The words you are searching are inside this book. To get more targeted content, please make full-text search by clicking here.

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

Discover the best professional documents and content resources in AnyFlip Document Base.
Search
Published by ADELAIDE BOOKS, 2018-12-16 19:11:32

Adelaide Literary Magazine No.19, December 2018

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

Keywords: fiction,nonfiction,poetry,literary collection

me. I caught it before it skittered to the floor. had to guess at other varieties. I found two
“Go to Ferntown.” bottles of Sauvignon and a Merlot and the
Graysons. The cashier wouldn’t ring the pur-
“What? Mr. Tomlinson....” I said. “Sushi? Fern- chase until I excavated my ID. When I finally
town? You can't be serious?” stepped outside, the taller bottles were clink-
ing awkwardly against the shorter one. That
“See.... Like this. We don't prepare seafood at load was packed in a less-than-helpful paper
the diner. I don’t know of anyone who serves bag. The cooler was a nuisance. It is a rather
up any kind sushi way out here.” large and squarish box. It's heavy even when
it's empty. I hurried because I didn't like hang-
“Uh huh?” ing around the liquor outlet. At Komaji's, I or-
dered the expensive choices. I was rushing. I
“You'll have to fetch the food. Take the bus. Go was nervously heading back to the bus, intend-
to the Japanese place. I think it's called Koma- ing to catch the 1:45, and trying to keep
ji's. I'm too swamped to drive south right now. steady, balancing the cooler and the liquor. I
Get a sampler. Make sure it's elegant... sashi- had to hold on carefully.
mi, tempura, shrimp, and perhaps another?
California rolls? Bring the items back in the A sky-blue Ford pick-up swung around the cor-
carry cooler. Keep the sushi packed in layers of ner. It raked over the curb while I waited for
ice and the cooler gel packs. It's gotta be ultra the light. I stumbled back. The bag containing
fresh.” the bottles dragged itself from my right-hand
clutch. The bottles hit cement, shattered,
“It sounds way too complicated,” I said. splashed my pant leg and the bottom of my
jacket. Instantly, I smelled like a wino vagrant.
“It's not,” Tomlinson said. “I have faith. Don't The cooler box bashed against my shin.
forget. Ms. Dewell's agent has ordered a bottle
of port and a brand name too – the finest. It's I sent creative profanity towards the driver
called Graysons. Here, take my cell for all who had not slowed or stopped to check on
emergencies.” He slid his phone over to me. me. I wouldn't cry. I couldn't. My curses went
“Don't forget the cooler.” nowhere.

I began to sweat. How was I supposed to go all I trudged on. After a few minutes I waited on
the way into Ferntown on the mid-day bus and the sidewalk. I called Tomlinson. I told him
haul supplies back to Hampton before 2 pm on where I was. I explained about the booze and
Friday? That was the time that Holly Dewell's about nearly getting killed.
flight was expected to arrive and I'd end up
losing out. I'd probably get back at 4:20 pm and “Go again, Melanie,” he said. “Go and buy the
that was far too late. Even if I managed to com- liquor one more time. Come back as soon as
plete the errand, I wondered if Holly Dewell you might.” Then he laughed. I heard him sigh.
would answer the door at the residence? Did “Go directly over to the Chateau. Do not pass
she have an entourage of security personnel, a Go, do not collect $200.”
body guard – her own staff gofer? Would they
welcome me if I came to visit? Was he trying to be easy-breezy by attempting
his own brand of funny, or trying hard not to
Hey, I might be a hero? Maybe, I should go for swear at me?
it. I had to go for everything and take every
single chance to get to meet her. I did what was necessary, resenting all the
while that I'd be so much later. I'd have to wait
*** for the final bus departure. I wouldn't get back
into Hampton until it was almost dark.
The bus was packed.

At the liquor store, they didn’t have the wine. I

*** My knees felt like jelly. I held out the cooler
and the bag. “Here's the food and drinks,” I
The smelly bus rolled over Hampton road at said. I stuttered.
5:27 pm and it curved around the jagged rocks
along the newly paved thoroughfare – 5:32 The fat cat kept on yowling.
pm. At the “Welcome to Hampton” sign – 5:44
pm. “Come all the way inside and shut that inside
blinds,” Holly said. “Thanks so much for bring-
Once I'd alighted from the bus, I checked. It ing the supplies.” She indicated a side table.
was heading onto 5:48 pm. Outside the resi- With a sigh of relief, I placed my burdens on
dence. I was gasping – 5:51 pm. I pushed the the table.
doorbell with my elbow.
Rialto was just beyond the entrance way. He
I heard the yowling of a cat. was in the living room area, but only just, like
someone had dropped him there because he
The fatso. was too large to tote further. He was on the
rug, screeching like a loud and annoying tod-
He was just beyond the door. And the famous dler, a lumpy puddle of fur having an ultimate
Rialto was screeching high soprano. He is tantrum.
known for his flabbiness, not his voice. Appa-
rently he is not a tenor nor an alto. He was Holly pointed a finger at the cat. “The reality of
sounding miserable, screeching like the this animal rescue deal is driving me crazy,” she
Scottish bagpipes, discordant noise. said. “Please....” she went on, “Come on. Pull
up a chair and sit in comfort. I'm all alone with
Holly Dewell opened the door. “Hello.” this crazy squawker. What's your name?”

Except for the yodelling animal, she was alone. “I'm Melanie.” I stammered. “Why do you have
I twitched. Ms. Wickstrum's fatso here? I mean, wouldn't
someone else be more inclined to take charge
“Wow,” I said feeling overwhelmed. “I ex- of the logistics and his transport?”
pected a body guard, maybe an enormous
dude with muscles or with dark glasses – a se- “It was supposed to be a humanitarian ges-
cret agent type.” ture,” Holly said. “A high-profile public stunt. A
story. We've arranged to have the cat delivered
She was very beautiful. Her teeth were white here and then tomorrow the animal is to be
perfection. She was shorter than I'd expected, shipped onwards to a rescue place in Nebraska.
but she had such a friendly way of welcoming. It's called Soft Landings. They adopt. They're
She pulled me inside, her very own right hand sending an assistant in the morning. Someone
guiding me. She had a brilliant manicure of will put him on a train, then a diet, make sure
peachy frosted elegance. She reached beyond he has a responsible owner and a good life. My
me to close the outer door. I twitched again. agency informs me that the elderly woman
who has been keeping him is the same person
“I've sent my associate and my manager who has fattened him up.”
away,” she said. “They've gone ahead. They're
arranging a Vegas production.” “Yeah,” I said. “That's Ms. Wickstrum. A catas-
trophe.”
I said nothing. She winked at me. Yes, she
winked! Holly laughed.

“This place is so darn deserted,” she said. “It's And then I took a deep breath and continued
weird. I crave my own company whenever I can talking, but way too jittery. “Ms. Wickstrum's
arrange it, but this has been adventure. Well, I sort of become a legend here. The cat is infa-
mean.... Creepy. There's a loss of privacy when mous.”
everyone wants a piece of me. I'm alone in
here except for this diva, singing pussy cat.”

“I understand,” Holly said. “The squawker. Un- from tray to mouth, greedily sucking and chug-
til tomorrow anyhow.... Acchhhh.... He won't ging down each morsel. We watched the van-
stop this horrible mewling and it's so damn ishing. Piece-by-piece, California rolls and all.
loud, and now he's squeaking too. That's a new He ate until the tray was empty. Then Rialto
sound. He sounds so.... pathetic. Can you hear closed his eyes and purred and fell into a fat
the squeak?” cat doze.

“Hungry.” I said. I looked at Holly and she looked at me.
“Peace,” I said.
“You think?”
Holly rubbed her hands together. “Finally.”
“Always.” She sighed. “I'm really praying that he sleeps
right through the night. Except, we've got no
“But, I gave him food, and more. Seven pack- dinner. I hope you'll stay with me and keep me
ages of Kitsy Munch. The packages were stock- company in case this guy vocalizes once again.
piled for this exact purpose. I've got nothing in He might ramp it up.”
the fridge.”
“Sure,” I said. And we moved away from the
“Rialto would like other treats, something cat and sat down on the big orange sofa chairs
different than a dry cat food.” further back within the room.

“Hey, an idea. You say you have a quantity of Holly brushed a hand across her forehead.
sushi?” “Are you from this area? What do you like to
do?” she said. “Are you into music? Sports?”
“Right?”
“I like your music,” I said. And I felt over-
“Fish!” whelmed. “I'm an artist,” I said, feeling shy. “I
do sketches. Sometimes, I do over-washes. And
“Sashimi – shrimp – others.” I also do some fill-ins using watercolours.”

“Give it to Rialto. Maybe that will shut him “That's really amazing stuff,” she said. “I'd love
up?” to see your work, but I guess you don't have it
on your person. And you've been so kind to
We grabbed the cooler, snapped it open, tore bring the rescue. I'm sure starving,” she said.
away the wrappings and discarded the ice.
Then we set the sushi down before his royal “I know a local restaurant. It's about ten blocks
flabbiness on a flat sterling silver tray. along the highway, just a few steps north.”

Rialto was laying supine, his face towards the “I'm not going out in public,” Holly said. “I
ceiling, his paws curled over his expansive hope you understand. I tend to get mobbed. A
girth. He sniffed. He stopped crying. He had to side-effect of the biz. I've got fans. Too many
work it out. First, he moved his torso tentative- sometimes. Could we phone and get some-
ly and his stomach followed, squashing against thing delivered?”
itself in a sort of hideous orchestrated undula-
tion of rolling over. He craned his neck, “Yeah,”I said. “Do you like cheeseburgers?”
reached for the tray. He sniffed again. We
laughed, but it really wasn't comical. “Cheeseburgers?” She nodded. “Plenty. And
french fries.”
“So distressing,” Holly said. “Pitiful.”
“Cool,” I said. “I can use my bosses debit and
And there was nothing beautiful to watch his phone.”
when Rialto began to consume. He ate like a
hog; slurping, gorging. A long pink tongue “I only eat the classy low-cal items,” she said,
wrapped around half his face as he struggled “to reinforce a positive public image. Please
with his own dexterity of getting slices of food

don't tell my publicist, or my trainer. They wor- They fell away from my sight. The last image I
ry about my image.” retained was one of Sarah and Sandy's mouths
gaping.
I called the Hampton Grill. We ordered enough
take-out for two very hungry women and one “I'm ultra hungry,” Holly said, and she grabbed
obese yowler. the bag. “You were telling me.... What kind of
scenes or visions do you dream up? How often
“And while we are waiting,” Holly said, “Tell do you draw? Do you use graphite sticks and
me more about your sketches and your pen and ink?”
paintings. Did you go to art school?”
***
***
We talked and we ate. Occasionally we
After a while, we heard the doorbell. checked on the sleeping fatso.

Sandy and Sarah stood on the threshold. “Hey,” Holly said, “Do you think I should have
given those two girls some kind of tip? They're
“What do you want?” I said. sisters, right?”

“We've come to say hello to Holly Dewell,” “Did they earn anything?” I said.
Sarah said. “We've come to welcome her.
We've got the food as per the takeout order.” “I'll have to get my agent to add a generous
bonus. Those girls probably depend upon their
I could smell the onions. tips. My agent will send a gratuity over to the
restaurant in a day or two. What's the name of
“Well, hand it over,” I said. And I used my own the place?”
imperious voice, trying for new confidence, like
I was the chairperson of this particular celebri- “The Hampton Grill,” I said. “It's the only place
ty encounter. “I'm in charge.” along the highway.”

I really liked telling Sarah what to do. “So, beside my tunes – what other kinds of
music do you like?”
Holly had ducked beyond the curtain in case
the visitor was some sort of maniacal fan, or ***
perhaps many fans who might have found her
country hideaway. But when she realized it was She was like a friend.
only the food we'd ordered, Holly came to
stand beside me. She reappeared and smiled Holly told me about performing in Nashville
briefly at each twin. I felt her presence near my and in Austin. She's been to England six or se-
shoulder blades. ven times. She's held major concerts in North
America.
Holly put a protective hand at the side of my
upper arm. We faced the twins together, and We talked until half past twelve. After that I
said in unison: “Thanks.” I took custody of the checked my watch and it was 1:45 am. Addi-
bag of food. I could really smell the burgers tional minutes kept on skipping along. When I
now. realized it was edging close to 2:00 am, and I
had a lengthy walk to get myself home, I
Before I realized what was happening, Holly mucked about to find my jacket.
had reached over my head and pushed the
door, effectively shutting away the anxious Rialto, the enormous, squishy, squashy brute,
faces of the twins as if they were flunkies twice kept on sleeping like he was a little fish-aholic.
dismissed. If he planned on waking and singing opera,
Holly had enough leftover cheeseburgers to
“Bye,” Holly said. And the door swung closed. satisfy a horse.

“This kitty cat is kind of sorrowful, Holly said, of countless stars hanging over Hampton. Se-
looking down at Rialto. “In a sprawly, lumpy quins on the clouds.
and pitiful fur-ball way.... he is handsome. I started walking home, passing through the
Well, I mean, he may be considered handsome, intersection. I took a shortcut around the jag-
that is... if and when he's silent. I hope they ged rocks along the boulevard, walking down
take good care of him and feed him sensibly at the centre line. There was no sign of traffic and
the rescue place.” the wind was warm.
I could hardly see the moon, but it was shining
We both gazed down at Rialto until tears all around me and I wasn't dreaming now. I
welled in Holly's grey-blue eyes. “Poor baby was humming something from Holly Dewell's
cakes,” she said. “I swear he's snoring.” Holly playlist. Something sweet and soulful. I could-
reached down and she stroked Rialto's head. n't recall the name of the song, but I knew the
“Listen.” lyrics word for word for word and those words
nearly make me cry.
Luckily, he did not reawaken. We held our
breath and we listened. “Yep, that's snoring” (end)
Holly said. “Listen.... It's like a sweet and
spiritual tune.” About the Author:

“Dreaming about sashimi.” Katrina Johnston is a recent Pushcart Prize
nominee. Her short stories appear at or on
Before I ventured outside, Holly said: “You've several online magazines. She lives in the beau-
gotta come to California. Stay with me.” tiful environs of Victoria, BC, Canada. The goal
of her writing is to explore and share with
“You're not serious?” others whatever that she finds.

“Oh yeah, I am. I think we'd have some ama-
zing times. I mean, we are friends already.
We'll go to Sausalito. I'll take you around to the
art galleries. I've got many connections,” she
said. “I know a lot of folks who will open doors
for you. You might be famous. Could you han-
dle that?”

“I might go for it.” I told her. And then she
slipped a business card inside my pocket.
“Here's my 411,” she said. “Please call me. Do
it very soon. Say you will! I'll arrange a
meeting.”

“Well sure.”

She gave me a hug. “It's like we're long lost
sisters. We could be.... We could be twins.”

“I don't think so.” I laughed.

“But we are both artists and we finish each
others thoughts and we laugh. It's meant that
we would meet this time, and share our good
experience.”

I went outside. I turned around and I waved,
but shyly. I stepped into the night that was full

SORRY BETSY

by Mimi Karabulut

I take a seat, but this table is all wrong. It’s too touch off. Since when is it polite for strangers
old for the room. The room has a modern feel to touch me? Since never.
to it, but the table is creaky and worn and chip-
ping at its corners. I want to sit somewhere I turn to raise my hand supposing that’s the
else. I want to protest the meeting. I want to thing to do. The table THUMP-THUMPs and
tell them they haven’t been trying hard rests.
enough, they need to do more, they need to fix
her, but I stay quiet. It’s not like I have the “Yes,” the head doctor says.
gumption to speak up anyway.
“Can we try for a heart transplant?”
We have something important to discuss, they
say, so I sit at the decrepit table and lay my “In your mother’s condition, it’s inadvisable to
head down. operate.”

