Adelaide Literary Magazine No.9. Volume II, September 2017

to the basurero outside, I thought of what the About the Author:
thirty pesos might buy: some herbs my wife need-
ed for her female troubles, some goat’s milk dul- Emily Peña Murphey is a granddaughter of Mexi-
ces for the kids, a couple of taquitos for me and can immigrants, with family roots in the Texas Rio
perhaps a shot of tequila for the road home, a Grande Valley and the Smoky Mountains of North
few gallons of gas for the truck. Carolina. She worked for many years as a psycho-
therapist, listening to people’s life stories and
As I emptied the unwanted contents of the tarp accounts of their family histories. She has under-
into the big metal barrel, I looked over at the wall gone graduate training in psychology, social work,
to my left. Below a painted retablo enclosed in a and Jungian psychoanalysis. Peña Murphey’s
glass case, people had left vases of flowers before current work on a trilogy of novels recreates the
the image of La Morenita. I crossed myself and cultural and political milieu of Mexico and la Fron-
offered a short prayer of gratitude to her before tera of her ancestors in the decades spanning the
tucking the folded tarp under one arm and head- Mexican Revolution, with special interest in the
ing back indoors to make my purchases. struggles of women. She uses writing to explore
her cultural identity as a mixed race Mexican-
“Abuelo Isidro, I said silently, “Today your American at the vanguard of the Latino diaspo-
memory and the Virgin’s charity have brought our ra. She has published poetry and memoir pieces
family good things!” in the e-journals Jung in Vermont and the Smoky
Blue Literary and Arts Magazine. Peña Murphey
blogs at https://lafronterista.blogspot.com. In
addition to being a writer, Emily is an avid garden-
er, cook, folk artist, musician, and singer. She
lives in Philadelphia.

49

THE POSTING

Monica L. Bellon-Harn

Laura learns to live in ordinary time as she roams native language hard to wrangle. She wishes she
rooms of a starter home her husband picked out. could spout a series of words for others to order
When live oaks that lined the streets barely gave and tell her what she means to say.
shade, this neighborhood was coveted. Now in-
tertwining branches form a canopy over vacant Homeward bound, she pulls into her driveway
avenues. Canted walkways to front doors are and sees a posting fixed to the stop sign in the far
patterned in mildew that comes alive with each corner of her front yard. Grass tickles her painted
rainy day. Laura frees corners from cobwebs left toes free in her sandals as she walks across the
by previous residents until outside sounds draw lawn to stand in front of a laminated sign from
her to a large picture window where she watches which a man stares down at her. Sex offender is
tops of heads bob above a stone fence and hands printed in red under his picture along with a copy
burst up to grab a basketball and shoot it into a of his crimes against children. Sweat trickles
makeshift hoop. The trees and flowers look like down her neck and she pulls her long hair into a
she could still be in Louisiana and even though ponytail as the story of a man she knows is re-
she is just across the Sabine in Texas she feels a vealed letter by letter. Lee is his name. She and
world away. her husband met him the weekend they moved
in. They were stacking boxes by the front door
Beeps from her watch tell her it is one o’clock and when he approached.
she has not eaten lunch. Knowing her husband
would be gone until tomorrow at a new employee “I sure like this house,” Lee said. “Never been in it
orientation, she drives to a po’ boy shop across but I looked through the windows once when it
town run by Vietnamese women. Inside a large was vacant so I know you got yourself a winner.”
fan pushes mid-July air so filled with grease it
cannot cool anyone. Laura follows signposts that “Thanks,” her husband said. “Do you live around
are taped along a wall – order here, pay here. here?”
Foreign letters on the walls convince her this
place does not sell Louisiana shrimp and she feels “Well I walk around here a lot but I live about
rebellious purchasing an import. At the cash regis- eight blocks north in an apartment,” Lee replied
ter, a price list tells her the cost. She nods word- moving closer to them.
lessly and hands over her cash when a lady points
to the amount. He told them he was from Cameron, a small
southwest Louisiana town. Sweating slightly un-
Heat resonates from the styrofoam container she der his cap that advertised LSU, he grinned broad-
opens in her car. Her mouth cannot fit over the ly.
sandwich so she plucks the shrimp with her hand
and pops them like popcorn. She thinks about “Anyone from south Louisiana suits me fine,” he
learning Vietnamese or Spanish, but finds her said as he winked at his wife. “I’m from Mississip-
pi but she grew up a few towns over.”

50

“Shoot,” Lee said to Laura. “We’re from the same The keys clack furiously and she opens new tabs
neck of the woods.” and windows. She finds herself quite out of the
ordinary.
Light cast from a late afternoon sun minimized
shadows on his face and she could glimpse famil- With a press of the plus key the map widens and
iar boys she once knew. He leaned on a cane that pulls in surrounding neighborhoods in her city,
he did not look old enough to need. then small towns on the outskirts, then across
state boundaries. The number of names increas-
“Anyway,” he said. “I walk around here looking es, but the names she is searching for never ap-
for small jobs. Hard to make it on my check from pear. In a newfound omniscience she looks down
the state.” on the streets of her childhood town. Her lens
narrows as she finds a small clapboard house with
Her husband offered some work taking boxes out a gravel drive. Laura and her brother would stand
of their rented U-Haul, but Lee said he couldn’t at the edge of the drive, hard by the highway,
get up and down the ramp. He stood on the porch wanting to run past the barbed wire fence nailed
as they worked until her husband handed him a to wooden posts that flanked the yard. But they
ten-dollar bill. didn’t. Season after season they waited as the
sugar cane crops surrounding them were planted
From then on Lee would stop to talk to her when and sowed. At harvest the fields were burned and
she was outside, which was often. Even in the black ash fell from the sky on the wind gusts.
noon heat she would make her way into the yard They would look toward the blue sky as their
once the quiet of the home became deafening. If heads were powdered and faces were smudged.
she saw him coming she would head behind the Rocks crunched under the black blanket as they
gate but when she was meditating on the endless ran.
weeds with her back to the street he could sur-
prise her. He would say, “Hey girl” with an un- Ringing draws her out of her head and she hears
earned intimacy and pepper his words with her husband telling her his hotel room is nice and
enough Cajun French to remind her of her his meetings are going well. He tells her to lock
hometown. Keeping a couple of dollar bills in her up, so after she hangs up, she checks deadbolts
pocket to get him to leave became a habit. “Give and latches. Her hand on the smooth steel of win-
your husband my regards,” he would say as he dow cranks confirms no one can come through.
backed away. Through the blinds she sees the sun descending
and the posting is clear under a streetlight. It re-
Laura looks closely at the picture that suggests minds her that thresholds can be crossed so she
Lee except in the picture he wears no cap and his unlocks her front door and walks outside.
short hair stands slightly on end. His buzz cut is
like the boys she knew who played football at her When she was eleven and her brother was
high school. His grin is replaced with a sneer that twelve, they waited in the front room of their
reminds her why she married a man with a col- house for their parents to come back from the
lege degree who drove her away from that town. grocery store. His long legs stretched out as he
She wants to peel the tape and take the sign reclined against a floor pillow fingering his new
down. She doesn’t want the announcement that puka bead necklace that he saved up to order
there is a pedophile among them. She wonders if from a catalog. When Laura saw how excited he
anyone ever saw him in her yard, giving him mon- was when it arrived she knew he would really
ey. Looking around for neighbors, she keeps her leave one day to find the exotic places he read
hands to herself and walks back into her house. about. She sat at the front window leafing
through his library books about other countries
Her watch reads three o’clock in the afternoon so hoping he would take her with him. She lazily
she goes inside to pour herself a glass of cold wa- traced her finger over maps, so she never noticed
ter and opens her laptop. Yesterday’s search for four older boys stride up to their home and burst
shade gardens appears with a barrage of green through the open door. Their eyes landed on her
hues. She types the words ‘sex offender’ and in brother and they lunged for him. He emerged
two clicks, a map opens with dots marking loca- from the tangle of arms and legs – crawling first,
tions around her neighborhood. Clicks on the dots
reveal faces with text about crimes and risk levels.

51

and then standing. She reached for the yellowing He reaches out and she thinks he wants to grab
t-shirt of one of the boys. Her fingers grabbed the her arm so she flinches. “Tell them,” he begs as
edge of the scratchy sun-washed fabric and he he puts his hands in his pocket. “Tell your neigh-
pulled away. They chased her brother down the bors I took the right turn.”
middle hallway to the back door. His legs splayed
as he tried to outrun them but he didn’t have a She wants to walk past him but she is in limbo,
chance. balancing the line between action and inaction,
speaking and silence, presence and absence, con-
Her brother went down, his hand reaching for the fession and omission.
backdoor to escape outside. They grabbed him
and pulled him down the hall. Slick with sweat “There is no one to tell,” she replies and she
and tears she moved to the hallway, but one of moves to walk toward her house.
the boys grabbed her and pinned her to the floor.
She heard her brother scream. When the silence Lee stands aside and says, “I got no place else to
came, her face was pressed to the wood floor and go.”
she could feel the beat of footsteps before the
squeak of rubber from shoes as the boys ran Lights appear in neighborhood homes and shine
around the corner toward the front door. The boy on the sidewalk. Laura sees a woman washing
got off her and said, “That’ll teach your brother dishes through a window. A door opens and a
about boys. Don’t make us come back and teach family dog is let outside. She keeps walking and
you how to be girl.” She lay on floor until she doesn’t look back. Once she gets to her house she
heard the front door close, and then she got to doesn’t want to go inside. If she could she would
her feet and crept down the hall. The door to her stay outside, a vigilant watchman, but the bugs
brother’s bedroom was almost closed, so she begin to bite with ferocity so she walks back in-
peeked through the slight gap. His pants were side locking the door behind her. She wonders
torn and his face was red and fierce. Like a stop how many years had to pass for the unraveling of
frame in a movie, they were briefly still until he that pact with her brother. She sits in front of her
caught her eye. picture window and stares into the backyard she
can no longer see. She waits complicit in her si-
“Don’t say a word,” he said. lence, maintaining a continued penance, hoping
to return to ordinary time soon.

She didn’t. She never has. When he left home her
parents wondered why he never called or re-
turned to visit. Laura would just shrug her shoul-
ders and look out the window to the open fields.

She walks past five blocks and sees Lee on every
stop sign but she is in the open so she keeps walk-
ing to the edge of the neighborhood. She stops
when she hears sound of steps behind her. Lee
announces himself so she turns around.

“You are out late,” he says.

She nods.

“There’s a lot of turns in the road,” he adds when About the Author:
her eyes shift to the signs he took down gripped
in his hand. Monica L. Bellon-Harn is a native of Lake Charles,
LA and lives near the Texas and Louisiana border.
“Yes, there are,” she whispers looking over his She studied short story writing through The Writ-
shoulder. er’s Studio and with Texas author Jim Sanderson.
She is a professor of Speech and Hearing Scienc-
“I stay where the city won’t put parks and the es.
schools are so bad there ain’t many kids in the
neighborhood,” he says. “I just walk these blocks
but I don’t live here.”

52

THE BIG NIGHT

Taylor Garcia

Dr. Adam Flores opens Group Session with his “We didn’t have steady access to what you guys
standard line: “Good evening, ladies and gentle- have down here,” Harv says. “We went bananas
men, it’s sweet and sour time.” for things like cigarettes, let alone the hard stuff.
Claus controlled everything. He was the biggest
Everyone goes around the circle and says a fiend of all.”
positive thing about him or herself, then a nega-
tive thing. The sour builds, like little snowflakes, “Exactly,” Blitzen says.
until there’s a snowball of sorrow rolling around
the group. That’s how the producers like it. They “But was it Claus who created your addictive be-
encourage any and all emotional outbursts. Cry- haviors?” Flores taps his clipboard.
ing is key.
“I used to blame my mother.” Jana Tanner
“What about you, Blitzen?” Dr. Flores says. chews a cuticle. The cameras swing to her.
The cameras swarm toward Blitzen, his head tur-
baned with bandages, antlers chipped, a patch “Elaborate.” Flores shifts toward Jana’s
over his eye. bleached-blonde hair and freckled face.

“I guess I’m pretty funny,” Blitzen says. “She took me everywhere—to all my audi-
tions and stuff—and then when I started making
“That’s good.” Flores jots a note. “I think it, she locked me down. That’s when I went wild.”
you are too.”
“Was she trying to hurt you?” Flores says.
“Bad thing is I don’t know when to stop.”
“She was trying to help me. She wanted to
“Meaning?” Flores says. protect me.” Jana cries. A producer off-camera
gives her a thumbs-up, and Jana really lets it go.
“Well, the first time I did the powder, it
was like, ‘Wowza!’ It shot right to my brain. Made “Cry it out, girl, cry it out.” T-Wayne Twain
me want to, like, snort the whole bag. Good thing smooths the back of her pink, terrycloth tube top.
we didn’t have it all the time.” The cameras shift to Twain.

“Harv, you’re nodding. Care to add some- “Do you hear this, guys?” Flores leans for-
thing?” Flores says. ward. The cameras zoom in on his Clark Kent face.
“Jana’s saying her mother wanted to help. Would
The cameras turn to Harv. He stretches his you say Claus was trying to help you?”
still-intact neck side to side. His fractured left arm
is slung close to his chest, and his casted left shin “Hell no,” Harv says. “He had everyone
is raised up in the elf-sized wheelchair. It’s only brainwashed, believing the whole fairy-tale bull-
been three weeks since he and Blitzen fell from shit. Those of us who didn’t buy it wanted out.”
the sky over Norway, coked up and on the run,
their sleigh plummeting from the heavens. “Talk about the ‘fairy-tale bullshit,’ as you call it,”
Flores poses.

53

“N.P.’s a corporation, plain and simple,” Harv “Funny,” he says. “Just take me to the train sta-
says. “We weren’t carrying on any traditions. We tion.”
were making him rich.”
“There’s a lot of stairs. You sure you can
“Those workshop elves?” Blitzen says. get up and down with those crutches?”
“Worst working conditions on the planet. Harv
here’s lucky he was a stable elf, right, Harv?” “I’ll manage.”

Harv nods, closes his eyes, trying to sum- “So you’re running away?”
mon some tears.
“Yeah, this is the part where I’m supposed
Off camera a producer cues Harv to look at to do that.”
his mobile.
Their eyes meet in the rearview, and Harv
“My Uber’s here.” Harv rolls his wheelchair gets that funny feeling, the one that’s begun to
to the door, hobbles up onto his feet, then grabs plague him now that his head is clearing. The feel-
the small crutches. A camera follows. “I have to ing that detects real things. It seems down here in
get out of here.” the tropics, everyone stresses over what’s real or
fake. When the real stares back at you, you want
Cue Blitzen. to grab it and keep it. He’s also a little star-struck,
seeing her this close.
“Harv, don’t go,” Blitzen says.
“You can’t run away,” Kaz said.
“Stay, dog,” T-Wayne says.
“Why not?”
“Just let him go,” Dr. Flores says. “Let him
have some space.” “People want you to get better. They’re
cheering for you.”
Once inside the car, a silver Elantra, Harv recog-
nizes the driver. It’s Kaz from The Uber Chroni- “You’ve got problems too,” Harv says. “I’ve
cles. This too is choreographed, damn it. Just like seen your driving confessionals.”
when the producers gave Blitzen a sack to tempt
Harv last week. It would make sense that the only “Oh, I know I do. I’m a mess. But I talk it
way Babes in Toyland could go on is if the stars out. It’s the only way to heal.”
keep relapsing. And here they go again, waving
this driver in front of him. They know Harv’s “Alone?” Harv says.
talked about her, how he wouldn’t mind meeting
a woman like that someday. He just didn’t know “With friends.” She signals, then turns.
that someday would be tonight. “That’s all anybody needs.”

“Hey, I know you,” Kaz says. “You’re Harv. From— Harv exhales, shakes his head, looking out
” the window. The neighborhood still sparkles in
holiday lights.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Let’s just go.”
“I had a lot of friends up north,” he says.
“Where are you headed?”
“Are you going to miss them?” Kaz says.
“I don’t know. Tijuana? The airport?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe not.”
“What airline?” Kaz pulls away.
“So, make new ones,” she says. “And enjoy what
“Virgin.” you’ve got. Looks like they feed you pretty well.
On-demand smoothies? And that sushi machine?
“I didn’t know there were any more vir- Wow.”
gins,” she said.
“It won’t last,” he says.

“It never does.” She turns right again.
“That’s the beauty of it.”

54

Kaz slows the Elantra and stops in front of the turns off the camera in the Confessional. He’s
three-story Bel-Air bungalow. pretty sure no one else in the house does that.
Attention whores, all of them.
“Wait, where are we?”
The glow-in-the-dark paint splattered on
“I brought you back.” the black walls makes it feel—just for a jiffy—like
The Big Night, when that once-a-year anticipation
“I don’t want to be here. They’re not my of taking to the skies was all the dope he needed.
friends.” For years Harv believed in his tiny heart that only
possibility lay ahead, especially on those nights in
“You have Blitzen,” she says. the sleigh, piloting the ship alone because Claus
was wasted. Harv lived for the slice of cold wind
“But he’s a bad—influence.” on his face, infinity expanding before him. But the
reality of living forever began to eat at him. It
“Lift him up.” grew dark and ominous, and as the seasons
turned each year, he tried to kill it with whatever
“You’re a lot better than Dr. Flores,” he poison he could find. Escape was the only way
says. “He’s always telling us to have faith.” out.

