Adelaide Literary Magazine No.29, October 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

that it was the bathroom. When I peered it again so I knew this me the ques on was
in held only a large covered can. I tried to rhetorical. “That building can barely keep
put that out of my mind. the rain out.”

I looked at all the shiny stainless steel “Listen,” he said. “When you hear that
and wondered how long we would stay siren,” he said, “ you just run. Run home.
buried inside the earth and what I would Don’t let anyone stop you. If you have to
be like when I got to come out into the dive under a rock or into a storm drain do it
world again. I hoped I’d be different, blond and then keep running. You’ll be safe here.”
and thin like a real California girl.
I wasn’t sure my teacher, who was far
My father frowned at the polished kitch- bigger than I, would let me run away and
en, pulling my arm to lead me to the next I was certain that Mr. Munter, the principal,
display unit. He scorned these model bomb would not. And because our shelter was
shelters. They were only fall-out shelters he just a big mud hole I wasn’t en rely clear
told me, in no way sufficient for the magni- just how much good it would do anyway.
tude of the onslaught he expected. These But I had learned already to keep my own
high gloss shelters might protect against countenance.
radioac ve fall-out but could never screen
against the power of the bombs. His plan “It might just be you and me, kid,” my fa-
would hide us from alpha, beta and gamma ther said.
ray exposure. A man offered to bring more
shiny brochures over to our house and talk Although my father didn’t approve of
about building. My father laughed. “No sir,” any of the shelters he gathered up all of
he said. “What you have here is a pretend the free literature. He found a man he liked
shelter. An imi-shelter. I’m going to build a at one booth and the two of them talked
real bomb shelter.” My father picked up a about the different mixes of cement and
shiny pan in the li le kitchen. “What you the way to use rebar. When we le I had
got here is a nice bed and breakfast. No of- a free pink balloon ed to my wrist embla-
fense.” zoned with the words “Be Ready.”

We walked over into the other building. On the way home we stopped at a How-
I knew I should make conversa on. “We ard Johnsons, which was a treat because
have real shelters at school, Daddy. We’ve I’d never been there before. “No pie,” my
been prac cing.” This was true. Once a father said, looking at me. “Or ice cream.”
week we’d rehearse the duck and cover But my father relented a li le. Our ham-
drill. It gave me a stomachache. We’d all burgers came with ice cream and there
race into the new All-Purpose Room that was no way my father was le ng that go
replaced the old auditorium. On of the new to waste. Besides, my father was a big man
building’s many purposes was evidently to himself. “You can start a diet tomorrow,” he
serve as a shelter and so it had been built said. “No bread.”
without windows. “We even go under the
tables” I told my father. He spread out some papers on the ta-
ble, showing me maps of the state, and pin-
My father clamped his hand on my arm, poin ng areas where he had reason to be-
ght. “Are you an imbecile?” He didn’t ask lieve that the bombs might fall. He figured
we had 35 miles to give from the center of

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the blast. Not good, but not quite ground leafed trees and later sat in a picnic area
zero either. And it could be further away too, and ate sandwiches my father had made.
igni ng instead San Diego a hundred miles
to the south or the San Fernando Valley for- I thought for a while that my mother
ty miles west. He’d researched the targets, would never return and that we had lost
the probabili es, and the payloads of vari- her to the parrots on a white beach some-
ous rockets. He paid the bill and we walked where south of Rio, where she sat consum-
outside. My father looked at the darkening ing mangoes and black, very sweet coffee.
sky. “Might hit Vandenburg even.” She did not write to us, or at least my father
never men oned a le er.
I was quiet on the way home, thinking
about how I’d seen a photo of the astro- But seven months later my mother came
nauts who my teacher said would someday home, carrying her same over-stuffed suit-
go to the moon. I wondered what it was case and numerous assorted bags swollen
like to blast off in that shiny metal rocket with gi s.
and to dri across the universe alone. My
father listened to a baseball game, to the It was like a party. There were sweaters,
Dodgers. He called them Our Boys. dolls, a coconut and dented cans of guava
paste and tropical fruits. I showed her how
As we turned the corner on to our street I had grown an inch. Her friends all came to
my father cleared his throat. “I didn’t hit see her and I heard one whisper that my fa-
your mother, you know,” he said. “Not really.” ther was difficult. Even I knew that this was
a different kind of code. The next day her
I checked on the baby a er we got home. friends all came over and she served them
a hearts of palm salad and a jelly roll cake
In me, my father began to build a made with guava.
wall—rebar, concrete and cinder block, and
when he was done he hired a man with a Last night I heard the President speak
concrete mixer to cover the roof with eight about destroying the Korean peninsula.
feet of cement. He found old bathtubs at I counted the words with an N—night-
a salvage yard and filled them with water mare, annihila on, nuclear, nexus, nox-
and hooked them with pipes to the shelter. ious. No. I thought about the li le dicta-
There must too have been a way to purify tor with the terrible hair who promised
the water but I can’t recall. Inside there we will burn. And I thought about how
was a big and noisy air pump and filter that my hair once caught on fire when I was
required turning every few hours. We’d be ligh ng candles and how it smelled for a
on shi s, my father explained, waking up long me.
when it was out turn to move the great
handle. As far as I know, my mother never went
down the shelter steps. She was afraid of
One weekend my father stayed home ladders anyway—wouldn’t even stand on a
and cleaned out the closets, throwing away chair. Her equilibrium was bad she told us.
most of my mother’s things. He complained We wanted her to prac ce and volunteered
that everything was dirty and said that a to help her. She just rolled her eyes.
real woman would know how to clean. He
took me to the San Diego Zoo. I watched “I stay up here,” I heard her tell my father
the large apes sulking in the shade of shiny again one night, when I lay in bed comfort-
ed by the smell of her cigare es. I heard my

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father yelling something so I put the pillow interested in organiza ons and their boring
over my head and went to sleep and when mee ngs. But I know now it was her accent.
I woke up he was ea ng an egg and drink-
ing his café con leche quietly. He was more People said that my brother and I had
careful with my mother now. He would s ll accents too although we denied this and
storm out of the house but he didn’t get s ll today people from me to me insist
angry in the same old way. on knowing where I’m from.

There were many things I didn’t under- We both wore correc ve shoes. Our feet
stand. firmly encased in heavy leather, preven ng
us from soaring as we ran or jumped rope.
In me succulents and geraniums grew We could speak about payloads and rock-
over the domed top of the shelter. My ets.
mother planted more fruit trees. Much
later my brother got in trouble for keeping But there was so much we never talked
old used and purloined Playboy magazines about.
in the bomb shelter. I once held a Hallow-
een party in the shelter. Mostly though I The next summer my father took me
preferred my playhouse that stood on the camping. He rented a small boat and each
other side of the hedge from the shelter. It day a er lunch, because it was vaca on,
had window boxes with pansies, and pav- he’d have a whiskey and water and lie
er stones in front that I swept regularly. I down. I took the boat out alone on the de-
cooked exquisite if fake meals for my dolls serted lake. I put the oars in the oarlocks
on a perfect li le stove, combed their hair and let the boat just dri while I lay back
and taught them the alphabet off an easel and watched the passing and vivid blue of
someone had given me. the Sierra sky. The water was very deep and
cold and there was no one else around. We
I s ll scan the sky. didn’t even own a life jacket.

I remember a birthday party I went to It was only later that I learned how all
once where the father was a science pro- these li le details can make a difference,
fessor with a telescope. He let us look up- can make a person stand out, and that
ward and view the dark side of the moon standing out is just another way to think
and I blinked, astonished at how the silver about isola on.
orb became, on closer examina on, pi ed
and shadowed. My mother closed the windows on the
nights when my father was especially angry.
The other children at the party did this “Don’t think about it” she instructed us.
with greater ease and a kind of casualness
that I lacked. There was lightness about But as we got older I knew the neigh-
them that I envied. bors could hear us. The lots were small and
our windows were only a few feet away
“What’s wrong with your mother?” a girl from theirs. It changed things I think. We
asked me once at school. I tried to think. It weren’t invited to par es some mes and
was true that she didn’t join the PTA or sit when I was older I could tell from the way
with the other mothers during school per- the other girls slanted their eyes away that
formances. I thought then that she wasn’t they knew.

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The other kids in our neighborhood wondering about the back yard. The orange
turned to bronze in the hot a ernoon sun. groves that grew so near to us were long
My brother and I stayed inside and watched ago cut down to make way for a shopping
for light of a different kind—the atomic center, but it seems to me that the scent
flash, the wall of flame, Oppenheimer’s of the blossoms, the perfume that would
white wind. It gave weight to our limbs like reach us even in the dead of night in the
heavy water. winter, reaches me s ll.

It wasn’t just my father, of course. In the And then a few weeks ago, as I drove
1960s approximately 100,000 bomb shel- slowly down the old street, a man with
ters were built in the U.S. and there was an a neatly trimmed beard and a yoga mat
Office of Civil Defense. waived at me. I put my car in park. “Do you
live here?”
But in our suburban college town, where
the pepper trees draped their faded green- “I grew up in this house,” I told the man
ery along the cracked sidewalks, where the and his family. And I pointed out my bed-
black asphalt cracked in the summer heat, room window to one of the li le girls who
no one else lived as we did. nodded happily. That was her room.

“Some people have swimming pools,” I I walked into the backyard with the man
told my father once. and his less enthusias c wife. It was ver-
dant and lush—despite the drought in Cali-
“You can try and fit in,” my father told me fornia. The lawn undulated in gentle hills. I
then. “Or you can worry about living. And asked about the bomb shelter.
some people are never going to fit in very
well no ma er how much they try.” I knew The man laughed. “That’s why I’m glad
he was talking about both of us. to meet you,” he said. “One of the old
neighbors up the street says it’s right here,
My father died first and then my mother. buried somewhere.”
It’s been more than ten years. My brother
and I sold the house. We started to clean The lawn is very thick on the tallest of
it out ourselves, keeping a few things and the grass swells, not too many steps from
sharing the silver. I asked my brother if he the back door. I tell the family that this is
wanted the old everyday table ware, tur- where the hatch is, its heavy steel door s ll
quoise colored Franciscan with li le ceram- yawning open above the steep steps as
ic waves around the edges of the plates. they fall off into the ceaseless dark.
He said no. There’s not watch we want to
remember. My brother is a lawyer and the I talk for another minute or two before
law sits heavily upon him. I picked some I leave about the Cold War and my father
blood oranges that remained on a tree and and engineers. But it’s me for the girls to
we le and let the real estate agent deal go to gymnas cs and for the man to meet
with emptying the rest. He hired some- his music class at the college. I don’t know
one—you can hire someone to do anything if the man believes me or even understands
these days. as he stands in the hot October sun. This is
a happy family. Their curtains are open to
Some days I s ll drive by the old house, the light and there are cartoon characters
or park across the street and watch for a bit on the children’s backpacks. For the beard-

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ed man, I suspect, the color of cobalt has About the Author:
li le significance. Deborah Paes De Barros

My childhood sleeps beneath the deep
greenery of grass, buried—of course—in
a bunker. As if the past can ever really be
sealed away. My mother’s accented voice
haunts me s ll.

The family drives away in the grey SUV
with bumper s ckers celebra ng their chil-
dren’s prowess at school. I sit for a moment
and watch the way distance and polluted
light paint the nearby foothills in shades
of lavender and blue. Then I drive away to-
ward my own home.

I s ll watch the sky.
I s ll watch the sky.

