until
they passed by. He’d never been afraid of “What are you doing there?” a voice
policemen before, but Josh seemed afraid. asked. Startled awake, Justin stood up. His
Maggie, too. The patrol car slowed at the knees were wobbly and the cold hit him
exit before proceeding onto the road and anew. The man, standing about three yards
disappearing in the same direction as Josh
and Maggie had gone moments before.

50

Revista Literária Adelaide

away at the edge of the parking lot, was zip- shouldn’t be out alone in the cold. Come
ping his pants up. Behind him another man on. We can get you something to eat,” he
came out of the men’s room, got into his car, said, gesturing toward the truck. “Are you
and drove away. Justin watched the man hungry? Hey, I bet you like hot chocolate.
fix his pants and then wipe his hands on I could get you a big cup of hot chocolate.
his thighs. “You okay? Where’s your mom What do you say?”
and dad?” Justin’ mouth hung open, and
he tried to remember. The man took a few Did he know where Six Flags was?
steps closer to Justin and eyed him carefully. Maybe the officer had been wrong. Josh
“Are you lost?” and Maggie were driving to Six Flags, so
they had to be near it. The man held out
Where did his mother live? Justin knew his hand and grinned. Justin could see that
they lived in a house with a grey roof with he had no teeth on one side of his mouth
bricks on the outside and a garage where and the rest of them were yellow. It looked
she parked her car. like a dog’s mouth. “Come on, now. Get in
the truck.” The hand came closer. Justin
“Do you need a ride, little boy?” The leaned out from the shrubbery, took a step
man’s voice was gentler this time. “I’ve out, and looked around once more for Josh
got a truck right there and it’s warm.” He and Maggie. He was tired and it was cold.
pointed behind him at the red truck and
wiped his hand over his mouth. “Little boys Justin took the hand.

51

SKELETON IN THE
CESS PIPE

by Max Watt

It was chaos in the close quarter lodg- “Esha,” Mirka cried, “Let go.”
ings. No matter where Mirka went people
threatened one another and fought over She would not.
scraps of food. Father had told him that it
was where the hopeless gathered. Where They entered a twisted maze of wooden
the penniless and the pitiful validated one snickets which led to an enclosure where a
another. “No son of mine will be caught mound of possessions sat on a cart. Here
dead here,” he had said. Well now I am here, she stopped, crouched and picked up a
Father. Your legacy dies today. large piece of tarpaulin which she threw
over the cart and tied with string. Then she
Mirka found a space in a crowded ditch tilted her head and listened. Far away was
and lay there. He turned away from the me- the bustle. Once she had made sure it was
nagerie. When he felt the grip on his arm safe she looked at Mirka and said, “Father
he rolled over with a gasp. Esha was urgent. is dead.”
Blood speckled her arms.
He stared at her in disbelief. “Dead?”
“Esha,” Mirka said, his world rapidly dark-
ening. “How did you find me?” “Come on,” “Yes, you utter fool. And now we have to
she commanded, dragging him. go.” “But...But where?”

It was a relief to see her after a day in this “Out there. Where are your things?” “I
pit. So Mirka lifted himself off of the Earth don’t know.”
and followed her. The two of them climbed
out of the ditch and went on, making care “You don’t know? You mean you brought
not to trod on sick, sleeping bodies. As he nothing with you?” “What happened to Fa-
followed Esha across the coughing mudpit ther, Esha?”
she glanced backwards over and over,
clutching a clean knife. “I’ll explain if we live. Mirka, they are
going to be looking for us soon. Where are
Outside, the moon was low and big and lit your things?”
a sludgy path. Esha dragged Mirka by the arm.
He looked down. Traipsed his trainered
foot in the mud.

52

Revista Literária Adelaide

“You left your things in the estate,” she woman gripping a shotgun crept up the
said. Her voice held a harsh tone as if she wall. Esha stayed still, every move slow and
was deliberately trying to hurt him. “That is smooth. No sooner had Mirka noticed the
stupid of you. Stupid and weak.” shadow than Esha struck. The shadow fell
down and a line of blood painted the wall.
Shame burned him. Father would have Esha pulled the guard down to the mud and
been cross at him for running. But Father emptied the woman’s throat into the earth.
was gone. Never to raise a hand to him again. The expression on the guard’s face was one

“What will we do, Esha?” he said. “You Mirka would later dream of. Her eyes
will carry this cart.” screaming and she without the vocal cords
to make the noise.
“We cannot go out there, Esha. We cannot.
We should stay here, live in the lodgings. Dis- Esha dropped the fat cadaver and backed
appear.” against the wall and sidled to its edge and
kept very still. Mirka could not look away
“The Council will find us. String us up by from the guard. Her dead eyes grimly re-
our entrails.” “We did not kill Father.” garded him.

Esha stared at Mirka’s belt where his “Mirka. Come on.”
blade hung. A knife he had held for a few
days now. He turned away from her slightly, He rubbed his hands on his legs and
so she could not see it. gripped the cart and the two went on.

“They will not believe you,” she said He followed Esha across a deserted
darkly. “Now forget this and come on.” courtyard to an asymmetrical sewer hole
that was dug into a muddy knoll. Esha got
The alleys they took were narrow and onto her hands and knees.
dark. Esha knew her way around them. She
Knew the place better than anyone Mirka “Come on,” she said. “Mirka.”
had known. As a younger child she had ex-
plored every corner of the slums. “I can’t.” Mirka dropped the cart. “I won’t
fit.”
When there were voices Esha stopped.
Stiffened against the fence. Whipped a “Of course you will,” said Esha. The words
finger over her lips, and so Mirka stopped stung him. “I will get stuck.”
too and was very quiet. They went slowly
when they moved out again and continued “You will not.” “And the cart.”
like this for a long time. Eventually Esha
stopped and with her voice beneath a “Do not let go of it.” “But Esha…”
whisper said, “We are here.”
“We do not have time for this.”
Esha halted him. The two stopped per-
ilously still in a concrete silence, as if a Esha dived into the knoll leaving Mirka
scorpion were hanging above them with its alone with the cart. He took short sharp
stinger out and in a stern and tenuous mo- breaths. Heart thumped. He kneeled down
tion Esha reached around and gripped the and pushed crawled forwards with his arms
makeshift knife handle and poised herself stretched out behind him. The mud slushed
like a python. Mirka’s senses bristled at the and stank beneath him and as he trudged
sound of footsteps. The shadow of a large through it with one knee movement after
the other, his arms strained and the cart
wobbled behind him. He used his elbows to

53

Adelaide Literary Magazine

keep himself from falling forwards and they turned and saw the manner in which they
burned with the motion of it. The tunnel were stacked, his eyes sparked with rage
before him was as black as pitch and Esha and he pushed it to the ground. He watched
was nowhere to be seen in it. Ahead she had Mirka scramble on the floor amongst his
plunged with the strength Father had taught scattered and broken possessions. His face
her. So it was, the daughters were trained by hardened.
the fathers and the sons trained themselves.
“You’re almost grown now Mirka,” he
“Esha,” he called. “Esha.” said. Voice low and cold. “You should be
able to stack your cart.”
“Shhh.” she said, but her voice was lost
amongst the trudging so that Mirka was un- “Yes, Father.”
certain she had spoken.
Father sighed, turned his back. “Things
He went on. Eventually he had no no- are changing, Mirka. I will not hold your
tion of how far he had come. He crossed hand anymore. Esha tells me that the two
a wet stream where sewage was sloshing of you meet every Fifth. To share stories and
into the tunnel from a drainpipe. He went fraternise. Is this true?”
on until his knees and back were sore. Until
his upper arms burned with the weight of “Yes, Father.”
the cart. He felt it stumble and tip over. He
stopped and tried to turn around to fix it “And she also tells me that on each fifth,
but there was no space to turn. she is the one to make the fire. Is this true?”

“Esha.” he cried for her help. “Esha.” She “Yes, Father.”
did not respond.
He sighed. “I am pleased by her predispo-
He let go of the cart and crawled for- sition, but displeased by yours. Within a turn
wards. After a long and deeply uncomfort- I will be a top advisor to The Council and you
able journey the mud began to thin and are to take my place when I am gone.” He
eventually he saw the dawn. turned partially. “Do you understand what
this means? The Council is run by strong
He peered over the edge and saw Esha men. Men who are hated and feared. You
standing on the rocks below with bloody must learn to make the fire yourself. Do you
palms clapped together and her knees also understand? I will not hold your hand.”
bloody. She was watching up at him. As he
inched into view her face darkened. She had “Yes, Father.”
Father’s stare, there was no doubt about it.
Mirka leaned forwards and the ground rushed Father sighed, with finality this time. He
up to greet him. Esha came over and pulled pointed at Mirka’s things. “Stack the cart
him up and they went on, clambering over properly.” He left.
rocks in the orange dawn. Esha did not remark
upon the absence of the cart. But Mirka knew, A group of grunts showed in the morning.
this was only because she could not. Father’s possessions filled fifteen carts and
each grunt took hold of one. The grunts
* went ahead of Father, who went ahead of
Mirka and Esha. Neighbours stared dumbly
The day before the move Mirka packed his from crowded cookfires as the envoy snaked
possessions into a cart. When Father re- through the slums. Later, by a fire of Esha’s
making Esha spoke of the journey.

54

Revista Literária Adelaide

“Didn’t you feel it, Mirka? They must have “You must placate him somehow, Mirka.
seen how important we are.” Mirka threw a But I will stand behind you.”
twig into the fire and watched it crackle and
burn. “I suppose.” When Father entered, Esha took her
hand off of Mirka’s back and stood abruptly.
Mirka told her what Father had said. And
so the next day, Esha took Mirka out into But Father had seen. His face went cold
their expansie new garden and broke match- and hard.
wood off of a silver birch tree and shook off
the rainwater. She collected wood of all sizes “Father, I cannot make fire,” Mirka said.
and put them in a row on the ground. She “It is one thing among many that I will never
broke off one of the finer branches from an be able to do. I cannot...I will not take your
elderberry tree and stripped it and refined it place on the Council. I will find my place in
and then left it out to dry. Later on they went this world somewhere, but it cannot be...”
back out and she showed Mirka how to make
an ember pan and a baseboard. She then got Mirka felt nails dig through his shirt and
Mirka to carve a v-notch into the board and into his skin. Father dragged him onto his feet.
to fit the stick of elder into the v-notch. Mirka
was ecstatic when it fit. She then showed “You weep like a baby,” he thundered,
him how to rub the stick of elder between throwing Mirka against the wall. “No son of
his palms. He placed his hands over the elder mine ever wept.”
stick and rubbed like she had shown him but
his efforts made no smoke. “Father, I…”

“Like this, Mirka,” Esha said, putting her “You will take your place where I tell you
hands together in the proper way. “Like to. Do you understand me?”
this.” But it did no good.
Mirka would never forget the way Fa-
Eventually she stood and said, “We will ther’s anger gave way to pain. How he fell
try again tomorrow. Come on in.” down in a blossoming of splinters and how
Esha scampered backwards holding the shil-
He refused. Mirka stayed out for hours lelagh.
working the elder stick. Eventually his palms
were redraw and bleeding and it was only Father leapt up and flung a meaty hand
when he stopped that the pain overcame him. across her face. She fell to the floor and he
towered over her. “You defend a man when
He went inside and sat beside Esha, who his father disciplines him?”
was playing with a blackened deck of cards.
He tried as hard to stifle his tears as he had From the ground Esha screamed, “He’s
been taught, but it did no good. a boy.”

“Father wants me to take his place on Father went very, very quiet. He breathed
the council one day,” he said. “And I cannot heavily, his huge arms going up and down.
even make fire. Esha, I am afraid of him. He pointed behind him at Mirka. “When
When he sees what I am...When he arrives you look at him, do you see strength?”
I will tell him outright. That I am weak and a
failure. It is the strong thing to do, is it not?” Esha shook her head.

“So you agree, he must learn?”

Esha said, “He is Mirka, and you are you.
Your place is not his.” “Then you will teach
him his place.”

55

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“I will do my b…” Esha looked at him with something like
pity. “Survival is more important than the
“You will teach him. Or he will fight the things Father says. Do not let him consume
wolves.” you.” She pressed the blade back into his
hand.
Esha’s face dropped. Terror struck Mir-
ka’s heart. The Wolf Pit was where weak Mirka dragged a cart through the smoke
boys were sent to regain their masculinity. and bustle of the markets and bought
Every sixth, villagers gathered gleefully to sleeping furs and steel joists and other
see them pushed into the pit and torn to things Esha had relayed to him from Father.
shreds. Only a few villagers per turn left the At one of the stalls an elderly man eyed
event muttering that the boys had regained him. Mirka’s wits were nothing to behold
respect. but even he noticed.

Father turned and approached Mirka. He went on. Past caged irradiated beasts
“Do you understand me, boy?” Father spat being sold as food. Past fabric stalls selling
the word. “This is your last chance to grow clothes people wore before the bombs
strong. I assure you, the real pain is not dropped. And still, the elderly man watched
jagged teeth sinking through your flesh. him. When he left the markets and was
No, the real pain is dying a pathetic wretch pulling the cart through the alleys, twisting
while your kin point and jeer.” and turning his way home, he went past
two guards. One of them regarded him with
“I will learn,” he said with tears in his eyes. a nod.
He glared at Father as Father left. Two turns
later Mirka was in his quarters preparing to A few alleyways later a voice rasped his
set off to the markets. family name. Before he could turn, the full
force of a body struck him to the ground.
Esha found him and pressed a dagger Mirka swatted and scratched blindly. He
into his hand. Mirka shook his head and regained his focus and saw the glint of a
handed it back to her. dagger. The man wielding it was elderly
and mad in the eyes. He raised the blade
“If you will not take the blade, let me high. Then just as he brought it down a
come with you,” Esha said. “Father is on the strong hand caught the man’s wrist, while
Council now, you know how things are for a second arm coiled his throat and dragged
people like him.” him off. The man slashed left and right until
a second guard twisted his arm. The old
“Hated,” Mirka said. “And feared.” man screamed and his dagger fell to the
ground. One guard held the man while the
“There is no shame in watching your back.” other pierced him through the neck with a
blade of his own. The guards dragged the
“I have to do this myself. I can hardly use corpse away and Mirka stared on. The man
a blade.” had died so fast and without a sound.

“Something happened on the Council, One of the guards returned and asked
Mirka. I overheard him speaking with an- Mirka if he was indeed the kin of the man
other of the advisors last turn. One of Fa- who the assailant had been raving about.
ther’s decisions has offended some of the Mirka did not answer. Rather, he quickly
people. You must be cautious.”

Mirka grunted. “Then I will take the
damned blade.”

56

Revista Literária Adelaide

pushed himself up and ran. He took a sharp She put her head back against the rock
turn into an alley and went on. and breathed deeply. She did not answer.