White coats trickle into the room and swirl The table THUMP-THUMPs.
around the table in waves of pristinely
bleached uniforms. I feel them bumping and “But you can do it, right?”
nudging around one another, around the table.
More arrive, and now too many doctors are in “We would have to wait for the heart. That
this minuscule room and they’re crowded could take months and it is likely the lack of
around me and this ancient table, a table that oxygen to her brain affects her present
rocks as I breathe in and out. I hear it THUMP- functioning.”
THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, and
I need to get out, get out of this room with all A doctor shifts his feet and nudges the table
these people. More enter, and now the door is into my chest. The table relaxes with a THUMP-
blocked. We’re trapped in this room, and I THUMP.
don’t know why there have to be so many peo-
ple, I need to get out because I can’t breathe I perk up.
and I’m stuck in this room with this rocking
table. “There’s got to be something we can do. She’s
only 58. What’s Plan B? C? D? This is the best
I cover my face and breathe. I lean to my side. hospital in the state. You can bring her out of
A stranger touches my shoulder, I shake her this. You said it yourself, you’ve been practicing
for 22 years and you’ve never lost a patient.”

The head doctor takes a deep breath and his
eyes shift down.

“I’m graduating in the fall. You said you’d do rhythm knocks the ground for every breath I
everything to make sure she saw me walk.” take. It’s a THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP,
THUMP-THUMP with a quickening pace and
He raises his eyes and says, “When you they glance at each other with those eyes I
brought her to us on Saturday, we were cau- know mean nervous but I only want them to
tiously optimistic that she would recover.” know that they need to do more to bring back
my mom.
“And?”
I close my eyes and rock the table again and
“Let’s have Betsy explain from here.” again as I say, you need to bring her back, you
need to do more. I repeat this again and look
I know what this means. I shudder and force up at the somber white coats and whispers to
the table to THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, nearby colleagues and solitary hands over their
THUMP-THUMP, and then yell, “No! All Betsy eyes. I don’t want their pity. I want them to
knows how to do is put her hand all up on my save my mom.
shoulder. She needs to learn some social
boundaries.” “Are you familiar with DNR?” the head doctor
says.
I glare at Betsy who shyly smiles at me. What
kind of social worker smiles at a girl waiting for I stop. The room is dead. I say the words they
her mother to wake up after four days? I smash need to hear. I leave.
my fists on the table and the head doctor’s
face pivots. I don’t understand why his brows My little brother is crying on the floor, blocking
twist. I’m standing and rocking the table, the entrance to Mom’s room. I go to touch his
THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP- shoulder since that seems to be the thing to do
THUMP. now. I rub his back instead. I don’t want to be
another Betsy.
“We’ve done everything we can for her.”
They gather us in her room. My mom will die
THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP. soon. I’m not sure what to do. Do I stand and
watch? Do I cry in the waiting room? Do I hold
“Pardon?” I say. her hand? But her hand is swollen. The edema
is severe, they cautioned me.
The table pauses.
Our hands form a circle over her body as I’m
“She would have needed a heart transplant a reminded that my Aunt is Catholic. We watch
month ago to have a chance to live. Without my mother as the nurse narrates the oncoming
life support, her heart can’t function on its heart attack, but I hear the table thumping
own.” faster and faster, desperately grasping for life
and trying so hard to work, but it’s going too
“So then we get her another heart.” fast. I need to calm its rhythm but our hands
are locked and so I turn my head towards the
“The waiting list is too long. We can keep her room — and the nurse calls Mom’s time of
on life support, but we have more pressing death. The THUMP-THUMPs quiet. The room is
concerns,” he says. silent. The white coats are gone. The meeting is
over. My mother is dead.
My anger pauses as I shirk into my seat. I grip
the table for support.

“Your mother has been non-responsive to
reflex tests.”

Betsy touches my shoulder. I shake her hand
off and grip the sides of table and begin rocking
it back and forth, back and forth, until its

About the Author:

Mimi Karabulut is a writer in Chicago. She’s
appeared in 121words and is working on her
first book.

MR. DARLING
CONFRONTS A VISION

by Andrew Mitin

Mr. Darling allows Mr. Darling to move through his life
among people who are genuinely glad to see
James to his wife and father him, whether that be Rachel
Jim to his friends and co-workers and
Jimmy to his mother his wife, first thing in the morning or
his co-workers throughout the day
was not a morbid man, or rather a morbid his father, when he was alive and
young man, since he is merely thirty-four years his mother on special weekend days with
old and may have aged either somewhat or visits to
else significantly depending on how long this extended family
writing is delayed, in any number of ways, from
reaching its audience and so Mr. Darling may at holidays
very well be in his late thirties by now or even for weddings and funerals
in his fifties, or else, God forbid which have begun to occur more fre-
quently than celebration days and
both for his sake and Rachel again
the sake of his family in the evening and at night.

on his death bed, regardless of his present age, James prepares his breakfast, which consists of
if not already many years interred, and so his coffee and a piece of fruit, usually a banana,
brief forays into the realm of the macabre and is lauded for this because Rachel doesn’t
would surprise many people, most especially care much for coffee, enjoying instead berries
his mother, who has never yet tired of calling blended with Greek yogurt, a packet of instant
her son Jimmy oatmeal, some wheat germ and a dash of apple
cider vinegar with the Mother to start her day.
never James or Jim She enjoys even more the freedom to make
at least at the time of this writing. this herself, as she sees fit, either with flavored
oatmeal or plain, one or two dashes of the
Mr. Darling is an affable man, smiling brightly Mother, sometimes with blueberries and other
whenever engaged in conversation. He always times with raspberries, and, mostly on week-
looks his interlocutor in the eye so that whoev- ends but sometimes during the week, Rachel
er is on the receiving end of his kind attention Darling blends
feels they are more witty and appealing, more
erudite and charming than they are and this

chocolate ice cream and around him. While James could reconcile the
berries with logic of heart attacks and could recall numer-
ous instances of hearing about them, most
roasted pecans or frequently while seated in wooden pews on
raw almonds Sunday mornings, he could not reconcile the
fact that his father could possibly be one of
because she’s been good all week and is those whom the pastor beseeched from other
getting her work done and James loves her and such seated parishioners for prayer. Mr. Dar-
leaves her to her life while he pursues his own, ling, Sr. became attracted to the Psalms. The
in just the right ratio, so when the Darlings Gospels gave him comfort and hope and
come together they find themselves renewed though he danced through the rehabilitation
process, a process his doctor’s had become
each in the other increasingly encouraged by, which greatly en-
every evening and couraged the family, Mr. Darling Sr. fell ill with
again at night. pneumonia and

James was impressed and encouraged. He (Passed into the bosom of the Lord) said
looked forward to driving to his parent’s home the minister
where the day would progress in much the
same way such days had always progressed, (Went to be with Jesus, whom he knew and
even after the addition of Rachel. Hugs all Who knew him) said Mrs. Darling
around and the news of the week followed by
the meal. They would take their seats then (On to his next life) said his cousins and
one another’s hands and bow their heads. siblings and
There was consistency in the home of Mr. Dar-
ling Sr. (Away is to where and who cares exactly)
said James who
benevolence was there and
expectations too was angry at having to reconcile his father’s
mortality and was tired of scratching at hope
that James rarely fell short of because Mr. Dar- that he would somehow survive his life, which
ling Sr. knew men, having grown into one him- was feeling more and more like a death sen-
self, and he knew what was in their hearts tence, and lamenting the hours he could have
when he saw what they did and he knew James spent with his father
would also do what men do even as he in-
structed his son to do what was right. Then at rehab appointments and
James would find a way to tell his father what helping around his home and
he’d been reading. Mr. Darling, Sr. was given in conversation at dinners and
the latest news about Alfred Stieglitz or Diane in conversation on the road
Arbus (Doing any-fucking-thing any-fucking-
where)
1864-1946 and
1923-1971 respectively but that James had spent doing what he could-
n’t remember now, but had had something to
and the novels of Geoff Dyer and John Berger, do with
both alive at the time of this writing, and his
new-found fascination for the Minor Prophets, watching the Spartans and
a fascination instilled by Mr. Darling, Sr., who reading books or
was the first to show James that discussing taking pictures
one’s reading habits was a legitimate form of
conversation. After Mr. Darling, Sr. suffered his that wouldn’t turn out better than they
first heart attack James became cautious had.

Jim is inquisitive and encouraging. He makes
his rounds through greenhouse sections every

day so that when he approaches no one is sur- (Isn’t it funny
prised or too much elated because they expect a thing that’s never happened
it, the same way they expect their paychecks to me
is suddenly happening
once a month now)
on the last working day of the month,
before falling into the kitchen counter and col-
when some will meet up for a cocktail at lapsing onto the linoleum. This thought and
thoughts very much in keeping with this
Reno’s East or North thought are beginning to assail Mr. Darling at
never West all hours and in varied manifestations, regard-
less if he is
or Crunchy’s
sometimes the Peanut Barrel Jimmy
Jim or
or else Dagwood’s James and

because it isn’t on campus but is so very close he is feeling increasingly anxious about it. Per-
to campus and Jim will laugh easily and even haps it is the fault of all the funerals of late he
get in a line or two that will genuinely cause wonders and believes to be the case, hoping
some in the party to remark to themselves that this belief will cause the hallucinations to leave
him in peace. However, eight months after his
I had a good time and own father’s funeral, and after two similar ser-
after all vices that saw members of his wife’s extended
family so interred, the visions have not only
there are worse places to work. not abated but have ramped up to such an
incredible degree that Mr. Darling
Jimmy is deferential and dotes upon her. He is
conscious of her proximity and never fails to be believes he is going crazy.
within earshot if she suddenly needs some-
thing or has suddenly remembered an inter- The visions began innocently enough and were
esting anecdote from her daily routine, when separated by long swaths of time to make
she’d asked for sliced ham when what she real- them seem like mere aberrations rather than
ly wanted was smoked turnkey, but didn’t feel an opening salvo, the first twinge of future
strong enough to admit her mistake aloud and labor pains or like a small cut
in front of casual acquaintances who were
waiting their turn in the deli, or when she’d on the foot while swimming or
happened upon Jimmy’s old bus driver in the on the hand while picking berries
parking lot of Tom’s Foods and he’d asked after
him, not because he remembered the diminu- whose penetrating object was a mystery, but
tive boy amongst the hundreds of boys during would later make the limb gangrenous. By
the years Jimmy rode the bus or the thousands suggesting these visions began innocently is
of boys composing every year he’d driven for not to say their subject matter is innocent, nor
the district, but because Jimmy had been an is the term meant to imply these first hallucina-
acolyte in the church where the Darling’s tions are in some way contrary to the normal
attended and where the Sanders’ had attended run of his daily thoughts, that they are born of
and it was good, Mr. Sanders believed, to ask some mysterious spirit, or are the result of
after one’s own, or when, as Jimmy is begin- foreign substances ingested against his will or
ning to fear, his mother will suddenly stop fix- without his knowledge. No, these early visions
ing sandwiches or relaying her anecdote and are simply the result of Mr. Darling functioning
seek him out with wide eyes in alarm and dis- as a normal human being when decisions and
belief, hoping to relate one final anecdote
about how

actions from his past rear their unflattering the hopeless jumper so close to where Jim and
heads in the present and remind him of his old Esther had been that now Mr. Darling
self in the hopes that the future Mr. Darling
will be better for it. In effect, Mr. Darling’s subconsciously equates
conscience is beginning to affect recall. His sex with death and has
earliest memory of having acted in a way that
now seems unthinkable to him occurred when ever since
he was fourteen. Jim had recently made out been wary of the one and
with his girlfriend, a prolonged affair that excit- ambivalent of the other
ed and terrified him to such an extent that he
didn’t move, but remained where he was, do- then more obsessive about the other. No, it
ing what he was doing, without so much as was the memory of the evening a few days
moving any further muscles after the authorities had identified the jumper
and released Daniel Harwith’s name to the
either in his neck or public, mentioning only that his body had been
the muscles in his hands found early in the morning by Mr. and Mrs.
Schouland and omitting the fact that Mrs.
to change their positions on the young girl’s Schouland had thrown up upon hearing her
hips or move them off her hips to some other husband first gasp then shriek at the gruesome
more titillating locale. He was as though discovery of
caught in a searchlight and any movement
would lead to his capture or else, should he Mr. Harwith’s ankle bones
advance any further, the spell would be broken swaddling his ear lobes.
and the young girl would realize it was getting
late and that she was afraid of being pressed Jim had, for motives that to this day are con-
too much against fused because misremembered, knocked on his
parent’s bedroom door and confessed to hav-
the town’s feed silos ing kissed his girlfriend. Mr. Darling, Sr. waited
those same silos for him to continue and his mother said

climbed by a fellow townsperson later that (Oh Jimmy, she’s such a nice girl) and
evening or else early the next morning where
he hesitated upon the small metal grate that Jimmy wasn’t sure if this was a delighted
acted as a kind of landing to consider the light phrase, encouraging him to continue with her
of distant stars now dead before plummeting or if he’d done something wrong by kissing the
off nice girl and because of his

feet first Desires
into that were just beginning to announce
a pool of unrecognizable mush
themselves
only feet away from where the young couple and instincts
was being inducted into the amorous affairs of that would make a mess of things until
men and women. But it wasn’t the first thrill of
sexual adventure that had stricken Mr. Dar- developed
ling’s conscience with shame, nor was it the she had become something other than a nice
fact that a man had taken his own life, and in girl
such a horrific manner, leaving it to an elderly
couple, who enjoyed waking early with tea and and so
walking the breadth of the town Mr. Darling
had grown up in, to find the pulpy remains of Mr. Darling performs his rounds every morning
and is being reminded of past actions that
strike him now with repugnance at himself and
at the world whose furrow he’s found himself
within. He enjoys the emptiness of the green-
houses at this early hour before the parking lot

is filled and before the plant’s unrelenting de- Affection
mands for water compel researchers and their desire and
graduates, undergraduates and technicians to love until
fill the hallways with duties of their own and appropriately wed
requests for Mr. Darling to find more pots or
look at faulty irrigation systems, or else deter- explaining to Esther that his feelings for her did
mine why a pesticide application has done not warrant such physical expression because
nothing to eradicate the pest problem after she was not his soul mate
twenty-four hours and after the economic
threshold had been passed a week earlier, a (But it would be awesome to still be
term mostly used in industry where such things friends).
as economics are the driving factor in maintain-
ing healthy plants and not in academia where Mr. Darling comes to and the grass is green,
plant material is grown, not for profit, but for the sky a brilliant blue. He laughs to himself
genomes or to test certain chemical reactions about how seriously he took that momentary
upon their delicate foliage and root systems. memory and goes about his day. He continues
Before all of this becomes the minutia that his days until four months later, when the foot-
make up Mr. Darling’s day he has these mo- ball team is preparing to open their 7-6 season
ments walking the somber hallways, reflecting against UAB under a new coach, the school’s
on yesterday’s job performance and antici- fourth in eight years. Mr. Darling climbs into
pating the coming day’s. It is within these the peak of a greenhouse to replace a number
of vent arms whose teeth, because they are
quiet reflections made of aluminum and not steel, have worn
unguarded down over time and will no longer catch in the
gear boxes, rendering them useless in opening
that Mr. Darling looks out a clear pane of glass and closing the vent to insure optimal growing
to see grass freshly mown conditions. While drilling holes and securing
brackets and fitting new metal arms into new
stretching toward the light metal gear boxes, he falls into the rhythm of
of a warm spring sun and work that does not require strict attention to
what he is doing. His mind begins to wander.
suffers a wave of chilled panic at the quick He thinks of his mother
memory of knocking on his parent’s bedroom
door, a decision how she will fare after the death her hus-
band
(No, no) of Rachel

that led him to break up with his first girlfriend who is slogging through an entry-level gov-
because, he had said, he had a dream about a ernment job
brunette. Jim felt this had been God-sent of the coming semester

a sign when students will return and fill the cam-
an omen pus with
a portent of catastrophe
heavy foot traffic
that proved His displeasure at his having been limited parking spaces
with Esther, but Jim couldn’t confess this last crowded bars and
proof, not having discovered this as a possibil- varied reports on police blotters when
ity to extricate himself from relationships until
he decided to forgo sexual intercourse like the onset of a premonition, these mean-
dering banalities cease mid-rumination and he
choosing to abstain from the sexual expres- sees himself as he is
sion of
precarious

on a sixteen foot extension ladder his leg will spasm as though startled awake or
working over his head his head will toss as if shaking off a pest or

alone in exasperation of more requests for mon-
then as he isn’t, but might very well soon ey
be:
for student labor and supplies
slipping from his secure position greater quantities of compensatory
foot maniacally seeking a stable landing time

he believes is there but regardless of university policy’s
had never actually been there strict limitations of such
body weight shifting right while
his left hand releases the trellis support and or else how incompetent certain depart-
he falls backwards ment’s budgetary analysis is or
continues to fall backwards
until his torso becomes parallel to the how stupid a twenty year old has been
benches over the weekend
loaded down with the green tufts of sugar
beats resulting in a full-time staff member
then past parallel having to interrupt a family dinner
as his left shin is recruited to be the hinge, it
having suddenly been thrust into such an ab- to do the job right, the result of
surd position which is
straining now
snapping and the conclusion being that work
(No, oh no!) time is deemed more valuable than