153

BYE

by Kimberly McElreath

Other parents would beam with pride over is where the emo ons start to split for me.
their child’s first word and argue lovingly Did my parents validate the act of saying
about the loyalty of the child whether he goodbye as an easy op on for parents? It
or she iden fied with “mama” or “dada.” seemed easy for my father to leave our
My first communica on was “bye.” Appar- family and just create another one. He
ently, at even a young age, I knew that I physically le . I yearned for him to come
desired to be somewhere else. back, or did I? Did I specifically want him
or just an op on of someone who was not
The thought of someone, anyone really, emo onally gone like my mother? Again,
coming to take me away from my moth- I watch my son, and I don’t feel the un-
er consumed my early childhood dreams. dying need to hold him to my chest ev-
Without any ra onale, or confirma on, of ery second of every day. I enjoy the me
his desire to bring me into his new world, when he is safely gliding in his swing, and
my constant pleadings were directed to I am able to have myself back for a few
my father for him to come and give me minutes. Goodbye to “Mommy” for five,
a be er life. Anywhere had to be be er ten, or even fi een minutes. Goodbye to
than here. Right? I could not comprehend bo les and changings and crying and re-
how he could speak the words “love” and sponsibili es and expecta ons. Goodbye
“miss you” and never follow through on to disappointments and to disappoin ng
mee ng the basic need of any child which others. Goodbye to this role that I greedily
is to just be comforted and “loved.” He craved for years.
was able to freely give his “love” to others,
so why not me? Now, I look at him again. My heart
does a sort of pulling sensa on that I can-
Yes, there’s that word again. Love. I sit not iden fy. I know that I want to argue
and stare at my own child who is only an over his first word, and I pray everyday
infant, and I know that I love him. Ok, I can that neither of us will want it to be “bye.”
check that box. Parental love. Done. This

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About the Author:

Kimberly McElreath, originally from Georgia, is a middle school administrator in the Sea le
area of Washington state. She received her Bachelors of Arts degree in Music Educa on
from Piedmont College in Demorest, Georgia and her Masters of Educa on degree in School
Administra on from Central Washington University in Ellensburg, Washington. When not
suppor ng the growth of her students, Kimberly enjoys spending me with her friends and
family. Being a novice writer, she looks forward to con nuing to explore her voice and style.

155

NUOVO MONDO

by Michela Valmori

Nuovo Mondo That was two years ago—the beginning.
I should’ve done more to stop Antonio. As
Grasping the sodden wood with both hands, I waited for the baker to hand me one of
I pushed the shu ers wide apart. An over- the few loaves le , I overheard that he had
whelming light filled the damp room. As my the courage to not only reach Napoli, but
eyes adjusted a spring breeze followed suit, also climb board the steel ship. Then I un-
freeing the s fling air inside the sacristy. derstood everything was going to change.
Leaning out, daring my head into the open, Worse yet, he wasn’t alone—his cousin,
I filled my lungs with the faint scent of the who had accompanied him with the fam-
land. I took in the lled earth—the recently ily’s donkey, abandoned us as well. There
planted vineyards. The Comino valley was wasn’t a soul in Casalvieri who wasn’t
God’s gi to man. Couldn’t they see? talking about the Collucci. I wanted to
address these ac ons on Sunday—I had
The first incident occurred two years to. I prepared my homily, spending hours
ago. Giovanna Collucci, mother to Anto- inside the sacristy, high above the baked
nio, knocked on my door in the early hours orange clay of each roof. Perhaps Antonio
of the morning. Fearing it may have been had found a reason to leave. Could he have
the Conza brothers, I nervously loaded the made peace with God? Some mes I think it
scope a we kept inside the kitchen. When was Garibaldi, this revolu on put into the
I heard her weeping, I understood this was minds of young men impossible thoughts.
something else. She was desperate, the An idea is always favored over reality. And
poor soul. I sat down and asked to pray what is this reality across the ocean? Filled
together. This calmed her. Eventually she with Protestants?
composed herself enough to tell me what
bothered her so. Her son, Antonio, was That night I could not think anymore
going to leave for the New World. She was inside the sacristy—I went for a breath of
distraught. I smiled. We are lucky if this is fresh air. Casalvieri rolls steeply the length
the worst of our problems signora! I as- of its hill, the church and castle at its peak.
sured her his delusions would pass. And if When one descends he feels as if he is in
he ever made it as far as Napoli, God-will- a constant fall. Did Antonio grow red of
ing, past the brigands and the Apennines, these houses? They were fine homes for
he would return. How could he leave all he a contadino. Built of solid stone. I un l it
had known behind? grew late. I let the perpetual heat of the

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sun on those carefully stacked rocks chan- stones. I slid the heaviest inside my pockets.
nel through me. Eventually I found myself I was a rich man when they bulged and clat-
in a neighborhood I did not recognize. No- tered with each step. Reaching Union Street,
I would take the narrows, checking to make
cing a flickering light in a house further up sure I wasn’t followed. In the midst of hous-
the road, I headed towards it, like a moth to es I would look for quiet homes. I imagined
a candle. Then I heard the desperate shrills. I was Giulio Bone , winding-up my arm as
Looking into the window I saw a man beat- I pitched for the Cubs. Before the rock ever
ing his wife. As his hand menacingly rose hit the glass I was running, through those
to strike, he stopped for the longest second, concrete mazes I came to know so well. My
collapsing to the floor in a fit of weeping. father worked at Killarney Glass, a block
Parroco, ha nu’ soldo ppe noi? whispered from the tenements. I just didn’t want him
a stunted child, who had been si ng in to lose his job.
the dark behind me, watching his parents.
Reaching into my pocket I found nothing to My mother passed away from TB when I
give. was young. I never bothered to learn what
those le ers stood for; I wanted nothing
The following morning, as I walked to do with the disease. My father always
alongside the façade of the church I couldn’t came home late. I knew he loved me, but
help but no ce the large fissure running he didn’t have the me to keep up. Every
the length of its entrance. It appeared sev- night I watched him drag his red frame to
en years ago, a er the earthquake. Where bed, before the buonano e. During the day
there earthquakes in this New World? And Salvatore and Alessandro raised me. Chew-
the churches—there had to be churches. ing gum, smoking cigare es, we became
How did they look inside? Someone had to street children—good-for-nothing, zingari.
lead quei poveri. Chissà. I never addressed We looked up to the older good-for-noth-
the congrega on. ings, those who worked for the scum of the
earth, the illustrious men we hoped one
Antonio eventually returned, lo sciagu- day to become.
rato. He came to bury his mother. Casalvieri
has never seen a finer tomb. He says he will Eventually I had to find something tem-
bury all his family there—himself too some- porary to help with the bills. As long as
day. The cappella he built towers above the you’re honest, and remember who you
dead, the le ers COLLUCCIO now visible owe a favor to, jobs are possible to come
from all across town. Some say he killed his by. Whenever I ran the orders for Bruno I
cousin, over there, in the New World. This would listen to the conversa ons springing
is a grave accusa on. I have to believe he from each table. It reassured me to hear
has made his peace with God. The plaster how busy the world around me was. How
covering the fissure is slowly drying. Lo much was slowly being built by us—Sicil-
sciagurato even donated un nuovo Cristo. ians, Calabresi, Campanari. Though I was
Mò. This nuovo mondo. li le, I never felt proud in Caltanisse a.
Here, as dirty and marginalized of a life we
Sassi were crea ng, it was a wet, defiant tongue
stuck out to the past. Everyone and every-
When I was a child I used to scour the al- thing that ever held us back. All I ever want-
leys in-between Prospect Park and 11th for

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ed was to wear a suit like Don Salento’s at But nothing comes free in the New World.
mass. Gaining everything, I lost the only thing I
had in that sweltering Sicilian town—family
My first true work was as a doorman and simplicity—Stella. So I walked straight
at Ciccio’s cathouse. Madamà Antonella up the marble steps I learned to fear my en-
taught me everything my mother hadn’t
been able to, and my father couldn’t. She re life, and traded all those heavy conver-
nego ated with any man, from the Black sa ons for a quiet house on the Hudson. I
Hand to the President of the United States. was s ll proud of everything wrong that we,
Alessandro and Salvatore had made their Sicilian kids with guns and good inten ons
own ways. New York was large, and so were accomplished. But I had to s ck my Ameri-
its vices. The city was a labyrinth. But my can tongue out at the past.
talent for listening to conversa ons even-
tually paid off. Armed with informa on on In this way I could stay at home, unlike
the lucra ve ac vi es of par es of illustri- my father. I watched my children grow. One
ous men, I began to ma er to the li le em- day I’ll take them to Sicily if Stella agrees—
pires forming across Brooklyn. When I had remind them there are concrete streets in
more suits than days of the week, I encoun- their blood. Most days I sit by a large win-
tered Stella. I had everything I had wished dowpane facing the city. When Stella isn’t
for when I was running across those filthy home it’s quiet. In that s llness I remember
alleys with rocks weighing down my pants. the houses I aimed for, with those quiet,
glass windows.

About the Author:

Michela Valmori’s area of exper se includes the literary
produc on of the Italianamerican diaspora and its
related themes of cultural conflict, crossings and ethnic
iden ty forma on. She is the editor of many interviews
to Italianamerican second genera on writers, published
in academic journals and the translator of some diaspora
books. Two of her last accomplishments are A Day with
Antonia Sparano Geiser and Rosa, the hidden secrets of
an Italian American woman.

During her PhD in Compara ve Literature she researched
on writers of the Italian Diaspora at King’s College
University and later she was a Visi ng Scholar at
Goldsmiths University London. For her achievements
she was invited to lecture at Harvard University about Italiamerican hyphenated literary
produc on. She specialized in Italian linguis cs and Didac cs of Language at the University
of Bolzano and she edited her own Italian Language e-learning course and had it published,

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Nove Passi Nove acknowledged then as a primary source in the learning and teaching process
of Italian language to non Italian students.
Combining her two spheres of interest, Italianamerican studies and Linguis cs, Michela has
recently extended her research to the inves ga on of the Language transforma on within
the different genera ons of the Italian migrants in the USA.
In 2018 Michela was awarded a Fulbright Scolarship as a Dis nguished Professor in Italian
American studies at the University of Notre Dame, Indiana, where she served as a Visi ng
Professor during the Spring Term, there she had a children story and a memoir book published.

159

PENNY IN APRIL

by Marlena Baraf

We are pu ng the grandkids to bed in the “What your monster’s name, Grandpa?”
pre y room we call the grandkids room,
two white beds and a periwinkle-blue chest “Toothy.
in the middle. I’d asked the girls what sheets
they wanted on their beds. Elena said, “the I think about this as I get ready for bed,
ballerinas,” Penny, said, “the sharks.” Elena my spunky eight-year-old granddaughter,
is ten; Penny, eight. learning push-back over the years of living
with an older sister. There’s a sturdy sense
Grandpa who loves to tease, says to of humor developing in that li le body. But
Penny, “What are you going to do about I wonder about her monster friend.
the monster who lives under the bed.”
The next morning, while Penny colors at
I cringe. My husband has a Brooklyn bite the kitchen table and I sip my coffee from a
in his humor. I could bop him on the head! I clear glass cup, I ask her in my gayest voice.
give him the look, and he leaves. “Piper, how long have you known Spooky?”

A few seconds pass. It’s just Penny and “She’s been my friend for a long me.”
me, the two of us lit by a white bu erfly
with cutouts plugged into the socket at the “Do your other friends like her?”
end of the room—enough for me to no ce
a half smile on her face and a twinkle in her “Some mes she’s nasty to them.”
eyes. “I have something to tell Grandpa,”
she says. “Is she nasty to you?”

