Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 8, July 2017

offered no salvation. Others, like Simmons, tried out brain matter and fragments of skull as it exit-
to raise their rifles and return fire only to be cut ed. He took a glance at the cause of their labor.
down instantly. Frederick was adrenaline person- Richards’s face was pale white, eyes staring blank-
ified. His legs churned as he raced forward along ly to the heavens. He was dead.
with his companions. Richards, known as a stout
and courageous man, was currently leading the Frederick lay back against the bowl of the crater,
way ahead. The machinegun didn’t care. Several in the company of two corpses. He could hear
bullets tore into him, ripping open the man’s ab- the sounds of men yelling, the cries of men
domen and spewing his intestines onto the screaming in pain, the shouts of officers leading
ground. Frederick heard the rest of the salvo go the charge. He could also hear the air-rending
whizzing past and flung himself to the ground. cracks of rifles, the whistles of mortars flying
He’d landed in a freshly made crater, and took overhead, the explosions of grenades detonating.
the moment to collect himself. Peeking over the The two were at war, contending for the right to
brim, Frederick saw Richards lying on the ground be heard above the other, notes of humanity in-
twenty feet away. In shock, he was slowly scoop- termingling with waves of destruction. He had to
ing up his guts and trying to place them back into move on. The surest path to death was a lack of
his body cavity. Just then another soldier leapt movement. Frederick reached over to the bodies
into the relative safety of the crater. Frederick and closed their eyes, saying a wordless prayer
whipped his head around and found it was some- before taking up his rifle. He steeled himself,
one he recognized, the man Elliott who had been heart thudding nearly as loudly as the sounds of
impersonating their officer earlier. Panting, Elliott gunfire. Then, as if possessed, his legs churned
collapsed for a second of rest before shouting beneath him. Frederick crested the rim of the
across. crater and charged forward.

“Fred! Glad to see you’ve made it! I saw Richards In that brief moment, Frederick saw the condition
get hit when I was running behind you. What do of the battle. All along the frontline, men were in
you say we go fetch him?” Frederick nodded. “I’ll a state of advance. Some soldiers were nearly
cover you, go on three. One… Two... Three!” The upon their section of the enemy trenches. Others
two men sprang into action, Elliott rising to his were held up halfway between the enemies’ and
knees and firing at the machinegun emplacement their own, taking shelter from the rain of death.
while Frederick scrambled out of the crater to- Still more were caught against barbed wire that
wards the wounded Richards. He kept low to the had somehow survived the bombardment and
ground, darting forward with as much haste as he subsequently mowed down by the defending Ger-
could muster. Still, Frederick heard the pinging mans. Frederick himself had about a third of the
noises as bullets struck the earth around him. distance to travel. He took an oblique path, dodg-
Richards was oblivious to his arrival, not making a ing to the right and left to avoid incoming fire and
sound as Frederick grabbed him by the arms and not bothering to return it. For every bullet sent
dragged him back to the crater. The enemy sol- careening his way, time felt like it stretched out
diers were almost magnetically attracted to the another hour. It was torture. Any moment he
pair, concentrating their fire on the two men as might step an inch too far to the left and meet
they struggled to safety. In what seemed to be an instant death. The reality was that Frederick had
eternity they finally made the distance, Frederick met the most success of anyone in his immediate
tumbling the last few feet and pulling Richards area; the combination of pure chance and reck-
along. Elliott turned his head in congratulations, less abandon propelling him to the enemy lines.
“Good show chap! How’s the bastard doing?”
Frederick righted himself in a move to answer, The German soldier was focused intently, peering
looking up in time to see Elliott lean forward. No, down the iron sights of his rifle in search for po-
he wasn’t leaning as if in an effort to examine tential targets. Too late, did he notice the battle
Richards; instead he seemed to be lurching to- cry of the oncoming enemy, and too late did he
wards the earth. Only when the man twisted and realize it was not one of his own comrades pro-
fell to the ground did Frederick understand. A ducing it.
bullet had struck Elliott through the eye, blowing
Frederick ran at an all-out sprint, screaming like a

149

banshee. He spotted the distracted man down in slumped down; the muddy walls of the trench
the trench and lunged towards him bayonet first. depositing his body on the floor. He was incredi-
Taken by surprise the German offered little re- bly tired. One arm at a time Frederick removed
sistance as the sharp blade penetrated his chest his jacket, now heavy with mud. Sigh. He lay
up to the hilt. Frederick’s momentum carried the there for what seemed like an eternity but was in
two to the ground, and with an animal-like feroci- reality only a few seconds. To his right, slumped
ty he withdrew the blade and plunged it down over in the bottom of the trench, was the body of
again and again. The soldier’s eyes widened, the officer he’d shot earlier. Frederick lazily
blood seeping from the corners of his mouth, as reached over and dug through the dead man’s
his body convulsed in its death throes. Wasting pockets. He came up with some lint, two extra
no time Frederick withdrew his weapon and cast buttons, and a silver locket. Tossing away the
a look down one end of the trench. Other ene- others, Frederick unlatched the locket and peered
mies were just starting to turn his way as he at its contents. Inside was the inscription, “Meine
raised his own rifle, aimed, and fired. Liebe,” and the picture of a beautiful woman. The
locket reminded Frederick of Simmons proudly
The first shot took the nearest man in the throat displaying the photograph of his girlfriend. He
who, as he collapsed, clutching the oncoming tide threw it out of the trench in disgust.
of blood, was unable to raise an alarm. Precious
seconds earned, Frederick worked the bolt of his The thunder of cannons interrupted his thoughts.
gun to chamber a new round. His second shot Rising to his feet with rifle in hand, Frederick
blindsided an officer who had been standing next racked his brains for what the artillery could be
to a machinegun giving orders to its crew. A shooting at. Like an ice-cold bucket of water
splotch of dark read bloomed on the grey uniform dumped on a drunkard, he immediately remem-
as he careened into the soldiers nearby. The four bered. After taking the first lines of trenches, the
Germans were preoccupied with manning the British soldiers were to advance to the second
various elements of the weapon, and by the time and capture a nearby town. Artillery support
they began to grasp the meaning of what was would be called in on the second set of trenches
going on Frederick had already thrown his gre- to ease the advance. Frederick wondered just
nade. Two men attempted to dive for cover, but how far away the second line was. A moment
the confining trench offered no easy safety. The later, he received his answer. It was a near miss.
grenade exploded with a sharp bang, sending Even so, the shockwave from the artillery shell’s
shrapnel flying in every direction. Cautiously, explosion threw Frederick out of the trench. He
Frederick approached the aftermath. Three of landed face first in the mud, mind swimming with
the German soldiers had been killed outright, the confusion. Something inside him told Frederick to
flying bits of metal tearing through with a venge- keep moving, to move or die. He struggled to his
ance. The fourth, one of the men who had dived feet.
away, was still alive. The soldier shrieked with an
unearthly energy. Both legs had been blown Miraculously, his rifle had been flung beside him.
clean off at the knees, leaving brilliantly white It would do no good now. All in one motion,
centers of bone surrounded by the mangled flesh Frederick snatched up his weapon and took off
of his thighs. He only stopped yelling hysterically running. The incoming explosions seemed to
once Frederick shot him in the head. chase him, advancing more and more as the gun-
ners adjusted their aim for the second set of
Every enemy in his vicinity was either dead or trenches. Soon he’d have nowhere left to run,
dying. He had braved the dangers and come out and his own allies would blow him to pieces. Just
victorious. And yet, the only thing Frederick as Frederick was certain he was going to die, sal-
could feel was exhaustion. His body ached with vation appeared in the form of a drab grey bunker
the strain of exertion; his mind felt numb. Freder- lying directly ahead. It was his only hope. All
ick glanced around. There weren’t any other fatigue was gone, replaced with an unbelievable
British troops anywhere near his position. In fact, desire to live, to survive whatever the cost. The
he appeared to have gone completely off course door was wide open and Frederick threw himself
and veered to the edge of the battlefield. He was inside the building, slamming the door shut at the
alone. Hands shaking ever so slightly, Frederick same time.