“Faith is for fools. It has been and always The aches are subsiding and the fog lifting. If he
will be about people. But before you can help can stick with the regimen, he’ll kick his habits
others—” and get out of this contract. He’ll find himself a
place to live, adapt to all this heat, and finally age
“I know, I know, your famous line. Then like a human. Everyone back up at N.P., now cubi-
you say something about taking care of the most cled, will go on processing orders into eternity.
important things: mind, body, and spirit. Then Free shipping through November—Gray Thursday
you laugh and say, ‘And not necessarily in that the new Christmas.
order,’ right?”
In the miniature universe above him, Harv tries to
“I’ve got a fan.” Her eyes brighten in the find anything resembling a constellation. He’s
rearview mirror. “Here, let me help you out.” memorized almost all in both hemispheres, even
when he was loaded, but can’t find a single one
On the curb Harv looks up at her. She’s not now. He closes his eyes and breathes. The tran-
a Jana Tanner or the reincarnation of sister celeb- scendental meditation has helped, though it takes
rities who keep appearing every generation. a long time to get into it, his mind is still so quick.
Those kinds of women are fading, like superno-
vae. Kaz is a normal woman, skin and bones, ag- He reaches for his phone. Can’t meditate when
ing to perfection, everything real. he’s thinking of Kaz. It may have all been for
show, to build the drama—as the producers say—
“So are we friends?” he says. but damn, it was the closest thing to hope he’d
felt in a long time.
She rests a hand on his shoulder.
“Whenever you need me.” The tap of hooves in the hallway pulls him away
from waking the phone. Antlers scrape against
The funny feeling comes back. These cam- the Confessional door.
eras will go away, he just knows it.
“Hey, Harv. Open up, it’s me.”
Back inside the house, Harv shuffles into the Con-
fessional at the end of the hallway. All the Celeb- Four beeps followed by the error tone reassures
rity Suite doors, with the comedy and tragedy Harv. The best thing about the Confessional is
masks on them, are closed. Everyone is either in that no one else’s code will work when
bed alone or in bed with each other. That or someone’s inside.
they’re all up on the rooftop deck in the hot tub,
shattering themselves. Most likely that. “Go away, Blitz.”

Before he plops down into the easy chair, Harv

55

“Yo, you have to come up to the deck. Things are About the Author:
getting crazy. I have a little treat for you too.”
Taylor García’s fiction and essays have appeared
“No, please.” Harv breathes. Faith. Faith. Forget in Chagrin River Review, Driftwood Press, Fifth
it. He taps his phone; the screen lights up his face Wednesday Journal, Hawaii Pacific Review,
in the tiny dark room. McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Writing Disor-
der, 3AM Magazine, Evening Street Review, Litro
“Come on,” Blitzen says. and others. He also writes the weekly column,
“Father Time” at the Good Men Project. He lives
“Stay away from them and go to bed.” in Southern California with his wife and sons.
http://www.btaylorgarcia.com
The hooves back away from the door. On Twitter and Medium @btaylorgarcia

Harv opens his Uber app and types Virgin Airlines
into the “Where to?” field.

“Hey, Blitz?” Harv says. “I’ll see you tomorrow,
okay? Get some rest.”

Harv stares at the screen. Tens of little cars move
around near the pulsing needle of his location.
They turn and scoot backward and forward. She’s
out there, somewhere. He wonders which one is
her, and if he was to press “Request,” would she
come back to the bungalow? Could they make it
happen without the producers? Faith. He
breathes. No, not faith. Mind, body, spirit. Spirit,
mind, body. Body, spirit, mind.

“Goodnight, Harvey,” Blitzen says.

The hooves shuffle down the hallway. A door
opens, then closes behind them. Blitzen is back in
his stall, just like the old days, when Harv used to
put each of the reindeer to bed. Seems like just
yesterday they were so small, fuzzy, and sweet.
Their cold noses nuzzling into the hay, drifting off,
the silent stars going by.

56

THE BURNING
TREE

Lucas Milliron

“Why have you brought me here?” She asked at “Then why now? Why have you called me here?”
the foot of the great red tree. “You know this place?”
“Yes.”
“Was it truly me that brought you here?” He re- “Does that make you afraid?”
plied. “Your legs carried you through the forest “A little.”
deep. I sang no songs or sirens. My summoning “Why?”
came at no invitation but merely a chance note “Because, the tree.”
you happened to inquire.” “It is but a tree. Nothing noble, nothing somber-
just a tree scorned red by summers heat, prepar-
“You wrote me a letter. You said it was urgent.” ing to sleep through winters bite.”
“That’s not what the people in town say.”
“Did I? Look again. Is the page not blank?” “Tell me again? What do they say?”
“This is the Burning Tree.”
“How did you do that?” “Superstition.”
“Maybe.”
“Was it me?” “You’ve been here before, have you not?”
“Yes.”
“Who else!” “Well don’t be shy. You have. And here you are.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Who else indeed. Where are your parents? “Doesn’t it though?”
Where are your friends? Are you not all alone in “No.”
the world?” “And why not?”
“Because.”
“That’s not true.” “Because why?”
“Because I tried to kill myself.”
“Isn’t it? That look chiseled in your brow, that
scorn distaste of truth souring your sweet smile. I
can read you like words on a page, my dear. You
are among acquaintances. No need for dishones-
ty.”

“When have we met?”

“From the day you were born.”

“How? You’re not even a little bit familiar.”

“Oh, but I am. I am the blurred face amongst a
crowded room. I am the lullaby sung by the cho-
rus of midnight insects; The shadow that tingles
the corner of your eye and vanishes as you pass a
casual glance. My dear, I have been with you your
whole life.”

57

“Did you now?” again. She didn’t care about the world she left
behind, about how alone you would be, about
“I thought you were with me my whole life? Don’t how you would have to take care of your sick,
you already know?” dying father. She left you all alone.”

“I must confess, I did. But you see, we must own “No! She didn’t want to die!”
our demons. Better to bring them to light, than
hide in the darkness. For what decisions we make, “Are you so sure? I can hear them, your every
we must equally own. Lest we are doomed to dark thought, your true desires and fantasies. All
fail.” the muck your foul minds dredge during the most
trying times of your live. I can taste the miasma of
“I don’t like it here.” vile thoughts all of you spew with the faintest
remorse. Should it be a sin to think these atroci-
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” ties and the pearly gates would surely be locked
for good. She wanted to die. She wanted an es-
“I just don’t like it.” cape from the pain of living. Death was like slip-
ping into a cool bath compared to the raging hell
“Where did you fall? The noose around your neck she lived. When she died, your father couldn’t
and tied to the branch when you leapt from bow? bare it. He tried to take his own life. I thought you
Is that how the lullaby goes? ‘Down will come knew.”
baby, cradle and all.’ How long did you lay on the
ground before help came?” “It can’t be true!”

“Almost two days. I broke my leg when I landed.” “What vile thoughts have you rattling in your grey
matter?”
“To think, had they not come, you still would
have failed. A sad irony really, to have chosen “Stop it.”
your own demise, only to have it stolen from you.
Even your own planned death would have been “You came here once before. A child’s game of
out of your hands. Like your mothers. And your life and death. You ignored your demons. You hid
fathers.” them in the dark, and they smoldered into a fire
of passion. You didn’t want to die. You clung to
“Stop it.” life like a hungry child to its mother’s teat.”

“Cancer, was it? It so badly hurt your mother to “I wanted to die!”
watch your father suffer.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Leave it alone.”
“I was scared.”
“Well, it was hardly his choice. He chose to drive
himself in a drunken stupor off the cliff side. Sad- “Are you now?”
ly, he lived. Only to die of the cancer as it invaded
his bone marrow while in the burn victim unit.” “What?”

“Leave him alone!” “Are you afraid of death?”

“He had his chance.” “I don’t know!”

“Please, I can’t bare it.” “Stop crying, child. It extinguishes the passion
raging inside you. Are you afraid to die?”
“My point is this, dear girl- The dead are selfish.
Death is a numb, cold bliss and the dead forget “No.”
those they leave behind. Your father was dead
the moment of his diagnosis. His body simply did- “Then what?”
n’t know it.”
“I’m afraid of nothing. That there will be nothing
“That’s not true!” after this. That this is it.”

“Oh, but isn’t it? Your mother died of the embo- “Do you know the story of the Burning Tree?”
lism. She blinked, and never opened her eyes
“No.”

58

“Its branches burn red through the seasons. A
thousand life times it’s lived, died, and lived
again, knowing all too well the suffering of man. It
has been watered by the tears of those who seek
asylum in its bow, and burns with the fires of
their passion. It gives all, and asks but one thing in
return, ‘Water Me.’ It will carry the weight of your
pain, the burden of existence. And all it asks,
‘Water me.’”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m only telling you what your heart most de-
sires. An end to the pain. The suffering.”

“But I can’t.”

“You brought the knife, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“The tree asks only one thing. ‘Water Me.’”

As if for the first time, she saw the man before
her. His tall, slender body wrapped in a cocoon of
well-mannered men. His black blazer buttoned
tight, his red tie like crimson flooding from a slit
neck. His face however was obscured, a blur of
scribbles etched out of her mind as if franticly
carved out of existence with a dull knife, perhaps
the very knife she held in her hand. Though he
was faceless, she could feel the burning frost of
his cold, dead eyes upon her.

She looked about the forest. It was fall. The
leaves had turned bright yellow, floating like
shavings of gold dust through the cool breeze that
kissed her blushed cheeks. The blue sky above
peaked through the gaps of naked branches, shin-
ing the burnt umber forest floor with the last
warm sunlight of the season.

Déjà vu. It was a ghost from her past, buried be-
neath and forgotten for the pain it carried was
crippling. It was the same as when she’d last visit-
ed the tree, save the scar she’d left the tree
where the branch broke beneath her weight. She
pulled up her black jackets sleeves and bore her
naked wrists to the open air, prickling with goose-
flesh in the chilling cold. Life was always out of
her control. Her mother’s death, her father’s, all
of it came to pass no matter how hard she willed
against it. Even her own death had been taken
from her not six years ago.

She looked inside at her demons. Terrible, shape-
less beasts of ice and smoke, bellowing thick

59

clouds of bitter doubt and fear. They held onto man had gone. Vanished. She was alone as she’d
her, sinking her deeper into the darkness that always been, her blank letter crumpled on the
crept in from the corners of her eyes. Her heart floor, and the knife clenched in her hand. Slowly,
fluttered, for the knife was at her wrists without the sounds of the forest came back to life. Birds
her conscious knowing. She could feel the well of sang songs in the distance, insects chirped and
tears spilling from her lids and she closed her eyes buzzed their calls of romance.
hard. She fell to the ground, leaning beside the
great trees gnarly roots that rose above the The man was right. The Burning Tree carried the
ground in a tangled web. burden of those who seek asylum below its
branches. It asked not but one thing in return,
She could feel the knife burning against her wrist. ‘Water Me’. She looked at the root, and marveled
Finally, she cried out, and slammed the knife into at her offerings. Etched by her own hand, “I
the trees root. Her blood boiled hot against the Choose Life.”
cold of her face and hands as she slashed and dug
into the pulpy wood. She imagined her demons Those who don’t believe in magic don’t under-
screaming murder as she dug the knife deep in stand the power of written word. A system of
their flesh. Harder she plunged the knife, runes and characters etched in all manners of
sweating and crying. medium set to invade what you hold most sacred
and private, your own mind. Words seep into
Finally, she opened her eyes, expelling the stale your subconscious, invading your thoughts and
air and greedily gobbling the cool breeze. The planting alien ideas. Even now, whose voice gives
life to these scribbled lines of unnatural geome-
try? You are not in control of your thoughts. I am.
My name is Lucas Milliron.

About the Author:
Those who don’t believe in magic don’t under-
stand the power of written word. A system of
runes and characters etched in all manners of
medium set to invade what you hold most sacred
and private, your own mind. Words seep into
your subconscious, invading your thoughts and
planting alien ideas. Even now, whose voice gives
life to these scribbled lines of unnatural geome-
try? You are not in control of your thoughts. I am.
My name is Lucas Milliron.

60

THE DANCER’S
AFFAIR

Jessica Widner

She is up on her toes. She is Manon Lescaut. She lighting. It is okay to be alone at a bar if the lights
is a first soloist with the National Ballet of Canada. are dim. You can sit and watch people as if they
There she is, blown up, in a cabriole on the side of are in a film. If they are not alone, if they are ha-
the Four Seasons Centre. There is her smile, her loed by friends or lovers, then you are invisible to
crown of sable hair, there are her ankles. them.

Her name is Lolita Elizabeth Hammershøi. Lolita He knocks. Lolita is alone inside. He knows be-
from her father, who was not a reader and did cause he saw her go in just a few minutes ago.
not grasp the implications. Elizabeth, her moth- She doesn’t open the door right away. He didn’t
er’s beloved sister, killed at twenty in a car crash, wait long enough, he thinks. She must still be un-
young and vibrant, not yet reached her prime, a dressing, wiping the stage make-up from her face.
dancer. Hammershøi from her husband who is tall He could leave. He could throw the flowers away.
and handsome but not good for much else, who is
out of town, and lying to her about it being on Lolita opens the door. She is still wearing make-
business. up. Her face is powdered a couple shades lighter
than her neck. She is in a grey cotton robe.
Closing night. He has only seen her from afar. His “Hello?” she says. She looks at him as if she ex-
throat feels a little constricted, his knees twitch. pects him to try and sell her something.
He stands outside her dressing room. In his hands
there is a skimpy bouquet of calla lily and anemo- “Hi, I’m Anselm,” he says, “I’m the assistant
ne. He feels foolish. He had a crush on a girl once lighting designer.” He holds up the flowers. She
when he was twelve, Elke with long, shiny black smiles, cracking the powder next to her eyes into
hair. He picked daisies for her from his mothers’ fine lines.
garden and stood on her doorstep to give them to
her. When she opened the door she looked at “Come in,” she says. She shuts the door behind
him with curious eyes and took the flowers. But him. There is a bouquet of wild roses next to her
she still didn’t speak to him. mirror, still wrapped in clear plastic. He can see
the back of the card. It reads, “O cloud-pale eye-
He is the assistant lighting designer. His name is lids, dream dimmed eyes”. He is stung with a jeal-
Anselm Best. He has no middle name. He imagi- ousy he has no right to. She is facing the mirror,
nes that his lights kiss her feet, her cheeks, her looking at his reflection. She begins to wipe her
dark, smooth arms, even though in Manon the face with a towel. She looks at him calmly. He
palette is dull, the stage washed in grey like thinks of a cat flicking its tail back and forth. Her
murky water. He has come from Lucerne and he costume has been thrown onto the floor, her
still doesn’t know many people in the city, but he tights inside out. He hadn’t imagined her being
likes it because it is a city where many of the careless. He had a picture in his mind of her
bar owners understand the importance of dim pressing her clothes into sharp folds, smoothing

61

them with her palms. He imagined her pressing from the curb, her phone pressed to her cheek.
flowers between the pages of heavy books. “Jan,” she says softly and the voice of her hus-
band moves through a whispery veil of static to
“I wanted to give you these,” he holds out the ask if she is okay.
bouquet. She puts down her towel and takes it,
clasping the wrapped stems with both hands. “I “Are you at home?”
think you danced that part brilliantly,” he says. He
is less embarrassed now. She is just a woman. “Not yet, my love.”

“Anselm,” she says, “That is a wonderful name. “I thought you would be home by now.”
And these are lovely.” She looks down at the
blooms, “How delicate.” A pause. “Jan?” She asks.

She lays the bouquet next to her vase of roses. “I’m here, sorry, I got cut off for a second.”
She tells Anselm thank-you again, and apologizes
for being tired. She always gets tired on closing “I thought you would be home by now.”
night, she says.
“I’m sorry, Lala. I thought I would too. I’ll be here
“Are you new to the city?” she asks. She sits on another couple of days. Until the conference is
her leather sofa, crosses her legs. He doesn’t dare over. How was the final night?”
sit next to her so he stands, tilts his chin down-
wards as if that will make him tower over her less. “Oh. I’m tired. I had a fantasy you’d be at home
running me a bath.”
“Yes,” he says, “I’ve been here four months. For
four months.” “Are you standing outside?”

She stands. She asks him how old he is. She is “No, no, I’m in my dressing room.”
sharp. She is detached. When she looks at him he
feels like he is see-through, a ghost, or else some- “Are you smoking?”
thing she has dreamt, imagined. He is twenty-six,
he tells her. “No, Jan.”