Mr. Darling is left dangling upside down and family time
shrieking at the far end of the research facility. which cannot possibly be the
He drops the drill he’s been working with and
grips the sides of the ladder. He catches his case
breath. The climb down is slow. When both but of course it is and
feet are safely on the ground he finds he can’t
stand, his legs are shaking too much, and he in this instance the hallucination has less to do
bends beside a bench, soaking his knee in irri- with his own bodily injury
gation run-off. The drill no longer functions,
the bit has shattered. Other instances like this although these were occurring with more
occur while he is at work, but none manifest regularity as
such a physical reaction of his nervous system.
Occasionally, while in each succeeding scene builds upon the last
gaining in coincidence of misadventure and
budget meetings and horror
meetings with his staff that
as though such scenes initially began a coping
he isn’t particularly interested in, which he process that has become feeble to their task
leads but doesn’t contribute much besides than with that of his loved ones. Particularly
setting the week’s agenda and listening to his mother, Mr. Darling’s first beloved before
Rachel Darling, who has wakened from her
rudimentary complaints sound sleep on more than one occasion, the
commiserating non-verbally first time being six months ago, two months
in the way that seven years of marriage after the passing of Mr. Darling, Senior. At first
she believes the shrieking occurs within her
has taught him dream, but she isn’t dreaming of anything par-
ticular that she remembers upon waking at
which time she thinks the screams are coming
from outside but the windows have been
closed for weeks and the furnace is busily click-
ing on and off then she knows the shrieks are
coming from the sleeping mass beside her. She

is horrified and without any subtlety or finesse reason why it had come out so childish and
she shoves her husband’s shoulder blade then feminine or
pulls her lover’s love handle at which point his
right arm comes flying over his right shoulder, if not these descriptors then
swinging above his wife’s head one more in keeping with an antonym for
masculine surprise and
missing it by inches or
closer since Mr. Darling did remember the dream. At least
he remembers the subject if not the content:
Mrs. Darling’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the
dark and she can’t be certain just how close the terrible demise of Mrs. Darling, his
she’s come to being struck, and strikes the mother and
leafy iron work of the headboard, eliciting fur-
ther shrieking of a more direct nature with an even if Mr. Darling does not remember the
intensity and intentionality that was lacking in exact scenario in which he sees his mother’s
his prior shrieks. When Rachel asks him final instance as a living being, he can recall
now
not then, but later that morning
when they have sat down together quite clearly

she with her smoothie and the many more that will follow in the proceed-
he with a left hand finger between the thin ing months
pages of Malachi
stroke
his right had covered by an ice pack heart attack
car accidents
Mr. Darling thinks
in town and country and
(I know what I’ve been so terrified of upon mountain roads
being the proximity of my life to
the closeness of death at night
mere centimeters within my chest in snowstorms and rainstorms and
beating and beating until the beating thick fog
stops crashing into guard rails
And I can claw and I can scratch and into on-coming traffic
I can pull my hair out and dig to the ribs then through guard rails and
the valves are a tyrant unto themselves)
but he says plummeting into deep ravines, the metal mass
(I don’t know what I dreamt) searing off hundreds of tree limbs as Mrs. Dar-
and he says ling screams for Jimmy to help her

(Perhaps I’d’ve remembered if I hadn’t been for God to save her
wakened to searing pain in my hand) for her husband

which, truth be told, didn’t hurt him as much (For God’s sake!)
as he let on but merely surprised him, a fact he to help her
wanted to cover up, first because he felt an
injury would somehow warrant him a free pass or else innocently sipping iced tea at a coffee
when not discussing the subject of his night- house and being obliterated by a careening
mare and second because he heard the shriek cement mixer, whose driver has had a
he emoted and didn’t know he’d been the one
to cry out. When he realized this was the case, stroke or a
even in his groggy state, he felt he needed a heart attack

or sipping that same iced tea and being shot in
the head by a stray bullet or one intended for
her from the gun of a deranged person or one

in full possession of his mind, because it’s nev- mote and turns the screen to black. In the
er a woman who kills in this way, at least not darkness now, spots of illumination precede his
that’s reported nationally, and wanting to glances across the opaque living room. Mr.
make a political or religious or socio-economic Darling thinks these spots are early symptoms
point as interpreted by media outlets both lo- of a tumor, that he’s heard of these occurring
cally accessible to the heinous act and as far and wonders if he is beginning to experience
from it as an academic campus halfway around those symptoms that would necessitate a visit
the world, this woman has lifted a handgun. to the doctor’s office and if such a visit would
But on this most recent early morning, Mr. be preferable to that of visiting another sort of
Darling has not shrieked and so has not wak- doctor, one who would ask Mr. Darling what he
ened his wife, who continues to sleep peaceful- thinks these hallucinations mean and prescribe
ly beneath the dark covers beside him. He is him a dose from some unnameable chemical
up, inexplicably, after only three hours of sleep. combination that will cease his experiencing his
Though he feels refreshed and alert, surprising dead father in the living room. When he thinks
considering the early hour, he knows he will how the presence of either doctor will keep
fall asleep again in a few minutes, but after Rachel up nights and how she will mourn his
lying awake for nearly an hour with no sign of pre-death with
sleep returning, Mr. Darling gets out of bed,
quietly closes their bedroom door behind him, sorrow-filled looks and
fills a glass with water and turns on the televi- unpredictable kindnesses and
sion. The sudden flash of blue light shocks his probably anger
susceptible pupils, as though he has just looked
directly into the sun and when he slowly accli- directed at him and
mates to the pixel twitches at their God and
at the world
by slowly turning his face
away from the wall which
more than likely
slowly
and toward the screen has something to do with
the abnormal growth
Mr. Darling believes his eyes have still not ad- thriving
justed and have, in fact, had their physical in her beloved’s
make-up altered in such a way that he sees his frontal cortex
father standing before him. Mr. Darling rubs
his eyes, believing the apparition to be merely he chastises himself for having such unmerciful
a thoughts and sees again the stature and bear-
ing of his dead father. He appears more like a
sun spot or tree than Mr. Darling remembers, not that his
the afterglow of the last father had once had flesh like rough bark or
television image yet smooth or that his hair was coiffed in such a
way as to denote a bird sanctuary, or even that
when he returns his gaze to the place where his limbs were more limb-like than not; it is
his father stands, what Mr. Darling believed more that Mr. Darling can’t exactly remember
was an after-image or a sun spot what his father looks like, only what he felt
when
(Perhaps a remnant of shadow)
he hugged him and
is once again the stature and bearing of Mr. what he smelled like when
Darling Sr. He is dressed in the television’s
blue light serenely admiring his son, whose he kissed his father’s hair and
breath catches, whose hand clutches the re- what he sounded like when

his wife

Mr. Darling’s mother (What)
made him laugh and
as the breeze proffers a tree’s limb and
this lack of detail in the stature and bearing of
his father has joined with that image of a birch (No, oh no)
tree symbolic to Mr. Darling as an image of
childhood that his brain frantically seeks for Mr. Darling leans forward in his recliner to bat
and decides upon when confronted with the away the vision’s extension. He closes his eyes
apparition it can’t rationalize. It is a misfire. and flails but his ears are not stopped and he
But with the sudden lack of bright stimuli, the hears his father’s voice
emotional distress experienced by Mr. Darling
over the past six months and his immersion (There is nothing)
again into total darkness, his mind must be
given some sympathy for continuing to inter- unmistakable and clear and Mr. Darling claps
pret visual imagery in the absence of corre- his ears and shrieks. Mr. Darling falls against
sponding visual input. Mr. Darling the floor and Rachel is standing now in the hall-
way
closes his eyes
then opens them and (There is nothing)
his father remains. He moves his eyes in rapid stunned and
succession watching from the doorway
left-right
up-down not wanting to get too close to James’ flailing
rolling and crossed yet arms or his writhing mass as he begins to lo-
cate himself on the pre-dawn living room floor.
his father still stands, observing his son’s be- When he calms and begins to breathe normal-
havior with a wry grin, a feature of Mr. Darling ly, Rachel rushes toward him
Sr. who was often in a good mood and who
falls beside him
while suffering from petting his forehead
the shock and pain of (Sweetie, there’s nothing there) and
he grips her tiny hand
his first heart attack was still able to question (I should) he says and
the route his wife was taking to the hospital she endures while he crushes it and he says
and to forget about his own mortality or else to (I should have) and
spite it said weeps.

(The country miles are the straightest)

and these are the words Mr. Darling hears his
father say to him in that moment of darkness
and quiet. He stares at his father, who stares
back wondering, quite reasonably, whether
James has lost his mind by hoping such a tactic
could possibly rid him of his presence. Mr.
Darling reaches a terror pitch of panic at not
being able to will this specter away and he
shouts

(What then)

and his father reaches out to him

ARMISTICE

by Halle J. Carter

Now that most everyone has gone, Lexa can and cranking the volume on the TV up. Each
hear what’s going on in the tiny kitchen off of time she does it, her grip on the remote grows
the living room. The TV is up loud enough that tighter, her knuckles blanching to the bone.
she has to strain to hear them, but she’d rather Lexa is concerned for her, and rightfully so. She
listen to SJ stroke her own ego than watch yet looks ready to snap in half. But SJ, as usual, is
another episode of House Hunters Internation- only concerned about SJ. She’s discussing The
al. She risks sliding her gaze down to Shay, who Importance of Being Earnest, using phrases no
sits slumped beside her. Her shoulders are one can understand and stringing long, com-
tense and her eyes are narrowed, focusing on plex thoughts into hurried, enthusiastic sen-
the TV alone. She’s been there all night, not tences. Her chin is high in the air, her eyes are
even looking up when Morgan and the others hooded slightly. She’s pleased with herself. She
showed up with liquor and gossip. Four days, always is.
maybe five, have passed since her breakup.
She’s done little more than sink lower into the Lexa opts for the lesser of two evils and diverts
cracked leather of the couch as the week her attention onto the TV again, trying to tune
crawled by. SJ out. SJ’s not even a Lit major; she’s English
with a concentration in Film Studies as she’s so
SJ’s voice rises over the drone of the HGTV fond of announcing whenever she gets the
host, sounding velvety and smooth after her chance. That’s almost worse, since she tries to
overindulgence on their “special occasion” analyze every movie they watch. Even Gran
bottle of wine. She has a way of making every- Torino, which is Shay’s breakup film for what-
thing a “special occasion”, even if it’s another ever reason. They’ve watched it at least five
slow Thursday night and they all have class in times over the course of the week, neither of
the morning. Morgan stands over there with them having the heart to tell Shay no when she
her, swirling the tip of her brand-new acrylic suggests they watch it again. Lexa can probably
nail in her gin and tonic and smiling at SJ the recite the entire film by heart, and SJ can pin-
way she’d smile at someone young, someone point where the score swells to show the
who needs it. Lexa doesn’t think SJ needs it, change in the protagonist’s motive. Or some-
but maybe she’s wrong. SJ laps it up, after all, thing like that. Lexa has grown used to letting
basking in the attention and letting Morgan SJ talk until she feels she’s said her piece.
trace her fingers over the lines on her palm.
They aren’t what they used to be. Something
Shay keeps throwing a clouded glare their way had changed when the three of them had

moved in together last year. SJ drinks more, sky. Lexa often catches herself looking at it
Shay glares and fumes over every slight disa- when the group goes out to the strip together,
greement, and Lexa tries to figure out where it a painful reminder that she has an essay due
all went wrong. But none of them change. next week or an exam coming up. It’s not all
None of them threaten to move out. They just drinks and gossip and taking to the streets at 1
exist and try to ignore the fact that they AM for no reason at all, no matter how much
haven’t laughed together in weeks, let alone she wants it to be.
eaten dinner around the communal table they
once valued so highly. Beacon Street is unusually quiet for a Thursday
night which, normally, would form a hot pool
Lexa rises to her feet, every muscle in her body of unease in the pit of her stomach. But tonight
aching to move, to get out of the dark haze she’s glad for the quiet, glad to be listening to
that surrounds what she once would have cars rumbling past and old rock music wafting
called home. Three pairs of eyes turn to look at out from dive bars, mixing with the scent of
her, one cut into mean slits, one drunken and beer and cigarettes. Anything’s better than
wide, and one glazed with self-important HGTV and SJ’s voice. She flashes her ID at the
indifference. bouncer, though she’s not entirely sure which
bar she’s decided to go in. It ends up being the
“I’m…” Lexa fumbles for an excuse. “I’m going sports bar that’s only popular during football
to walk down to the strip.” season. The walls are wood-paneled and are
shrouded in faded pennants and jerseys from
Shay turns back to the TV the moment the players no one can remember. Black and white
words leave her mouth. Morgan laughs a little photos of the football team crowd the wall
bit, as if she can’t believe Lexa is wasting her behind the bar. The bartender is one of the
time. SJ is the only one who acknowledges that players, the linebacker from the 1968 champi-
she had spoken at all. onship team. It was an interesting story the
first time Lexa heard it, but it lost its luster, like
“Knock yourself out, Lex.” Her shoulders roll in almost everything in the bar, the third time
one of her signature, slow shrugs. he’d tried to tell it over a commercial break.

She tugs on her jacket and sets off, the rickety He isn’t the bartender tonight. Instead it’s a
metal stairs clanging with each step as she dark-haired, broad-shouldered guy whose baby
charges down to the street below. Their apart- face doesn’t meet the rest of his strong build.
ment is above a convenience store that consid- Lexa slides into one of the barstools and waits
ers SJ a valued customer for the amount of for him to speak first.
cheap wine and margarita mixers that she buys
in a week. During the day, they can often hear “Can I get you anything?” His voice is small and
the country music from the store’s speakers self-conscious, but strained with professionali-
drifting up to their living room. But now the ty.
store is closed and locked, the signs dim and
the aisles illuminated only by the whitewashed “Just a Pacifico, if you have it,” she says, not
glow of the streetlamp in front of it. bothering to let her eyes wander to the case of
cold beer bottles behind the bartender’s
Lexa turns away and heads down the road to spread legs.
the corner where their street intersects with
Beacon Street. The chain of bars that everyone “Is Corona okay?” He gestures down to the
calls “the strip” is located there, sandwiched case, the glass silver with condensation and
between restaurants no one can afford and filled only with the cheap, tasteless beer for
memorabilia shops no one goes in. Behind the those already drunk, on their way to football
tall, colonial buildings, the spire of the library games or house shows, not women drinking
bell tower scrapes against the void of the night alone on a Thursday.