150

The bunker’s interior was dimly lit by a single The walls and floor of the bunker trembled as an
electric bulb hanging from the ceiling, and Freder- explosion detonated nearby, sending showers of
ick’s eyes struggled to adjust. When they did, he dust cascading down from the ceiling.
froze. Not fifteen feet away, a German soldier
stood. Their eyes locked for a moment. Neither “So,” queried Frederick, “I suppose you have a
man had his weapon at the ready. Frederick had name?”
been so busy escaping the exploding shells that
he’d neglected the thought that someone else “Ah, so he does speak!” beamed the German.
might have had the same idea and taken refuge in “I’m Ernst Schmidt, but you can call me Ernest.”
the bunker. His mouth dried up and muscles The man made a beckoning motion towards Fred-
tensed. Then, without a warning, both men raced erick.
to fire upon one another. Two gunshots rang out,
echoing painfully in the enclosed space. They “Frederick Henderson.”
remained standing, each waiting for the shock to
wear off and the other to fall to the floor bleed- “Well Mister Henderson, we might as well pass
ing. A minute passed and neither collapsed. the time,” offered Ernst. “Do you have a family
you long for? Perhaps a woman waiting anxiously
The German, slinging his rifle on his shoulder, for your return home from the war?” This man’s
patted his chest and then gestured to Frederick. cavalier friendliness was astonishing to Frederick.
He sighed and made a reply.
“It appears that we are still alive, despite our best
attempts to kill each other,” he said. The words “Yes, a mother and two brothers in Yorkshire. No
failed to register in Frederick’s brain. significant other.”

“Excuse me?” “I myself have a wife and daughter back in Co-
logne. In fact, my daughter just turned seven this
“No one died,” the German beamed. “Though July. May I show you a picture?” he said, smiling.
there’s still a chance your bombardment could Frederick acquiesced and the man hurried over,
change that.” The man was speaking perfect Eng- producing a small photograph from his breast
lish! Frederick was dumbfounded. It must have pocket in a fluent motion that suggested he did so
been apparent, because the man laughed heartily often. The picture displayed a small girl with
before speaking again. “Do I surprise you? It round cheeks and braided pigtails grinning at the
must be quite a shock that I’m not the big, dumb camera.
barbarian you English make us out to be.” Noth-
ing made sense. “She’s beautiful,” Frederick said.

“H-how?” Frederick stammered. The German “Yes, she’s my world,” Ernst agreed heartily. The
was incredulous and gave a long sigh. two men passed ten more minutes discussing
their future plans for after the war. Ernst de-
“It’s almost as if I was a person before all this clared he wanted to buy a farm and raise cattle,
shooting started. I completed my studies in your while Frederick surprised the German in stating
country at Cambridge. It wouldn’t have helped he wished to open a bakery. Frederick’s tensed
that much if I couldn’t speak your tongue, now muscles began to soften, the throbbing explo-
would it?” the man rolled his eyes. “Now, the sions outside fading into forgetfulness. Indeed, it
way I see it, we had our chance to die back when seemed as if the artillery batteries had finally
you burst in here. We both missed. What are the ceased firing for some time.
odds of that? Neither one of us can leave while
those guns are shelling the area. Even as it is, a “I suppose we should be going,” Frederick hazard-
direct hit might end us both. So,” the German ed. “Who knows what turn the battle has taken.”
paused, “we might as well relax for a while. No?” The German nodded his head solemnly.
Frederick didn’t lower his guard. The man was
oozing confidence, a cheerful confidence, as if no “Yes, I think our time is at an end.” His face was
matter what happened he would always triumph. stern, hard lines etched into every feature. “I
It was unnerving. The German flicked him a be- must do my duty for my country. I cannot simply
mused glance and relinquished, “Suit yourself.” allow an enemy to escape my sight.” The man
took a step forward. “Please, surrender and you

151

will be treated fairly.” Frederick was taken com- head out the door along with the other men.
pletely off guard. The jovial man had over time, “Well, come on out when you feel like it cuz the
completely allayed his fears. And yet here stand- war ain’t stopping for you.” The bunker door
ing a few feet away was a drastically different swung shut. A few moments passed before Fred-
person, a man deadly serious. Frederick took a erick made a move. Slowly, he shuffled over to
step backward. “Please, think of your family,” Ernst and stooped to reach inside the man’s jack-
entreated the soldier. et. Seconds later he withdrew what he was look-
ing for: the photograph of the young girl. As he
“Think of your own,” replied Frederick. Ernst gazed at the picture----- a single, engorged tear
straightened up and confidently answered. splashed down onto the paper, running the ink off
the edge and onto the German’s body.
“They understand my duty.” He charged, bayonet
forward. About the Author:
Caleb Dudley is currently attending the College of
Frederick hadn’t had the time to chamber anoth- Idaho, with plans to graduate in 2019. He is
er bullet, and in any case Ernst closed the gap too working on completing a Bachelor of Arts degree
quickly. Only a desperate parry using his rifle in Creative writing, with minors in History, Busi-
stock saved him, deflecting the bayonet to the ness, and Natural Sciences. He loves being trans-
side. Shock was replaced with anger, and anger ported to fantastical worlds when reading, and
replaced with the ruthless efficiency of combat hope to recreate the same evocative emotions in
experience. Frederick sidestepped and Ernst, his writings with dark, complex themes.
who had put all of his energy into the momentum
of a quick strike, was put off balance, lurching
forward. Frederick switched his grip to the barrel
and, with ferocious strength, swung the rifle stock
into the German’s body. Ernst made a whimper-
ing cry as the solid wood thumped into his side,
breaking ribs and sending the man flying into the
floor. He attempted to raise his weapon in mea-
ger defense, but Frederick swatted it away. Ernst
raised a trembling hand and uttered a single
word.