“Ah, so young!” She says. Anselm smiles. There “You are standing outside aren’t you?”
are a lot of things he had imagined telling her and
a lot of things he had wanted to ask her, like, “I am. But I’m not smoking.”
what does she think of in the moments of stillness
on stage, when the heat of the lights is on her and “Is it snowing? It’s all turned to ice here.”
the theatre is quiet enough that the audience can
hear her breathe? “It’s snowing.”

“I’d better go,” he says. She reaches out and her “I can picture you then, standing all alone in the
hand lands on his forearm. She looks at him in the snow, shot with light from passing cars. How
eye and she thanks him and there is a pain in his beautiful you are.”
stomach because he is in love with her, but in the
stupid, fantastical way that teenagers fall in love. “Just words.”
He should know better.
“But it’s true.”
“Anselm,” she says one more time, “What a gor-
geous name.” She doesn’t respond. A cab slows down in front of
her, stops, and through the window she sees An-
She stands under a streetlight, a block from the selm’s face. He had lovely hands, she remembers,
stage door. The snow falls in heavy, wet flakes and he was graceful and nervous, equine.
and gathers noiselessly at her feet. Cars move
sluggishly through rivets of slush. She steps back “Get into a cab, beauty,” says the voice in her ear.

“I will darling.”

“And I’ll call you in the morning. Or you call me,
once you’re awake.”

“Yes.”

She nods at the cab driver and holds up a finger.

62

The wet snow melts and runs down the side of She puts her glass on the table and her fingertips
the car, the windows, so it looks like Anselm is flutter over the rim before alighting.
gazing at her through deep water.
“Were you competing?”
“I love you,” says her husband.
She smiles at him. There is a tightness around her
“You too, darling.” eyes. She picks up her glass and drains it, the ice
falling back with an empty clink. “I was,” she says.
She puts her phone in her pocket. There is a hole
in the heel of her right boot and her foot is wet, She doesn’t want to talk about Lausanne, or
chilled. Anselm gets out of the cab and opens the about dancing at all. Above the bar she can see
door for her. She climbs in, her coat bunching dimly lit bottles of Westvletern 12, and Achel
around her knees, making her momentarily clum- Brun. She remembers the time she went on a tour
sy. The driver has his seat pushed back so there is of Belgium with her father, when she was just
little room for the folded length of her legs. twenty. They went to Achel Abbey and were
served flights of thick, sweet, malty beer. The
“You were alone in the cold,” says Anselm. monks brew it, her father told her, to finance
their monastery, nothing more. Westvletern, he
“Thanks,” she says, “Let’s have a drink.” said, is one of the best beers in the world, but
they only started selling it when the Abbey began
Anselm tells the cab driver the name of a bar falling apart and they needed the money. It felt so
she’s never been to before. “Have you been special when she was sitting there, hiding from
there?” He asks her. the heat in the cramped brewery that smelled of
old wood, and the sweet ferment of beer, the
“I don’t get out much,” she says. only trip her and her father went on just the two
of them, and maybe her favourite trip she’d ever
The bar is candlelit, with little wooden tables. It been on. Is it less special now, she wonders, now
has the pleasant scent of some sort of incense, she could order the beer right here, in Toronto, in
something faintly attic-like, old clothing maybe, the winter?
the unfolding of a vintage fur coat. He asks her
what she would like. “Have you tried that beer?” She asks, pointing,
“Up there?”
“Oh, just gin. Citadelle. A little ice.”
“Yes, once or twice.”
She goes to sit in the corner, hangs her long white
coat over the chair which begins to tilt backwards She is about to tell him the story, but decides
under the weight of it. She catches the chair be- against it. There is no reason to tell him.
fore it falls, looks at him, and laughs. He orders
her a double gin, and gets himself a glass of Lillet He gets up to refill their drinks. When he sits
Blanc, filled to the brim with ice. down again she is eager to talk.

They sit across from each other. She leans her “Did you know, Anselm, that you wanted to be a
elbows against the table and nests her chin into lighting designer since you were very young? Did
her clasped hands. “And, where are you from?” you know it before you knew what it meant?”
She asks him. She looks at him, and then at the
space behind his left shoulder, and then at him “I always liked the theatre,” he replies, “My
again. She unclasps her hands and leans back, mother took me when I was small, often, whether
laying them flat against the table. She picks up to the opera or ballet or to see the symphony. I
her drink and swirls the ice. liked the rushed feeling right before the show
started, while my mother stood in line to buy a
“Lucerne. Switzerland.” drink, and the bell started ringing, and everyone
began walking all different ways to go and find
“Is it very pretty there?” their seats. And I liked the sound of the instru-
ments tuning, in the dark.”
“The Lake is nice.”

“I haven’t been. But I was in Lausanne once, when
I was just seventeen. A long time ago.”

63

“Yes,” she says, “I like that part too, because it place he’ll not be able to find again. This feeling
always makes me feel nervous. But good- gives way to anxiety, a feeling that he has for-
nervous.” gotten something, that he is in the entirely wrong
place.
“It is a glorious anticipation,” he says, “You feel it
in your whole body.” “Tell them what?” he says, finally walking through
to the kitchen, taking his glass. She laughs and it
“Oh, yes,” she says. “It is like coming home.” makes the same silvery sound as her keychain.
She slips a record from it’s case and holds the
By the time they get back to her house, they are edges of it with her fingertips. Her dining table is
both a little bit drunk. She nearly slips on a patch round. Rich, dark wood, contrasted with an
of ice on the front walkway. He takes her arm and enameled white kitchen island. A modern kitchen,
they walk up the stairs to her front porch where strange amidst the antique beauty of the rest of
she laughs and says, “This is fun, isn’t it?” the furniture. Spindly chairs, a record player, two
Schiele prints, crystal figurines on the windowsill.
She fits the key into the lock. She has a silvery She puts the record on and he recognizes the first
keychain that jingles in a strange way, hollowly, few notes of an Erik Satie prélude. She steps clos-
like a chime. It makes him shiver. Before she turns er to him. Why is he just now noticing her ear-
the key he takes her by the upper arm and she rings? They are like icicles. He reaches out and
turns her face to him and he kisses her. She pulls touches one with his fingertip.
away and he is, for a second, gripped with the
embarrassment, frozen in his veins, that he mis- “You’re beautiful,” he says and then, embar-
understood everything. She exhales and he feels rassed, “These are beautiful, I mean.”
her breath, warm against his lips. Then she kisses
him, her hand coming around to press against the “Darling,” she says, refilling her glass, putting her
back of his neck, her touch chilled, searing his lips to the rim slowly as if kissing it, “I need you to
skin. know that whatever happens between us can
only be for tonight. Otherwise we’ll just get hurt.
The house is dark and when she turns on the If that isn’t possible for you, I think it would be
lights he ignores the evidence, the men’s shoes, best if you left.”
the big black coat hung on the bannister. He ig-
nores the photographs; he wills his eyes not to Conscious of the pause, he tries to disentangle
work. Something he wants to tell her is that when what he is feeling. Her in person, in front of him,
he sleeps, he dreams without vision. All his other like a figure from a long-loved painting come to
senses are present, keenly, but he dreams blindly life. Him, breathing the same air as her. His lips on
across a landscape of sound, of voice and music, hers, like a lost character in a fairy tale stumbling
and of feeling. He imagines himself saying this to upon some enchanted land. But then there she is,
her, in bed maybe, saying that it feels as though real, eyes going from his face to the space around
he lives two different lives, one in which he can his face, to her feet, and back. Eyes always mov-
see and one in which he is blind. He wonders if ing. Fine lines underneath them, lines that dark
she would like the sound of that. make up has smudged into. He wants to press his
thumbs underneath her eyes, and rub it away.
He hears the pop of a cork. She walks into the The creases around her mouth. Her breath sweet
hallway with a bottle of champagne. “Shhh,” she and sour, chemical. A woman in front of him, a
says, “Don’t tell anyone.” body, and a face not as beautiful or young as
many of the other women he had been with.
He hasn’t even taken his shoes off. The house is What does he want? The experience, or the
so filled with beautiful, delicate items that she, body? ~
already barefoot, pouring fizz over the edges of
crystal flutes, seems intrinsically part of it, as if it He nearly laughs with relief. It can be either. His
created her, as if she were born of it. A strange desire is strictly limited to the physical and the
thought. He is not really drunk, but enough so fantastical. Her heart—let the other man keep it.
that he begins to feel sad, as if he is witnessing
something profound but at the same time letting “Of course,” he says and he takes her face in both
it glide away from him into some dark nowhere, a hands and, before he kisses her, closes his eyes.

64

She pulls away and, breath warm against his
mouth says, “And, dear, don’t say my name,
please.”

“I won’t.”

She places her glass down and he takes her in
both arms and presses the long length of her
against him. Her mouth moves lazily against his,
her hips tilting forward. She bites his lip and he
tightens his grip around her waist, digs his fingers
into the top of her thighs. He can feel her body
begin, as a motor does, to heat, to wake, unfurl
against him, and everything begins to slide.

“Oh, dear,” she says. She has gotten up from bed.
Her sacrum is aching, the pain comes in short
bursts, chasing itself down her legs. She turns on
the light next to her bed. She isn’t sure if Anselm
is asleep or not, his breathing is so soft. He has a
stillness to him, a quietness, despite his physical
presence. She had almost forgotten he was there.

“Are you ok?” he says. She turns to look at him.
His eyes are still alert, awake. The light makes his
face gold, his hair gold. She bends sideways to
kiss him. His mouth is warm and it tastes like her.
He pulls back, presses his finger to her bottom lip.

“I forgot the flowers. The flowers you brought
me.”

“Maybe they’ll survive the night.”

“I’m sorry.”

She opens her side table and takes out a wooden
box with vaguely Buddhist patterns carved across
the top. She opens it and places a pouch of tobac-
co, rolling papers, and a metal grinder on the ta-
ble. She opens the little bag from the dispensary
and the scent fills the room.

“Do you mind?” He is watching her. So quiet he
seems to absorb sound. “My back hurts. I won’t
be able to sleep.”

He sits up next to her, his knees hugged to his
body, and watches her, not speaking, as she rolls
the joint, quickly. Watches her lick the paper,
press it tight together. She smiles at him.

“I’ll share.”

65

She hands him the joint and gets up, disappears About the Author:
out of the door. He hears her creaking down the
stairs. There is a zippo lighter in the box. He takes Jessica Widner is a Canadian writer currently liv-
it, strikes, lights. ing in Edinburgh. She has a Bachelor’s degree in
English Literature from the University of Toronto,
She returns in a grey silk robe. It has a cigarette and is completing a Creative Writing MSc at the
burn on the left breast. She has two pint glasses University of Edinburgh. Her work has appeared
of water. “Let’s replenish our fluids,” she says. or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, LampLight
Magazine, and Potluck Mag.
As they smoke, she turns on the TV opposite the
bed. Anthony Bourdain in Hokkaido, eating crab,
sea urchin, salmon roe. “I want to eat that,” she
says. Anselm presses his hand to her thigh. Time
passes. They both feel far away from each other,
until he starts to move his hand, his palm heating
her skin, touching between her legs. She slips
closer to him and they stay there like that for a
while, until the credits roll on the TV show, until
the next episode starts (Anthony Bourdain in the
Ozarks).

She looks at him, his skin lit by the flickering
blues, yellows, and greys from the television.
There is a hunger for him, starting from the point
on her skin his fingers are touching. It is like the
beginning of a cramp. She places her palm on his
cheek and turns his face to hers. He looks at her,
his eyes beginning to drowse, and he leans in to
kiss her neck, to take her ear lobe delicately be-
tween his lips. He starts to move his hand, “Does
it hurt?” he asks her.

“No,” she says, “No, it’s nice.”

There is something he wanted to tell her, he
thinks, but he can’t remember now. It doesn’t
matter. He won’t speak to her again after the
morning, anyway. But there was something.

He crushes his mouth against her neck, begins to
say her name and feels her throat stiffen under
his lips.

“No,” she says, but then she laughs, and her body
remains open to him.

He reaches over her; he turns off the lamp.

66

THE SUGAR POT

Krista Creel

Momma says I have to go to Mrs. Verna’s for sug- when he’s at work. Momma can’t get us any-
ar. She wants to make shortcakes for my brother where.
and we’re out. Mrs. Verna lives two houses down
on the left side of Monk House Road, but our She used to say God forbid if something hap-
houses are far apart. A division of two houses on pened to us out here because there’s only one
our road is like a well you can’t see the bottom to. ambulance in all of the county. She doesn’t say
You can hear the water when you drop a rock into that anymore because it already happened and
it, you know it’s there because it always has been, nothing will change. That’s the way it is because
but you can’t see if for all the darkness. the commissioners want to keep the taxes low.
They’re all farmers and own lots of land, Momma
Mrs. Lollie is one house down to the right on says. In fact, one of them died last winter waiting
the other side of the road. You can see her house on the ambulance. That still didn’t make a differ-
from our driveway, but Momma doesn’t let me go ence. They just replaced him with another one
there anymore. The houses on that side aren’t like him.
spaced far apart. They’ve been there a long time.
At least, they look like they’ve been. Out here, people are solitary. Most don’t ask
for much but to be left alone, but it’s the leaving
Mrs. Verna is the only neighbor momma likes. alone that gets them sometimes.
Mrs. Glenda is snooty and Mrs. Georgia is a Bap-
tist. The others she don’t count. Mrs. Verna’s old. She’s got three raised daugh-
ters all living in the city. Everyone around here is
“Verna knows you’re coming,” Momma says old. Not many young people move out this way.
and hands me the sugar pot. “She’ll give you two The schools are poor and the roads are rough and
cups. Make sure it’s two. That will give me a little there’s not much socializing, at least not the kind
extra just in case.” they’re used to. They leave the city looking to
start gardens and dig ponds and raise chickens.
“Yes ma’m.” There’s been a pioneer revival of sorts, Momma
says, but people who have lived here the longest
“Don’t dally. I’ve got to get these done by this don’t know what to make of it. City folk, whether
afternoon.” they mean to or not, bring the city with them, in
their materials and in their heads and in their cars
“Yes ma’m.” and their expectations.

Momma can’t drive. She’s legally blind. She can They bring McDonalds too. Momma says we’ve
see me and she can cook and she can see letters already got all the food stops we need—Sonic,
on papers with a magnifying glass, but she can’t Gurkins, Food Rite. Any more would just be
drive. That’s why I’m going to get my hardship clutter, but she bets her life they’ll bring
license. Daddy isn’t excited at all about me getting a McDonalds. She likes the small-town ways, the
it, but someone has to be able to get around

67

clock at the top of the courthouse that chimes The lid on this sugar pot rattles every time I
every hour at exactly the right time, the old, emp- take a step. I don’t know why Momma didn’t send
ty general store. She likes the emptiness, I think, me with plastic. I think she wants people to know
but only a certain kind of emptiness. we still have nice things, but Mrs. Verna already
knows what we have.
The blue butterflies are out, stopping on every
dead thing in the road. Loads of them crushed Mrs. Verna’s husband, Claude, always gives me
under cars because they can’t seem to find their junk he finds at garage sales and estate auc-
way to the ditches, although there are plenty of tions—weird old things like Avon perfume in Irish
dead things in the ditches and beer cans and sug- Setter bottles and parts of bikes and wood shav-
ar water. I read once that our roads are butterfly ers. He fills up his house with other people’s his-
roads too, that they’ll fly the easiest way home, tories and I wonder if he’s ever seen the empty
not through the woods or over bushes, not if they room in our house and I wonder what he’d make
can help it. So, they get in trouble with the cars. of it if he did. Would he want to hang all his bird
Either they can’t move fast enough or they’re pictures and boxed baseballs and mantels from
distracted by bright flowers and awful smells and old houses? He talks about the old days and how
orange basketballs. much better things were and why I should carry a
gun. And I think the old days were yesterday but
There’s a crack in the sugar pot the shape of a his are farther away when he was alive in some
bobby pin like it’s holding the pot together. I im- different, more imaginary way.
agine it opening up like a sinkhole and me falling
in it and no one finding me because no one would “I’m only twelve,” I reminded him last time I
think to look in the sugar pot until it’s empty and saw him. “I can’t carry a gun.”
I’m dead.
“I don’t care if you’re six. Every girl, woman,
I pass the white cross on the side of the road. and child should be packing something. The world
People put out crosses where important events is changed and it ain’t changing back. You can
happen, important to them and hardly anyone carry mace, I’m sure of that. Just ask your mom-
else even though the world splits forever and ma to get you some.”
time slows down. The white paint is peeling and
the letters routed out aren’t as clear as they used I nodded. I couldn’t tell him that I’m not afraid
to be. The zinnias are falling over behind it—pink, of the world and I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid
crook-necked flowers stretching up to the sun of other things, like tornados and I’m afraid of
one last time before the fall turns them brown. most dogs, but I’m not afraid of dying. Only peo-
More butterflies. ple who are afraid carry their fears in their purses
and pockets. Tomorrow is nothing yet.
They say I saw it happen. But all I saw were
tires and birds and a cat running under a porch. Mrs. Verna has always reminded me of a
That’s all I saw. Sometimes the cat is orange, catfish. Her lips are squished together and puck-
sometimes black; sometimes it’s no color at all, ered as if they were caught in a meat press a long
just bones and teeth. time ago. Her eyes are black and far apart and
beady. Her hair is always pulled back tight in a
I look at roads differently now. I see the way bun, showing off her flat head. Her skin shines like
they bend and who drives down them. I count the she has some kind of oil on it that she puts on
cars and memorize their colors. I know who thick in the morning and by afternoon it’s melted
waves and who doesn’t. I know who throws their off.
trash out the window and who puts their dogs in
the front seat. I know how fast they drive and if “How’s your momma?” she asks.
they’re on the phone. I know when the Wilson
Well trucks run and what they carry on their I wait for a water bug to slip out of her mouth.
backs. I memorize license plates.
“Fine,” I answer.

