Adelaide Literary Magazine No.22, March 2019

around my waist. I drew my curled hair back “It is not an easy task to get Aamna to part
into a braid, lacing the three strands together with Auntie or I,” Rina began, “so we will not
out of my face. be far. Feel free to use anything we have here
for your work. I know you are just getting to
“Helloooo…” I heard a child’s voice sing. know one another. She loves to color, to read,
to play dress up...”
I stepped out to find a small, lanky girl
standing at the door. Her eyes were wide and “Dress up.” Aamna affirmed briefly, begin-
curious and she swayed back and forth on the ning again to sway from side to side.
tips of her toes.
“Ohh, dress up. Would you like to show me
“Hello miss, you must be Aamn-” I began as what you have?”
she darted away laughing, running to find an-
other hiding place behind a man who stood in Aamna tightened the hold on her mother’s
the kitchen. arm, lifting one hand to her eye to block me
from her sight.
“Ohh, Aamna.” Rina shook her head at the
giggling girl. “Oh, don’t be shy. Let’s make it a race. I bet
you can’t beat her to your room?” they shared
The man wore all white, dressed also in a glance.
custom and adorning a long, black beard.
Aamna then took once more to her feet,
“And Isabelle, this is Aabid. My husband.” running down the same hallway and dashing
into a bedroom. I nodded at Rina with grati-
I approached the kitchen eagerly, “Oh hello, tude, following after the girl. The first day of
it is nice to meet you...” I extended my hand therapy with any child on the spectrum is
again to shake his, which he only peered at. marked by pairing, discovering their likes and
Rina instead took my hand, cupping it in hers dislikes and earning their trust through play. As
with a smile. I caught my breath. I rounded the threshold of the room, I came to
find a toy chest overturned and a colorful pile
He nodded seriously, “Good to see you.” of princess dresses sprawled across the floor.
She paid no attention to me, rummaging
“And this is Auntie,” Rina gestured to an through the items before her.
older woman, dressed in gold with a covered
head who shuffled in to join the rest, taking my “Pretty, pretty dress…” she sang to herself,
stolen hand and placing it into hers, “She helps lifting a yellow sparkling gown from the mess.
take care of our girl when we are working.”
“Are you a princess, Aamna?” I bent down
“Oh hi,” I grasped Auntie’s hand in mine, “I to join her.
am so excited to be here and to serve your
family.” She turned away from me, still dancing on
her toes. I watched patiently.
“She doesn’t speak English.” Rina stopped
me, “Only Urdu. She moved here just recently “Pretty, pretty, pretty…” she slipped her
from Pakistan to be with us.” skinny arms into the costume, pulling it on over
her already clothed form.
“Ah! Oh. Of course.” I laughed tensely and
they watched me. I felt as if I knew absolutely “Oh,” I laughed at her now crooked appear-
nothing about anything at all. I clenched my ance, “your dress is on backwards, silly!”
materials close to my chest. “Well, I guess we
should get to it then. What shall we do today, But as I reached out to adjust the fabric,
miss?” I asked rhetorically, bending down and she pulled back away from my hand with a
smiling at the little girl now stood hugging her blank stare. She quickly turned and ran from
mother’s arm.

the room. I rose to chase after her, we would “What, um...what are you listening to?” I
make it a game. It was written in her profile asked, noting the indistinguishable tune.
that Aamna liked to play tag. I searched the
hallway for her and watched her dart into an- “These are today’s passages,” he gently
other room. took the speaker from his daughter’s hands
and placed it back on a nearby shelf, “from the
“Aamna…” I entered to find her dancing Quran. I am doing my daily studies.”
around Auntie, who sat with folded knees in
prayer on the floor. My eyes widened with the The voice on the speaker fluctuated, rising
unease of our intrusion. “Hey, let’s go dress and falling in a language foreign to my own. My
up…” I whispered, reaching out for the little girl cheeks were hot with continued embarrass-
who paid no attention to me. ment.

Auntie rested upon a blue mat, bowing with “That is lovely. Well we won’t interrupt you
outstretched arms towards her window. What any further. I really do apologize.” I reached
was once silence was now filled with the hums out for Aamna once more, “Dress up? Do you
of a little girl, who circled around her devotion. still want to?”
Auntie sat up, looking back at me.
Without hesitation, she rose once more to
“Hello. I’m so sorry. Let me get her out of scamper away. I followed through the kitchen
your way.” I attempted to corral the little one, and Rina stopped me, a smile across her lips.
but she slipped out of my grip, now skipping
around the room. “This is what our girl does.” she began, stir-
ring together vibrant ingredients in a pan. “You
“Pretty dress, dress, dress.” she repeated. have to earn your place with her. I’m sure you
know.”
Auntie lowered her eyes and turned back to
her prayer. I attempted to hug Aamna up into “Oh, yes. Most of our clients are this way.” I
my arms, but again she escaped out the door knew this to be true. Shaping takes time.
and into the home. I followed, watching as she
climbed across couch cushions and under ta- “You just have to meet her where she is at.
bles to the find the front room where her fa- Eventually, she will let you in.”
ther was sitting. The smell of curry spices crack-
ing in oil followed us in the chase, Rina now I had read that Aamna’s favorite place to
stood preparing food in the kitchen. play in her home was the bathroom. Mirrors
and cabinets made a perfect playground for a
“What are you doing, Aamna?” I heard the mind like hers. So I followed down the same
deep voice of her father echo across the floor hallway to that place, bringing with me a small
as I approached. plastic crown from the emptied toy chest, and
behind the door I heard the girl singing her
She smirked up at him, sat below at his song.
feet. Words sung from a speaker over the
room, Aamna running her fingers across the “Pretty dress, pretty Aamna…”
metal holes protecting the boom. Aabid looked
up in my direction. I opened the door to find her sat with legs
crossed on the bathroom counter, studying the
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I don’t think our reflection in the mirror. Her eyes shifted to-
little friend wants much to do with me today.” I wards me and she grew silent.
explained, stepping into the space.
“Don’t worry. We don’t have to do anything
She ignored my presence, taking the small today.” I started, made truly aware of my out-
speaker into her arms and curling up against sidedness. “I know it can be hard, meeting new
her father’s leg. people.”

She brushed me off, shaking her bobbed
hair in the mirror and watching the dark
strands move and fall. I made my way to the
other side of the counter, climbing up onto it
myself and sitting the same. This caught her
attention and she stared at my reflection in-
quisitively. I copied her movements, observing
myself as she had.

“I see two eyes…” I started, “and one nose.
I see long hair and,” I placed the plastic crown
on the top of my head “look! I can dress up
too.”

She broke her silence with laughter, “Two
eyes. One nose.” she repeated, touching her
own. She turned, locking eyes with mine for
the very first time. She touched my hair “Long
hair.”

“Big teeth,” I grinned, showing my teeth.
“Two cheeks.”

She held my face in her little hands. “Two
cheeks.”

“And what is your name, pretty girl in your
pretty dress?”

“Aamna.”

About the Author

Isabelle Runge is a freelance writer and stu-
dent of Psychology living in West Palm Beach,
Florida. With a love for both the written word
and the advocation of mental health, she
hopes to bring together the two to bring to life
the untold stories of the lives around her.

THE GOLDEN RECORD

by Emmi Conner

I have spent a lot of my life looking up at the In the beginning of Voyager 1’s conception,
night sky, wondering what surrounds the stars the probe was only meant to accomplish a fly-
that we can see from Earth. I’ve dedicated by of Jupiter, Saturn, and one of Saturn’s
countless hours to talking and thinking about moons called Titan. NASA scientists didn’t ex-
the possibility that there’s something else out pect the spacecraft to survive past the explora-
there, maybe even someone else out there. tion of Saturn. However, Voyager 1 eventually
And, maybe, they’re thinking about the same became part of a larger exploration project
things. Maybe they sit outside every night with called the Grand Tour that was meant to take
their intergalactic six-legged dog, feeling the photos of the outer gas giants of our solar sys-
blue-tinted grass on their skin, and wondering tem: Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune.
about what lies beyond. Maybe they look at Even as a part of this larger expedition, no one
our sun, as part of a bigger constellation from expected the probe to go as far as it has gone
their perspective, and wonder how cool it or to see as much as it has seen. Voyager 1 is
would be if something lived around it. Maybe the only man-made object to go beyond the
our sun is their Sirius, the brightest star in their borders of our solar system, which means it
sky every night. Maybe they’re trying to figure now flies in interstellar space, the space be-
out how to send us a message. tween solar systems of our galaxy. It’s one of
the fastest machines we’ve ever made, travel-
The Voyager 1 space probe was sent out ling through empty space at about eleven miles
into the skies by NASA on September 5, 1977. per second. According to NASA scientists, Voy-
In that same year, the first Apple II computers ager 1 and the Golden Record it carries will
were released; Star Wars premiered in thea- likely spend hundreds of thousands of years
ters all across the world; Billboard’s Top Hot roaming the Milky Way, hoping to be found by
100 Songs featured artists like Stevie Wonder, some form of intelligent life. If its message is
Fleetwood Mac, and Queen; everyone who was ever found by other life, the Record could very
anyone wore plaid pants and fringed leather well be what finally connects us to the rest of
jackets; and, for the very first time in human our galaxy.
history, we prepared a message for the rest of
the universe to hear. That message explains When NASA decided they wanted to equip
almost every aspect of human life, both biolog- Voyager 1 with an extraterrestrial communica-
ically and personally, through 115 images, 27 tion, they enlisted one of the most popular
songs, 21 sounds, and 55 greetings. That mes- astronomers in history, a man who is second
sage is called the Golden Record, and it’s our only to Galileo himself, Dr. Carl Sagan. Sagan
opening line to interstellar civilizations that we was given the almost impossible task of decid-
aren’t even sure exist. ing what should be put on the Golden Record.

It was up to him to come up with an accurate conditions of space for an unforeseeable
representation of not just all of human history amount of time, so Sagan needed to make sure
up to 1977, but also the history of the Earth it was equipped with protective metal. Eventu-
and of our solar system. He had to figure out a ally, he and his committee decided that a 12-
way to explain an entire world and the worlds inch copper phonograph record plated in gold
that surround it to a species he’d never met would do. Sagan then moved on to the cover of
and knew nothing about. They don’t speak any the Record, engraving instructions on how to
of our Earthly languages, they’ve never experi- play it. I guess he knew that most of the aliens
enced any of our cultures, and they may not out there in the universe aren’t used to spin-
even have the physical ability to hear, see, and ning vinyl when they’re looking for some enter-
feel in the same way we do. How do you possi- tainment. The instructions explain how to con-
bly communicate with that? How do you give struct the images that are coded into the Rec-
understanding to something you can’t under- ord, and they show the first image given: a cir-
stand? That was what Dr. Sagan had to figure cle.
out.
Sagan included 114 other images that range
Of course, Sagan didn’t work alone. He from a simple breakdown of our number sys-
formed a committee of his colleagues from tem to a Chinese dinner party. Some of the
Cornell University to help put our best foot images explain human biology, anatomy, and
forward with our first big step into the uni- reproduction; however, human reproduction
verse. People from almost all backgrounds had to be explained through diagrams because
from Native American to Japanese to Italian to sending nude pictures of men and women into
American stepped in to help with the project, space was prohibited by NASA. They didn’t
providing a diverse lineup of languages, dia- want aliens getting the wrong idea about hu-
lects, and backgrounds to offer our cosmic manity. Other pictures give our stellar address
neighbors. Even the people who weren’t able and show the planet that we call “Home.” Pic-
to add to the Golden Record were fascinated tures of people who make up the world’s vary-
by it. People all over the world were glued to ing races and cultures take up a lot of the Rec-
their televisions as they waited anxiously while ord, showing that we are a diverse species, but
Voyager 1 was prepared for launch in the we all share the same basics of human anato-
months leading up to September 1977. In the my. Some of these pictures are meant to show
years following the launch, we were amazed by the bonds that form between humans while
the pictures it sent back to Earth of Jupiter’s others represent the way we use our senses of
storms and Saturn’s rings. Space travel began sight and smell. There are landscapes of ocean
to seem like the next big thing, especially in shores, islands, sand dunes, forests, and other
America. Two years after the launch, Voyager 1 topographies of the Earth. Some images exhibit
got its first big moment in pop culture. The the different forms of life that inhabit the plan-
1979 movie, Star Trek: The Motion Picture, et, like frogs, trees, insects, elephants, dol-
featured the fictional probe Voyager 6 and its phins, and even a picture of Jane Goodall stud-
journey back home to Earth. ying chimps in the wild. The only major aspects
of human life that are not shown through the
The popularity of Voyager 1 and the Golden images of the Golden Record are war, disease,
Record only added to the pressure that was crime, and religion. Dr. Sagan and his com-
already weighing on Carl Sagan. It was time for mittee decided that depicting these parts of
him to figure out a way to present the human humanity wouldn’t be a good idea in our first
race through a medium that would be under- communication with other life. The human
standable to extraterrestrials. He started with race is depicted in a very positive light on the
the construction of the Record itself. It had to Record since it is meant to make a good im-
be able to withstand the harsh and unforgiving