“Please.”

Frederick swung the rifle a second time, making
contact with the German soldier’s skull and liber-
ating its contents. Blood and gore spattered the
opposite wall, and Frederick remained standing
over the corpse for a long time, catching his
breath.

A little while later, the bunker door smashed open
and Frederick was almost shot again, this time by
a group of British soldiers.

Only a loud, “FREDDIE?” halted the group’s
attack. A small man pushed his way to the front
of the others. It was Fry. He had somehow sur-
vived the assault, making it all the way to the ce-
ment bunker. He looked around the empty room,
spotting the body of Ernst lying in a pool of blood
off to the side. “Killed yourself a Hun, did ya?”
Frederick didn’t reply. “Find anything good on
‘em?” Again, no answer. Fry sighed and began to

152

MEDIUM-RARE

Melissa Moore

“Something’s wrong with the meat.” Eddie sat on melting pot. In one crusty booth, you’d find a
the metal kitchen counter, poking at the spot wealthy couple, or a preacher—and in the next
where he took a bite from his hamburger. There you’d find a druggie or some broke college athe-
was something off about its taste. The diner had- ist. Black people, white people, Asian people—
n’t changed butchers, from Eddie’s knowledge. everyone came to Jed’s because everyone had to
eat.
Jed, the cook, would always fry a burger up for
Eddie every time the diner got a new shipment of Eddie got the job because Jed dated Eddie’s sister
meat. Jed said that Eddie was his taster, making Jeannie in high school. Eddie had thought that his
sure the food wasn’t poisoned or spoiled. sister could do better—and she did, because she
ended up marrying some big city dentist. Eddie
“Does it taste bad?” Jed asked. His hands dripped wondered if his sister made the right choice. She
watered down blood from the ground meat. He didn’t smile as much as she did when she was
had been slapping more patties into shape, ready- with Jed, and her husband’s eyes landed on every
ing to place them on the grill. Jed wiped his hands pretty girl except her. Jed may have been a pot-
on his apron and turned to Eddie. smoking, binge-drinking, motorcycle-driving
nightmare for Eddie and Jeannie’s parents, but
“It’s not bad. Not really,” Eddie said. “It just she laughed when she was with him. Jed never
doesn’t taste like beef, that’s all.” looked at his string of honeys the same was as he
had looked at Jeannie, either. Once after Jed and
Jed frowned. “What does it taste like? Chicken?” one of his ex-girlfriends broke up, Eddie walked
into the back office of the diner and found Jed
“More like pork.” staring at Jeannie’s Facebook photos. Jed threat-
ened to fire Eddie for not knocking, ranting about
“Listen kid,” Jed interrupted, laughing. “I don’t how an employee should respect his employer. “If
care if it doesn’t taste like beef. It can taste like you keep doing that kind of shit,” Jed had said.
chicken or cat or dog. Whatever. As long as it “Then you’re going to catch me watching some
doesn’t taste like shit, we’re good.” Jed shook his weird Japanese porn with my dick in my hand.”
head and returned to his cooking.
Eddie knew Jed wouldn’t ever fire him, because
Eddie slid off the counter, his feet landing on the Eddie was Jed’s only remaining tie to Jeannie.
cracked tile. Jed’s Diner, like all good diners, was Maybe if Jed knew what Eddie did, things would
an oily place. Sometimes the food seemed to be different.
come alive and threaten to eat you, but it would
taste great as long as you could bite it before it bit The diner was a tiny place, but Jed had crammed
you. But as long as you didn’t mind that the only wall-to-wall autographed photos of actors and
vegetables on the menu were the limp add-ons athletes who’d supposedly visited. Jed had found
for grease-drowned meat, and you didn’t mind most of the headshots at yard sales, and let Eddie
that the faux-leather of the cracked booths would forge the celebrities’ signatures. The diner had
stab at your skin, and you didn’t mind that no a jukebox, but the jukebox only had two options:
amount of soap could ever get the floors clean—
then Jed’s was the place for you. The diner was a

153

bluegrass and Elvis. Jed sometimes played opera Butchers. Sources say that Bailey ground the rest
in the kitchen, but the real music was the sound of his wife up in the meat he sold to the public.” A
of chattering guests, clanking silverware, and the phone number flashed onto the screen. “If you
drone of the flat screen Jed had mounted on the have purchased meat from Bailey Butcher’s in the
wall. last three weeks, please call the number on your
screen—”
Eddie was one of two servers. The other server
was Jed’s girlfriend of the month, Annie. She was Eddie’s mouth went dry. Bile rose in the back of
the stereotypical diner waitress: big hair, big his throat, and he took a step back. He felt like he
boobs, and a habit of calling everyone “honey.” was going to faint, so he leaned onto the front
Annie smacked gum behind her over-painted lips, register for support. His mind was fixated on the
and never wanted to take any tables. Instead, memory of the bite he had earlier. He remem-
she’d go to the kitchen and fight with Jed before bered the strange taste. He had commented to
stomping out of her shift early. Eddie picked up Jed about it, but he hadn’t thought it tasted bad.
her slack. In fact, the meat tasted good. Like fully developed
veal. Was he a cannibal now? He rushed into the
Eddie tightened his server’s apron and grabbed a kitchen for Jed. They had to trash the meat. Burn
few laminated menus. It was Sunday, and almost it. It would ruin the diner if people knew that they
noon. The church crowd would soon be coming were cooking with human meat. Even if the meat
in. It was the middle of the month so Eddie could wasn’t entirely human—just that it came from a
expect more tips. The beginning of the month place now tainted with producing human meat…
was the worst, because that’s when the church
folk would tithe. They were less likely to tip then, Jed wasn’t in the kitchen. The grease popped
having already given their generosity to God. alone, and the steam from the dishwasher rose in
thick billows which were sliced through by the
The diner was empty except for a big man shaking ceiling fan. The pungent smell of burning
squeezed in a shadowed corner booth. The man food slapped Eddie in the face. He ignored it, de-
was biting his fingernails like a ravenous animal. ciding that he had more important matters to do
He would tear off one of the yellowed tips and with. Eddie couldn’t hear the smacking of Annie’s
spit it to the floor. Eddie watched, raptured in gum or the clicking of her heels. Sometimes Jed
gross amazement. The things people would do and Annie would step out back or hide in the
when they thought no one was looking. Eddie’s office for a quickie. Eddie would see them reap-
fascination broke at the shrill of a single alarm pear, Jed zipping up his jeans and Annie wiping
from the television. His eyes flew to the smudged smeared lipstick from her mouth. He would pre-
screen. A banner reading “Breaking News” tend that he didn’t notice, although neither Jed
flashed across the screen in bold red. The banner nor Annie cared much for their reputations.
shrunk to scroll across the bottom of the screen,
and a brunette newscaster appeared. Her mouth Eddie banged on the office door, and the door
was a grim line. The Botox in her forehead pre- squeaked open. The lock broke long ago, when
vented her brows from furrowing, so her face Jed’s Canadian fling robbed the safe. Jed hadn’t
contorted with a weird expression. bothered to fix the broken lock, after deciding
that the best crime prevention is to avoid ‘exotic’
“It’s a terrible day for meat-lovers in the city of girls. The office was empty, but Eddie saw a pic-
Newman,” she began. “Police arrested Frank Bai- ture of Jed and Jeannie pulled up on the screen.
ley, owner of Bailey Butchers for the murder of Jeannie sat in Jed’s lap, cradled in his oversized
his wife, Glenda. Two weeks prior, friends noticed leather jacket. Jed’s stringy hair covered half his
Glenda’s sudden disappearance and attempted to face. They were both laughing at something off-
file a Missing Persons report.” camera. They looked good together, Jeannie’s
black skin in stark contrast to Jed’s white skin.
The newscaster shuffled the wide index cards in
her hand. She shook her head and continued. The office had a single, skinny window. The glass
“Police investigated and were unable to find evi- was tinted brown from never getting clean. Eddie
dence, until an anonymous tip led them to find could see the two rusted dumpsters outside. The
Glenda’s severed head in the freezer of Bailey green one was for recycling, and stayed empty.

