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Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and established authors reach a wider literary audience.

A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta. (http://adelaidemagazine.org)

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Published by ADELAIDE BOOKS, 2020-04-18 18:52:34

Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 34, March 2020

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and established authors reach a wider literary audience.

A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta. (http://adelaidemagazine.org)

Keywords: fiction,nonfiction,poetry

ROLEPLAYING

by Matt Gillick

The man got in the truck after the driver before, Gonna say it again, man. If you only
made the point that he shouldn’t be out in knew how much you remind me of him.
the open when the fog rolled in. They were
driving now. The passenger’s name used to Can’t say I ever will. This bucket sure
be Larry, but with no one to call him that as looks like it can’t take you much further.
he walked along the highway outside what
might have, at some point, been Dubuque, The driver ignored the comment, Boy
he’d forgotten himself. His last memory: a you sure do look familiar. Got a name?
woman in a raincoat, boarding a cargo ship,
him standing in the wave trough. Not her Forgotten it. You?
touch, not even a farewell. Only her yellow
coat, that last blur of color. He presumed at Wouldn’t really matter at this point,
some point he found the highway and con- right? The driver did another double-take
tinued, immersed in flatness. He had plenty at his passenger. He went on, I’m sorry…
of time to think on that moment with no wow…I mean, you really do remind me of
one else to talk to, until he got in the ve- him. My brother.
hicle. The passenger assumed his situation
regarding lapsed memory was similar to Well, pretty sure I’m not him.
that of the driver’s.
Hate to harp on it, sir. Don’t get much—
With fading high beams, the rattling any opportunity to say this, but he was one
frame of the pickup truck ambled through hell of a trailblazer. Always had to do it his
the grey night. The vehicle had a burning way. Half-expected to pick him up one day,
paint smell and sounded like if it idled for looking something like you. Maybe I have.
a while, it would never move again. The
driver had a clean-shaven face carrying high Voice raspy with underuse, the pas-
cheekbones and a ponytail of curly maroon senger answered, Yeah I can’t remember
hair, contrasting the passenger’s torn, dirty shit either. Been walking for a spell, I sup-
jacket and unkempt beard streaked with pose. You’re the first…person I’ve seen as
grey knots, like bits of the fog had attached far back as I can gather. He looked out his
itself to the man’s whiskers. cracked window to see that wall of white
cresting toward the vehicle. Before the grey
The driver’s tone addressing the pas- murk came upon them, the passenger could
senger was familiar like he’d picked him up have sworn he saw a yellow blemish in the
disappearing horizon. The fog covered the
pickup and the road and beyond. Headlights

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

were useless now. On the passenger side, The passenger turned to find the clean
the vehicle tilted over, rough dips and pot- face wet with tears, angry, and tried to
holes, collapsed median strips. No indica- gather just how long this man had been
tion they were driving on a road at all. driving. How long he himself had been
walking. He couldn’t say for sure but it must
After what felt like minutes, the passenger have been long enough for the driver to
noticed the driver still had not taken his eyes think picking up a stranger and calling him
off him. An apprehensive stare discarding a brother was a good idea. The passenger en-
shaggy beard, an unpleasant aroma, and visioned the woman standing at the stern,
seeing what it wanted to see. A look that going into the fog, the cold water at his feet.
wanted to come out and say it already. He understood that he would want an an-
swer from her too if given the chance.
The car halted. The driver’s tone changed,
like someone trying to hold back bubbling So, the passenger said, I was afraid you
anger while simultaneously making a point, were going to get us killed. I didn’t want to
I need to ask you something. Why get in die so I left. Do you hate me for that?
now when you had a chance before?
Of course not, just dumb of you to turn
The fog grew thicker. The passenger re- down a free ride is all.
plied, Got me confused with someone else.
I’m not who you think— The driver relaxed his shoulders and
faced forward. Fog was creeping into the
The driver smacked his hands on the car. The passenger stared at the first person
steering wheel like he was boxing a child’s he’d spoken to for as long as he could re-
ears, dust floated across the flickering dash- member and asked, Why’d you get on the
board, Don’t! he screamed. Stop dancing boat?
around the issue like you always do. Tell me!
Was it because I’m the older brother? You Because I thought it was the right thing
think you knew better than me? You could to do.
have gotten in. At the parking lot in Daven-
port. Remember Davenport? You just ran. I But to leave me out here alone? Why
would’ve gotten out and chased after you. We wouldn’t you take me?
could’ve talked it out. But they were coming.
You left me alone. I’ve been driving all alone! There wasn’t any more room. You blame
me for going?

I blame you for leaving me.

You judge me for one moment?

It’s the only one I have.

The vehicle inched forward, more bumps
along the road that might not have been the
road anymore. Both were quiet as the ve-
hicle blindly sought a level terrain.

About the Author
Matt Gillick is from Northern Virginia.

100

NONFICTION



THE BREATH

OF A TIRE

by BellaBianca Lynn

Her round nose stands only about a foot or across cardboard. They were the only hands
so away from the garage stairs. She seems I knew to have such a hard Sssss sound at
to have had more addresses than I but the the steering wheel. Any steering wheel.
truth is, this baby blue car and I have taken
the same steps, have entered and left the My car, my care, wouldn’t have been so
same homes. She currently occupies my trustworthy had Dad not been behind the
new address over 30 miles away from our scenes of our movement, our growth for-
first family. But after a 14 year relationship ward. As a general manager of a hydraulics
among her, my father and me, it’s time to shop and lifelong swimmer, Dad had the
let her go. Let her go before internal organs credentials that made him the leader of his
such as the serpentine belt fail us en-route own blue pool and our mutual blue vessel.
of a forthcoming journey. He even had awards to show for his passion
from his young adult days: first place purple
Only my father could pass down this ribbon in the Human Stroke and 2nd place
2006 Mercury Mariner to be my protector. red ribbon in the 25-Yard Freestyle.
He was the original owner, and mariner him-
self, really, who constantly maintained the I open the glove compartment that’s
vessel that held his daughter safely in place housed what I think of as my “Property of”
from journey to destination. His intuitive paper for 9 years. I take my registration,
skills told us when the axle bucket needed cool from its plastic cover, leave the user
repair, what specific liquids were leaking, manual and click the slanted box closed for
and when we should be approaching talk the last time.
of new tires. Some work he did and some
work was done by our local mechanic. But The red cloth AAA emergency bag slides
when he’d lift the air filter or press his palm forward easily from the back of the trunk.
into metal or plastic organs, his hands in- The orange milk cart next to it holds a col-
trigued me. They were thick and light lection of car supplies that Dad created
brown, like cardboard. At times they even once I became a novice driver: a jug filled
sounded as though a hand were gliding with blue windshield wiper fluid, a some-
what smaller jug of coolant, and a 16-ounce

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Fix-A-Flat can. Though their prior home was observations. By doing so, I was growing
in my old Taurus, their permanent address before my own eyes and connecting dots.
since has been this Mariner. The last thing I Though my grandmother had passed one
reach for, the battery charger, was my own year prior, there were times when I found
addition from his garage last year. myself pausing to listen to the faint sound
of rubber slippers on the laminate hallway
I reach toward the middle of the back- floor. And as I swore off metaphors as much
seat gripping the handle of the snow brush. as I could that night, the breeze could’ve
The black marks on the edge of the leather easily been her breath supporting me on
seat are scars from photo frames, desk fur- my writing journey.
niture, and storage boxes. This time last year
the entirety of this vehicle carried remnants My writing journey continued and the
of my first home at Mom’s and remnants of night after I became a published author for
my second home at Dad’s as I moved into the first time outside of college, my brakes
my first house. kept me in the protective shell of the car
as an oncoming sedan zipped into the right
This Mariner houses close to one-third lane from the onramp without yielding. Due
of my life. Passed down to me when it was to the sharpness, I was rear-ended but, in
five-years-old, it parked me at my first set of the end, everything was minor and all were
job searches after college graduation: Not safe.
enough experience, we need someone who
can hit the ground running, we’re not cur- I rub the microfiber cloth across the win-
rently hiring, all following me from place to dows and windshield. My eyes fall on the
place. Turning the wheels, the car directed resting wiper blades that resemble a black
me to my first belly dance class where the barrette. Replaced by Dad over the years,
relationship I had with myself changed for barrette after barrette would widen my
the better. vision when signs were bubbled with rain-
drops or ice became slushy eye goop across
Exiting the parking lot from my first the glass.
lesson, I realized that I forgot to be afraid
of showing my body move. I was the only The remote start made cold nights easier
one to experiment with leveling, lifting or to breathe into as I pressed the button twice
lowering my body through space. I walked to summon heat to its internal body, and
on the balls of my feet, the hard studio floor eventually my own body. The majority of
underneath. From there, creating inward nights when I did use this function, I was
figure eights with my hips felt natural to visiting Dad. My boots and breath migrating
me. Not only was I unafraid of those move- from one home of warmth to another.
ments, but my body felt even, in sync for
the first time. One January night in particular, during
dusk, I drove over to find the liner of our
The first set of Cooper tires carried me in ground pool slashed by ice, its cover col-
across my first independent drive to Cape lapsing in. Debris and sand scattered across
Cod. Here, I spent hours writing under the backyard, and front lawn. I stood eye
the fan in my grandmother’s old cottage. level with the metal fence, shimmying my
My voice’s perspective shifting from ab- bracelet full of keys up my arm. The slide
stract metaphors to exploring simple was the only thing still in one piece under

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Revista Literária Adelaide

its wrapping. Dad, this older mariner, lost with fluid than the other. When he came
his surrogate home of forty-years. His own out all he wanted to do was go home to
protective shell, broken. He’d no longer be rest. When I brought him home, he an-
weightless in the water, but feel the weight chored himself in bed. He remained there
of the fall. for a while, catching up on sleep.