68

“She making shortcakes today?” I walk by a pasture with a smokestack and no
house. It’s been burned down for as long as I can
“Yes, ma’m.” remember. I wonder where the people went. Did
they die? Did they move? Did they go to pancake
She swims from side to side in the kitchen like breakfasts? Did they have kids?
she’s never been in it, like she can’t find a single
thing she’s looking for. A horse chestnut tree grows from the concrete
slab where the house once was. Its ugly, green
“Did you know someone finally bought the fruit has dropped. Life continues in the strangest
Carlisle house?” she asks, glaring into a cabinet. ways.

I lie and say I don’t know, but I knew that the A squirrel darts across the road and Mrs.
Carlisles had finally been run out of town. No one George’s rat terrier barks at me with all his body
would have anything to do with them after their from his front porch. I think that one day that dog
son was put away. Drinking and driving. They will burst inside itself.
were bad from the very middle of them, like a
rotten pit inside a peach making rings and rings of I walk faster, the lid clanking, my hands
rot. I’m sure they never had any nice sugar pots. sweating and before I even know it, I slip on some
They probably kept their sugar in a paper sack in a loose gravel and drop the sugar pot into the ditch.
shed. It breaks so easily, like an egg in the sink and my
eyes quit working and my breath leaves me. I
“I hear the new owners are from the city,” she can’t see the pot or the sugar or the weeds or the
keeps on. “Educated. I don’t blame them for mov- trash in the ditches anymore.
ing out here, if you ask me.”
I see the gulf. I see Mathew at the beach, his
Mrs. Verna finds the sugar and takes the pot hair curly and brown catching the wind and spin-
and put two cups in it. ning and whirling like colored oil in water. He
smiles at me and holds up a shell, but I can’t see it
“Want some tape for that lid?” she asks, trying in the shadow of his hand. I can never see it, but I
to get it back on solid. can hear the gull wings on the wind and
someone’s muffled radio and each bead of sugar
“No, ma’m. It’s fine. I’ve got to get back.” spill out, like sand through a steel funnel, like the
sand we played in and the shells that jangled in
“Ok, I’ll see you next Saturday at the pancake the waves. There were so many after the hurri-
breakfast at the firehouse, right? Your momma cane and the red tide that summer—conchs and
said y’all were coming.” tiger claws and scallops and the popping of air
bubbles from thousands of tiny clams burying
I shrug and walk out. I don’t want to see them their bodies after each wave dragged them out of
again. For three years I’ve had to go to that break- the water.
fast. I don’t like anything about it. The sirens and
the speeches and the hung looks and the sorries. I sit in the ditch and cry so that no one hears
It makes me angry, nothing more, just angry. me and so that everyone can, but I can’t let mom-
Making a production about saving lives and risk- ma know. I won’t let her see me cry. She’ll see me
ing lives over a plate of pancakes. Not everyone be the one who comes home. I can’t go back to
can be saved. Mrs. Verna’s, though, I just can’t. So I scrape up
the broken pieces, wipe my face with my shirt,
I don’t think there’s a single straight road in and head for some place more familiar.
this whole town. I used to get sick in the backseat
of the car on the way to school. Daddy would Mrs. Lollie’s house is beige, just beige with a
have to drive real slow or let me sit in the front thin, gray roof and pots with half-dead plants.
seat and Mathew would roll his eyes like I was She’s got a metal glider rocker in her yard, a card
making it all up. These roads. You think you’re table set up for Sunday dominoes and a propane
getting somewhere and then you hit another tank. Her driveway is close to the road and gravel
curve or dip or hill you can’t see over and you’re
still nowhere at all.

69

and there are tokens of people in it—cigarette purpose and draws out what she needs one by
butts and beer tops and plastic bits. I knock on one. I look around her kitchen for anything new
her screen door. It’s been scratched up by the because that means time has passed, and I wish
cats. She always has a yard full of cats. The bas- time was a lie, but the second hand that ticks like
ketball goal has lost its net. Weeds are growing a freight truck on her wall clock puts me in my
up around it. Momma never would get Mathew place.
one.
“You’re growing up, Miss Sophie Rose, turning
I hear her coming before she gets to the door. into a fine young woman. Would you’a guessed
She isn’t a small woman. She fills her whole house I’m 72?”
with her own body and on Sundays with all sorts
of family. “No, ma’m, not at all,” I answer.

“Well, Miss Sophie Rose, my Lord, come on in “How much sugar you need again?”
girl, come in,” she smiles.
“Two cups.”
Her smile never changes. It always surprises
you with its size and its goodness and its ability to She pulls out a large aluminum container and
put a lightness in your heart that you sometimes puts three scoops into a plastic bag and hands it
forget exists because you’ve felt heavy for so to me.
long. There are some places that just feel like
that, like home, no matter if good or bad things “A little extra for you,” she winks, and hands
happen inside of them, like how the smell of ciga- me another plastic bag. “Here put your broken
rettes and beer remind me of my daddy. I know pieces in this bag, unless you want that I help you
they’re not good. I know they’re vices, like Mom- fix that pot. It don’t look too broken.”
ma says, but they’re him and they’re home. With
Mrs. Lollie, it’s her smile and her bigness and her “That’s ok. Momma will know I broke it any-
always having food made and her apple cinnamon way, so it won’t make a difference.”
candles.
“Well, looks like it was a mighty nice pot, but I
She looks down at the pieces of my sugar pot don’t think she’ll be too sore, considering.” She
and I suddenly wish I had pockets. pauses and looks at me like a puzzle she has lost a
piece to. “How is your Momma?”
“What you doing with that broken thing, child?
You ok? You cut anywhere?” “Ok, I guess.”

Her eyes dart up at me. They are kind and Then she looks at me like to ask me the same
brown and worried. She’s always ready to put a but knowing I’ll lie, so she doesn’t ask and I don’t
band-aid on something. She’s never gentle about say. She takes me to her and puts her arms
it, but she goes about it as if her sole purpose in around me and it feels like being wrapped up in
life had been leading up to that most important blankets, just piled on and on so I don’t have to
moment where she had no other mission but to get out from under them again if I don’t want to.
dress your wounds.
“I still can’t believe it happened here,” she
“No, I’m fine. Do you have any sugar?” says.

She looks at the pot like I think she wants to And she smells like grass and grease and apple
look at me, with some sort of sorry. She is a tall cinnamon and I want to stay there and kill the
woman with skin the color of soft, wrapped cara- clock and eat the cake sitting in the corner of her
mel. She wears a gold turban and red scarf and a counter. But I have to go.
shirt with sleeves that billow out like chefs’ hats.
I used to think that when Mathew died that his
“Of course I have sugar, child. You sit.” body was covered with all those blue butterflies
on the side of the road, that they were there to
She puts me at her table and sets a water to carry him to heaven, that they must have a secret
me. She moves through her cabinets with a slow

70

purpose like that. But those cars. They just keep About the Author:
coming and running them over. Over and over
and over. And I wonder why they don’t learn, why Krista Creel received her undergraduate degree in
they don’t get out of the way because the people creative writing from the University of Memphis
in the cars don’t stop or look or turn around. I see and her graduate degree in journalism. She has
the Carlisles in every one of them. had short stories and poems published by the
Universities of Pennsylvania, Chicago, Johnson &
I step on a butterfly to see what will happen. Wales, South Arkansas and Memphis, as well as
Nothing does. Another one just comes and sits on other independent literary magazines. She lives in
top of it, like they do all dead things, for no other rural West Tennessee with her family.
reason than to be a little higher up off the ground,
I suppose.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve been born with an
open wound. It scabs over and the butterflies
land on them, but then people pick and pick at it
and it bleeds. It seems like it will never seal back
up. It just bleeds. And it’s somewhere real promi-
nent, like on my face, so I can see it every time I
look in the mirror and so can everyone else. They
never see me.

Walking back down my driveway, I wonder
what the time is. I only know it’s not past one
o’clock yet. I know that from the route of the sun
and the shadow of the tulip poplar and the path
of the buzzards in the sky and Mrs. Lollie’s clock.
Each second, for the rest of this day, will become
a lifetime lived and died, over and over, and
Momma and I will make shortcakes for Mathew
because they were his favorite. We won’t eat
them, but we still have time to make them, and
the dough will rise in the oven like new breaths.

71

SKATEBOARDS AND A

SHEEPDOG

by Carolyn L. Bell

Gus leaps three feet in the air, his open mouth Gus failed the therapy dog test twice because he
appearing dangerously close to my face. “Out for jumped up on the tester in loving exuberance.
a walk? I can’t contain my joy!” he barks, leaping When he learned to keep all four paws on the
and leaping. A handsome sheepdog with long, ground, he passed. On the job at senior residenc-
silky hair and a bouncing, happy gait, his appear- es and schools, he’s so obedient, people remark
ance attracts people immediately. Children tug at how “chill” he is. I laugh to myself, knowing the
their parents’ arms and point. A parent asks, many sides of Gus. This is my dream, to share joy
“Excuse me. What kind of dog is that?” Prospec- with others so they’ll feel like I do when I’m with
tive dog owners ask, “Does he require a lot of him.
brushing?”
Today’s the first day of full sun we’ve felt in Min-
“Yes,” I say. “He’s a Bearded Collie. You’re wel- neapolis since February. As soon as it hits fifty,
come to pet him. I’ll hold him right here while you flocks of people, nearly hysterical in their frenzy
stand to his side and pet him.” I crouch down to to conquer Lake Calhoun, burst out of their dwell-
demonstrate, petting him and stroking his back ings with ebullience, play volleyball in bikinis, and
from head to tail. “His name’s Gus. Sit, Gus. We’re run headlong around the lake, earbuds or fitness
a therapy team. I ought to groom him at least devices draped across their half-naked bodies.
twice a week but I don’t.” Men in neon-green shoes with winter bellies
chase visions of youth. Muslim women in long,
“Where’s puppy’s ears?” a little brown girl in a bright skirts and hijabs flow gracefully in three-
pink hat stops to ask, partly hiding behind her somes. Young couples in the bloom of romance
mother because Gus is twice her size. rush the season in provocative, sheer clothing.
Apple trees are aching to break their shells and
“Here they are,” I say, squatting down, weaving burst into bloom. Orioles call in shrill melodies as
my fingers through the layers of his black-and- they dip and flit elusively from one limey branch
white coat, finding an ear and lifting it up gently. to another. Everyone has a role in the rites of
“You can pet him. He won’t hurt you. Or you can spring.
scratch him right here.” I scratch behind Gus’s
ear, flipping his ponytail back to show his eyes. It’s Saturday afternoon, the busiest time to go for
The child giggles and reaches her small, chubby a walk with Gus. Bad choice. I hate steering
fingers out to touch his hair, then squeals and through obnoxious cell phone conversations. It’s
recoils. an assault to my ears. Gus knows I mean business
because I’ve put on his working harness and scarf.
“Look! He has a ponytail too!” says the girl’s He glances up at me every few minutes to fore-
mother. cast my intent. He can tell by the tension on the
leash if I’m at all bothered. A typical herding dog,
“That keeps the hair out of his eyes so we can he senses trouble before it happens. When he
make eye contact,” I say.

72

gets carried away, trying to shepherd in all poten- down her creamy shoulder. “That was wild!”
tial threats, I rein him in. Wild? I think to myself. They’re confusing us with
reality television. They have no idea how scary
He trots along beside me, connected to his har- this is. The other girl, plump and blond, in a black
ness by a worn leather leash, drawn smart and satin skirt, with a broad-chested, smiling guy, al-
taut. Gus makes the world friendly. Since I carry a most seven feet tall, complete the trio of specta-
small purse filled with baggies, treats, and Gus’s tors. They pause. Speechless, mouths dropped
business cards to be handed out for special ad- open.
mirers, I’m ready if anyone stops me. On the back
side of his photograph card, a gift when we make Gus has completely changed from a sweet, cuddly
therapy visits, I describe Gus as “athletic, agile, rug into a snarling beast, bent on biting the man’s
and witty.” To make known his fallibility, I add, long skateboard. His happy expression has be-
“Gus hates loud wheely things like Rollerblades come a mask of fury, lips stretched back, teeth
and skateboards.” bared. I’m having a hard time pulling him back
because the skateboarder’s insistent confronta-
Several strings of rollerbladers fly by, the sound of tion smells and sounds like danger to him—a pri-
their grinding wheels painful to Gus’s sensibilities. meval instinct I can’t civilize despite our years of
When I see one coming toward us, I dig into my training.
little bag and bring out small morsels of venison
and sweet-potato kibble. He has learned to look I’m trying to walk on, but Gus is straining and fi-
up at my bag when a rollerblader approaches. My nally achieves the extra few inches, his teeth
second bad choice is to walk in the same one-way meeting wood. He thrusts and parries a few more
direction as the people on wheels, so they are times before I’m able to pull him back and away.
able to sneak up behind us before I can hear I’m dragging him now, closing my ears to the
them. The fact that Gus is able to hear them be- skateboarder, who’s still shouting at us.
fore I do makes him jumpy. Gus tolerates roller-
bladers better than skateboards. I keep walking, breathing louder than the skate-
boarder’s shouts. My hands tremble, fingers
A bearded, twenty-something man, wearing numb from gripping the leash. He may have
bright-green sunglasses that hide his eyes, wheels someone with him, also boarding, but I can’t be
right up to us fast from behind on his skateboard, sure. It happens so fast I can’t remember exactly.
uncomfortably close, brushing against us, passing Whirring skateboards anywhere around Gus’s
us on our path designated for walkers only. Gus ears—surprising him—are tantamount to terror.
leaps up and twists to growl and snap at him, this Gus keeps turning his head back to see if the
threat to our space. skateboard is following us. He squats for a mo-
ment on the grass to relieve himself. Steady
I call out, “Hey, wrong path! Wheels on the upper streams of people maneuver around us and re-
path!” converge ahead.

The man shouts back, “What’s wrong with your I re-encounter the threesome, now sitting on a
dog, lady? Can’t you get him under control?” He park bench. They smile broadly at us. We are
hops off his board and holds it out from his body, their show…a dog gone crazy. Gus sniffs their
under Gus’s nose. Gus lunges at it, growling. feet. “Beautiful dog!” the tall guy says, arms
draped along the back of the bench, each arm
I stop short and yell. “You belong on the upper around a girl.
path! Wheels up there!” I point to the curving
path a few yards up from the walking path. “My Advancing toward home, I try to compose myself,
dog hates skateboards! It hurts his ears. Please. wracking my brain for techniques to keep this
Move up there!” from reoccurring. Once home, I hang up Gus’s
leash, sigh with relief, and call a few friends to
A young threesome passes me and the skate- discuss the incident.
boarder, turns to laugh at the scene. “That was
crazy! He’s so cute!” says one girl, hair dyed black, “No dog likes skateboards” is one friend’s remark.
arms and neck covered with tattoos of elaborate
hearts, flowers, and a dagger dripping blood

73

Another suggests, “From now on, walk the lake and black long pants. Mephisto. Tormenting us,
when it’s not as crowded.” the heroic dog therapy team. He’s been looking
for us. He says something to his girlfriend, who
Another, “If that jerk wants to board on the slows her bike down, keeping apace of us, trying
wrong path, call the police.” to incite us.