Mirka returned home in the dead of He turned around and observed the
night. The wind was rough and fast so that camp. It was a perch of flat rock. Beyond it
he had no trouble getting in unheard. He was a dead tree and beyond that impene-
found Father sleeping soundlessly, his dia- trable blackness. His awe was overtaken by
phragm rising and falling. Mirka took Esha’s more pressing things. Things he had man-
blade from where he had fastened it and aged to ignore all this time because of sheer
stuck it through Father’s neck. He woke fascination and wonderment.
suddenly. Eyes wide with pain. Gnashed
his teeth and grabbed at his windpipe as if “Esha,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
choking on a chunk of meat. While Mirka
kept his grip tight on the blade, blood- Silence.
merely dripped from its entry point. When
he tore it out Father’s blood painted the “Esha,” he said. “Can we make a fire?
sleeping furs. Mirka attached the blade to Esha?” Her response was small. Defeated.
his belt and left. “No fire.” “But Esha…”

He walked down the hill, turning once “No fire,” her voice whipped him. “They
to glance at the ugly wooden fortress be- are looking for us.”
longing to Father, and went on.
Mirka peered over the rock. All was silent
It was morning by the time he reached but the wind which was slowly rising to a
the muddy slums. He found others living in subtle storm. “It will be cold soon,” he said.
the old home. So he turned and went on.
When he arrived at the huge tent he found “I packed sleeping furs and kindling. Now
that it was unguarded and when he stepped we have nothing and we will die here.
inside the noise washed over him. A sea of
people. All clambering over one another You should not have left the cart behind.”
and queuing for food and water. This was
where the homeless and hopeless gathered. “I couldn’t help it,” Mirka said. “I told you,
Father himself had told Mirka that. He had you should have taken it.” “Taking the cart was
said that the close quarter lodgings were the least you could do after putting us here.”
festering sores where the sick and worth-
less gathered to live in squalor. Mirka would The words struck Mirka like knives in his
die here. Just as he deserved. heart. He went to his knees. Turned and
slumped down. His back against the rock.
* His hands hung limp in his lap. “I did not kill
Father,” he said lifelessly.
The sun was almost gone when Esha told
Mirka they had come far enough. She “It does not matter. Do you understand
slumped to the ground. Mirka was watch- that? It does not matter. I executed myself for
ing the land below. She sea of rock and your incompetence, Mirka. It’s all I ever did.”
metal went blue and then black.
Wind whistled across the mountaintop.
“Esha,” he said excitedly. “Look at the view.” Soon enough it did get cold. Then more so.
Mirka went to his sister. The two of them
had not said a word to each other for hours
and when he reached her he found her on
her back, shivering violently.

57

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Esha,” he said, nudging her. “Esha.” Mirka felt pangs of panic and glanced up
desperately at Esha, hoping that she would
She did not respond. The clouds passed tell him what to do. How to make it better.
and revealed the moon. It was bright and
big and lit up her body. Mirka did not rec- His panic became horror. He slowed his
ognise Esha. The strong person who had movements, lost friction. No. We must have
opened the guard’s throat was gone and all fire. He averted his stare and kept going.
he could see was his sister. Young and cold But he had seen her now. There was no un-
and pale. seeing her.

“Esha,” he cried. “Esha.” Before long he glanced up again. “It is
okay, Esha,” he said frantically. “We will
After whispering reassurance he ran have fire soon.” Her eyes did not change.
into the darkness and gathered leaves and
twigs. He threw them down and dashed The wind was merciless. He scraped
into the darkness and leapt full weight and scraped and scraped and he looked
onto the lowest branch of the barren tree down and there was no fire. The tinder
and brought it down with a thack. Standing box. It is in the cart. He kept going. Looked
again, he picked the branch up and holding down. No smoke. He scraped and scraped
it upright he frantically stamped it into and scraped. We must have fire. We must
splinters of varying shapes and sizes. Thack. have fire. We must have fire. There was a
Thack. Thack. He scooped them up and sudden explosion of splinters and a searing
brought them to the mess and threw them pain in his palm. Mirka screamed furiously
on top of one another. He then reached in the direction of his home and his scream
in and took out the two strongest looking echoed through peaks and valleys.
splinters, inserted one of them into the
mess and set the other across it horizon- *
tally and began scraping it back and forth.
There was no time for an ember pan or a The wind was dead by morning. Mirka un-
baseboard. Heat. She needs heat. The un- wrapped himself from Esha and peered
certainty of whether he was doing it as Esha over the rock at the barren and empty land.
had on each fifth distressed him greatly. He
kept going. As Esha’s violent shivers peaked. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Esha.”
He cursed and yelled at the mess. A gust of he said. “Nobody is coming.” Esha did not
wind sent it in every direction. By the time respond.
he had returned with a greater, heavier
mass of leaves and twigs and moss and dirt, The sun steadily began to beat down on
Esha was no longer moving. Mirka dropped the dusty ground and the ground burned
to his knees and shook her. Mirka’s feet. But he tolerated it. And he
listened to the Land deeply. In the far dis-
“Esha,” he cried. “Esha.” tance was a trickling and it tantalised his dry
throat.
He took the two sticks as before and
set to it. Back and forth, he scraped and “I must go now, Esha. I will be back soon,
scraped leaning forward and backwards, his I promise.”
eyes fixed on the piece of wood. With this
amount of time passing and still no smoke And so Mirka took Esha’s canteen and
secured it next to his own and climbed over
the mound.

58

Revista Literária Adelaide

The path was steep and sharp. But low-grey eye either side of its face, a long
Mirka managed to traverse it. As he made tail and was very, very fat. Mirka knew
his way down the mountain he listened to about these foul beasts. They made up the
the trickling and it led him further downhill. stew at the breadlines after they were torn
And soon he found its source. The stream out of the spike traps that enclosed the
flowed down the mountain jaggedly. He fol- city. If he killed this one, he would be full
lowed it past collections of rocks and over for a turn. He stiffened up against the stone,
grassy knolls and eventually there came into reached soundlessly behind him and closed
view a pool of rust into which the water ran. his hand around the blade. He poised him-
The water was trapped there by a dam over self. Then it was as if he left his own body
which only a modicum of it was eternally and he was merely watching somebody else
escaping into the continuing stream. He grip the creature in a chokehold and fall
clambered down to the pool and fell to the backwards with the thing squealing. Later
ground and gulped greedily. He only swal- when he threw the bloody creature down
lowed two or three times before he felt sick. triumphantly and said, “I did it, Esha. Now
Chin dripping, he took his canteen from his we can eat for a whole turn,” his sister had
belt and unscrewed it and then held it un- no response. Ineptly, he sliced the creature
derwater until it was full and then lifted it into strips and chunks. Then used the knife
out dripping and screwed it shut. He did the to sharpen sticks into stakes and then took
same with Esha’s. the stakes and pierced each one of them
through a single lump of the vermin’s flesh.
He was overjoyed when he made it back. He then lay his and Esha’s food out on the
ground. He sipped from the canteen and
“I found water.” he cried excitedly. “I stared fearfully at the mess. Then he picked
found water.” He placed her canteen in up one of the steaks and turned it in con-
front of her. “Here you go, Esha. Drink.” templation and then sunk his teeth into it.

Esha did not drink. *

He sat on the opposite side of the failed It was the second fifth in their new home,
campfire and sipped slowly from the can- and Mirka was sitting on the ground talking
teen. As the day went on he grew agoniz- to his sister through an imaginary fire. She
ingly hungry. But as before he listened still would not answer, so he filled the si-
deeply to the land and in the distance he lences himself. But in tones that sometimes
heard a noise. Somehow, out here his in- sounded like Father, Esha had nothing but
stincts were sharp and the noise also gave disappointment to relay to him.
him direction. He stepped over the circle of
jumbled earth and after apologising to Esha, So Mirka left the campsite, reminding
unhooked the knife from her belt. As before himself that his task was bigger than he. He
Mirka reassured her that he would be back only made it a short distance before turning
soon and then he climbed over the mound to look at Esha lying in that same position.
and went back down the mountain. Her skin had turned the colour of the vermin
he had feasted on and the canteen precar-
* ious in her limp hand. It is a long journey.
You must take it, he thought, but the mere
The humpbacked vermin sunk long teeth tensing of his muscles as he prepared to
into its brother, who was dead on the
rock surface. The creature had a large yel-

59

Adelaide Literary Magazine

march back and collect it set him close to spat. He had known the stink his whole life.
tears. He quickly turned and went, rubbing It was as familiar to him as his own heart-
his face with his arm and then swallowing beat. It was as much a part of his home as
his feelings. Father would have been cross. the rusted metal and sharpened stakes that
Very cross indeed. Well not for long, Father built it up. And it would never, ever change.
and Esha. I will make it better. He placed his hands out in front of him and
crawled into the darkness and went on.
It was full dark when he arrived. The
moon lit the collection of boulders and It wasn’t until the light behind him was
crumbled rocks which lay beneath the pro- completely gone that the sores of the last
truding pipe. Mirka unscrewed his canteen two turns fired up. Screaming muscles.
and drank from it and then attached it to his Burning palm every time he brought it down.
belt and then climbed up onto the largest
rock. Standing here he judged the position And why now? Moments ago it had been
of the pipe. The wall seemed not nearly fine, he had felt strong. Now he knew that
as high as when he had fallen from it two he couldn’t go on much longer. The cart is
turns ago. But Mirka had eaten well in this near, he told himself, and extinguished part
time and grown stronger. He leapt. Yelped of his fear. Or rather, overrode it with deter-
as his palms and fingers dug into the piping. mination. He went on.
Heaved himself up with a pained grunt.
Relieved and out of breath with his chest Suddenly his arm gave out. Mirka col-
on the pipe floor and his legs sticking out, lapsed face down into the filth. As he lifted
kissed by the fresher air, he looked ahead himself up again he found that he could not
into the darkness. How far could it be? He move his arms or his legs. The pipe had
did not know but he would not stop until gotten narrower and smaller the more he
he found it. As he caught his breath the had gone. The cart is near, he told himself
stink filled his airways and he gagged and as he struggled in the tiny space. The cart is
near. The cart is near.

About the Author

Max Watt is a militant writer and connoisseur of dark
literary fiction, as well as a musician and journalist. He has
previously been published in Dark Dossier, Yellow Mama,
Rosette Maleficarium as well as two editions of The 13
Anthology (2013, 2015). Dedicating his time to creativity
in many forms from poetry, to short fiction, to creating
abrasive noise in various musical projects, he is fascinated
by the morbid, the minimal, and the obscure. @Maxx_
Watt https://sentenceontheanvil.blogspot.com/

60

DEEP WATER

by Sheila Kinsella

Yellow flowered gorse flecks the hill as I it was normal to see green hills all around.
climb up to Lyme Cage. As I reach the sum- The passing of time fades the memory. I
mit, the wind fair rips my hair from its roots. came alone. A nostalgic visit back to where
It’s hard to breathe when you’re facing the I grew up. I swing around from north to east
wind, it’s like you breathe but the force to see Lantern Wood, the haunting place of
of a gust pushes the air back inside. It’s a the ghost of the White Lady, with its lantern
drag of a hill, but the views are spectacular. shaped building. Down in a nook in the valley
Lyme Park is a National Trust site bordering below, is Lyme Hall - famous these days as a
three counties in Northern England. backdrop for television costume dramas.

I have a 360-degree view of the sur- A herd of Red Deer gather at the foot of
rounding countryside. In a blueish haze to the hill, feeding. There are no other ram-
the south are the Cheshire plains spreading blers in sight. The weather is on the change,
across the horizon as far as the eye can clouds the colour of blueberries are sailing
see; so flat that I can see the brewery in briskly eastwards. Although I am familiar
Stockport and the football stadium in Man- with these hills, I need to move quickly be-
chester, Lancashire, in the distance. Only fore a dense fog rolls in from the plain. But
the wide red sandstone escarpment of The there’s one last place I must visit.
Edge scars the blue mistiness; it towers over
Alderley Edge, a village of mischief where Going down the hill, my foot catches in a
witches and wizards are reputed to roam its rutting hole and I stumble to the ground. I’d
Wizard Woods. forgotten the stags make these holes during
the rutting season. A little shaken, I run my
I turn slowly clockwise to the west, hands over my ankle, rotate it in circles, it’s
there’s the track I took to get here and the ok. I’m extra careful on the rest of the way,
main A6 road running from Buxton to Man- but soon arrive at the park gate leading
chester. In the north and east are the hills of to Red Lane. The gate is tall, wrought
the Peak District National Park. The purple iron painted black, and has a turnstile for
hue of Kinder Scout, the highest peak in walkers. Incessant barking from the nearby
the Peak District National Park looms high dog kennels starts when I bang it shut.
above the lower hills and dips of Derbyshire.
A canopy of trees leans towards the
The years had shrouded my memory centre of the road, blocking out the sky.
of the raw beauty of this place. As a child Their branches twist and bend, making

61

Adelaide Literary Magazine

aeolian sounds. It’s an eerie experience and I remember the wooden stile at the en-
I am their sole audience. trance to the top field, step on the bottom
rung and swing my leg over the top, jumping
Expensive houses where footballers or into the field below with a squidging sound.
celebrities live are dotted along Red Lane.
The road leads to the vicarage and then on I feel my heart beating. A stone wall
to farms and open countryside. It used to encircles the quarry. The trees have grown
be a red clay dirt road but now it’s been tar- so tall that I can’t see the water. The field
macked as part of the gentrification project. slopes steeply towards the brook in the
valley. Suddenly I slip in the mud and slide
As daylight starts to fade and storm a good few feet ending up on my backside
clouds gather; hundreds of black crows facing up towards the stile.
settle on the fields, before scattering sud-
denly like a ploughman’s brisk throw of ‘You alright love?’ That man’s voice again.
seeds. Their forms are silhouetted against
the pale sky before congregating in the tall I try to compose myself, but slimy red
trees encircling the cemetery. mud clings to my hands and my clothes. My
eyes are half closed from the lashing rain;
I up the pace, at least I’m dressed for the mud reminds me of blood. Leave me
the weather, a yellow waterproof jacket alone, I think.
and walking boots. In my rucksack I have
energy bars and a water cannister. I tie my ‘It’s a rum time to be up ‘ere with that
hair back; the wind is fierce and unforgiving. there fog spilling in.’ He reaches out and
pulls my arm. ‘Come on.’
At the vicarage the road forks, left to the
church and right to merge with Green Lane. I know who it is. He was there.
The asphalt disappears and I veer right onto
the stony dirt track which dips up and down ‘Hang on love,’ he says, ‘It’s you. Amy.’
across the top of the fields. The faint sound
of a choir carries on the wind to escape the It’s all I can do not to let the tears flow. I
church, reaching for the hills. bite my lower lip and stare at him. It’s been
twenty years. But I’ll never forget that day.
Pink Wild Mallows grace the ditches, tow-
ering over dandelions and daisies. Lead-like ‘Aye, it’s been a good few year.’ He says.
rain drops from the overhanging tress plop ‘Come in the house and I’ll put a brew on.’
on my head, I pull up my hood and press on.
‘No. I have to visit it.’ I reply, trembling. ‘I
Sandstone terraced houses blackened have to.’
by harsh winters start to appear on the left.
Moss covered dry-stone walls line the road, ‘Wait, I’ll come with you.’ He says, ‘I’ll get
the top row of stones are placed in a vertical the key.’
position like soldiers guarding a tomb.
When he returns, together we trample
‘Hello there!’ A man shouts out from his through clods of grass. Clinging to the stone
doorway. wall for support until the ground flattens out
as we reach the entrance to the quarry. The
Startled, I mumble hello back, and rush rain begins to ease off and a glimmer of sun-
past before he can reply. His voice sounds shine appears from behind the bruised clouds.
familiar in some way.
‘Hey up mind that love.’ He unlocks the
padlock, careful to push the barbed wire
aside.