I could only apologize, plant myself back Two days later, I pulled into his driveway.
in my own mariner, and grieve behind the Baby Blue playing Miranda Lambert’s The
wheel as I drove down the street, headlights Weight of These Wings as I folded my re-
wide awake for my sake. ceipt for groceries. Gatorade, bananas, av-
ocadoes, and a breakfast sandwich filled the
All mariners saw darkness that night. space behind my seat. I made sure to get a
cornucopia of nutrients for Dad. But shortly
I vacuum underneath the passenger after putting food away, I checked on him in
seat, set the dustbuster down and press my bed only to find that his twenty-five-year-
spine into the seat. My sneakers press firmly old swimming lungs had given out.
into the fabric on the mat below. I gently
heel the vacuum handle away to give myself Thankfully, those landmarks Dad and I
some space. passed on our last trip together were re-
corded in the odometer, engrained in the
My planted sketchers bring back the muscle memory of our car.
image of my dad’s planted sketchers in the
same spot over one year earlier. I forced myself to recall the best and right
way to care for the Mariner. From its tires,
New tires rolled us across the pavement, the roots, to its inner parts, I felt for shim-
our black sea. We passed through towns mies, listened for sounds, and monitored
that held landmarks I only knew with him fluids until its own end, all out of necessity.
growing up. The open field to the left where
he taught me to fly the Garfield kite, even I remove my feet from the passenger’s
though I was bored to tears standing and mat, and set it down on the lid of a nearby
waiting with two pieces of wood; following bucket. Grains of sand still embedded in the
this, on the same side was the avenue cloth. Maybe traces of dad’s last shoeprints,
where he taught me to drive his’94 Dodge maybe not. I take my spot in the driver’s
Dakota; to our right was the McDonalds seat and shift into reverse.
where we kneaded through McFlurries with
our spoons on certain summer weekends. I From Dad’s last shoeprints to my last few
imagined the plastic booth we’d sit in as still taps on the brake, I’m in awe of how much
being bolted to the back wall. the Mariner has been there for me, for us:
offering space, giving guidance, and taking
This 20-minute quiet sail brought us to care of family. After glancing back, I brake,
a medical office. I waited for Dad as they pause, and shift into drive. My hands turn
checked his breathing. Whenever Dad had the steering wheel, tires- roots-following.
his routine respiratory test at work, they’d My palms create a small sssss across the
say he had the lungs of a twenty-five-year leather.
old. He was not yet sixty-one, but, pneu-
monia knows no age and he was struggling Not quite Dad’s hands, but certainly not
for any air available. One lung more filled without.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

BellaBianca Lynn holds a BA in English from Curry College with a double concentration in
Creative Writing and Professional Writing. While in attendance, Lynn was awarded second
place in the First-Year Essay Contest and received the English and Poetry Award. BellaB
has been a contributing writer for Belly Dance New England, and Boston Seniority. More
recently, her poem “Dream Catcher” was published in Soul-Lit. Outside of writing, Lynn is a
belly dancer and 500-hour certified yoga instructor with a focus in Therapeutic Essentials.
For more of her work please visit https://bellabiancalynn.com/. Cheers!

106

OUR WHOLE LIFE IS
A SERIES OF SIGNS

by Jake Morrill

I worked at a group home in Coralville, erupt. Anyone would’ve, even you, even
Iowa. It was for teens who could no longer me. But Trey didn’t have words. He spoke in
live where they came from. From outside, flying lamps, end-tables, flung puzzle-boxes.
you’d hear screams. It was that kind of
home. All the staff had short hair. Other- It wasn’t chaos, the wreckage. If you
wise, a resident could grab it, smash your looked, it meant something.
head against something. My favorite, Trey,
used his own head on you. I learned this Years later, I fell for Alfred Adler, the Aus-
once, when I had him in a hold. He ducked trian therapist who broke off from Freud. He
his head forward, then sent it back, hard. said all behavior is meaningful, it has con-
My teeth hurt for a week. text and purpose. Our whole life is a series
of signs. Any slight action: a dim semaphore.
I learned to look for disaster, to steer Likewise, the psychiatrist James Gilligan,
away from situations that would set Trey off. having interviewed people in prison for doing
We’d take to the sidewalks and sing country violent harm, said their crimes were actu-
songs. “Strawberry Wine” was on the radio ally a form of communication: an attempt to
then. It was what we loved most. I knew the mean something; to be heard; to be known.
verses; he’d join in out loud only on the word If someone studied the aftermath of our own
“wine.” To hell with the neighbors; I was just life’s disaster? Maybe they’d pick out a pat-
glad he wasn’t inside, breaking stuff. Can you tern, some meaning in it. Through the crackle,
blame him? His heart was ripped out. Fri- the noise, maybe they’d detect the faint signal
days, he stood at the front window, waiting of our own failing heart. Our redemption, if it
on family that never arrived. And then he’d happens, will mean somebody tried.

About the Author

Jake Morrill is a minister and therapist in East Tennessee. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’
Workshop and Harvard Divinity School, he’s the author of the novellas, Randy Bradley (Solid
Objects, 2011) and The Cherry Jar (2017).

107

REVISITING THE
HOUSE OF THE SPIRITS:
MYSTICISM, LOVE, AND
MAGICAL SURREALISM

by Wally Swist

Although there are several competitive —who represent three generations of the
themes vying for the one central theme in del Valle-Trueba clan, are the purveyors of
The House of the Spirits, atonement, both the true, and vast, family history. Political
divine and secular, runs deeply through Isa- strongmen are seen as deleting truth or cre-
bel Allende’s debut novel. Coming to atone ating fake news for the sake of their regime,
for various shortcomings in vision and com- but it is women who are able to tell the tale
passion as well as outright crimes perpe- truthfully. Ultimately, this also provides the
trated by one of the novel’s main charac- opportunities for both atonement, then
ters, Esteban Trueba, perpetuate through forgiveness, which is fluidly woven into the
a multi-generational absolution. What is central theme.
crucial for resolve here is the attending
consciousness of making atonement, which The level of mysticism infused in The
is intrinsic to its achievement, either full or House of the Spirits is thoroughly en-
partial—which also includes the significant chanting. Clara often practices psychoki-
act of forgiveness itself. nesis. She is also a clairvoyant, and predicts
her sister’s death. The death of her sister—
There is a strong current of feminism mermaid-like, with green hair—Rosa the
throughout the novel. Specifically, it can Beautiful, although an early tragedy, also
be referred to as a feminist view of his- reveals the vulnerability in those psychically
tory or even a proactive feminist histor- empowered. Through this Allende imparts
ical perspective. The main female charac- that some of us may be able to move ta-
ters in the novel—Clara, Blanca, and Alba bles and predict the future, but we are all

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Revista Literária Adelaide

not immune from various tragic life expe- but it may also be true that everything hap-
riences, such as the death of a loved one. pens simultaneously.” There are some phys-
icists who believe that this is in fact possible
There is a dynamic of politics that is at and correct—that everything is, indeed,
the core of The House of the Spirits. When occurring at once. In light of this, Allende
Esteban Trueba, then a hard leaning con- has not only written a brilliant family saga
servative, supports a junta against the worthy of lengthy feminist critique, which
government, he lacks the clarity of vision also addresses the hostility of fascism, but
to see that it can, as it does, go far astray, has created a metaphysical fiction for the
and that the military dictatorship which he ages. She even prefaces the novel with a
has helped install in his country proves to quote from Nobel Laureate, Chilean poet
be unsafe for everyone. Ostensibly, Allende Pablo Neruda: “How much does a man live,
portrays the Pinochet coup d’état in Chile, in after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or
1972, which she uses as an historical refer- one only?/ For a week, or for several centu-
ence and which the novel shadows. In doing ries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/
so, there is a struggle between socialism What does it mean to say‘for ever’?”
and fascism, and it is in the end which so-
cialism triumphs. The Neruda quote only presages a novel
that begins and ends with the same phrase:
*** “Barabbas came to us by sea . . .” The child
Clara writes that in her journal at the book’s
It is the element of love which is the existen- beginning and Alba reads her grandmother’s
tial glue that holds The House of the Spirits words in that same journal decades later,
together, ultimately. It is the spark of love be- “written in a child’s delicate calligraphy,” as
tween Esteban Trueba and Clara Del Valle, at the novel’s last words. In this, Allende cre-
the beginning that sets them ablaze with love. ates a mythos in the book, alpha beginning
It is the love Esteban has his granddaughter, it and alpha ending it, a dialectic resolved,
Alba (meaning “dawn,” in Spanish), which is an entire mythology, a feminist generational
persevering in that it leads to the possibility history, complete unto itself. It is stratagem
of Esteban’s eventual atonement, and what and diadem, alike. It is multi-generational
provides the dynamism for Alba’s magnani- but dissolving into the timelessness it arose
mous forgiveness of what has happened in from and arising from the timelessness of
the past for the del Valle-Trueba family. Es- our lives: alchemy and magic, at once.
sentially, also, it is Alba’s love for her grand-
father that provides her the strength and the What is significant is the portrayal of the
hope to break the karmic chain of revenge severe male character of Esteban Truebo,
and hatred exhibited through the improvi- the often cruel patron of Las Tres Marias,
dent practice of patriarchy. the family hacienda; the sometimes over-
bearing husband of Clara, and the harsh fa-
As Allende’s character, Alba, says in The ther of Blanca, whom he alienates when he
House of the Spirits, “the space of a single cuts off three fingers of one of the hands
life is brief, passing so quickly that we never of socialist revolutionary Pedro Tercero
get a chance to see the relationship be- Garcia (whom is said to be modeled after
tween events; we cannot gauge the conse- folksinger Victor Jara) because Blanca and
quences of our acts, and we believe in the he were lovers.
fiction of the past, present, and the future,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Although feminist criticism rightfully con- The House of the Spirits, although the
demns Esteban for his many wrongs, such work of Magical Surrealism, is also consid-
as raping peasant women, such as Pancha ered partially autobiographical and certainly
Garcia, who births his bastard son, Esteban historical, especially the parts of the novel
Garcia, Esteban’s character exhibits a tran- regarding the coup d’état, since the author
scendence from his incontrovertible and is the niece of Salvador Allende, president
unyielding maleness, even a machismo, to of Chile from 1970-1973, was overthrown by
transcend his previous actions, at least par- CIA-backed fascist strongman Augusto Pino-
tially, through his acknowledgement of his chet, whose military arrested, tortured, and
crimes and misdemeanors, thereby atoning assassinated many Chileans, including many
for them, especially in his helping Blanca artists and writers, such as folksinger and gui-
and Pedro Tercero escape the junta to flee tarist, Victor Jara, whose hands and fingers
to Canada; then later in his petitioning his were broken by Pinochet’s soldiers, but who
old friend, the prostitute, Transito Soto, who continued to sing an anthem of freedom to
had influence with the military, in releasing his fellow countrymen in the soccer stadium
his granddaughter Alba from her being held they were imprisoned in, until he was shot
in a concentration camp. multiple times. His body was said to have
been shot by some forty bullets.
Although his wife, Clara, kept her
promise to never speak to him again after Sometime before her composing The
he knocked several of her teeth out in an ar- House of the Spirits, Allende translated
gument relating to Blanca and Pedro having several romance novels into Spanish, most
become lovers, on his deathbed, with his notably the work of renowned romance
granddaughter Alba by his side, Esteban’s writer Barbara Cartland. Allende attributes
conscience is ameliorated in knowing that her inspiration to writing The House of the
Clara has forgiven him, from beyond the Spirits to a long telephone conversation she
grave, as he dies peacefully. It is then that had with her then 99-year-old grandfather,
Blanca begins to read her grandmother’s who was near death at the time. She began
notebooks, “Barabbas came to us by the writing the novel after her composing a
sea . . .“ letter to her grandfather, which became the
basis for the novel itself. Since she started
*** writing the book on January 8th, every novel
she has begun after that she also beings on
Written in a style known as Magical Surre- the same date.
alism, Isabel Allende creates a family saga
not dissimilar to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Initially, The House of the Spirits was re-
One Hundred Years of Solitude, published jected by several notable South American
some twelve years earlier. Magical Surreal- publishing houses before being published
ism employs paranormal events, mysticism, in Buenos Aires, in 1982. Upon publication,
mythology, alchemy, and magic in estab- the novel nearly instantaneously made Is-
lishing a mystic realm which appears to be abel Allende an international literary suc-
more real than life itself. Through this liter- cess. She was awarded not only with the
ary necromancy, Allende, as does Marquez, Best Novel of the Year in Chile but since
creates a timeless world where past affects then the book has been translated in more
present, which then portends the future. than 37 different languages worldwide.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University
Press, 2012), selected by Yusef Komunyakaa as co-winner in the 2011 Crab Orchard Series
Open Poetry Contest, and A Bird Who Seems to Know Me: Poems Regarding Birds & Nature
(Ex Ophidia Press, 2019), the winner of the 2018 Ex Ophidia Press Poetry Prize. His recent
poems have or will appear in Commonweal, Rattle, and Transference: A Literary Journal
Featuring the Art & Process of Translation. Recent books include The Bees of the Invisible
(2019) and Evanescence: Selected Poems (2020), both with Shanti Arts.