154

The red one was full with old food and stained “Where’s Jed?” Eddie asked. A thin line of sweat
cardboard. Between the dumpsters Eddie saw a formed at his hairline. Annie shrugged.
glimpse of leopard print fabric and the spike of a
red high heel. A burly hand shot out to grip the “Went to get buns. We’re out.” Annie nodded to
corner of the dumpster. They were finishing. the table with the elderly couple, and attempted
to whisper. “You goin’ get that or not?”
A feeble ding from the doorbell signaled someone
had walked in the front. Eddie returned to the “Annie,” Eddie went to the register and reached
kitchen and burst out of the kitchen doors, ex- underneath, unsnaking his car keys from a hook.
pecting the FDA or even the police. Would he be “I always get your tables for you. Take this one. I
arrested? What about sent to an asylum? Don’t got to see Jed about something.”
they usually send people like him to the looney
bin? Instead of the law enforcement, an elderly Annie shook her head, her stiff hair-sprayed hair
couple walked in. They were in their eighties, at bouncing. “I ain’t doing your job, queen.” She
least. The old woman wore a salmon-colored skirt turned and made her way back to the kitchen.
and matching blazer two decades out of fashion. Eddie hoped that she would go to the office and
The skirt stopped at the knee, and her legs were find Jeannie’s picture on the screen.
covered by mismatching stockings. Eddie could
see the lumps on her legs through the thin panty- The elderly couple had been watching. Their
hose fabric. beady eyes drilled into Eddie. They looked like
some time of robot or zombie. Maybe the FDA
She sat herself at one of the nicer booths—one did hire them.
with only stains but no cracks. Following her was
an old man. The old man wore a rumpled dress Eddie reasoned that if they ordered a burger or
shirt with suspenders. His pants were wrinkle- anything else with the contaminated meat, he
free, though, with a sharp ironed-crease running would tell them that the item was unavailable. He
down the middle of the leg. His shiny patent- took their drink order and handed them the
leather shoes pointed towards each other and his menu. Eddie sat down at the booth behind them,
knees knocked together when he walked. staring at the television. He wondered if more
news would break about the possible cannibal-
The couple weren’t regulars. The woman had a ism. He wondered if the older couple would see it
string of pearls wrapped around her jowls, and a and leave.
golden brooch over her left breast. Eddie won-
dered sometimes why people like them chose a Instead of the meat story, a story about some guy
place like Jed’s. The woman uncovered her hair, committing suicide in a church was on. Eddie ig-
setting an ivory hat on the buttery tabletop. Eddie nored the TV and glanced at the clock. The short
could see the pale, veiny skin stretched around hand pointed at twelve but the longer hand
her skull through the puffs of thin, white hair. Her ticked back and forth between twenty and twenty
sagging skin drooped over the hems of her cloth- -one. He could hear the older couple’s brief con-
ing like jelly oozing from a sandwich. versation. They were talking about the menu and
their Sunday school class. Eddie looked up for the
Eddie was unsure whether to tell the couple that man who was in the corner booth when the meat
the diner was closed. Jed would yell at him, red- story broke. The man was gone.
faced and spit-flying, if Eddie let the couple’s
money go to some other restaurant. As he pon- The old woman nodded her head towards the
dered this, Annie waltzed in while adjusting the television. She stared at the screen over her thick
strap of her heel. glasses, her wrinkled lips pursed.

“What’re standin’ around for?” Annie asked, “Martha said they considered cancelling church
smacking her gum. She kept endless packs of gum because of the fuss.” The woman scoffed. “Shame
in the cash register up front, which means she of a world we live in, where someone would think
was chewing the same gum that she had before to blaspheme like that. Strung himself up right
she went outside with Jed. Eddie wrinkled his over the cross. Like he thought he was the Sav-
nose. ior.”