“Hey Gramps,” I call. “Penny wants to “No.”
talk to you.”
“Does she protect you?”
He comes in, leans over Penny’s bed.
“No. I protect her from Grandpa’s mon-
“Grandpa,” she says, “I have a monster too.” ster.”

“What’s his name?” ***

“It’s not a boy.” Penny comes into my bedroom at 8 a.m.
the next morning, taps gently on my shoul-
“What’s her name?” der. I think it’s the cat.

“Spooky.” “Grandma, I can take my shower this
morning.” This is a shower Penny was avoid-
ing the day before.

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“Let me have my coffee and I can help down her back. Her face is lit with happiness.
you set it up.” “I am Peter Pan, that’s what they call me. I am
a lost boy from Neverland, always on the run
In the kitchen Penny tells me that she from Captain Hook….” Song a er song a er
peed a li le bit. “But I didn’t wet the bed. song. I remind Penny to rinse the shampoo
Grandma. I sleep inside my mermaid dress.” thoroughly, interrup ng her reverie.

When we return upstairs, I run the hot “Ok Grandma,” she says, “You can shut
and cold water and pull down the ring on off the water now.”
the faucet to send the water up to the
shower head. I hand her the thirsty, bright yellow tow-
el that suits her so well.
“A li le more hot, Grandma.”
***
I adjust. Penny gets in. I stand at the end
of the tub watching as she soaps her head. In the a ernoon Penny and Elena chalk up
our driveway with the thick, mul colored
Pan-chested body of a girl of eight. Bean- chalk s cks I keep in the garage. The Span-
pole torso. In a sweet, low voice Penny be- ish word of the day, I tell them, is “ za, la
gins to sing. “Remember me, though I have
to say goodbye, remember me….” I recog- za, the chalk.” Piper draws hearts of every
nize this from the movie Coco! Penny con n- size and color the length of the driveway,
ues to the end of the song as water pours hopping from heart to heart.

About the Author:

Marlena Maduro Baraf immigrated to the United States from her na ve Panama and her
wri ng is colored by this dual iden ty. She has been interviewing La nos from all walks of
life for a series tled, Soy/Somos, I am/We are. Her work has been published in Sweet, Lilith,
Lumina, Read 650, and La no Voices at HuffPost, among other publica ons. Her memoir, “At
the Narrow Waist of the World,” is forthcoming in the fall of 2019.

161

REAL IS THE RARER

THING

by Roger Topp

“It’s near checkout me and I need to es- heavy cage exists to mount the lamps, not
cape the hotel without paying.” Imogen to make a statement. Some lonely bastard
has abandoned me, never returning to the might be tempted to take a ride.
room last night. I send the text east. I hoist
the backpack, not looking back at the tat- The coffee evaporates, and I count the
ami mat, the futon, the pillow the size of change in my pocket, again, like there’s a
a laptop, the tea service, and the thin as hole. My eyes hurt and my inner ear is con-
grass bamboo walls. When my phone says fused when I turn my head. I breathe slow-
a quarter past ten, I’m at a café. Feels like ly, trying to will away the cold symptoms.
a safe place to wait as my calendar vibrates What would be awkward on a stage is easy
to remind me I’m going to miss a mee ng in a crowd. If anyone looks, they’ll think
in ten minutes and somewhere a long way this is how I am, scowling at the foam, at
away from here. I wipe the oil and crumbs the phone, at a model of the planet, push-
from my hands. The croissant with ham and ing fluid from one sinus to another like a
cheese, plus the small coffee, cost me 330 submarine. I need someone to scream at
Yen. I have another 155 Yen in my pocket: me every me I touch my nose. A couple
three donuts and five chips of aluminum. days in country and I imagine I look like I’ve
brought the plague ashore.
There’s a giant four-foot globe by the
front windows, moves very slowly, not so The globe rounds Algeria and makes
much spins as turns in space. No fric on. a great crossing out across the bean sea.
No motors. No injus ce. The globe is im- Because I’m wai ng, I wait for Pacific. The
prisoned inside of an iron cage surrounded Aleu ans are shortchanged. Islands have
by four suns on black iron arms. The ring been forgo en and lost, because they go
about Capricorn is wide enough to rest on forever. The painter has skipped the ‘i’
sixteen la es. The planet is hand-painted, in ‘Central Amerca.’ This seems fair.
but any human paint would become a riv-
er in the heat. The brush strokes are clear In this incarna on, the café is a loud
as the impasto and running color, but the European inven on. Even if the woman in
the camel jacket had followed me to Kyoto,

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she’d walk right by the franchise. She didn’t. are thin and pinstriped. Everything is wood.
She knew to avoid Kyoto today. A French Parts of the stone sidewalk haven’t been
couple took her place and the room next repaired since the war. In other places, the
to mine at the ryokan. This morning, they paint is s ll wet.
rode away to adventure on bicycles. The
real and the imaginary hang in the balance. Here, a garage is so small the car’s boot
is in the road, and none of the alleys are
Yesterday I ate the contents of my bento big enough to play a game of table tennis
dinner in the parking-lot outside my guest- wall to wall. Here, the sidewalk is po ed
house. Twilight was dus ng the roofs, and plants and college degrees in perfect park-
the alleyways of Kyoto were so shadows ing. There is a li le workshop that looks like
gathering like grey drapes. Fewer bicycles it makes confec onery in the shape of ny
then, and maybe the solitary pu er of a flowers. I cannot read the poli cal post-
moped beyond the con nued and striking ers—or maybe they are selling toothpaste.
absence of dogs. Up the alley, the night’s I try to imagine which street the truck and
last suitcase-on-wheels cut the gravel, and the woman and the megaphone came
I could just about sympathize with the down last night. It sounded right outside,
stones. but I saw nothing, naked, breathing the
night through the open window. Months
My guesthouse gave me slippers. My from now, I’ll ask Noriyasu to listen to my
guesthouse greets everyone with a rack recording. He’ll say it’s a publicity stunt,
fit with costumes. The walls slide. The something to raise awareness of phone
cube fridge hums. The toilet has a small fraud. Listening to the recording, it sounds
and presumably waterproof brain in the like a recording, not a woman standing in
armrest. Outside, the alleys are narrow the back of a flatbed truck. Home is where
and the electrics are close to the ground. you get the answers. Dreams are where I
Driveway gates come high as guardrails. skip the ryokan in the dark of night for fear
The thin proper es are locked together the walls will become a hundred feet high
like ny, beau ful blocks. The neighbor- come morning.
hood reminds me of small town Europe, a
long experiment in efficiency and filigree There’s a robo c carpark blocks over. Ev-
delicacies—as if the old se lers never re- ery shelved sedan is white but one. I pass
alized they had le the ship. Now it’s good a barber pole at chest height, a boy with a
prac ce and how it’s going to be on Mars— soccer ball, a perfect rusted mailbox, and
except we won’t need money. This is all I four green plas c chairs. A ceramic cat
can afford this morning, to wander about rests on a tabletop of mosaic stone amid
a warren of narrow streets where more bi- pansies and snapdragon and something
cycles cla er by than slender cars, where living and palm-like and prehistoric. There’s
residents walk with grocery bags, and the a vending machine on every block. So -
open doors smell of old places. The streets drinks. Cold coffee. Beer. There’s a pa ern:
remind me of village Wales, a perfume of Asahi, Kirin, Coca Cola, Boss. Cigare es. Re-
infused of coal dust and diesel. peat. The machines crowd doorways, and
we have to suck our guts to get by. I look
Of course, the architecture is unmis- for the woman in the camel jacket. Doz-
takable. We’re in Japan. Kyoto. Downtown. ens of trains have come and gone. She’s
Old town. The roofs are curves. The walls

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real, the woman in the camel jacket, but I By the end of the call, I turned not ge ng
know she’s not the same woman each me, a room for the night into ge ng a room for
only the rarer style in a sea of black coats. half the price. Magic, with short sentences.
French couples? Maybe. I kept the backs of my hands visible. Imo-
gen could sneak up to the room later, a er
There are three vending machines on the rally, when they were done polishing
this residen al block. Two streets down on the megaphone and the hood ornaments,
a thoroughfare, I count six not including and were sa sfied they’d scared humans
the cigare e machines. They work togeth- off telephones. I stared at the costumes at
er. There is a bus stop hidden in the middle the bo om of the stairs. I tried not to shrug.
of the murderous gang of them. I suppose I should have felt disappointed? A lot ap-
none of the machines discriminate—or ask precia ve? I say, “Really, that’s okay.” I did
for I.D. So, who’s the land of the free now? not expect this. I was not angling for this.
Home is where kids play ball in the street. One me only? “Sure. I understand. Thank
Home is where eight girls with uniforms you for the good deal.” Good fortune. Good
and badminton racquets cross Abbey Road. hospitality. I would have described the col-
Home is where you don’t need your wallet, or of Imogen’s toothbrush if he’d asked. I
where a couple spare coins will buy you a would have described exactly where we’d
beer and give you a chipped wall to sit on first met. Would that make her real? I could
while the eaves swallows weave through pay for her—really!
the electric lines.
This morning, the owner slipped a note
When I arrived at the Kyoto ryokan, com- under all the doors telling us we had to
munica ng with the owner was awkward leave. The ryokan is shut for the rest of the
as talking to myself. My language skills are month. I felt this too was a result of the call.
weak in English at the best of mes, and
part of the conversa on required phoning To pay, I reached into a pocket to pull
the booking service, because, turns out, out my wallet. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t
I’d broken the contract. The room was for anywhere, but, like a mime repea ng a clue,
two. Where was my traveling companion? I s ll checked all the pockets three mes. I
Through gestures, ‘I’ll find someone, later.’ made more assurances, le my bags in a
Would the owner have no ced if I’d man- corner and took a walk, looked in every
ifested Imogen, skulking the shadows? bush between the ryokan and the train sta-
Would his eyes have followed me to that
empty space? Step up. Show the man we on, but I had come round-about, first get-
were just playing. Home is where you don’t ng lost in the alleys and then backtrack-
shake hands at the door. Solitude is where ing to the main streets. The head cold had
they expect you to bring a date. Imogen is me going in circles, a vagrant looking at my
imaginary, but who is he to judge? I could shoes. What felt like fun now felt like cover-
have pretended out loud. I could have said ing my tracks. My wallet was gone, the cash
she’d join me later. ‘Her train is late. She and the cards.
lost her way at the sta on.’ I pretend such
things, but I do not tell the owner I have #
an invisible friend poking at his rack of cos-
tumes. I imagined the woman in the camel jacket
had le me a voice mail. I knew it was her
because I couldn’t listen to it. The phone