62

Revista Literária Adelaide

I feel a heavy weight on my chest making ‘I was supposed to be minding him,’ I say.
it harder and harder to breathe. ‘He just disappeared.’

‘Are you sure?’ He asks. ‘It was an accident,’ he says. ‘Nobody’s to
blame.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder, ‘A
‘Y-y-yes,’ I inhale deeply. ‘It’s ok.’ tragic accident.’

I see the tiny sandstone Celtic cross we I sniff and take a tissue from my rucksack
laid there amid the flowering purple Asters to wipe my face with. ‘I was ten, and Leon
with their tiny yellow hearts. was four.’

‘The wife sees to the flowers.’ He says. ‘I should have locked off the quarry. It’s
‘Least we can do.’ dangerous.’

‘Thank you.’ My eyes well up, ‘thank you.’ ‘I feel like it’s yesterday when I’m here.’ I
I drop to the ground on my knees and weep. say. ‘It’s painful’

When I’m done, I turn to see the stag- ‘Come on, have a cup of tea. I’ll drive you
nant deep water surrounded by chicken back to where you’re staying.’
wire fencing and barbed wire. The water
has a reddish tinge. I remember, as a child, We make our way back up past the
throwing stones into it, waiting for the plop, quarry to the house. I feel a calm settle over
but the stone never reached the bottom. me. I’ve said goodbye to my little brother.
Now I can look forward to my future child.
‘Come to the house Amy.’ He says.

About the Author

Belgium based writer Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw
inspiration from her Irish upbringing. An avid watcher of
people’s behaviour, and blessed with abundant natural
curiosity, she lures the reader into a shrewdly observed
world via imagery and comedy. Her work has been featured
in The Blue Nib Literary Magazine and The Brussels Writers’
Circle Anthology ‘The Circle19.’ Sheila graduated with an
MA in Creative Writing (Distance Learning) from Lancaster
University in the United Kingdom in 2017.

63

STILL LOVE

by Jennifer Swallow

We were in the kitchen when it happened. Redford movie and The Rabbit vibrator
Mitchell was sautéing some shrimp to put weren’t enough for me.
on a salad while I was looking through the
wine fridge for the perfect bottle of Viognier. “I hope you climb a mountain tonight,” I
A quick succession of unusual noises, start- whispered into Mitchell’s ear after I pulled
ing with the frying pan clattering against the up his blanket.
tile floor, caused me to turn around. From
the burn marks on his face, I knew he had I clicked off his television, lowered the
first slumped forward onto the hot stovetop back of the bed, and checked his heart
and then slid to the floor. He was unrespon- and brain monitors. When I left the room,
sive when I tried to get him to focus his eyes I closed the door softly but made sure it
on me or say his name, as the 911 operator latched completely. I paused and pressed
prompted me to ask while we awaited the my ear to the door. Mitchell’s condition
ambulance. He would remain unresponsive hadn’t changed, but if ever I was going
for the rest of his life, a victim of locked-in to receive a sign from the universe that it
syndrome, a repercussion of the hemor- would, that had to be the time. Silence.
rhagic stroke he’d suffered that afternoon.
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, I
At first, I’d lain in the guest bed down- opened the dating app I’d posted a pro-
stairs with him, holding his hand and file on a few days earlier. The first face had
stroking his hair and face. I’d spoon his im- bushy white eyebrows and a bushy white
mobile body or pull one of his arms around mustache to match. The next had thick
me and hold it in place for a moment before black glasses and a double chin. The third
letting it fall limply back to the bedsheet. I was ruddy cheeked with a small scar close
kissed him on the cheek. But even if his ven- to his nose. Face after face stared at me as I
tilator hadn’t prohibited me from kissing his scrolled through the men aged sixty to sev-
unresponsive lips, I wouldn’t have. Such a enty-five in a ten-mile radius. Mitchell’s ma-
move would have felt inappropriate, like vi- chines whirred and clicked softly through
olating his personal space. Eventually, the the little intercom.
lack of responsiveness made my affection
too close to necrophilia, so I stopped. A man my age with a square jaw and
brown eyes appeared. These features were
Three years, four months, and five days the opposite of my husband’s oval face
later, I reached the point where a Robert and light blue irises. Choosing someone
who looked very different from the man

64

Revista Literária Adelaide

with whom I’d spent my entire adulthood me to relax a little. I wanted the darkness
felt important. But this fellow held some to obscure my wrinkles, stretch marks, and
other, indefinable appeal. The attraction sagging skin.
could have been that his status was set to
widower, which made me sympathetic, as Not that I was embarrassed about the
I understood something about deep loss way I looked. I have not a single part of my
myself. The draw could have been that his appearance of which I’m ashamed after
profile included a picture of him riding a seven decades on this planet. I’ve lived a
motorcycle, something I’d never done but fulfilling, productive, and adventurous life,
always fantasized about. Or the pull could and I’ve earned every story on my body. The
have been that in his self-description, he problem was intimacy with a total stranger.
included the Seneca quote, When shall we
live if not now? My husband seeing me the way I am was
one thing. He had seen my body when I was
A sound like a little cough came through twenty-five and flawless. He was present at
the monitor. I jumped and dropped my the births of our two daughters—events
phone into my lap, screen down. Then I lis- that had changed my hips forever—and at
tened. Humming, whirring, whooshing, a the tumble I’d taken climbing in the Tetons
white noise that gave my husband life, al- that left me bruised and scarred. His own
though, what kind of life? The doctors said skin creased and drooped with mine as we
with proper care and mental stimulation, a turned fifty and then sixty.
locked-in patient can have a fulfilling exis-
tence, and I did my best to give him those. We’d giggled and made faces at each
But what about me? Doctors never asked other while comparing whose crows feet
about my existence. had the longest talons. We laughed at the
puffy, shiny-faced immobility of the faces
I picked my phone back up and sent the of people who spent a little too much time
widower a simple message: Care to buy a under the cosmetic surgeon’s knife, and
lady a drink? we rejected that as an option for either
of us. True, in moments of weakness, we
A few nights later, after two cocktails purchased some fountain-of-youth creams,
apiece at the bar in the Westin, we stood hoping for a miracle, and joined fad gyms,
several feet from a king-sized hotel com- hoping not to have heart attacks. But on the
forter so white I was afraid of spoiling it, like whole, we were okay with our ages and ev-
a virgin princess on her wedding night in the erything that comes with getting old. Was
Middle Ages. this man the same?

“Do you mind if we turn off the lights?” I He drew me close and put a hand under
asked. my chin to tilt my face up to meet his. I
inhaled sharply and turned my head to
“Of course not.” His voice was deep and the side as he leaned forward to kiss me.
soothing. He seemed to understand what I couldn’t
express and touched his lips to my neck
He flipped the switch by the door, and instead. He lingered, his warm breath
when he came back over to me, only a soft spreading over down my shoulder. Then
glow from the streetlights illuminated his I felt the light scratch of the scruff on his
face. I imagined that with the light behind cheek against mine and the sensation of his
me, my face was in shadow, which allowed

65

Adelaide Literary Magazine

hands around my waist. A longing overtook “No, not at all.” I scrambled around the
me, and I turned my face into his. Our lips room, trying not to trip on my oversized
met, and everything in the world vanished robe substitute as I gathered my clothes.
except the soft, dewy pressure. “It’s just later than I realized.”

He undressed me and I felt fingertips “You’re welcome to stay the night. The
traveling from my throat, down my breast- room is paid for.”
bone, dipping for a moment into my navel,
and then cresting my rounded abdomen. The thought made me want to vomit. “I
He laid me down on the bed, and I felt the have a dog at home waiting for me,” I lied.
weight of his torso on top of mine, pushing
it into sheets, lightly at first, and later force- “I understand.” Thankfully, he sat back
fully. He began to sweat, the scent mingling down on the bed with his back to me while
with fabric softener and vaginal fluid. He I dressed.
whispered my name.
With my clothes on, I leaned down to
“Marcy.” kiss him on the cheek, careful not to touch
his bare body with my hands. “Thank you.”
“Oh, Marcy.”
“I’ll message you,” I heard him say as I
I hadn’t heard my name said in that way strode out the door, letting it shut on its
for so long. own behind me.

I couldn’t focus on him, couldn’t think I drove home faster than I should have
about what he might enjoy from me other and ran from the driveway to the door. But
than the most fundamental component of once in the front hall, I paused. Familiar
what we were doing. My brain carried me silence greeted me. I left my shoes on the
back to my youth when I was loved, while mat and peeked into the first-floor guest
my body was immobile and unresponsive. room. My husband was sleeping peace-
The eerie irony of this occurred to me only fully, just as he had been when I left him
sometime later. He climaxed. I didn’t, but earlier that night. I watched him, my eyes
we each got what we needed. traveling from the rise and fall of his chest,
to his gaunt cheeks that bore several days’
When it was over, he nestled me into stubble. Instantly, the sensation of the
the hollow of his shoulder, but lying there stranger’s cheek was palpable. I backed out
in stillness, the sense of urgent desire gone, of the room quickly, shut the door, went
reality tumbled back into my brain. Mitchell upstairs to the master suite, and shut that
was home alone, with no one to help if he door too.
went into some state of emergency. How
could I have left him unattended for…how In the bathroom, I stripped and threw all
many hours had passed already? my clothes into the hamper. I stared at my-
self in the full-length mirror for a long time.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, standing up and Then I took a scalding shower and scrubbed
clutching the defiled comforter to my naked every inch of my skin raw with the loofah.
body. “I have to go.”
My longstanding friend, Diane, and I
He immediately stood as well, but lunched the next day at a bright, sunny,
without bothering to cover himself. “Oh, I… local foods café downtown.
is something wrong?”
“Has Mitchell made any progress?”

66

Revista Literária Adelaide

She asked this every time we met, week Diane pressed my head to her shoulder
after week, month after month, year after and smoothed my hair with one hand. “You
year. The question was more hopeful, more have me and your kids. You’re an amazing
optimistic, than simply asking how he was person, and we all love you and are here
doing. But I always had to answer no, in- for you.”
stead of he’s doing fine. He was doing fine,
for the condition he was in, but he never I lowered my voice until it was barely
improved. No finger wiggles, no twitch of audible. “I know, but I need more. I need
an itchy nose, no toe curls. No signs of life to be touched.”
other than reflexive eye blinks.
Diane’s body tensed next to mine. After
After my standard reply, she asked, “And a beat, she said, “I know Mitchell still loves
how have you treated yourself this week?” you very much.”

I dropped the forkful of salad I had just A surge of anger shot through my guilt. I
made, and lettuce went all over my lap and broke free of her embrace and rushed to the
the floor. ladies room. Mercifully, Diane didn’t follow
me. Safely inside a stall, I balled one hand
“Oh, gosh,” I said, brushing off my lap. “I into a fist, bit down on it, and screamed si-
don’t know what happened there.” I con- lently until I was out of breath.
tinued swiping at imaginary shreds of
cheese long after they were gone while I When I returned to the table, I planned
tried to think of something to say. to insist that we change the subject, but
Diane already had several innocuous topics
“It’s okay, Marcy.” Diane smiled at me prepared. She chatted about her volunteer
kindly. “Maybe you aren’t taking care of work, a book she was reading, and other
yourself enough. Maybe you need little a things I couldn’t comprehend because of
break, a diversion.” the nausea that had taken over my entire
being.
“Well, I’m so grateful for Frank,” I said,
displeased with the waver in my voice. I stayed offline for four months following
Frank was the full-time nurse I’d hired to that first incident, but not a day went by
help out with Mitchell’s care. “At least I can that I didn’t think about it, even as I read
get out of the house and not have to worry novels to my beloved husband or solilo-
about—” My voice broke completely, and I quized about world affairs. I wrestled with
squeezed my eyes shut. disgust and embarrassment. Knowing that
inside his physical prison his mind could
“Marcy?” think about me as clearly as before the
stroke—that he probably still loved me as
I shook my head back and forth and Diane had said—made me feel remorseful.
waved a dismissive hand in front of my face.
What if, somehow, he suspected what I’d
“Oh, honey.” Diane got up and gave me a done? Worse, what if he felt angry and de-
tight side hug. “It’s okay to be upset. I know pressed and longed to die, but there I was
Mitchell is your whole world.” worrying about not being able to have sex?
My selfishness was almost unbearable. But
Two tears escaped down my cheeks and every so often, an uncomfortable feeling
my shoulders shook with the effort of trying crept into my brain, a feeling that I deserved
to stem the tide. “But I’m so lonely.”

67

Adelaide Literary Magazine

that bit of pleasure, a few moments in an embarrassed for my squeamishness. But
alternate reality where my own body was that day, I needed to touch him.
the focus, not Mitchell’s.
My hands sensed how atrophied his
One day while checking my elder legs were, but with his body hidden be-
daughter’s social media page, I saw some neath a light sheet, I could imagine he was
pictures she had posted of a weekend get- his former, mountain-climbing, road-cycling
away she and her husband had taken to a self. My brain conjured up images of his
cabin in the Adirondacks. In every picture, broad, smooth chest and tanned, muscular
they were making physical contact in one shoulders.
way or another, holding hands, legs inter-
twined, arms pulling each other close, and, The podcast host reached the point of
of course, kissing. The need to be touched the story where the subject felt for the first
overwhelmed me. time that he had discovered people who un-
derstood and accepted him. I moved back
I went into the guest room and looked further onto the bed, pulling my legs in,
at Mitchell. I assumed that he could see my then lay back. I cuddled up next to Mitchell,
frame in the doorway through his periph- the way I used to, sticking my face into his
eral vision, even though he couldn’t move neck and slipping one hand under the sheet
his eyes. I had cued up a few of his favorite and up his shirt to caress his chest, skin on
podcasts that morning and when I stepped skin. I closed my eyes.
into the room, This American Life was
playing. I sat on the edge of the bed and lis- I must have dozed off because the next
tened while I carefully flexed and massaged sound I heard was that of a very loud man
Mitchell’s legs. hawking his podcast sponsor’s services. The
strident voice snapped the rest of the room
The podcast episode was about people into focus, the beige hospital machines, the
searching for belonging. People who had feeding tubes, the smell of ointment, and
nothing and no one, and how they found Mitchell. His concave chest expanded and
a community to belong to. Mitchell and I contracted at the behest of the ventilator
had always belonged to each other, for al- and his open eyes stared involuntarily at the
most as long as I could remember. We still ceiling.
did, yet we didn’t. The people in the epi-
sode might have been completely alone, I sat up quickly, wondering if he was
but I couldn’t decide if that was worse than aware of my movement even though those
having someone and still being alone. eyes couldn’t focus on me. They couldn’t
then and never would again. He would
I continued massaging, moving from never say I love you or touch me. I suddenly
Mitchell’s calves to his thighs. Frank did felt like a teenage version of myself, un-
this for him regularly, to distribute oxygen buttoning my blouse too far at a party so
and nutrients. I’d been afraid to at first, con- that Tommy Richter, center forward on the
cerned about hurting Mitchell, and then school soccer team, would pay attention
later, after previous nurses had taught me to me instead of pounding can after can of
safe techniques, I still hadn’t wanted to do cheap beer with his friends while deliber-
it often. Touching my husband’s depleted ately ignoring me. The lack of reciprocation
body made me feel equally squeamish and made the desire burn stronger.