155

Her husband grunted in agreement. “Probably a Eddie smiled. “Coming right up.” He went into the
schizophrenic. They tend to commit suicide.” kitchen, and saw a burger already prepared. An-
nie wouldn’t miss her lunch. He grabbed the
“Well, we know where he’s burning right now. I warm plate and emptied a bag of pre-fixed salad
wished that pastor had damned him to Hell from onto another plate. He brought both plates out to
the pulpit. He just rambled about how sad it was the couple, setting them down with a loud clank.
and how people like that need love. I tell you
what, the young people of today are too political- The man mumbled a thank-you, but didn’t look at
ly correct to say that someone’s in Hell.” him. Eddie stepped back to stand by the register,
his eyes fixated on the pair. The woman attempt-
“Is that what he talked about? I could barely hear ed to cut through the hamburger with her plastic
him over that woman’s wailing,” the old man cutlery, but the prongs of the fork broke with a
said. satisfying snap. Sighing, she gingerly grasped the
sandwich between her two index fingers and
The old woman’s voice lowered. “She’s just as thumbs. She took a bite, and then another. And
guilty as her son. A mother should know if her then another. Grease dribbled down her chin,
child doesn’t respect the Scripture.” running through her wrinkles like an unhealthy
river. The old woman closed her eyes in pleasure,
“I always thought the boy was one of them gays.” a quiet, unholy moan escaping her thin lips. The
old man stabbed at his salad, shakily thrusting
“See, that’s no surprise there then,” The old each forkful into his mouth. Their sex must be like
woman laughed. “I’d kill myself if I was a faggot, this, Eddie thought.
too.”
The sound of rushing water through old pipes
Eddie’s head jerked to the direction of the couple. jolted Eddie from his fascination. A toilet had
He couldn’t believe that they would have said been flushed. Expecting Annie, he tightened his
something like that in a public place. Small towns jaw, gritting his teeth. Instead, the big man with
sometimes bred hatefulness, but rarely did he see the yellowed fingernails lumbered out. His finger-
people so blatantly impolite. nails were dipped red where he had pulled too
much off.
“Where’s that damned waiter?” the old man
grumbled. The woman scoffed and spoke too low The man stopped in the bathroom doorway, the
for Eddie to understand. He caught one word, swinging door slamming into his back. He didn’t
however. Negro. flinch or move. Instead, he stared at the couple.
The woman had reached the middle of the burg-
Eddie stood and stepped over to the booth to er, where the meat was slightly pink. Pink juice
take their order. dripped onto the table. She licked her fingers,
sucking each swollen extremity with care. The
The old woman thrusted the two menus at him. man looked back at Eddie, eyes widening in reali-
Eddie cradled the laminated menus, picking at the zation. He knew.
brown edges that had started to crack. “I’ll have
one of your burgers, please. He’ll have a salad. Eddie’s heart raced as he searched frantically for
Diabetic, you know.” She narrowed her eyes at his keys. Where had he left him? He just had
Eddie. “And make sure you wash your hands, them. The man’s mouth opened and closed like a
too.” fish gasping for water.

Maybe it was the shock of having consumed hu- “You—” the man stuttered. “You can’t do that.”
man meat or maybe it was the incessant, broken His voice grew louder as he repeated himself.
tick of the clock. Maybe it was the fact that no
matter how many times Eddie scrubbed the floor, “You can’t do that, you can’t do that. You can’t do
it never looked clean. Maybe it was because An- that! You can’t do that!” He pointed a damning
nie never did her work and Jed always abandoned finger at Eddie, who was frozen in shock. The man
the restaurant to get a blowjob. Maybe it was the looked like some sort of god condemning him to
sheer injustice of what the couple said or how Hell. The old couple had stopped eating, and were
uncomfortable it was to listen to it. And Eddie watching the spectacle.
thought that maybe when Jed finds out, he’ll fi-
nally let Eddie go.

156

“You can’t do that!” The big man stepped closer.
His eyes were wild. He smelled like some sort of
drug.

The feeble doorbell dinged again. Jed
stood there holding a box full of burger buns, a
confused look on his face. His eyes darted from
the old couple to the yelling man and then settled
on Eddie. His face seemed to harden. Did Jed
know what he did? Did Jed know everything? Ed-
die had only wanted the best for his sister. He had
told himself that he shouldn’t—that he couldn’t—
break them up but he did anyway. The look on
Jed’s face was obvious to Eddie. Jed knew.

“You! Can’t! Do! That!”

Eddie could feel keys digging into his thigh.
He had put them in his pocket.

About the Author:

Melissa Moore is a junior at the University of
Memphis. She is majoring in English with a con-
centration in Creative Writing. Melissa grew up in
the small town of Middleton, TN, and developed a
love for writing (and animals) on her family farm.
She currently resides in Memphis, TN.

157

A FOTOGRAFIA

João Bernardo

Dormia profundamente, como já não fazia há A tarde passou a correr, pois estava muito
muito tempo, pois tinha reencontrado a distraído a pensar em mil e uma formas de reaver
felicidade e a paz de espírito. Tinha encontrado a estimada fotografia. Passaram-lhe muitas coisas
alguém com quem partilhar o bem mais precioso pela cabeça, mas a mais ousada seria, com a
do mundo. O amor. espingarda do pai, assaltar o museu e roubar a
imagem da sua bela e platónica amada. Ficou
Ouviu uma voz a chamar por ele. Era a mãe. cego com essa ideia. Esperou que os pais
“Anda tomar o pequeno-almoço”, dizia. adormecessem, pegou na sua mochila, onde tinha
escondido a espingarda, e partiu em direção ao
Tomado o pequeno-almoço, vestiu-se e cuidou da museu. Ao chegar lá constatou que as portas
sua higiene, depois despediu-se da mãe e partiu eram de vidro, coisa em que nunca tinha
ao encontro da sua amada, como fazia todos os reparado, já que de dia estavam sempre abertas.
dias, antes das aulas da tarde. Costumavam Então, pensou em quebrar o vidro para poder
encontrar-se no museu de fotografia da cidade. entrar. Depois de uma série de cotoveladas,
Aliás, nunca se tinham visto fora desse mesmo percebeu que não conseguiria nada com aquilo.
museu, pois a sua amada – e acho importante Tratou de encontrar uma pedra e, quando a
referi-lo – era uma fotografia de uma mulher que arranjou, atirou-a contra o vidro. No exato
já havia morrido. momento em que o projétil saiu da mão dele,
arrependeu-se, pois pensou que o museu poderia
Comprou o seu bilhete, que tinha desconto por ter alarme. Correu e escondeu-se no beco. Deixou
ser um cliente tão assíduo, e deslocou-se ao lugar passar um minuto, depois dois e depois três e não
onde costumava estar o amor da sua vida. Mas ouviu nada. Então, saiu do esconderijo e entrou
quando lá chegou, apercebeu-se que, em vez de, pelo edifício adentro. Observou a planta do
na parede, estar exposta a fotografia da mulher museu, que se encontrava junto à entrada. Na
que, com a sua beleza, lhe fizera palpitar o planta, viu uma indicação que dizia “armazém”.
coração, estava outra fotografia qualquer à qual Seguiu para lá. Quando viu a porta, reparou que
ele nem se dignou a prestar atenção. Dirigiu-se a era bem maciça e tinha uma grande fechadura.
um funcionário do museu e perguntou-lhe, aflito, “Vai ser difícil arrombar isto”, pensou, e levou a
o que acontecera com aquela imagem, que ele mão à maçaneta para tentar abri-la, mas sem
tanto estimava. O homem explicou-lhe que grandes esperanças. Para sua sorte, algum
aquela fotografia já estava exposta há três anos e, incompetente tinha-a deixado aberta. Entrou.
para dar lugar a outras obras, tinha sido guardada Largou a espingarda a um canto e começou a
e ia ser enviada para outro museu, noutro país. O procurar a fotografia. Não devia estar muito
rapaz empalideceu e perguntou onde estava escondida, já que só tinha sido guardada nesse
agora a imagem da sua amada. O empregado dia. Tanto assim que a encontrou em dez
respondeu que estava no armazém e que no dia minutos. Apressou-se a pôr a fotografia no bolso
seguinte ia ser levada para o aeroporto. Não e a pegar na arma – queria sair dali o mais rápido
pensou em mais nada. Saiu do museu e foi para a
escola.