The feeling of his eyes on her, icy though his He doesn’t look up from wiping down an al-
face is kind, and the thought of how she must ready clean glass. “Why?”
look, alone in a bar only good for one season
that has long past them by, casts a cold shadow “I used to come here all the time with my
over her chest, solidifying the growing irritation friends,” Lexa takes a swig of her beer and
which had been waiting to overtake her all looks over the rim at him, trying to soften her
night. eyes. “I feel like I would’ve remembered you.”

“Yes, fine, whatever,” she snaps, waving a hand “I doubt it.” Despite his watery eyes and soft
dismissively at him. features, his voice takes on the same clinical
coldness that’s always at the surface of SJ’s.
He snaps open the bottle, the cap clattering on
the counter separating them, and slides the She narrows her eyes at him, sensing the same
beer over to her without looking up. sharp, accusatory burn in his own eyes when
he finally looks up from the glass.
With his eyes still trained on the bartop, he
says, “Just so you know, we were set to close in “What makes you so sure?”
fifteen minutes before you waltzed in.”
“Because I would’ve remembered you.” The
Lexa snaps her gaze up from fiddling with her grim line of his mouth quirks a bit at the edges,
wallet and tries to recreate his frigid stare from threatening to spread all the way into a smile if
earlier. He still doesn’t look up and that alone he would allow it. “I started two months ago.”
sets a cold, cruel fire ablaze in her chest. “Who
cares?” “Oh.”

At that, he does look up and despite his huge “You wanted to know,” he says. He studies her
build and somewhat rude demeanor, it’s all too for a moment, but Lexa can’t ascertain his in-
clear in his smooth features and young eyes tentions. “Not a regular anymore?”
that she had pushed too hard.
The beer doesn’t taste as good when she
“It’s four twenty-five for your Corona,” he says brings it to her lips again. After a long, bland
finally in a polished, controlled voice. When swig, she says, “Not with my friends.”
they lock eyes on accident again, he dips his
gaze first. “Oh. That’s too bad, I guess.” He stands in front
of her now, leaning forward on the bar top. His
She hands him her debit card and mulls over smile is polite and doesn’t show his teeth.
the beer for a moment. When the iron taste of
guilt creeps up the back of her throat, she swal- When she speaks again, it doesn’t sound like
lows it with the foam of her beer. The bottle her. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
cap sits in the middle ground between her and
the bartender, bent at the middle so the red His face grows unreadable again, the youth of
print of the card is stretched thin. She pushes it his features shrouded by mistrust and offense,
around with one finger, her other hand smear- so much that she can’t take it. She pushes back
ing the condensation that’s formed on the from the countertop, the feet of the bar stool
brown glass of the bottle. She replays the screeching in protest, and doesn’t look him in
sound of her voice in her head, who cares who the eye. Striding off toward the door, she feels
cares who cares. It doesn’t sound like her, not his eyes burning on her back.
the Lexa from last year that she had loved the
best. “Have a nice night,” he calls. The worst part is
that he sounds like he truly means it.
“Hey.” She tries to channel the old sound of
her voice. “How long have you worked here?” Beacon Street is just as dismal when she push-
es past the bouncer and stands on the edge of
the sidewalk, the toes of her Converse dangling

over the drain. There’s nowhere left for her to SJ leans forward, coffee forgotten, and
go but home, so she turns her back on the steeples her fingers. “Obviously things have
sports bar and sets off down the road. If she’s been a little…weird around here recently.
lucky, they’ll all already be in bed by the time There’s a lot that we need to talk about, but
she returns. right now I think we need to focus on Shay. The
breakup really hit her hard.”
When Lexa emerges from her room the next
morning, SJ is up and sitting at the kitchen ta- “I’m surprised you noticed.” She’d tried to bite
ble nursing a cup of coffee and squinting at the it back, but the remark had slipped out all the
fine print on the side of an Advil bottle. She’s same, borne of instinct. It cuts like glass against
never up this early, not if she doesn’t have to her tongue and she flushes as soon as it leaves
be. Lexa skirts around the table on nimble, qui- her mouth.
et feet, but SJ doesn’t look up at her. When she
finishes reading the label, she pops two of the “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” SJ
pills and downs them with a swig of coffee. Her points one long finger at her. “Look, you’re
eyes are squinty and unfocused, but they hone probably not my biggest fan right now. And
in on Lexa as she moves around the small kitch- honestly, I’m not yours either. But this is Shay
en. we’re talking about.”

“Where’d you run off to last night?” The ques- Lexa glances at the door to Shay’s room, cov-
tion isn’t coming from a place of genuine ered in pictures of the group altogether and
interest. It sounds like she’s circling her prey, birthday notes from a few weeks ago. There
trying to catch Lexa in an iron trap. are gaps in the collage from where she took
down pictures of her and Justin. She insisted a
“I told you.” She doesn’t look up from slicing few times that their breakup wasn’t perma-
her apple. “I went to the strip.” nent, but the pictures came down all the same.
There’s one of the three of them the day they
“Must’ve been fun.” SJ snorts into her coffee moved into the apartment, arms tangled
mug and offers Lexa a knowing smile. around each other and eyes eager and bright.
Shay hardly ever looks like that anymore. None
“Mhm,” Lexa moves to settle onto the couch of them do.
with her back to SJ.
“What happened to us, Sarah Jane?” Lexa
“Wait hold on,” SJ’s voice stops her as she presses on, despite SJ’s strangled noise of pro-
moves out of the kitchen. “Sit down. I think we test over the use of her full name. “Remember
need to talk.” how excited we were to move in together?”

They haven’t had a real conversation in a while “Nothing’s ever as good as you think it’s going
now. Their words are all double-edged swords, to be.” SJ takes on her most impressive voice,
each one delivering a decisive blow and serving the one that she uses during debates in class.
as judge, jury, and executioner. What used to Then she stops, schools herself. “Maybe we’re
flow so easily comes in stuttering gasps, tinted all better friends than roommates.”
with the desire to undermine each other, to
force secrets to come into the light. Lexa can’t “Who says we can’t be both, though? You
remember the last time SJ was frank with her, were my first friend here.”
or the last time that she wasn’t spitting venom
right back at her. But now she’s extending an SJ cocks an eyebrow at that, but it doesn’t
olive branch, her eyes soft and her voice seem as challenging as it would have if she’d
lacking its usual fanfare. done it last night, or even five minutes ago.
Right now she looks like Sarah Jane, not good
Lexa accepts the peace offering and sits down enough and trying too hard, the girl Lexa met
across from her. “What’s up?”

freshmen year. But it’s gone the moment she ing like snakeskin against her bare legs. Shay
shifts her features again, back to SJ and all her turns bored, burnt-out eyes on her and tilts her
cool indifference. head to the side as if Lexa has offended her just
by sitting down so close to her.
“Yeah? You were mine too.” SJ sighs. “Let’s
start with Shay. Then we’ll figure everything “So we were talking,” Lexa begins, ignoring the
else out.” way Shay’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline
when Lexa gestures between herself and SJ.
Lexa looks down at the tabletop, tracing a fin- “And we think we should all do something
ger over the cracks and stains from when they tonight. Just the three of us.”
all used to sit around and talk for hours. “The
lease for next year is coming out soon.” “Uh, yeah,” SJ settles on the armrest on Shay’s
other side, effectively boxing her in. “Just like
SJ tenses up, the muscles in her jaw hardening we used to.”
and her shoulders rising from their usual
slouch. She reaches up under the curtain of her Shay sighs and chews on her bottom lip. Finally
hair and twirls the cartilage piercing in her right she shrugs, “I guess we could watch…”
ear, a nervous habit that Lexa hasn’t seen her
do since freshmen year. “No, we’re not watching Gran Torino,” SJ holds
up one hand to silence her. She pinches the
“Well…” SJ drops her hand back down to the bridge of her nose and straightens her shoul-
table and looks up from under her lashes at ders. When she speaks, her voice is steely and
Lexa. “We’d better figure everything out before waspish. “Look, sitting around watching TV
then.” isn’t going to help. You need to get out there
and take your mind off of everything. You can
She gets up from the table before Lexa can say trust us, you know? We’re your friends and we
another word and dumps the remnants of her want to help.”
lukewarm cup of coffee down the drain. Lexa
hurries to her room while her back is turned The claim sounds brittle, made false by the
and takes her time getting ready for class, irritation that laces through her words. Shay
brushing her hair even when it’s smooth and picks up on this as easily as Lexa does and turns
soft and changing her shirt three or four times. her lifeless gaze onto SJ.
She can feel SJ’s presence in the living room
even from here. Her stomach churns with the “You’re my roommates.” That word has never
impossibility of it all, all the things left unsaid sounded worse. “If you want to help, fine. You
between them. can start by not telling me what’s best for me.”

When she returns from her room, Shay is “We just thought…” SJ’s almost begging.
sitting out there as well. She’s on the couch,
her knees pulled up to her chest, and is alto- “I don’t care,” Shay cuts her off. Lexa hears
gether ignoring SJ at the table. SJ isn’t sitting, herself in those razor-sharp words. Then Shay
instead standing with both hands on the back pushes off the couch and retreats to her room
of her chair and staring at the back of Shay’s in three quick strides.
head like she’s trying to decode it. Lexa kicks
the door of her room closed with her foot. It Lexa sinks low into the couch, the leather still
echoes through their tiny living room like a warm from where Shay was sitting. The impli-
gunshot and SJ slides her eyes to meet Lexa’s cations of her words sit heavy in the air, strain-
for guidance. ing the small space between Lexa and SJ. SJ
throws herself onto the couch next to Lexa in
Clearing her throat, Lexa takes a seat on the what Lexa assumes is supposed to be compa-
couch beside Shay, the dried out leather feel- nionable defeat. Shoving herself away, Lexa
pushes her hands through her hair, the sting of

Shay’s words throbbing even at the roots of Her class isn’t for another hour, but she sets
her hair. off towards campus all the same, wandering
aimlessly before ending up in the campus
“Way to go, Jay.” The old nickname burns on coffee shop. She spreads her Accounting notes
her tongue. on the table in front of her to give the pretense
of productivity, but none of it remains in her
“Oh, please,” SJ sits up a little straighter. “She’s mind long enough to matter.
just being dramatic. She’ll come around.”
Her phone buzzes against the table, sending
“You didn’t have to talk to her like that.” Lexa’s little ripples through her untouched mug of
voice rises and she almost hopes Shay can hear tea. It’s SJ’s name that illuminates the screen.
her. “You always go in guns blazing and you The message is on their roommate group chat.
never think about how what you say could They usually only use it for notices now, but
affect someone else.” Lexa has never deleted it so their old inside
jokes and ugly pictures still appear when she
SJ shoots her a reprimanding look. “You’re opens the message.
being awfully self-righteous for someone who
dips out of here any chance she gets.” Going to the Red Hat tonight. You guys are
welcome to join.
Lexa doesn’t have to look over at her to know
that her nose is jutted into the air. Cold, dry Lexa has to read it a few times to make sure
anger pulses through her, so poignant it makes she’s processing it correctly. It isn’t an apology,
her head pound. “Yeah, because we’re just one but it’s the closest she’ll ever get out of SJ. It’s
big happy family here, right?” another olive branch, all she and Shay have to
do is reach out and take it. For a moment, it
“That’s not even what you want,” SJ counters. feels like three months ago and Lexa turns back
Lexa skitters her eyes over to her but doesn’t to her notes with a clearer mind.
look at her directly. “You couldn’t care less if
we all moved out tomorrow.” SJ is alone at a table in the corner when Lexa
steps into the bar, her eyes refocusing to adjust
“Maybe we should. Maybe you’re right about to the dim lighting and sharp smell of liquor.
us. Better friends than roommates, or whate- SJ’s shoulders are hunched, as if she’s trying to
ver,” Lexa waves her hand to dismiss this protect herself from the laughter and music
whole conversation and brings it up to rub the that surrounds her. One hand clutches her
corners of her eyes. Her head still pounds and screwdriver so tightly that Lexa can see the
she vaguely registers she needs to be on cam- blanch in her knuckles from here. Her eyes are
pus for class soon. wide and her features are loose and open.
With her free hand, she twists her cartilage
When she braves another look at SJ, she ex- piercing with two, red-nailed fingers. SJ doesn’t
pects her to glow, basking in Lexa’s admission worry, but Sarah Jane did.
that she was right. But she looks drowned and
washed out. SJ fixes a narrow, icy stare onto Lexa moves toward the bar and orders a PBR,
her and takes in a deep breath. deciding to make her sweat a little bit longer
and hoping that Shay will arrive before then.
“I guess so.” She rises from the couch and cir- She still doesn’t know what she wants to say to
cles around to her room, not sparing Lexa an- SJ. Last year they never ran out of things to say,
other glance. “We only have to make it until jokes to make and gossip to swap, old stories
the end of the month, right?” from the days before they’d met, days that
seemed far-off and unreal now that they had
“Right.” The word sounds hollow and tastes
sour. SJ disappears into her room without
another word and Lexa wonders if the sting in
her eyes will still be there when she returns
from campus.

met. Lexa still feels that connection, that dull, “Well,” she sighs after a beat. “There’s no rea-
persistent burn of fondness for her, buried son why you and I can’t have a drink together.”
underneath the unfamiliarity that now reigned
in their apartment. She doesn’t remember Something instinctual makes Lexa’s heart close
when they grew apart, just that one morning up with the same hardness that shielded SJ’s
she had woken up and sat at the breakfast ta- eyes, the same feeling that had kept her eating
ble and realized that there was nothing left for breakfast in her room and at the library late at
them to say. They had run in separate direc- night just to avoid being home. But SJ’s eyes
tions, Shay to Justin, SJ to bars and parties and have already started to warm again, so Lexa
Morgan, and Lexa to anywhere else. And some- tries to dig deep for that same warmth, that
where along the line, when they all turned old fondness that has always been waiting for
back to look at home and each other, they her, until she can’t go any further into herself.
found that there was nothing left.
Lexa raises her beer, her fingers forging paths
She casts another glance back at SJ. The soft, through the silver condensation, “To you and I,
humming burn grows stronger in her chest, then.”
always there and waiting to return if only she
had seen that they had wanted it to return, They clink glasses and over all the rambunc-
too. Just as she’s about to turn back to the bar tious laughter and choppy guitar music and
and order, SJ snaps her gaze to her and meets loud, slurred voices, Lexa can only hear that
her eye. The hard worry in SJ’s eyes melts away soft, light ping. They drink in tandem, watching
and she stands, her stride slow and relieved. each other over the rims of their drinks. In the
same moment, their eyes snap away again,
“Hey,” SJ says. She tests out a full smile, flash- toward the door. Each time it opens, Lexa’s
ing the pure white of her teeth, not the slow chest flares with the hope of salvation, the
tugging of her closed lips that she usually naive thought that it could all be how it was,
wears around the house. “I wasn’t sure if you that they can turn back time and forget what
would come.” they’ve done to each other, what secret, cruel
thoughts they’ve hoarded close to guarded
“No Shay?” hearts.

The smile slips low and SJ doesn’t recover it. Lexa tries to hold onto the sound of her glass
Her eyes glaze over again, dark and hard, as if clinking with SJ’s, the bright smile SJ had un-
she’s shut the steel door of a safe and locked it furled for her when they’d locked eyes across
tight. But when Lexa looks her right in the eye, the bar. She tries to merge it with her old fa-
there’s no anger there, only resignation and a vorite memories, but it’s all tainted with the
tint of defeat that Lexa didn’t know SJ could same notion that they can’t go back, can’t
feel. erase the long stretches of silence, the nasty
text messages and handwritten notes taped to
“No.” the fridge or the dishwasher.

They both glance over at the door, as if the It’s SJ who finishes her drink first, pushing the
sheer force of their combined hope will materi- empty glass away from her with practiced
alize Shay at the door, walking towards them flourish. Lexa feels SJ’s eyes on her and against
with open arms and the beautiful, sly smile the initial reaction to snap her gaze in the other
that had once intimidated Lexa. The door re- direction, Lexa turns and looks back at her. For
mains closed. SJ slides onto the barstool next a long, exhausting moment, they search each
to Lexa and runs the tip of her finger around other’s faces, desperately trying to find any-
her glass, smudging the faint red line of her thing to latch onto, an olive branch, a light to
lipstick with each loop. guide them home.