I can’t forget. I order a skateboard online. It ar- In California a student argued loudly with me in
rives, green with orange wheels, disappointingly front of class about his grade. It didn’t take much
small and benign, more like a toy than the three- to flip from order to chaos during seventh peri-
foot-long, sloping speed demon that terrified Gus. od—forty-five teenagers on a Friday afternoon
I think I’ll have to work him into approaching the with weekend on their minds. He stretched his
board, but he happily munches his entire dinner long arms across my desk, glaring at me, captive.
right off the little skateboard with no fear or ag-
gression. I trade in an old set of Rollerblades for a “I’m going to report you,” he said in a deep voice,
longer board. I roll it a few times in front of him. drilling holes into my gut.
No problem.
“Make an appointment with me to discuss this
Danny and I had a lifetime of fun-loving, affection- sensibly. Sit down! Now!” I said slowly, matter-of-
ate, loyal beardies. As herding dogs, they all want- factly, peering around him as the rest of the class
ed order and togetherness. Splitting off in differ- jabbered into a clamor and stuffed their books
ent directions in the middle of a walk is a sheep- into their backpacks. Fifteen minutes before the
dog’s signal to round us up. Several of our dogs bell. Too late to call the office. Too early to dismiss
nipped at the heels of people who appeared to be class. I stood up. He lurched toward me and
running away from them. Sylvester was terrified growled, teeth bared. The class broke into laugh-
of groaning ice. When skateboards became popu- ter.
lar, it presented a whole new challenge, suddenly
a serious one. One of our females, Sasha, was “Hey, you don’t belong on the lake! You’re a men-
terrified of skateboards and ran away, panicked, ace,” the boarder yells.
for hours when one whizzed past our house. A
neighbor a few miles away called us when they What does he do to make me the loser? He’s just
found her. like that kid in class. I wrap the leash around my
wrist, watching my hand turn white.
Now, after a few days’ hiatus from the lake
crowd, I feel brave enough to walk Lake Calhoun He continues his bullying censure. “You have no
again. Minneapolis is even showier, but cooler control over your dog. Anyone with an aggressive
and windier, than a few days before. Eagles dive dog has no business being on the lake. I’m on the
for fish; hundreds of coots are bobbing in the wa- right path now. Your dog’s crazy. Look at him,
ter, gathering to migrate. I have plenty of treats in lady! You can’t control him! He already attacked
the bag slung over my shoulder. I am prepared. me once!”

It comes to me too late—halfway around—that I Rollerbladers slow their pace, applying their heel
should be walking against traffic to see what’s brakes, to move around him.
coming. Instead of turning back, I press on. Gus
anxiously checks over his shoulder every few feet. Gus is amped up. Too many wheels. Too much
I’m making Gus neurotic. sound. I shout back, “Oh, just shut up! Mind your
own business and leave me alone!” I quicken my
There he is, the same skateboarder, without sun- pace, move up off the walking path, cross the
glasses, holding onto the rear rack of a girlfriend’s upper path, and cross the street to the sidewalk.
bicycle frame, smoothly coasting on his board on Loons fly overhead, calling to each other, lifting
the upper path, casually tapping away on his cell my heart to the sky, reminding me no creature
phone. Gus immediately yanks me toward him. can be or should be completely tamed.
He looks up, his black eyes mocking us. I squint to
see him better. His beard and hair are also black, The boarder turns his whole body around to
cropped short, defining a strong jaw. He is pale-
skinned, wearing a stocking cap, black tee shirt,

74

watch me. If I let myself go, I’ll be sorry. Epithets
fill my mouth like crusts of hardtack bread. Ob-
scenities. My breath is shallow. I hear myself
panting. Adrenaline surges at high tide. Gus rears
up. Ready to charge. I tighten my grip on his
leash. Can’t drop my shoulders. I’m ready for war.
Fight or flight.

There’s no point. He’s younger. Faster. I choose
flight. Speed up. He slows down. Any moment
he’ll get off his board, abandon his girlfriend, run
after me across the grass, carrying his board. Gus
will bite his board and him. I’ll be up shit creek.
No witness. Just Gus. I run-walk across the street,
elude him, racing home. Again he’s chased me
home, afraid.

If Danny were alive, he’d have made a joke of it
and quelled my fears. I’d see the whole thing as a
fluke, not an ongoing threat. But I’m alone now.

For the next week, when we walk, Gus acts like a
paranoid schizophrenic, jerking his head around
to look behind him every twenty yards. The lake is
large, 5.1 kilometers around—approximately
1100 yards rounding down. Thus Gus is turning to
look behind him at least fifty-five times.

What am I doing to my dog? The sonuvabitch
skateboarder doesn’t own the !@#$%^&* lake!

I stay off the lake again, watching happy joggers
and dogwalkers from my window where I can
view the parade. Gus and I walk in the neighbor-
hood again, away from the lake.

I can’t imagine coming home to an empty house.
It was so quiet after Danny died. No oxygen tank
wheezing. No phone conversations drifting from
his study. No television blaring. I still listen for his
heavy breathing at night. Every ambulance whin-
ing past our house reminds me of Danny’s last
trip to the hospital. Gus keeps me from getting
stuck in the doldrums. He drags a toy or tosses a
ball at me and I’m back to now.

One day we’re waiting on the front steps for a
friend. A small, blue truck rolls into an open spot
on the curb next to my house. Cute little truck. A
young man, dark-haired, no hat, closely shaven,
hops out of the driver’s seat, skateboard in hand.
He slams it down and flies past, waving. Not
thinking, I wave back. He stops and approaches.
Oh no! I stand up. He’s smiling.

Not the same man, I assure myself.

75

Approximately the same age and height as the About the Author:
other guy. In his twenties. Dark hair. My heart
races. I didn’t really see the other guy close up, Carolyn Light Bell’s work has appeared in Cotton-
just parts—his eyes, his beard, his chin. It was wood, Crack the Spine, Forge, The Griffin, Lime-
hard to see the whole of him. This guy has a com- stone, Louisiana Literature, New Plains Review,
pletely different affect. The Paterson Literary Review, Phoebe, The Story-
teller, Summerset Review, West Wind Review,
“If you’re going to talk to me, please get off your and Salmagundi, among others.
skateboard. My dog, Gus, is very afraid of skate-
boards and wants to eat them on sight.” He steps
off his board.

“I love dogs.” He holds his board behind his back.
Approaches. Gus is barking.

“Thank you very much. Here, do you mind? Just
hand it to me and he won’t bother you.” He
hands off the board. It’s heavier than a full gro-
cery bag.

“I’ve been hoping to desensitize Gus. Even bought
one, but it’s a short board and the ones around
the lake are long. Gus is eating his meals on a
little green board with orange wheels. My training
sessions are fruitless.”

“I may have an old one at home you can use. Hi,
Gus—how old is he?”

“Four.”

“Great. I’d be happy to help you out.” We ex-
change names and emails. He says he’s a student
at a local university. He offers his hand. I put the
skateboard in it. He turns away and boards down
the street.

My God, angels come in all forms. I study him,
holding Gus back. He’s exactly what we need.
How could I get so lucky? Petals are falling in the
fast wind. I remember a storm is forecast.

As he approaches the upper path, I see another
boarder closing the distance between them. He’s
dark too. With a beard. As they continue down
the path, I can swear I see the two merge into a
single silhouette, but I can’t really tell for sure. My
eyes are old. I’ve seen a lot.

He knows where I live.

I lead Gus over to the little blue truck parked at
the curb and tap the license plate number into
“notes” on my cell phone.

At least I’ll have that. At least I can give that to
the police.

76

VOID

Jonathan Maniscalco

The first thing Jack did was open the window. lighter over his laptop and across the table. The
August’s hot, humid air mixed with the downtown lighter landed as Jack arched his neck and stared
smell of Boston’s Washington Street drifted into at the ceiling.
his dry apartment. He looked out at the city’s
downtown and for a moment felt successful in his The cigarette stuck to his lips from the dry-
suit and tie. ing saliva. Jack took soft puffs while staring at the
ceiling, watching the smoke drift up, becoming
The feeling past and was replaced with aimless- thinner and thinner, then fading away.
ness so Jack walked over to his fridge and opened
it before closing it again and sitting down at his It was funny he hesitated to smoke what he want-
kitchen table. ed in his own home. People at the reception had-
n’t liked him smoking either.
His laptop lay closed in front of him from
the night before. Feeling a burst of productive He had smoked outside with both hands in
energy Jack opened it. his pockets, looking in through the glass door at
the banquet. People had given him dirty looks for
The face in the pictures on the screen his vice as he stepped out while they gulped
shocked him back into resignation. Leaning back down his friend’s poison. All of them laughing
in his chair, Jack resumed what had he had been joylessly, crying, or eating solemnly for the sake
doing the night before, scrolling through pictures of finding closure and starting the healing pro-
of his dead friend. cess.

Jack had a lot of pictures. Their friendship It had been a nice funeral though. The fa-
spanned what was thought to be a quarter- ther, standing proud in front of the coffin, spoke
lifetime. The younger ones were the hardest to strongly, and the sister who did her best to ap-
look at. Seeing them made it seem like a child was pear so, spoke sweetly. Then after the priest had
buried yesterday afternoon. Jack’s hand went up given his prayer with might and preached love
to undo his tie while his focus lazily blurred, but and forgiveness instead of condemnation.
he stopped himself. Instead, he reached into his
pocket and took out his cigarette pack. He was The day had been nice too. The sun had been
about to light one when the social unacceptability bright in a cloudless sky while breezes drifted
of indoor cigarettes focused his eyes. Jack fixed strong enough along to ignore the humidity. It
his eyes on the lighter that seemed to be at the was so nice that Jack’s body had tried to fool him
end of his nose and the white speck above it he with comfort while that beautiful box carrying its
knew to be the cigarette. ugly reality went into the ground.

He flicked the lighter and took his first The cigarette was coming to an end. Jack
puff. After his second, he dismissively tossed the lifted his left hand up and plucked it out of his
mouth and without moving his head jammed the

77

cigarette onto the table. The smoke from his last friend. It didn’t matter that it had been an acci-
inhale drifted up like the others, getting thinner dent that took him, the worst possible outcome
and thinner, before seeming to disappear very from the overindulgence of this toxicant, albeit a
suddenly. frequent occurrence. It was all the same. Even in
his own death, Jack would just be sucked into
Jack sat up wishing he had something to do. He nothingness as well. There would be no joyful
knew everyone at work was being nice when they reunion. Just nothingness waiting for him like
had told him to go home. They had told him he every living thing no matter how sentient, eventu-
didn’t have to come in today and he had mistaken ally just gasped its last breath and left.
that for an option. Jack imagined a swirling black stormy vortex. He
knew that was too romantic, but he imagined
This was his first time alone since he had heard. sparkling pixels in the shape of the man he knew,
the essence of his friend, drifting up into it before
When Brendan had called to tell him, Jack ran mercilessly whirling around until he was an indis-
over to everyone else. Brendan’s girlfriend had tinguishable part of the whirling vacuum. He
been beside herself when Jack arrived at his wanted his friend to come back out of it. Even just
friend’s apartment. She had been curled in a ball to say one thing. Jack started to shake and put his
on the couch crying hard enough to dehydrate face in his crossed arms on the table. Loud sobs
her. Jack didn’t try to console her. Instead he shocked his ears while his mind pleaded it all was-
went to Brendan who was using all the strength n’t so. That it was going to be all right. He would
he had for her. Then later he went to Danielle see his friend again and be happy. He started to
who wasn’t getting enough attention because she apologize to the air in between each loud choke,
couldn’t cry yet. which eventually devolved to indulgent goodbyes.
Eventually the sobbing stopped. Jack rose. He
Danielle had stayed with him the next week on. wiped his eyes and looked at the picture again.
She slept in his apartment and in his bed, but not The pain was still there but affection was now
with him to neither of their disappointment. They creeping onto its borders.
went to work then came home where they would Jack scrolled through some more pictures wearing
order pizza or Chinese while they watched movies a sad smile. Then he shut his laptop.
and Jack held her each time she was ready to cry.
About the Author:
Now Danielle was at work. She wouldn’t be back Jonathan Maniscalco is a Boston area native who
for a long time. Jack’s eyes drifted back to his became an ESL teacher after getting his Under-
computer. The walls of his small apartment graduate Degree in English Literature. He now
seemed far away. Thick space was all around him works in Japan. In his spare time he does inter-
weighing him down in his chair. The picture on views and edits part time for the Boston based
the computer was the two of them at a wedding. Literary Press: Pen & Anvil.
They were eight years old. Jack didn’t really re-
member the wedding but knew its footage well
enough as if he did. In the picture, the two of
them had opposite arms around each other’s
shoulders and making silly faces at the camera.

Jack couldn’t remember what he was thinking
when that photo was taken. He knew those
thoughts were there, floating somewhere in the
ether of his mind, affecting his thoughts, feelings,
and beliefs in some minuscule way. That wasn’t
true for the other person in that picture. Every
thought he had that day, and the next, and every
day after, up until just last week had no home
anymore. They were gone. They had left the rigid
soulless body he had seen in that casket and had
entered the eternal void of nothingness. No long-
er could Jack reach out and touch any part of his

78

THE THINGS PEOPLE
SAID WERE ALWAYS
ABOUT THEMSELVES

by Jamey Genna

A poet picked her up at a reading. She was new she had actually loved a car. This was when she
to this--married twice and most of her adult life, began to realize they were even driving on the
freshly divorced. Well, not so fresh--almost two same street she used to take--the one with the
years. She was surprised every step of the way. divider where the road split into two lanes, and
Mainly because he was younger than she was and then the older expensive homes, and then the
she had never been "picked up," although her last street that moved downward toward Ocean
boyfriend had literally picked her up on their first Beach. Cosmic crap.
date and hugged her so hard and swiftly that he
had cracked her left rib. The one underneath her The man who used to live on that street
heart. said:

The poet gave her his book because she "I'll never eat at your dining room table
didn't have any cash. She was rushing to get to with you and your kids."
the reading on time. She didn't have her glasses
either, so she couldn't read what he signed. He "That's good," she said, "because we don't
talked to other women, so she thought his inter- eat in the dining room. We eat in the living room
est in her was a misread on her part. Then he sat in front of the TV."
on the yoga mat behind her. They were both
eating the cheese and crackers after the reading, "Your older daughter will never forgive
and he walked out with her, asked her if she you. The younger one won't know what to for-
wanted to get a bite to eat. At the wine bar where give."
all they had were olives and apple crisp, she had-
n't eaten since two, he asked how old she was. This poet's apartment looked almost the
So the line could be drawn, she guessed. How same--different set-up of chairs and bed, different
high was he willing to go? she wondered. apartment structure and spacing, no orange vinyl
chair, but same long row of bookcases filled with
"It's okay," he said, "you can tell me." books in the garage hallway leading to the apart-
Then he needed a ride home. He asked her to ment door.
come in, so she did, and it was at this point that
she figured out what was going on. Really--not Same neighborhood, same street. Same
until then. crappy shower. The other man's apartment had
been three doors down. He didn't live there any-
It was really about the guy's apartment. more, though. Still, the universe was trying to
As they were driving there, he said, "I live in the tell her something--god, she hated synchronicity.
Sunset District, do you know it?" She said, "Oh,
I'm familiar with the Sunset District," and as they She and the other man used to smoke to-
got closer and closer, he asked, "Do you like your gether afterward on the corner.
Prius?" She explained that this was the first time
The one time, he reached into her blue
linen blouse and cupped her breast. He was hap-
py because he was going to go eat a burrito, but

79

she was not happy. She was driving home to her the heroin couple. Where would she and he go
husband and two kids. now? He said he hated living in that apartment.
He'd survived a terrible breakup, even had a rela-
Walking over to the convenience store for tionship guru who told him to wear white robes
cigarettes--that's about as public as they got. and meditate. One night he had looked up from
Except for the night they did go together to get his meditation and the backyard/field outside was
something to eat in the Mission. Nothing was filled with stray cats.
open or else everything was closing. They
stopped to eat Miso soup at the Gratitude Cafe. She looked out the new poet's kitchen window in
Seemed like a contrived name, but she was so the morning, but the backyard was empty--a plas-
happy to hold hands on the street. She was ready tic chair, a broken birdbath, scraggly weeds.
to hold their hands up to the sky like champions,
have him hug her openly in front of all his friends. He had said: "How can we have a relationship?
The Miso soup was thin and lukewarm, with sog- We haven't even spent a weekend together. We
gy gray mushrooms floating in the bowl. don't even know if we're compatible." Is that
what he said? Did he really say those words? Or
He said: "I knew a woman once who got was it, "We don't even know if we could be in a
pregnant on purpose to hold onto her boyfriend." car together for three days." She had imagined
driving up to Mendocino...going through the town
She thought about that one for a long where The Birds was filmed. Stopping to see the
time. How she had fantasized about having his schoolhouse. She wondered what possible argu-
baby, and now in the present, lying with this oth- ment could break out between them there in the
er poet, she could no longer have babies. school yard.

She could've had one more child a long time ago. He kept asking her how she was going to
He had said he wanted a child. feel after it was all over. He never said how he
was going to feel. But whenever she started cry-
He also said random things: "My friend ing, he said, "That bad, huh."
used to be addicted to heroin. Both he and his
wife." She hated that he kept referring to the
when-it's-over phase like it was a done deal...as if
She had a friend with a wife that had both it would only hurt her, not him. Maybe she mis-
been addicted to heroin. read that. Because later after it really was all
over, he sent her a long email saying how unfair it
He said: "Is your friend Mario going to pick was that he never seemed to get what he want-
up the pieces after this is over?" ed...that things never worked out for him.