pression with whoever or whatever eventually Finally, the last things that will be played on
intercepts it. the Record, should it ever be intercepted by
intelligent life, are greetings in 55 different
Also included on the Golden Record is a languages from humans all around the planet.
playlist of songs that represent human history This part of the Voyager 1 project was led by
and culture. Groups from around the world Carl Sagan’s wife, writer and artist Linda Salz-
offered their music to Sagan and his team to man Sagan. She instructed people to provide a
consider putting in the record. In the end, 27 brief greeting to possible extraterrestrial life
songs were chosen to be played for interstellar and got back a variety of recordings. The first
ears, if aliens even have ears. Bach has three greeting on the Record is simply “Namaste.”
pieces that made the final cut, Beethoven has The Aramaic and Hebrew greetings are the
two, and Mozart has one. Among other na- shortest and both feature only one word:
tions, China, Peru, Australia, Japan, and Mexico “peace.” One of the longer ones comes from
all chose songs to feature. Members of the the Min dialect of the Amoy language, who
Navajo Nation submitted a Night Chant to the said, “Friends of space, how are you all? Have
Record. As far as American classics go, Sagan you eaten yet? Come visit us if you have time.”
included “Johnny B. Goode” by Chuck Berry The English greeting was recited by a young
and “Melancholy Blues” by Louis Armstrong. American boy and says, “Hello from the chil-
My personal favorite song on the Record, dren of planet Earth.” The only individualistic
though, is “Dark Was the Night” by Blind Willie greeting on the Record was spoken in Swedish
Johnson. I like to imagine that’s what Voyager by one of Dr. Sagan’s colleagues at Cornell Uni-
1 is jamming to while it drifts through space. versity and says, “Greetings from a computer
programmer in the little university town of
Along with the songs on the Golden Record, Ithaca on the planet Earth.” US President Jim-
Dr. Sagan also thought to include some sounds my Carter also added a message to this section
from Earth. The sounds of volcanoes, earth- of the Record, in which he expressed his hope
quakes, and thunder storms explain the de- along with the rest of the world “to join a com-
structive capabilities of our planet and its at- munity of galactic civilizations.”
mosphere. The sounds you might hear during a
late Spring night spent on a back porch looking Voyager 1 has been zooming through space
up at the stars are played through the chirping for over forty years now, carrying the message
of crickets and the low rumble of a frog’s croak. that might one day connect humanity with our
A few animals are featured on the Record, in- interstellar neighbors. Dr. Carl Sagan, unfortu-
cluding hyenas, elephants, and birds. In my nately, died on December 20, 1996 at the age
opinion, the laughing of a pack of hyenas of 62, taking with him the mind that has pro-
sounds about as welcoming as a gunshot, but it pelled the field of astronomy forward in count-
still made the cut. Sagan even included howls less capacities.
from a wild dog and barking from a tame dog,
showing the extraterrestrials that find the Rec- In November of 2017, Voyager 1 fired its
ord that we’ve learned to live alongside the TCM thrusters, extending its mission by an ad-
other creatures of our world. Morse Code is ditional two to three years, meaning its almost-
explained through the sounds of communica- fifty-year-long mission will most likely end in
tion between two ships. One of the last things 2025. After that point, Voyager 1 will no longer
aliens will hear in this portion of the Record is sustain the technology it needs to communi-
the pop of a kiss, followed by a crying child and cate with or be controlled by NASA scientists,
a cooing mother. As the baby whines, his here on Earth. The probe will continue to jour-
mother says to him, “Oh, come on now. Be a ney through interstellar space until one day,
good boy. Be a good boy.” Of all the Earthly when it may be found and retrieved by the
sounds Sagan could have chosen, I don’t think other inhabitants of our Milky Way galaxy. Un-
a better one exists.

til that day, we will continue to wait while our
message in a bottle floats through the wide
and vast cosmic ocean that we have cast it in-
to.

About the Author
Emmi Conner is a senior at the University of
North Carolina Wilmington, studying Creative
Writing and History. She typically writes histori-
cal fiction and crime fiction, though she also
loves research-based nonfiction. She is current-
ly working on her first novel and hopes to have
it finished by May 2019. Conner grew up in a
small town called Harris, North Carolina and
now lives in Wilmington. This is her first pub-
lished piece.

ALL THE THINGS
WE OCCUPY

by Amanda Gaines

My mother collects daughters. In 1994, at frogs in Lee Blea’s house. Glass figurines of
twenty-six, she had her first. One year later she grinning amphibians, stuffed and sewn green
founded a nonprofit for women in Lincoln bodies, and webbed hands drawn and painted
County: The Girl’s Resiliency Program. The alike lined my grandmother’s walls. Her fridge
number of women interested in joining quickly was covered in froggy magnets, her coffee
grew from around ten girls to over one hun- mugs ringed with them, too. Annually, she
dred. Most of them came from low-income sewed frog-printed fabric onto my sisters’
homes. Many of them were abused, neglected. plush winter hats. My grandmother even kept
My mother worked to rebuild their confidence a few live and colorful tree frogs in a steamy
and provide a support system of similar women tank for a couple of years. When they died,
available to them. Somewhere in between the none of us were surprised. She smoked from
rebirth of these young women, my own sisters the time she was a teenager until the day she
were born—Rebecca in 2000, Olivia in 2002. died last May, 2017. Her furniture was coated
in a thick layer of pet hair and cigarette smoke.
In an online ethnography, Thinking Outside Even as a child, I wasn’t ignorant to the num-
the Girl Box, Linda Spatig’s introduction begins ber of dogs who’d come and been buried only
and ends the same way: by falling in love with a few years into their stay at my grandparent’s
my mother. She is described as someone who house. Shotsy, Charlie, Poopshka. There were
pours herself into those she works with—the others; I can’t remember them all.
physical evidence of change in these women
proof that she has been there, that something During visits, our mother would tuck us in
she has done or said mattered enough to last. on blow-out mattresses under quilted triangles
She was in constant motion. She was a fixer. where we could make out frogs dancing, kiss-
She sewed small parts of herself to these wom- ing, riding bikes. When I was little, I thought
en, creating a patchwork that she could trace the frogs were cute. Her house reminded me of
back to herself; restored mothers, adopted an interactive museum dedicated to the slimy
daughters. Trophies and works in progress. creatures. Hers was a place I associated with
snuck cups of coffee while my mother wasn’t
While she was alive, it was hard to ignore the looking and truck drives squished between

both grandparents. My grandmother’s living stopped speaking before I was born. Mom tells
room doubled into a themed hair salon when I me that they had a falling out long ago; that my
sat cross-legged by her feet, letting her comb grandmother left home young, was a go-go
my hair back and twist my yellow locks into dancer, made and abandoned a lot of relation-
intricate and tight braids. I was always looking ships due to feeling slighted or dissatisfied. The
for ways to be touched. Even when she pulled narrative my grandmother perpetuated claims
sharply at my scalp for looking off at the televi- that my great-grandmother didn’t care enough
sion, I translated this attention into love. about her children, that she was secondary to
her mother’s desires. She moved often, fell in
Our trips to our grandparents’ were few and out of love often. She was in constant mo-
and far between; like my grandmother, mom tion.
left home young, citing violence and abuse as
reasons to go. She was seventeen, and left be- Amidst the stories, my grandmother had
hind her two little sisters to live with my great- her collection. There were so much of it; frog
grandmother. My grandmother and mom mugs, animated amphibian fabric, tiny toads
fought often and would go through spells of becoming princes once kissed by a blonde prin-
silence, each arguing that the other was insen- cess. Remembering my own grandmother’s
sitive and to blame for what would be labeled box blonde hair, I can’t help but wonder if she
post-fight as a “miscommunication.” When I saw herself in those porcelain princesses. How
was young, I understood these arguments par- romantic would it have been: to be able to
tially, but cared little about the implications peck her problems and watch them trans-
they had on me. My mother and I were begin- form—the physical ease of a kiss resulting in a
ning to fight regularly ourselves; siding with fantastical metamorphosis into a better life. In
mom against my grandmother after mom the fairytale, the princess has innate power: an
threw a bowl at me for leaving it out too long ability to control the natural world that my
seemed counterproductive to my own anger. grandmother yearned for until she died. Nei-
ther labor nor effort is involved in getting what
I was twenty-two when my grandmother the princess wants. But she never got her wish;
passed; it had been eight or more years since her frog prince life a series of angry memories
I’d seen her in person. Much of my memory of that was boxed up and forgotten with such
her was faded, insubstantial. After the funeral, ease it seemed like magic.
my mom gave me one my grandmother’s gold
brooches decorated with purple rhinestones to “Collected objects are like holy relics: conduits
look like flowers and a white, hollowed-out, to another world,” says Philipp Blom, cultural
ceramic frog, just big enough to hold it. I historian and writer for The New York Times. It
thought of her collection as I placed the pieces transcends time and space; it gives the collec-
in my bag; I’d expected more. tor an emotional and place-based stamp to
possess and cling to. He continues, “The ob-
Psychologist and professor Mark McKinley jects and their organization bind us to some-
states in The National Psychologist that “For thing larger than ourselves, and as religion was
some people collecting is simply the quest, in born out of a fear of death and the wish of
some cases a life-long pursuit that is never eternal life, collecting expresses the same fun-
complete.” Christian Jarret of The Guardian damental urges.”
argues that one rationale behind collecting is
uncared for children’s drive to “seek comfort in Readers were asked to contribute to the
accumulating belongings;” possessions as a discussion on The New York Times database—
form of emotional fulfillment that was not their responses and personal stories varied and
achieved by their parents. equally supportive and dissenting from these
known conceptions about collecting. One
My grandmother and great grandmother had