Lexa breaks first, returning her gaze to her half
-finished beer. Out of the corner of her eye,
she catches SJ deflating, proud shoulders
slumping, bright eyes turned down to the
grimy bar floor.
“Have a good night,” she says in a small voice
that couldn’t possibly be the SJ from Thursday,
grand and blustering and honey-tongued.
Lexa does not watch her walk away, does not
look up from the scuffed bartop, does her best
not to think about herself in relation to SJ or
Morgan or the bartender or Shay sitting alone
and miserable in her room, about the closed
doors that will await her when she finally
finishes her drink and walks away.

About the Author:

Halle Carter is a recent graduate of the Crea-
tive Writing Program at Appalachian State Uni-
versity in Boone, North Carolina. She currently
teaches high school English in Charlotte, North
Carolina. Her passions outside of writing are
politics, food and wine, and film.

ON THE WAY
TO FLORIDA

by Thomas Genevieve

Holly knew Keith would blast the air condition- her kids at an airport. She thought it would be
ing the entire trip, and he did. Smiling, she better for them to drive south together—drop
pulled the sweatshirt she brought in anticipa- Nicholas off in Atlanta and Courtney in Gaines-
tion over her head. There was a certain com- ville. This was their longest road trip since
fort and satisfaction in knowing the other’s Courtney and Nicholas were kids—a trip that
tendencies. preceded much change in the following years.

The time read 12:10 when she tapped the After tomorrow morning’s tears, Holly and
passcode into her phone. They’d been on the Keith would leave their youngest behind and
road for a couple of hours already, which depart for Savannah and later Myrtle Beach.
meant they were due for a stop. Though they laughed when Holly deemed it the
“romantic leg of the trip,” both were looking
She scrolled to check the messages and pic- forward to it. The Spanish moss, the beach, the
tures still being posted from the party: a multi- breaking of her cleanse.
celebratory jubilee that was in honor of Holly’s
completion of graduate school, the commence- As usual, due to Keith’s indifference, Holly
ment of her and Keith’s permanent empty planned everything. The only input came while
nest, a belated fiftieth birthday she had asked they were lying in bed, as he leaned over to
no one to acknowledge the previous year, look at her laptop.
Courtney’s graduation from college and her
acceptance to, and start of, grad school, Nicho- “The Carolinas,” he said.
las’s recent twenty-fourth birthday and the job
offer that was moving him some thousand “What about them?”
miles away from home, and, as Keith toasted
after he imbibed what seemed like a case of “We’ll stop there on the way down.”
Budweiser, in honor of him, “for putting up”
with all of them. “Which one?” she asked.

The trip was to be a punctuation on a time in “Any of them.”
their lives. Holly didn’t want to say goodbye to
Laid-back Keith just wanted sovereignty over
the music in the car. Holly offered to put what-
ever he wanted on her old iPod—she didn’t

dare relinquish space on her phone—Keith “Okay, okay. Put your earbuds back in,” Holly
preferred a CD wallet of his favorites, which in said with a guilt-inducing inflection.
the dozen or so hours on the road, he had dee-
jayed with predictability. She also knew he’d “Well, maybe I was just sick of hearing the Ste-
underpack the CDs, and she could eventually ve Miller Band again,” Courtney said.
cite redundancy as an excuse to play her music
off of her phone. Keith responded in defense. “This is only the
second time I’ve played them all trip.”
While scrolling through social media, she found
herself missing life back home, but she then Holly returned to her phone. She didn’t want
reminded herself no one was really around to think about the moment she would say
during the end of July anyway. For most of her goodbye to Courtney. Since Courtney did her
friends, the middle of the summer was also set undergrad in state, driving out to see her for
aside for family vacations or three-day week- dinner or bringing her home for the weekend
ends at the beach. Their hiatus from routine was always an option. There were also breaks
would end, though, by the close of summer, and summers when she knew Courtney would
and after Labor Day everything would be back be around the house quite a bit. Holly under-
to normal. Until then, the running group was a stood distance and new commitments would
bit small. A new recipe might not get shared or not allow for that anymore.
sampled. Book club was postponed until there
was enough for a quorum. And if you wanted How’s that for quick? Holly’s friend Kathy
to do yoga, you had to go by yourself. wrote in a text.

Holly, in partial repose, socked-feet on the Jill’s response chased it. I know! I’m already
dashboard of the Ford Explorer, had the urge thinking about what we’re gonna do for her.
to stretch her legs. She took another sip from
her favorite tumbler to extinguish the hint of Completely lost, Holly hoped she’d gain some
desire to break her cleanse—a cleanse she insight from Instagram or Facebook. When the
started following the party and planned to screen loaded, there was her answer.
break once they were in Savannah. She tilted
the mirror on the sun visor to meet Courtney’s Paige, the youngest and newest member of the
eyes. group, who began working with them only in
January, had posted a picture of a modest-
“Hey, back there. How about giving your dear sized engagement ring on a demure band of
old mother some attention, since, you know, gold.
you’re abandoning her soon?”
I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone, Jill
Courtney plucked out her earbuds. “Is some- texted.
one a little cranky because she’s hungry?” She
emptied the crumbs from a bag of chips into Holly inserted herself into the conversation.
her hand and ate them in playful defiance. Neither did I.

Holly stuck her tongue out at her daughter. There were several pictures of the ring at vari-
“I’m actually not,” she said. “I’m feeling pretty ous angles. Below one of the pictures, some-
good and Savannah’s not too far away.” one she didn’t know referenced the name Tim,
prompting Holly to send another text.
“You haven’t even dropped your daughter off
yet, and you’re already thinking about the rest Kathy, do we know anything about this Tim
of your vacation without her. Who should feel guy?
abandoned now?” Courtney said.
What? Lol. Kathy wrote, quickly following it
with, It’s our Tim!

Holly felt everything around her slow down and

then come to a standstill while she processed Center, there was rarely a social event she did-
the news. After an indistinguishable lapse of n’t attend. “Let’s invite Paige,” Holly heard her-
time, Holly noticed a series of messages after self say, now regretful she initiated Paige’s in-
Kathy’s, Did anyone see that coming? clusion into the pack. Holly was just being nice.
She remembered what it was like when she
Most in the group chat thought it was obvious first started, a time of great turnover, when
that something must have happened between there seemed to be little to no camaraderie on
Paige and Tim due to the way they acted the staff. Through years of reflection, Holly
around one another, but an engagement, con- concluded her isolation was one of the main
sidering they had all known Tim for such a long reasons she herself had slept with Tim.
time, seemed shocking.
In the middle of that thought, she was aware
Holly typed, This can’t happen, but then “slept with” was disingenuous. So would be the
changed it to, Are you sure it’s Tim?, before classification of those two months as an
erasing that one as well. From a distance Holly “affair.” In just a few weeks of meeting Tim at
thought she heard Keith’s voice, causing her to his condo after work, sometimes even before,
pick her head up from the phone. and on her days off under the guise of a long
run, an addiction for daily contact had devel-
The car was stopped. All the cars around them oped.
were stopped.
Keith’s cluelessness became an obvious boon
Keith annunciated every word with an annoyed to the situation. Tim’s arrival happened to
tone. “I said: Can you check your phone to see come during the autumn, a time of year Holly
if there is an accident?” had been conditioned to expect football, a
ready-made distraction, to be on every night of
# the week. She said she needed to go in earlier
or stay later. There were no other questions
It was 12:56 when she read Jill’s text about asked. What she initially justified as a growing
throwing the party the week after Labor Day. distance between her and Keith—exacerbated
Kathy, in turn, volunteered herself and Holly to by the influence of her new interests—she
handle the food. Under the pictures of Paige’s soon interpreted as love. Or, as Judy, her old
ring, congratulations continued to stack. therapist, said a few years later, “the theatrics
of love,” a conclusion Holly eventually accept-
Yes, Holly, too, might have briefly suspected ed to be the case.
something had happened after watching Tim
and Paige at happy hour one Friday, but she And it made sense, because as feelings
thought it was merely a projection of her own whetted, the more ethereal they seemed. In a
insecurities. And even if something did happen, dream-like state, Holly viewed the experience
a relationship, let alone an engagement, should outside of herself, as if playing the lead in one
have been out of the question. hell of a movie—a role that brought great ca-
tharsis to her life.
There was no reason for Paige to go for a man
twelve years her senior. And Tim? He said he But rather quickly, the satisfaction from those
never wanted to remarry. He also said he did- moments with Tim waned, and once they
n’t want to have kids, something Paige had dressed, she felt it was a tremendous injustice
expressed was missing from her life. She was that they couldn’t go out to dinner or spend
also way more outgoing than the reticent and the night together. She restrained her reveries
occasionally reclusive Tim and was very active and withheld her promises, waiting for Tim to
on social media—which in the past Tim had be the effusive one before she requited. Over
scoffed at as “a huge turnoff.” the course of those two months, their fictional

Since Paige started working at County Medical

life reified into an achievable reality—into the The wilted lemon wedge lying in an inch of
changes she’d thought she could make. The water at the bottom of her tumbler reminded
changes she felt cajoled to make. her of how badly she needed to pee.

Other than guilt, nothing at home enticed her “I don’t want country hits of today,” Keith said,
to stay. As a middle schooler, Courtney became responding to the disc jockey’s promise with a
implacable, her whining insufferable. For Nich- familiar rejoinder she’d heard for years. He
olas, high school made him distant and un- scanned the dial in search of a classic rock sta-
pleasant to be around. And Keith was simply tion. “There are no more hits today!”
Keith.
Only haunting fragments remained from those
“Unedifying” she’d imagine herself saying to a dark autumn evenings. The take-out and lefto-
lawyer when asked the grounds for divorce. vers. The stale dishes piled high in the sink and
That she had changed, and he didn’t. That abandoned on the counter. The sounds of tele-
change is good, but he didn’t have it in him to visions from dimly lit rooms holding the only
do so. He teased her about the documentaries conversations between humans.
she watched, about the news sites she fre-
quented, and about her newly-acquired prefer- Once it ended, she hardly saw Tim at work.
ence for wine over beer. His prejudices were What they had attributed to fate, she now saw
slight but still present. And although they as circumstances aided by stratagems to pur-
agreed to be apolitical, she knew how he voted posefully align the stars. Regardless of who did
when the curtain closed. What she came to the avoiding, in the years that followed she
perceive as ridiculous masculine tropes were a threw herself into her kids and her work. An
non-negotiable reality, reinforced by her then influx of new people at the center brought new
circle of friends, the wives of Keith’s friends. friendships that became the foundation of her
current social life, which successfully distracted
“Mom, are you even listening to me?” Court- her from thinking about what once could have
ney said from the backseat. been. By the time Courtney finished high
school, Holly went back to get her MS in nurs-
Keith laughed. ing.

“I love how you give me shit when I—” It took many sessions before she told Judy
about Tim. Years had passed, so what could it
“I was listening,” Holly said. “You were talking hurt? Judy justified the relationship: Holly and
about,” she hesitated, “some guy Brianne Keith’s loss of common interests, her first full-
hooked up with.” time job since the kids were born. Most of Ju-
dy’s strategies proved effective, silencing Hol-
“That was like twenty minutes ago.” ly’s self-reproach. A few sessions later, Holly
admitted everything else.
“She doesn’t listen to me either, sweetie,”
Keith said. That she told Tim she loved him. How Tim
made her denounce her love for Keith as some-
In all honesty, Holly wanted to say, I don’t give thing belonging to an immature person she no
a shit about which one of your friends was longer was. And about the fantasies of Keith
sleeping with whom, or who was probably go- dying in a car crash and the liberation it would
ing to break up with whom because someone bring.
took a job far away.
“Those were just thoughts,” Judy said.
Holly watched the heat rise off the cars in front
of the Explorer. She grabbed at her sweatshirt “But your wishes are who you really are,” Holly
as if she were going to remove it, but stopped. said.
She knew Keith’s subsequent quip: “Too hot
now, Goldilocks?”

"No," Judy said. "That doesn't make any sense. cars. Do anything but sit with her own
I could wish I were a movie star, but that thoughts.
wouldn't change the fact that I am a therapist.
Fantasies don’t define who you are. I could “Is there something to eat in here,” Holly
daydream that I live in Hollywood and date asked.
Brad Pitt, but it doesn't mean I love my kids any
less." “No,” Keith said.

Who's not making sense now, Holly wanted to “Why wouldn’t you pack some snacks?”
say.
Keith smiled in satisfaction. “You told me not
What she never told Judy was about the fanta- to.”
sy of all three of them dying in a car crash. She
never told her how every night as she lie awake Courtney leaned into the front seat and placed
next to Keith, she enumerated everything she her phone where Holly had no choice but to
needed to pack to get by for a week or two, see an exploded oil tanker.
mentally rehearsing like her departure was an
evacuation that needed to be practiced. Be- “Here’s the reason we haven’t moved in
tween patients at work she outlined the letter forever.”
she’d leave behind. She was ashamed to tell
Judy, but she had decided to not only leave #
Keith, but the kids as well. Not forever. Just
until she got settled. Wearing a blue hibiscus sundress she never
owned, Holly stood holding Courtney’s diplo-
Holly was never certain where Tim’s concerns ma, while Courtney went to take a picture with
about the kids came from. Or his comments one of her friends. Next to Holly, in a check-
about how fast the relationship had accelerat- ered shirt and striped tie, his suit jacket slung
ed. She never learned if these sudden appre- over his shoulder due to the hot May after-
hensions, which seemed more like objections, noon, was Tim. It was obvious Keith felt awk-
were covering for other fears like her age and ward, so Tim being Tim, excused himself to get
their constant proximity each day at work, or, the car. Faded oil drops stained Keith’s knit
the inevitable relationship he would have with polo shirt below the buttons, the same shirt
her kids. As far as Holly was concerned, it did- she remembered from years ago when she told
n’t matter; she committed the sin without him to throw it out. To preempt awkward
reaping any of the pleasure. pleasantries, Holly looked him up and down
and feigned her most convincing look.
She looked over at Keith, hoping he couldn’t
hear her thoughts. He was busy flipping “You look fantastic. You haven’t changed a bit.”
through the CD wallet, perhaps thinking he’d
discover another CD hidden behind one he had Holly glanced at her phone and estimated she
already played. lost over a half hour contemplating a life she
had not lived. Nine text messages waited for
Several New Year’s Eves ago, after an evening her, but she was not interested in checking
of drinking and under the weight of her bur- them. At some point, she needed to text Paige.
den, Holly thought she might have confessed. But more importantly, she still had to pee. She
The next day, though, while Holly feared the resented the tumbler she now squeezed be-
worst, nothing indicated that she had. tween her legs, the pressure from her bladder
irritating her even more since Keith put in AC/
If it weren’t so swamp-like outside, she would DC’s Back in Black. Holly was convinced “You
have opened the windows for some real air; Shook Me All Night Long” was an anthem for
maybe she’d step out and walk amongst the imbeciles.

Keith must have turned down the air, causing
her to unconsciously pull off her sweatshirt.