Mario didn't understand what being a writ- Now, he was married, happy, to the fabu-
er was. Mario didn't understand much, and that lous whatever-her-name was, as he described her
was too bad because Mario was sweet and Mario on Facebook.
was handsome and Mario was charming. Mario
encouraged her to sing on the bus taking them Back then, she didn't think about how hard
back to Bart after the Bay to Breakers. Mario was it was for him, only herself.
silly and happy, but she knew he wasn't really all
that happy, or at least not completely, or else He said that he felt manipulated when she
why had he been so willing to hang out with a told her husband. It was her therapist's idea. She
married woman all the time? had gotten tired of losing weight.

In this other poet's apartment, she re- Then he seemed nervous beyond belief
membered everything: everything in pieces, eve- when she told him she had decided to be with
rything at once, everything in hypertime, which him, not her husband. He pulled her across the
was both superfast and superslow. seat next to him in his car while he was giving her

The first man read his journal to her, na-
ked. She was shivering, cold with no clothes on.
The blanket was packed for him to move in with

80

a ride to her car, but she felt his hands shaking. About the Author:
He even bit his nail.
Jamey Genna teaches writing classes in the East
And when she went back to tell him she Bay area of San Francisco and received her Mas-
had changed her mind again and decided to stay ters in Writing from the University of San Francis-
with her husband, her family, he took her to the co. Her short fiction has been published in many
ocean and they listened to music. He had the fine literary magazines such as Crab Orchard Re-
saddest version of the song, "Amazing Grace" by view, Eleven Eleven, The Iowa Review,
this blues player; she hadn't been able to track Georgetown Review, and 580 Split, among others.
down the version. Maybe that was for the best. Along with reading for many Bay area venues, she
She didn't want a song hanging around that felt also hosts a seasonal reading series at the Bazaar
like she had sinned and he hadn't. Cafe in San Francisco called Summer Sparks: an
eclectic mix of flash prose and poetry.
And later, when she went to make some
copies of a story at the university, he came
around the corner and said, "Oh you're here."
And he walked her outside and he said, "I just
want to make love to you." It was funny to hear
someone say make love.

Things didn't work out with her husband
after all.

And here she was, in this apartment. This
facsimile of what had happened years before, and
this one was asking her if she was always with
younger men.

"Younger than you," she said. Might as
well throw cold water on that topic right away.

"You're not that young," she said. "And
you're not that old."

He asked her if she liked being divorced.
Twice. As if he didn't believe her when she said
yes. Or maybe he just wasn't listening. Or maybe
it wasn't about her anyway. Really, the things
people said were always about themselves.

She didn't suppose the other man had loved her.
Maybe he had, because much later in the forbid-
den contact email, he said, "I was a little bit in
love with you, too."

81

FOR BOTH
TOGETHER

Mather Schneider

Virginia Ximena Suarez was having a sidewalk “You will have bad luck all day!” he said. “You will
sale. How else was an old lady supposed to make not sell a single thing.”
money? Her light bill was due, the cooler stopped
working and the roof leaked. And her only son, “Ah, you little brat, you don’t scare me, get out of
now 38 years old, had come over and taken her here!”
last peso to go get drunk. Outside of her tiny
house in Hermosillo she hung used pants and The boy walked away up the dirty potholed street
shirts and shorts on a wire she had strung from in his ragged sandals.
the house to the wooden utility pole on the curb.
Then she sat on an old lawn chair on the covered As she sat there Virginia began to worry. Was it
driveway out of the hot sun and waited for cus- possible the boy was a twin, or was he just bull-
tomers. The dusty streets in Hermosillo are al- shitting her? She’d never seen him around the
ways teeming with people and several stopped barrio before.
but no one bought anything. She braided her long
black hair into one big braid and had two cups of In fact she was a twin herself. Virginia sat in her
coffee. lawn chair and thought of her childhood. One
morning a man had been drunk and had driven
After an hour or so a little boy came walking up, his truck through the front wall of her family’s
very thin and brown, maybe 10 years old. He car- house where she and her twin sister and her two
ried a pair of tennis shoes. brothers had been eating breakfast. Her mother
had been in the other room and came screaming
“Senora,” he said. “You want to buy these ten- out and searched for her children in the wreck-
nies?” age. Virginia and her two brothers were huddled
up against the far wall, unharmed. At first they
“No, I’m selling, not buying.” couldn’t find Virginia’s twin sister. They called her
name, “Lupita!” Then they heard her small voice
“Come on, senora! I’ll sell them cheap!” and found her wedged underneath the truck, also
unhurt except for some scratches. The man had
“No, boy, I don’t want them.” felt terrible about what he had done and worked
for a year to repair the house at his own expense.
“Two hundred pesos, senora, that’s all! Look at It was this same house Virginia now lived in,
them, they’re like new!” alone.

“What a stubborn little thing you are! I said NO!” Five years after the truck crashed through the
wall Lupita walked to the little store on the corner
The boy was pissed. to buy tortillas and was never seen again. Being a
twin had not helped her. They searched for
“I’m a twin, old woman,” he said. weeks. The man who had crashed into their
house in his truck had even helped them search.
It is believed in Sonora that twins have the power
to curse people.

82

Virginia cursed the man who took her twin sister. “Deal,” he said, and walked happily down the
Every night in bed she cursed him. She had no street eating his popsickle.
face to put with this evil stranger and had no idea She put her clothing away, singing an old Mexican
if the curse ever had any effect. It never felt like it song, hoping tomorrow he would come back.
did. She cursed him now 57 years later. Then she went to the freezer and got herself a
popsickle, too.
The day wore on and she sold nothing. Many peo-
ple passed but few stopped and if they did stop About the Author:
they merely fingered a shirt or a pair of pants and Mather Schneider was born in 1970 in Peoria,
then walked on. “Name a price,” she said to any- Illinois. He lived in Washington state for many
one who stopped, but still had no takers. years and now lives in Tucson. His poetry and
prose have appeared in the small presses since
Late in the afternoon when she was about ready 1994 in places such as River Styx, Nimrod, Hang-
to put everything away, she saw the same boy ing Loose, Pank and Rosebud. He has 4 full length
walking up the street toward her house. Or may- books available on Amazon including the July
be it was his twin? 2017 release of Prickly by New York Quarterly
Press. He recently won runner up in the 2017
“Is it you, boy?” she said. “Where’s your ten- Rattle poetry chapbook competition.
nies?”

“I sold them,” he said. He proudly showed her his
pesos. “You had your chance. You missed out.”

“Ah, good for you.”

The boy started looking through the pants and
shirts, picked out one of each.

“How much?”

“For you,” Virginia said, “a hundred and fifty pe-
sos.”

“Each? Or for both?”

“For both together.”

“How about one twenty five?” he said.

“One thirty.”

He thought about it for a few seconds, checking
again the quality of the merchandise.

“All right,” he said.

He gave her some pesos and stuffed the rest into
his grimy shorts pocket. He put the shirt on and
carried the pants and began to walk away.

“Hold on,” she said.

She went into the house and got a homemade
chocolate popsickle from her freezer. She brought
it out and gave it to him. He looked at it dis-
trustfully.

“How much?” he said.

“Nothing, it’s free. Just don’t curse me anymore.”

83

THE OTHER
SIDE

Danielle Richardson

I watch as Lucy stops in front of me like she does I hear the front door shut and know that my hu-
every day, her little ten-year-old head cocking to mans have left for the day. Being alone, I decide
the left in curiosity. But her curiosity will not be to take a peek at the other side of my door. Shift-
sated. She knows better than to open me. I am ing my perspective, I look into the place Lucy is
the one thing her parents will not give her. I am not yet ready to enter.
the one thing that seems easily within her grasp,
yet I am farther away than she could ever possibly It is breathtaking. It is a world full of endless pos-
reach. sibilities and opportunities, the only limit being
those that your mind conjures up. I look around
I am The Door at the End of the Hall. at what others have left behind in this world, the
creations and dreams that could only ever be pos-
Her hand stretches tentatively toward my sible here. There is a man living happily in his
ornate silver knob, but she lowers it quickly with a household with his wife, who I know is dead in
shake of her head. She dashes away from me the real world. I see a young woman singing her
now, and I hear the echo of her small feet march- heart out in front of an adoring crowd, but I know
ing eagerly down the stairs, no doubt about to eat that on the real side, she works in a cubicle every
a brief breakfast before her parents take her to day. A teenage boy sits at a restaurant, having a
school. It’s become a sort of game for us now, romantic date with his boyfriend, but in reality, I
Lucy and me. Every morning, before school, she know that he would never reveal his sexuality for
stops to look at me as though she will ever have fear of being punished by his homophobic par-
the courage to open me, but she is never able to ents.
vanquish her inexplicable fear.
Whatever a person could ever deeply desire,
I can’t say that I blame her for looking. I truly am things that are not frivolous that may add greatly
quite a thing to behold. Never has so much intri- to their happiness, this is the place where it is
cate effort been put into a simple door, if I do say made a reality. But it may only ever exist here,
so myself. I am made of walnut wood, dark as the and each person’s time here is limited. You may
bark on the tree that I came from. My face is only be here for a temporary moment, but you
carved with subtle geometric designs, but it is my must always remember that your reality is on the
knob that is my greatest asset. At once both anti- other side. Those that begin to lose themselves
quated and pristine, the design of my knob looks here will find that they may never return.
as though it came out of a Jane Austen novel, and
yet its silver is as radiant as though it were creat- Lucy’s parents were already given the key long
ed yesterday. The designs on my knob—though ago, but she is too young to know what true long-
far more intricate and swirled than those on my ing is. Until the day that she understands what it
face—do not seem at all out-of-place and only is to have a necessary desire, I will remain locked
add to my overall splendor. to her. But when that day comes, she will find

84

that she already has the key, and I will be un- About the Author:
locked to her for the first time. And so, I wait, just
like I have for everyone else. Danielle Richardson is from the Caribbean island
of Sint Maarten. She is twenty years old and cur-
The sound of the front door clanging shut startles rently resides in Florida to further her education.
me out of my reverie, and I switch perspectives
back to reality. The humans are home. I hear their
feet against the ground downstairs, but some-
thing is different. There is less noise than there
usually is. One pair of feet is missing. I feel a sud-
den absence on the other side, someone’s desires
vanishing as though they were never there.
Something has happened.

The steps creak with the sound of two sets of
feet, one smaller and lighter than the other, be-
fore Lucy and her father round the corner on the
other end of the hallway. Her mother is nowhere
to be seen. The father says nothing in his husky
voice, ignoring Lucy and heading straight for the
master bedroom, the lock on the door clicking
shut behind him. It is out of the ordinary for him
to ignore her like this. He has left Lucy alone with
me, a melancholy sensation hanging in the air
around us.

Her head turns towards me now, her bright
brown eyes filled with tears from the sadness she
cannot quell. She takes her time coming to me,
but I don’t mind. I know that she will reach me
before the end. She stops in front of me, her feet
in the same spot they have been every day on the
well-worn carpet. But today is different. Today I
feel her longing, feel it as though it were my own,
bleeding within the splinters of my walnut. Her
age is one too tender to have lost a mother at, a
mother she still had up to this very morning. One
so young should not know the loss I feel radiating
off her.

She is ready.

She reaches towards my knob with her childlike
hands once again, but today she does not stop
until her fingers are wrapped around my orb. To-
day she twists my knob slowly. Today it is not
locked. She has the key. When I am open, her
little face is bathed in the brightest kind of light
that only exists on the other side, making the
tears in her eyes glisten like the sun-kissed sur-
face of the ocean. She takes a step closer, ready
to enter the other side.

I let her in.

85

A TREE NOW
DEAD

Skyler Nielsen

A tree acted as the council rooms eastern wall, Stories piled up around that tree like acorns.
and it was dead. Poisoned the morning Mr. Nunn Then one morning, hundreds of years after the
opened up on it with the old family rifle. Every so signing, a newest council ascends the easy south-
often an elder crumbles under the burden, lead- ern slope of the hill, discussing nothing of conse-
ing to a predictable uproar. Led by friends of the quence. The young ones avoid the weight of the
fallen, the mob insists the charter be amended, moment, not wanting to betray their nervous-
but the pleas are only humored. Nobody hated ness. They feign a disinterested air as they ask
Mr. Nunn in the end, but everyone agreed that the senior members about the old days. For their
blaming the tree was excessive. part, these venerated individuals humor the dis-
course, understanding the interest is false, but
Old stories say the leaves were dark and broad, knowing that once they cross the threshold of
and the pale bark would glow when struck by the that little shelter on the hill, forces beyond their
afternoon sun. The tree roots stretched out in understanding will control their lives.
seven directions, creating seven slots in the land-
scape. The towns original carpenter carved seven Unable to restrain herself, Ms. Salmonshon
stools from the fallen trunks of walnut trees, and speeds up at the last moment. She recall’s the
placed them in a circle to the west of the great time her mother served on the council, and every
Oak. On the face of each stool he etched a sym- night as they sat for supper father would say, “Do
bol of one of the world’s pillars. you understand the importance of the work your
mother is doing upon that hill?”
At first the elders took up these stools under the
trees canopy, which reached out toward to the “Yes Papa,” she would answer eagerly.
horizon in every direction, holding the heavens in
place. Then, in the sixtieth year following the There has to be a memory, a statement of re-
charter’s signing, there came a winter with a pressed wisdom that will surface and guide her,
twenty-foot snowfall. The lake froze to half its but the truth is undeniable; she doesn’t remem-
depth. Avalanches tore vast corridors through ber seeing much of her mother that year. After it
the forests. Four elders died from sickness car- was over, mother made a point of never talking
ried on those cold winds, so a building was erect- about her eldership, like an unspeakable atrocity
ed around the stools, using the massive trunk of occurred.
the tree as its eastern wall. Some argued the el-
ders must live in the world if they were to guide Still there’s hope. Ms. Salmonshon readies her-
the village through it. self, and pushing through the simple leather tarp
into the ancient, council room she prepares for a
“What if they die?” people would inquire. sudden flash of inspiration. There is no flood of
memories, or truth. Her mind does not ache from
“Death is as much a pillar of this world as all the a sudden inundation of knowledge. All that
others.” It was a good point, but still the walls strikes Ms. Salmonsohn as she waits impatiently
went up.

86

for her fellow elders, is the odor. It’s a new smell, “Mr. Barrabee, please calm down. We have work
but it comes from an old place, the scent of the to do, and I’d like to get home before nightfall.”
world when the council tent was erected. Mrs. Benedict imagines her family heading in for
lunch. They’ve been at work for hours now, and
Below the lowest branch, the roof of the council Mrs. Thatcher will have finished the cooking. So
room is attached with a rusting bolt driven into nice of the old widow to help out while she takes
the trunk. Hundreds of years, and yellow sap still up a stool.
seeps as if the wound were made yesterday.
From this high point the hide roof slopes down “I tell you they’re manipulating the choosing. It’s
until it reaches the anchor on a large tor of gran- not possible that with six thousand people in this
ite where the top of the hill begins its decent to village, I should take a stool three years in a row,
the lake. Eight crooked pillars made of red brick when so many others go a lifetime without having
support the roof and connecting each pillar, a thin to serve. It’s fixed!”
chain of metal holds the thick canvas walls in
place. A sharp pain, and Mr. Hund knows his arthritis
will bother him all year. “Listen to me boy, I’m no
Ms. Salmonshon slips off a sandal, and rubs her more than a few years from the grave. My wife’s
foot across the fur rug covering the floor of the dead, and I can’t work anymore. No use to any-
confined, poorly lit room. Along with the canvas one. The only thing I want is to play with my
walls hang tapestries streaked red by the rusting grandchildren, and die in my sleep. Instead here I
chain. The images are faded, but scenes depicting am in this damn room. I doubt one person here
the signing of the charter, and other heroic feats wanted to be chosen. Now, like Mrs. Benedict
can still be made out. In the center of the room said, sit down, and let’s get to it.”
are the wooden stools spaced evenly around an
ancient fire pit. Scattered about the stools, in no Mr. Barrabee sits reluctantly, avoiding eye con-
discernable order, lay various cushions and blan- tact with anyone. “I tell you it’s fixed. And when
kets for the new elders to choose. they start doing it to someone else, I won’t have
an ounce of pity.”
“Our first order of business must be an investiga-
tion! Nothing is more important,” Mr. Barrabee Mr. Pampas leans over, picks up a red cushion
says as he hurriedly pushes past Ms. Salmonsohn, and slides it under him. “Well, seeing as you have
refusing to take up a stool. so much experience, maybe you can tell me what
we do now.”
Mrs. Benedict sighs, and heads for the nearest
seat. She sits, trying to catch her breath after the “There’s no need to antagonize, Mr. Pampas. So
accent. “Investigate what?” who’s the chairman this year anyway?”