reader, “Wide World,” stated that “There is school day had ended. The kitchen is the desig-
perhaps another impulse to collecting that is nated fighting arena of our house. Constructed
often overlooked--the desire to impose order fully of hardwood and open to the living room,
on an otherwise (or seemingly) disorderly decorated with antique, checkered window
world. And while this, too, is ritualistic in its blinds, hung scripture and plants, it’s always
nature--a way to manage anxiety, fear, and seemed wrongly suited for the venomous con-
unsteadiness amidst impermanence--it is simi- frontations it holds. Today, my mother and I
lar to the motivation that inspires art-making stalk around the kitchen table, boxers warming
and story-telling as methods for making sense up. Last week, it was a flat surface for a game
of life, or giving meaning to life by giving mean- of Sorry and Uno. My father overwaters the
ing to that which we collect.” hanging ivy on our ceiling beams because he’s
worried it isn’t getting enough. There’s a
The first time my mother saw the tower of old framed picture I drew in kindergarten on the
gum I’d stacked to the back of my toilet, she wall by the front door. There’s also space
threw it away. She didn’t bring it up to me, and enough to gesture, room enough to retreat, tall
I didn’t confront her about it, either. I couldn’t ceilings that make threats seem to echo and
come up with a rational approach to ask why resonate.
she would do this. I was in eighth grade, tall,
and blocked in at weight that doctors would I tried to avoid it as often as I could. But
deem unhealthily thin. I’d recently lost a good when it came down to a fight or flight situation,
deal of weight; self-starvation requiring will- my instincts have always stayed the same.
power that I attributed in part to my trident-
flavored statue. My logic was based on fear “Why are you doing this?” I yelled. “Don’t.
and chance; my shrinking waist and growing Touch. My. Things.”
tower correlation without causation that I re-
fused to consider. For weeks, my gum had “Why are you doing this?” she retorted.
gone untouched, precariously angled, but “It’s disgusting.”
standing. After a few rounds of trial and error, I
discovered it only takes a day for the composi- “I clearly put it there for a reason. You
tion to harden, allowing for additional pieces to don’t have to understand. I don’t move your
be added daily, carefully. Sticking more than sewing materials wherever I want when they’re
one wet piece at time takes skill, and must be in my way, do I?” My eyes bugged. My already
done with precaution. It also apparently took a knotted stomach clenched.
day for it to come down.
“You can’t keep this up. It isn’t healthy. You
The second time my mother saw the tower need to see someone.”
of gum I’d started restacking against the toilet,
she threw it away and confronted me. No num- “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I
ber of tugging on each side of my earlobe or swear,” I growled, “The little bits of lunch I do
tapping the side of my door with my right eat will get tossed if you do this again.” My
hand, then my left, could save me. I imagine hands were clenched. Right hook. “And I’m not
she thought by asking me about it, I’d fold like seeing someone.” Duck left, fake out.
my gum structure disgracefully—cease and
desist. After having lived off sugar-free butter- “Besides,” I continued, “We both know that
scotches, raw apples and cinnamon, and Fiber we can’t afford it.” I could practically hear my
One soaked in hot water for months, however, words crack against her jaw. A KO on impact.
this is not what happened.
Her face slackened. I’d won. She pursed her
We were in the kitchen, sometime after the lips and walked away. My mother, like me, is
better at being angry than sad. Yelling is used
to show care, slammed doors a non-verbal ac-
ceptance that the other is right, drawn out si-

lences meant to say I’m too proud to approach book’s first page. “Enter Shelley: baby on one
you first. Whoever cries first loses. Unlike yell- hip, bright smile on her face. Radiating enor-
ing, crying is instinctive, a result of the body mous energy and optimism...”
betraying the will. In my family, the value of
control is learned and passed down like memo- It’s just started to snow in Morgantown,
rabilia. and my outfit seems suddenly as ridiculous as
the unexpected weather: a denim suit jacket
I imagine she went downstairs to work on a that smells like fries, an oversized and stained
sewing project she’d been at for weeks. I know red shirt, and cargo pants slid on top of dirty
my father stayed out of it. I see myself return- leggings I had been too lazy to take off before
ing to my upstairs bathroom, sticking the piece leaving the house. I start crying. Heavy metal
of gum from my mouth onto the back of my blares from unseen speakers, and I’m sunken
toilet, turning the sink faucet four times with deep into a crevice on the black pleather
each hand. I probably pulled out my yoga mat couch, my body folded awkwardly. I check be-
and did one hundred crunches despite my hind me to see if anyone caught me wiping my
bruised spine, feeling shitty yet safe. I don’t eyes. I have an embarrassing habit of crying
remember. I am getting good at not remem- easily at the mention of my family. I don’t re-
bering things I want to forget. member being this attached growing up. By the
time I was eight, I was used to spending whole
I come from a long line of imperfect daughters. weekends with friends. My sisters have both
My grandmother misunderstood by her moth- told me that they don’t remember being at
er, my mother feeling unloved by her mother, home at all. And I don’t really, either. I have a
me, feeling ignored by mine. How do we miti- strong sense that many of my memories of
gate the emotional losses of femininity when home are embellished or half-truths I rewrite
silence is a staple in our conversations? Things, from stories my parents have told me. For such
it seems, lend us some control in reshaping a large family, very little of us is mine.
identities that feel inescapable. Daughters,
frogs, gum: it’s all relative. Tangible tokens are My tattoo consultation was supposed to
forms of power that are impossible to reject— start at twelve, so I got there ten minutes till. It
unlike love, one can’t argue their existence. My takes almost an hour to be seen. When my
grandmother wanted to change her present, name is called, I’m ushered quickly to the back
my mother, her past, myself, the future. Our by Andrew, my artist, who immediately
stories and collections are synonymous and donned a pair of black surgical gloves before
interwoven; shared and rewritten and miscom- pulling out my illustrations.
municated over time. But they are there, and
through them, we see ourselves: surviving “Is this what you were thinking?” he asks.
through our many lives. He shows me a large deco 5 and two different
images of sewing needles. One is the picture I’d
I’m reading free ethnography excerpts while sent, the other a spool. Both are beautiful, but
sitting in Stick tattoo parlor waiting for my con- significantly smaller than the 5 he’d drawn up.
sultation to start. My mother hates tattoos, but Originally, I planned on getting five tattoos
one I’m waiting to see drawn up is for her. A from him in one session: the needle for my
simple needle and thread done in black— mother, the five for my father (his lifelong soc-
delicate lines I plan on putting on the nook of cer number), and an O and an R for my sisters.
my arm, the inside of the elbow. I imagine her Somewhere in the flurry of sent and received
hand there—an affirmation, a stabilizing touch emails to the people in charge of setting ap-
I know well from walking linked through malls, pointments, important details had been lost.
or when leaving restaurants. A young version My sister’s initials were not mentioned. My
of her is here, too, waiting for me on this father’s 5 was large, almost three times as big
as my mother’s piece.

“Um, is there any way we can make this About the Author
smaller?” I asked, pointing to the 5. “And did
you get my email about the minimalistic face?” Amanda Gaines is an MFA candidate in CNF in
I shifted from one foot to the other, biting my WVU's creative writing program. She was a
nails. poetry editor for Mind Murals, the Eastern
Region's literary journal for Sigma Tau Delta,
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied. “You want some- and is the nonfiction and co-poetry editor of
thing like this? Greyscale? ” He pulled up the Into the Void. She is also the new nonfiction
picture I’d sent, and a scaled down 5. It was editor for Cheat River Review. Her poetry, non-
still significantly larger. I am not good at saying fiction, and fiction are published or awaiting
what I want. I nodded. publication in The Oyez Review, Straylight,
Gravel, Typehouse, The Meadow, Brilliant Flash
“So, where do you want these?” he asked, Fiction, Dewpoint, Up the Staircase, Rouge
motioning to my sleeve. Agent, and Into the Void.

“Um, I’m so sorry, but I thought today was
just supposed to be a consultation.” Andrew
seemed as uncomfortable as I was, both of us
avoiding each other’s eyes. “I have an eye ap-
pointment in a little while that I really can’t
miss,” I tried. “But I definitely want all these
things,” I followed quickly. “Just not, like, right
now.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “No rush.” He pulled
off the gloves and led me back to the waiting
room. We agreed to a time that upcoming
week, but when I got in my car to leave, my
stomach was turning. It would have only taken
a few words of clarification and honesty on my
end to get exactly what I wanted. Buckling up, I
promised myself there was plenty of time to
make the changes I planned for. The mock-ups
he’d worked on would have to be thrown away
again. I hoped he would understand.

LOUD MUSIC

by Leslie Tucker

He is mournful and scornful, bellowing about I was primed for Mick by my nighttime ra-
love in vain, alternating a velvet baritone with dio habits.
a nasal whine. Thick, damp hair flops at his
shoulders. His ivory-colored sequined jumpsuit, Dad had given me a transistor radio on my
open to the waist, reveals a gleaming chest as thirteenth birthday for listening to live broad-
he struts and gyrates. He has been living in my casts of classical recitals from the Detroit Insti-
head for fifty years and this particular 1972 tute of Art. And I listened dutifully, but I also
performance, now re-mastered for DVD, lights tucked the black plastic box under my covers
me up like a used car lot. I manipulate the re- and tuned in to The Big 8, CKLW, a Windsor,
mote control with my good hand, thinking that Ontario station. Marvin Gaye’s fluid tenor and
even at sixty-five, my bones have healed fast Ray Charles’ raspy one crackled under my aqua
with titanium plates and screws. The nerve chenille bedspread, and a decade of meticu-
damage, well… lously memorized Bach Minuets and Preludes
splintered like kindling. The Kinks’ power-chord
My first glimpse of him on The Ed Sullivan guitar riffs ignited my emotional tinderbox and
Show in 1964 still flashes neon bright, how he when Ray Davies yowled, “Girl, you’ve really
pouted those pillowy lips and bulldozed J.S. got me goin’, you’ve got me so I don’t know
Bach out of my brain for a decade. I was a what I’m doin,’” I surrendered the precision of
coltish sixteen and he was a sinewy twenty. He polyphony.
belted “Around and Around,” prancing and
slithering like James Brown, whom I would As an ambitious piano student, I had been fas-
learn decades later, had told him to loosen up cinated by the intricate fingerings and dotted
his knees. He wailed that time was on his side rhythms of Bach Inventionen and Sinfonien.
and I thought I knew what he meant. The mahogany metronome was compelling as I
developed rhythm and small muscle memory
From the night I first laid eyes on his wiry to its ticking, that is, until adolescence. Sudden-
body and rubbery face I have longed to be him, ly, I needed release from rigid classical struc-
to be Mick Jagger. And sure, I know, thousands tures, and from honors courses at school too. I
of guys all over the world have reverberated was crouched over quadratic equations that
with the same longing for decades, but I was a Sunday evening, on the verge of tears, when
goony, star-student girl training as a classical Dad’s voice sliced the silence. “C’mon, Les, take
pianist. a break. British rock band on Ed Sullivan.”

Ed looked like an old vampire to me. Hair right hand, the bass for my left. Tumblers in my
slicked down on a receding widow’s peak, curious Kindergarten brain clicked into place.
starched collar pinching his jowls, he clapped
as velvet stage curtains swept apart revealing The second moment occurred eleven later
five guys with hair that moved when they did. when I was sixteen, the night Mick’s sultry bari-
Three of them held electric guitars and one sat tone leaked through the nubby tweed speaker
behind a drum kit, but my attention stuck on on our big fat TV. The stovepipe pants, those
the long lean guy with wide nervous eyes. He uneasy eyes, all that shaggy hair tossed at a girl
sidled up to the floor stand microphone, who’d only known boys with brush cuts and
snapped his fingers and tapped one heel. Mus- creases in their khakis. I felt radiant and unsta-
cular emotional vitality beamed from his uncer- ble. I loved it.
tain eyes, zapping me through the curved TV
screen. I leapt across the room, cranked up the I believed I understood Mick’s feral mes-
volume and tumbled into a lifelong fascination sage because I harbored the same rebellious
with a front man. inclinations he displayed on stage. I knew I
wanted to be just like him.
I came by fascination with music honestly and
early. According to my mother, I’d been en- Yet somehow, I became a piano teacher.
thralled by the Grinnell spinet in our living
room and had begged for lessons from age Not that I was always proper. I gave birth to my
three, stretching my hand up and pounding out first daughter as an unmarried teenager. I
bass notes. raised her alone, with some help from my par-
ents, while hauling myself through a low-level
I was five on the day my first piano teacher business degree. After college, I held a fast
showed up. Mother seated her in the velvet track administrative position at GM for seven
wing chair near the piano and I hopped up on years, a lucrative career opportunity during the
the bench, trembling. I smacked Middle C, bab- golden days of the Detroit auto industry and
bled that the eighty-eight keys repeated them- Affirmative Action. I forced myself to fit the
selves and that hammers hit strings to produce professional profile, cut off my long braids and
sound. My five-year-old brain was exploding, slept on brush rollers to make my hair flip up
somehow knowing that the person who would on the ends. I posed, dignified in Butte knit
unlock the keyboard mystery had arrived. We dresses and tailored jackets, tilting my chin and
began. chatting with flannel-suited men. It went well
until one frigid morning in 1970.
The piano pieces I learned played them-
selves in my brain when I was away from the The night before, I’d sprawled on the sofa
instrument. Clementi rippled between my ears far too late for a woman with a day job, repeat-
as I skipped across sidewalk cracks and Hanon edly dropping the needle on my new copy of
exercises haunted me as our family chomped Let It Bleed. Hours boiled away in the liquid of
popcorn during Ozzie and Harriet. Merry Clayton’s “Oooh-oooo’s on “Gimme
Shelter,” and the following day at work I blath-
I easily identify two moments that formed ered about Keith’s innovative tunings, the balls
my character. The first, when my piano teacher -out-brave lyrics on “Shelter,” the cowbell intro
cracked the code, revealing that lines and spac- on Honky Tonk Woman. No one spoke. They
es on a musical staff matched the keys on a averted their eyes. I needed my job and con-
piano, that white keys were naturals and black trolled myself after that.
keys were accidentals, representing how pitch-
es were altered. The treble staff was for my I met my first husband, a turtleneck-and-
smock-wearing-Design Sculptor, at GM Design

Staff and five years later, my second daughter gled ghost of a woman, my hair flying ragged,
was born. Life was good. Falling in line seemed Beggar’s Banquet blasting in the wind.
to be working.