“Can you change this?” been with Tim, everyone would surely draw
their own conclusions. The idea of starting over
“Hey, I thought I was the DJ, Goldilocks.” He was also a horrifying prospect.
had his smart-ass smile on his face again.
“You used to play this one all the time when
The realities of the engagement worsened with we were little,” Courtney said.
the inevitable—the engagement party, Paige’s
excitement leading up to the wedding that “You know I love Darkness on the Edge of
Holly would most certainly be invited to, the Town!” Keith said.
pictures of the honeymoon. And then there’d
be Paige’s pregnancy. She was already 35, Tim “You’re only playing this because Mom’s about
already 47. There was no way Tim talked her to cave on her cleanse.”
out of children. If Paige posted a picture of a
rum cake that fell apart, Holly couldn’t fathom Holly had slumped into her seat before the
how many of the baby’s firsts would wind up opening verse of “Badlands.” She didn’t think
on Instagram. he’d pack that CD. Of course she was glad he
didn’t put on Kiss or Blue Oyster Cult, but of all
There was also the issue of whether Tim would times, she didn’t want to hear this album right
tell Paige about the two of them. There was now.
also the possibility that he had already told her.
Though gossip didn’t seem to be Paige’s thing, Keith turned up the volume. “Come on Court,
if word got out, everyone would think Holly you know the words.”
was a big whore. At the very least, Tim’s con-
fession would also prompt Paige to ask the Holly peeled her phone from the case to clean
obvious questions, and although Holly knew the dust and crumbs. She wiped the screen
she was the best lover Tim ever had, he was with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. A claustro-
never going to admit that to Paige. He needed phobia that went beyond being trapped in the
to neutralize any threat, no matter how distant cabin of a motionless car closed in on her.
the relationship, because of the work situation.
“This is the time of life when you know who
A threat. Holly scoffed at her initial notion. you are,” Judy said.
Paige had a fifteen year advantage on her.
Fifteen! Holly fired back. “Or you just know your limita-
tions and are too exhausted for the drama.”
How could a woman be more confident, more
knowledgeable, and more certain of how to “No, a person is just better at acceptance at
make herself happy than any other time in her this stage of life.”
life—all keys to any strong relationship—and
yet her stock had gone down? Is this what Judy “You mean surrender,” Holly said.
called the third act of life? Being forced to
watch someone live the second act you should “No. Acceptance.”
have lived?
Holly was annoyed at Judy’s flat-shrink tone.
She couldn’t stay at CMC. A new job. It was the “That’s bullshit.”
only solution. Her experience and the masters
degree would make her marketable. “Why do you think it’s bullshit?”

Yes, she’d leave the center. She didn’t know “It’s bullshit to think I come week after week
what to tell everyone though. Could she lie and and the only strategy you have for me is to
say she was offered more money? If she left ignore everything.”
and the word had had gotten out that she had
“No, it’s not ignoring. You confront and move
on.”

“I don’t take my car into the shop to have the
mechanic say, ‘You need to work on your

acceptance and then move on.’” About the Author:

“That’s not a very accurate comparison,” Judy Thomas Genevieve is a teacher living in New
said, still not changing her tone. Jersey. He has been writing fiction, with a spe-
cific focus on short stories, for about six years.
“Why not?” His work appears or is forthcoming in Brilliant
Flash Fiction, the Broadkill Review, Genre: Ur-
Judy paused, giving Holly hope that she had ban Arts, the Green Briar Review, and the Sier-
stumped her. “Because life’s more complicated ra Nevada Review, among others. When he is
than a car.” not writing, he maintains a steady diet of the
cultural arts.
Holly tapped in her passcode and scrolled past
the new messages to find the last one Paige
had sent. Holly typed “Congrats!” and sent it.
Holly then wrapped the phone in the sweat-
shirt and tucked it between her and the door.

The saxophone cut out and Keith started to
mimic Springsteen’s overwrought humming.

“I need to pee,” Holly said.

“Go in the tumbler.”

“I can’t go in the tumbler.”

Keith began to beat the steering wheel with
the palm of his hand as the song prepared for
its crescendo. He looked at Holly and said,
“When you got to go, you got to go,” before
belting out more lines. “I wanna find one face
that ain’t looking through me!”

Courtney joined him.

“I wanna find one place. I wanna spit in the
face of these badlands—”

Both sang with Springsteen-like inflection.
Courtney used Holly’s headrest for a percus-
sion. The Ford Explorer shook as the two sang
the coda.

Holly could bear the sun and make it to the
shoulder. She’d get out and walk around the
parked cars and cross the interstate, their
muted joy fading with every step.

THE END

A PITSTOP ON THE
ROAD TO REDEMPTION

by Mark Kaye

In the centre of the town square stood a the bay; the ocean was rough and turbulent
fountain in the middle of which was a statue of and away from the beaches it beat against the
a giant conch adorned with twisted ivy and cliffs. Momentarily mesmerised by the swill of
grape vine. Water poured from the top of the the water that appeared to move violently and
conch to a basin of coloured tiles that depicted without direction, she forgot to respond to the
three figures sleeping on a hillside. Food and old man. ‘Well, how does it look to you?’ ‘We
wine jugs were scattered across a table and must be looking at different oceans, I’m afraid
over the grass. Under the conch an inscription it looks very rough to me’ Roisin responded.
read: No place on earth compares to this/For ‘Yes, on this side of the bay the ocean is very
sheer delightfulness and bliss. rough, but I am looking at the other side of the
bay where it is calm and beautiful. That is whe-
Roisin Daly passed the fountain without consi- re I spend most of my time, I don’t like the
deration, walking straight to the café situated roughness here, I am only here today as an
at the far end of the square facing the beach exception.’
and beyond that, the ocean. Sitting down in
one of the wicker chairs she lit a cigarette and ‘But’, she said, ‘this town is so wonderful, the
stared across the square, past the fountain and square, the beach, the palm trees; it’s beauti-
towards the palm trees that lined the shore. ful.’ ‘Yes’ came the response from the old man
She daydreamed of rivers of oil, milk, honey ‘this place has palm trees, but it is not paradi-
and wine, pouring down from the mountains to se, be careful not to be deluded by it. You
the north and polluting the ocean with their should try the other side. There are no bars or
luxury. places to drink there, but it is really beautiful
and very peaceful.’ At this he finished his beer
To her left an elderly man sat, in khaki shorts and stood up and without crossing the square
and a green button-down shirt, drinking a small left up a cobbled side street towards the anci-
beer. He turned to face her and smiled. ‘The ent quarter of the town. As he went he sang to
ocean is beautiful today isn’t it?’ She returned himself ‘without worry, work or care, the food
his smile and explaining that she did not speak is good, the drink flows free… it’s true without a
Portuguese, apologised to him. Turning away, doubt, I swear, no earthly country could com-
she began to count the palms. ‘The ocean is pare; under heaven no land but this, has such
very calm today, there is almost no wind.’ He abundant joy and bliss.’
said again, this time in English. She looked over

Watching the old man saunter away, Roisin drunkenness. Then, looking into the mirror
ordered another beer and a Jameson whisky. behind the bottles of whisky and gin, saw her
She stayed and drank until the sun began to set own face, which was also now twisted and
at which point she moved inside and took a ugly. She tried to remember why she was the-
seat at the long chrome bar. Inside the bar the re, in the place west of Spain, the place which
staff themselves were as drunk as their custo- was apparently not paradise. She thought
mers, some bounced from the floor to the cei- about the hospital, the clinical white walls that
ling as they poured, without spilling their stood proudly void of soul or character. Her
drinks, until their bodies became sore and tired last time there had been the third time in that
and they retreated into the bathrooms to mo- same hospital in two years. She remembered
ve powdered goods from their jean pockets to her mother’s voice whispering to her father,
their noses. ‘how can this keep happening to her again?
Why is she not getting better? Something ne-
Roisin looked around her, observing the staff eds to change, something needs to be done. I
and other patrons. The café was teeming with cannot go through this again.’ She remembe-
people, of all nationalities, in various states of red how the blood had dried along her wrists
inebriation. She considered their stories and and hands, creating crusty streaks across her
the events that had brought them to that pla- fingers. She thought about how it looked like
ce. She was quickly made anxious by this and tiger fur.
so started on the café itself. It was a large spa-
ce but crowded with old furniture so that there Looking at herself again in the mirror, then at
was little standing room other than a corridor the faces of pleasure on the patrons around
between the tables and chairs that led to the her that poorly masked the anguish in their
toilets. A small stage had been built in the left souls. She became disgusted with them and
back corner at the end of the corridor between with herself. She finished her whisky and mo-
the tables and a small space was reserved for ved swiftly away from the café, across the
dancing. Despite the strength of the sun outsi- square and down onto the beach where she sat
de, little light penetrated the stained-glass win- and cried.
dows. The long chrome bar was populated with
draft beer taps and boxes of straws and na- ‘It is as I said before, this place is not paradise.
pkins. The shelves on the back wall were filled It is actually more like purgatory.’ She looked at
with various spirits and snacks. Hanging on the old man who was sitting next to her again.
either side of the shelves, framing the bar spa- He was not as old as she had first thought. He
ce, were paintings of seascapes done in the wore his thick black hair slicked backwards and
Dutch style. The painting that hung on the left a large dark beard that appeared singed and
depicted a fishing boat struggling against a vio- yellowed at the tips. He smiled through his
lent storm, white foaming waves beat against teeth ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why are
its sides, while the characters on the boat stru- you here?’ She considered the question for a
ggled with their nets. The one on the left sho- moment. She had not intended discussing the
wed calm waters and the sun shining through matter with anyone. ‘I have been unwell for a
fluffy bubbles of cloud. Ships moved gently while now. I guess I was fed up of being sick, so
through the waters without leaving marks in I left to get away from it.’ She said eventually.
the water. For a lack of wind the sailors were ‘And did you?’ The man asked. ‘I thought so. I
rowing, struggling against the weight of their don’t know. The place looked so beautiful at
ship and the density of the still waters. first and I was having a lot of fun, but now the
ocean seems brutal and the people ugly.’
Roisin turned her attention again to the people
around her. She watched the patrons and the ‘You know what my mother used to tell me?’
bar staff become twisted and ugly in their The man asked. ‘No matter where you go, the

only thing you will always have to take with contents of her pockets and purse into the
you, is yourself. That is the one thing you can sand, she moved forwards towards the angels.
never get away from’. ‘She sounds like a smart She had found it finally, that drive of the con-
woman your mother’ Roisin responded. ‘I valescent determined to free themselves from
guess its maybe time I started thinking about the shackles of illness.
that.’ ‘You should travel to the other side of
the bay.’ He told her. ‘There it is better.’ ‘How About the Author:
do I get there?’ she asked. ‘Well, it isn’t an easy Mark Anthony Kaye is twenty-seven, from Bir-
journey, I know from experience. I suppose the mingham, UK and currently lives in Portugal
first step is being prepared to make the effort where he works as a freelance political repor-
to get there. As you saw today, many people ter. His work has appeared in Bellville Park
here never work up the courage to try. They Pages, Peeking Cat Poetry, Transition Maga-
stay, in the purgatory of this town, and bury zine, 34th Parallel magazine and Five2One
their pain in beer and one another’s bodies’. Magazine.
‘Can you show me how I get to the other side?
I am sick of this place.’ He pointed to the end
of the beach where the beach met the cliffs,
towards a passage in the rock.

Roisin thanked him, got to her feet and walked
towards the passage. When she came upon the
cliff side she saw a large golden gate, guarded
by two angels clad in bronze plated armour.
One held a large key and a leather-bound volu-
me, the other a large shield and a spear tipped
with fire. Their wings, over which clung silken
feathers of glorious white, quivered under a
restrained power like that of V8 engines.
Around her, people buried their heads in the
sand, others chests of photos and objects from
their past lives. Roisin, recognised the angels.

She had heard about them twice before, on the
last two occasions she had tried to take her
life. The first had been from a mental health
practitioner, the second from her grand-
mother, who had suffered her own difficulties
in her time. She knew that the angel on the
left, holding the key and bound volume would
test her knowledge. Did she understand her
condition, did she know herself well enough?
The second angel, holding the spear, would
test her resilience and her determination to
apply her understanding practically. She had
been, for a considerable period of time no,
avoiding both. In her very human way, she had
been too afraid to leave the security blanket of
depression that she had used to soften the
impact of the world’s hard edges. Emptying the

FEVER

by James Christon

1. Inside Dan is putting his things in his backpack. His
laptop must go in first so that it gives the rest
The wood panelling denotes how old the world of the contents a backing spine from which to
is around him. How history resides in the class- build off of. His books and notebook go in as an
rooms like bottomless pits found by scuba di- organized pile––a stack turned turned degrees.
vers. Dan takes a deep breath and unwillingly He look around the room as he puts his stuff
ingests an obscene amount of wood dust. He into his bag. He swings his bag around his
takes a sip of water to keep himself from shoulders and walks out of the room.
coughing.
Outside the classroom the hallways are also
His other classmates are all in the act of leav- empty. He thinks that he really must have tak-
ing the room. Dan is the only one to remain in en a long time putting his stuff away for the
his seat. He was unusually tired on this Monday room to get to its currently barren state. The
afternoon, so he decided to sit a little bit longer wood panelling of the walls are polished a
to gather the energy to get out of his chair. deep brown. The hallway smells dusty when
Some people gave him nods, others exchanged there’s no people milling around. His footsteps
chit chat, but it was all done quickly. Within a are the only sounds in the building it seems.
matter of minutes everyone but Dan had Down at the end of the hallway, he can see the
moved out of the room. grey outside world. It looks like it could rain
any second.
The last person out seemed to have forgotten
about Dan as they turned off the light switch as 2. Outside
they were walking through the doorway; their
arm darting out underneath the closing door The doorway falls back from his view as the sky
and slithering back away into the world beyond drapes the limits of his vision. There’s a soft
the door. haze of light on the horizon, like a nightlight
underneath a bed. Out across the street, Dan
So Dan was bathed in the grey darkness of an can see the streetlamps casting the dead trees
empty classroom on a dull Monday. He wasn’t as black outgrowths from the dark ground. The
too bothered by the darkness. It was still light light is duly reflected by the asphalt and Dan
enough for him to see the details of the room, can just barely make out that there is a street
but still lacking in enough light to give off the below the immensity of the sky.
impression that the room had been shrouded
by an obscuring haze.