“How I’ve been chosen three years in a row. It’s “Last year it was the person who took up the Life
unfathomable.” seat, so it’s Lightening’s turn,” Ms. Salmonshon
says.
“Come now, we have work to do.”
“Mine! I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“They’re fixing it I tell you. Someone has it out for
me. They’re torturing me.” Mr. Hund flashes Ms. Bumgarden a mean glare.
“I’m not going over this again. We all have to be
“Perhaps you should take it as a complement” here, and you’re the damn chairman. That means
says Mr. Pampas. “This faceless manipulator you have to go down the list of issues placed be-
could be selecting you out of admiration for your fore us, and call for votes when the time comes.
contributions to the village.” Now, please start reading.”

Snarling, Mr. Barrabee spins on his heels, pausing No point in arguing. Better to look on the bright
long enough to regain his balance as the old war side, like brother always says. Ms. Bumgarden
wound acts up. “I’ll not be mocked. Perhaps it shifts on her stool, diving into one of only two real
was you! The way you stand there, enjoying my responsibilities she must fulfill over the next year.
torment with a front row seat. You may as well
shout your guilt for the whole village to hear.”

87

Well,” she says, “then I suppose we should get “Oh Mr. Hund, I fear I’ve brought terrible things
into the first issue on the agenda.” on my family.”

“I’m not taking part in any discussion that doesn’t “You talking about the investigation into the chil-
address the fixed drawing” Mr. Barrabee protests. dren’s health?”

“Oh for goodness sake. If you’re not going to be “Can you imagine what people will say when in-
of help, at least be considerate so the rest of us terrogators arrive on their front step? They’ll
can accomplish something.” Ms. Salmonsohn hate me. My poor daughter, she’ll be picked on
blushes and looks to the ground. She made a as well. How could I have been so stupid, so
promise to control her temper; father would ex- selfish? I should have let those who cared do as
pect as much. they pleased. And to think I thought ill of Ms.
Bumgarden after you pointed out she was shirk-
5:50 p.m. ing her duties. She’s the wisest of us all. Better
to spend a year hiding in the toilet than suffer
The ageless carcass of the tree stands behind her, what I’ve brought on.”
and in a few moments she’ll enter the shadow of
the hill. Better to be cloaked by the darkness, far “Ms. Bumgarden is dead weight. As for the other
from the critical gaze of the town. She should two, Pampas and Salmanshon, our first priority is
have remained quiet. Let them snarl and snap at to make sure they don’t ruin everything. Besides,
each other! What would have come of it; abso- the council voted for it. You won’t be alone in
lutely nothing. Those types always need to fight, taking the heat.”
it’s the only way they can feel validated. They’d
argue for a while, come to a stalemate, then the “I made the suggestion. That will be known, es-
council could have moved on. They got to her, pecially considering how unpopular it will be. Oh,
their nonsensical, self-righteous fanaticism curse the charter. Let the elders be chosen from
sapped her of patience, and by tomorrow the citizens who desire the burden of leadership.”
village will know.
“You want a council full of people like Pampas
A limping shadow walks behind her and she and Salmanshon. One consumed by fear and
slows, allowing it to catch up. frustration, the other driven by unquenchable
ambition. We should feel thankful Ms. Salmans-
“Well Mrs. Curtaz, by this time next year we’ll be hon is so young; that’ll make things easier. Mark
free. I’ll tell you another thing, if I last I’m gonna my words, if she were a little older, she’d be as
need someone to carry me up this damn hill.” dangerous as the other.”

Mr. Hund squeezes his arthritic joints until the “They’re passionate about the village, at least
pain makes him sweat. The chronic ache subsides more than myself. The interested should rule,
as soon as the pressure is released, and for a and let the rest of us live our lives.”
short period the dull throb doesn’t seem so bad.
It’s the old trick he learned up on that mesa. Day Mr. Hund takes a look at the silhouette of the
after day, watching herds graze that hard country great tree. “People like them are passionate, but
drove him to madness. He would be there anoth- they don’t care if the village loses, so long as they
er four days until his cousins were sent to relieve win. People like that are always going to be on
him. That’s what it was in the old village, eleven the council, so will people like Bumgarden, who
days on, five off. He couldn’t stand the cold only cares about her own comfort. It falls on the
winds, the unforgiving ground, not to mention the rest of us to keep them at bay. The world being
bland food. Worse than anything was the crush- the world, I’m sure they serve some purpose, but
ing boredom of watching sheep eat grass. Then I’ve never been able to figure it out.
he woke on his last morning, excited that he’d
soon be free, only to find that his grandfather had “Once in a while something else happens. I’ve
passed during the night. The memory kept the lived in this village forty years, and in that time
monotony of the mesa from getting to him for I’ve seen it three times. You get a council of sev-
many years. en with one purpose in mind. Seven people who

“You alright Mrs. Curtaz?”

88

truly care about doing what’s best. When this About the Author:
happens the pillars align, and great things hap-
pen.” Skyler Nielsen grew up on a family farm in Cali-
fornia's San Joaquin Valley. After graduating with
The shadow of night has enveloped them now, a degree in History in 2002 his family lost the fam-
but the sky is still light enough to see each other ily farm and he began writing to fill the glut of
clearly. “What happens when you get seven peo- free time he suddenly had, and didn't know how
ple like Mr. Pampas on the council?” to cope with. His work has appeared in Crack the
Spine, The Literary Nest and an upcoming issue of
“They yell at each other, thump their chests, but Main Street Rag.
nothing changes. They line their pockets, help
out their friends, and the people suffer something
awful, but then they go away and a new council is
formed. Come now Mrs. Curtaz, let’s get home
before it’s too dark to see where we’re stepping.”

“I still don’t feel better. So many are going to
hate me for this.”

“It was the right thing to do Mrs. Curtaz, don’t
doubt that. None of those others had the cour-
age to make the tough call, you should be proud
of that. Today on this hill, you showed why we
pick our elders like this. Besides, if the measure
does what it should, then you’ll be thanked in the
end. Remember, some of those children will take
up a stool one day.”

Out on the hillside meadow the first lightening
bugs of the evening begin to display. They start
down near the foot of the hill, where the edge of
the forest ends its hundred-mile stretch of unbro-
ken woodland. Soon, when the stars come out
from behind the dark, these little bugs will dance
across the grassy hill, all the way up to the tree
now dead, and around the council room. In other
parts, the lightening bugs don’t appear until the
thick, humid nights of the summer. Here at the
village by the lake they arrive early, and stay until
the first leaves turn color.

89

“36”

Mike Dorman

He did, of course, know when it had happened. parking lot, the Audis and Mercedes and BMWs
Which is to say he had no clue precisely when. It glittering in the sun and looking out of place be-
had occurred, not at one decisive turning point, fore the two-floor rise of corrugated aluminum
but over the course of days, insidiously, the that looked more like a manufacturing plant than
awareness of it growing slowly, like how spring Mulheim’s most upscale gym and further proof
does not bloom suddenly but rather impercepti- that Germany’s industrial heartland, after being
bly crosses a critical mass until its clear the season bombed beyond distinction in the second war,
has finally, and inexorably, shifted. In this way did had rebuilt not with beauty in mind, but sheer
Mark realize he, too, had grown old. function.

Thirty-six. The idea rumbled around in his head, The grunts and sibilance of clay court volleys drift-
didn’t seem right, like how those psychos con- ed through the mesh screen, walking with him, so
vinced their leg or arm didn’t really belong to to speak, along the path separating the indoor
them must have felt. Thirty-six? Not him. He courts from the outdoor ones to where a terra-
didn’t feel a day over twenty-five: Lord knew he cotta boulder rested like a pleasant coincidence
still had all the insecurities, despite a happy mar- before two bike racks in full bloom. Resting on a
riage, and despite all the signs of Nadine’s fideli- tile of clipped lawn just before the entrance, the
ty—chief among them “Leo”, barely even recog- rock had been sliced diagonally down the middle,
nizable as a teddy bear after 40 + years of snug- the exposed surface then adorned with metal
gling, and still squished beside her head every letters in Copperplate Gothic, a font Mark had
night. always appreciated; sure beat the hell out of that
schoolhouse Sans Comic every Klaus, Karl, and
And he hated that he cared, hated the cliché, but Heinrich used when advertising their landscaping
there it was, regardless his repression, regardless ventures (did they not have Word? There were
his denial: those options he enjoyed at twenty- some real decent templates these days).
five, that sense of owning the world, of conquer-
ing his professional life, of finally embodying All Which brought him to his own flyer. He frowned
That Potential? He wasn’t going to live up to any at the close-up of the coffee mug, knowing there
of it. Yet still worst of all was the possibility that would be mistakes in the German—Nadine had
he just might. not been home to consult—and wondered if he
should have printed in color after all. No, he
Amir had been right: sometimes having hope was thought, reminding himself this was just a rough
worse than the alternative (and if he was so right draft, a visual aid, a conversation starter really.
about this, why not other things? Maybe all
those women Amir passed really were looking at In the hallway, Jr. Tennis champions smiled at
him sexually). passersby from plaques, and though it was dim-
mer than outside, it was strangely warmer—not
Such were Mark’s thoughts as he crossed the only due to Germany’s lack of AC culture but also

90

because, in the back corner of the repurposed German context, as insecurity. One thing his six
tennis shop, the pizza oven was currently glowing years in Mulheim had taught: Germans could en-
a cozy, furnace orange. dure awkward silences far longer than an Ameri-
can.
Mark wiped his brow and squinted into the
gloom. The room smelled like cork, and though “You brought something?” His chin indicated
not much larger than an average kitchen, had Mark’s lap.
been creatively and efficiently and—dare I say?—
boldly utilized, replete with two slim picnic tables “Uh…yeah.” Mark’s hand very nearly raced after
that one, in theory, could eat on, though Mark the snatched-up flyer like it was his lover leaving
couldn’t recall a time he had seen a customer. on the train. “It’s just a rough draft.”
The walls were covered in what had at first ap-
peared to be the chalk scribblings of a madman, The bull-man brought the paper under his nose
but proved, upon pupils’ adjustment, nothing and for a moment, Mark wondered if he might
more sinister than the handwritten menu dis- smell it, feeling all the while like an open wound
played on the blackboards now acting as wall as the man’s eyes tripped over what he could
panels. only assume were mistakes.

After contemplating the chalk message above the He’s excited about the idea, Nadine had said.
table that read, No, we don’t have WiFi: talk to He’s super nice, she had said. Once again, Mark
each other! Mark called into the darkness. was having a completely different experience, a
“Hello?” fact he attributed to his lack of big breasts and
toned, female figure. He couldn’t count the times
The figure before the oven had his arms spread he’d watched grins and twinkling eyes mutate
on the countertop as if he needed the support into malice the moment Nadine brought him over
after having just downed a third shot of tequila. to meet another “really nice guy”. Once, an old
Though pudgy, his spot atop the raised dais mo- cowboy with an eye patch didn’t even bother to
mentarily transformed that fact, making him return his handshake, just went on flirting in his
seem more bullish than squat, his baldness more whisky-slurred speech as if he wasn’t even there.
thuggish than regrettable.
“English coffee,” the man nodded at last. “I like
“Uh,” Mark tried again after his greeting went it.”
unnoticed, or, more likely, ignored, “I’m here. As
we agreed?” “So…you’re interested?” Mark wondered not for
the first time if this meeting was going well. Both
“Yes, yes take a seat.” He indicated one of the idea and push were Nadine’s, and so Mark,
the steel stools screwed to the floor before him. rather than hoping for the immediate partnership
“Would you like a drink?” before him, found himself daydreaming of that
life changing email again, the one with the posi-
“Pardon?” Though Mark’s German was at tive response to his query, the one with the book
the point where people no longer commented on deal.
how good it was, this guy spoke fast.
It’s not that he was afraid of work, or that he did-
“Something to drink?” He said, just as fast. n’t like teaching. He did. In fact, up until a week
“An apple spritzer? A coke? A beer?” ago, he had imagined himself on the next rung of
that career, right up until FOM offered him only
“...just a water, please.” one class for the fall semester, which didn’t make
sense, because hadn’t his professor ratings been
After walking back from the fridge and uncapping near perfect? Last semester, his third at FOM,
the bottle in a drawn-out ceremony that Mark’s he’d needed to turn down courses, which had
inability to chit-chat in German made seem even given him the now clearly misguided audacity to
longer, the man poured the water in a Koenig imagine full-blown employment. Sorry, Herr
Pilsner beer glass and slid it across the fabricated Brewer, we must offer courses to our full-time
wood. Through all this, Mark chastised himself professors first. Of course we are very happy
for not knowing (a) something witty to say and (b)
if said witticism would not rather be taken, in a

91

with your work here and look forward to seeing counter. “I’m not making any promises.”
you this fall.
As Mark hopped off the stool and walked up the
Career path? A freelance English trainer was no stairs separating Sporting from the tennis club, he
career, that much was clear, right along with his considered it was probably a bad sign he hadn’t
worth—six years of experience wasn’t getting any gotten the guy’s name.
callbacks, further proof of the saturation the re-
cent influx of student travellers had placed on a He stumbled on the path, the darkness abruptly
market willing to pay low wages to any idiot, so disturbed by a distant light that bloomed against
long as they were a native speaker. So here he the ridge ahead and made it seem that the beard-
was, peddling his services at his gym, conjuring a ed face yelling something incomprehensible at
dormant entrepreneurial spirit just so he could him had no eyes.
gain work he didn’t even really want.
Another flare.
“Yes, in principle, I am interested. The idea of a
language café is one that I’ve seen work before. Light eradicated shadow and all contour of the
As I explained to your wife, I have many tennis man’s face, and he realized it was Dad. “It’s Wo-
mothers who come and wait here while their kids dan! It’s Freja!” Dad jostled his shoulders and
take lessons.” To Mark’s despair, the man stored jabbed a finger overhead. “They’ve come! Don’t
the flyer (it was just a rough draft!) in a pile be- you see? They’ve come to test us!”
hind the counter. “Do you know Kirsten Jones?
No? She goes to Sporting as well, is also an Amer- The next rumble knocked father into son, both
ican. Well, if there is a person to talk to, she is falling against a boulder and collapsing to the
the one. She runs her own language school—you ground. He crawled forward, his fingers suddenly
really don’t know her? Networking. It’s all about appearing amidst the grass as the next fireball in
networking. I will give this flyer to her, and ask the sky sent shadows rushing from the valley
around to see if there is any interest. Though, on ahead.
your flyer you say 10 am? That could be too ear-
ly.” Emerald fractals.

“It’s just a rough draft,” Mark explained again. In an instant they were gone, darkness melting
“My idea was to keep this as simple as possible. I from the ridges to again complete the night.
just wanted to offer—“
“Are you alright?” She stood, her lightning-
“—simple is good, simple is good.” The man bid colored gown translucent and billowing about the
Mark stop with show of palm. “I will talk to fields, her face high above like a lighthouse.
Kirsten. As I said, she runs her own language When the next flare waned, she was closer to
school, and is in contact with the Dusseldorf Ten- earth, her face lined in scratchboard-sharp shad-
nis Academy. Do you know of them? Well, they ows.
are responsible for an international youth camp
during the summer, and Kirsten is coordinating He crashed to knees. “Do you forgive me?”
with them because they have expressed interest
in learning English, as there is a need for it when When her brow furrowed, he soared
one gets into international competition. She through its grass-tipped ridges, weaving in the air
wants the contract for the entire international until the next sudden flare flattened her brow a
tennis academy.” milky white. “Don’t you see?” She shined like a
saint on the path ahead. “The gods are coming
Mark gulped his remaining water. Had this been back!”
an English conversation, he would have steered it
accordingly, made a case for his original plan of Frightened, he backed away, ran, batting
just advertising the idea and seeing if anyone grass walls aside. When he opened his mouth to
showed. Instead he said, “Sounds really inter- yell into the darkness, it came to him that he had
esting.” forgotten who he was searching for.

“I will give her your flyer.” The man stared at the “Over here!” From within a cave, dia-
monds gleamed, growing until they appeared
within the face that the next swell of light
revealed. All around Dad, grass-trees gamboled,

92

their lengths limned in the same shimmer of the Dagobert’s alone. But I’m happy to talk about
object which he raised from his waist. Swimming what’s bothering you.”
atop the wooden surface, ribbons of light illumi-
nated the photo of boy-Dad beaming as he “I did offend you. Look, it is okay if you are
hugged a trophy half his size. The light ebbed to weak, it’s no problem. Everyone is different.
spotlight the engraving screwed to the bottom: Me?” His fingers spread across his clavicle. “That
Singles Jr. Champion, Southeastern Regionals would be a deal-breaker! If my wife ever bossed
1963. me around just because she earns more money
than me? It is such a turn-off. Right now, she
Dad reached from the darkness and patted his wants to go to this fancy hotel in Greece, 5000
shoulder. “So long as you’ve got your plaque, euros for 5 days. What do I need this fancy shit
they can’t harm you!” for? She tells me, Amir, it is my money, let me
spend it for you on a nice holiday, but I said no!
But I don’t have my plaque, he couldn’t First of all, it is our money, not yours, and I will
scream. not let you waste it.”