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prompted me for a password, and when lover you walk home in the morning. Her
I thumbed some obvious gibberish, it hand is thin as moonlight.
warned me perhaps I’d dialed the wrong
mailbox. I stared at the phone, but the In the peony garden, old men with mo-
message was buried deep in the glass and nopods had beat me to the urban patch of
aluminum. I went to a park. I looked for the morning hor culture. A sign informed me
obvious dead drops to see what happens. “the me to enjoy the flowers is over.” S ll,
there were peonies in bloom, and amid the
A Tokyo city street is about as quiet as cherry blossoms, girls posed for their boy-
any city street. No horns. No yelling. Whole friends. Hands up, near the face, expres-
minutes between the madness. A er rush sions like Maraikan mannequins, eyes wide,
hour. Before the shops open. Even with a chins out, shoulders hangers for scrappy
detour to cross heavy traffic, I arrived at dresses and bright jackets. Smile and they
Hama-rikyu gardens ten minutes before recite the news of the day. Then they hover
they opened. I was not the first wai ng. An mo onless, as if wai ng for the turn of the
old couple. A young couple. Two women earth, their breathing a so eternity, be-
on bicycles. Three men with cameras were fore the shu er fires.
easy to think of as belonging to a club. I
propped myself up against a stone wall and I wandered past the komoba, where
took notes. An aphid landed on my glass- they once lured and hunted ducks, and into
es. I blew at it two or three mes before it the center of the gardens, where a network
sensed danger. of bridges leapt ponds and connected a
teahouse and islands. I stood on the Naka-
Wai ng in the bright sunshine, I didn’t jima-bashi and watched a giant, furry bee
go to the gardens to find Imogen, but they hover over the lake water, then dart in spi-
would’ve been her natural habitat. She has rals as if to hunt parachute-motes of pollen.
perfected the art of si ng on a park bench.
Her posture says she’s willing to share it A couple in tradi onal dress, like for a
with pigeons, bright sisters, and goblin Friday wedding, were followed by a loose
men. A er all, we first met on a park bench parade of camera phones. They passed the
in Philadelphia a er I’d walked across from tea house and went north into the pines.
the zoo in Denver a er visi ng a grave in An official photographer made camp with
Vermont. A complicated day. We walked flowers strewn across the forest floor. The
to a cafe that specialized in cake. We went couple knelt. I’ve watched couples parade
back to her daylight basement somewhere outbound from the alter in Honolulu, Mon-
in the haunted recesses of places I only half treal, and now Tokyo, each me followed
remember and now only par ally co-opt. by groupies and tourists and hungry birds
We met again at a lo in New York, toured picking at lost crumbs.
the painted caves of a museum exhibit in
Montreal, and cried the night away at a Two big splashes in the pond. By the me
friend’s castle in the western desert. Forget I turned, the disturbances were the size of
that Imogen’s imaginary, that we’d gone a high school car wash. Nothing to see but
beyond real places and gone looking for di- ripples and soap. A noisy duck there earlier
nosaur bones, jostled together in the back was gone, I supposed now eaten by a fish. I
of a jeep. Welcome to Tokyo. Solitude’s a paused another couple of minutes because
I think feathers float, but there was noth-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

ing but a sca ering of ny maple leaves. hind me, wondering what I was doing with
Then the fish jumped again, clearing four or an open microphone. If they had the pass-
five feet. Three mes. It was fat off duck or word for my voicemail, they did not let on
what hovers close above a fish pond. and I did not ask. I’ve listened to the tape
several mes.
The sea bass wouldn’t jump again for
another ten minutes, but Imogen wanted Maybe I recorded my walks because I
to wait at least that long. On the far bank, a wouldn’t have conversa ons to remember,
small crew slipped the walls of a tea house or our conversa ons, Imogen’s and mine,
from the east side, magically, around the are ghosts, and forthcoming, because there
corner and then down the south side of the was a narra ve there that insists on hap-
frame. I watched them turn the building in- pening later.
side-out.
We thundered through the world on
On the journey back downtown, I did the Hikari Shinkansen, less like a bullet,
not find the Tokyo Denny’s. It found me more like a torpedo on skis. The rails rum-
with the backside of the sign, a dirty thing bled the way silk rumbles. The variable
burned transparent in parts where the frequency drives spooled, and we were
bald light leaks through a er dark. I passed a magne c flare buzzing along at over
underneath pretending it was nothing im- a hundred and fi y miles per hour. The
portant. I could smell the gravy and the photographs were digital sharp. The train
heaviness of mid-day eggs. I went inside. I banked and the turn was smooth as falling
ordered something that looked good in the into orbit. We cut through ionosphere and
picture and something to drink I am com- mountains like a hot knife and glided like
pletely certain was mostly kiwi juice—with a canyon stream through ci es. The aero-
a ball of kiwi sherbet (less sure) and a sprig dynamic envelope shook, the engine’s
of mint on top. I took a picture of the sign forward whiskers touching the concrete
but not the drink. Not even noon. and clapboard. The pilot let me drive for
a couple miles, but I got us lost so she
Walking Ginza to the train sta on, I took back the s ck. Eventually we were on
chanced to follow a French couple. They course, a white streak bisec ng farms, vil-
abound, and she wore jeans and a loose lages, forests, and canals past towns and
shirt, tails flapping. He wore shorts and a stepped paddies, parking lots, and facto-
ries. Everywhere, most automobiles were
ght shirt with a torso long enough he could either black or white. The tractors were
touch the street lights. All of her hair was orange. My reserva on was for the aisle,
on her head. Most of his was on his face. but between some sta ons I switched to
Naoko struts in front. Toru stoops to look the window. That rail line carries 150 mil-
in windows and never seems to catch her lion passengers a year, and there are up to
un l they reach the street light. At some thirteen trains per hour running each way.
point, I led. She jogged by me like a woman Some mes, we were a li le early, or the
wearing the wrong shoes to catch a train. previous train was a li le late. Their ghosts
She turned right at a corner twenty-yards shi ed forward and back, mixing with ours.
ahead and disappeared. By the me I made Eventually, they pulled away and we occu-
the corner, she was coming back, no duck pied our seats alone. I didn’t see the wom-
between her teeth, only a silent, shake of
her head. He of the cat torso was right be-

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an in the camel jacket un l Hamamatsu, my pocket: 530 Yen. Coffee in the morning I
where she le us. could do, si ng near a giant turning model
of the world, but before I could get to sleep,
When I le the Shinkansen in Kyoto, I more phone calls. Security procedures.
found a cket counter and reserved seats Iden fica on. Fraud preven on. Call backs,
on the pair of trains I need tonight. I didn’t like for audi ons—wai ng through weeks
need a wallet for this. Whether I s ll had it of silence on the line while I boiled water
then, I do not know. Kyoto was a pit-stop, for tea. I checked the fridge a couple mes
a day with a li le room to explore the al- to see if food would appear when the light
leyways, and I found myself on side streets was off. Later, I tried to sleep.
quickly. The guest house was near, but I en-
joyed the walk a er three bright hours on Late at night, someone moved slow-
the train. ly and steadily down the streets. She was
armed with a megaphone. I couldn’t see
I swam in the lingering a ermath of the her, but I imagined there was a skinny, flat-
plague and high-speed travel past scin llat- bed truck and she was standing in the back,
ing architecture. A protest roared on main one hand on an aged, green, slat-wall, and
street. A line of people held signs. Two lead- the other cramped against a megaphone’s
ers, or the currently, momentarily euphoric, switch. I woke to the shouts and crawled
shouted up and down the line. A third per- s ffly across the tatami to the open win-
son drummed like one does to make a point dow. I turned on the recorder and propped
or to keep order. “Be careful,” said Imogen. it against the windowsill. I had no idea what
It’s just a protest, I wanted to say, but her the woman was saying. I’d spent an evening
eyes were prescient. We slipped down an and a late night proving to people and com-
alley the width of our shoulders touching, puters I wasn’t a computer, that I was real
which led to another thin canyon, which and en tled. I had no idea what the woman
led to yet another. I checked the map. We with the megaphone was shou ng, but it
were a stone’s throw from the train sta on sounded important.
and the crush of commuters—but here it
was silent as elephants. The room was warm. The night was cool.
Imogen was not there. I could hear the
# French couple in the next room, their voic-
es, low enough I couldn’t follow.
When I returned to the ryokan, a er
searching the whole of innocent Kyoto, I In the morning, I le the ryokan without
was s ll, nearly penniless. The owner ush- paying. I waited and watched the world turn.
ered me upstairs. He’d waited to show me The cash shop opened eventually, an hour
the room for more than an hour. He want- later than adver sed. The calls stateside pro-
ed to go to bed, worn out as I was from the duced results, and head cold or no head cold,
call to the booking service. He gestured I must have passed as me. I returned to pay
I could pay in the morning, once I discov- for the room and to collected my bags.
ered the whereabouts of my money. A er
I se led in, I found a small grocery where I #
bought the largest dinner I could afford and
s ll afford coffee in the morning. Home is I leave Kyoto by train, pass field a er flood-
where you clean your plate. The change in ed field of rice, and see civiliza on by the
light of vending machines. Flickering tun-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

nels. Apartment towers. Exterior stairs. A ing. I apologize for my head cold and that
brief glimpse of a family round the dinner her English is be er than mine. Imogen is
table, something being served. My eyes are smoke. I wonder if Marie can imagine how
glad the sun has gone away. I have ten min- much cash I have in my pocket.
utes for the Kanazawa transfer. It takes four
and that with the inbound a minute late. I once a ended an empowerment sem-
So, “Yes,” I tell the fellow in Kyoto when inar sponsored by the office, a lecture on
he asks how difficult I find figuring out the posi ve thinking—or something stupid like
trains. “No problems,” I tell him. The trains that. I remember two things about it. One,
are numbered. The tracks are numbered. the presenter wore jeans and a ball cap.
The cars are numbered. The seats are num- Two, he had a hundred-dollar bill in his le -
bered. What’s that they say, ‘By the num- front pocket. He talked about this, present-
bers?’ I wait for the Thunderbird at plat- ed the banknote to us, his audience, with
form 0. both hands. The physicality of the thing
meant the world to him. He wanted it to
I follow the map on my phone as we mean something to us. He had a hundred
push up the coast, zooming in and out on in his pocket, and he was very sure we did
the names of towns as they shoot by. We not. This elevated him.
pass Fukushima late on the way up and I
imagine events, even though this is not A couple years on, I visit with Marie
that Fukushima. I see houses and fields Luise at a café in Hamburg. At lunch, I talk
and more houses and fields cut by canals. about my ideas about carrying the imag-
A light touch here and we’re gone. Tonight, inary in my pocket, about how real is the
the fishing port will be lights and more rarer thing, and how ghosts fit easily into
lights. The hotel check-in takes seconds. the spaces between recorded sounds. And
no, solace is not the money in our pockets,
Tomorrow. Toyama. Bright sunlight. it’s that there really are other people. The
Ainokura Gassho, the ancient village. We world is not populated by our mysterious
step off the tour bus together. She turns. strangers.
We both turn, begin walking the same di-
rec on. We walk as far as the folklore muse- A er lunch, I watch Marie p the wait
um without looking at the map. Back to the staff with a one euro coin. The value is to-
monument and the primi ve Gassho-Zukuri, ken, but she goes up to the waitress and
as far as the Footprint before turning again, presents the coin with both hands, as if the
stopping at the Jinushi shrine. Marie Luise. imprint is coded and contains vital informa-
She’s German, a student at Stockholm. We
wander the village—we’ve been wander- on. This is not ten dollars le wet under
a water glass, but gra tude walked back to
her hotel.

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About the Author:

Roger Topp’s wri ng has appeared recently in West Branch, The Maine Review, Dunes
Review, Whiskey Island, Into the Void Magazine, and other journals. At the extremes, he is a
na onal champion fencer and a prize-winning slam poet. More typically, he directs museum
exhibits and travels to photograph research expedi ons funded by the likes of the NSF and
Na onal Geographic; read more at thewellandthewicked.com.