And the sky is immense. The moon hangs as a the party: It is dark outside. The streetlamps
single slip of a slightly lit nail. It provides no only cast so much light and the smokers’ faces
illumination except for the soft glow that sur- are covered in a smudging darkness. Dan thinks
rounds it. The stars shine bright, but only the that if he knew these people beforehand, he
brightest shine above the mists of the city. The might be able to distinguish them now in this
sky is dark and expands all around Dan’s head. dark haze.
He can feel it rubbing against his recently
ruffled hair. A cold breeze knots its way His eyes find their way back to the door to the
through the night and onto Dan’s face. He party that is constantly growing larger. He real-
clutches his coat closer to himself. izes after a second that it isn’t the door grow-
ing bigger, just himself getting closer to the
The leaves that remain on the ground are fro- door. He can tell that the door is white and
zen, stiff, and brown. Dan notices the leaves as wooden. The doorknob is golden. Four vertical
he stares at the street with wide eyes. He can rectangles detail the door. The door that he is
still feel the roar pushing against him. The way getting closer and closer to. . .
the night roars in his ears with silence. There
aren’t even crickets outside anymore. Dan 4. Break
can’t get himself to look up at the night sky for
more than a few seconds, and has to pull away Dan wakes up and the sky is grey in the win-
from the view as if it were too bright to look at. dow above his head. He’s been home from
college for two days now. He’s been tired and
3. Party jet lagged both days. The fatigue has seeped
into his bones. He can barely get out of his bed
Dan arrives at the party and there are people in the morning, and he even begins to wonder
smoking cigarettes outside. They stand on the if getting up is really even worth it. It’s just a
porch. Their embers shed a little light across break after all. He will have to say goodbye
their tight lips. Dan watches them watch him. again.
He wonders what high school they went to. He
wonders if he smokes one tonight if he’ll get Last night he ended up at a friend’s apartment.
cancer later tonight. If the strain of carcinogen They talked about high school and reminisce
that might be fatal to him is found resting in a about the times they used to share. It felt like a
cigarette resting in a box resting in one of those warm glow at first, but the further he drifts
person’s pockets. If it’s waiting like some beast away from that night, the more Dan realizes
of prey just waiting to be disturbed. If these that there isn’t anything inherent separating
kids will snap at Dan if he asks them for a ciga- his then from his now. It still rained back in
rette, or if they’re already noticing him. those old days and it still rains now. So he tries
to keep his mind occupied and stays up late
Dan is watching them for quite some time be- playing video games and reading books in-
fore one of them says “Hey man.” in a friendly stead.
tone, aware of how out of it Dan is.
He will get up from his bed and go through the
“Sorry.” Dan’s friend says as he usher Dan in- next two days. But Dan will forget one day of
side, “He’s been smoking a lot tonight.” this break. The day Dan will forget entirely for
this break, almost as if someone had come in
The group of smokers chuckle. The one that and snatched the memory from the holds of his
was talking before says “We’ve all been there brain, is the day he went and smoked pot with
before.” another friend. The weed was supposedly
“next level” but it just seemed adequate to
Dan, with his friend’s hands on his shoulders, Dan. They smoked it out of a pipe in his friend’s
glances around the world outside the door into

playroom, which was on the second floor of his know that he could hear that roar. A roar he
house and overlooked the cold and narrow had felt walking through the night and a roar
street that dead leaves fell into. This was a he would hear again, later in the night.
room that Dan spent entire nights in on week-
ends. This night, this night he will forget, he He would hear it now. He would feel it coming
will end up sleeping on a couch that his body on and he knew people would stop and look
will find surprisingly familiar. The blue light of into his chest. They would move past his black
televisions backlit the smoke falling out of the coat and his dark blue shirt and they would see
window. into his chest. He would hear it echo in his
head and echo and roar until it was too late.
On this day that Dan would forget, Dan could And then they would look at him.
feel the warmness creeping into his chest, and
he could feel his head beginning to raise step And then they would try to make him part of
by step as if it were on a tire-jack. Dan stares their ritual: they would reach out and grab his
out the window for a long time. So long in fact, skin and plaster it to the walls of the party.
that his friend begins to ask him if he is alright. They would make him feel ok here. Someone
Dan keeps silently staring into the silent street. would reach out and touch his arm to make
Dan’s friend notices that Dan’s face seems al- sure he’s all there. He would never be able to
most completely barren of emotion. It’s as if leave. He would never know anything other
someone had just woken him up and he was than them again.
still trying to figure out what he was seeing.
He didn't want their hands to reach out from
Finally, Dan says something. the black and grab him. He wanted to rest in
amber lights. He crowded around the measly
“I’m somewhere else” creeps out of his mouth strung up lights in the corner that gave off a
like a thought creeping through his head. Dan’s light that seemed to shake and shiver. Like the
face changes. It looks as if he sees something light itself was sick. Dan’s vision would begin to
he recognizes: a person perhaps. Dan is still warble in that light as Dan began to shake and
looking into the street. Dan has a look of con- shiver.
centration on his face as if this person were
trying to say something to him that he just ///
couldn’t quite make out. The friend doesn’t
think much of it other than it being a high “It’s tearing me up man. It’s like I’m here, but
thought and an odd sort of stoned concentra- I’m not.” Dan says later in the night, sitting on
tion. The friend smokes some more. the cushioned couch. He thinks he has been
talking for longer than he actually has.
Dan continues to look into the wet street. The
past rains made the street so dark and so black The shadow does not look at Dan. He does not
that it almost looks like a wet mirror reflecting respond to Dan.
the night. He stares and stares and stares.
“I can feel it. It’s tearing at my head!” His eyes
5. Party Lights are wide and reveal the white that surrounds
the ghastly windows. “I can’t feel anything else
. . . and there are people there. And they’re when it’s there. I want to scream but I can’t.”
touching each other. And they might touch Dan throws his hands over his head. He can
him. They might reach out with their hands feel his eyelids pressing into the corners of his
that have touched other people and they might eyes, where his eyes meet the chalices made of
touch him. He might feel a hand brush up bone. His fingers are pushing against his head
against him and he would freeze. And he would firmly. He is squeezing.

The couch no longer feels soft and comforting
to Dan as it does restraining: he sinks into the

foam, but the shape he impresses into the to scratch me. And then I realize they’re getting
couch holds him into that spot. He tries to shift deeper and slower. The thing that was scratch-
but only creates a continual sensation of sink- ing me was pressing harder into my skin, and
ing into the once-comforting foam. The shad- drawing its limb more slowly across my flesh.
ow looks down at Dan’s moving form.
“I reached the door and flung it open. Inside,
Then, it says something: taking up the entire room, was a bed. It was
dark. The room was lit by a single light that
“I had a nightmare once.” only served to bathe the rest of the room in a
dense darkness except for a single band of light
Dan does not look up from having his hands that fell upon the bed. The scratches were all
clutch his head. over me now. They were tracing their nails
across my forehead––circling my brain. That
The shadow continues: was when I flung myself down onto the bed.
And I fell, and fell, and I fell until I noticed my-
“I was in a darkened room. It used to be lit, but self falling and jolted upright in my own bed at
something had caused the light to retreat from home.
the room. I remember thinking that the light
had fled. It had not been removed, it had ran “That was when I realized that my fingers were
away. clutched to my body, the nails digging deep
into my flesh. One of my hands was clutching
“But I was still in the room. I was looking my head with my palm on my nose. The other
around trying to let my eyes adjust when I real- was clutching into the side of my abdomen. I
ized that the room was more of a hallway than couldn’t move the hands for a little bit after I
it was a room. But there were still desks and woke up: they were still in the dream. I had to
chairs piled around the sides of the room as if wait a few agonizing seconds as the rest of my
it were a classroom. I wasn’t scared yet. It was body woke up. During that time, I was con-
cool to explore the darkened room: I felt famil- scious of how my fingers still seemed to move:
iar with the place. I felt like I was exploring it how they circled my flesh with their nails.”
from a new angle.
The shadow gets up and leaves. Dan did not
“But then I must have walked too close to hear a word of what he had to say: his hands
something for I felt a scratch upon my skin. It had found their way over his ears.
crossed over all of the boundaries that are on
my skin. He cut through my clothes and went 6. Daily routine.
straight to my skin. It was on my stomach and
it trailed upwards, slowly. It crossed over all Dan wakes up in a blue bed below gray skies.
the lines that were on my body. His window rests above him; the window a
gaping, gasping mouth.
“I walked away quickly from the scratch, but as
soon as I moved my legs caught on something It is not that warm outside. He gets up and
else and I felt another slow scratch against my goes through his mourning routine.
calf. That was when I started to turn around to
look for a door out of this room. I saw one be- He leaves. He drives to school; this drive is the
hind me that had my attention. It was the only happiest part of his day. The path is smooth
door that I could make out in any detail, it had and channels him to the world of school. He is
one of those handles that’s like an L pressed still waking up during the drive.
against the door.
At school, they stand in groups. They all turn to
“So I start walking towards the door to get watch him walk up to the group. They are
away from the scratches, but each time I take a
step, more things catch on my skin and begin

Sophomores. They are standing outside their One party happens on a college campus not far
classroom, waiting to be forced into the rough from Dan. People have a good time; drinks are
plastic chairs. They are all awake; stimulated consumed and passions are inflamed. A girl
on something that isn’t caffeine. Sometime with long blond hair and warm skin looks at
that makes their eyes grow wide and warm, as herself in a bathroom mirror behind a locked
if they were anticipating something in their door. The mirror is coated around the corners
future. with sticky discolored spots. She stares at the
messy sink and then at herself and then she
They are all talking, some of their heads do not cries. She cries and her cries cannot be heard
move from their phones. They are not ignoring outside of the bathroom because of the music
one another; there is no malice between them. playing outside. Her cries do not get past the
But something inside is in the air. Something glossed window. Outside of the window, the
that sticks to the pale, off-white walls. The time tears cannot be heard under the orange light of
winds down, and the bulk of them find their street lamps and the dying leaves drained of
way to their rough plastic chairs that are blue. color. It is dark outside.
Some wait until the big hand on the clock forc-
es them down. The next day is a Sunday, Dan spends it doing
work.
In class, the talking continues. The talking hap-
pens constantly. So constantly that there is no He wakes up in a blue bed with a gray world
silence. So constant that Dan barely has time to around him. He wants to toss himself back into
think about anything other than what the the pillow and let his bed absorb him with it’s
school forces him to do. Dan does not notice. soft blankets. But he cannot toss himself back
into sleep. He forces himself to get up and go
That day is a Friday. There is a football game through his routine. He sighs into the towel he
that night, a home game. It seems that the wraps himself in after his shower. He listens to
entire school has been lifted up and placed on loud music on the ride to school and tell him-
the freezing metal bleachers. They all watch. self not to be so sad. He yells the lyrics to the
Some of them are quite good. The home-team songs.
wins. Touchdowns receive cheers. Not every-
one is watching, but the presence of the game At school, they stand in groups around desks.
can not be escaped. Their desks seem bare and grey like they sky.
Their eyes are bright and tired. They listen and
Dan has friends over that night. They play vid- slouch when the teacher begins to talk. Dan
eo games through the night. TV screens illumi- raises his hand to respond to questions some-
nate sleeping dogs. times.

They try to stay up the entire night, fixated on He wakes up in a blue bed against a grey sky.
their games. The night surprises them and They watch him walk up with sad eyes. They
throws its cloak over their eyes one by one. stand in groups. Dan has thought about his
Dan is the last one to fall asleep. He turns the conversation with his crush. He wants her. He
volume on the tv down out of respect. It is him watches her with concrete eyes. The walls are
alone playing video games in a silent house in almost as grey as the clouds outside that block
the middle of the night. The house is dark ex- the sun.
cept for the blue-light of the tv screen. Outside
it is dark. At lunch, they escape from the the thing that
sticks to the walls and eat food and make each
The next day is one of rest. That night there other laugh. They drive in cars to places not
are parties. Dan stays home and relaxes. too far away. Some girls go off and drive to a
coffee place to get brightly-colored drinks, they

yell out the lyrics to their music on the drive
back. Others stay inside where the thing sticks
to the wall and do their work.

Dan returns from lunch and feels the concrete
walls wrap around him. The walls have no win-
dows. His friends are there. Something else is
there that he can not see. But it slowly seeps
down his throat like the colorful drinks his
crush is sipping.

Dan wakes up in a blue bed with his open back-
pack next to the bed. The sky is gray. He hugs
his dogs before leaving. He finds himself on
these drives to school. It is barely light out. The
stand in groups and watch him walk towards
them with their dulled eyes.

He talks to his crush. They joke about a tv show
they both watch. Dan thinks about the tv show
in class. He thinks of the girls on the show and
then thinks of his crush. He looks at his crush
with soft, defeated eyes. The thing that sticks
to wall begins to whisper to him. It comes from
some place behind his ears.

He wakes up in a blue bed. The sky is grey.
They exit the school mindlessly once the bell
rings. He drives away from the concrete. He
cannot escape.

He wakes up in a blue bed. The sky is grey.
They stand in groups; their eyes are hungry.

About the Author:

Jimmy Christon is a student at Vassar College
where he studies English and Religion Studies.
He was born in Pocatello, Idaho but was raised
in Eugene, Oregon. He writes to explore his
experiences of growing up, and how these ex-
periences get to more universal realities im-
bedded in the American experience. Both of
these pieces are just such explorations.

STAY

by Mariana Sabino

As I stood outside the house, a bottled-down My aunt took out a crumpled handkerchief,
stillness came over me. I caught a strong whiff flower-patterned over anemic pastels, and
of mold – sweetened somehow. Soon enough, blew her nose – hard. When she was done, the
the door swung open and out came my aunt in bulb was livid and raw. In seeing the little wet
a silky red dress which sausaged her into beads on my face, she moved to bring that
shape. same cloth to it, but I caught her hand in time.
She snickered at that, "Sorry, darling, I didn't
The tint of that dress looked like blood that had realize." My aunt's house was a refuge where
been sitting there, coagulating. Before I could light didn't enter. Between heavy, ornate furni-
defend myself, I was impaled against those ture gleamed the smiles of framed people,
lumps of meat, soft and hot and flaccid. From "important people," they said.
inside the darkness that enveloped me, I heard
a muffled, “Let me take a look at you!” My mother just sat there, looking at the pic-
tures, her eyes languishing in one detail or an-
I felt my face yanked away from her breasts by other, totally content and oblivious to the tor-
her veiny hands as she did just that, she in- ment I was having to endure for her sake. The
spected my face, lifted up by the chin, then woman's breasts were deep, two full sacks one
going for the cheek, pinched and shook it re- could sink a hand in and pull out a gift, a jack-in
peatedly, “Look at that, so adorable!” -the-box of horrors. In blowing her nose, yet
again, those sacks puffed further outwards,
There was no flow to her movements, they their sides bobbing up against me. I thought of
went from thing to thing in rapid jolts, breaking native Indian women who slung their breasts
at random points. Like lightning, a new torrent back and over their shoulder so they wouldn't
of sentiment burst from her body and I re- get in the way.
ceived another clamoring round of kisses. Her
tongue and mouth were soft and pliable like I wanted to recommend the method to her. I
those of a dead fish. I closed my eyes for an then smelled garlic coming from the kitchen,
instant, to swallow the nausea that rose with garlic and something else, I didn't know what,
the murky cake I'd eaten earlier - it tasted of and that bothered me, as the two mingled, the
detergent and bugs - sending shivers up and garlic and the unknown ingredient, which to-
around my whole body. I was also beginning to gether joined forces against me. Those big, fat,
sweat profusely.

liquid eyes of my aunt were fixed on me too, also reminded me of a skirt, I wiped my face off
they were laughing. They were amused! "So with the back of my hands. Finally! I sat with
cuuute, and shy…" she said. my feet skimming the water’s surface, and
cupped my hands to grab as much as I could
“Don’t touch me!” I heard myself say. from it.

“Laura…” my mother chirped, warningly. I needed to extinguish the rest of what was left
of that sickening aftertaste of my aunt's breasts
“Please don’t touch me. Please,” I implored. and that warm saliva in the jar that was my
mouth. Unable to contain myself, I vomited,
Waving her hands up in the air with an “ I give my body away from the water, as all the repug-
up” gesture, she went towards my mother, nance resurged in me and from me. I could feel
who now sat before the piano, ready to dazzle the wind bringing some of the vile bits up to
with one of her five numbers routine. my face as if to force me to register what I was
doing. I opened my eyes. Below, the water
“Ah, leave her. She’s tired,” and as I’d predict- looked strong and sure of itself. But its strength
ed, the first notes of Liszt’s Sonata in B minor was just barely contained, one nudge away
invaded the room. It meshed with the garlic from an outpour.
and the murky cake from earlier and my aunt’s
sacks which bounced in triumphant abandon as My legs found their way to its cold, taut depths
they spread on the couch, prostrate and ready which pricked my body in a thousand points as
to listen. My eyes sought for something to re- I let myself in. It was then, and only then, that I
assure me, to calm or at least distract me. began to feel better. I ducked my head in and
swallowed a whole mouthful of salty, salty wa-
I felt a little dizzy by then. My aunt’s breasts ter. And in remembering I had been told not to
had done that, I wanted to scream “See what do that, I did it again.
they’ve done to me!” I saw my face against the
cupboard glass as the music, which I loved on The murky taste was now effectively gone. The
certain days but not that day, conducted the water was now calmly accepting me, and I
room. I looked orange, ugly and greasy. The aligned my eyes to its line, which was now and
important people in the pictures grinned stu- then furrowed by the wind. I saw the multi-
pidly at me – every one of them. colored line clearly, clasping my gaze.

Of course they did, they were friendly with my The sun slipped through the clouds and fell like
aunt. I had to leave this place! I had to go! I had electric gold. The water had no breasts; it had
to escape my murky doom! That it would be wings instead. And suddenly, I felt something
murky was certain, I had no doubt. The door, blowing against me.
heavy, was not that hard to open. A tiny wave
of wind and dust came in, lifting the curtains It was something intangible and certain coming
slightly, so I got out and thanks to the sonata, from the water, from the water and from the
they didn’t notice me. The music followed as if taste of it on my tongue. I felt calm, strong in a
guiding my movements. But I still ran, I ran as way I hadn't been before. Ever, in fact.
fast as I could while gulping fresh batches of
air, stopping just long enough to remove my I recalled what mother had said yesterday.
slippers, and kept going towards the beach. That I was a strange, strange girl.