111



POETRY



SUCH AN ENIGMATIC

PORTFOLIO

by Kamalendu Nath

Of Phantasm Dreams–
Out of Nothing, a rising on
this candle-wick, this sudden flame,
that thing borne out of a spark, two parents’
endeavors, replaces a Nothing with a virgin flame;
though upon a snuffer back whence it came: nothing…
was the charred wick-end then a dream of a phantasm reality?

Born of Nothing - back to nothing: the spark, the flame; and so
which dream had this candle light danced on a shadow cast
dark by bright or had it - what of that heat, no matter how
slight left behind, also of oxygen into carbon dioxide,
is this how it is in each transition, birth to death
renews the dent in a set of nesting dreams?
Not unlike my own trek of a flame about
to embrace nothing, as own strikers in
unison two; I’ve been a striker too
in a Phantasm duality – how to
define a Nothing then? It’s
not in its devoid of Sun at night time or
no stars in the daytime; for they’re there at all
times, toying Earth, invisible to naked eyes… true
nothing embodies no space, no time, no physical laws,
beyond our grasps; yet we know we’re of clouds: out of
nothing likens Om: mother of all creations… celestial-clouds
floating in space, seeding this universe; harbinger of all things on
this Earth – water-vapor-clouds that drenches us in and out…
then there awaits my own ash-clouds ready to float nay
wink beneath a pristine mirror, will it settle in a set
of nesting dreams or to a conspirator’s scribble

beyond all ever known to an unknown but

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for the wonders this Earth has endlessly
borne, surely, of elusive gems a gem

- this Nothing

For Comes Once

Craving beneath all-encompassing wingspan-shelter, a
Solace below a Giant bird’s, no matter how – Extinctive

Utter darkness lurking within, ever so panic of‘Those’
And‘Them’, shame clouds self-loathing on – Frailty

Flow, flow; flow or not: mandate hovers over the Prime edict, all on a
Steady motion thru hidden terrains, what shape it’ll be is unforeseen;
While renewing own spirits on them blessed kiss from such varied
Sets of inter- and intra-species bliss, to profit on a global comity;
Stark reflection out of hanging blue, clean image seen through -
Pure rapture enjoining such triumph, sate prudence - Euphony

Diverted from such Dictates of water flow, morphs when
Fitfully, as to clasp on a putrid marsh – Naturality

Or the lily blooms on a silky waterhole, chance still-gift,
Instead of throngs’ demon, new hopes – Expressivity

Balked from the Dictate: flow, flow, flow; stems when a captive does
Bloom in a vulgar regionality, leading to a calamity; usurping fallow
fierce tribalism, loud-taunt monotones: VuVuzelas - born of a far off
summoner - Kudu horn; or Thunderclaps in unison, of picking up on
crescendo “HUH!” war-chant: cheers; tearing, jumping; zany waves
turning Civility on to its head: Evility, riling up a tribe: Putrid Marsh

Bulls-eye ethos vow: The Insecure One would
hurl locust swarm to rape Their fields

And the Secure One? Would
Greet bees to their own, a nectar-feast!
To each his own – Fidelity

Whether the cause be real or delusional,
the answer rests in one’s own ego bent

if they Crown an iffy Ringmaster
tribe’s future on blindfolds be so paved
not Platinum but shinny Tin
- Blip on a Screen

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On its Axis

Tantalizing morn draws on yester’s dying; just out of bed, I stand by the open casement
Window

And see two restless skewed obscure glows, through the crowding trees, not in the East;
Cared not for my cell-phone-click – were in the
West.

It’s not in the death but in the dying, so much rests; she’s on this hospital bed: how to
Carry on a discourse, methought, steer the slippery slope, what I’d like to
Know -

How misconstrued a legacy we wear - never fancy – if ever; but we never care:
Sunrise – A Sunrise? – Really?

It’s no bother for the Sun; since it’s really that belaboring Earth which’s
Circling

On its tilted axis: starts a day when she faces the Sun that’s cogitating on its own axis…
Us

Admiring now, Sun is up and racing down, till it sets: clowns
Distraught.

Same for the night-sky, where wanderers be not the stars but just us, on a delusory
Gall!

Consciousness is nothing if not the sum of all perceptions, what this moment holds;
And she has opted out of any treatment; not

On bygone diagnosis of a pancreatic prime - switched just now to
Lungs, where a better prognosis holds; she

Fronts an end in a flashing-eye-sunflower-field-exuberance, on
What she’d quip unabashedly of oozy pond

Bubbles surfacing: not real, she’d smirk, but when’s torrent
You’d not know them challenged cleaning…
Oh! she so wishes the downfall of the
President… on her own jobs she’d
Recall

Sorrow in leaving that IRS post; clerking last… no, no, no.
No regrets at having no child… Sometimes I’m angry –
Sometimes I’d cry… on tears she’d spell her
Wish: these last days (months) I’d like
To be with my greatest friend, my
Love of all these years: Mom:
She’d arrange for her on
Skewed axis of the
Float

Bobbing on a roily pool; we bid her adieu past high noon; sadly, there’s another: a leg-
Blood-clot; regardless of opioids dot life to fold but the frailty won’t let death go as
In the rearview mirror vanishes her lease; lights gift of Mom’s miracle comfort.

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Of Violence –

So many impacts crown a moment – wherein lies some
Plots unperceived. How many of those dwarf a giant’s
Crown? How expansive such crowns glint may scroll?
Chapters elude not a fire, matchstick hire kindling more
Than a forest inferno, never higher, higher than higher -

Vice grip sprouts jugular sprays, hunger colors bed
So much Red; had it known this thirst for thrust, surely not
a sequel to hunger’s trap; soaked in an irony then - in what
just ensued on a kill the victor in now victim’s id, as if in a
fog unfurls denial shaking mane: prey-soak-roar!

Seizing, roaming shape-shifters as in a loonies’ veil
Heavenly-bodies sojourn delight but for the angry alter-ego
Collisions - vicious disputes rout millions discharge, and if
not for the charge-sink: a greedy Earth in wait, wolfish pull
is not fast enough: strident zig-zag boom hell!

Bedevils life’s hunger upon conceivable siren song a
sole violence winner in a battlefield of millions vying driven
Squiggly ejaculates, for lone bullseye: slit its latent treasures
In a Sequential geyser and switch-on Armageddon for a lone
Plan: Divide, DIVIDE: unfold the new life!

In blink of an eye, as if all that cursed, all that barren
Wrought by a relentless violence, spumes earth-skin-fracture
But not its heart, deep down waits warmth of a mother’s love.
Opportune moment vindicates ages of Andosols when it’s to
morph violent hunger: landscape paint green –

Hunger of all hungers, mars a Super-star violence chaos, as
Supernovae star-dusts do seed a galaxy, crown a planet thus
in veiled gold ergo blind hunger’s bet; not unlike of a slit in
that unknowable sphere violent expulsion out a canal, births
unique life, just as violently sucked in time, to an oblivion

- Hunger Bookends

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Imagine

On a weakening stem hangs an apple, ripe;
on a strong stem is a bloom, full of smiles;
waiting out each frigid downpour together
unawares, not uncommon, they’re abreast.

To Sun’s sparkle on the similar drops the
young tart blossom sees but guests.

Glistens mirrors on glazed skin reflecting
by-gone-recall album, fresh at rest.

But for a passing of sly wicked storm, fury spells
our tree lots, on a thud hit carpet-ground; there
in an embrace our young love finds herself caught on
a seasoned skin - veteran of all life dreams; alas, betrayed:

Lost at Best

About the Author

Kamalendu Nath, an emeritus professor of Long Island
University, NY, resides in Effingham, New Hampshire, USA
and seeks rhythm in Nature, including Human Nature
through poems. Some of his poems have appeared in
the Twisted Tongue; Barfing Frog; The One Eight Three;
Vermont Literary Review; Worlds Within Worlds Beyond;
A Hudson View Poetry Digest International Collection;
Thresholds Literary Journal; Palimpsest; The Aurorean and
others as well as in two anthologies: The Poets’ Guide to
New Hampshire.