68

Revista Literária Adelaide

I left the guest room, shutting the door “You look really pleased with yourself.
behind me, grabbed my cell phone, went Something good must have happened.” He
out to the porch, and opened the dating smiled at me as he started maneuvering the
app. The first thing I saw was a notification dirty bedsheets from beneath my husband.
of nine messages waiting for me. They were
all from him Mr. Westin. I deleted them I returned the smile briefly, then turned
without reading them. I couldn’t be with toward the wall and straightened an already
him again. That felt wrong and humiliating, straight family photo. Did women my age
though I wasn’t sure why. still get an after-sex glow? “My daughter
won a large account at work. I just got off
I messaged a man who had a slightly the phone with her.”
crooked smile and a dimple in his left cheek.
He responded quickly and was amenable Mitchell would never know if this was
to the arrangement, so we made plans to true. He’d never be able to ask about it
meet the next night. when she came to visit. The lie wouldn’t
affect his life, but I still was unhappy with
The second time was much less stressful. myself for telling it. When I turned back
I insisted on the lights being off again, but around, he looked terrifyingly frail, lying
I was more acutely attuned to the experi- there exposed while Frank shook out a new
ence. I noticed the light oil of his face as it fitted sheet.
slid against my breasts, the dampness left
on my neck and arms and stomach after he “Good for her! She’s in tech sales, right?”
kissed me. The shape of his biceps as he held The smile remained on his face, and I an-
himself above me. The way my own body alyzed it. It looked friendly. It wasn’t a sly
responded to him, tickling here, twinging grin or a knowing smirk. The expression was
there, softening, moistening. I came. genuine and compassionate.

When I returned home, I stared at myself “That’s right, she books enterprise ac-
in the mirror again. Was I really a cheater? counts for a threat research service…” I
Were my actions morally objectionable? continued, my mouth forming words my
Would Mitchell understand? Guilt tugged at daughter had repeated to me many times
the edges of my soul, but at the core, deep about her what she did for a living. I wasn’t
within, I felt invigorated. I felt human. In the paying attention to them. My attention was
shower, I washed my body slowly, caressing on Frank as he worked.
my skin with the pouf and reliving the sen-
sation of touch, the power of that touch. He didn’t jostle Mitchell. He carefully
picked up one leg to slide the sheet under
In the morning, thoughts of the dimpled and then the next, taking a moment each
man still danced in my mind. His hands had time to massage his calves. He deftly lifted
been firm along my back, pulling me into what was left of Mitchell’s torso to pull the
him. His skin had been unexpectedly soft. A sheet to the top of the bed, again taking a
welcome heat emanated from his chest as moment to massage his shoulders. Frank
he exerted himself above me. touched him, intentionally as part of his
care. When I’d gotten into Mitchell’s bed
“Catch a mouse this morning?” Frank yesterday for the first time in a long time,
asked when I joined him in Mitchell’s room. had he been craving my touch? I had no way
of knowing. The uncertainty, the inability to
“Pardon?”

69

Adelaide Literary Magazine

obtain simple answers to simple questions, from a hike and wrapping a towel around
frustrated me. his waist. That sandalwood smell perme-
ated the humid air and I couldn’t resist
When Frank had stretched the last taking him into my arms and kissing him,
corner of the fitted sheet over the mattress, even though I was still sweaty.
he picked Mitchell up to take him to the
bath. The gel was his favorite and I would buy
it for him the rest of his life. What a relief it
“Can I—” I paused for a second. “Can I must have been for him when Frank bathed
help?” him to be enveloped in a familiar scent, to
wash away the antiseptics and lotions that
That sympathetic smile reappeared with prevented him from sores and other ail-
the slightest hint of surprise. “Of course. ments of the permanently bedridden.
Come on.”
I began to soap his chest. I moved to his
The bathwater was already drawn. Frank arms, lifting each one to access the under-
kneeled down slowly, careful not to bump sides. I loosened his head strap and leaned
my husband’s head on the side of the tub. him forward, holding him tightly with one
With one hand, he tested the water tem- arm and washing his neck and back with
perature. It must have been right because the other. Soap and water from his body
he stood back up, not appearing to strain at saturated my blouse and I held him tighter.
all from the weight of Mitchell’s limp body, While I washed his legs, I looked up at his
and slid my husband into the custom bath face, looking for signs of recognition, satis-
chair. I watched as he buckled the rubber faction, or happiness that I was there. I saw
head and torso straps. Then Frank grabbed nothing, but he must have felt it. Knowing
the oversized body sponge from the side of how the touch of the unknown man last
the tub, handed it to me, and backed out night had made me feel, how the plea-
of the way. sure lingered through my shower, past my
dreams, and into the morning, I thought
Once the sponge was mine, I didn’t Mitchell had to enjoy my touch.
know what to do. Mitchell’s gaze focused
somewhere near the showerhead, but he When Frank was ready to leave that day,
had to have sensed my hesitation. Frank I followed him out to the porch. “Do you
put his hand on the small of my back and think Mitchell was embarrassed for me to
gently nudged me toward the tub. I knelt see him nude the way, well, the way he is?”
down and felt the water temperature, even
though I already knew it was appropriate. Frank slowly shook his head from side to
A large bottle of shower gel sat on a re- side. “I’ve never had a single patient with
cessed shelf in the bath. I wet the sponge, restricted mobility tell me they wished
squeezed the gel on to it, and scrunched it their loved ones touched them less. They
a few times to work up a good lather. The become accustomed to their reality much
sandalwood scent filled my nostrils and I in- faster than their family and friends do and
haled more deeply. crave the same affection and treatment
they had before.”
An image of Mitchell from several years
before came clearly into view. He was step- I nodded but couldn’t speak. A huge
ping out of the shower after we returned lump sat in my throat.

70

Revista Literária Adelaide

“Marcy.” Frank faced me straight on and something like that.” She dismissed the
grasped my shoulders. In a low voice, he said, thought with a hand wave and then picked
“Everyone needs to be touched. Everyone.” up a fork to break into her cavatelli.

I nodded again. “Wouldn’t you miss him? Romantically?”

“You take care of yourself, Marcy. See you A flush crept into her cheeks. “I’d be glad
tomorrow.” to be relieved of that particular marital duty.
I give in every few months just to get him
A few days later, Diane and I went for off my case.”
lunch again. When she asked me that time if
Mitchell was progressing, I responded, “No, I mirrored her in taking a bite of food
but I am.” to have time to decide on a response. Em-
pathy for a circumstance as unusual as mine
Her hand froze, wine glass halfway be- would be difficult. To most of the popula-
tween the table and her lips. “Did some- tion, my day-to-day stressors and desires
thing happen to you?” and sorrows were unique and unrelatable.
I knew that. And if Diane no longer had an
“My husband can’t talk to me. He can’t interest in sex, I doubted she could view
laugh at my jokes or eat the dinners I want me as anything other than an adulteress,
to make him. He can’t go to the symphony though she would never make such an ac-
with me or book a vacation at the lake. He cusation out loud. She simply wouldn’t be
can’t touch me.” able to comprehend that life isn’t so black
and white.
Diane broke eye contact with me at that
last statement. “Didn’t you go to therapy for “Well, like I said, I’m progressing. I feel pos-
a while?” She spoke to the tablecloth. itive about the direction my life is heading.
The direction my life with Mitchell is heading,
“Yes, but Mitchell’s condition is still even if his condition hasn’t changed.”
something I have to live with every day. He’s
never going to come back to me.” “That’s so good to hear, Marcy. I want you
to be happy.” She tilted her head to one side
“It’s very fortunate that you can afford and pulled the corners of her mouth down
help.” She raised her eyebrows in a look of in a sympathetic frown. Then she straight-
concern. ened herself. “Now, tell me, are you going to
see your grandchildren over the summer?”
“Diane, you’re not listening. What if
something happened to Remy, and sud- I continued to meet with men when-
denly he couldn’t talk or walk?” ever the mood struck, always someone
new. Messages from previous companions
Remy was her husband. piled up in my inbox but I don’t know what
they said; I deleted them all. I didn’t want
“Well, God forbid. Poor Remy. He would to form any kind of attachment with these
rather die.” She passed the sign of the cross men aside from an instantaneous physical
over her chest and kissed her fingertips. one. For a while, I still looked at my reflec-
tion in the bathroom mirror when I got
I flinched involuntarily at the strength of home, seeking acknowledgement that what
her reaction, how horrified she was at the I was doing was acceptable, that it wasn’t
idea of living my reality. Mitchell’s reality.

She seemed unaware of the effect
her words had. “I can’t even think about

71

Adelaide Literary Magazine

the same as infidelity. My reflection never “I’m married. My wife, she’s in a home,
told me anything. a nursing facility. She has advanced Alzhei-
mer’s and doesn’t know who I am anymore.”
Only Mitchell could tell me what I He put his head in his hands and started to
needed to know. I crawled into his bed and cry.
lay pressed against him while we watched
movies or listened to audio books. I mas- I exhaled.
saged him regularly and no longer felt un-
easy with his lack of muscle and the harsh “We’ve been married thirty-nine years.
bone beneath my hands. I tended to his Thirty-nine years.”
biological care and felt a strange, new inti-
macy in the act. And the more comfortable I went over to the bed and sat down next
I grew with giving Mitchell affection, the to him. I put a hand on his shoulder and
more comfortable I grew receiving it myself. pressed gently, encouraging him to look up
at me. When he did, our eyes locked. “What
Eventually, I ceased the post-coital look- we did doesn’t mean you love her any less.”
ing-glass sessions. I had no guilt anymore
to talk myself through. What I did on occa- “She doesn’t even know I love her. She
sional evenings did not reflect on my devo- doesn’t know anything. I visit her every day.
tion. It was a source of power fueling my She’s here but she’s gone, and I miss her so
continued love of the man I had chosen as badly.”
my lifelong companion.
“Is this the first time you slept with
One night during my habitual hasty de- someone else?”
parture, this time from a man with thick,
curly hair and a slight hunch, he said, barely “Yes, and—” his voice choked.
audibly, “I have to confess something.”
I waited silently.
A sense of anxiety I thought I had rid my-
self of floated up from my stomach. I turned “And I liked it.”
around and looked at him critically. “Yes?”
“Good, you deserve to.” Then I squeezed
his knee, stood up, and left.

About the Author

Jennifer A Swallow is known more for writing test preparation questions and technical
manuals than fiction, but that doesn’t stop her from filling notebook after notebook with
creative ideas. Originally from Buffalo, NY, she now resides in Colorado where she runs up
very steep mountains at very high altitudes to clear her brain and get ready to write.

72

CEREBRAL AND
CONTEMPTUOUS

by Mike Hickman

Cerebral sidled up to Contemptuous, eyed ‘You heard her then?’
up his suit and his batwing glasses and then
lifted his sherry. ‘Chin-chin, old chap,’ he ‘No. There was nothing to learn from
said. her. But, mark me, it’ll have been the big
words that got her goat, not some vagary
Contemptuous raised a shaggy eyebrow. like reading a book.’ Contemptuous snorted.
‘And you are?’ ‘Read a book! That’s not her problem. She
won’t mind him reading books.’
‘Just arrived,’ said Cerebral. He was over
a head shorter than Contemptuous, so he ‘She minds him reading the books she
wound up looking mostly at shoulder. ‘She ought to have read.’
called me up.’
Contemptuous paused over his drink. He
‘Ah.’ reached out for a passing vol-au-vent and
examined it closely for stray hairs. ‘I say, old
‘He said something about reading a book man, that’s rather good.’
or taking an interest and – well – there you
go, Jack Robinson quick, here I am. Inter- ‘Thank you.’
esting crowd, isn’t it?’
‘Showed her up, did he? Made her all
Contemptuous looked over the top of umpty because he’d read something she
Cerebral’s head at the entirely empty room. was s’posed to?’
‘If you can call it interesting.’ He looked down.
His steel-grey hair was parted and waved ‘Only by accident. He wasn’t to know.’
in precisely the way it might be if he didn’t
want people to think he was vain. But didn’t Cerebral turned to look at the new ar-
mind if they said so, anyway. ‘I suppose you rival, a disreputable looking little man in
would. I’ve got your number. I know who shabby, ill-fitting suit and Hush Puppies
you are. What’s a synonym for interesting, that had seen better decades. He was fid-
then? Come on, chop-chop, with your big dling with a very small wrapped cigar. As
words there.’ Contemptuous and Cerebral watched, the
cellophane tab broke off in his hand and

73

Adelaide Literary Magazine

he resorted to picking at the seam with a might know what she was talking about and,
bitten fingernail. if necessary, could persuade him of the…
the…’
‘By accident?’ Contemptuous snorted.
‘Are you telling me that he went in there ‘Efficacy?’ Cerebral ventured.
and started quoting CBT theory at her or
whatever…’ He looked at Cerebral; Cerebral Contemptuous attempted to click fat,
nodded – he was near enough right. ‘…and sticky fingers. ‘Exactly. He should have ex-
he didn’t know what he was doing?’ Fleshy pected nothing less than her ability to con-
lips pouted, before parting to receive the vince him of the efficacy of the treatment,
vol-au-vent in one. not least in his first assessment. And what
does he get instead? When she damn well
‘He was trying to – you know – say why labels him when that’s not what the therapy
he thought it was the right thing for him.’ is supposed to be about. Well?’
The shabby man succeeded in breaking into
the cellophane seam. The cigar promptly ‘Us,’ says Cerebral.
snapped in two.
‘Precisely. Us.’ Contemptuous flared his
‘I think it’s our friend here’s job to pro- nostrils and swept sour cream back through
vide that kind of analysis,’ Contemptuous his Mr Whippy hair. ‘She tells him we’re his
said. problem before she’s made any effort to
work out where he’s really coming from.
Cerebral nodded and raised a confirma- And now here we are. And he’s got us to
tory finger. carry with him – if he agrees to the sessions.
Which he shouldn’t.’
‘Well, wasn’t he?’ the little man asked,
holding Cerebral’s gaze firmly while Con- Needy produced a crushed cigar packet
temptuous decided to flag down a blini. ‘He from his back pocket. The next cigar to
needed her to know how much he needs come out was a perfect right angle.
the sessions. Of course he’d read up. He
thought that was what was…needed.’ He ‘Absorbing,’ said Cerebral.
trailed off, had a go at putting the two ends
of the cigar together, before ending up with ‘Hmmmm?’
one in his top pocket and the other behind
his ear. ‘Synonym for interesting.’