While on GM maternity leave, I attended a Something bucked inside my brain but I never
chamber music conference. My instructor, a missed a lesson. No one suspected that
brilliant concert pianist, was sympathetic to my “Sympathy for the Devil” pounded between my
conflict: an unwillingness to give up earning ears as I counted Clementi Sonatinas out loud.
serious money, juxtaposed with the dread of Students sweated over harmonic minor scales
returning to a gray metal desk. Why not teach without a clue that Bobby Keys’ raunchy sax
piano lessons, lucrative in my city, while con- solo on “Brown Sugar” thundered in my chest.
sidering other career options? Sure, good tem-
porary solution. Although I abandoned practicing music to
teach it, I always assumed I’d play the piano in
But who would take lessons from me, I retirement. I would refine, maybe even get
wondered, squashing myself into a cap-sleeved those Goldberg Variations up to tempo, and
peach knit, believing it to be proper teacher’s above all, learn the Beethoven Opus 81a sona-
attire. Yow! Then five students a week became ta.
ten, became thirty, became forty-five -- all lev-
els of proficiency, first through twelfth grade. But I didn’t practice when I retired.
Adults too. I developed a waiting list of stu-
dents and donated the Butte knits to the Salva- My second husband and I left the Detroit
tion Army, got comfortable in jeans and boots, area in 2004 and moved to the Carolina moun-
ignoring raised eyebrows from student’s moth- tains and I couldn’t resist the fresh air and lush
ers. topography. Knowing that vigorous physical
strength dissipates with age, I went outdoors
I settled into the grueling, detail-oriented to hike, to raft and kayak, to explore zip lines
work of classical piano, returned to college for and rope courses. I believed there would be
music degrees and publically performed limited time to polish my keyboard skills later, when I
repertoire, all while teaching thirty-five or forty had to sit down, indoors. Since the accident,
hours a week. I survived on four or five hours however, it’s doubtful I’ll ever extend my left
sleep a night for a decade, discovering that hand enough to reach, much less strike the
performing by memory with so little rest was octaves necessary to nail the baseline on the
brutal. I had memory lapses during public per- 81a, ironically titled Les Adieux.
formances, felt humiliated. There would be
time later, I told myself, to refresh and improve So what? I raised two daughters, formed strong
my technique, to sleep well, to perform the bonds with thirty years of students, earned a
Beethoven sonatas I would put aside temporar- fine living and most important, passed the mu-
ily. sic forward. I’m proud of that. But emotional
retrospect is slippery, and sometimes my mind
I became a full-time teacher and took on slinks back through those years, how I felt en-
even more students. snared in the barbed wire of propriety neces-
sary for a teacher, even one in jeans and boots.
I dissected ornamentation on Bach Preludes
and explained lyricism on Beethoven Baga- Again, so what? Many of us in my age
telles, but after dark, when the last student left group have plowed through our lives on auto-
and my daughters were in their bedrooms, my pilot, accomplishing complex tasks with accura-
husband dozing in front of the History Channel, cy. That I could teach classical piano repertoire
I sped around town. Windows down, a bedrag- with rock music blaring in my head, while deci-

phering the individual parts of both may be tricky, and scar tissue compressing my radial
strange, but it’s not what strikes me as most nerve caused unpredictable, electrifying pain
salient. No, far more important yet not often for months, then years. Icy Hots and Thermal
recognized, is what we know about ourselves Wraps comprised an unwelcome new vocabu-
when we are young and how easily we ignore lary for a physically vigorous woman, one who
the information. How we squander time, ener- took pride in planks and pushups and had
gy, and the laser beam focus of youth in the made it sixty-five years without an injury. At
name of a hard day’s work. my home I have an “Adventure Wall” of photo-
graphs of my outdoor exploits – bungee jump-
I knew as a teenager in flannel pajamas ing, skydiving, rock climbing, hiking all over the
during that Ed Sullivan Show, and was drop world. Yet looking back wrenches my gut
dead certain for seven years as a GM Adminis- sometimes. I recognize myself as a woman
trator in pumps and pantyhose. Under the who postponed practicing Beethoven to ram-
worn jeans of an over-booked piano teacher, it ble around outdoors until she could no longer
was clear to me every day: Although I never extend her left hand far enough to strike a sim-
had the ability to front a band or be a guitar ple triad on her piano.
wizard, I wanted to be a rock star, specifically
Mick, who let music and uncut human emotion In the mid-sixties, The Rolling Stones played
rip. I wanted the high-octane life force I saw in Olympia Stadium and my boyfriend scalped
him. And I want it now, more than ever be- fourth row seats. Olympia, then home of the
cause I’ve watched him grow old before my Detroit Red Wings, was a small venue com-
eyes and I like what I see. A man who has done pared to today’s arenas, and for concerts, the
the opposite of what we are all told to do. plexi-glass walls surrounding the rink were re-
moved and a floor constructed over the ice.
The rain was steady that July morning in 2013 We chugged a couple of Stroh’s in the parking
as I trotted down our steep driveway with my lot and found our seats, anxious for the first
two Springer Spaniels. One of them bounded in glimpse of the band we’d seen only on black
front of me, as she does most days and I and white TV.
hopped backward to avoid a full face plant on
the concrete. But this time, both feet slipped Keith slithered out in high-heeled boots and
from under me and I broke my fall, instinctively lacerated the screaming horde with the open-
experts say, with my outstretched hand. ing fuzz box chords on “Satisfaction.” Mick ma-
terialized in the blur of sound, pranced over
The double distal radius fracture of my left and kissed Keith, full on the lips. The room
wrist was diagnosed severe, with scattered roared. So did I.
bone fragments. The scapholunate ligament on
the top of my hand was severed. The good- Nine months later, my labor room screams
natured ER nurses called it “the full dangle” were even louder. Soaked with sweat and grin-
and the doc said I was fortunate to be healthy, ning like the fool I’d been, I felt the distortion
to have such strong bones at my age, that I infused opening licks of “Satisfaction” throb-
could have easily shattered my arm, shoulder bing between my ears and legs as they
and hip too. In the ER, through the fog of IV wheeled me into the delivery room. It all
painkillers, I thought of Mick, yes, really, who is seems ridiculous now, excruciating and obvi-
four years older than I am and has never ous, but I didn’t get it then. There is nothing
shattered anything that I know of. coherent about rock and roll – it’s shameless
and unconstrained, slapping the demons in our
Bones heal well with titanium plates and bones, awakening and exploiting all our sensu-
screws anchoring them, but ligament surgery is al desires.

I have experienced the hallucinatory intensity home to watch the Direct TV Pay Per View
of music pouring effortlessly from my body event, “Last Stop, The Rolling Stones Live at
twice in my life. I’ve felt the simultaneous rush The Prudential Center.” It was, at the time, the
of giving and craving, the ethereal magic in a last scheduled concert on their 50th Anniver-
hushed room when connection with the audi- sary Reunion Tour and I had over-hyped it to
ence is complete, when listeners slip into our guests. World media crowded the New
breathless silence before bursting into ap- Jersey arena and the advance press blitz had
plause. been scathing: Could the old men survive the
pressure and live up to their reputation? Was
I’ve pulled my own psychic plug and floated the greatest rock and roll band in the world
inside the sound I first imagined, and then pro- worth the exorbitant price of admission?
duced. I have given in to and exploited my
emotional vulnerability. One performance of Hell yes. Three generations of fans were
the Schumann Piano Concerto, and one of the ecstatic as seamless vocals, tight ensemble and
Op. 31 Piano Sonata by Beethoven, two pro- the flaming guitar solos that had awakened my
longed incidents of purest ease after years of mind and body fifty years before seared
physical training and intellectual rigor. I’m through the screen. And Mick, once a scrawny
betting Mick can’t count the times he’s let it all but sensuous young icon, radiating tensile en-
spill out, has entered that zone of euphoric ergy, had morphed by force of his own will
mental and emotional release. (and a Norwegian physical trainer,) into a mus-
cular and magnetic old man, ever charismatic
Hammers hitting strings on a soundboard and feral. My emotional inferno raged. I was
produce the pitches that emanate from a piano young and wild again. For three hours. And so
and the instant a hammer strikes a string, the was he.
sound begins to decay. The only way to main-
tain the sound is to keep striking more keys, It all made sense as I focused on the sweat-
combining more pitches, to keep playing the drenched, furrowed face. After ten or twelve
instrument. Mick knows this and continues to miles of vigorous stage travel, a common dis-
produce the sound that has swelled his body tance for Mick, I finally got it. In the privacy of
and brain for over fifty years. He absorbs the my living room, by the grace of high definition
risk of public performance, with supreme cour- technology, I saw something I’d never seen
age, preening across the world stage. before: euphoria in his eyes.

No more chugging beer in parking lots for me I also saw that his rapture doesn’t last.
and I haven’t seen the Stones perform live in Wrapped in a thick robe post concert, body
twenty years. After swearing I’d never whine guards supported Mick, escorting him to the
about traffic jams, concert mobs and unreliable limo. His staggering exhaustion was evident,
acoustics at stadium shows, I’ve become some- his face crumpled into a grimace.
one who does. So I’m seduced by the intimacy
of the big screen in my living room. I savor and So here’s what I wonder: with thumping
internalize the interaction between the well- electronics and lights swirling beneath his cush-
worn Stones – up close and personal. Camera ioned Nikes, how does he prevail with full voice
angles on Mick’s savage face are tight and I and all the moves, seemingly unfazed by the
quiver, detecting each nod of a head or tip of a hysterical crowd? Or does he, like many per-
guitar neck as band members toss riffs back formers, derive energy from them? Sure, I’m
and forth. aware he’s deaf and wired for relevant sound,
but is that easier?
In December 2012, friends arrived at our
How does he maintain the chronic intensi-
ty, the feline runway prowl to navigate a three-

hour performance at seventy? Does he just The other photo, from the London Daily
keep molting, renewing himself with music and Mail Online, was taken immediately after an
movement, shedding the husk of age each time unpublicized warm-up concert in LA. It exposes
he steps on stage? Can those of us who make a sweat drenched, haggard old man with unfo-
music, or hear it in our heads, break free of our cused eyes under bushy eyebrows, hearing aids
time worn physical and emotional exoskele- dangling from his ears. One photo is emblem-
tons? Or has he found the quiet at the center atic of all that is lost, the other, of all that is
of the storm? Is he immutable now, inside the left. It is hard to determine which is which.
eye of the crossfire hurricane he and The After a fall in the rain, four surgeries and years
Stones churned up half a century ago? of unpredictable, electrical nerve pain, I do
wonder what is left.
Fifty years after switching to CKLW under my
blankets, my brain is auto-tuned to the same Here’s what I know: the sparkling mag-
musical frequency. Loud. Rock. Music. I float netism that tugs me toward the front man re-
from my leather chair during TV concerts as mains strong, stronger than the calculated
consonance and dissonance erupt from ceiling electronics of high production values, stronger
speakers. Indelible images of youth, vitality and than the thwanging of Stratocasters and the
excess come into focus with mind-bending clar- thundering of Gretsch vibrating through my
ity. My emotional swagger is gaudy yet private, body. Is he just an oracle, an intermediary be-
a secret standing ovation for the woman I nev- tween my everyday existence and my most
er became. primal cravings? No, it’s more than that.