119

LOLITA’S STORE

by Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

Lolita’s Store Dead bullfighter in front of a mirror

It’s usually argued: The roses don’t work,
the Old World descends, say, from I’m dead I’m ashamed,
Jerusalem, from Athens; in my left side, too red, the blood doesn’t work,
misogynist really, since the dawn of time, no tears, the infinite awaits:
i.e. droit du seigneur, or you, surrounded by bulls,
burning of adulteresses. you had just recently been unaware of it:
In Ancient Greece, the patient gods yearn to submerge
the nobles had a predilection for their ephebos themselves in our fears.
(from behind...is that love too?),
with the females relegated About the Author
to a secondary circle;
in the sacred scriptures they’re TS Hidalgo (46) holds a BBA (Universidad
referred to as vipers, Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business
synonym of perdition School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel
(word of God). Kafka) and a Certificate in Management
Taking it to an extreme and familiar case, and the Arts (New York University). His
we find misogynists like Voltaire, works have been published in magazines in
like Frederick the Great, the USA, Brazil, Canada, Mexico, Argentina,
proponents of enlightened absolutism. Colombia, Chile, Puerto Rico, Venezuela,
Ehh...I’m not sure, Cuba, Nicaragua, Barbados, Virgin Islands of
in the same boat as well, perhaps, Mallarmé the USA, Germany, UK, France, Italy, Spain,
(“Perdition was my Beatrice”). Turkey, Sweden, Ireland, Portugal, Romania,
In that way even Marx, even Engels: Nigeria, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe,
women stopped then from Botswana, China, India, Singapore and
being marked territory. Australia. He has currently developed his
Are you not going directly home today, sir? career in finance and stock-market.
Well… You can always hire someone.

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WORLD FINESSE AND
NUANCE STRATEGY

by Bob Eager

Mr Authenticity Bob Eager

Immediate world and world beyond,
Strategy to grow into new role..
Stretch and reach to a new world
Discrepancy between where you are and where you want to be!
Truth lies between personal perception and
Objectives met-
Choice BE 1st Eliminated?
Or Chance to be Last Person Standing?
Find a Purpose and Play the Game!
Not a lie in itself just positioning past personal experience;
Nuance and Finesse strategy.
Don’t even get invited to play on the island!
Barometer measured firsthand make the cut-
Understand the difference between what you Personally feel and what they need to hear!
Assessment Concluded : made it past at least through the first round...
Avoid 2nd Round Elimination,
Strategy Engaged-
Get Your Game Play On!

121



WINNERS AND
SHORTLIST WINNER NOMINEES

OF THE
ADELAIDE LITERARY AWARD 2019



SHORT STORY

The Winner

MY ROLE IN THE RISE

OF JULIAN ASSANGE

by Michael Washburn

It was a chaotic day at the office, with my staff in a frenzy over new polling results from the North
Shore, and I wasn’t particularly diligent about going through e-mail from strangers. We had more
than enough work to do, if we wanted to help elect Julian Assange as prime minister of Australia
on an absentee ballot. I was proud to be managing Assange’s campaign here in Sydney while he
languished in jail.

But I did find time to open and read a message from a stranger calling himself Hermes29, who
labored under the idea that he ought to be thanking me for the campaign’s role as an encourager
of whistleblowers and leakers. After sending back a note worded with my customary grace, I
turned my attention back to the polls. Then “Hermes29” sent a new message, proposing to meet
in person so he could hand over what he had. He said he had documents implicating members
of the National Party in the development and ongoing use of the programs of surveillance and
torture that certain spooks had gone through. There was a bit of odd language in his message
about how truth is worth any number of sacrifices.

Given the preceding passage, about spooks getting tortured, I wasn’t certain what he meant.
Surely Hermes29 didn’t mean to imply that torture isn’t always objectionable. Nobody wanted
to have the whole Abu Ghraib and waterboarding debate for the millionth time. What was clear
was his desire to meet. But it couldn’t be anywhere in the city, he stipulated. Too many people
of too many different affiliations were coming and going every hour in places like Centennial
Park. Hermes29 wanted to meet way out in Hawkesbury, over thirty miles to the north and west
of Sydney’s business district. I quickly agreed. Though I’d barely cracked open the polling data,
my staff and I shared the impression that we were surging far ahead of the other parties on the
informational front even as they were fighting to gain the public’s trust. The idea was to keep
hitting our opponents with revelation after revelation, making them feel they were never safe,
they never had a secure lead over us. I wrote back to Hermes29 agreeing to meet with him the
following day, a Saturday.

The bus out to Hawkesbury was nearly empty and that suited me fine. I passed the time
trying to construct lives for a few of the squat hairy occupants of the cars speeding up the dusky
concrete under the bus’s window. Maybe they were on their way to a cookout in a friend’s
backyard after a morning shift at an abattoir. Maybe they were in search of a dumpster in a

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remote weedy lot where they could set fire to the corpse of a neighbor who’d disturbed the
free flow of Guinness and games on the telly. Perhaps again they were ASIS men and were
privy to secrets, to records and artifacts of misdeeds found in the unending thicket of vines and
branches, the green density unfolding across archipelagoes and nations in longitudes not too
far north of here. If my imaginings were correct, then the names of these blokes would have a
hollow inauthentic sound. No matter how long I stared at them, the drivers never looked up at
me. They looked pretty content at the prospect of getting home to a wife and child in a big white
house soon enough.

For another twenty minutes, the bus roared on through the dreary late morning, on a long
wide strip of concrete running through fields of drab timid grass. Then the vehicle halted, the
driver called out a word without turning his head as the doors swished open, and I walked out
onto concrete panels enclosed by more ugly grass. The air out here was faintly gray and dull, not
befitting a funeral procession, but maybe the rehearsal for one. I wandered a couple of hundred
yards in the direction from which the bus had come, until I reached a huge parking lot on the
outskirts of a boarded-up supermarket.

The lot was barren and weeds maneuvered through winding cracks in the pavement. To the
north, fir trees stretched off into the distance. To the south, on the far side of the freeway, lay a
shuttered bowling alley and a long row of dumpsters. The wind was tepid. No one was around.
I crossed the empty lot, walked through the rotting loggia of the supermarket, and passed out
into another lot. On the far side of this lot there was a small outdoor mall with a few functioning
businesses, including a strip bar and one of those tiny barbershops where the proprietor knows
all the customers and most people would not feel comfortable walking in off the street. I had just
started in the direction of the outdoor mall when a voice from behind jolted me.

“Over here, Mr. Logue.”

I whirled around. The stranger was in his late twenties, had not shaved for a few days, and
wore pale jeans, a red windbreaker, and gray sneakers. In his eyes was the self-consciously feral
quality of someone who is no longer welcome at any of the local bars and knows everyone can
see how desperate he is for a shot of whiskey.

He came toward me cautiously. I helped close the distance with wary steps toward the
supermarket. Out of a reflex, or perhaps a delusion of vigilance, I scanned the line of trees to
the north for men lying or crouching with telescopic sights, rotated my head around toward the
freeway, probed the windows of the few passing cars for any sign of prurience. I could hardly
have justified these gestures. If I’d been careful, this meeting would have been behind the
supermarket. But it was way too late for such thoughts. Hermes29 stood a few yards from me,
looking expectantly into my eyes. This was oddly unflattering.

“Have you got it?”

He laughed. Two caustic bursts.

“I don’t know how I could have made myself clearer, Mr. Logue.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I think you do get it. In the pitches I sent you, I made it pretty plain. The truth is worth
sacrifices. If you’ve been on the grid, you know exactly what kind of sacrifices.”

On the grid?

Was I about to die?

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“No, I really don’t understand. Either the foundation pays you in advance, or—”

“The foundation?”

“Yes, you know, the foundation that’s paying for what you’ve got to share with me.”

“And what foundation would that be, sir?”

“Look, I really don’t know—”

The stranger spun, retreated four paces, and I thought I saw him pick something up off the
ground. He spun again and hurled it. I turned, but not fast enough. The brick slammed into my
right temple. I screamed and toppled onto my left side. The stranger ran up and kicked me swiftly
five times in my gut and ribs. Then he dashed past me, in the direction of the outdoor mall.

I rolled onto my back, shrieked at the gray above, and felt the area of impact on my head.
There was a bit of blood, that was all. Crouching uneasily on all fours, I scanned the storefronts of
the indoor mall in vain. Only now did I begin to consider the infinite stupidity of coming out here
by myself, without making any arrangements with my head of security. I spun around desperately,
taking in the barren infrastructure of a remote suburb on a crappy day. There was nothing now
but to go back to those empty acres of concrete, cross the road, and wait for the bus back to the
city. I started back. Once again, nothing around me was as near or as far as it appeared.

I waited at the bus stop, quivering, trembling, cursing myself. Though the pain wasn’t so
awful just now, I thought of bleeding on the brain leading to complications and death. But in the
face of so many urgent tasks, there could be no question of finding a hospital and undergoing
a scan to check for consequences of an event that had had no right to occur in the first place.
There wasn’t time. I waited. Felt my head. Comparisons of events at different points in my life
began to present themselves, unbidden. I thought of a bar in a decaying hotel, of a dance in a big
gymnasium. I fondled my cell phone. I waited some more, leering at the squat cars passing with
indifference. A drizzle began. I fumed. Waited. Leered at cars. Stomped the ugly concrete with
its steadily gathering little points of wetness. At last a bus poked its blunt nose over the edge of
the dull horizon to the west.

The bus pulled up. The door at the front swished open. The driver was a short man with
a round pudgy face. As I climbed aboard and found a seat, the stinging above my right temple
was acute and persistent. I told myself here was no emergency, here was nothing that called for
turning myself over to care of doctors and nurses and igniting a PR disaster for the campaign. No
sir. That was not going to happen.

I lolled near the middle of the bus, on the right side of the aisle, staring at the dingy buildings
and unimposing trees to the south as we moved closer to the city. The bloodied face looking back
at me from the window was so upsetting I wanted to pull my shirt up over my head. The cars
below seemed to pass more brusquely than those I’d watched on the way out, as if the drivers
now mocked my prurience. Or maybe the bus was just going slower.

I wondered how much longer it would be now before the bus swung onto the ramp leading
to the parking complex abutting the worn grimy terminal downtown. I’d never imagined the
mundane station could promise such immense relief as it did now. No—that was totally wrong.
It didn’t offer relief. That station had the plainness and banality of death. I was not going there.
Seriously, there were likely to be people there who’d whip out their camera phones and try to
call every editor on the planet when the door leading to the parking complex swished open and
this bloodied campaign manager shuffled into the terminal.