‘That’s a lot of needing, there,’ Cerebral ‘Ah.’ Contemptuous clapped Cerebral on
said. the back, circled Needy, helped himself to
another blini and watched the door as the
‘Why shouldn’t he ask why he needs next arrival shrugged his way through. ‘Like
her help, especially?’ Contemptuous asked a 400-page book on Cognitive Behavioural
through salmon and avocado. ‘Well?’ He Therapy, I suppose?’
regarded Cerebral, disregarded Needy, re-
garded himself again. ‘She’s a professional. ‘I wouldn’t quite go that far,’ Cerebral
She should expect it. The reading up; the… said.
yes…needing to protect himself by knowing
something of her business; the expectation ‘Evening,’ said the newcomer, looking at
– the absolute expectation – that a therapist his shoes, comparing his shoes to Needy’s
and immediately trying to clean them off on
the back of his trouser legs.

74

Revista Literária Adelaide

‘Evening,’ said Needy. she’d told me what my problems were and
how much trouble I’d put her to by being
‘She called you up, too, then?’ Cerebral so difficult, of course I had to agree to the
asked. sessions.’

The nod-shrug practically collided with ‘40 quid a time,’ sighed Contemptuous.
itself.
‘Twice a week,’ said Shame.
‘Typical,’ Contemptuous flounced. ‘Pseu-
do-intellectual, redbrick University thera- ‘Over a grand,’ murmured Cerebral.
pist type like her – of course she’d go for
you next.’ ‘Oh, well,’ said Contemptuous, passing
round the sherries, ‘I suppose we’d better
‘I hope you didn’t…’ Cerebral began. make ourselves comfortable. It’s going to be
a while before any of the rest of our fellows
‘I hope you did…’ Needy interjected. show up.’

Shame looked from one to the other to ‘If at all,’ said Cerebral.
the other. ‘Of course I did,’ he said, ‘after

About the Author

Mike Hickman (@MikeHic13940507) is a writer from York, England. He has written for Off
the Rock Productions (stage and audio), including a 2018 play about Groucho Marx. He has
recently been published in the Blake-Jones Review, Bitchin’ Kitsch, the Cabinet of Heed, the
Potato Soup Journal, and the Trouvaille Review.

75

STONE SKIN

by Jihoon Park

Kishimura, the town’s only barber, opened “Bring Jiisan water first,” Kishimura said.
the window of his shop. The smell of burnt The boy took the bucket he was standing
bodies and rice drafted in, along with the on and another from the corner of the shop,
humid morning breeze. The last wisps of knocking over the straw broom it was sup-
smoke were leaving the patty fields, and porting. He dashed into the street but was
Kishimura could hear the buzzards circle quickly distracted by a game of ball with the
lower and lower. other boys.

He prepared to open his barbershop as Kishimura picked up the broom and
he did every morning. He dusted the two began sweeping. He worried for his son.
hanging calligraphy scrolls on the wall, his The men of the village were farmers and
most prized possessions. He felt the scroll tradesmen. Few had ever seen combat. In
edges for any tears and frays. He wiped the mirror Kishimura saw his bald, spotted
down the cracked mirror that hung on the head. His cheek skin sagged down like a tur-
opposite wall, and then the small wooden tle’s. At that moment he felt grateful, almost
table and stool in front of it. His grandson, a selfishly, for his age, although he wouldn’t
boy of six, ran down from the upstairs bed- have hesitated to take his sons place.
room.
At noon the Shogun foot soldiers re-
“Jiisan, can I go outside?” The boy flipped turned from the patty fields, bringing
a bucket upside down and stood on it at the with them a musk of gunpowder. Crusted
windowpane to peak outside. “People are bloodstains on their leather armor fell off
starting to come out, there’s Shinji and his as they marched. Some dragged their ri-
sister. Can I go play?” fles and swords on the street, throwing up
thick clouds of dirt. A small group of sur-
Kishimura looked outside. It had been vivors, their hands bound and heads bent
two days since the Shogun’s military guard down, was prodded forward by bayonets.
began patrolling the streets, and the towns- Kishimura stood in front of his store and
folk at last seemed to be coming to a si- scanned the survivors. There was the black-
lent agreement with them. Women began smith’s son, the baker’s son, the rickshaw
peeking their heads outside their windows driver’s son, but no barber’s son. Kishimura
and doors. Some of the bolder made their then saw his grandson weaving fearlessly
way to the wells. Young boys began to play through the marching soldiers’ legs, car-
in the streets, kicking up dirt. rying two full buckets. The boy set down

76

Revista Literária Adelaide

the buckets at Kishimura’s feet and ran off wore a cotton jacket over a crested kimono,
with the other boys who were having fun and had a katana and a short wooden rifle
imitating the soldiers, marching alongside tied at his obi belt.
them.
“Straight shave,” the man said.
Kishimura took out his razor, dipped it in
the water, and began sharpening it against a Kishimura took the man’s cotton jacket,
whetstone. He rubbed his fingers across the folded it into a neat square, and placed it
wet surface of the stone, feeling for grains on the windowsill. He reached to untie the
of steel. He worked steadily, pausing every belt, but the man covered his sword and
few moments to hold the razor in front of gun with his hand.
him and examine it with his eyes squinted.
His grandson’s voice suddenly interrupted “I’ll keep these on,” he said.
his work.
“It won’t be comfortable. It’ll impede my
“Jiisan, there’s a man outside who wants work.”
a shave,” the boy said from the street out-
side. “I’m sure your hands are steady enough.”

“Tell him I’m busy.” Kishimura continued Kishimura sat the man down and
to sharpen the razor. He could hear the boy draped a hair cape over him. The man was
talking with an unfamiliar voice outside. calm, and his thick beard and moustache
were combed straight in oil. His hair was
“He says you can’t be busy, because tied up in the back by a thin strip of cloth
there’s no one around that you’d be shaving.” in the tradition of the Daimyo, the Shogun
lords.
“Tell him what a smart man he is.”
Kishimura looked at the blade side horizon- The Daimyo was near his son’s age.
tally for any imperfections. Kishimura began brushing lather on the
man’s face and found himself doing a ridic-
“Jiisan,” the boy called out again. ulous thing. He began to lightly tremble the
brush in an attempt to tickle the samurai
‘What.” lord. He wondered why he was doing such
a thing. He was scared for his life and his
“He says if you don’t shave him, he’ll have village, and maybe seeing the Daimyo giggle
you debleated.” would put his mind at ease. Or maybe he
wanted the new lord of the town to know
“Debleated?” Kishimura chuckled. that he was a good natured old man, a man
who wouldn’t cause any trouble. Maybe
“Yes Jiisan.” Kishimura just wanted to see that the
Daimyo was capable of laughter, that there
“Don’t you mean beheaded?” was at least something human about the
man who slaughtered the young men of the
“Yes, deheaded.” town. However, the Daimyo took no notice
and sat unmoving with his eyes closed.
Kishimura, now satisfied with his razor,
wiped it dry and tested it by trimming his Starting with the upper lip, Kishimura
thumbnail, cutting off hair-thin slivers. “Fine. began to trim away hair. As the blade made
Tell him to come in and behead me,” he said. its way down, Kishimura’s hands trembled.

Kishimura heard the boy run off, and
then a giant man walked into the shop. He

77

Adelaide Literary Magazine

His fingers slipped, making a small cut on cobwebs were dead flies. He’d need to
the Daimyo’s chin. sweep that area again.

“It’s no bother, continue,” said the “That boy, the other boys, they and their
Daimyo before Kishimura had a chance to descendants will never be farmers again.
apologize. Kishimura rinsed the blade in the They will become scholars, politicians, and
bucket and the droplets of blood spread on generals. We will build schools here. They
the water’s surface. The samurai lord rested will become great men. Men like me,” said
his hand on the katana handle. The razor the Daimyo. As he spoke, his neck throbbed,
now made its way down to the neck, and trembling Kishimura’s hands further. He
Kishimura could see the Daimyo’s adam’s continued to think about his son, and at that
apple. One swift cut could avenge his son, moment, he was unsure what he would do
and all the sons of the town. next.

Outside, Kishimura could hear his In one clean sweep, Kishimura cleared
grandson’s laughter. The townsfolk were away the remaining hair on his neck. “It’s
becoming vocal as well. The men who had done,” said Kishimura, wiping away the ex-
surrendered were allowed to return to their cess lather. Without facial hair, the samurai
families. Kishimura heard cries of both relief lord looked younger, but not any kinder. He
and mourning. He wondered what his son scribbled the bill on a piece of parchment
would do in the situation. and handed it to the Daimyo.

The Daimyo spoke. “The young boy, he’s The Daimyo took the bill, scrunched it
your grandson?” up into a ball, and tossed it into the cob-
webs. “I’ll take it out of your rent,” he said.
Kishimura remained silent. He noticed He grabbed his jacket and walked out.
cobwebs in the corner of the shop. In the

78

A HAPPIER ENDING

by Richard Thieme

“I hate ‘Fargo!’” Marcella said. “Don’t tell and the candy. Marcella – that was the
me you like that goddamn movie.” name on her badge, that’s how I knew -
gave me change.
I looked at her angry face and said, “Well,
I didn’t say–” “Thank you,” I said.

“You said you thought it was funny. You “Uh-huh,” she said.
brought it up when I said what I said as if
I was one of them. You thought making us I was halfway to the door when she
look like jerks was a big joke.” called, “You know where they grew up?
Those Coen guys?”
“I said,” I repeated for the third time,
“there were some funny moments in the I stopped and waited.
film, even if you didn’t think–”
“Saint Jewish Park,” she said with a
“Forget it,” she said. “Talk your way out coarse chuckle. “That’s where. Saint Jewish
of everything, don’t you?” I shrugged. She Park.”
was sort of right, I do try to do that, sure.
“What else do you want? Is this all?” “Oh,” I said. “No, that’s news to me. I had
no idea where –”
I was at the checkout counter in a Wal-
greens in a town north of the Cities, a town “Yep,” she said. “With great big Jewish
I had better not name, lest Marcella read chips on their shoulders. Outsiders looking
this and get going all over again. It wasn’t in, because we’ll never let them in, and
White Bear Lake, that I will say. And it they knew that, so they try to make fun
wasn’t Anoka, although it might well have of us, make us look dumb.” She rang up a
been. She had a sort of Anoka sound. bag of Cheetos and a liter of coke for a guy
who looked like a trucker and he asked for
“I want one of those big red lollipop a pack of cigarettes. Then, when she was
things.” done getting it, he said, no, wait, better
make that two.
“They’re over there, behind you.”
She turned to get a second pack but
I turned and saw a display with suckers looked at me edgewise as if she expected
of varied colors radiating from it like flowers. a reply.
I found the cherry one I wanted and pulled
it out and paid for the razors, the Bufferin, I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say
anything.

79

Adelaide Literary Magazine

But she couldn’t quite let it go, not yet. “Shit!” he said. “Mother fuck! What the
“Not a surprise, huh? I mean, what else fuck were you doing, texting or some shit?”
would you expect from a couple of scrawny
Jews?” I couldn’t argue with his rage. He was
looking at his back end and bumper which
The guy laughed and he and Marcella had both dented. No more than a few thou-
shared a moment. She muttered something sand dollars to fix the minimal damage. My
I couldn’t hear and he laughed again. She car, though, was a mess, and I had to call
was smiling as she gave him his change. for a tow truck after we exchanged insur-
ance numbers. By the time I had gotten a
At least she wasn’t scowling any more. lyft to go home, I thought I must have frost
bite, my face hurt so bad, and I could barely
The cold wind felt like battery acid on breathe. It hurt my lungs to take in the icy
my face. The little bit of melting from the air but at least I had my lollipop which for
night before had frozen when the wind once I had not bitten through. Cheap candy
changed back and there were patches of was lousy consolation for a day which had
black ice all over the parking lot. I did a kind gone to hell so fast. But really, it was all that
of penguin walk to keep myself upright as I had.
I went to the old black Civic I called mine.
Even opening the door, holding the bag in The lyft driver was an Arab. Fahool, it
my right hand and clicking the key with the said on the app. He drove an old Taurus.
other, I almost slipped and grabbed onto It was clean, though, and I didn’t care, he
the open door. I had to go low to slide into got me home. I didn’t live very far from
the front seat and took the sucker from the scene, maybe a mile and a half, not far
the bag and removed the crackling plastic. enough for much of a conversation, but Fa-
Once it was in my mouth, a big red ball hool did his best, because he wanted me to
tasting like fake sweet cherry, I licked all click “fun conversation” or whatever it was
around it, backed out and went slow to when I clicked on a tip. I asked how long he
enter the traffic paused in the street for a had been here. Not long, was all he would
long red light. I gave the wave to the guy say. Where was he from? Syria, he said.
who let me in.
Where were you? I asked. In the north.
It took a while for the heater to heat. I Where I lived, there is nothing now but
kept feeling the soft air exhaling from the rubble. Children dead in the rubble and
grill, waiting for it to warm up, which at last the stench of their bodies. Have you ever
it did, then I turned it on full blast. I was fid- smelled a decaying body? It makes you
dling with the controls - the old ones don’t vomit.
have the screens they put in now - when I
hit a car that had stopped without warning, No, I admitted. No I had not.
unless you consider brake lights a warning,
and I felt the front end crumple like a tin They bombed everything, he said. They
can in my hand when I finished a coke. bombed hospitals and doctors and schools.
The doctors stopped wearing their sym-
“Oh Jesus,” I said aloud. I turned off the bols which made them targets. There was
engine and got out in the bitter gray cold, wailing and crying and screaming all the
and so did the other guy, who was majorly time, and explosions, and horror, and more
pissed off and said so. blood than you can imagine. Nobody much

80

Revista Literária Adelaide

was left in the town except the soldiers who kind of ell that pretended to be a nook, a
came in on tanks and laughed and acted as living room so-called, and a bathroom. For
if they had won a great battle, when what what I paid, it was all right, and it served
with the Russians and Assad bombing us all the purpose. The neighbors except Lars
the time, all they did was ride into death and Sven two doors down the hall, the
and celebrate their victories. tall conspicuous Swedes, got drunk some-
times and stayed up late and made noise
How did you stand it? I asked. enough to penetrate the walls, but the rest
were OK. As far as I know, I mean. How
I was lucky, I got out. I have the night- much do any of us know about anyone
mares, of course, and the horrors. Do you else, really?
know, four million had to cross the border?
Now they won’t even let us in. Wherever I mean, if you knew one of those Syrian
we go, they hate us now. Can you imagine soldiers, if you grew up with him and
what it is like in the camps? The ditches run laughed with him and went to pray with
sick with piss and shit. That animal, that him, doing your five times a day routine,
savage, Assad, destroyed our country so he would you have known he would kill babies
and his friends could live in splendor and and slaughter so many innocents because
drink our blood from their cups, our blood. he found himself able to do it, and was
And what did anyone do to help? willing? I have no doubt that my neighbors,
in the right conditions, with the right people
Nothing, I said. No one did anything. around them, urging them on, would
kill me and anyone else. Not all of them,
Yes, he said, that’s right. No one did maybe, but most. All you need is enough
anything. Americans are all talk and their men like that and the guns and bombs we
hands drip with criminal blood. sell them and orders to go do it from the
people wearing braids. Fahool was right
I couldn’t argue with his rage. The rest about that, our hands are dripping with
of the ride we were silent, thinking about blood. Our history is a nightmare. I am not
things. When he pulled up at my apartment, cynical, I simply have no illusions about my
I gave him a big tip on the app, and five country or fellow men - and women, I had
stars, and - I had no choice - I tapped “fun better say, these days. Women kill too, as
conversation.” easily as men. They say women would rule
in a kinder gentler way but I don’t believe
The people who ask the questions de- it. Thatcher? Hillary? Aung San Suu Kai? Eva
termine the answers they will get. Peron? I don’t think so.