158

possível. Ao sair da sala, viu uma luz e escondeu- About the Author:
se. “Quem está aí?”, perguntou uma voz grave.
Quando a luz lhe foi apontada para a cara, ele João Bernardo is a fifteen-years old high school
respondeu apontando a espingarda. “Calma”, junior from Ericeira, near Lisbon in Portugal. An
disse o homem. “Quem é você?”, perguntou o avid reader, writing is one of his passions. In the
proprietário da espingarda. “Sou o segurança do annual literary contest organized by publishing
museu. Eu vi que o alarme silencioso tinha sido house Caminho titled “Concurso Uma aventura...
ativado e vim ver o que se passava, mas já me vou literária 2017” his flash fiction piece “A Foto-
embora e não vou contar nada a ninguém, mas, grafia” was awarded Honorary Mention in the
por favor, não dispares”, respondeu o segurança, category “original text” in the competition with
aterrorizado com a situação. “Não vai, não. Não over fourteen thousand submissions by school
posso deixá-lo ir!”, exclamou exaltado. Na cabeça children from all over Portugal.
dele ouvia uma voz feminina que lhe dizia para
disparar, uma voz que ele associava à sua amada.
Seria possível uma fotografia estar a falar com
ele? “Não tens de fazer isso”, suplicava o se-
gurança, mas a voz continuava, cada vez mais
alto, até que o seu dedo apertou o gatilho. Boom!
Já estava. Com o susto ficou paralizado um
segundo, mas no segundo a seguir desatou a
correr dali para fora, fugindo pela rua abaixo.

E tudo isto por uma obsessão. Tudo isto por uma
fotografia.

159

RECREATION

David Mecklenburg

It’s short for Adeline, but nobody calls me that. local people to dress up in blue and grey and
Anyway, just relax and don’t worry about it. I was shoot at each other with blanks. A booming in-
going to tell you that 10,000 Union and Confeder- dustry. Well, it got popular, and debunked, but
ate soldiers fought on the Marksman Ridge, which that weren’t no matter, because both sides could
used to be called Banforth on account of the fami- win depending on a coin toss. And it didn’t matter
ly that lived there. if you had just moved here, or what, everyone got
into the act back then. I had to dress up like a
You see it’s the first thing a child learns to say drummer boy with my hair cut off. Cannon went
here. That’s bullshit, but we all learn something off to close to me and that’s how I lost the hear-
like it pretty early. I’ve lived in Fentonburg all my ing in this ear.
life. I was born in the Fenton General just down
the road, but you know where it is. It and the It’s OK. I’m used to it. It’s why I’m sleeping on this
Reenactments are the only real business around side. Anyway, people came here and spent their
here. You either work in Hospitality or the Hospi- money, so the town merchants, “sutlers” did
tal. Ends sort of the same way. Coming and going, great business. Eventually, they “expanded the
right? franchise” to other wars and periods. They start-
ed doing a Ren-Faire one year and that had to
Anyway, the funny thing is, Fentonburg never had have a battle, so they made one up for that. Now-
a battle in the… where did you say you were adays, the Roman reenactments are some of the
from? Oh. Yes. The War of Between the States. most popular. People speaking Latin and every-
Oh, you were born in Rochester? Well, I can say thing and not the Catholic kind. I’ve picked up
Civil War then. I don’t really care. Not even a skir- some names, like galea and gladius.
mish or raid. No major campaigns went through.
No history, as it were. A lot of farming and cows. Reenactment. Recreation. Re-creation. You tell
And corn. And whiskey. me. Those are all Latin words. It takes all kinds.

But that doesn’t matter. Curt McConnell—he was It does well to know your customers even though
the Mayor back a while ago—was a man of vision, technically it’s being a farb and cheating to stay
always trying to get something new into this place here through the whole thing. So most of them
to get the economy going. That was in 1964, be- come here to get organized, or just the specta-
fore I was born. But there had been all these tors. Or their wives stay here while they go out to
reenactments because of the Civil War Centenni- play Flatulus Podex.
al. Lots of people went to see those, and that was
when Hizzoner figured out we needed a battle. So I rent them rooms. It isn’t all that bad. I never
went to college, but I like to read. I get a lot of
So he made one up. He got a local history profes- time to do that and I have a good staff. Me and
sor along with some of the historical society to Martha, you know. “No Smoking” is my one big
get together and come up with something. Any- rule. I don’t judge and I’m not going to say “it’s
thing. So the Fentonburg Historical Task Force your lungs” or some such shit. Too many people
determined that the battle of Marksman Ridge coming through here for cancer to be reminded
had been fought here in 1864. Got a bunch of

160

of that. They’ll get that talk plenty at the hospital. hooker in Chicago. Nothing to worry about now.
But it just makes the rooms stink. Pap’s been clear for years.

Yeah, I remember. I know why you’re here. And… Frank? He didn’t care. He was older than me and
you obviously do too. I’d say you should relax but inherited this place from his aunt. He took a shine
that’ll sound stupid. She’ll be well-taken care of to me, and me to him. I liked him because he was-
there. One of the best cancer centers in the Coun- n’t churchy nor judgmental.
try. I suppose you know that already. Well, I’m
not the most positive woman there is, but I’ll say He had bladder cancer. That’s why I say I know
what lies beyond hope is possibility we can’t how you feel. Same place as her, up the road.
know. Old boyfriend told me that. Except it’s a lot bigger now. Shot himself before it
got bad. Officially it was an accident in one of the
Latin professor. I shouldn’t really call him my boy- Civil War reenactments. Happens sometimes, but
friend. But I don’t think either of us was fucking Frank knew blanks from live ammo pretty well.
anyone else. Anyway, my husband Frank had Insurance company couldn’t prove nothing so I
been dead five years. Stan, the professor, came have something to set me by in retirement.
up here for the reenactment of course and then
he stayed here for a bit. Said I was pretty. I don’t like to think about it too much. I leave that
for the black sleep I don’t remember.
Ha, that’s nice. Thank you. We liked each other.
Understood one another. The sex was pretty good It is a strange place, and beautiful country. Must
but he got a tenure track job in New Hampshire at have been nicer before we screwed it all up. Now
a school there and we’ve lost touch. there aren’t any jobs here except tending to dying
people, washing other people’s clothes, or pre-
Kids? I can’t have kids. I… can’t. Something that tending to be a soldier. That’s still the weird part
happened a long time ago before Frank. Old boy- to me.
friend from twenty years ago. He got it from a
No, you’re right. Tourism is tourism. There’s
no difference really, I like to think. If I was living in