169

NELS NORMANN’S

LAST PROBLEM

by Kimm Stammen

It was on a remote Northern California book called Flyfishing New Zealand Water-
trout stream in August, 1920, that Nels Nor- ways. In the summer of 1920, on a name-
mann encountered his first problem. “At 18 less icy trout stream, Nels Normann began
months of age, I became dissa sfied with analyzing and solving the first of a series of
a willow s ck, string and a safety-pin and problems, in a process that other people,
wanted to fish with be er equipment and less logical, simply called living.
salmon eggs.” His father, who worked hard
and long as a carpenter to keep his fami- He married Virginia, my mom’s older
ly fed during Depression-era San Francisco, sister, some years before I was born. All
took him fishing for a month every summer, through my childhood my Aun e Ginny and
and the search for a be er, and then for the Uncle Norm visited us at least once a year
op mum fishing rod engulfed his childhood. and stayed a few weeks. My aunt sprang,
“At age seven I switched to spinners and slender and laughing like a spring bou-
flies, read books on English chalk streams quet, into our house; Uncle Norm shook
in the Main Library, and began asking those my hand and without saying hello imme-
in San Francisco fly shops how to e flies.” diately entrapped me in long one-way dis-
As he did for all the subsequent problems cussions about the veloci es of projec les,
Nels Normann encountered in his 98 years, the proper es of compressed air in bored
he searched for its answer methodically, metal, the problems of a rocket’s propul-
using the resource he most valued and that sion, the trajectory of a fly line, the reason
came most naturally to him: logic. He did a copper pot tarnished and the best way of
not rest, nor stop analyzing or talking, un l restoring its shine.
he had found, not just an answer, but the
best possible answer—defined by him as He never talked about anything person-
“the one that entailed the minimal outlay al: his two marriages, his four children, the
in exchange for the best outcome.” He be- places he had lived, his friends, his parents,
came an expert in the field, fished in New his work, the loss of his le hand when he
Zealand, in California, Oregon, Washington was 19, or his feelings about any of it. Per-
State and all across Canada, and wrote a haps it was because I was a kid that he le
out these subjects, but that seems unlikely

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Revista Literária Adelaide

since he thought I was old enough to hear et engine program. At Aerojet he built, led,
about the gold standard and management and mo vated a formidable team of 1200
techniques for the aerospace industry. Or people to become the sole supplier of large
perhaps it was because I never had courage rocket engines to the US Air Force during
or the sense to ask him. the height of the Cold War.

“A func onal solu on was found,” he He then spent many years consul ng
said, when some other rela on asked about with different manufacturing firms, ana-
the accident on a 90-foot trawler that took lyzing their strengths and weaknesses. He
his hand. A er experimenta on, he de- made recommenda ons on how their effi-
cided that a simple black-gloved wooden ciency could improve: how they could get
prosthe c suited him best. He wore long “the best outcome for the most minimal
sleeved shirts for the rest of his life. He input.” He had no interest in the internal
played Hearts and Pinochle by wedging poli cs of a company, nor in who would get
the cards into a leather fold in the hand, he credit for an improvement or who would be
opened jars, drove, hugged, and scoured offended by a change. He was o en puzzled
pots un l they shone. A wooden hand and frustrated that his logical recommen-
was very useful when pushing through the da ons were not followed. “Why consult
blackberry bushes across the street from me and then not do what I tell them?” he’d
our house to get the best fruit, and it was ask. “People are not logical,” he’d con nue,
o en the only part of him that emerged and shake his head in discouragement. The
from the thorny brackens unbloodied. The inability of other humans to embrace logic
best summer cobblers, with plump sweet was his main source of bewilderment and
berries and fluffy biscuit topping—made by frustra on; it was the only problem in his
my mother because my Aunt Ginny man- life he never solved.
aged to be both proud and modest about
her complete lack of ability to even boil wa- Like the personal events of his past, he
ter—were served in a small orange casse- also never talked about his past work as
role dish on the summer evenings when my an engineer: that during the Cold War era
aunt and uncle were visi ng. he designed the ba eries that started by
remote control to fuel listening devices
The problem of fish and their reluc- installed in the Kremlin walls. Or that he
tance to be easily caught was only one of developed an image orthicon television
the many things to which Nels Normann tube that provided video to remotely steer
applied his overwhelmingly logical mind. unmanned bombers intended to target
He had 19 jobs over 52 years ranging from Germany during WWII—a very early drone,
sweeping steps as a child to re-engineering pressed into use before it was ready—in
a cyclotron. He grew up during the Great which Joe Kennedy Jr. crashed mysterious-
Depression, completed the four-year Tool- ly. Or that the team he led at Aerojet had
maker appren ceship program at Pra produced injectors for the Lunar Landing
& Whitney Machine Tools and graduated Rocket Module engine, air-to-air missiles,
from MIT in mechanical engineering. His and guided torpedoes. When I was a kid I
most rewarding job was with Aerojet, never heard about the things that he had
where he organized, streamlined, and man- done or how he felt about them; I heard
aged the manufacturing of the Titan rock- only about the puzzles that were le to de-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

cipher. I didn’t hear the personal, the pro- comfortable room at the Folsom Re re-
fessional, the controversial, or the secrets, ment Village to find many more problems
un l he set out to solve his last problem. to solve. But he was red. His body was be-
ginning to fail. Pulling himself up onto his
It was long a er I married and moved walker was a slower process every day. He
away, and a er my dear Aun e Ginny had had planned on living to 100, because it was
died, that he even realized a final problem a er all a very efficient and clear number.
existed. My husband and I had purchased But despite the appeal of ones and zeroes,
a house in Sea le and raised a child; I saw when he turned 98 living began to seem
my uncle less and less o en over the years, illogical to my uncle. “I’m using resources,
and when I did see him I refrained from but not producing their equal in value,” he
asking him ques ons, as he’d grown even said to my mother on the phone, his voice
more garrulous about engineering dilem- beginning to break and sound faint. “It’s
mas and I didn’t want to encourage any
more technical monologues than were nec- me to go.”
essary. I heard about his life and his fami-
ly from my mom. My uncle’s children—my It was then that his son, my cousin, an
cousins—were grown and se led, and his obvious inheritor of problem-solving ten-
money divided between them. His develop- dencies, sent out an announcement to
mentally disabled daughter had a trust fund all my uncle’s rela ons and acquaintance.
and a secure plan for her care. A er twenty “Nels Normann is now accep ng all ques-
years of agonizing work, he’d wri en, cut
down by half, cut down by half again, and ons,” it said. “Anything about his life, his
self-published a manifesto called Manage- family, his work, or his thoughts. All will be
ment Logic: How Best to Sa sfy Market answered, and a spreadsheet made up to
Demands. The book, he said, “contains ev- collate and consecu vize them. Send them
erything I know.” There’s a good deal in it via email, phone message or visit in person.”
about ammonia ampules, rocket propulsion,
cyclotrons and the many other projects in The results were spectacular. Rela ves
industry he tackled, but also, between the sent le ers from all over the country. His
lines of technical descrip ons, is an autobi- children, grandchildren and great-grand-
ography of his working life. When his book children, the youngest aged five, sent him
was finally completed, and as he neared the a list of fi y ques ons, which my cousin ra-
end of his life, an icy realiza on came over
him: many of the challenges life had set him oned out to him at the rate of five a day.
or he had set himself, the problems that And my mother decided that she needed to
he’d worked hard to solve, had been solved. see him in person one more me, and that
In fact, he had unraveled the problems of I needed to therefore take her to Folsom,
trout fishing so long ago that the book he California.
wrote about it, his first book, was long out
of print. It was this, then, that became his Q: What is your favorite bug?
last problem: the absence of problems.
A: None. I do not have a favorite bug.
Had he been younger, he would have
had no difficulty in stepping outside his Q: What is your favorite color?

A: None. I do not have a favorite color.

What did you do for a living?

A: I directed how quality products could
be produced on me at the least cost.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Q: You will soon be experiencing life be- Even I got to contribute to the solu on
yond this life, I wonder what it will be like. of his last problem. I hadn’t seen my uncle
Tell me all about it. for several years, but when my mom and
I arrived at the apartment he shared with
A: The elements and compounds of the my cousin at Folsom Re rement Village, he
universe will be more or less the same and looked nearly the same to me as he always
I will be sca ered among them in no par c- had. A high forehead topped with a wave of
ular order. dark hair; large, dark eyes impossibly mild
and yet intense, simultaneously. He looked
Q: What is the key to catching a fish? at me, as always, with interest, as if I were
a resource that might be put to good use.
A: The key to catching fish is asking fish Moving around was difficult and although
what they usually eat. he wouldn’t say so, painful. He was forced
to use a walker which I think he despised.
He had never had any interest in cross- His voice was higher than I remembered,
words or other types of puzzles, as, al- and he needed to pause o en for sigh-
though they exercised the brain, they pro- ing, res ng breaths, as if he were climbing
duced no valuable result. But he relished something steep. But the way he spoke, his
the five ques ons a day—five small prob- ideas, the things that fascinated him and
lems each day that helped solve, or at least his bafflement at the things other people
delay, the problem of the absence of prob- wanted to know, were as I remembered.
lems—and every morning demanded five
more. Q: Are you afraid?

Q: What do you think about the possibil- For the whole rest of my life I had avoid-
ity of extending life to 220 years old? What ed asking him ques ons; I was young and in
effect do you suppose it would have on our a hurry, and he was likely to give very long
bodies? answers that involved a lot of engineering
terms and equa ons. But now, I was asking
A: I have done this by reading an en re him something deeply in mate, something
text and solving its every problem before I had never asked anyone. Si ng across
the first class; and I have done this at mes the table from him, par cipa ng, in a very
by working two shi s on a job. There have small way, in the solving of his last prob-
been no discernible effects on my body. lem, had made talking about the end of life
The objec ves were worthwhile. and what might come a er, seem easy. The
ques on was simple, and it simply popped
Q: Have you ever done anything illegal, out of my mouth. It was the logical thing to
if so what? ask. My uncle smiled. A er being a quirky
fixture for 54 years in the background of my
A: I had not reported my damage to an- life, endearing but some mes annoying, in
other car’s fender. the end he helped me face one of the most
primal, illogical and mysterious subjects
Q: What is your earliest memory? there is, and one that many people go their
whole lives without broaching.
A: Ea ng mud at age one.
A: No, not at all.
Q: What luxurious item or experience
did you look forward to in your youth?