It would have been a good day to hang Societies hang in the dark by a thread.
myself except I didn’t want to do that. My We’re three meals away from rioting in the
life was eighty per cent below water but I streets. A virus goes around and people
could still gasp for air. There was a game empty the stores of enough TP to use for
on that night I wanted to see and I had a a year. Canned goods disappear, the neigh-
frozen dinner that smelled good in the mi- bors be damned. No, there are no illusions
crowave. It tasted OK, what you’d expect. in this house. Like the driver, I felt I was
The red wine I drank with my simulated lucky to get out, but I am not sure what I
meal wasn’t expensive but good enough,
and it did the job. My apartment was small
- one bedroom, a kitchen where I ate in a

81

Adelaide Literary Magazine

got out of, what I left, or where I went. I am Of course, once they achieve a society like
speaking metaphorically, of course. There that, they’ll get bored, and maybe start
is no exit from the world. You don’t believe killing each other again, just to perk up the
me, ask a dinosaur how it felt when the race with a little adrenalin rush. That’s just
rock hit the Yucatan. a guess, and sure, what do I know about
how life finds forms to go beyond our own
Oh that’s right, there aren’t any left, are grasping primitive societies, but that’s
there? Just birds. Just new attempts by life all I’ve got, idle speculation based on not
to survive. Maybe when we’re gone, the much to go on, so I do it. It kills time, and
bonobos will have a better shot. Unlike us, I have as good a chance as anyone to be
they make love, not war, at least for now. right about the fate of the stars and spi-
raling galaxies and clusters all around. As
The game was boring. Games usually a species, we are more provincial than the
are until the last two minutes. I always snobs on the coasts. The data will always
tell myself that’s all I need to watch, just be partial, right? what with distant galaxies
go fast through the rest and if the score is receding from our view faster than the
close, watch the end. But I never take my speed of light can show us how they were,
own advice. I try to avoid what I call the millions of years ago?
enabler sports, like five hundred mile races
that can only be enjoyed if you are drunk Most people seem to prefer fantasies
or strong out on drugs. Baseball is like that, that convince them they have a clue. I
too, so slow, so I fast forward at reduced am too old for that sort of nonsense and
speed to see when someone gets a hit. I don’t have time to waste. There is much
do not need to watch pitchers stumble less time ahead, much less, than time be-
around on the mound and finally throw a hind, and what did the time behind teach
pitch that can’t be hit. I would rather watch me, except I don’t know anything at all?
birds build a nest in the tree that blocks The only ones who might have a clue are
the view from my window, but that won’t those, like me, who know they haven’t got
be for months. For the moment, staying a clue. The rest are whistling Dixie, as they
inside and numbing myself with television say, or like Marcella, jacking themselves up
or beating off to porn on the computer are by hating other people, making it easier to
the only options. I thought it was funny pretend their ignorance is bliss. Jews are
when they told sick people to quarantine easy, blacks are easy, gays are easy, trans
themselves, to stay inside. Here, we don’t are even easier, Arabs and Moslems and
call that quarantine, we call it winter. Vol- women are easy, take your pick. If they
untary incarceration with high utility bills. didn’t exist, we would create them – which,
I guess, is what we did. Nobody starts off
That might sound bitter, but I am really thinking of themselves as an “other.” That
quite optimistic about life. I use the com- box has to be checked by someone else.
puter to explore the billions and trillions They say it enough times, we start to be-
of galaxies and exo-planets and galactic lieve it about ourselves. But it’s they, them,
clusters that assure me that somewhere the dominants, who are the minority, the
else, somewhere in this vast mysterious “other.” So fuck those idiot elites.
universe, other life is finding a way to
climb out of its genetic heritage and re- Heh.
place killing each other with cooperation.

82

Revista Literária Adelaide

See how easy it is to crate a category to raise me, a not-so-scrawny Jew without the
despise? It’s like being in a box car heading creative juices of the Coens, until she died
for the death camps, pushing away the of cancer when I was just out of high school.
ones crowding around, trying to get some That took care of college. I went to work
air, some space, trying not to be headed and never looked back.
where you are.
I knew the Coens were Jewish. What
My mother escaped that fate by fucking would have availed me, had I said so to
her way through the ranks of the Gestapo. Marcella? Letting the silence close in on
My father was one of the officers, she never conversations like that seems to be a better
knew which one, but it got her to the Swiss bet.
border and then across. She used what she
had, she said, and that was all she had. Her Like letting the silence close in on life
husband Paul and her mother Marjorie and at the end. We can sing hymns and tell
father Jack and uncle and aunt all went up each other stories about what joys await
in smoke. Their ashes fell on the country- us in the dark but the questions we bring
side like black snow and covered the crops to the grave elicit only silence, and then
with nutrients. The tubers fed on nitrogen the silence itself becomes the question.
fixed in death by the ovens. We all feed on The game of life is crooked but the only
the dead and then, like they say in gangster game in town. Play as if you have a chance
films, forget about it. Really, it’s the only to win, and then, at the end, do not be
way to live. disappointed when you can’t. Smile, and
dance, if you still can, and let go of what-
Forget what you can, and drink over the ever hands you are holding, if you are lucky
rest. enough to have them around the bed. We
live alone and we die alone. Being the last
My mother got a job at Heimie’s in Saint one in the family to die is a booby prize.
Paul, first in the back doing billing, then out Once they disappear, you miss everyone,
front, once her English was good enough, everyone you lost, so terribly terribly much.
selling hats. She moved to a sales job at You were the hand they were holding, and
Dayton’s when she could. Dayton’s was they all slipped at last from your desperate
closer to our apartment in St. Louis Park, grasp. All of your anchors are gone, gone,
the only place she could rent after the war. gone.
The suburbs around it denied Jews entry,
and the covenants on homes precluded a Dinner was veggie lasagna with four
sale to Jews or blacks. She had come to the glasses of red wine, followed by three
Twin Cities because someone said it was pieces of cheap Sara Lee chocolate cake.
like northern Europe, and as it turned out, I would hear from the insurance com-
it was, in more ways than one. Minneap- pany the following day what repairing
olis was labelled the anti-semitic capital of my car would do to my rates. It was just
the United States in 1946 by an editor of barely reparable, this side of a total loss.
The Nation, but of course, my mother never I thanked them for the call. At least they
read The Nation, nor had she heard of it, didn’t cancel me out, which they might
so how would she know that? That atmo- have done, because of my age, and it was
sphere, toxic and claustrophobic and dense, my second crash this year, so I was glad
felt like home to her. She worked hard to about that.

83

Adelaide Literary Magazine

The game, like I said, was boring. The the impaired and the transparent use of
old familiar porn was even more boring. I so-called celebrity sports icons sickens me
was trying hard to get excited about what to death, but not quite, I guess, because
no longer worked. People know they are I watch it, I say aloud to myself how dis-
aging when they start beating off and, well, gusting it is, but I do watch, sometimes,
just stop. I used to spout a pulsating foun- when I can stand it. That night, belching
tain of copious come when I came, when I lasagna and feeling the burn from the wine,
was excited, but lately I am happy if I feel a I watched it and then, for whatever reason,
sprinkle on my belly. watched it again, and again. I watched a
black athlete, six feet ten, in a two thou-
So I ate the rest of the chocolate cake sand dollar suit, bring a signed jersey to a
before bed. Except for indigestion, that still kid with Downs Syndrome who also (what
sort of works. The doctor tells me to lose a find, right?) had cancer in his brain. His
weight if I want to save my knees and hips, grin was legitimately idiotic and blissful
and I thank him for his advice and promise when the star gave him the jersey and a
to do it, right now, you betcha, once I leave hug. I know they do those features after
the office, then I get out into the hall and testing with a focus group, they do it to
burst into laughter and head for the Shake pretend they give something of value, after
Shack or Snuffy’s for a malt. scaring you to death, but it must work with
the “older demographic” in which I admit-
The simple pleasures of the poor. Like tedly fit, the ones who still watch “the
the social security check that covers the news” and call it that, instead of getting ev-
rent and food and a little more. The raise erything streamed to their cell. The athlete
in the insurance will take a bigger bite, but who visits is an avatar on my TV, he is vis-
I am nothing if not grateful that I can see a iting me too, in my apartment in the cold,
path ahead until, sooner than I like, it turns and like that dying child, I am a grinning
at a dark corner. idiot too, I must be, because I watched it
three times, clicked it off, and went to bed,
The game was won or lost by one or an- reassured that I would likely get to sleep
other team, I forget which, and I watched another time without too much dread, that
the late night news because I always did. I was hugged and loved and bolstered by
Of course it is not news, it is snippets of the simulated athlete, the world was a be-
this or that, forgotten once its done, but nevolent zoo in which our keepers were
not the commercials, those I remember, as loving and kind, and after (if I am lucky) a
intended, even if I never buy the garbage relatively dreamless sleep, I might wake up
they promote. Then there is the “feel good on a new dawn, a new day, a new possi-
“ feature at the end. bility, and therefore have the strength to
swing my old legs over the edge of the bed
I practically barf, it disgusts me so much, and begin thinking of a warm hearty break-
to see how they find some crippled kid or fast.
someone with a syndrome and show how
they cheer up when a basketball player
visits in their ward. The exploitation of

84

Revista Literária Adelaide
About the Author
Richard Thieme (www.thiemeworks.com) is an author/professional speaker who addresses
challenges posed by new technologies, how to redesign ourselves to meet these challenges,
and creativity in response to radical change. His speaking addresses “the human in the
machine,” technology-related security and intelligence issues as they come home to our
humanity. He has published hundreds of articles, dozens of stories, five books, and has
delivered hundreds of speeches. He spoke in 2019 at Def Con for the 24th straight year. He
has keynoted conferences around the world and clients range from GE, Microsoft, Medtronic,
Bank of America, Allstate Insurance, and Johnson Controls to the NSA, FBI, US Dept of the
Treasury. Los Alamos Lab, the Pentagon Security Forum, and the US Secret Service.

85

ELLA

by T. M. Boughnou

“What?” the man heard the mother de- as if she were. And in the most infectious of
mand sharply and emphatically of her devoted sentiments, Ella, in her unrivalled
young daughter. “Tell me—where did you youth, approved. She cleaved her velvety
get that from? Who told you that?” She soft face to his, without thought, squeezing
had been dressing the child for bed. him tightly; she showered his face at every
chance with moist over-excited lips, to
The man sitting out on the sofa in the which he earnestly did not object. It only
living-room was struck inwardly by the ur- made him lighthearted and happy, when
gency of the mother’s words and their into- she would run and leap into his arms, her
nations which seemed cause for the utmost mounds of curly brown hair tickling the side
alarm. For he’d never heard Deborah so of his face.
emotional, and certainly he’d never heard
her speak this way to her charming little He had been sitting on the sofa going
daughter—never. Now he wondered two through some boxes that had recently ar-
things: what could it be; and what should rived, the last ones remaining of his be-
he do?—he had not as of yet been called longings, that had been shipped from back
to the scene, and to intrude might create east. He was looking over various items
another situation, he thought. of clothing and paper articles, placing the
items for keep into their respective boxes
Usually when an inspiring event oc- for storage; those others deemed no longer
curred, such as those playful times of in- worthy, having outlived their usefulness, he
terruption where joy and delight filled the discarded into a pile that he would later bag
air, he was immediately called to the scene; and put out to be rubbish. Just the fact of
perhaps first for his approval then to be a them being together in the small rambler,
part of whatever was going on. But though a family of three, their own little clan, had
there was a sort of enthusiasm in Deborah’s solaced any past uncertainties and difficul-
voice, it was of a different temperament. So ties any of them had ever had. Now this!—it
he could but wait on the edge of his seat, really challenged him.
his elbows ready on his knees, his hands
poised in a light clasp, rendered helpless: “No one,” he heard Ella say at long last.
having recently moved to be with Deborah “Nobody!”
and her young daughter Ella. And although
Ella was not naturally his, he cared for just “No one?—” said Deborah lightly
charged—“well, did you think of that all by

86

Revista Literária Adelaide

yourself? I hardly think so. You’re only seven, “Brendan would be very hurt by what you
Ella. No; I don’t believe it. Not for an instant! said, Ella; extremely disappointed.” Then
Who are you playing with at the park?” the more silence ensued. Now he could barely
mother, most determined to know, asked. contain himself. He stood. He was a fair sized
For a time everything inside the house drew man, and strongly built. And now stirred in-
upon a yawning silence. It dawned on him wardly, he walked toward the front door, his
that this affair, though it sounded serious, head down and his large form rather with-
very much so: was none of his concern, yet. drawn, as a demure, shy boy might’ve; as if
Because he had not been called in. And to retreat out into the evening, away from
so, he shouldn’t just invite himself into things to great for him to overcome. And
his fiancée’s and her daughter’s personal then it began again, the grilling:
matters. Although the situation between
himself and them had always been nothing “Where did you hear that?” said Deborah
but amicable, he respected their space that obstinately.
they had always as mother and daughter,
shared together before he’d come to live “I don’t know,” stammered the deter-
with them. But still yet, he had a vague, mined child, “I mean,—I meant—nowhere.”
raw notion that gnawed at his insides, that
it concerned him in the most sensitive and “Nowhere! So you thought of it all by
vital of ways. There was a certain kind of yourself?”
vibe about it that came from the back of the
house were they were, and revolved around Brendan could tell that Deborah was
him in the living-room, refusing to disperse. well-disappointed with Ella, and hurt. This
He began to feel just a little bit more than made him hurt. Should he go to them? He
uncomfortable. And as a method of distrac- paced, thinking. What was it really that Ella
tion, he took the only viable way to solve had said that caused Deborah to become so
his uneasiness: he continued busying him- emotionally charged with loving aggression
self with discarding some, and rearranging towards her young daughter, in defense of
the others of his things. He also let his him? If only he knew. What was it? He paced,
mind drift back through time to when he searching his mind, and then sat among the
first met his betrothed, on that sunny day in ruins of his effects. He was at a loss; there
the spring, over a year and a half ago. That was simply nothing that he could think of,
reminiscence broke his tension. He became that it might be. Then again he stood, and
more relaxed. He took notice of the gold being unable to stand the unknowing any
promise bracelet on his wrist just like the further, he was just on the verge of going
one that she wore, that they had exchanged. to them, when he heard someone tapping
It brightened his face, as it served to reaf- lightly at the door. He looked up at the clock
firm his belief in them. on the wall; right away it dawned to him
who it must be.
But being taken away by visions of the
past didn’t last for very long. His curiosities “Duprey,” he greeted the burly man in the
reasserted themselves and began to get the doorway, whose bright eyes were smiling.
better of his attention, when he heard Deb-
orah say: “So, are we ready, Brendan?” he said, in
good spirits. But then sensing simultane-
ously on an instant that something was not
quite right, that Brendan was not his usual