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I began to consider possibilities, wondering who might really have dispatched that man
in the red windbreaker. I thought of a famed mining magnate, Angela Henderson, the depth
and reach of whose mining empire almost no one really knew, not even journalists who prided
themselves on having exposed the workings of Henderson Mines. Maybe all the danger up to
this point in my life was directly attributable to her, and I was too much of a naïve kid to dismiss
wilder notions. Yes, surely that was it. Angela Henderson, and her friends and associates, were
furious at me and Assange for casting them as villains in the storybook of anti-corporate ideology,
and now they’d deployed their vast operations, legal and illegal, against us. Now it struck me
that none of these thoughts were cogent. The guy in that parking lot could have killed me if he’d
pleased. Well, perhaps what had happened was a warning. Killing me would solve little when the
campaign needed a change of direction at the top.

“Are you okay, sir?” asked a middle-aged woman with a deep brown perm standing in the
aisle, studying me with horror.

“Are you okay?” I replied in my harshest voice.

Her look changed to bewilderment as she returned to her seat directly behind the driver.

The sky was clearing up, rays were breaking through and adding a leaven of gold to the drab
structures at the south edge of the road. The drizzle had been just enough to leave little puddles
that glittered now, faintly here and sharply there, like the remnants of a glass sheet that fell to
the earth. My eyes wandered over the scene inside this hurtling rectangle. Was the woman I’d
snapped at leaning forward now, and whispering to the driver? Maybe so, or maybe her odd
position now was how she normally sat. I wanted to yell at her, “Look, it isn’t a crime to walk
around looking like you’ve just played tennis with Björn Borg and gotten slammed in the head.”

Oh, forget it. I stared out the window. The structures lining the road were getting larger and
more numerous. I must have dozed off because the next thing I perceived was the bus swinging
into a lane demarcated by luminescent white strips, inside a huge maze of concrete pillars. I got
up, rubbed my eyes, followed the others off the bus, through a door, and into the terminal. The
scruffy shapes on the benches looked like they’d been there for hundreds of years. The sole clerk
on duty in these turgid afternoon hours was an obese but primly professional man with knots of
thick brown hair and a mustache only a bit thicker than Heinrich Himmler’s. I followed somebody
who’d come off the bus. Then I was outside, slightly to the south of the CBD, I imagined. As I
turned my head in every direction like an idiot tourist from the other side of the world, the pain
above my temple surged, my thoughts turned again to bleeding on the brain, to sudden death
from what had seemed a minor injury.

Maybe the thing to do was to head to the nearest hospital right now. I thought I couldn’t
stand the humiliation. Then again, if I did collapse, the campaign might really see all its gains
eclipsed. Unable to decide, I wandered in a resolutely aimless manner over four, five, six blocks,
in a lightly populated area whose northern horizon was a congeries of steel and gray towers.
The clouds had all dispersed. The sun was really bright. I was walking south. Up ahead was a
public area with trees and paths. It was not, could not have been, Centennial Park. As vast as
the latter place was, I was sure I knew its edges, its outlines intimately. No, what lay ahead was
something quite lesser. I walked over its northern border, a bed of squishy grass and bedraggled
roses, moved onto a path wending to the south, spied benches a few dozen yards down. The
scent of the grass, the echoes of my feet on the damp ground made me wonder whether this
was the park where I’d eluded one of my sworn enemies, the hedge funder Gerald Foster, and

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his guys on a night long ago. Of course it wasn’t, that had been someplace further south. While
dismissing that notion, I somehow expected people here to dislike me. But there really weren’t
too many people about.

I reached one of the benches. My ass got wet when I sat down. I lolled there, looking up at
the trees, rubbing my head. Once again the thought came that I’d been an utter fool, for it was
not Foster I needed to worry about, it was Angela Henderson and her empire.

Death was a pleasant prospect. The pain above my temple was like a sun mercilessly
exposing the weak artless features of every hill and plain below it. I cursed. Licked the blood from
my finger. Rubbed my head some more. Heard a phone ringing somewhere. That was impossible,
there were no public phones here. Oh, what generation today thinks in terms of public phones?
Yet I heard what sounded like a public phone, not a cell phone. I began to get up off the bench,
feeling a little sick at the pain above my temple. I noticed a girl, about eight years old, with straight
yellow hair, on the next bench down on my side of the path. She was looking at me with curiosity.

“No,” I said to her.
She gazed at me, puzzled, neither smiling nor frowning.
“No!”
She continued to regard me warily.
“I’m sorry—things are a little weird—what I’m trying to say is that I’ve messed up with the
women in my life and I’m terrified of what will happen if you even tell me your name.”
Even now she was a cool customer. She regarded me coolly.
Here’s what a campaign to restore national greatness has come to, I thought. Scaring the
crap out of a kid in a park.

“So what’s your name?”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you want to live in a world where people hide things—oh, fuck it, I can’t go on like I’m
going to live long enough to care what happens next week. Fuck it! What the fuck is your fucking
name?”
I thought she’d never answer.
“Meredith,” she said in a faint voice.
A faint, blurry image came toward me now. A man and a woman, both in their mid-thirties,
came running up the path toward the girl. They looked like the perfect suburban mom and dad,
wearing shorts and polo shirts suitable for the squash club. In the moments before they grabbed
the girl and sent me vicious looks, I briefly thought the man was going to lunge at me. As they
pulled her away, I defied the pain in my head by rising awkwardly, standing up straight, and
calling out.
“Thank you, Meredith. Remember this. The worst thing you can do is lie!”
I exited the park, moving west, then I cut to the north again. In the midst of the city I’d
spent most of my life in and around, I had no idea where I was going. “North” depended on the
assumption that I had, in fact, been somewhere south of those towers when I terrified the little
girl. Well, I had pitied myself enough for one day. I thought: We must all be tireless and proud
in the fight to preserve what is noble in the heritage of this island-continent. But that, of course,
is silly. We are a nation of bushrangers, pig shooters, rednecks, criminals. The erosion, no, the

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replacement of our heritage must be the goal of anyone grounded in what is finest in, uh, our
heritage. Perfectly clear! Maybe my head injury is much worse than I realized. I trudged on in the
direction of the towers. It wasn’t clear whether people on the street were purposely giving me a
wide berth, or whether the CBD had simply shut down for the weekend, leaving most people to
languish in the suburbs with their games and grog and TV.

A young woman walking arm in arm with her boyfriend in the opposite direction noticed me
and whispered something to him. I didn’t hear what he said. A man passed so quickly I could not
have vouched for his possessing a face. Soon, hard as it was to believe, I was approaching another
park. Now the pain in my head was so sharp I lurched and staggered and finally fell on my ass
just across the street from the new park. At this moment I really was afraid to get up. I managed
to lower my torso into a prone position without banging the back of my head. I don’t know how
long I lay there, but it mustn’t have been too long judging from the next the thing I’d remember
about this day. I was sitting inside a long rectangular room, roughly the size and shape of a big
trailer except its floor was close to level with the street outside, which I could see clearly since the
opposite end of the room had no wall. Outside, the daylight was still strong. I couldn’t be certain
but I thought I was even now in the immediate vicinity of that little park whose name eluded me.

I had no idea what to make of the prim forty-something man with black hair flecked with
gray, wearing a white doctor’s outfit, poring coolly over a sheet on a clipboard near the entrance
to this odd rectangle. I needed to extract some intelligence from this man. But before I could say
anything, he put the clipboard down on a rolling metal cabinet and went outside. When I tried to
call after him, my voice was so hoarse it was inaudible. Although no one had put any restraints
on me, I felt that only a doctor could assure me it was safe to get up. In a panel on the wall to my
right there were eyes, or rather, screens, as well as buttons, switches, and gauges of a mysterious
nature. The screens were not the size of a wall but they undoubtedly provided a link to analysts,
technicians, guards, managers, databases, systems, vast networks of analytical intelligence keeping
track of citizens out there in the city who had microchips implanted in their heads.

Before I could get up, a nurse came inside. She was in her early thirties and attractive though
with a faint bulge detectable at the waistline of her crisp white outfit. Oddly enough, she paid
me no more attention than her male colleague had.

“Uh . . . hello, miss!”
She turned to me.
“Hi there, sir, how are you feeling?”
Good question. How was I feeling? I reached up with my right hand, my fingers probed that
spot. A bandage was in place. For one in a long while, I pulled back my fingers and did not see
any blood.
“I’m okay. I don’t feel much pain at all.”
“Some people found you across the street. They brought you here and summoned a police
officer.”
“Really. Where’s the officer now?”
“He had to go back to the shoot. He said he’d come back here when you’re ready to talk.”
“I don’t understand. The shoot?”
The nurse, unfailingly patient and polite, smiled indulgently.

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“They’re making a movie right around the corner, sir. An action film with lots of stunts.
That’s why we’re here, in case someone gets hurt. It’s also why the rest of the CBD is so awfully
quiet, if you’ve been wondering. You should see the scene over there. Everyone wants to get a
peek and there are barely enough officers to keep the crowd back,” the nurse explained.

“I see. Well, I’m dumfounded. What is it, another Matrix sequel or something?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well, thank you for taking care of this,” I said, indicating the wound.
“Whatever happened to you?”
“I played tennis with Björn Borg.”
She gave me another curious yet sweetly indulgent look. Then, when she saw me begin to
rise from my seat, her look changed altogether.
“You really should not get up.”
I sank.
“We’re not done checking you out. The worst thing you can do is leave now. Please
understand, we say this purely out of concern for your health.”
“Come again?”
“I said, we say this out of concern—”
“Who is we?”
“All of us.”
“Out of concern for my health?”
Ever mild and polite, the nurse nodded again.
I began to think of the vast infrastructure to which the panel on the wall provided a link.
I envisioned rooms where screens and consoles glowed in the sheen from powerful overhead
lights, the sober determined faces of the coolly professional, technically adept, uniformed
personnel who monitored the health of all manner of patients with sensitive information and
stories pasts, relying sometimes on minute sensors and cameras, sometimes on eyes the size of
a wall.
The nurse looked only mildly perturbed as I slid past her out onto the street where the light
of this horrendously long day was, finally, just beginning to dim.
Three weeks later, when Assange began surging in the polls, I literally lost my head.