A: To maximize my contribu on to the
universe.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

My mom objected. “I don’t think you’re on not having one. But I decided that, since
ready to go yet,” she said. “But when you I had just begun a master’s degree in Cre-
do, you’ll see Ginny again.” a ve Wri ng, that I would try my hand at
short biography by wri ng about my last
“Nonsense,” my uncle replied. “My at- mee ng with him. I began asking the ques-
oms will disperse, and in that way, and in
that way only, I will go on. And the universe ons that I was too young, too much in a
will itself, a er enough me, solve its prob- hurry, to ask when he was alive. This short
lem of imbalance by dispersing itself, and portrait has taken over a year, and despite
contract down to the size of a basketball, being nearly finished it promises to be
and then everything will start over again.” problema c: when my mom finds out what
I’ve done she’ll surely want me to write
My mother shares Aun e Ginny’s laugh about all of our rela ves. Despite what, to
and quick wit, her slenderness and beauty him, would probably seem the unquan -
even into advanced age, and also her fear- fiable and therefore dubious usefulness
lessness in telling Uncle Norm, as I never of the result, I think it would please Uncle
had thought to, that his logic is rubbish. Norm to know that in the act of resolving
“Oh, yes, you will, because I know I will see his last problem, he helped start me out on
my husband, and my mother and Daddy. what could be quite a long list of my own.
And someday I will see you again, too.”
My uncle, as a boy, standing in a remote
Uncle Norm shook his head sadly, gen- icy stream, considered, not the beauty of
tly and with great concern for her, and said, the blue sky in August nor the sounds of
“You are deluded.” wildlife, nor the unaccustomed feeling of
spending me with his father. He didn’t
A er I accompanied my mom home, she no ce the numbness in his feet and hands,
repeated that he seemed too full of energy had no concep on that he was growing
to go anywhere yet. My cousin filled out into a tall, dark-haired and dreamily hand-
the spreadsheets of all the ques ons Nels some young man; he thought instead
Normann had answered. He printed out an about achieving the goal of catching fish
exhaus ve meline of my uncle’s life, in- with efficiency. He measured the distances,
cluding more bits of informa on my uncle the strength of line and rod, he wondered
had not thought efficient to ever men on about trajectories, forces and torques. He
to me, and because I’d never asked him, compared the vibra on speeds of the lines,
had never known: that he’d married, had took into considera on the variables, and
a child with and divorced an heiress in Nor- tried to eliminate the interferences of wa-
way before he met my aunt, and because ter and wind. Yet he must also have felt the
of that neither Norm nor Nels was his legal
first name, it was Carl. ngle of that faint tug on the line, the close-
ness of his father next to him in the stream,
On May 23, 2017, at the age of 98, af- the emo onal, the human, the illogical pull
ter all fi y ques ons and many more had of excitement at all the problems yet to
been asked and answered, Carl Nels Nor- be reconciled, the ques ons yet to be an-
mann passed away peacefully in his sleep. swered, in this world and whatever comes
My mom and I weren’t able to a end his next.
memorial, because he had calmly insisted

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Revista Literária Adelaide
About the Author:
Kimm Brocke Stammen lives in Sea le, WA. Before beginning work on her MFA at Spalding
University she was a concert saxophonist, clinician and music instructor, performing and
touring across Canada and the US. She is a dual ci zen, has been happily married for thirty
years, has a daughter in college and a perpetually muddy dog named Birdie.

175

FOUR POEMS

by John Casey

Perfect Day Terminal

Leaves dancing, rustling Two AM
Delicately caressed Canceled flight
By the so breeze Tap tapping laptop keys
A whispered wind song Deadlines and
A random playlist
Patches of sun, dar ng Cursing the empty concourse
Break through branches My empty life
Cascade and collide Just me and Falco
In prisma c collage Der Kommissar geht um!
On the forest floor Black hard back plas c chairs
So unforgiving
Nestled in shade Like everything
Mossed rocks, mushrooms Everyone else
And unfurled ferns
Sca ered at random Flagging, anxious
Along my earthen path Move my wallet to
My front pocket
I close my eyes Be smart!
And inhale gently You can’t trust anyone
Entranced These days
Yet acutely aware
Of my role here Flagging, anxious and
An indelible, wonderful Now, nauseous
Part of something That sketchy fried fish
Ines mably greater than myself Sick and red, tapping
This perfect day The screen’s a blur
No point in trying
Same as yesterday and
The day before
Jede Nacht hat ihren Preis
I just want
To fly

176

That Thing That Was Missing Revista Literária Adelaide
The Lightness of Time

Something was missing A million wild-colored florets
I hadn’t been feeling myself Dancing rhythmically in the breeze
I was beholden to The Sun spills warmth over the hills
A slow, painless burn As a fawn darts through the tall grass
Evanescence The child drops her fis ul of blooms
Surprised, wide-eyed in sheer delight
What made it so frustra ng And my captured heart skips a beat
I didn’t know what it was
That thing that was missing About the Author:
Couldn’t put a finger on it
The whole ordeal was John Casey grew up in New Hampshire and
earned a Master of Arts from Florida State
Incessant, incurable melancholy University in 1994, then began his Air Force
career as an airli and test pilot. Casey le
I kept searching the cockpit in 2005 to work as an interna-
Resolutely, always hun ng
And at certain mes onal affairs strategist and diplomat at the
I thought I’d found it Pentagon in Washington, D.C., embassies in
That thing that was missing Germany and Ethiopia, and in San Antonio,
But it always turned out Texas where he re red in 2015. Since then,
To be something else he has focused on his wri ng. Casey au-
thored RAW THΦUGHTS in 2019, a compel-
Un l now ling and mindful fusion of poe cs and black
and white film photography. DEVOLUTION
And it was something I hadn’t is his first novel and book one of a spy thrill-
thought of before er trilogy; EVOLUTION and REVELATION will
And as such I’d never truly looked for it round out the series. He is passionate about
And as it was fitness, music, nature and the human spir-
It came right to my front door and knocked it. His wri ng is inspired by the incredible
I opened the door and stood, unmoving spectrum of people, places and cultures he
Staring has experienced throughout his life.
Unbelieving

Portentous, uncertain, intoxica ng
A leap of faith
It asked me if I wanted it
And of course
I said yes

177

16 OF ME

by Lefcothea-Maria Golgaki

Dedicated to Giorgos

The Promise

The girl was told hapless What must be reinstated?
creatures cannot march What must be cast out?
What must be released?
Finite their choices The conven ons she would flout
The girl was told woebegone
Lo y, high her aspira ons
bodies can only trudge Unspoken thoughts dominated her mind
Rasping sound their voices To protect her sense of self she coveted
Heaved her chest, endeavoring to
Should they adjust to a haphazard manner
Curtailed their liber es metamorphose her sullen sky
Should they act on a dare
Enslaved their will – Is it ever safe in cap vity? A trickle of sweat ran through her forehead
Daunted by the enormity of the challenge
With scant regard to what they said Beholden to no one but herself
Austere her countenance and wild Binding forces kept her safe from the ravage
Doomed to die on a cross
Tarnished her reputa on, defiled The rain eventually subsided
The vague promise was fulfilled
A flee ng glimpse of what she craved Feats not words a est the truth
Caterpillars morph into bu erflies Infamous for her deviance she would be
Certain of the propriety of her request
To lead a different way of life That being the nature of her story
Compelling, heart-rending or bizarre
She then decided on a whim Looters of her celes al body
Soggy the a ernoon Nonen es evermore vie for their star
To spurn their charlatan generosity
Be ostracized she no longer would

178

Pris ne Souls Revista Literária Adelaide
Moment of Truth

To write about such an enveloping warmth My desperate need – need dire and driving
I find it perplexing; it troubles me the most My greatest angst – the recipient I name you
For some uncomfortable, for others queasy My irremediable a achment –
And sundry others deem it uneasy
eternal is always eternal
Embrace the idea it primes your muddled brain My idea of bliss – embedded in my psyche
Withstand to that, be racked with searing pain
This so yet deep and pleasing sound I sanc on the invasion – claim
Cacophony it becomes when wights stamp out ul mate victory over me

Is it my disposi on to exaggerate? I shed no tear – encapsulate my essence
Am I enthralled, elated, elevated? I make a pledge to you – in the
Is it your duty to veer off the road?
I hold you culpable of mistrea ng midst of a terrible life
I face the scathing indictment – my
your thoughts
dormancy allowed me to hide
Clean the en re gunk from the inside
Pris ne souls depart un ed Daunted by the vastness of my nothingness
The incuba on period denatures your state Banished to oblivion, memories disturbing
This labyrinthine reasoning I cannot venerate Arid years that have elapsed
Consigned to interment, parched
Be vigilant; be wakeful, rueful you will be
Contagious the hosts of hearts my land and empty

that mind not skip a beat In my moment of truth, in my
Overstep the boundaries, redraw moment of yearning

them while you can You are the one whose coming was foretold
Beyond redress intransigent a My downcast eyes I hesitantly raise
My frailty leaves me, last-minute
madman as you are
reprieve I have won

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Nobody Else but Me

Worming its way into the shadows Thus, one night I resolve I must kill it
Hiding behind the fences Remove the burden for once and for all
The undertow once drowned it
Leaving it blank and empty The answer is kept underneath my pillow
The final act awaits to be performed
Worming its way into my affec on
Its services no longer required Hush, it has come, I must feign
Regarded by others as an abomina on Deep sleep has taken me again
God, it is not your crea on! Sharp is the knife I take out
The blow is hard not in vain
Remember the night it came to my dreams
Caressed me with gentle words Such scream, such wail, such howl,
Welcomed me with a kiss How can I stand any of these?
Full I was to believe it would I open my eyes to discover
It is nowhere around to be seen
someday leave me in peace
It died, yes, I admit it
S ll, it gains ground while coming Victorious the ac on indeed
Calling my name waits not Yet the body which lies on the ground
My dreams nightmares became Is nobody else but me
My life was claimed, oh please, un e the knot

Writhed in absolute agony
Tantalized by its power over me
Leave me hunt me no more
Disturbing nights I neither wanted nor sought

The desperate appeal has been made
Honor the agreement you must
Release the grasp of my mind
Let me rest I will close my eyes

But it keeps coming and coming
Threatening every bit of my soul
Try as I might to keep it away
Disquie ng, sobering become my thoughts

180

Sweet Marianthi Revista Literária Adelaide
Exposed

Well, is this a fi ng end? The not so prudent things he does
Is this what you’ve become? The perilous people he will not avoid
The autopsy of yesteryear The accoutrements of a lifestyle he worships
A poem as simple as that Exposed as he stands, he celebrates

An anamnesis of the unseeable in the To be relegated in obscurity; never
fragments of memory you inhabit an a rac ve op on

A safe berth to recline when dreams live in lull Disinclined to bow to the dominion of others
A luminous zone to be sought, sweet Marianthi Inescapably, desola on, in a me
A break in the clouds as the day falls apart
to come, he must face
At one me you solemnly asseverated, In a myriad of ways
“Be hard like a stone, my child, you must”
The message was imparted so graciously His will; for fied by a sovereign
We humans can survive any black night sen ment of a bounden duty

Withal, you couldn’t endure In line with the over-high
the lines on your face expecta ons he has formed

A million of heartaches compressed S ll, obvia ng the need for mentorship
in a wan smile A poignant moment adamant as he remains

When you couldn’t iden fy This autonomous yet precarious
yourself in the mirror existence – tragic –

You decided it was me to give up Like a gravid mosquito that has
taken a blood meal
If only I had a million silences for you to hear
A sanctuary built to store your haze away Asking for more…
And with my chariot to bring you near Then, exterminated before having the
Maim the heinous spirits including Fate
me to deposit its bad eggs
Prior to your planned closure
A semblance of order Another ignis fatuus, another terse
What happens when we go? fascina on shall blind him
Many a me I wonder
Again and again, en ced by the
lure of free flying

A mellow tune and a strained voice echo
in his weedy Garden of Eden

Cu ng through the silence,
whispered words warn him

Subdued lights are suspended
from his leaden sky

This soul crushing weight of the
uncompromising shall ruin him

One last thing before winter comes upon him
Remember: “Try not to lose any

moral founda on”

181

Venom Adelaide Literary Magazine
The Caricature Me

The waves of pain would cease To hanker, to wish, to do
If you condoned Should I be hushed or not be hushed?
The venom would wear off Impaired as is my wont
If you allowed it My musing; a hollow, distant echo