87

Adelaide Literary Magazine

jovial self, by the solemn look in his nor- Then the two as always when parting
mally festive brown eyes, and also that he shook hands. Brendan watched the wide
had not invited him in, Duprey quickly said: back of his friend move away into the twi-
“Should we do this another time, my friend?” light. Then for a moment, as though for a
brief retreat from what he would inevitably
The two men had known each other al- be part of inside when Deborah would
most a year now. And their friendship had come to him, knowing full-well he had over-
been one instantly of respect when after heard; though she would have, had he not
they had been introduced. Deborah was been home—filled him in on anything that
a close, lifelong friend of Robert Duprey’s seemed so desperate, he could but notice
wife Helen. So Duprey knew Brendan well the sky.
enough not to take personal offense at
his seemingly standoffish manner, and It was increasingly becoming darker in
less than hospitable way. He’s not himself, its kaleidoscope of ever-changing evening
thought Duprey with concern. Not at all. I colors. Where in the west the brassy orange
certainly do hope he’s alright. and metallic pink were slowly descending
from the rim of the horizons where they
“I apologize Robert; is tomorrow evening, thinly remained. It looked to him as if the
the same time, okay?” asked Brendan; his night was putting a ceiling over the day. The
mind edgy, he desired to return his full at- few slender dark clouds that were directly
tention to the unknown situation at hand. overhead, and much darker at this point than
the encroaching evening itself, gave Brendan
“Of course—it is,” smiled Robert Duprey the poignant impression that they look like
most supportively, intruding no farther than something set adrift and were now moving
the doorway. “Is everything all right?” under the influence of a light breeze of fate
across the sky, with yet an easiness like the
“Truly, I don’t know, Bob.” flight of early morning birds gracing the sky.
And where in the east, seemingly much
“What do you mean—that you don’t larger and fuller than he’d ever remembered
know?” Duprey slightly tilted his head in seeing it: a large moon was on the rise. A pale
contemplation off to one side and tightened orange, full moon. While further in the west
his brow with a look of notable concern on outside the border of the brassy orange and
his face and in his eyes. pink, the last bit of crimson and a sliver of
dark lavender, intermingled with the blood
“Well, I heard Deborah—” paused orange sunlight that was now pulsing faintly
Brendan, as if to listen to what was going as it was almost completely evanesced into
on back in the house;— “in the back, she the underworld beyond.
seemed quite upset with Ella. It really con-
cerns me, to tell you the truth—really con- Then doing what would’ve been most
cerns me.” unaccustomed to him, consciously, but now
moved by some faithful gesture of instinct—
“I always knew that you cared a great he crossed himself; then inhaled deeply,
deal for them,” Duprey placed his heavy exhaled, and closed the door. Somewhere
hand on his friend’s strong shoulder, “it’ll be not too far away the soft scent of lavender
okay,” he looked Brendan in the eyes. “And was perfuming the mountain air. Brendan
if you do need anything—”

“—I know, said Brendan, faithfully, not
allowing Duprey to finish. “I know.”

88

Revista Literária Adelaide

registered the delightful scent through the “Yes.”
raised window in the kitchen that looked
out at the Wasatch range. Then he thought “I was really shocked by something Ella
of Deborah and Ella, and of what just might said,” said Deborah, a look of tender con-
be amiss, as he sat down. cern for all three of them illuminated her
eyes.
Just as he sat down, Deborah appeared,
walking from the back of the house. And for “I am concerned. Your eyes say some-
a moment she just stood tall and elegant in thing: they betrayed your smile as you
the doorway, as though suspended in time. rounded the corner and stood in the
Then their eyes met as if for the first time, doorway.”
perhaps suggestive of a pair of strangers
wanting insufferably to exist on the same “You know me so well.”
plane; or, perhaps like two cosmic admirers
who in their heart of hearts had never been “And that displeases you?”
more familiar. Their gaze, searching, was
half-stirred, half-complacent, though never “No; nothing pleases me more, Brendan:
once parting. They were half-stirred for the that you do,” confessed Deborah.
individual uncertain thoughts that brewed
in their separate minds; half-complacent “Good.”
for where they now were, which was too
far apart. The small distance that she had “To put this evening behind us, and to
to cross to reach him, neither one of them move on:—Ella’s and my talk was about you.
had ever known a longer span across time; You know we both adore you?”
both sensing that once they were in contact,
that their fulfillment would be thoroughly Brendan nodded sincerely his affirma-
complete. Her caressing smile that he knew tion.
so well, the smile that had always spoken
the words that everything would always be “Good, because we do. Neither one of
all right, were incompatible with the light us could ever imagine our lives without
that now shone in her lovely, dark, usually you being in it”—said Deborah pausing,
untroubled eyes. drawing upon a long sigh, taking Brendan
by the hand, and then speaking at length:
Finally reaching the sofa, Deborah
seemed to collapse into Brendan’s arms, “Her exact words: ‘A red or a white or a
which instinctually made themselves ready. black or a yellow or a brown skin shouldn’t
His arms folded around her as if by a sheer ever marry with one that’s different. Ella’s
will of their own as she leaned exhaust- concern though she is little, is a valid con-
edly against him. The embrace served its cern,—or should I say her cares. I was upset
purpose though: she felt somewhat better. at first—very. I didn’t know where she’d
Then almost immediately she began. His gotten the notion from after all this time of
arms disengaged as she sat up. us being together. And even if we’d never
met: you and I: where did she get such a no-
“I know that you heard us,” she spoke sit- tion? And I wouldn’t want her to think like
ting straight up now looking at him, with full that regardless, under any circumstances,
intent. He was sitting back. whatsoever.

“At first I was very angry with her; and
questioned her as to where had she picked
up such a foul idea. And as you know,

89

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Brendan, not any one in my family or my first thing on to-morrow. I’ll explain every-
acquaintances has those backwards, prim- thing; reassure her of everything.”
itive notions.” Again, Brendan nodded a
sincere affirmation that he knew. “But “That will be good. And I don’t,” she snug-
then I continued to think: and it came to gled next to him. “I don’t have any worries
me that she put two and two together, and now,” Deborah said, quite resolutely and
it frightened her. From a program that we feeling secure in the knowledge of what
watched a few years ago when she was they really did have together, all three of
only about five, where there was a beating them. “I never have. It just took me by sur-
given to a few persons in some little village, prise—that’s all. When our daughter said
somewhere out in the world, and she had that.”
asked me why was that happening. I told
her then that it was because they were “It’s funny,” said Brendan, reflectively
different, and that some persons were and quite facetiously” ; “in a way that’s not
mean-spirited that way. And I explained so very funny after-all.” He could but shake
to her then, and had forgotten all about his head at the thought, because it really
it. And I pointed out the simple difference, did perturbed him. “And that certainly does
and she then began crying and said, ‘But makes you annoyed and very angry at first.
that’s not right, that’s stupid.’ So I think How some of us in society work so hard—
because she cares for you so much, she is exhausting hard, persistently so: at trying to
afraid that someone will disrupt our home, educate and cultivate the wasteland, hard
owing to this one thing. Although, in the soils of ignorance, that wants at all cost, and
program two years ago, it had been an en- will go to any lengths, in an attempt to try
tirely different circumstance. So I believe and destroy beauty and love and friendships
that she thinks now, no matter what the and partnerships, hope and faith,—because
form of the difference may be, in the eyes of their very own unhappiness, and failures
of the some times blind eyes of man, that it and shortcomings in their otherwise dreary
might cause some kind of drama.” Deborah little, pathetic lives. And therefore, they
stopped; her eyes were welling with tears, emphatically refuse to be accepting and un-
and she trembled a little. derstanding when it comes to looking at the
much larger picture. That concerns any one
Brendan slid closer to her and sat up. or any thing that doesn’t assert into some
They were still holding hands. “Did you ex- small minded view of categorizing that
plain to her that we’ll all be okay?” they have: and subscribing to their ways of
thinking as being the right way and the only
“Yes. But I think that you should in the way. Such ideals: it’s preposterous!
morning. She cried herself to sleep,” said
Deborah, getting a grip on both the situ- “And it’s amazing—simply amazing: that
ation and on her nerves, knowing that it anyone should ever want to exist in so
would indeed be okay. “She was so con- dismal a state.” He paused for a moment, to
fused and upset.” calm himself down, then he continued. “But
I believe, if we never give up, never give into
“I will,” said Brendan with assertion. “I the demands of absurdity, by just walking
will. Of that, have no worries, my dear. Not away, then in the end, like with our little Ella,
to the fact that we will be fine: that goes we shall be pleased with our efforts. For our
without saying. But that I’ll ease her cares, darling Ella and many, many, many others

90

Revista Literária Adelaide
like her the whole world over, will be the
thriving off-shoots of our many struggles
against these wayward, backward notions;
and of our adoration: that knew no bounds,
no restrictions, as real adoration and com-
mitment should.”

About the Author
T. M. Boughnou was drawn to the writers and thinkers of
the ninetieth and early twentieth centuries: including D.H.
Lawrence, Freud, Schopenhauer, Fromm and Chekhov.
After years of a dedicated reading and writing regimen
and journal-keeping of his thoughts and observations of
his daily routines and personal travels, he began to write.
He splits his living time between Davenport, Iowa and
Boston, Massachusetts. He works as a wellness specialist.
His literary works have appeared in: Adelaide Literary
Magazine, Broken Plate Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Mount Hope Literary
Journal, Owen Wister Review, Peregrine Amherst Writers & Artist, Vestal Review and others.
He continues to write.

91

IN ROTATION

by Zach Murphy

Aria caught the city bus as the sky donned Ding!
a pinkish glow before the day’s final gasp.
Her daughter Millie sat on her lap, gripping As Aria exited the bus, she dashed past
her wrinkled hospital scrubs — the ones a group of five nurses who were relishing
with the cat patterns on them. Millie had a smoke break. Aria always wondered why
entered that age where she often asked all her fellow healthcare workers would pol-
the difficult questions of the universe. Are lute their pink lungs, but she wasn’t hell-
the sun and the moon friends or enemies? bent on judging. Stress is a pervasive beast.
Do aliens go to the bathroom? Why do oth- Paranoia is a sneaky shadow that never
er kids have a dad, but I don’t? leaves you alone. Uncertainty makes your
mind spin in circles.
Ding!
The moment Aria strapped on her mask
“Here’s our stop,” Aria said. and walked through the hospital’s sliding
doors, all she could think about was how
After dropping Millie off at grandma’s she couldn’t wait to pick up Millie in the
house, Aria hopped back on the bus and morning, then go home and change. In fact,
waited for it to bring her to work. She gazed she had a feeling that a lot of things were
out the window and sighed. The city was about to change. And that’s when she had
winding down while she was just beginning to ask herself her own difficult question:
her 12-hour shift. The bags under her eyes Will tonight be the night?
carried enough stories to tell to the stars.
Sleep was just an elusive dream at that point.

About the Author

Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories have appeared
in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Ghost City Review, Emerge Literary Journal,
Ellipsis Zine, Spelk Fiction, Flora Fiction, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Lotus-eater, Crêpe & Penn,
WINK, Levitate, Drunk Monkeys, Door Is A Jar, and Yellow Medicine Review. He lives with his
wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.

92

RIVER RUN

by Gary James Erwin

Thighs burned. Cold air stung his throat. Be- and felt the last threads of adrenaline seep
neath his knee caps, buried inside the knot through his veins like oil. The branches
of ligaments, muscle and bone, something twisted above, grassy hills that he’d stum-
clunked rhythmically with each step. Reach- bled over, leaves that skittered in ravines as
ing down, he clinched the joint, squeezed it squirrels scampered out of his way, made
a few times, trying to knead the ache out him feel unsteady, as if he’d been suck-
of it. Hours into his escape, all movement er-punched at a block party after drinking
had begun to drain his energy and caused too many beers. He pitched forward a few
his muscles to burn. He huffed, working more feet, trying to recall if he’d ever been
to regain a steady breath. Steam swirled punched like that, even during a fight, un-
from his mouth and nostrils, even though sure where the idea came from, given his
it wasn’t that cold in the woods. He raised current state. Finally, he paused, leaned his
his gaze from the forest floor, blinked away back against a dead oak, it’s trunk pitted by
the bits of dirt, leaves and gnats that had woodpeckers and gnarled with warty burls,
accumulated in the corners of his eyes, and and slid to his butt.
concentrated on the shadows from trees
that choked his route. Around him, the air Estimate, he muttered, rubbing his
looked grainy and incomplete, like the black mud-glazed hands together. He gulped a
and white Polaroid of his parents tucked in mouthful of air, heaved it out. In front of
his sock, their lean bodies sprawled across him, the river surged. With his right hand,
the hood of a dented GTO and cans of he yanked the neck of his cotton pullover
Stroh’s clenched in theirfists. to expose his sweaty chest, shoulders and
arms to a rush of cold air and clamped his
He pondered the sky through the snarled eyes shut. At least there’s water. Maybe
branches above. Clouds had settled in and some nut trees. A raspberry bush or two,
sunlight leaked from the woods. Sometime, though by now the fruit was probably
around 3 or 4, shadows swelled between puckered and moldy, its stemspicked clean
trees, darkening his escape. But he pushed by deer and bear. He glanced around the
forward—staying on schedule was the only clearing. The soft bark from cottonwoods
way he’d have a shot at making it back home. could offerfood.
Take the two hours he allotted to rest. Re-
gain leg strength. Give his achy back a break. Chewing on it might be similar to the
He lurched forward, his balance uncertain, chicken patties the center served on Friday