Perhaps it’s just that my angle of perspec- The secret is written all over Michael Philip
tive has shifted. When I was young, I would Jagger’s face, he’s modeled it across the world
have cringed at Mick’s wrinkled face blatantly stage for half a century: the lurid freedom of
displaying the atrocities of age. Now, the physi- living his one life uncensored. He got away with
cal evidence, his triumph and anguish, the dis- it. He proved it could be done.
tillation of age and endurance he displays, en-
thralls me. The night of the TV concert I scrutinize
Mick’s performance, cringing, imagining his
And lately, the silence is fascinating exhaustion near the end. I want to wallow in
too. My mind’s eye is imprinted with two pho- the Technicolor mythology of the screen and
tos of the front man that appeared repeatedly yearn for a triumphant finish of his hero’s
as press buzz of the Stones 50th Reunion Tour quest. And holy shit, it happens, I see it: the
swamped media outlets. In the Rolling Stone unbridled joy stretching across the rutted face.
Magazine photo, taken during the Stones Lon- Applause explodes and lights flash, yet there it
don concert in the fall of 2012, Mick is muscu- is: tranquility in his eyes, profound satisfaction
lar and vibrant, slinky in a black tee shirt, I think, after burning it so hard, so near the
sleeves pushed up on muscular forearms. He end.
struts on a runway, guitar in one hand, mic in
the other, chin tilting upward. His gaze is Zen- After Spinning class the other day, I swung my
like, yet I see the snarl of the crowd, the flailing leg over the bike seat and was stunned that it
arms, and can imagine the cacophony of the felt rubbery, not wiry and ready to run, as usu-
mob. He is exposed and vulnerable, yet fully in al. The rock music fuel of our workout had
control of the elation and terror that defines clicked off and the silence was deafening. I
public performance. And that’s exactly what I thought of Mick, wondering how his life will
want to be: exposed and vulnerable, yet able change when those skinny legs of his give out.
to control, or at least manage, the elation and And even now, what must the post concert
terror that defines aging.

silence be like for him? What is the sound of
exhaustion and exhilaration after his state-of-
the-art hearing system is unplugged?

I’m betting that the music keeps roaring in
his head, just like it does in mine, and that it
will continue when he has to sit down. He has
internalized the ecstasy of his most intimate
gesture: of splitting himself wide open on
stage, of resolutely splattering his audiences
with joy and pain. The Schumann Piano con-
certo in a black silk skirt, or Sympathy for the
Devil in a whirling red cape, maybe it’s the
same.

The ivory sequined jumpsuit from the Stones
1972 world tour is protected behind glass in
Cleveland’s Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. But the
man who wore it is still out there. He defies the
transience of youth, strength, and desire, a
vibrant personification of the myth I embrace:
that musical energy is endless, that we can
rock on forever.

About the Author

Leslie Tucker, a Detroit escapee, lives on a
Carolina mountainside and refuses to divulge
its exact location. She is an avid hiker and zip
liner, a dedicated yogi, an ACBL Life Master in
Sanctioned Bridge, and enjoys anything that
requires a helmet. She holds degrees in busi-
ness and music. Her work has appeared in the
2010 and 2012 Press 53 Awards Anthologies,
where her essay, “Lies That Bind” won first
place for nonfiction. Her work has also ap-
peared in Fiction Fix, The Baltimore Review,
Hippocampus Magazine, So to Speak, Prime
Number Magazine, and TINGE Magazine
among others.

HOW THE FILM THE
EXORCIST CAME ABOUT

by Raymond Fenech

Part 1 could see in this blood curdling story of the
exorcism of a 12 year old girl possessed by the
A small group of nuns and priests met the devil?
woman in the chapel of a house one June
evening. Though it was warm outside, a palpa- How did the story based on true events actual-
ble chill settled over the room. ly come to be screened? In 1949, the author
William Peter Blatty was reading the Washing-
As the priests began to pray, the woman ton Post newspaper, when a particular article
slipped into a trance -- and then snapped to about a boy, Roland Doe (to protect the boy’s
life. She spoke in multiple voices: One was identity the newspaper changed his name)
deep, guttural and masculine; another was high from Maryland who had been possessed by a
-pitched; a third spouted only Latin. When demon. He was so impressed, he went on to
someone secretly sprinkled ordinary water on write his novel, which in turn became the cult
her, she didn't react. But when holy water was movie that became the greatest office success
used, she screamed in pain. of the time its record remaining unbroken until
only recently by the film IT.
"Leave her alone, you f***ing priests," the
guttural voice shouted. "Stop, you whores. ... Blatty had a good reason to be impressed by
You'll be sorry." what he read about the boy. It all started when
the boy lost his beloved aunt and in 1949 he
The above excerpt was taken from the article, started to hear weird scratching noises in the
When Exorcists Need Help, they call him, pub- basement which was at first thought to be
lished by CNN’s journalist John Blake on August caused by rats. But then he claimed to have
4, 2017. seen Christ’s image moving as if someone was
hitting the wall behind it in his grandmother’s
The same article then refers to the 1973 film, bedroom. The walls inexplicably leaked water
The Exorcist which at the time had created and his mattress kept moving in all directions
much controversy and was even banned and when he was in bed.
rated X by many cinemas. Was it an exaggerat-
ed reaction, or was there more than the eye The boy’s beloved Aunt Harriet, a spiritualist
who had mentored him taught him into her

weird world, including the use of an Ouija case, which included mental and physical eval-
board had passed away. Ronald was heart- uations of the alleged ‘possessed’ victim, re-
broken and that is when strange things started quired by the Church to authorize an exorcism
to happen. was made.

At night, Roland’s would start to move mysteri- The report on the diary stated: "There ap-
ously and there was a constant pounding noise peared scratches on the boy's body for about
coming from the basement. The house smelt of four successive nights. After the fourth night,
feces and all kinds of objects would lift and stay words were written in printed form. These
and remain suspended in the air. letters were clear but seemed to have been
scratched on his body by claws."
Some sceptics wanted to believe his family was
experiencing weird things but they were not According to public records, after Roland was
the only witnesses of this paranormal activity. admitted at the hospital under his real name,
A friend of the family was once visiting at their the medical and psychiatric evaluations all read
home. Roland was sitting in a chair when sud- he was coming back to normal.
denly, he was thrown from it and landed multi-
ple feet away. But the saga was to continue as his parents
decided to baptize him to make sure whatever
The home incidents were just the beginning. evil entity was inside him, it would never re-
Roland was forced to leave school after teach- turn. On the way to the church, Roland sud-
ers claimed his desk and other objects would denly spoke to his uncle, who was driving the
start shaking violently during class. car, and shouted angrily: "You son of a b****,
you think I'm going to be baptized but you are
One fellow student said: "The desk was shaking going to be fooled!"
and vibrating extremely fast and I remember
the teacher yelling at him to stop and then he When the priest in church to perform the bap-
kind of yelled back: 'I'm not doing it!” tism rite witnesses claimed Roland lashed out
and went into a rage when asked: "Do you re-
His family were at their wits end as they sus- nounce the devil and all his works?"
pected Roland was possessed by his dead aunt.
They requested a Lutheran pastor to intervene Soon after Roland left hospital and the family
but when he saw how serious the situation moved to St Louis. The evil entity that was pos-
was, he recommended they contact a Catholic sessing him indicated they go to St. Louis
priest. This is when Father E. Albert Hughes, when, 'LOUIS' appeared inscribed on his rib-
the local Catholic priest came into the picture cage. Despite he was under constant supervi-
and an exorcism rite was performed on the boy sion no one had seen him or anyone else make
in February1949. that inscription.

When the priest came to visit Roland, the boy The true story that inspired Blatty to write, The
screamed at him in Latin: "O sacerdos Christi tu Exorcist, takes place in the late 1940s in subur-
scis me esse diabolum!" (Oh Priest of Christ, ban Washington, D.C. It was not a girl that had
you know that I am the Devil). Father Hughes been possessed but a boy. Sources have re-
was forced to stop the rite, when the boy vealed that his true identity was that of Ronald
broke the spring of the mattress to which he Hunkeler or Robbie Mannheim. The 13-year-
had been tied down. Then he lashed out and old boy born to a German American Protestant
hit Fr Hughes across his shoulders. family was later referred to among other
names in several newspapers as Roland Doe.
Frightened and disturbed by this experience,
the priest made a request to the Church to The terror continued a few days later when red
carry out an exorcism. An assessment of the marks appeared on the boy when words in-

cluding the, ‘Louis’ were carved deep into his son Michael for the saint he believed saved
flesh. To Ronald’s mother this was a message him from the devil’s clutches.
telling them to move to St. Louis, where they
had relatives. She was hoping the solution to The Jesuit priest, Bowdern, passed away in
save her son would be found there. 1983 and Halloran succumbed to cancer in
2005, the last surviving member of the exor-
Their family’s home was situated in Bel-Nor cism team of Ronald Hunkeler/Robbie Mann-
neighborhood of St. Louis, a Colonial-style heim.
house on Roanoke Drive. Everything about it at
first glance looked normal but within its walls At the Alexian Brothers Hospital the room
the most macabre and terrorific events were where Ronald had been exorcised was sealed.
about to take place. But in 1978 the hospital was demolished. The
Family’s house in Maryland remains uninhabit-
Finally a relative of Ronald’s family recom- ed since they abandoned it in the 1960s.
mended they get in touch with two Jesuit
priests, Father Walter H. Halloran and Rev. The house on Roanoke Drive was sold in 2005
William Bowdern who agreed to attempt an for $165,000. The new buyers didn’t seem to
exorcism rite on the boy with the help of sever- mind the possibility that Satan himself might
al other qualified assistants. The priests worked have actually made the upstairs bedroom his
every single night but in the end events took a personal abode.
turn for the worse and Ronald’s family feared
his life was in manifest danger. This was when The Diary
they decided to take him for special treatment
to a hospital in St. Louis run by the Catholic Rumours had it that a diary with detailed infor-
Alexian Brothers. mation of Roland’s exorcism was kept by the
two priests. During a lecture on exorcism at
Many weeks had passed from the beginning of Georgetown University where the Blatty, au-
this nightmare for the Hunkeler/ Mannheim thor of The Exorcist was studying another stu-
family, but on April 18, Easter Monday there dent mentioned the diary. The lecturer was
was a strange occurrence in the room at the prompted to ask him for a copy which eventu-
hospital. It started with Ronald verbally abusing ally was presented to him in the form of a 16-
the priests, telling them Satan would always page booklet entitled, Case Study by Jesuit
own him. Holy relics, crucifixes and rosary Priests. Blatty wanted to see the diary for his
beads were laid on the boy as his body was own research but they refused to lend it to
being tortured by invisible hands among deep him. Later he tried asking Fr Bowdern himself
scratches and strange signs appearing on his for a copy but he also refused.
legs.
But Fr Bowdern had spoken about eh exorcism
That night, a miracle happened as the exorcists with a fellow Jesuit and soon the story was in
prayed for St. Michael’s intervention to expel the hands of Thomas Allen, a National Geo-
the demon from the boy’s body. Few minutes graphic correspondent. He managed to contact
later, Ronald suddenly became conscious. He Fr Halloran, the other Jesuit priest involved in
was out of his trance and simply uttered the Roland’s exorcism who accepted not only ad-
words: “He’s gone.” He then went on to ex- mitted the existence of the diary but also to be
plain he had a vision of St. Michael fighting interviewed.
Satan to the death.
The detailed exorcism report was revealed in a
After these macabre events Ronald’s family desk drawer in 1978, when workmen assigned
moved back to the East Coast. Ronald got mar-
ried and it was no surprise he named his first

to demolish parts of the St Louis Hospital, scribed the priests as having: "had a terrible
where Roland had stayed, discovered the diary time". Furthermore, he asserted he had no
in a drawer in a locked room. But whilst the doubt that what happened was supernatural
report had been hidden away, Fr Halloran had adding, he'd constantly cleaned vomit from the
made a copy which comprised all the detailed boy's room several times.
exorcism rites performed on Roland which he
then handed to Thomas Allen. It was first pub- The same diary details Roland's continuous
lished by the writer in 1993. violent behavior. He often assaulted people,
especially during his First Holy Communion
Some Graphic Details of the Exorcism Rite attempt, punching the priest in the testicles
when he tried to put him on a train back to
Maryland.