Behind me I envisioned that dust, the little that I brought my hands to the surface, and saw
it was, breading my aunt thoroughly so that that the skin was now puckered – pruning, isn’t
when she went into the kitchen, she’d be mis- that what they said? More like raisins, I cor-
taken for an extra-extra large fillet and thrown rected. With a little jump, I lay back on the wa-
into the skillet. Like bacon, she already came ter, letting it catch me and prop me up as I
with the fat. At the hem of the beach, which

floated in place. I was still happy in that odd
way. And it was then that it came to me and I
understood that she was going to leave me to
the ocean, to trust it to care for me. Officially,
it would be that woman, that aunt, who would
be doing it. But it was really the ocean.
Boundless. And it just might swallow me
whole.

About the Author:

Mariana Sabino has been published in Rue
Scribe, The Humanist, Seven Circle Press, Medi-
terranean Poetry, Up the Staircase Quarterly,
Dogmatika, Culture Unplugged, and Taste of
Cinema, among other publications. She has
lived in many countries, imbuing her fiction
with the atmosphere and experiences of navi-
gating through different cultures.

THREAT OF RAIN

by Brian Stumbaugh

"Pass the scrubber?" hoisted on one shoulder. Tom retracts his
hands and wipes them on his shouldered dish-
He slides her the yellow nylon scrubber, a towel. He notices her white mini skirt and
soapy mesh lemon in his hands, slick in the snaps the towel at her exposed thigh, eliciting a
luke warm water. Their fingers entwine for just squeal from his daughter.
a second, then disengage. He pivots his hips
behind her and squeezes her with his upper "Don't you worry about that, Gigi. Married
arms, his hands covered in bubbles. "Thanks," people still do this romantic stuff, too."
she mutters, exposing her tanned neck as he
nestles against her. "Oh, brother," Tammy says, attacking the skil-
let with renewed vigor.
"Reminds me of Martha's Vineyard.”
"It's OK, Mom," Virginia says, popping open a
"Mmm," she smiles, scrubbing the non-stick Coke and leaning against the doorjamb. "I
skillet, pieces of chicken dropping into the know you and Daddy still, you know..."
sudsy mass.
"Virginia Katherine!" Tammy says, reddening,
"The hot tub?" unable to suppress a frown as her daughter
scurries out of the room. Once upstairs, her
"The hot tub," she giggles, "was twenty years bedroom door shuts, and Tammy turns to face
ago, Romeo." Tom. The “Jeopardy” theme plays from the
television. She whispers, "I don't think it’s a
"We should go now." good time, that's all."

"It's May." "Why?" he repeats. Tammy hushes him with a
quick hiss and leads him back to the sink.
"Why not? I've got the time coming. You can Shielded from the living room, the glow of the
get off. The kids are old enough to stay here." television bouncing off of the crystal vase on
He pushes his hips against her. She giggles. the breakfast bar, she pulls him close.

" I don't know." "It's Gigi," she whispers.

"Why?" He pulls back a bit, but her head is still "What about her? School? She has all her tests
on his shoulder, her neck stretched in front of made up, right?”
his stubbled jaw.
"Yes, Tom.”
"Hey, guys, what's going on here?" Virginia
slips into the kitchen, her green backpack

“ She’s not skipping anymore?" "No." She drains the sink. It makes a loud
sucking noise that drowns out the Jeopardy
“No. It's something else." theme music. She shakes her head.

"What?" "What's the matter, then?"

"Hey, Dad!" cries Chris, their son, from the "I don't know. She's not telling me the whole
living room, "Final Jeopardy." story. I can feel it. You know I hate that."

"Lay it on me!" Tom cranes his head to hear Tom pauses and listens to Alix Trebeck belt out
his son, but his eyes are still locked onto his the answer to Final Jeopardy: Y.A. Tittle. Chris
wife, who has turned back to the dishes. throws himself back in the armchair and shouts
a sharp, "Dad!"
"Quarterback who led the New York Giants to
the 1955 Football World Championship? “ Tammy has started drying and stacking the
dinner plates neatly in the cupboard. The
"Hang on." He glances again at his wife's hair silence sits between them like an ocean.
as she scrubs at a dinner plate. His eyes roam
down to her shorts and he smiles. "Got it C- "Shit," he says, so low only she can hear it. He
Man: Charlie Connerly!" has, unbelievably, not seen this coming. "This
isn't about Gigi, is it?"
"Cool!"
She pauses and looks at him with a sidelong
"Tammy, what are you talking about?" glance.

She turns, wiping her hands on her denim "Come on, Tammy, give me a break. Let it go.”
shorts, looking into her husband's face. "Two
things: First, Erika Thompson called me last "I don't want to do this, Tom."
week. She said on her mid-day bus run for the
kindergartners she saw Gigi running up the hill "Sure. I don't, either. You were wrong, any-
from Main to McCullough." way. It never got that far.""

"Midday? What was Gigi doing here?" "Whatever you say, Tom.” She pauses, looking
out the window. “Your daughter claims she
"She said that she had to run home to get her hasn’t been lying, but I don't believe her."
English paper. She said that Carrie Wilkes gave
her a ride home." "Did you believe me?"

"OK, so? The kid goofed, but she didn't get "Of course I did. That's different."
caught, right?"
"Really? How?"
"No, she didn't get caught, but…"
"You're my husband, Tom. She's our eighteen-
"But what?" year-old daughter.” And then she says, as an
afterthought, as if it were obvious, “Teenagers
"I checked her room. It was a mess. There lie.”
were muddy footprints up the hall, and her bed
was a mess. It looked like someone tried to "You want me to talk to her?"
straighten it, but it was still messy. Jesus, Tom,
she doesn’t need to get caught to be guilty.” "No," she says, finishing the drying and moving
on to the next day's lunches. She is spreading
"Fine. Did you ask her?" peanut butter on neat rows of slices of wheat
bread, her back turned to him.
"Yes. She said she wasn’t upstairs."
"OK," he says, shaking his head and heading
"Shit, Tammy. Did Erika see anyone with her for the garage. He has to mow the lawn, which
that day?"

has become weedy. So much rain lately. He
hopes that he can finish before the storm that
has been threatening all day moves in. Behind
him, kitchen noises blend with the “Wheel of
Fortune” theme. Upstairs, unreachable, his
daughter has turned on her stereo and block-
aded herself. He is on the front porch thinking
of hot tubs when he is pelted with thick drops
of rain. Thunder rumbles like a distant warn-
ing, driving him under the eaves and out of the
rain. The storms had been bad lately, one after
the other. At this rate, wonders if he’ll ever be
able to escape the rain.

About the Author:
Brian Stumbaugh is a writer and English teach-
er in upstate New York where he has lived, in
various configurations, with his wife, four
daughters, three dogs, and two cats. His work
has appeared in Arbutus, the Square Table,
Antithesis Common, Stirring: A Literary Collec-
tion, Black Denim Lit, Flash Fiction magazine,
and Dime Show Review.

THE RETURN OF
THE TUNNEL RATS

by Michael S. Walker

It was in Great Vale Park that I last saw George they held there every year. It was called Tribe
Oliver. Quest.

He was a drummer. He had been the drummer My hippie Christmas really…
in a punk band I had once played lead guitar
for, wrote songs for. We were called The Tun- I guess that during the Civil War the park had
nel Rats. I had come up with the name myself. been a staging area for Union troops going off
It was the nickname for the volunteer infantry- to fight the Rebels. You would never have
men in Vietnam whose job it was to go down known, walking along its winding gravel paths,
into the elaborate tunnel complexes dug out by sheltered by oh so many flowering trees. In the
the Viet Cong, kill any enemy soldiers hiding very center of Great Vale there was a yellow
down there in those dirt mazes, and plant ex- gazebo. And a long, narrow concrete pond
plosives to destroy the tunnels. What had al- where Canadian geese swam and strutted.
ways amazed me was that those kids routinely
went down into those burrows, burrows that And at the tail end of June, they held Tribe
were booby-trapped to the hilt, armed with Quest there. A non-corporate music and arts
almost NOTHING. A 45-caliber pistol. A bayo- festival. Like Woodstock on 37 acres. The yel-
net. A flashlight. That was it. To me it seemed low gazebo would be taken over then by ban-
almost like sending someone to the moon, clad joes and Stratocasters. The gravel walkways
in a T shirt and Bermuda shorts. that wound through the park would become a
gauntlet of white tents. People selling their tie-
So I really admired them. dyed shirts and spin art. Buddhists asking you
to chant and sign petitions.
“Non Gratus Rodentum.” That was their sullen
motto. Black bean, corn and saffron rice tacos…

Not.Worth.A.Rat. So there I was, on the second day of Tribe
Quest, sitting on the hard, patchy ground in
I had felt that way my entire life… front of that yellow gazebo, listening to some
prog-rock band that was really beginning to get
I was in Great Vale Park on the last day that I on my nerves. (NOT my favorite music.) They
saw George Oliver, for a three-day music fest were called Pearls Before Swine or something

like that. Even had the initials PBS tattooed on running up and down my spine each time her
their bass drum head. That might have struck naked feet deigned to touch the dusty ground.
me as funny, but their grandiose music was I wondered what good Tribe Quest drugs she
really boring into my skull. (Like an acoustical was on. I wondered how such a spirit could
trephine.) They were a three-piece ensemble, exist in the real world, away from the rarified
and I guess that they fancied themselves to be air of Great Vale. Come Monday would those
the successors to Rush or something. Every little breasts, that cheek, be showered clean?
song that they did was long, dull, intricate, and No flower? No peace sign? No heart? Would
pretentious. There was one that they played, she don business-appropriate attire, climb into
sweating up there in that yellow gazebo--I a Prius or something, and drive to some fiber-
think it was called “The Flight of Daedalus and board cubicle in a downtown office? It seemed
Icarus”—that seemed to last as long as an eter- so unlikely.
nity in hell. All cadences and key changes and
mathematics. I would have wandered off, went Really, I probably could have sat there in front
to see what the Canadian geese were up to in of that yellow gazebo, watching that brunette
the concrete pond behind them, if it had not for an eternity, draining my plastic mug of
been for two essential things. 1) I was halfway beer. But in the middle of it all, with PBS still
into my third mug of Tribe Quest beer. (That sending out their fugues of boredom, an old
was what the organizers actually made their guy with a sandy goatee and an oil-smudged t-
money off of—selling plastic mugs of Molson shirt that read “Vote For Pedro,” sat down right
and Rolling Rock to addled hippies.) And 2) next to me. He was very very drunk. Way
About three feet to my right, a young brunette drunker than me.
girl wearing ripped, tight blue jeans and abso-
lutely nothing else was dancing to the monster And THAT had to be pretty drunk…
noise of the Public Broadcasting System. I
mean, ahem, Pearls Before Swine. He was armed with a plastic mug of the Tribe
Quest beer, and he proceeded to water himself
Did I say dancing? That wasn’t really what she (and the ground) between sullen mutterings in
was doing. At all. It was almost as if she had some unknown language. He was sitting waaay
been practicing some solitary tai-chi ritual in too close to me. One gaunt naked knee in
the park and, much to her irritation, Tribe ripped blue jeans was almost touching my own
Quest had happened while she was doing her knee. And to continue staring at my beautiful
movements. I watched her with intense fasci- priestess of dance, I also had to meet his hillbil-
nation, pausing only to sip my acrid beer, as ly face in profile.
she very slowly and deliberately snaked her
arms around, as if she were actually trying to Something told me it was time to move on. See
sculpt the heavy, humid air. She would bend for real what those geese were up to in that lily
her knees and take a few troubled steps for- -pad covered pond. Stock up on one more
ward, then backwards. As if she were a half- Tribe Quest beer.
naked astronaut testing the gravity of a planet
thats mass was way more than our own. She Maybe get one of those black bean, corn, and
had a yellow flower painted on one gaunt saffron rice tacos.
cheek, and her tiny breasts were painted also.
A rough, purple peace sign encompassed one, So I stood up, dusted my jeans and got ready
and a blue tulip (or maybe it was a heart?) to leave. Fare thee well to Drunk Goatee. Fare
masked the other. thee well to PBS, still hammering out their
mythical, mathematical doldrums.
I watched her do this little “dance” for quite a
while, fascinated, a tiny shiver of electricity Fare thee well to my half-naked nymph, still
sculpting the air with her bronze arms and
hands…

That was when I felt someone tugging the leg movement proved it beyond a shadow of a
of my jeans. Hard. doubt.

I looked down. It was Mr. Drunk Goatee, of “Hey…ya gonna get up there and PLAY?” he
course, staring up at me with unalloyed amaze- continued, as if he had not heard me. At all.
ment, his blue eyes made much bluer by a “Damn, man. That would be super COOL.”
deepening sunburn.
He picked that opportune moment to acci-
“You’re HIM, ain’t you?” he slurred. dentally knock over his plastic mug, nudging it
with one knee. The lightweight cup toppled,
I knew immediately what Mr. Goatee was on and his brew flooded the sparse grass.
about, of course. A very very famous rock gui-
tarist lived in our little city. He was originally “Shit! Godamnit! Fuck!” Mr. Goatee shouted,
from England but about five years ago as if he had just lost his last chip (and his life’s
(supposedly) he had met some girl from here. fortune) at some Vegas roulette wheel.
The daughter of a man who had bought into a
small chain of sexy lingerie stores in the mid- I walked away from him. Toward the gazebo.
60s and parlayed them into a billion-dollar en-
terprise. I guess the rock star liked our flat little I glanced over toward where, earlier, the bru-
town well enough. He and his bride (again, nette had been dancing in tantalizing, excruci-
supposedly) kept a stone mansion on the west ating slow motion. She was no longer there. (Of
side of the city, close to the municipal zoo. At course) Either she had become finally acclima-
least that is what I had heard. I had never had tized to our oppressive gravity, or the mother
it confirmed on the Interwebz, or actually seen ship had come from her own planet and
this fabled mansion. Maybe it was all bullshit beamed her to safety.
and the fabled guitarist was single and lived in
an ivy-covered bungalow in the Outer Hebri- Too bad…
des.
PBS was still soldiering on, of course, their ba-
Anyway, people kept mistaking me for this roque noise booming out of two giant PA cabi-
famous shite. On the street. In bars. It was em- nets that dwarfed the gazebo stage like Stone-
barrassing, really. Every time, these would-be henge trilithons.
stalkers would get the same wondrous look on
their faces. As if they were Archimedes and It was then that I caught the eye of their drum-
they had just solved the problem of the votive mer. I hadn’t really paid much attention to him
crown. I would have to actually convince them at all during their set, save for noticing that he
that no, even though I used to play guitar, I was was a competent time keeper. Tell truth, I had
not HIM. ignored Pearls Before Swine almost entirely,
focusing my addled attention on my little Tai-
Just some sap who washed dishes in a Mexican Chi master. On her tiny painted breasts and
restaurant. muscled biceps.

“You him, ain’t you?” Mr. Goatee repeated, Pearls Before Swine’s drummer was MY old
staring up at me, that wondrous look beginning drummer. In the Tunnel Rats.
to slowly suffuse his gaunt, red face. He ex-
haled heavily on the “you,” sending a deadly George Oliver.
salvo of Tribe Quest beer directly towards my
face. I winced. Holy shit…

“No man. Sorry. I’m not him,” I said, thrusting I stood there, just watching my ex-drummer as
my hands toward him, palms up. As if that he flailed away at his elaborate kit, my feet
touching one side of a narrow, pebbled walk-
way that skirted past the gazebo’s steps. I


Click to View FlipBook Version
Previous Book
BUKU SEKOLAH 2019 (2)
Next Book
50266-westdesmoinesguide