93

Adelaide Literary Magazine

nights or special occasions, rubbery scabs the river and atmosphere merged, a ribbon
of yellowed meat marinated in mustard of smoke from a distant camp fire curled up-
and oil on a bed of rice, the taste of which ward and for the first time since he escaped
lingered for hours in his burps. The saltines from the center he had the sense that
he’d snagged from the kitchen during his somewhere out in that wilderness troupers
shift the day before had been ground into and sherrifs were looking forhim.
a dust on his run. But the brick of cheddar
cheese—that remained intact, zipped in- He squeezed a knee again, confident that
side a sandwich bag stuffed into the pocket the decision to leave before November was
of his sweats. a good one. Judging from last year, winter
in these parts came early, and lingered
He cupped his hands around his mouth through late April or May. He remembered
and breathed into them, mindful of his the wind howling and the groan of rafters
rough and scaly skin. Using a finger, he above him, the pecking of blowing snow
hooked the cloudy bag of cracker dust in that lashed his window. Some white-outs
his pocket, held it up before his eyes and were so thick they erased the woods on
opened it, then poured the crumbs into the far side of the field, making the world
his mouth. The remnants lingered on his outside an empty tundra of snow.
tongue and made his taste buds water. He
swallowed, savoring the salty tang a few Winter in this part of Michigan was in-
seconds longer before they dissolved and scrutable and didn’t observe the measure
left his mouth filled with saliva. The cheese of time, leaving him with nothing to do ex-
could wait, he decided, stuffing the bag into cept read, gaze at the blowing snow and
his pocket, certain of its future use. dream about ways to get back home to his
mom. In Detroit, the season was different.
He let his head fall against the tree. Don’t Snow squalls moved down from Windsor
sit long, he thought to himself, grateful for without notice and blanketed grimy streets
the chance to stop, his tired body melting in white. After a day or two, banks feathered
comfortably into the contour of the trunk. with black exhaust dust eventually melted
when temperatures rose above freezing,
A hip ached. He stretched his legs, de- leaving behind slushy rivers and potholes
ciding that if he dozed, there wasn’t anyone the size of basketballs. But up north, snow-
for miles who might stumble onto him. That storms were serious, unfettered business.
much he was certain of. About five hours No cars, pollution, people or buildings to
into his escape, he clambered up a hill, buffer their intensity. Had he waited much
bent over to catch his breath at the top, longer, he could’ve been caught in an early
then looked out at the miles of wilderness. blizzard and ended up frozen against a tree.
Gray clouds scudded near the horizon. The Months, maybe even a year before anyone
river, glinting under the mutedsun,mean- might have found his body. By then, he
deredthroughtheforest,churningbeneath- would have dissolved into the tenderized
thered,greenandauburnleaves, concealing earth, blood and bones nourishing the wild-
the places where deer drink and packs of flowers that sprouted along river banks and
coyotes hunt at night. He couldn’t make out meadows whiskered with new grass where
the horizo —the thread of water that cut fawns played at dawn. No ryhme or reason
through the misty hills went on and on until to it. Winter’s unpredictable anger and
it dissolved into the sky. At the point where

94

Revista Literária Adelaide

spring’s quiet beauty were extremes he ad- paint-peeled siding and tar-patched roof of
mired from behind the center’s electrified his mother’s rickety bungalow in northwest
fence and barred windows. Detroit wasn’t going anywhere.

He let go of his knee and looked to- He drew a long breath and nodded to
ward the river. A good place to get lost. For himself, understanding that no matter how
a minute he wondered if the people who long it would take to get back home, his
lived in town were born somewhere else. neighborhood wouldn’t change. Housing
Some may have chosen to move to these units remained abandoned.Businessesmov-
woods years ago. They accepted the cold, ednorthtoRoyalOak,Ferndale,andSouth-
snow, heat, rain, deer and river without field.Somewithalittle money had gone as
question, hopeful that such a place might far west as Northville, Plymouth and Ann
blunt the hardness of past mistakes. Arbor, leaving behind blocks of boarded up
store fronts tagged in spray paint. Growing
Standing on that hill and squinting down up, he learned to block out the barks of
at the river and trees, it was clear to him homeless men scuffling over cigarette
that a person’s history could be swallowed butts at McNichols and Livernois, hustle
by a place like this. The map of his own life past the despondent howls of angry lovers
wasn’t carved with fertile valleys or etched in houses that leaked into the streets, duck
with creeks, streams and ponds he could at the clack clack clack of gunshots in graf-
sip from at any time without worry. No fiti-smudged alleys late at night. The drive
rundown houses with wood boards slanted needed to avoid the cops and skulk from
across windows, soot-stained bus shelters one burned-out house to the next, windows
with busted benches or the clack of gunfire cracked like broken eyeglasses, wouldn’t be
in his ears. Standing on the hill, he decided difficult to muster once again. He stayed
that convincing his mom to pack up her clear of places with shattered windows and
things and move north to start over might dislocated gutters that gushed greasy rain
not be a hard nut to crack. water into scrub brush yards. Teenagers-
from the suburbs bought diesel at those
Sleep tugged at his body. He patted the places once the sun went down, hooting
forest floor, covered in dead leaves. De- in excitement as they emerged from the
spite its coolness, the earth where he sat shadowed front door, baggies tucked into
was soft and seemed like a place where he their crotches. They parked light-colored
could harbor for thenight,farfromanyroute- Yukons and Range Rovers next to rusting
hunterstakeinthemorningatsunrisewhen- hulks of Fords and Mercurys with crumpled
theytrudgedsilently totheirblinds,riflescra- bumpers bound by duct tape, beaters that
dledintheirarms.Hehadn’tcomeacrossany- never seemed to move. Sometimes dealers,
blindsyet.Orhunters. the homeless, teenagers from suburbs and
working people on his block vanished as
He scanned the clearing. Good spot theystrolledpastthosehouses.Monthslat-
hidden by a thick stand of leafless trees on er,thepolicemightfindthemdumpedinthe-
three sides and the river in front of him. For weedy spaces between vacant factories and
a second, he quickly re-assessed the impact warehouses, the ones with stonewashed
a nap might make on his timeline, using letters tattooed on disintegrating brick walls.
his fingers to calculate rest, and realized Or else their bodies were twisted among
that three or four hours would work. The

95

Adelaide Literary Magazine

trash caught in grates that filtered sludgy chuckle when they learned that he might be
runoff, leaving loved ones confused at how strung out and dead somewhere, or caught
they ended up in the city’s sewarsystem. up in a drug deal gone bad. For a few weeks,
stopping by the house would play asmall
Millions of reasons why people disap- part in their regular patrol, a way to kill an
peared. In his mind, easy to lump them into hour before lunch without getting involved.
four basic categories: murder, suicide, ad- The smart ones might think he would’ve left
diction, stupidity. By the time he shipped the state or found some place to lay low for
out for the the next 10 or 15 years. No scientific equa-
tion by which they might track him down or
detention center, he’d learned that the give up the search. Avoiding them wasn’t
missing might linger through the winter into dumbluck.
the spring, located only when city workers
cut overgrown lots and picked up winter He breathed deep, closed his eyes, and
refuse on the first warm day. Sometimes a nodded to himself. Clear that his return to
year or two might pass before the burned the center wouldn’t rate very high. Just an-
out shell of their SUV was found pitted other kid in for assualt and battery. North-
with rust in an abandoned garage. By then west Detroit dirt bag. Except that he was
it didn’t matter. The dead hadn’t practiced white. Father crushed at Lynch Road as-
the art of movement before overdosing or sembly by the time he turned four. Mother
getting shot. For them, life spun off an in- who drank and gobbled scratch like M & Ms.
visible axis and skittered beyond their grasp, Maybe she’d disagree, but that didn’t matter.
until they were found in open fields with She’d spent most of her time after his fa-
hands clutched to purses, porcelain crack ther’s death marinating her depression with
pipes gunked with resin in the pockets of whiskey, cough syrup, a stray watson when-
scrungy jeans, empty wallets dumped in the ever she lucked upon one. Given the fer-
dirt a few feet from their bodies. mentation of her mind, her ability to form
coherent thought shrunk each year. She’d
He’d heard about a few from the block struggle to find words during conversations,
who went missing. How they stepped out even though their meaning might’ve been
of their cars after taking a few too many clear in her head. It was as if an invisible
hits and shuffled blindly into the night, circuit had been stripped of its insulation
their vehicles left to idle beneath cracked and was no longer capable of sustaining
underbellies of overpasses until they ran a single thought for any consistent length
out of gas. He wasn’t a fool. By the time he of time. His conviction was an especially
might make it home, the police would have tough subject and required him to avoid
already checked in with hismother, made specific term: Detention. Assault. Time
their inquiries, marked their calendars to served. Sometimes, when she visited, her
return two, three weeks later, and then rutted face twisted up, her lips tightened in
move on. He could imagine their menacing frustration, and she looked away so that he
figures crowding the front door, surveying couldn’t see her crying. He’d push his hand
the dark bags under her eyes, the stale waft across the visit room table and gently touch
of whiskey on her breath. Cops were all cut her wrist in those moments, and she would
from the same mold. They’d wonder aloud nod back at him, her damp eyes squeezed
why their visit made any sense. Scrunch tight. One day he’d hoped her words might
their faces in anger. Shake their heads and

96

Revista Literária Adelaide

return. Somehow slip back into her memory he couldn’t tell looking at the black and
banks over night while she slept. But in the white photo, he figured their irises were
back of his mind he knew it was improbable. the same—light blue, rimmed with a thread
of gray. Now, 12 or 13 years since he was
He sat up, reached into his sock, peeled gone, he could still remember his Old Spice
the photograph, now soft and pliable from aftershave and stale beer when he barreled
sweat, off of his ankle, arranged it on his through the front door, scooped him up,
thigh. Only 17. He snickered, shook his heaved him into the air after his shift at the
head. His father looked chiseled—square plant. Sometimes the faint aroma of diesel
shoulders, biceps carved from years of gas in his thick blond hair. His beard was
football in vacant lotsin east Detroit, veins rough and scaly like sandpaper. And there
bulging against muscle, neck as thick as a was always that splat of axel grease across
light pole. And his mom—he looked away, the Ford emblem of his blue-gray coveralls.
embarrassed a few seconds for looking
at her polka dot bikini. Her skin was dark Boy wonder, he would shout, catching
from the summer sun. He peered at his dirt- him, then squeezing the air from his tiny
caked knuckles of his right hand resting in lungs with a bear hug. What has the crown
his lap. Tone more olive than brown, he de- prince of the kingdom been up to today?
cided. Months ago when he first arrived, a
few guards and counselors had mistakened Andy, clean up, we’re eating, his mother
him for being Italian, given his skin color, would call from the kitchen inside their tiny
black hair and the fact that he came from bungalow.
Detroit. He was certain they all read his file
and knew the details of his case. One of His father would hug him again and then
them must’ve decided he was from a Mafia one more time, his bushy eyebrows raised
family, a member of the Detroit Partnership, as if he had a question.
and took to calling him Tommy Two Fists.
After a few months, the name evolved into I played cars, and trains and spilled milk
just TT and then finally shortened to Tits. At on couch and peed in the laundry basket
first he didn’t like being called Tits but over and…
time he’d grown to accept it. He hadn’t any
desire to correct anyone at the center and His father would heave him upwards
tried not to say too much. There was an again, then again. A deep belly laugh would
unspoken weight behind the nickname, an follow. Through his clothes, his arms felt
ounce or two of history to keep the other hard like wood.
delinquents from giving him trouble. Not
one guard knew he was actually Irish. Black Dadda’s big boy had a busy day, eh? he
Irish, his mother once told him. Even his last would chuckle.
name—Craven—made it difficult to ascer-
tain his real nationality. Did ya hear about his peeing in the
basket? Not very funny. I had to redo the
He surveyed the picture. Probably laundry. And he’s gonna puke on you if you
couldn’t keep his hands off of her. His eyes keep it up, his mother would claim, drifting
were the same as his father’s—round and back and forth across the white formica floor
wide, as if in a state of surprise. Even though between the table and stove, a can of Stroh’s
in her hand. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

His father would then set him down
and let him teeter toward the kitchen like

97

Adelaide Literary Magazine

a drunk midget. He won’t puke, he rasped, He looked around, into the shadowy
voice gravelly from cigarettes. He’s a strong forest. So far, nothing. No helicopters. No
little manimal. four- wheelers. No dogs. Following the river
proved to be a good choice—a visible re-
He cinched his eyes shut and slung his source that was too obvious for use, some-
head against the tree, trying to forget the thing they may have simply decided not to
memory. Calculations, he muttered. Lately address during their planning. This decision,
the word helped sidetrack his thoughts he figured, hewing the forest floor with his
when he whispered it aloud. Cal-cu-la-tions. fingers, misled searchers, at least to this
Four sylables. Easy to elongate. Had to be point. Maybe they hadn’t dispatched more
correct, he figured, changing his thoughts. than a few to look. His crime wasn’t that
Precise. He started running the numbers bad. Two straight shots to his fat, greasy
again in his head, the memory of his father face. A knee to the nose on the way down
slowly retreating. Calculations. The word to the floor for good measure. Didn’t matter
floated in the steam from his mouth, hov- that his eye socket was broken. Or that his
ering in front of his eyes, waiting for him to retina detached and jaw was fractured. Or
suck it back in. His first year in the center that this was the second assault in the last
had been defined by the word. Calculate the year. The concussion—that was a fortunate
number of minutes to eat lunch. Calculate piece of luck he didn’t include in his calcula-
how much time he could knock off for good tions, something he had no opportunity to
behavior. Calculate time to cover one mile. restrain, an outcome he was proud of. He
could live with the price he now paid.
Calculate food needs for two days. Cal-
culate how to get home to Detroit. What He stretched his tired legs, yawned.
route? Reasons for a ride? He turned the The Rifle River gurgled. Water scrambling
questions over in his head, day and night, over rocks sounded like letters, words and
considered the number of miles he had to phrases he couldn’t decipher or understand.
trek through the forest to alude capture, Numbers? Maybe. Numbers and times,
especially now, with hunters patrolling the numerical expressions, formulas to guide
woods during rifle season. His best esti- him. In his brief hallucination, he started
mate, given his inexperience with northern to calculate again. At least he managed a
Michigan, was 21 miles. Probably less than good clip of distance. In twelve hours, he’d
that, but he didn’t want to take any chances jogged, walked, staggered, crawled thir-
with underestimates. He couldn’t recall the teen miles, trudged through the sucking
number of nights he lay on his cot staring mud of cedar swamps, clamored over lime-
up at the cracked concrete ceiling, slats of stone ridges stubbled with rocks, lurched
moonlight streaming through the barred along bluffs gagged by trees—far enough
window, calculating his hourly progress to warrant an hour of rest, possibly two. By
and protocol police departments might de- now staff were frantically coordinating the
ploy. Most would assume he’d take to roads, search, bewildered by his sudden absence,
given all the shooting in the woods. Maybe especially since he was making progress
they’d search for three, possibly four days. with managing his anger and resentment.
Issue an APB. Enlist the DNR to explore the
back woods on camo-painted, mud-spat- He chuckled. Poor Skillet, he wondered,
tered four-wheelers, the distant growl of thinking about his counselor. Big man was
their engines descernible from miles away.

98