When Fr Bowdern read the rite, the stronger What became of Roland
priest Fr Halloran, a former football player,
held the boy down as he writhed and shouted To this question, your guess is as good as mine
at them. because there are many different accounts as
to whether he had been possessed, or was
More macabre was the detailed report which simply suffering from some form of mental
mentioned blotched writing in blood that ap- illness. But truth be told, evidence shows that
peared on Roland's skin. His body had been the boy’s family had initiated trying to solve his
tormented by being branded 30 times by problem by taking him into psychiatric and
words including, ‘Hell’ and ‘Hello’ whilst he medical care. The exorcism came later, when
cursed and verbally abused the priest with ob- the scientific solutions failed to achieve the
scenities, his voice changing from “a deep bass desired results.
to falsetto”.
Roland’s exorcism became well known not by
The priests repeatedly asked the demon to coincidence, but because so many eye witness-
reveal his name (this part of the exorcism is es saw the supernatural events unfold before
imperative as only when the entity reveals its their very eyes. His weird behavior was high-
name can it be cast out of the possessed per- lighted and evident, both at home and at
son). In response, it screamed back: "I will an- school, by many students, in hospital by nurses
swer to the name of Spite". Then, Roland vom- and other staff and more so during the exor-
ited all over the priests. He spat in their faces, cism rites in which many people were involved,
belched and farted in defiance whilst his body besides the Jesuit Priests.
contorted uncontrollably.
When Roland became normal again, after the
"One night the boy brushed off his handlers and successful exorcism, he wrote to Fr Bowdern to
soared through the air at Father Bowdern thank him. From there, he went on to attend a
standing some distance from the bed with a Catholic school and became a devout Catholic.
ritual book in his hands,” one priest wrote. He also got married, had a family and worked
“Presumably Bowdern was about to be for NASA.
attacked, but the boy got no further than the
book. And when his hands hit that - I assure Any evidence Fr Bowdern could have given to
you...I saw this with my own eyes - he didn't support the report was buried with him in his
tear the book, he dissolved it! The book vapor- grave. As for his colleague, Fr Halloran, when
ized into confetti and fell in small fine pieces to he was once asked whether he believed the
the floor!" incident was real, he replied: "I have always
thought in my mind that it was."
Witness to this incident was a nurse who de-

Filming Incidents and the Aftermath of the ground. Her painful scream was actually used
Exorcist in the film and was truly the result of a real
injury which she still feels to this very day.
How many horror film enthusiasts know that
the actual filming of The Exorcist, a film that Statistics show that a film that takes over a
terrorized many of its viewers and created year to complete, must have been affected by
mayhem was more macabre and terrifying various shooting problems. In the case of The
than the film itself? Exorcist, calling this a delay would be an under-
statement especially when a few deaths were
Many strange, paranormal events happened actually reported.
for non-believers in the supernatural to be able
to dub as, ‘coincidences’. Was the film set be- Both actors, Jack MacGowran and Vasiliki Mali-
ing possessed by a real evil entity? aros died soon after their participation in the
film was concluded. By now, you would be ask-
Well, the best thing would be to go through ing yourselves: “But didn’t both these charac-
the events that happened and I will leave it up ters in the film die?” If you have asked that
to the reader to decide for himself whether question the answer is yes, they did and this
such things were coincidental, or caused by a makes it quite a weird coincidence: or was it?
real demon.
But as if that’s not creepy enough, Linda Blair’s
In the first part of this article, How the film, The grandfather passed away and Max Von Syd-
Exorcist came about, I researched some docu- ow’s brother died on Max’s very first day of
ments on how the author of the novel, William acting his role as the exorcist priest. Jason Mil-
Peter Blatty in 1949 read an article on the ler, who starred as Fr Damien Karras almost
Washington Post about a young boy who had lost his son when he was hit by a motorbike.
been possessed by a demon. So far, this was
not fiction, but a harsh reality in which family Linda Blair injured her back during one of the
Hunkeler in Maryland struggled at their home scenes, when she was thrown out of bed and
in an attempt to save their son from what he landed badly as one of the rigging broke.
himself described as Satan. The novel was Strange but true after the film had been public-
turned into the 1973 block buster film, The ly screened, she received several death threats
Exorcist. to the point the studio was forced to have her
escorted by bodyguards.
When the film was in the making, its shooting
had to be interrupted after the set burst into The life of actress Mercedes McCambridge,
flames. The Mac Neil’s home (the house where whose voice terrorized entire audiences as she
the film shooting took place was gutted com- changed it to mimic the demonic voice of the
pletely by the fire. Nobody knows for certain demon that possessed Linda (Reagan), Pazuzu
what caused the fire but William Friedkin, the was completely wrecked, when her son myste-
film’s director said that some sort of bird with riously went into a rage killing his wife and chil-
talons entered one of the circuit boxes short dren and himself in 1987.
circuiting it and setting the props alight. The
creepy and macabre part of this ‘story’ was the Televangelist Billy Graham was convinced,
fact that the raging fire did not touch Regan’s watching the film was like an invitation for
room! viewers to be possessed by a demon. In his
own words: “There is a power of evil in the film,
During filming, actress Ellen Burstyn, who is in the fabric of the film itself.” The Exorcist
played Reagan’s mother, was actually injured was banned in the Middle East, except for Leb-
when the possessed Reagan throws her to the anon, but the ban was imposed on its re-
release. When the film was being screened in
Rome, viewers experienced torrential rain-

storms, thunder and lightning as they made About the Author
their way to the cinema.
Raymond Fenech embarked on his writing ca-
Could all this have been mass hysteria because reer as a freelance journalist at 18 and worked
of all the pre-hype made by the newspapers? for the leading newspapers, The Times and
Some people even claimed to have heard de- Sunday Times of Malta. He edited two nation-
monic cries coming from outside the theatre as wide distributed magazines and his poems,
soon as the film started. Accidents of people articles, essays and short stories have been
fainting, falling and hurting themselves were featured in several publications in 12 countries.
not uncommon and one particular woman who His research on ghosts has appeared in The
broke her jaw in a fall whilst watching the film International Directory of the Most Haunted
actually went on to sue Warner Brothers. The Places, published by Penguin Books, USA.
case was settled out of court for an undisclosed
amount.

Acknowledgements

When Exorcists need help, they call him by
John Blake, CNN August 4, 2017

Is The Exorcist Based on a True Story? Real Life
Tale of Roland Doe’s Possession that’s more
terrifying than the Film and TV Show by Jo
Anne Rowney, Mirror, October 23, 2017

The True Story of Roland Roe that Inspired,
‘The Exorcist’ by Williiam Delong, October 26,
2017

Is The Exorcist Cursed? By David Ian
Mckendry, 2015

The End

CALM

by Elana Wolff

Calm,
not so long ago / the river ambling through the valley /
easy in the aptitude of being in the blue beside the fireweed
and pocket gophers stomping on the vandal grass / the white-tailed
deer cavorting through the forest by the Bow / You know them
by their upheld tails / the hump on the back of the bear that makes
him grizzly / He hangs his head like a mendicant in a hood pulled
close as a cowl / Close / to thwart intrusive thoughts and all
the cosmic causes / Smack of bitter wind and rage / and water
like barrage / Sky is so suffused and low now / ink
could sink from it any second //

Moly What More Is There to Say of Hearts
It pleasured us to bend,
slip moveless I saw the man in the dream—that Franz—
into mauve repose, on a bench in the park
the respiratory consuming fruit: ‘Fletcherizing’ it—
fall masticating it
of water slowly—for his health.
throbbing
beyond the wall. Rain, He rose from the bench;
the wet this act in the past
refrain. converted the dream-scene
Mad to red—probably through the homophone
we must have been ‘rose’,
to hold the torch of affection forward—
Light bent back though maybe through the fruit
to pluck us he liked to eat.
with its beam. That colour
We’d drunk the moly in Chotkovny Park, in
steeped in tea a garden of sculpted hearts—
and woke as weak as leaves.
Better to say naïve—not mad. What more is there to say of hearts
Just charmed, that hasn’t been said already
or simply artless. by the Romantics
and more baroquely…

Maybe that these hearts in the park
were captured in paint by an artist I like,
that she and Franz and I have strolled
that park in Prague, though he the most,
and none of us together.
Of dreams: that they conflate and animate.
Of red: that it’s the colour across from green.

May I Call You Friend Alone, almost, in Cairo

We haven’t met, you’ve never seen me, Youths appeared before me by the Nile, Gezira
you couldn’t say, Island.
There were the days on Petřín—the grassy Feral faces, naked legs— fast forward moving
slope, feet.
we sat discussing Fear and Trembling, Michael I felt the wheezing heat.
Kohlhaas, I was by myself but for the tiny child inside—
Sturm und Drang girl I knew then only as the stirring in my
as naturally as Mann. womb.
I’ve come too late to hear you speak, to hear I ran for the stairs,
you read, the refuge of the bridgehead.
to see your teeth, Light was faint
to walk behind you, stealthy, on an ordinary below the bridge: a force for neither them nor
street, us.
but not to stalk your sentences, I reached the stairs and took them two-by-two
obsessive and possessive. but wasn’t fleet enough.
Full of want, impalpable, One of the youths latched on to my heel
and tongue-tied. & I flew ~
The pack
fell
back
and I was by the shield of evening traffic,
kneeling on the footpath of the mammoth Oc-
tober 6th Bridge.
I walked with one shoe gone to Tahrir Square.

About the Author

Elana Wolff is a Toronto-based writer, editor,
translator, photographer, designer, and facilita-
tor of social art courses. Her poetry and prose
have appeared in Canadian and international
publications and have garnered several awards.

Her fifth solo collection of poetry, Everything
Reminds You of Something Else, was released
in 2017 with Guernica Editions. Her essay, Pag-
ing Kafka’s Elegist, won The New Quarterly
2015 Edna Staebler Personal Essay Contest and
is included in Tightrope Books Best Canadian
Essays 2016. Kafka at the Cemetery was short
listed for The Malahat Review 2016 Constance
Rooke Prize for Creative Non-fiction. Elana’s
newest Kafka-quest essays are in current issues
of New Madrid, journal of contemporary liter-
ary, Humber Literary Review, and Wanderlust
Journal.