It would be selfish to begrudge my To assume the liability for my nihilis c any
wings on a summer day The freesia vine on my trellis
Sweet-scented, delicate; whilom
Just because you are le wan ng for My erstwhile paladins
a vague sense of belonging
To hammer through the concrete; unrealizable
This fake air of lethargy about you The value of my esprit shrinks
I shudder to think what will supervene Deprived of purpose; I cling to this
My nullity; ensued for years
Such poison, such cynicism
No sincerity behind the remarks you u er To cringe at the uninvi ng prospect
Ac ng like a Narcissist with that The perennial bane of my existence
Sapped of my energy and flagging
inflated sense of self-worth My step; monotonous and plodding
Another part of the intricate
To scavenge in the debris for a chunk
mosaic you have created The flood hit; uprooted all my stunted trees
Exiled harmony; this atonal music
To hate – for you malice is the op mal solu on My innermost core; hollow
And that massive sculpture of
To find, to encounter, to exhume
the snarling beast of ire, The curvature of my early manhood
The same one that has been towering Self-inflicted injury; horrendous
My crippling state; trance-like; the
over your courtyard for years
Now, it is past its prime caricature me, I descry

The odium which is meant to
fall on the innocent

Like a molten sea of lava, it approaches
Be that as it may; my suspicions

are now vindicated
For, in the end, it will kill your

honor; it will burn you up

Apprehensive then you will be
before the dusk takes over

This is my curse
I will mu er it quietly
Before the end

182

Revista Literária Adelaide

The King

From my tower I can see Devise a plan to dethrone me,
Acres of land, manors and fiefs wise decision is not
From my tower I espy
Nobles and surfs, jousts and knights The Magna Carta I disregard, contrive
no assassina on plot
Blacksmiths, merchants, barons and lords
Orders I give them, I rule them all The underground chambers, your burial holes
Decrees I issue, my puppets work The dungeon is there for you, I shall
A powerful feeling to coil the rope
throw you to the dogs
The corona on oath I have sworn
Take your dispute to the court Now, bring the jester, your King
Inspire fear, cause distress needs a good laugh
I am your King, I bear the crest
Amuse my highness, boost my morale
Lead my armies into ba les Regale my wit, face the formidable task
Wage bloody wars, lay siege to castles Sing bawdy songs – leap, juggle and dance
Jus ce is in the hands of me
You call me a monarch, you will see The costume colored brightly, the
shaved head, the ears of an ass
Destroy ci es, raze them to the ground
Fortresses I take, my role is to astound The hairy mole so grotesque; something
Kneel to me servants, I am your God repels me about the hat
Transcend all reasoning, I think I can
“What is this that you are holding? Is
Dismantle empires mighty though they are that a dagger in your hands?”
Conquer new territories, triumphs I have
Exalt my name, do as I bid My demise early as it is; an ac on t-for-tap
Defy my wishes, my lance you will feel
The wound in my chest deep; the
Obliterate villages, defenseless they are reason I cannot breathe
Should that concern the King? – Their
“My faithful servants I humbly request for
faces blank masks – your succor; why do you recede?”
Chafe at the laws laid down by me
Resent my authority; do not To choke on my blood, this is my
end, the irony I see in this
surmise you will win
The fool, the jester, the buffoon
has come to kill the King

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Shadows

Nyx, forthwith convened her Yet, Nyx had to warn her:
children around the fire “The powers of percep on are too strong
The road out many won’t follow
At the far end of Cosmos where she respired To use coercion one must not”
To look at the glowing ashes –they
“Incensed, when told the truth, they will be
not cognizant of why– Stripped of voli on as they are
An oracle, a prophecy, a vision of fake life Sturdy resistance they will mount
Aether, Hemera, Eris, Nemesis and Dither for a while but anon sink back”

Geras, among them being Those were her words and then
Watched carefully to see – cymbals crashed

suspension of judgment– The thick walls of the prison
People compelled to stare at a wall disappeared posthaste
Engulfed in delusion, plunged into blackness
The locked doors opened flung
Anchored they were, in the sphere But, imagine, they decided to stay
of unconsciousness

Their reality that of shadows
Slaves not enlightened
Howbeit, they trust they fathom

In the realm of self-decep on
Nescient of their chains, arrayed they stood
In their world of false impressions
As if for an eon, to reality immune

“Mother”, said Hemera – urgent
was her manner –

“Retreat from their night and allow me to arise
To take them away from the arms of Morpheus
Should they wish to, undo their es”

The goddess, able to verify Hemera’s claim
Acknowledged that all of them must ascend
Albeit, they were in a maze
Destroy their bonds, upon her

daughter’s request

184

Revista Literária Adelaide

Threnos

Daughter of Nereus His Myrmidons around his
Why did you let him go? Hephaes on’s armour
Twofold his fate
The hero of Kleos Never again enlivened at the sight of it
Thus they pray
Sea nymph O en mes, valorous men cannot
The son you begot
Dipped in Styx sustain the ponos
Foreordained to die, s ll
Loathe Apollo for he guided the foe
Your lament; long, endless – silenced Loathe the foe for he lured
Ambrosia could not grant him immortality
The arrow wound him into the twilight
How will you dress it now? Cursed you be, son of Priam
Perished at your hands
Absent from his hour of death
In the thick of combat Aias, King of Salamis, makarios you be
Shields and spears; brandished, thrust Retrieving his body; the rites befi ng him
His bold hands Anointed, adorned with a wreath
The fallen warrior you returned
Seventeen days, seventeen nights
Mourn him Another world to belong to
Prepare his body, prepare his soul The forever damned
For the Land of the Dead awaits him Plagued with absolute chaos
The privileged few; will Hera
Gone, in the House of Hades
In his realm; strengthless promise the Elysian Fields?
Impenetrable darkness
The unseen; relentless, implacable The s, your dolor
In u er s llness wrapped
Beseech Hermes to escort him Whispers surround your grief
The River of Pain; mighty, wide The depth of your woes
Implore Haron to transport your godlike man
The single obol he demands, must

185

The Shoah Adelaide Literary Magazine
Remember When

When the spider weaved its web Remember when parents felt
The unsuitable hid out complete and whole
Wet was the place below the ground
As the ground is from the clouds -Not guilty or morose-
Only because they were there
Concealed their rooms and cramped Involved in their children’s “Whats”,
Nourishing themselves in wretchedness
The splendor of a fake god “Whens” and “Wheres”
Outraged they had, guileless in their nakedness And watched their sons and daughters blossom
They themselves, not the
Proud and valiant they remained
Intended to withstand headwinds nannies or the au pairs
Their honor had been slighted When boys and girls gathered in the yards
Unmet would be their burning need And played games they had made up
When dust on their shoes and clothing
Obs nate, unalterable in their own right Was reasonable enough
Na ons bore witness to their maladies Not outlandish and far-out
Became stateless but never benighted Because they espoused the idea
The slaughter, due to begin, the Hide and Seek, Hopscotch, Four

era of profanity Square, or Freeze Tag
Were tremendous fun
The season was unusually infer le Not a complex game world of pseudo-3D
Anne wrote in her diary With onscreen characters to shoot and kill
The monsoon would soon be intensified A me when being bored at school
Beau ful, even in the throes of catastrophe
or even feeling restless
That harrowing moisture soaked Was OK, not a malfunc on of the brain
their wears completely When ADD, ADHD, BD, ED were s ll unknown
And youngsters didn’t have to be diagnosed
A smell of rot emana ng from the sullenness So that to be discovered
At mes acrid and nausea ng That being an acronym is an
In the wake of human absence
occasion so common
Nevertheless, impera ve to “fix you up”
As “nonevents” in the 21st

century stand no chance
When your worth was not in

the likes you received
And your uploads were not part of your deeds
When your eyes were not glued to a screen
Stupefied, unable to think

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Revista Literária Adelaide

And your mobile phone was just a device When unemployment was for the few
Not an extension of your mind Not another tribula on you have to go through
When houses were small and cramped When failing to keep your one true love
Yet seemed pala al and grand In midated you more than losing your job
Furnished with love and respect When Sunday was the perfect
And brought out the very best
Of those who dwelled inside day for a promenade
When the delectable smell of mum’s delicacies Not an ideal one to commit suicide
Lingered in the air Because your loneliness is too much to stand
And that delicacy of feelings When you didn’t fear the ck of the clock
People wanted to express For the day is forever too short
And tried not to suppress And squandering me is to be
When bodies were not s ll and voiceless
But permeated with tenderness avoided at all costs
And people slept with their doors When losing your Internet connec on
Not their eyes wide open – “What did you say that thing was?
For fear of being robbed and murdered
When you were fumbling for your keys Can I eat it or is it raw?” –
Not your gun – “Wait, get yourself Did not play havoc
When teachers inflamed students
a pocket holster” –
Too afraid at night to appear in the streets with s rring words
When everyone waved and Not sacrificing their poten al for

said “Good morning” the good of the flock
“Gree ngs to your lovely wife and kids” Instead, they taught you how to
And doctors prescribed more an bio cs
Than depression pills take your stand in the world
When masks were worn in Halloween When tornadoes sucked up
Or u lized in theatre, in ancient Greece
As a means of symbolizing the surfaces of lakes
Not in your everyday life Or ever when trails were derailed,
Trying to sink into your apathy And in any scrape,
Or supply your need to hide People united in novel ways
When snow was rare during late spring Please, do pardon my audacity,
And seasons were four not just two or three
When cancer was in cigare es excuse my being rude
Not in what you eat and the See, I’m not a conserva ve, a Luddite

dirty air you breathe or an old man who drools
I’m merely, a roman c fool

187

Adelaide Literary Magazine

The Millionaire

Mr.Vassilis, a kindhearted, middle-aged man Hearing these words, Mr. Vassilis
Appreciates his post-prandial rises to his feet

strolls around the park And offers an answer with cordiality replete
He listens to birds warbling in the trees “How mistaken you are my friend!
And watches people going about See, I’m a millionaire”

their daily rou nes “You are what?” astonished
asks the second man
One bright day while si ng on a bench
He sees a man holding his head “Were you a millionaire, you wouldn’t live here;
“He looks so somber,” he can guess This neighborhood is a slum
“I should ask him if he needs any help” You look strapped for cash; elaborate,

“Sir, is everything all right?” please, my kind man!”
The other man li s his head
His eyes red with tears unshed “I once suffered a stroke”, Mr.Vassilis says
Overwhelmed by the emo on, clearly “For some me, it le me paralyzed
Then, the doctor assured me I would walk
being beside himself Though, running? Impossible that was”

Distrus ul at Mr.Vassilis mo ve, he “Now, allow me to summarize; I can walk, I
sardonically replies cannot run, but from what I know,

“Ha! Everything is all right, I might say, Nobody is chasing me, so I avow I am fine
My problems choke me but I’m OK At night, I dream that I can fly
The same problems you most likely have, I face” It’s so beau ful up in the clear sky. Why

“Problems!” Mr. Vassilis ponders, “I don’t you try it some me?”
don’t have any,
“I was not born with a silver spoon
And by the way, Vassilis is my name” I’ve got no manicured lawns, or
“How is that possible? Straightened
a swimming pool
your circumstances aren’t?” As yet, I am not involved in any
The man bombards Mr. Vassilis with ques ons,
kind of shady deals
a convincing explana on he requires And my wife is not at all domineering”

“Don’t you have any bills to pay? “I should add, I’ve got three children
Don’t you strive beyond your means? They all bore me grandchildren
Judging by your shabby clothes, And when we gather in my not

you’re clearly skint so well-heeled house
And how should I say this? Well, The laughter is raucous and loud”

you’re walking with a limp”

188

Revista Literária Adelaide
Learning to Fly

“I’ve regained full health Learning to fly; hard enough as it is
I’ve got a roof under my head Learning to dive; try not to deceive
I’ve got warm clothes Learning to crawl; retrieve honor guess not
And I’ve got deligh ul books to feed my soul” Obedient eyes reveal miserable souls

“I’ve got a job – luckily not in a Stand up, raise your glass
sweatshop – I don’t earn much Drink to the days yet wai ng to come
Think of tomorrow as a sumptuous feast
But I’ve got no envy in my heart The souls always starving to feel and to dream
And you must come to see
The brilliantly-colored flowers Learning to walk; your mum taught you so well
Learning to fall; the pads haven’t worked yet
I grow in my yard” Who will protect you from the miserable days?
Those dreadful years that may come in the end
“I’ve rec fied the mistakes of the past
No ghosts haunt me; I’ve been When the day is over dream not of the fall
Dream of your comeback, your
unjust to no man
There are no machina ons in my life ascent, your goals
Look! The weather looks propi ous Dream of the future that lies ahead
Dread the s llness, the numbness, the wane
for a picnic, isn’t that right?”