Michael Washburn is a Brooklyn-based writer and journalist. His short stories have appeared
in numerous journals and magazines including Green Hills Literary Lantern, Rosebud, Adelaide
Literary Magazine, Weird Fiction Review, New Orphic Review, Stand, Still Point Arts Quarterly,
Lakeview Journal, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Bryant Literary Journal, Meat for Tea, Marathon
Literary Review, Prick of the Spindle, and other publications. Michael is the author of an
acclaimed cover story in the Philadelphia City Paper, entitled “Home and Abroad.” He is the
author of a previous short fiction collection, Scenes fromthe Catastrophe (2016).

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Shortlist Winner Nominees

NOT FOR EVERYONE

by Joram Piatigorsky

“Damn it, Julie, you just don’t understand.”
“Relax, sweetie, I understand more than you think.”
“I worked on this last piece about the grasshopper who sings the blues…”
“I know the story, honeybun.”
“I love Waddle, the grasshopper…”
“I know, I know.”
“Waddle is a great character. He represents the plight of the musician, with humor. I

don’t know how to make him more appealing. He’s a social statement.”
“He’s terrific, sweets, I love him too. Funny and sad. Touching little guy.”
“You’re just saying that because you want to make me happy.”
“Ridiculous. I mean, I like you. I love you. But Waddle is great on his own.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I love you too. But if the story is so good, why did it get

rejected again. It’s the eleventh time. Why? Why? Why? Even The Imaginative Entomologist
sent it back. At least they read it. I’m tired of hearing that my stories have ‘promise’. And don’t
you think that asking for ‘authenticity’ about a guitar playing grasshopper is a little absurd? I
get discouraged. But, still…they did ask whether I had anything on beetles. Maybe I should…”

“Relax, dearest. Don’t get overexcited, remember. It takes time to build a career.”
“You’re right. But why do I spend all this time writing? There are so many books, stories,
essays, poems, on and on. What’s the value of another?”
“We’ve talked about that oodles of times, sweetie. You can’t stop and you know it. It’s artistic
expression. It’s your point of view that is important, and your legacy. There’s only one you.”
“Nobody cares about my opinion or what I’ve done. Does anyone really need to know,
anyone other than you and me?”
“Oh yes, dear. You’re important. You’re a wonderful person. Smart too.”
“You’re such a comfort to me.”
“I’m glad.”
“But when do you think I’ll get my writing career started, actually get something
published? I need some kind of income if we’re going to get married. I couldn’t even get that
cheap house by the lake. I couldn’t afford the down payment.”

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“It’ll come, dearest. Have patience. And I’ll always be here by you. I’ll wait as long as it
takes.”

“It’s not fair for me to ask you to do that. Maybe I should look for another profession. I
could go to school again. I’ve always been interested in architecture. I’ve been writing for six
years now, and that’s a long time. Can’t wait forever.”

“Everything is relative, sweetie. Van Gogh made it long after he died.”
“That’s supposed to encourage me? I want to see my stories in print now. Think of it,
Julie: security, getting married, together forever. Doesn’t it have a great ring to it?”
“I must admit, it does.”
“Maybe I should send out my trilogy of the sea, the sand and a doughnut again. I only
sent it to three publishers, and one gave me some vibes of encouragement. What do you
think?”
“I think your stuff is imaginative…but that one? I’m not sure the world is ready for it.
You’re ahead of your time, you know.”
“Maybe you’re right. Anyhow I want to work on it some more. Not everyone understands
why I included the doughnut.”
“That’s what I mean, darling. You’re ahead of your time. Your mind is so special.”
“Come sit next to me, Julie. I want to hug you. I do love you so.”
“I know. We’ve been together a long time.”
“Well, what you call long, others might say is a passing flash. Think of evolution or time/
space in the universe. It’s all so relative.”
Ding-dong.
“There’s the front doorbell. Paul and Louise said they would come early to set-up. The
others will arrive soon. You have such loyal friends. They’ve been planning your birthday
party for a long time. I’m not supposed to tell you, but they bought you a present you’ll love.”
“Ok, ok. But tell me, Julie, just one more thing before you go. Tell me the truth. I have
to know. Do you really like my stories?”
“They’re special, you’re special, and so sometimes it’s difficult to separate my love for
you from an objective, critical judgement. To me, your stories are wonderful. But they are
like other stories I’ve read, other great stories by famous authors, in one important respect.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, dear, they’re not for everyone.”
“Thanks for being honest. Let’s go celebrate my ninetieth.”

Joram Piatigorsky is a prominent molecular biologist and eye researcher, major Inuit art
collector and writer, and son of renowned cellist Gregor Piatigorsky and Jacqueline de
Rothschild. He is the author of the book Gene Sharing and Evolution, a novel Jellyfish Have
Eyes, a memoir The Speed of Dark, collections of short stories The Open Door and Notes
Going Underground. To learn more: http://joramp.com

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THE GIRL AND HER DOG

by Susan Swanson

I turned into the Good Shepherd parking lot, pulling in next to Margaret’s car, not quite sure
of my plan. Wondering whether to wait outside or go in. I didn’t want Margaret to see me
till later. I still had this feeling that I wouldn’t be welcome and might upset her. In that case,
better to wait till after the service. But with car windows open, I could hear the singing from
inside and couldn’t help myself.

It turned out that the choir was assembled right inside the door, many of them already
parading in — processing I guess I should say — so I maneuvered myself in a way that I just
sort of blended in on the side away from the organ at the back of the church. As they filed
into their pews next to Margaret, it was easy to slip past and find a spot behind a big fellow
in a blue suit over on the parking lot side of the sanctuary. He smelled strongly of cologne,
something I’d never get used to. Even so, it was a good location. Margaret was across the
aisle and to the right, and couldn’t see me unless I sat way forward, and I had a great view of
fall color along County Road 15. And with the windows open, there was the hint of a breeze.
All in all, it was so pleasant I was glad I’d come.

I even sneaked a look at that girl I’d once cared so much about. The organ was in a dark
corner, but her face was lit by a clip-on lamp over the music. She looked calm, almost bored,
and wasn’t as pretty as I remembered. Paler, if that was possible. And so skinny. It showed in
her face. As far as arms and body, I couldn’t tell anything because, like the choir members,
she was draped in a really big white top with flowing sleeves, kind of like an angel.

The service was familiar. Same one as at Trinity. The pastor wasn’t as good and had the
distracting habit of dropping his g’s. Reading was readin’, praying was prayin’, and so on. It
was okay when Ma had done it, but a leader in the church?

The hymns helped to make up for his shortcomings, though. All Hail the Power of Jesus
Name and Children of the Heavenly Father. I moved my lips, but didn’t sing, like Miss Nelson
advised before the Christmas program back in first grade. Much as I loved the setting and the
music, I just wasn’t comfortable enough to risk undue attention. Even when I loosened my
tie I took care to make the move with as little fuss as possible.

Nervous? That I was. And hopeful, too, that by the time the service was over I’d have my
butterflies under control. It seemed, though, that I’d barely settled in when the minister began
his benediction and the choir began recessing to Holy, Holy, Holy (men at the rear booming
it out), and the scent of coffee began wafting from somewhere. And then the congregation

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was straggling toward the narthex (or whatever it’s called) and my so-called friend Margaret
was playing something unfamiliar and cheerless, whiny in fact.

I stayed seated until the sanctuary was empty and she’d finished playing. Then, as she
took the music from the rack on the organ and turned off the light, I walked over.

“Hi,” I said, a throbbing in my throat.
She stared at me. Troubled, firm.
“I . . . .” I couldn’t seem to get out what I’d planned to say. Something about how since
my mother had died and I didn’t want to run into familiar faces at Trinity, I’d decided to come
to Good Shepherd for a change. (As if I even attended church now that Ma was gone.)
“What’s new?” I said instead, trying to sound casual.
“Not a lot,” she answered, studying me like she wasn’t sure who I was.
“So—” My voice was fluttery. “—been a long time.”
“Yeah. I guess.” It seemed like something a little off to the right had just caught her eye.
I cleared my throat. “Well, how’ve you been?”
“Good.” She reached down for her purse on the floor next to the organ. Purse, music,
her hands were full.
I stepped toward her. “May I help?”
“No. No thanks. I’m fine. Except—” She sighed. “—why are you here? Did Nancy call
you?”
And that was when I went into the song and dance about Ma and coming to Good
Shepherd so as to avoid all the sympathetic hubbub at Trinity.
“And you didn’t know I’d be here?” Not a hint of consideration about my loss.
“Well, I wasn’t sure.”
“Honestly?” A frown. Suspicious squint. Then a shake of the head. “Anyway, I gotta get
home.”
I was about to say okay, then reconsidered. This wasn’t about me and my feelings. This
was about someone on the verge of self-destruction. Someone I once really cared about.
“Look,” I said, “I know this sounds nervy, but how about coming over to my place for
breakfast? I’m a pro at bacon and eggs. And I’ve even got a raspberry Danish twist from
Miller’s.”
“Well . . . .” She looked around hopelessly, as if searching for an excuse.
Pulling in after me, she parked over near the shed. As I watched her get out, I was
reminded of the littlest angel in that book Ma used to get from the library at Christmas. The
littlest angel, but without the round-faced smile and glistening hair. In their place, a grimace
and greasy mop of split ends. To be honest, there was little resemblance except for the
winged, white smock. Nor was there anything attractive about her. What had I ever seen in
this sour-puss? I asked myself.
Even so, I hung in there. I wasn’t in this for fun or romance. This was about saving an old
friend who, according to Nancy, still talked about me in an affectionate way.

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“C’mon in,” I said as she dodged through Rusty and the chickens on her way to where
I stood on the porch. I pulled open the screen door. “Kitchen’s straight ahead through the
living room. Just sit down at the table and make yourself at home.”

I skipped after her, helped her pull out a chair, pushed it in when she was ready. And as
I moved around to face her, thought, what now?

“So, how’ve things been?” I asked. The same question I’d repeated in one way or another
at least three times since I’d met her at the church less than an hour before.