By Elana Wolff: Everything Reminds You of
Something Else (Guernica Editions, 2017), You
Will Still Have Birds: a conversation in poems
with Susie Berg (Lyricalmyrical, 2015), Poems
and Songs of Love by Georg Mordechai Langer,
translated from the Hebrew with Menachem
Wolff (Guernica Editions, 2014), Helleborus &
Alchémille — a bilingual collection of poems
selected from Birdheart, Mask, You Speak to
Me in Trees, and Startled Night; translation by
Stéphanie Roesler (Éditions du Noroît, 2013),
Startled Night (Guernica Editions, 2011), Impli-
cate Me: Short Essays on Reading Contempo-
rary Poems (Guernica Editions, 2010), Slow
Dancing: Creativity and Illness, with Malca Lito-
vitz (Guernica Editions, 2008), You Speak to Me
in Trees (Guernica Editions, 2006), Mask
(Guernica Editions, 2003), and Birdheart
(Guernica Editions, 2001).

SOMETHING IN
THE WATER

by Don Thompson

Famous Fathers
(Theodore Roosevelt III)

Some sons are born into ghostliness, eyeglasses glinting, hat brim
never quite there—unnoticed, rolled up on one side in the jingoist fashion,
haunting the dark corners no longer resonates with us.
of their father’s repute.
Their complaints seem to come from far away. His eldest son still does. Under fire,
armed with a walking stick,
Others who are recalcitrant Ted disentangled an entire army
and polished like brass on a yacht from its hopeless snafu
go in for speed, baccarat, and got everybody moving inland—
and women whom they never impress. only to die a month later
killed in his sleep by a heart attack.
Many do well—but not all that well: **
mid-level career bureaucrats, corporate veeps
whose fathers ran the world.
They have to be pointed out to new hires
who feel vaguely let down…

Ted Roosevelt, an intimidated boy,
ended up an over-aged, arthritic brigadier
volunteering to land with the first wave
on Utah Beach.
Fearless—like his dad.

But TR climbing San Juan Hill
with panache in his blue polka dot scarf,

Something in the Water About the Author
(William Saroyan)

Somewhere in early Saroyan Don Thompson has been writing about the San
there’s a eulogy for San Joaquin water Joaquin Valley for over fifty years, including a
that I’ve never found again dozen or so books and chapbooks. For more
since first reading it as a teen, info and links to publishers, visit his website at
barely beyond an obsession with Poe. www.don-e-thompson.com.

Once I drove up the 99 to Fresno
to see Willie’s boyhood home—
disappointed, of course,
because it was just a house, rundown
under its flaking paint
on a street as commonplace as mine.

Saroyan’s image also suffered wear and tear
through the years, from genius loci
to bitter drunk, gambler, slapdash ego maniac
alienated from his own flesh.

Nevertheless, opening an Aquafina now,
I remember drinking from irrigation standpipes
that gushed liquid light
with a taste that made every good thing seem
possible,
and then running water over my head, exhila-
rated.
Saroyan got it. He knew.
**

IN HIGH SCHOOL

by Ron Riekki

In High School, We Tried to Light Each just running, and the running away was a
Other on Fire crime,
and we lit a kid on fire, his hair, and it burst
We didn’t want to end lives, but rather to see into flame so that he batted his head, battered
how beautiful the direction of flames could be. his thin skull, the fire refusing to do anything
We were stupid, very stupid, so stupid other than overwhelm skin with melting.
that we flunked clouds, fucked clouds,
fucked up our fueled livers, our fool lives,

our parents who choked the land for every-
thing it wasn’t worth, the worthlessness
of work, the way that we grew up next
to the mine explosions, every noon, dynamite
lunch, how we were always tired, always,

the snow falling upwards, the father coming
home full of soot, a soot-suit, the babysitter
who punched me in the neck, the neck
that froze to death walking backwards
in the blizzards where someone died every

year, like clockwork, like the clerk who sold
us beer when we were seven. Not seventeen.
Seven. The age of traffic, where you run
into streets, where we’d run away from the
cops
just to make them chase us, no crime done,

The Emergency Department

On the other hand,
says the man
who cut off his hand
and

this is a joke,
I suppose,
an attempt, a hoax,
I don’t know

the word.
It’s a gallows humor,
the execution of execution, the way whore
and horror
are just an or

away, here: how gold
holds
every one of our souls.

(Called It) CPR, Baby

When the baby’s head goes loose I can only see the baby’s head going loose how it’s so loose

how easy it is to lose breath to loosen your hold on life to have the muscles go limp go have

the muscles go the nurse pointing to the curtain to close it as if that holds importance the in-

sistence that the baby is not stared at by anyone who should not be staring and I am a

sea of staring a hailstorm of staring a ton of hail splashing into the eyes of terror

where the baby’s head is held in head-tilt chin-lift but so subtle tender as if it’s going to

live

My Girlfriend Texts Me That the Cop is My Last Name is Saami and You Don’t
Pulling Out His Gun & Pointing It Know What That Means Because Genocide is
the Heat of the Arctic Melting
at the truck.
and I am Arctic,
& I ask what truck.
confused for witch,
The white truck. my ancestors telling

What truck? stories of ice,
of how we are ice
It’s a white truck, and how ice floats
that’s all she knows.
at all times,
I ask if there’s anyone inside. not mad but nomadic,
insisting on canoe,
A man. tall representing
A white man, survival, the reindeer
she texts,
in a white truck herding of my
and the policeman is yelling grandfather and
Motherfucker, great-grandfather
excepts she texts and great-great-
Mother future, and great-great-great-,
the autocorrect the greatness in that
incorrectly my last name
correcting is still breathing
and I can see in my mind the cop
yelling Mother future! About the Author
At the white man Ron Riekki’s books include And Here: 100
in the white truck Years of Upper Peninsula Writing, 1917-2017
on the Oakland bridge, (Michigan State University Press), Here: Wom-
an incredible line of cars en Writing on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula
trapped behind them, (2016 Independent Publisher Book Award Gold
the Lyft driver Medal Great Lakes Best Regional Fiction), The
telling my girlfriend Way North: Collected Upper Peninsula New
he’s scared Works (2014 Michigan Notable Book awarded
and she texts me this, by the Library of Michigan), and U.P.: a novel
except she says, (Ghost Road Press).
he’s sacred.
Who’s sacred?

& then I don’t get any other texts just the
white of these walls like we wish for everything
to look like blizzard all around us at all times
lost in the constant blinding American snow

SAUCER OF STARLIGHT

by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Saucer of Starlight

The woman with dementia
doesn't come out to sit in her
patio anymore and her wind
chimes no longer caressed by
the wind have lost their sound;
the only spark of bright energy
are the blue jays and wrens that
visit the feeder—pecking away,
stealing seeds for their families,
chased away by the enshadowing
dusk and her motion sensors.
My neighbor Dee is so close I
often get a peek at her, from my
window to hers, a lamp lighting
up the front room when it's at
night, a book or newspaper in
her hands; or, if it's her husband,
the blurred hues of the TV when
she's in their room sleeping or
staring into space, waking by
morning after a peaceful rest,
but unable to care for herself
in the day, suffering from her
illness and no short-term
memory. Half the time her
husband spends nursing her,
confined for so long inside
their home it's hard for him
to get away. One day I saw
her appear and tears were in
her eyes. I wished I could
share a saucer of starlight
with her, capture a glimmer
of happiness from deep inside.

Gracing the Heavens The Fifth of May

I touched the lavender On the fifth of May I take
by the fence, its fresh the path around the curving
scent rising when I saw river, find my familiar place
my father again, climbing near the grove of trees and
into his Sunfish from sit in one of two wooden
the dock in the dusk, sun chairs just to write to
under a deepening sky you today; the moist smell
when his sail caught of pine behind me, the quiet
the moonlight like a wing, praise from above. And, in
gliding so silently, the flicker my solace, I tell you of
of a smile on his face; the lake, the ripenings just beyond
his favorite release, and he'd my home—pears hanging
rise just before dawn to swim on the tree by their stems,
by sunrise, watch doves above Sundays when I climb ladders
him in the morning air, knowing with my niece to pick peaches
it would be his passion if he and apples, take them home to
could swim all day. Now ribbons make pie. Outside my kitchen
of darkening light are gracing I've been cultivating my green
the heavens as he draws halfway thumb: tulips have grown,
to the other shore; his shirt the clematis in bud, plum trees
whipping behind him, a man center four vegetable plots;
triumphantly navigating the yesterday the first three roses
waters; my father, alone with opened up. I'd love to send
himself, blessed by his dreams. you their fragrance, dab a little
on your envelope before
heading to the post office.
In the beauty of this sunny
day I saw the beginnings of
the sunset unfolding and I
made my way idly back,
waiting til its petals closed
all the way up to the top.

About the Author

Bobbi Sinha-Morey's poetry has appeared in a
wide variety of places such as Plainsongs,
Pirene's Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Maga-
zine, Miller's Pond, and Old Red Kimono. Her
books of poetry are available at
www.Amazon.com and her work has been
nominated for Best of the Net and the Best of
the Net 2018 Anthology Awards hosted by Sun-
dress Publications.

THE LAND BETWEEN

by Brandon Marlon

The Land Between Miami Beach

Once the country of our defeat, Considering all the eye-catching pastel and
now a liminal ecotone, zone of our apprecia- neon
tion, of a haven where every building is uniquely
an abundant overlap blending named,
Canadian Shield with St. Lawrence Lowlands where every hour is happy, small wonder
to forge a biodiverse greenbelt of grassland you only realize several days later
birds, that you've been treading all this time
oaken forests, cattle grazing in pastures, along pink sidewalks cool as the breezy morn-
a natural paradise of wild rice ings
soon processed or reseeded, greeting risers eager for sand and surf,
of granite barrens, glacial tills, for the pushback of salty Atlantic waves;
alvars, rivers, lakes, wetlands, tread nimbly, stroller, else you're bound to
home of Muskoka and Kawarthas, startle
the Trent-Severn waterway, the Delano scar. scurrying lizards or grazing chickens down be-
low
Puzzle over petroglyphs etched against stone while high above by rooftop pools loungers
as the skink lizard scurries through niches sipping margaritas and mojitos tan
and shrikes glides overhead, keen to impale and speakers blast reggaeton like they mean it.
prey. We all don and doff per activities and weather,
usually paradisal, occasionally catastrophic,
Imagine all those who came before you luxuriating for a time always too fleeting,
and traversed this corridor of wilderness, prompting vows to return and explore
whispering to the ruby-throated hummingbird, even more in sessions of sun still to come.
observing dark night skies,
partaking of a habitat's embarrassment of
riches.

Las Vegas Socotra

If Times Square expanded into a city, a Dragon's blood tree boughs stretch upwards
theme park from a grove in the limestone plain, well within
hub luring wide-eyed comers from all corners view of red granite peaks whitened by lichen
eager to revel in amusements and excesses and towering above snails, beetles, lizards,
contrasting against a spare desert backdrop, and freshwater crabs, endemic denizens
if it were popularized by gangsters and per- of an archipelago isolated in space and time.
formers
as Mammon's den, paean to hedonism, ode to While monsoon winds reshape dunes,
overkill, islanders trudge past the fuchsia desert rose
in time infused with whose rotund trunk belies its toxic bark,
the urge to mimic attractions strips of which are claimed by goatherds keen
from elsewheres, establishing thereby a cele- to spare their kids from feral marauders.
bration
of imitation, then indeed it would Locals afoot beneath highland mists come
look much like this. to harvest croton shrubs for medicinal proper-
ties
Like toddlers, fulgurating lights insist on and gnarled frankincense trees for aromatic
our notice resins.
and attention, whelming then fatiguing The alertest survey the vista, glimpsing among
even the most spry among the flock. seabirds
Easy marks and high rollers alike, a maternal kestrel bearing grub to nestlings
we linger in herds before geysering fountains, huddled in a recess along the steep cliff.
succored by accompanying soundtracks,
inspired to similarly transcend bounds. To outsiders these isles seem remote and
harsh,
Those wearied by debauchery's delights a landscape uninviting; unbeknownst to them,
self-respite by digressing to the rouge gorge the habitat once legendary and at the world's
awaiting just west, patient and demure, where edge
iron-pigmented stones compel meanderers teems with nature's variations, a panoply of
away riches
from the artifice of signage and avarice of expressing the diversity of that chameleon, life.
slots,
from acrobatics and pyrotechnics astonishing
sore eyes yet falling short of imbuing an akin
sense of serenity amid grandeur.