161

Paris with a café half-full of painters and poets, I’d About the Author:
be working my ass off. It’s a job, and I said half
because the other half would be tourists in there David Mecklenburg is a writer and illustrator.
gawking and taking pictures. I’d sell plastic Eiffel While born in Sacramento, CA, at the age of 22 he
Towers and Mona Lisa Postcards and maybe moved home to Seattle, where he received his
some Toulouse-Lautrecs. I know who he is. I told MFA in Creative Writing from the University of
you I get lots of time to read and think about any- Washington. His work has appeared in Lissette's
where but here. I wonder if France is really like Tales of Imagination, Silverblade Magazine, The
that. Or what I imagine it to be. Dark Fiction Spotlight. He has illustrated cover
artwork for both Isthmus Review and The Adiron-
It’s all about what they imagine the war to be. dack Review.
The vets have the most interesting take on it.
Some of these guys out there are real veterans. The majority of his work occurs in a fictional
There’s the private maneuvers they do—like they world known as the Hagengard, written 'in world'
couldn’t get enough of it. Remember Apocalypse by his muse, taskmaster, and unseen Gemini half,
Now? There’s that scene at the beginning when Ada Ludenow. For more of their work, please visit
Martin Sheen’s talking about trying to get back to www.hagengard.com.
the jungle. Maybe that’s just a movie, but I sup-
pose for some of them living out in the cold and
mud in November is like that.

But not all of them. I remember one vet. Thought
it was all so sick. He was a commander of a M1
Abrams in Afghanistan. Said he knew what it was
like to blow people apart for real and he’d never
forget shooting the wrong house. All made of
brick and mud and blew apart like a cake. There
was a little girl’s arm, still in a sleeve, that fell on
the turret. He had to shove it off, but the sleeve
got caught. It was the last thing he saw before the
RPG hit them and blew his arms off. He was going
to the hospital here for new ones.

Stop worrying. I don’t mind, and I can’t blame
you. I hope your wife… I hope we all. Go quick.
That’s a lousy way to go. Hard on her, hard on
you. A lonely world. It’s nice just to be here with
you. Listening to you talk, and you letting me go
on.

Really? Thank you. You can stay here. I’ll still
charge you for the room. Makes everything look
square. So maybe tomorrow morning we can try.
I’ll be right here. And I ain’t going to charge you
for that. Shit, some things in this fucking town
need to be free.

You’re right. It is a hard world. You know what? It
might be a better kind of hard if more people rec-
reated this sort of thing.

162

(IN)SIGNIFICANT

OTHER

Kell Smith

Attraction is a science, they say, all chemicals and “Greg.”
hormones, a type of alchemy that turns strangers
into gold. The right physical proportions, the right “But as a sign that he’s interested? Sure.” A col-
smile, temperament, were each components in league’s confirmation. The validation soothed an
their own chemical compounds, a blend unique to itch at the edge of my brain, next to the itch that
each couple. And what is chemistry without the folding that bit of brown paper would soothe. “I
application of math? All I needed was the right still think you can do better, though.”
equation, and I could triangulate the exact mo-
ment Matt would fall in love with me. “I don’t want better.”

We were getting close, judging by the texts. Ever A shrug from Greg. I didn’t expect him to under-
since he had broken up with Cindy (our first point stand. Matt and I had been friends—best
of reference), our texting had increased 500%, all friends—since fourth grade.
precipitated by him. In yesterday’s texts (our sec-
ond point of reference), after I had made him As the new girl, I’d been the topic of nine-year-old
laugh, he had said, “What would I do without gossip, transplanted from That Other School
you?” Today, we encountered our third point of across town. At lunch I would sit alone and keep
reference, the use of a winky-face emoji as punc- my head down, arms and legs tucked in close in
tuation. that origami-fold, afraid that eye-contact would
turn the gossipers into bullies. I had expected to
I shared this latest evidence with a third party, as stay like that all school year, when a pudgy, blond
any true scientist should: Greg, a mutual friend, -haired boy had set his tray in front of mine.
who had received no emoticons, winking or oth-
erwise, in his last text conversation with Matt. His “Kara, right?” he’d asked. I’d nodded, daring to
interpretation was mixed. look up. “I’m Matt.”

“Is this a good sign?” I asked, phone tipped in Suddenly, I went from being Other to being Ac-
Greg’s direction. cepted, and at his side, I was even Content.

“Depends,” he said, drawing out the word be- I don’t know how it happened or why, the chemi-
tween bites of his bagel. The crinkled paper it had cal shift from friendship to something more, but I
come in caught the crumbs, but my fingers itched do remember when. It was a day on the bus, on
to smooth out the edges, to tidy the corners and our way to high school like any other. I made him
fold it neatly, exactly, until it took up as little laugh, and his smile washed over me like sunlight,
space as possible. I noted the way I was folded, leaving me warmed to my toes. I saw the after-
arms and legs tucked in close like human origami, images of that smile for hours after, like I’d stared
and wondered if that was what I was trying to at something too bright for too long.
do—take up as little space as possible. “I usually
consider grown men using emoticons a bad sign Five years ago. It was a long time to wait for
in general.” someone to notice you, but it had taken five years
for me to see him that way. Maybe the chemical
reaction was taking a little longer to work through
on his end.

163

The harsh crinkle of paper being crushed brought I can’t tell anymore what counting actually helps
me back to the coffee shop, to Greg, and I winced (memorize the number of steps so you can navi-
at the untidy ball he’d made of his wrapper. gate this hall in the dark) and what counting is
just one more thing to get stuck on (always count
“Just promise me,” Greg said, “that whatever your steps in intervals of three, right foot first or
happens, you will stop the silent pining? If he Bad Things will happen). I can’t tell anymore what
doesn’t make a move, you need to. You know?” precautions are normal (that man keeps touching
you without your permission, and you should call
“I know.” for help) and what aren’t (don’t let any men with-
in two feet of you, or they’ll do what he did).
And I did. Really. I couldn’t take five more years of
measuring the angles of his smile, of writing mul- The problem, you see, is that it all starts off nor-
tiple drafts before sending a text, of waiting, hop- mal. You don’t notice it building until your lungs
ing, praying that I had said the right thing, had feel tight just at the thought of leaving the house,
dressed the right way, and that I hadn’t screwed until you’re so afraid of repeating one day’s mis-
everything up despite how carefully I had planned takes that you flinch when a man, any man,
everything. I couldn’t take five more years of lung touches you even in passing. Until you realize that
-crushing disappointment. you only let Greg stand so close because you
know he’s gay.
But the timing had to be perfect. He was still
hurting over Cindy, after all, and what kind of That’s also when you realize that you’ve never
friend would I be to just swoop in right after that? had a problem letting Matt get close, that against
But wait too long, and he would find someone all logic and hardwired caution, you’re actually
else. He always managed to find someone else. okay with letting him get closer.