“Okay,” she said in a dreary voice, avoiding my eyes.
I was now standing at the refrigerator, holding the door with my hip while pulling out a
package of bacon and bowl of eggs. Eggs so fresh she’d have to love them.
“Your last year at the U?” I asked, slamming the door.
Her response was like a growl. “What?”
“Oh, sorry.” I turned around so she could see my lips. “Is this your last year at the U?”
“Yeah, and don’t be sorry. And don’t bother with those silly lip motions either.”
“Okay, I won’t.” And with that, I stepped to the stove, took six slices of bacon from the
package, set them in the frying pan, and began breaking eggs over them.
“Ugh.” She said.
I turned.
She was screwing her unhappy face even more than when she walked in. “You’re
actually stirring the bacon right into the eggs? That bacon’s gonna be raw long after the eggs
are done.”
“Oh, right,” I said, putting a halt to what had a moment before seemed a perfectly fine
way of making a bacon and egg breakfast similar to Ma’s, with crunch and scramble all in one.
Truth was, I’d never watched Ma do it. “So – “I turned back to Margaret.
“Here,” she said, abruptly getting up. “And I’ll need another frying pan.”
I got the pan from under the stove, meanwhile thinking, progress. At least she was
showing spunk. Enough spunk, it turned out, to fix the bacon/egg scramble to a turn while I
set the table and sliced the Danish.
But after that? Return to her morose, detached mood. And except for the clink of my
knife and fork and, every once in a while, hers, we went about the business of eating like it
truly was a business, with little in the way of pleasantries. My attempts at conversation were
minimal, pointless: “Do you enjoy playing organ?” “Have you ever thought of teaching?”
Her answers – that playing organ was okay and, as far as teaching it, she wouldn’t know
where to start – were so brusque that I decided maybe my choices for chit -chat needed some
revision. So while I sipped coffee and helped myself to another slice of Danish, I considered
other worthy subjects.
“Do you still live at home?” was the best I could do.
Her snapped “Nope” finally put a stop to my attempts at repartee. It was obvious she
wasn’t in the mood.

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So we sat there, breeze fluttering the kitchen curtains, branches scratching the screen,
Rusty cracking away on leftover kibble he’d found in his bowl, and me looking out the window
wondering how I was going to help this friend.

Then it occurred to me that what she now was, more than anything, was a stranger
with a chip on her shoulder. As for me, I was a fool, just like I’d been back when this same
impossible girl had cut me off years before. It was true that we’d been friends, and good
ones. Also true, and I had to acknowledge it, that right now she was hurting terribly. That
hurt was hard to detect, with all her angry display, but I knew it was there. She’d so planned
on successful ear surgery and living the rest of her life with decent hearing and without that
hearing aid that seemed to embarrass her and that she’d always somehow succeeded in
hiding. There could be no doubt she had a right to feel cheated, maybe even to the point of
giving up on everything. As her friend Nancy had explained on the phone after dropping the
news of Margaret’s suicide threat, Margaret had apparently cut herself off from everyone.
This everyone was a mystery to me. From what I remembered she didn’t have that many
friends, me being one among few. And now I’d been told that I’d been an important one, still
was an important one, and because of that might help her.

I looked back at Margaret, who was staring grimly at her plate. “How about a walk?” I
said. “The colors out back are gorgeous.”

“I don’t know.” Limp, defeated, she didn’t look up.
“Well . . . .” I stood, scraped her food into the trash, and stacked our plates, setting them
in the sink before turning back to her. “It’s such a nice day. And we don’t have to go far.”
She frowned, shrugged, got up.
“You know, you don’t have to.” I, too, shrugged. “I’d like to show you around, but . . . .”

I don’t know what Margaret thought of Daisy. I’d never mentioned a cow. “Give her a
pat,” I said as we passed her reeking pen at the side of the shed, where she hung out when
the weather was good and she wasn’t in the pasture. “See how she’s switching her tail. She’s
telling you she wants to be friends.”

Of course Margaret would have no part of it. In fact ignored my suggestion. So I reached
out and gave Daisy’s broad nose a good scratch, getting in turn a sandpaper lick. “We used
to get milk from her, but she’s dry now,” I said, even while knowing Margaret couldn’t have
given a spit.

A few minutes later, having gone through the gate and crossed the railroad tracks, we
were in the pasture. “Be careful,” I warned, “this is Daisy territory. I keep her out of the
mustard field further up, but down here’s where she’s free to do as she pleases.” In case
Margaret didn’t get it, I pointed out a round, flat gem that Daisy had dropped right in the
path. At least it was dry.

Sun high, colors in the distance just as gorgeous as I’d said — a lot of sumac and maple
up there in the windbreak by Jorgenson’s — I hoped Margaret was feeling a little of what I
always felt out here. Something indefinable, reassuring. Everything seemed okay. It was what
I missed most when I was at school out east. The sounds, the movement, the color. The color

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especially. Gold of mustard in spring. Unbelievable reds of bushes and trees in fall. Dark green
of “my” elm in summer.

Unfortunately the elm was already losing some of its leaves, making it less appealing,
but the remaining leaves and wide branches still offered splashy shade.

“This is where I’ve always come when I just wanted to be alone,” I told her when we
got to the tree. “Back when I was little I’d settle myself with my dog’s head on my lap and
listen to the birds, read a book, dream.” I pointed to the trunk. “Want to sample my fix for
whatever ails you?”

She shrugged.
“It’s such a perfect day,” I said, spreading my arms and circling the whole dazzling scene,
hoping she too was feeling it. Thinking as well that if I could just get her mind off defeat and
sadness for a while she might act like her old self. “Tell you what,” I said. “why don’t I run
back to the house for a blanket and coffee.”
I didn’t wait for a response.

At the house I got the old quilt from Ma’s bed and filled a thermos from the enamelware
coffee pot. Then, quilt tucked under arm and shopping bag with thermos and clean cups
clanking inside, I headed back to the field.

“Well what do you think of my paradise?” I said, spreading the quilt under the tree.
“Okay,” she answered, just standing there.
“Sit down. Rest your weary bones. Elm bark’s a little rough, but I pretend I’m getting a
massage.” I filled her cup and held it till she’d parked herself against the trunk, then handed
it to her. “I love it back here. This is where I spread Ma’s ashes. And it’s where, as a kid, I’d
sit and think about what it would’ve been like with a brother or dad to hunt and play ball
with.” I hoped I was letting her know she wasn’t the only one who could’ve asked for better.
“You remember I told you my dad was killed in the war?” I sat down next to her, but not
too close, and filled my own cup.
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Well—” I stopped. What was I doing? On the verge of revealing a secret that had been
sacred to Ma. And all with the big idea of convincing someone who couldn’t give a damn that
life was no bed of roses for any of us.
“Oh, forget it,” I said.
It wasn’t till then that I noticed little Lee Jorgenson coming down the hill, her big mutt,
Shep — probably part German Shepherd — leading the way. He was a well-behaved animal
and even went to school with her. It was either that, Mr. Jorgenson had told me, or send Lee
to a special school, and that he didn’t want.
“Hey,” I yelled, getting to my feet. “C’mon over and meet someone.” I knew Lee couldn’t
see me, but her dog would know enough to bring her.
Lee was cute, happy as a lark, about ten I suppose, with curly blond hair, a gap between
huge front teeth, and bright blue eyes behind big, round glasses that turned her into the kind

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of kid you just wanted to hug. Today she was wearing a plaid skirt, red sweater, and matching
ribbons.

“This is Margaret,” I said when she got close. “She came over for breakfast after church.”
“We just got home from church,” Lee replied, eyes wide, as though it were the most
bizarre of coincidences. “Yup. And now we’re on our way to check what the pennies look like.”
“Pennies?” I cocked my head and looked confused.
“Yup. We set them on the train track on Friday.”
“They’ll be flat as pancakes, I bet.”
“Yup. And I’m gonna take ‘em home and have Pa drill holes in them so I can string an
amazing necklace for Ma’s birthday.” She was looking at me, but not really. Like always, her
focus was just a little off. What her dad had told me was that everything was a blur to Lee,
unless it was really close. I’d seen her on the couch reading, book within an inch of her nose,
and in the front yard sizing up a rose, so close I worried about thorns taking whatever vision
was left. It would’ve been easy to pity her. But I didn’t. All I could think when I watched was
how amazing she was, making the most of what she had and, seemingly, loving life. Even
when it meant following that dog around like he was the horse and her the cart.
“Hey,” she said, “I nearly forgot. Watch for Shep and me in the Herald. The paper’s
photo-taker came to school to take a picture right next to my desk.”
A soft whistle from me. “Wow. Exciting. I bet he thought you were the cutest girl ever.”
She thought for a moment. “Yup. He said something like that. And he really liked Shep.
Gave him some dog biscuits and told him to keep up the good work. Anyway—” She looked
toward Margaret, sitting by the tree. “—nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you at the house
some day when Ma and Pa come over for cards.” She faced me. “When you gonna play cards
again? Seems like since your ma –”
“We’ll get back to it, I promise,” I said, squeezing her shoulder before giving Shep a pat.
“And you be careful down there by the tracks.”
I watched till they were beyond the bushes, then turned and sat down next to Margaret.
“Who is that? I didn’t catch her name,” she said as I picked up my coffee and took a sip.
“Is she blind?”

I went back to Good Shepherd again the next Sunday. It was cloudy, rainy, miserable, and
I had to sprint for the big double doors. Luckily, I had an umbrella, so I didn’t soak my Harris
Tweed. But loafers and cuffs of cords were drenched.

Inside, I collapsed the umbrella and stuck it in the stand by the door before wiping wet
leaves from my shoes and taking a bulletin from the usher. Then I headed for the same seat
as the week before where, since the church was pretty much empty, I’d have a perfect view
of Margaret. But as I made my way over to that side, I began to wonder if, considering the
energetic, happy nature of what was coming from the organ, Margaret was even there.

As soon as I sat down, I looked over. Well, thank goodness, there she was. Absorbed,
pushing and pulling buttons, reaching for pedals, turning that wooden behemoth into a

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string orchestra one minute, a brass band the next. Harps, violins, chimes, trumpets, tubas,
cymbals. The place vibrated.

And she was looking better too. No longer the dull eyes and limp, stringy hair. Even a
little color to her lips. Same white angel robe, of course, but clipped to the neck, something
shiny. Too big for costume jewelry. In fact, on that side the robe sagged some. What was it?
I strained to see. A box, rectangular, size of a pack of cards. And was that a string coming out
of it, leading straight up to . . . her right ear? My God. Not a string. It was a cord. What I saw
for the first time since we’d met was the hearing aid she’d always taken pains to hide.

During the service, I kept looking over to be sure I wasn’t making the whole thing up.
Sermon, choir anthem, hymns were a blur. Then, when at the end Margaret burst into another
amazing performance, I just sat there staring until, sanctuary empty, she wrapped up with a
flourish and began sliding from the bench.

“Wow!” I said as she approached. “Some organ playing.”
“Then it was worth all that practice?”
“I’d say. And deserving of a reward. Could I fix you breakfast?”
“Oh . . . .” A tilt of the head, a hopeless look. “How about me doing the fixing?”