“I am telling you, women are never “You and your wife are fighting again?”
wanting to be equal. They are all the same, they
want to be taken care of. It is inside of them. It “It is only about Salma. If you want to fuck
is…” The driver side of Amir’s car—or, to be pre- up your life, that is fine. Go do it. But don’t mess
cise, his wife’s company car—filled up with a with my daughter’s future.” For a moment, the
chalk-white vape cloud that streamed around his steering wheel became his wife’s neck, and his
boyish face. Propelling his e-cigarette in the air knuckles went white. “She is so weak when it
like an Italian’s hand, more smoke accompanied comes to Salma. I demanded that in this one in-
the completion of his thought, “…biological. stance, she do what I want—she knows herself
Think of it, do you think you would be behaving this is the right thing—but she is…she is lazy. She
the same to her if she did not earn as much as comes home from work and would rather give
you? You think it is okay she travels to Hamburg Salma some chocolate than deal with her tan-
to see her friends and not let you do the same?” trums.”

“If it’s with her own money…” Mark “You’re mad because she gave your daugh-
shrugged. “Look, I—my generation—we were ter chocolate?”
raised to believe that boys and girls are equal. I
mean, not everyone. Where I grew up, in Utah… “Children do not need these gummy bear
look, I was never that kind of guy who was gonna bullshit things! They are not even aware of them
grab a girl by the arm and say, ‘come, we’re until we give them to them.” He exhaled another
eating here, and I’m ordering you the shrimp’, milky cloud. “The only thing I expect is that my
but, yeah, I mean, the conservative of us still wife care about Salma’s health. I do not want her
think men should rule the home. Some of those getting addicted to candy and the stupid IPads. I
Utah girls wanted to be bossed around.” don’t want her being like all these other stupid
kids who cannot sit still for two seconds.”
“You see?” Amir said, “It is not only cultural. It is
your personality. Your Dad was probably weak That up until a year ago Amir had smoked cocaine
too, did whatever your Mom told him to. Just like while driving with Salma strapped in her child’s
you and Nadine.” seat, Mark neglected to point out. “You men-
tioned in there you feel rock-bottom inside?”
“Maybe you’re right.” Mark wondered if it
was okay to sponsor people you didn’t really like. “I am fine.” A cloud emerged from his lips as he
“Anyway, what did you need to talk about?” repeated, “I am fine.”

“Did I offend you?” “Well, which is it? A moment ago you shared
how terrible you felt, even though all your exter-
“No. Look, I just got to get home, is all. nal circumstances look so wonderful.”

“I don’t understand.” Amir growled at the ceiling.

93

“I read the Quran, I pray, I do my religious thing. I “Control issues?” Amir pushed out his lower jaw
have slipped on looking at women, but I have not as he did when thinking. “It is just good parenting
masturbated in over a year.” that I don’t want Salma to eat unhealthy. Why
should she become addicted to sugar when I have
The church hulked outside the rear window, look- the power to keep her from ever eating it?”
ing more and more sinister as the daylight waned.
Beneath the wheel window, seated on the steps “Why are you mad at your wife?”
leading from the arched, wooden doors, two
more from their group were engaged in conversa- Amir held the mouthpiece just before his lips.
tion, the seriousness of which was made evident “Because she is lazy and doesn’t follow through
by the frequency and intensity of cigarette drags. on what we agreed to.”
Over his ten years of sobriety, such juxtapositions
of the sacred and profane had become common- “So you’re mad at her for not doing what she
place, and not often unnoticed. Mark had heard needs to?”
plenty of slogans, too, and one struck him now:
churches have become houses for the holy, in- “Yes!”
stead of what they should be: hospitals for the
sick. “Kind of like how you’re slipping on your pro-
gram?” Mark grinned. “Hey, its totally common
“You’ve tried to stop cocaine on religious ob- to project what we hate about ourselves on other
servance before, right?” people. Just…I mean, you think your wife’s giving
90 percent in regards to Salma?”
“Religion is what I do to avoid hell,” Amir said.
“And I use it to overcome my bad impulses.” “What?”

“Did it help you stop using cocaine?” Mark didn’t “Is she giving 90 percent with your daughter,”
wait for the answer. “Because, why else come to Mark said, “or you think she’s trying her hard-
AA? Why supplement it if it worked so well?” est?”

Amir’s brow crashed on the steering wheel. They both jumped at the knock on the window,
“What am I doing wrong?” though only Mark relaxed once it could be seen it
was Roland. The best dressed as usual in a white
“You’re doing it on your own will,” said Mark. Oxford shirt that complimented his recent tan,
“It’s all about humility. I mean, I like to think I’m Roland waved affably—and, yes, daintily—
past coming to these meetings, but, when I ac- goodbye as he climbed into his Mercedes.
cept I have to, when I accept—humbly—that I got
an addiction…it gets easier, man. That’s the “I am telling you, it is a cultural disease.” Amir’s
whole crazy thing about all this: we don’t do our lip curled as he watched Roland’s car reverse.
program because of—God only knows why—and “We do not have these homosexuals in Egypt. It
all we’re doing is robbing ourselves of happiness. is not right. It makes me uncomfortable being in
Look, prayer and Quran is great and all, but I think the room with him.”
your hiding behind religion again.”
“Alright, I’m going.” Mark didn’t feel like going
“I have slipped on my program.” Amir conceded. down this road again, and Dagobert was home
“I no longer write a gratitude list every day. I alone. He paused before shutting the door.
don’t call you, my sponsor. I tell myself I’m too “Remember: its just like that reading we had in
busy to go to meetings.” there: humility really might solve most of our
problems.”
“See how tricky the ego is? It uses religion to
prop itself up as holy, doing its typical checklist/ As he watched Amir whirr away in his wife’s Vol-
trophy thing by ticking off religious observances, vo, Mark chastised himself for feeling unduly per-
all the while trying to do things all by itself, with- spicuous. Whatever help he was able to offer
out any help from God!” Mark shrugged. “No Amir had come from his Higher Power, and not
wonder you’re having control issues.” from some past reading of Carl Jung. Besides, as
was usually the case in this vexing AA program,
the doling out of advice only revealed one’s own

94

deficiencies. Because, the truth was, he hadn’t Outside, the headlights grazed over wind-tossed
talked to his own sponsor in months. The truth grass crawling like seaweed atop the darkness.
was, he’d quit believing in the validity of his inner Dad jumped out and bounded up the hill towards
voice, because, if writing truly was what he was the distant lighthouse, fireballs illuminating the
supposed to be doing, shouldn’t he have more to coastline that stood poised like so many Irish sui-
show for it by now? cides above the surf-smashed boulders.

Maybe it was time to grow up. Maybe it was time The lighthouse took two for every step they
to give up on this stupid dream, to stop spending rushed towards it, growing larger even as it
all that energy writing stories nobody read. It was shrunk, its cupola backlit by the Milky Way come
time to put away childish things, time to be re- closer to Earth for just such an occasion.
sponsible, time to finally start providing.
Dad shouldered the entry and the door crashed
Huddled together like puzzle pieces, the stained against their first home’s hallway. “It’s just down
glass shards bloomed various colors, the halo here.” Rushing past his brother playing Nintendo
atop the crucified savior shining brightest of all, in the living room, Dad paused before the door
its golden hue increasing in intensity until each leading to the garage.
pie-shaped slice of the wheel-window burst apart.
He floated past Dad like a phantom, gasoline as-
As the world receded from that prismatic point, phyxiating as he searched the shelves of half-
he realized in horror it was only the blink of the inflated floats and sleeping bags for his plaque.
beast’s eye. The door opened and he could breath again;
gasping, he glanced at his brother draped in the
Wind tossed about as he gaped at the sky, para- doorframe boasting he had just beaten Bowser.
lyzed as he was by the illuminated, wing beast
that hovered above. Head shaped like a goat, the The world shook. When it stopped, a dent in the
beast spread its rainbow-colored wings from its shape of a giant fist was visible on the garage
furry torso as, not unkindly, it stared back at him. door.

His back slammed the ground. “Got your plaque, James?”

“Don’t look at the gods!” Dad’s legs pinned him “You know it.” His brother held up the proof, his
to the ground as his hyena eyes twinkled in the grin matching the boy’s on the photo who point-
darkness above. “Come. We must hurry! I’ve ed towards a painting of a cat hanging on a gal-
kept all the plaques at home.” lery wall.

Dad helped him to feet and, after two steps, he The garage again trembled, wrenches falling from
was in the back of the Ford Explorer, the click- perforated walls.
click of the emergency lights all he registered,
overdosed as he was, high on enough cough and “And yours?”
cold pills to kill a high-school senior. Dad looked
back, all the decades and dementia stripped The door leading to the kitchen rattled. Mark
away, his face twisted in concern and all the more glanced at his hands, but only saw his shoes
youthful for it. “Don’t worry, we’ll get the where he hoped to find the plaque. More bang-
plaque.” ing, more rattling. He glanced up, and the door
now had a fissure where golden light leaked
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I always thought you through.
were a loser! I condemned you, hated you for
being a failure…but you loved me. All you wanted “They’re here!” Dad shouted. “The gods are re-
was the best for me. And now you’re gone! turned!”
Gone! I’m so sorry!”
The fist again pounded the garage door.

As the Landstrasse meandered along the glowing

95

wheat-fields, Mark reminded himself why he was hopes of integrating rationality with faith, of
driving out to Jonathan’s. Because a phone call bringing the awareness the 12 steps had gifted
hasn’t sufficed of late, because the action takes him to society at large, he finally realized spiritu-
me out of my head, because I’ve never solved a ality could never be “cool”. Sure, yoga might be
problem by thinking my way out of it. Honestly, trendy, and “mindful” tech-geeks who talked of
he didn’t believe any of these platitudes any- flow-states increasingly the norm, but while hip-
more—he presently hated the dime store wis- ster culture might tolerate a serial adulterer find-
dom—which was precisely why he was scared ing Enlightenment and remaining unchanged,
enough to drive an hour and a half out of his way Mark thought awakening entailed some qualita-
on a weekday just to hear what he already knew tive change, some fruits of the spirit.
Jonathan would say.
So he’d denounced the Autobiography of a Yogi
And that would be how expectations of the future as eloquently written hyperbole, and, after seeing
got in the way of happiness-in-the-now, how India for himself, denounced Hinduism as primi-
writing was a part of his sobriety, that all that tive drum banging at painted statues. For that
energy spent on soothing the craving was now matter, why did post-moderns have so little issue
freed-up for creativity. He would insist Mark en- with burning sage but were so cynical about exor-
joy the ride. cism?

Wasn’t that just the thing about this spirituality In any case, he had dumped his fair share of
business? If hopes panned out, it was God’s will, worldviews, so why not this stubborn notion of
and if they didn’t, hey, that was God’s will, too, becoming a published writer as well?
the necessary tempering of the soul for its Next
Great Purpose. While a pinch of doubt might go Because you’ve dreamed this even before you
with the territory, questioning was arrogance— used to get high.
God’s ways remained ever impenetrable.
That inner voice was persistent, he’d give it that.
For a while, he’d found Tim Tebow inspiring—not
that he was going to advertise Philippians 4: 13 on Thigh quivering, he withdrew his phone in hopes
his eye black or anything, but, if a Higher Power of finding that email requesting the rest of his
had helped Mark kick heroin, why not other manuscript. It was Nadine. Of course. Who else
things? WhatsApped him?

Now, however, after some years sober, he could Nico said you never came by again.
look life square in the eye, could see that some-
times it sucked. No magical thinking of better Who’s Nico?
days or some Great Destiny needed. He had tried
some directions, and not all of them had panned The guy from the café! Your possible business
out. Why beat himself up for playing in that partner! No wonder he doesn’t want to—
church-plant’s worship band? Why be embar-
rassed of that date with the pastor’s daughter—at The door opened to a flush-faced Jonathan, his
least the disaster had shown him he could never chest free of shirt and glistening in sweat. “You
fit in with the churched. found it.” Being English, Jonathan showed little
excitement, a fact Mark had learned not to take
He walked up the driveway, mentally sang. Oh personally. He wasn’t wearing his oversized, thick
it’s so disarming darling, everything we did be- -framed lenses, drawing attention both to his
lieve, is diving, diving, diving, off the balcony. eyes’ tininess and the skin that fell away like
melting wax to his disheveled beard. A heavy-
After ditching the Christians, he tried the Eckhart breathing object brushed past his jeans and onto
Tolles and other distillers of Eastern Wisdom— the portico.
their worldviews being better attuned to the mul-
ti-cultural, every day—and had meditated with all “This must be, uh…” Had Jonathan told him the
the fervor of one who might reach Enlightenment name? “Your new dog. It’s pretty. What’s the
with the next, conscious breath. Yet, for all his breed again?”

“A Weimaraner.” Jonathan rubbed the dog’s
neck. “He keeps me busy.”

96

“I remember when you were still scared of the mortgage: after all, she already paid all the gro-
commitment of a dog.” ceries and vacations.

“That’s right, you’ve a dog as well.” Jonathan “Do you think I should keep writing?”
scratched at his head. “A…gray hound, right?”
“What do you think?”
“Dachshund.”
“C’mon, don’t do that!” Face crashed on palms,
“That’s right. A girl?” Mark suddenly lifted his gaze towards Jonathan.
“You know, this would never work as a story.”
“Boy.” Mark glanced up from his massaging of the
Weimaraner’s neck. “Name’s Dagobert.” “Not sure I follow.”

“Well, I was just at a sit down for some tea. I “There’s no resolution!” Mark exclaimed. “It’s
can’t remember if you take yours with milk.” fine to compare life to a book and all, but…what if
When compounded with his shoulder-length hair the next chapter never comes? You say just keep
and unkempt beard, Jonathan’s slenderness writing, enjoy the journey, but, in a story, that
made him appear all the more crazy, a fact which doesn’t work as a resolution. Okay, maybe in
neither his shirtless torso nor tiger-print Chuck literary fiction, but who reads that crap any-
Taylor’s did anything to ameliorate. Yet, despite more?”
all appearances to the contrary, he was as English
as the teatime he never skipped. “What would resolve it?”

Mark already felt better. If this dude could man- “In the story I’d like to live? I get a book deal.” His
age 20 + years sober, then, well, surely he could. hands whisked together. “Conflict solved. Cata-
As he’d never been to Jonathan’s before, he in- pulted into the next chapter.”
haled every detail as he followed him to the kitch-
en. The low ceilings typical of German Altbau Dents popped around the garage-paper-bag from
made the rooms seem squat, and the few win- all sides.
dows created a dearth of natural light fully appro-
priate against the hallway’s bulging, mahogany “Got it!” Gathering the plaque from the trash pile,
carapace. Mark, peaking through a doorframe, his smile died prematurely. “What?”
found the IKEA furnishings offensive to the elabo-
rate carpentry, though the living room’s leather “It’s got a crack in it.”
sofa and Victorian writing table better matched
the house’s soul. Surprisingly—and disap- Terrified, he saw that Dad was right. Beginning
pointingly—not a single piece of Jonathan’s, ei- from the top corner, a crack split the wood, very
ther painted or sculpted, was on display. nearly cutting the same red ribbon strung before
a Starbucks his photo self was smiling before.
After Mark had twice declined tea (yes, he was
sure), he fired off his grievances, Jonathan listen- Another rumble.
ing without interruption and with a floral-
patterned mug poised before lips. “What do I do?!”

“You could work out a budget with Nadine.” Jona- Fear in their eyes, Dad and brother backed away
than shrugged. “Come to an agreement so you as if he were contagious. Plaster rained on their
could save up same money, if that’s what you shaking heads as a colossal fist pounded the ceil-
wanted, and go on your own trips.” ing.

The idea was nice, but Mark avoided the exact “Help me!” He screamed. “I don’t know what to
figures for a reason: already, his end of the month do!”
contributions felt like throwing pebbles in the
ocean of debt he could never repay Nadine. The Above, a pool of brilliant light appeared in the
future might have been now—hard to escape the middle of the ceiling, and, choice-less, he joined
fact Jonathan and Amir both had breadwinning it, staring suddenly at his own, stupid-gazing-self
partners—but Nadine expected fifty-fifty on the holding the plaque below.

In an instant, he returned to his body, more cou-
rageous if not fearless. He would just have to
meet the gods.

97

The door leading to the kitchen jostled on its
hinges, golden light banging behind, scrambling to
get in.
Ankle-deep in souvenirs that shined like silver, he
approached the door. His hand stretched for the
knob. Before his finger reached it, the knob twist-
ed of its own accord—turned from the other
side—and, ready or not, the door rushed open.
Light flooded the room.

About the Author:
Mike Dorman is an American ex-patriot who runs
his own English training business for corporate
clients in Germany. After a near-death scrape in
2009, he embarked, fear of failure and all, on his
lifelong dream of publishing novels. He is working
on the third installment of his YA fantasy series,
currently seeking representation for the first
book, and much prefers coffee over tea.

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