With these words Mr.Vassilis ended his speech
Impromptu it was, and though it

sounded like rigmarole
And made the other man’s face burn,

blistering indigna on as he expressed,
It actually made sense

Was it an ostenta ous display of wealth?
It was an eloquent tes mony, in point of fact,
A tale of a man’s path to wellness
A millionaire’s life, from rugs to rugs

189

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Angels of Light

Fierce dogs, howling in the dark
Wai ng savagely, to tear flesh apart
Ripples of blood, staining the soil
The outspoken ac ons, journey in the void
The emp ness and chaos veiling the right
Showing no mercy to the angels of light

Yet, they fight hard to resist
A ba le everyone knows is meant to be free
Free of any dignity
Stripped of all regrets
The souls of those who wish it
Will emerge in the end

Hope is now renewed
The angels of light are wai ng for you
The me has come, the bells have tolled
The ba le has began, the sorrow will go
Prayers will be heard, the

congrega on will kneel
Shivers down the spine, a prayer for peace

Savage voices can be heard, the
dust beneath their feet

Unleash the beast you have in
you, your power of will

Terminate the contract, lower
the head no more

Bowing to the evil forces is the op on of the lot
Armed with deadly weapons,

soldiers of the night
Fight hard for what you have

lost, angels of light

190

CAPTIVE

by David Williamson

Cap ve

Thursday’s trap door below her up Wednesday’s worn thin metal circles
memory swings and empty around her bent finger
climbs the same captor she turns and strokes warm remembers
always that man, grey wool suit its edges keeps
red carna on she less
taking her furniture, pictures li le from where it came
Saturdays hostage only that touching it cap va ng
again she bumps into the Monday quiet and
spaces between bare walls and the smile seems
of personal care foreign, younger
almost
Tuesday teaspoons cla er around Friday
grey and red
pronouns and preposi ons

turn against her

it’s all for and him

from and to and she

under

always them

Sundays standing in shaky dark

her shadow pulled

from within

by that child, is that green corduroy

she can’t place

strangers in framed thens

191

Losing Adelaide Literary Magazine
Miss Fern Hill

fi een two fi een four fi een six and a pair The shiniest maybe
are eight off a stage of don’ts
right Jack makes nine the way you stood cap cocked crooked
drops your hand before you took
my hand to dance
we play next to a garden
of bones, copper plates All through sixth grade
stone heads I drew you ny red
the empty theatre languishing kno ed in the bo om corner
strand across the alley of every green page in my cours de français
Hilroy notebook
it wasn’t a great run but
it had its moments Acquain ng myself
you smile in the end with li le origins of devo on
if you write about this truth dropped its penny
let me be sundance between us
he got the girl
you knew young
cells dissolve you would never grow old
there’s voices in the trees the shimmering weight of your head
who say they know you forming a so imprint in my young shoulder
yes I nod your voice
they aren’t lying but a small ornate wound in me
it’s only half the truth
For weeks through night spit
you peel the thick match lights we picked
rind of orange for tea our remains out of the spaces
wink as I collect my hand between stones
hunt in the fall played hide and seek well
when the blood is thick into the dark. So small
nineteen points
I throw I would never find you
you smile in the garden over the fence
above me in the tree
always the sky in your fingers
in this verse between laughter
you get the girl in shadows of breath
I give my hand I envied you

192

Un l October red and shining Revista Literária Adelaide
fading green
you hid outside This is today’s line.
your li le bone cage echoed
laughter without tears This is today’s line
towed together by words
Following you out of grace fallen out of yesterday’s mouth.
I have made a tedious adult
I’m afraid This is today’s line.
I re of not finding you It should make me hundreds,
untying red knots change the world.
into a song of innocence
in the bo om corner This is today’s line.
of an empty page Please remain behind the velvet rope.
Take no pictures.

This is today’s line.

193

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Windowed

She meant no harm I asked her once what she saw.
si ng at my window Clear glass, she replied.
for hours
while I charted changing shades One evening
falling moonlight alone she threw a cup
on gathered skin. leaving
It never really ma ered a hole in the window.
if I was there Years passed
or not. I wonder if all she saw
was a piece
If I was there of the cedar
she made love to me. outside
If I was gone she made tea
sat at the window.
I like it be er when I was there
most days.

About the Author:

David Yerex Williamson is a college instructor and poet living in northern Manitoba. His
recent works have appeared in the literary magazines Contemporary Verse 2, Prairie Fire,
The New Quarterly and the Prairie Journal of Literature. David is a member of Manitoba
Writers Guild, the League of Canadian Poets and is the founder of the Boreal Writers Group.
When not wri ng or drawing, David shovels snow, cuts wood and chases his dogs along the
historic Nelson River.

194

WILLOW AND BARK

by Sally Sandler

Somedays I Am That Cypress Willow and Bark

The past has all blown east. Her name is June, though she’s willow
The Monterey cypress felt it leave as spring. I am coast live oak in the fall.
in the teeth of a Pacific sea squall.
Ever since, the cypress has leaned east She is a dimple in milk-glass skin. I am
toward the past with skin corrugated like bark.
outstretched arms.
We sail a bu erfly kite at the beach; when
Somedays I am that cypress. she cartwheels, her hair anoints the sand.
Wind buffeted, whale boned, I pace myself and search for its offerings—
sway backed and salt bleached. bi-valve shells with both halves a ached.
I was thrust off-center in my
cambium, and over me my She discovered the supple arch in her
heartwood scorched. back and admires it with her hands on her
hips. I’ve made peace with the veins on my
And like the cypress I can lever hands—maps of the cyan hills I’ve climbed.
east, in search of lost days.
I reach with every limb for We both double over at silly jokes, un l
she stops, “Grandma—seriously?!”
something blown away. and I try to hide that I ques on my mind
o en, and maybe too seriously.
Because the past is familiar
landscape, so ened by the At the zoo she gambols, a capuchin
fog of memory. monkey, swinging on every railing she finds.
I see myself in the melancholy eyes of
Somewhere in the past is the sum an elder orangutan.
of what I’ve already weathered.
Somewhere east is a me Her heart is a lily ready to bloom. Mine is
when I already survived a garden of children and dogs, family and
the gale. friends, some in the ground.

If I could find it, I’d exhume the past 195
and lie beside it in the rain.

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Innocence and White Windowsills To a Tiny Miracle, Found

It’s sold now, the house on a distant hill, The garden was leviathan no doubt
and the gulls are but echoes in my ears, when seen through your baby lizard eyes,
the cistern of the harbor pped and spilled, with leaves the length of galleons afloat
the limestone cliffs sundered by the years. in the jacuzzi, a sea by its size.

I think about its white windowsills, the You chose to take sudden soundless flight
horizon edged in clean enamel paint— into the humid draw of depths too deep,
each a testament to Yankee will, all one-plus inches of you took to night
invoking the white of patron saints, and silent as a mote, slipped into sleep.

and wholesome as a cool glass of milk. With giant hands I li your minute self—
The world outside bound by perfect framing— a wisp of life no bigger than a pin—
so pris ne, you could eat upon those sills— and place your ques on mark upon the shelf,
and calm as a Grandma Moses pain ng. twenty padded toes—and I imagine

That part of my past is excavated, the rhythm of the ancient earth that beat
those years a window that was sha ered. within, feet designed with bones fine as lace,
Yet I wonder, will the owners paint it? the barest threads of being so complete.
They couldn’t understand how Your limpid eyes and small believing face

much it ma ered, are yogi calm, content with where you fit.
You were perfect beyond imagina on—
the perfect white windowsills that framed now heart and lungs and ny closed-up lips
a life we hoped immune to the fates. are sealed to guard the secrets of crea on.
Sills keep out the tempests, the untamed—
I guess they somehow entered

through the gate.

I’ll no more breakfast in that simple home
or hear my father’s slippers on the floor.
I’ll worry that I’ve no sills of my own
when hurricanes are bea ng at my door.

196

Revista Literária Adelaide

Disappearing Paths

Some people might describe this yard as plain:
the locust trees and rosemary, all green

mother ferns and privet shrubs that grow
around the stump where children

played; some gnomes

my son gave to me, he thought a joke—
like volunteer plants that want to poke

through disappearing paths—
(though most I wanted.)

There used to be flower beds I flaunted

like brightly colored scarves I some mes wear
with heels and earrings to the theater.

But now that’s gone, and in the shade I sit
and some mes just let idle thoughts dri

like dust motes that dwindle in the air
and aimlessly pollinate my hair.

About the Author:

At once transcendent and accessible, Sally Sandler’s
wri ng gives voice to her genera on of Baby Boomers. She
illuminates their shared concerns over the passage of me
and fading idealism, the loss of parents and loved ones, and
the loss of the environment, while maintaining hope for
wisdom yet to come. In addi on to Adelaide, she has been
published in “Acumen: A Literary Journal, “Fine Lines,” “The
Moon Magazine,” “Mused: the BellaOnline Literary Review,”
“The Literary Nest,” “The Society of Classical Poets Journal,”
and “Westward Quarterly.” She is also the author of five
books. Sandler is a graduate of the University of Michigan
and lives with her husband and dog, close to children and
grandchildren in San Diego, California.

197

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

by Stuart Rawlinson

Commuta ons

The morning commute begins on the hour No wonder so many end up on the ledge.
As nigh me and daylight adjoin in fric on.
Buses interrupt as I squint for my number; There’s nothing else to do as
Balanced and hovering on the kerb’s edge the bus starts to edge
In front of staring commuters like a set
Of unglazed statue es, wide-eyed and empty. Forward but observe the young
  workers who sit
The bus pulls up and as always not empty:
Burs ng at both ends like an overfilled hour- Without moving for old standers,
Glass. Doors open and close, passengers set who for hours,
To go, but eyeing each other
Incalculable hours, have accepted
with palpable fric on. they’re no longer number
With each turn and jerk the people edge
Back to equilibrium. Without One in this city of self, of missing
deeds and empty
name, without number,
  Words – an en re people in a
In this ca le train – turn down, be number, constant state of fric on.
Desensi se, pour hope out empty;
Ignore the jostles or be pushed over the edge.  
On the 113, seconds like minutes, No-one speaks on board, just

minutes like hours, project a silent fric on.
More bodies like atoms increase the fric on Nearing my stop, I balance on the step’s edge –
And the bus starts to sweat – windows are set The bus shudders stop;
 
With droplets of water. The bus’ course set compressed air emp es;
For the pale white offices, where number- Alighters and boarders – on
Less hordes sit in cubicles constricted,
For work that is meaningless and empty. your marks, get set…
Punch-in and wait frustrated for Suddenly the doors open and the number
Mix violently – this space is
the punch-out hour:
mine, mine, not ‘ours’.
 
Every day, every hour, numberless people set
In a posi on of permanent fric on.
Edging forwards towards empty lives.

198