Born and raised in Minnesota, Susan Swanson now lives in a New Orleans condo with her
Maine Coon cat. Her stories gravitate toward both where she grew up and where she lives
now. She has been a church organist, piano accompanist for the Suzuki violin program at the
University of Minnesota, and – at least to her mind – the consummate wife and mother. She
began writing when, as empty nesters, she and her husband took up residence in a dying
community on the River Road in Louisiana. It was simply something to do. She is eighty-two.

143

DOLLAR STORE
CROWN

by Sarah B. Moore

The Crown of Eyes, a shimmering red object with four piercing eyes, sat on the back shelf
of a dollar store, just beside the king-sized candy bars. She had been around this kind of
neighborhood; middle-class, urban, not always accounted for. That didn’t mean she would
be left behind in it. It was always men in the underground business nabbing her up and killing
each other for her power. Men throughout the ages rose and fell, and here she sat, deserted.

One of the employees came sweeping down her aisle. There wasn’t much to him; black
hair, slightly below average height, skinny. He fixated his gaze to the ground, brow knitted.
Typical in appearance to a novice eye, but the light didn’t shine in his brown eyes.

He didn’t notice her. Most people didn’t; a perk of some of her powers.
A high-pitched ring sprang from the employee’s pocket. Fidgeting with the broom, he
pulled out the flip-phone from his pocket.
“Amelia,” he began. “What’s going on?”
This one is an easy catch, Crown thought.
“Er...I can’t tonight. I’ve got a lot of studying to do.” The phone beeped. “My mom is
calling. I’ll talk to you, later... Yeah, um, love you too.” With one button press, he held the
phone to his ear again. “Mom,” he said, voice hushed, “I’m at work.”
This news didn’t deter his mother on the other side. She yelled incoherent words, some
of them Crown picked up: “...failing the exam... Has our help meant nothing? ...a disgrace,
Dean.”
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
“Dean,” Crown cooed.
Dean nearly dropped his phone. He looked around.
“Dean!” his mother said.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” He hung up.
“Don’t worry, it isn’t your boss checking to see if you’re staying on task.”

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“Ma’am, where are you?” Dean asked. “If you need help with something, let me know.”
“I don’t think I’m the one who needs help.”
Dean searched the aisle, clueless.
Crown sighed. “Down here, boy. The crown that doesn’t fit in.”
Dean made eye contact with her, freezing in place. A cold shiver must’ve latched to his
body; he kept his arms, along with his broom, close to his chest.
“Yes, here I am.”
Dean staggered back, dropping the broom. He shook his head. “I... I shouldn’t be hearing
this.”
“You’re not going crazy. Why do you humans have to act so shocked any time they
discover something new?”
Dean’s mouth twitched. “What are you?”
“I’m so glad you finally asked,” she said. “I am the Crown of Eyes, master of life and
death, pinnacle of human desire. I have lived many years, seen many faces, and granted
many wishes.”
He stared at her.
Crown sighed. “Not just any wishes, only the ones that benefit you. The greedier your
wish, the more potent the outcome.”
Dean squinted.
Crown rolled her four eyes. “Why don’t you try me? Pick me up.”
Dean hesitated. He looked down both sides of the aisle before stepping toward her. With
quivering fingers, he picked the crown up.
“Yes, that’s it,” she purred.
Dean closed his eyes. “I...um... I wish...I wish I passed my exam.”
“Granted.”
Dean opened his eyes. “How do I know if you’re telling the truth?”
“You’ll get a call later.” Her voice changed, solidified. A hand graced against Dean’s
shoulder.
Dean gasped and jumped away, twirling around to face a tall woman. Her face was
aged, yet slender and attractive. Long, layered black hair draped down past her shoulders
like a shawl. She was dressed in darkness. Whatever the material was made of, it covered her
entire body. The woman smiled down at him, patronizing in manner. “Don’t worry. It’s me.”
“Dean.” His manager stared at him from down the aisle. “Something wrong?”
“J-just helping this woman.”
“What woman?”
“Uh,” he stammered, then held up the crown. “Is this a leftover from the Halloween
stock?”

***

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No, she certainly wasn’t. Dean even got her free of charge. His manager could only scratch
his head at the sight of her. “People leave stuff here all the time,” he said. “Just throw it out.”

But that crown would not be tossed to the garbage disposal. Dean stuffed her away after
his shift ended and rushed back to his apartment, just a mile off campus. The snow was heavy
that evening, but his anticipation pushed him through.

He nudged the apartment door shut, dropping his things down by the desk in the corner
of the room. The floorboards creaked under his steps as he walked over to his bed, bag in
hand. Dean tore it open, pulling out the crown like it were a bomb. He sat down and dropped
the bag, inspecting the crown further.

She stood before him once again, still and nearly lifeless. Crown took a gander at the
bedroom setup. A couple of posters of things she never wanted to see hung on the walls
alongside abstract images. Several notices were stacked on the desk just beside balls of paper.

Crown traced a nail along a dusty pile of books before taking a seat in a chair in the
corner.

The silence between them weighed almost as much as the other two floors above them.
Dean’s phone beeped aggravatingly from his pocket. He set the crown aside and pulled
it out. “This is Dean.”
Crown leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands and grinning. She watched as his
face beamed like a growing house fire.
“My score sheet was switched?” Another minute passed of nodding and wide-eyed
smiling before he said a soft “goodbye” and hung up. “It really works.” He stood and paced
about. “This is incredible.” Dean stopped in the center of the room. “But what I don’t
understand is how something like you got stuck on a dollar store shelf.”
Crown scoffed, “I’ve been handed off many-a-time. A dollar store, though, that’s the
most—what you people call—vanilla of locations to end up in. I’ve been in places that would
make you run off with your tail between your legs.”
“Places like what?”
She indulged his morbid curiosity. “The Mongol invasion of Eastern Europe, 1246 AD.”
Dean fell back to his spot on the bed. “You’re that old?”
“Much older,” she replied, leaning forward. “I have gone through countless men. Kings,
criminals, outlaws, leaders, beggars.” Her nails stabbed into his knees, drawing blood. “It was
not I who lead them to their deaths, but their own greed.
“I’ve seen many like you, Dean. Good-natured, honest, precise. You’ll meet the same
fate as them, though.” She released her claws and laughed. “So why don’t you enjoy yourself
while you have this time with me?”
Dean sat there, frozen. “Why do this?”
Crown raised her brow. “Why? Because it’s fun.”
“And what if I threw you out?”
She shook her head. “Dean, you bound our souls the minute you made your first wish.
No matter how hard you try, I will be here by your side ‘till the day you die.”

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The color in Dean’s face diminished. Now, she waited for that pride to bubble up to the
surface.

“There’s a catch, isn’t there?” he asked.
“What makes you say that?”
“You say you’ve gone through thousands of other men and yet all of them met a
gruesome fate as a result of their greed.”
Crown rested her chin in her hand. “That is what greed does.”
He stood, face relaxing. “So, I’ll make wishes that benefit others around me.”
Crown stared at him long and hard before bursting into laughter. “That’s impossible. You
can only wish for yourself.”
“I got that much,” he replied, straightening. “Which is why I’ll make what I want what
others want.”
“You’re really going to sell yourself short. You won’t be able to resist the urge, boy. You’ll
fall for it.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Crown grinned at him.

***

The next day arrived as quickly as the last on frozen chariots through the city sky. People were
making their treks through the icy, concrete maze, whether on foot or in the back of a taxicab.
The snow came down hard, and yet, the city moved too swiftly for it to settle.

Dean had Crown tucked away in his bag, and yet she still preferred to walk by his side
down the sidewalk. Best to keep the lad on edge any time she could.

“I still don’t know where we’re going,” she said, expressionless.
“To class, but we’re going to take the scenic route.”
Dean gazed across the street. “There he is.” He picked up the pace.
Crown practically glided over the crosswalk behind Dean, graceful, yet eager in her
steps. She peered over his shoulder as they approached a raggedy, red-faced man dressed
in a dirtied coat and pants. The boy came to a halt half a block away from him. He turned his
back to him, biting his lip.
“Wait, I have to think about this,” he said.
Crown cocked an eyebrow. “What is there to think about?”
Dean held a gloved hand to his chin, muttering to himself. He met her gaze. “I wish for
a hundred-thousand dollars.”
Crown chuckled and put her hands on her hips. “For a college student, you really don’t
sound like you want it.”
“But I do!”
“I see what’s happening,” she said. “You’re going to give it all to the homeless man,
aren’t you?”

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“Well—”
“Try again. And this time, go ninety-nine-thousand lower.”
Dean huffed. “I wish for a thousand dollars.”
Crown sighed and turned to face the street. “It’s in your back zipper.”
Dean tore his bag from his back and pried it open. He pulled out a plastic bag of thick
stacks and his dark eyes glowed.
He wants it so bad, she thought.
Dean marched off to the homeless man, money in hand.
Crown followed after him with a hum. “Why don’t you take some for yourself? He really
doesn’t need all of that.”
“Sir,” Dean spoke, “I have something for you.”
The man stared at him with squinted eyes before he gasped. He took the bag of money
into his hands as if he were handling an unknown specimen. “God bless you!”
Dean nodded and smiled, exchanging a word or two before wandering away from him
and back to where Crown was.
“How sweet of you,” she said. “Don’t you want to see what he does with that money?”
“I don’t need to know. A thousand is a solid start for him.”
Crown leaned to the side. “He seems excited to jump onto turning his life around.”
Dean turned to look. The newly cashed-in man jogged down the sidewalk, hugging the
money in his arms.
“You don’t know that man. For all you know, he could be spending all that money at a
fancy strip club.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
Dean scowled. He glanced down at the sidewalk. “We’ll see where he goes, but not for
too long.” He power-walked after the man.
They followed the giddy man around a corner and down another three blocks. That’s
when he turned left into an alleyway.
“Good things never happen in alleys,” Crown said.
Dean shushed her.
Hesitantly, he crept to the edge of the wall to peek around. Crown stepped carelessly
in front of it.
The man walked a door, tearing off his coat to reveal cleaner clothes under his rough
exterior. He tossed the old rag of a parka into a trash heap as another man stepped out from
the door.
“I’m fuckin’ stacked!” he exclaimed, holding up the bag of money.
“Where the hell did you get all that?” the other man asked.
“Why don’t you try sitting your ass on the sidewalk for once?”

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