Challenges

Treating others as you initially intend and pre- About the Author
fer,
not according to their behavior towards you, Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Cana-
and da. He received his B.A. in Drama & English
distinguishing the person from the person's from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in
behavior English from the University of Victoria. His po-
are sibling challenges interacting humans face, etry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in
trials at times excruciating, impossible, beyond Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been
even published in 275+ publications in 30 countries.
the saintliest and most angelic amongst us. www.brandonmarlon.com

When is the high road too costly due to its toll?
At what point do actants become identical
with their chronic conduct?

Anger ever endeavors to devour
and so often succeeds, sapping our best selves,
warping our poise, caging our grace.

We are the guardians of our own quiddities;
none else preserves the respectable self-image
each of us cherishes and aims to reify time
and again lest we mar the mirror's reflection
with blemishes unbecoming.

And yet, when goodwill goes unreciprocated
or we tire of the same harms inflicted
by the same unrepentant perpetrators,
how shall we marshal and deploy - even while
teetering on the fulcrum of the moment -
immanent equanimity, refinement, self-
possession,
or a ladybug's admirable imperturbability,
and thereby transcend baser instincts
anchoring us to the seabed's depths?

Such struggles are unmonopolized; much re-
mains
to be gleaned from sages and elders, dignity's
paragons
whose exemplum models a mechanism for
coping,
a method for discernment, promising the hope
of edification, relief for those conscientious.

PASSION

by Rachel Fox

“Passion”

She skips through a patch of sunflowers
And gently brushes the petals through her pale fingers
The pleasant stench of her peach perfume lingers

As she tries to picture her hometown
And her prince charming standing prominently

Outside their palace
She wakes up from her perfect fantasy
To find herself parked outside of an old and run-down Petco
In the middle of Parkersburg, West Virginia

“Twinkle”

I stare up at the emotionless black void
A single orb of light twinkles in the distance
Suddenly millions on millions
One by one
Popping up all over the sky
What once was nothing has turned into some-
thing extraordinary
I gaze up and look around
The darkness is full of light

About the Author

Rachel Fox is a creative writing student from
Downingtown Pennsylvania. She writes multi-
ple genres but enjoys poetry, fiction, and hor-
ror. In her free time she likes to watch “The
Office" and play with her two cats Arya and
Sansa.

TRANSFORMATION

by Stephanie V Sears

The shadow of a storm Looking through its magnifying glass
silence restores you.
I advise you to sit still at this time
cat-like patient but alert I advise you to sit still when
a secret even to yourself out of melancholy’s undergrowth
served hand and foot by mystery. embraces you with occult shadows
the fascination before the storm.
Something refreshing is here
as green as an unblinking eye In nature’s funereal enacting
on the brink of your instinct, of its own entombment
yet fickle, appearing intermittently. it lays your cheek gently
on your own sepulture.
When the cork oaks petrify
under their Rembrandt foliage
more Korgeegan than Provençal
in seeking you may be overtaken.

During the rituals between grass and forest
tuned to the prognostic of a downpour
the only animation you discern
are inscrutable auras and aromas.

Coolness has the bistered cast
of a Byzantine’s shuddering
spirit close beside you
shrouded in suspense.

The azoic and the sentient bond
in weather’s graceful embalmment.

Transformation Antiquity

I walk a corridor fashioned by a footstep, Pines black with evening
beyond the elusive presence of one return to this same hour
I wish to catch up with, ever shadows of themselves
weightless feet over parabolic floors in Odyssey’s lengthening twilight.
of a vertiginous globe
between figurative walls imprinted Artful immortality devises a language
with stark solitude, common to the still ether of Olympus
roping in limbs of memory and the tempo of the cicada.
held by vestiges of gravity.
The long-necked pines take off
Who then walks this wadded ether? in flocks from the cliff
Through a lacquer silence still in tandem with the cormorants.
hums a mood of life.
In lavish rooms so poised The cove uncovers depths of transparency
I cannot help longing wise with lucid flashes from
to be someone I once knew. mullet schools that foresee
Best are corners of intimacy a kingfisher’s dive.
that guard objects, poignant
like the waning of a dear voice. Acrobatic swallows sharpen the air
I contemplate the fire of remembrance slicing out paths
in a dragon’s iron wings, between above and below.
the coral dew on evening’s sideboards,
the atoll puff of a cigarillo, Sounding, then anchoring,
the greenhouse wrist tickled by a cuff, pirate winds quiet down
the crusty smell of loaves conjured and dissolve in the Circean haven.
by the figment of appetite
and the inhospitable truth
that I once lived here.

Outside, a flannel grey façade, kept
free from the snares of nature, looks
past me with a thousand yard stare.
A stream runs through sprockets of light
flowing by with cruel benevolence
and sweltering recollections
of summer relief,
deep dark river on puckered skin
in water’s cool dialect.
Were I to share stone walls
with the green attar of trees
and moss I would feel once more
the breeze of favorite places,
gateways that men forfeit to exist.

The archeologist gone mad I race with my own blood stream
a million mysteries blown in my face.
We are people of felt and fur I unlock a thousand locks of fortune.
on which fibulae and breastplates Chronicler of the wayfarer and
of bronze and gold reflect accountant of countless planets
the nomadic course of the sky. who in the darkness between them
Across our chests the sheep’s horn asks the compulsory question:
Well used as cup or call. who are you?
Without such references who would I be? ***

For among these broad keen faces .
I cannot distinguish my parents’ features.
About the Author
Around the fire we poke at freedom.
Nearby poplars shower yellow leaves Stephanie V Sears is a French and American
over the steely sinews of a river. ethnologist (Doctorate EHESS, Paris 1993), free
Beyond are reeds, honking lakes, -lance journalist, essayist and poet whose poet-
the fictile muscle of the tiger, ry recently appeared in The Deronda Review,
deserts where all conquerors have been The Comstock Review, The Mystic Blue Review,
out-numbered by the proliferous stars. The Big Windows Review, Indefinite Space, The
The southeast mountains Plum Tree Tavern, Literary Yard, Clementine
poised like gods Unbound, Anti Heroine Chic.
raise Olympian fortifications
to which we oppose our plains
without corners or alternatives.

Running, loving, dying
in one momentous rush
led by light and the last dream
careless of time’s violence,

by day along the scent and rattle
of shallow streams, pursued
by wind that plaits the grass.

At night, from the disembodied remains
of those I can no longer see,
comes a silence that eludes distance
weaving nostalgia into speculation.
Am I Sabina, Larissa, Bermet?
I roll up the scroll of memory
to conclude my confusion.
I am Oulkhout,
rider of a pomegranate horse
in whose shadow trots
the giant sheep dog of the Turk
who shares my camel stew and sour milk.

TOP OF THE CYCLONE

by Lenny Lewis

TOP OF THE CYCLONE

Fourteen years in the system
is no fun. Said Good-bye to Comstock
didn't look back. Rode the bus
to Port Authority. Walked the Deuce
To Time Square. Took the D train
to Coney. Ate Mama's home cooked
meal at home. None of that
jailhouse funny food.
Made a phone call to a woman
I know who didn't say no.

Fourth of July on the Coney Island
Boardwalk. Nothing like it. Never lose
the sand in my shoes. Worked
the rides. Hustled the hustles.
Passed Ruby's and Astroland.
Tenth Street. The high and mighty Cyclone.
“Hey Charlie what are you doing?”
“Looking for a good place
to watch the fireworks.”
“Climb up on top of the Cyclone.”

So I went in the gate to the
ladder only somebody
who works there knows.
Hand over hand. Foot after foot.
I pulled myself to the top.
Pulled myself out of fourteen years
of incarceration.
Stood there under the stars
and the sparkling sky.
Alone and free.

About the Author

Lenny is a jack of all trades. Frequently to be
found working as a carney. South in the winter.
Coney Island in summer.

THE SEASON OF
THE PARASITES

by Slade Woodward

“Untitled” Burgeoning tenors twinkle
across the street that leads
I can see the neon sand to the ends of the earth.
glow with every step taken.
The ground pulses I take my first step
with music unheard, into brisk bathwater,
with time unfocused. Stretching further than my arms
reach.
Spectacles brimming with salt.
Spectacles brimming -S.I. Woodward
with salt.

Vibrancy in a dance across
the moonlight, a shaken
turn to the ocean
before the wave
tumbles us away with the tide.

I wave to the hand that bids
farewell to the shore
and recedes into the dark
Blue hue
under the lamp-lit
water.

"I Pagliacci Con Rose" It should only be appropriate
that my Worst Day--this day--
There's a dog who lays in was the day I hit this dog.
the middle of my dirt road
path on my daily driver The true comedy came as
to work. I was writing.

He's a pug. I was too hurried to allow myself
a justified reason,
He looks at me with lazy A good chance,
concentration as I to touch him.
bump down the dust,
his nose turned up to the life -S.I. Woodward
this world has offered him.

He moves away without guilt
and trots to the ditch,
only to lay down again
and listen to the timbre
of each passing car and
memorize the model.

Everyday I wish I could
get out and pet the top of
his head.
Right between his eyes I'd
gently put my thumb.

This dog has my sympathy.

On this particular morning,
I hurried out, not wanting to
be late to the forlorn festival.

I had my best suit on,
my red nose was pushed on tight,
My boutonnière pinned on my breast,
my face painted a fresh white
and a deliberate frown covering
one much more real and present.

I bumped down the road faster
than I usually did, not wanting
the heat to melt away the
hour of preparation I wore.

“The Season of the Parasites” "To the Girl Who Cut Herself on My Kitchen
Knife"
It's spring again. (or alternatively: "Guilt and Absence")
The season of the Parasites.
Seems this winter was the longest yet, It is a gash I will permanently feel
Yet I believe I said so last year. in your palm which I hold.
In it, I will forever realize the part
The season played by I.
of I
The should not have given you one so sharp,
Parasites. I tell myself,
and asked you to do me
The plants feed off the animals. the favour of cutting the onions
The animals feed off the plants. while I was away, on about
And I? browning the red ground chuck
I feed off just right.
The weather,
Be it shine or rain. That scar will stare at me as
unpleasantly as the meal we prepared
-S.I. Woodward that night
and the dusty bed you left me for
several months after.

That opened flesh will cover and bloody
my mouth as I screaming each night,
waking from a dream worse than the last.
from a dream in which you
could not forgive me.

-S.I. Woodward

A VOICE IN THE
WILDERNESS

by Daniel Miess

A Voice in the Wilderness Reality is in the middle, it is
in the layers. It is formed
This silence in me is vast; not
an abyss; empty yet not empty. by time. Carved by chaos
for better, not for worse, I
A river dispenses through the ravine,
carving my name in the rock. become smooth. I trace my fingers
in memory -- these days are dry,
On a winding, twisted juniper a raven
waits. He seems puzzled. parched earth crunches underfoot.
I grow like cactus in the dust,
There are echoing questions against
the stone. My father’s absence only leaves I absorb love into this mortality.
Memories sustain me when days
me wondering how I can bridge the void
between he and I. He still speaks, are dark – days turn to ice.
I trace my fingers in the
his mouth a beak supported
by broad, feathered wings. grooves, touching his hands when
lips are dry. His love lives
He flies in and out of my memories.
His faith was constant, mine wavers in my veins. My mind still hears
his voice; clouds send cotton
between knowing and unknowing
I am an aspen tree bending in the wind. to the straw-covered oceans.
The prophet preaches.
There are apples forming in the high
desert. I am tempted by truth. I breathe knowing that this isn’t
the end, it’s the beginning.