My phone buzzed at the same time as Greg’s, and “It just... happens,” one girl had told me of her
we thumbed on our screens to the same mes- first kiss.
sage: game night tonight? seven?
What is so quantifiably different about her that
From Matt. her first kiss—and every other first kiss she’s had
since— “just happened”, that she can keep
“Sure,” Greg said aloud even as he typed. “And meeting people who like and want her, without
when I conveniently leave the room for a conven- being afraid of them? It is a question that gnaws
iently long phone call, I expect you to carpe fuck- at me, that makes me want to peel back my skin
ing diem.” and see the wiring underneath, to find the fried
or tangled bits that make me do whatever the hell
Just the thought made my hand sweat, but I it is I’m doing wrong. But, I suspect, if I were to
typed out my own Sure! open up my brain, all I would see is a hamster on
a wheel.
Matt answered my text with a smiley face. Greg
just got a thumbs-up. But not tonight. No, tonight I was certain. Maybe.

Attraction is all chemistry, but so is the brain. And The evidence was all there (fourth point of refer-
the brain is very good at misreading things. I trust ence, another text: Can’t wait to see you!! :) ). In
my brain less than most, checking and rechecking, all the years I’ve known him, he’s never sent me
doubting and questioning, and even now at nine- texts like that, not while he was in a relationship.
teen I wonder how things like romance and affec- And it seemed he was always in a relationship.
tion come so easily to everyone else, when they
are foreign things to me. “He’s drawn to the first pretty face he sees,” Greg
had said of him once.
When you have OCD, it’s easy to get stuck on the
unquantifiables, on things like love and affection, That stung, at first. “Implying I’m not pretty?”
things you ache for but can’t quite puzzle out.
They’re not meant to be obsessed over, but that’s “Implying you need to put yourself in front of
what you do with the things you’re afraid of los- him.”
ing.

16

And that’s what I was doing, sitting next to Greg smiling like the sun. He was a taller and lankier
in front of Matt’s apartment building at seven version of that boy I’d met in fourth grade, his
o’clock: putting myself, and my heart, in front of cheeks still round but no longer pudgy, and I won-
him. dered if he had any idea of the power of his smile.

Seven-thirty saw us still sitting there. I texted Carpe fucking diem, Greg had said.
Matt, who said he was on his way. Again. For the
third time in the past half hour. “Where the hell were you?” Greg groused as we
stood on cold-stiff legs.
“I am contemplating murder,” Greg said, his
coat’s collar muffling the words and hiding half his “Told you. Had to make a few stops.”
face.
“Where, Manchu Picchu?” I asked. “We were
In my fidgeting, I noticed one fingernail was the wondering—”
wrong shape. I sat on my hands for warmth and
to keep from biting it, but the thought of it was Words caught in my throat, and I swallowed them
another itch in my brain. I should invest in gloves. back. Next to Matt stood a blonde with glasses,
“Of Matt or just in general?” her hands stuffed in her pockets, breath misting
in the cold air.
“Matt,” said the huddled mass of coat. “To start
with.” That did not make sense. We’d broken script. I
needed the script.
“He’d need to be here first, which would defeat
the purpose.” “Hey,” I managed through tightening lungs, fitting
the “mystery blond girl” puzzle piece into the
“Not for me,” Greg said. “I never forget a man thirty-five minute gap.
who’s wronged me.”
“Guys, this is Angie,” Matt said, placing a hand on
“Considering your love life, that must be quite a the small of her back. A fifth point of reference,
list.” this one nullifying the other four, my pitiful
“evidence”, and the hypothesis I’d formed. “I met
The mass of coat with Greg’s eyes turned an her at work a few weeks ago, and she’s just—
offended look my way. well, she’s great. I’ve been dying for you to meet
her.” He beamed at her with that sunlit smile
“Don’t give me that look,” I said, pulling one hand meant for me. “Anyway, Angie, this is Greg and
out to swipe a thumb over my phone’s screen. Kara.”
7:35. I tried to account for the missing thirty-five
minutes (traffic? flat tire?), but nothing fit with Weeks. In that time, Matt and I had talked about
the tone of Matt’s texts, none of which had fea- movies and video games, about politics and phi-
tured any smiley faces. “We both know I’m right.” losophy, but not once had he mentioned her.

Over our heads and to the left was Matt’s kitchen “Hey.” She pulled one hand out of her pocket
window, high enough to be out of reach, but low long enough to wave as I catalogued her features.
enough to make me question if it was. One of her eyeteeth was distractingly crooked,
and her brown roots made a skunk line in con-
“Hey.” I nudged Greg with an elbow. “I bet we trast to straight, platinum-blond hair. But behind
could break in.” Greg laughed. “No, really.” her glasses, her eyes were a nice shade of blue,
and her cheekbones complemented her round
“Ah yes,” said Greg. “Freezing my ass off and face.
committing a felony. Exactly how I wanted to
spend my Friday evening. Thank you, Kara.” I didn’t understand. I was prettier than she was.
Thinner. Smarter. From an evolutionary perspec-
I was contemplating the trash can’s height and tive, he should want to be with me.
measuring it against the height of the window
when a set of headlights washed out the wall in Right?
white.
In that moment, with the air cold and sharp on
“You kids git off mah lawn!” And there was Matt,

165

my face, I considered leaving, considered turning shouldn’t, focusing instead on three words from
around and walking away. I pictured it, legs carry- Greg: carpe fucking diem.
ing me away into the dark. By foot, home was half
an hour away, and maybe between here and “Hey,” he said, body blocked by the open fridge
there the night would manage to swallow me door. “Want anything? I’ve got Coke. Angie insist-
whole as my thoughts disappeared into white ed on diet, but...”
noise.
“Why her?” I asked, for once just saying the
“Oh! Um.” Angie turned, pointing her elbow at words as they came to me instead of filing them
the car, and her voice reminded me where I was. away for inspection later.
“I have Rock Band. Guitars and drums and stuff
are in the car.” “What?” Matt had his drink in hand, but he didn’t
close the fridge, almost using the door as a shield.
“Right!” said Matt. “You guys mind helping her Maybe actually using the door as a shield.
carry everything while I get the door?”
“Why her?” I asked again, words wrung from a
Angie handed me a mini plastic guitar. It creaked tight throat. I scratched at that too-long nail as
as I took it, its weight more real to me than that though smoothing it down could make this right.
entire conversation. “Why not me?”

I spent the rest of the night strumming that mini Matt’s eyes were wide, a cornered animal. “I dun-
no.” He shrugged. “I just like Angie.”
guitar, the fingers of my left hand pressing
“And you don’t like me?”
buttons that lit up the screen. Music was all math,
Matt rubbed a hand over his face and finally
at its heart, and the counting and repetition—one closed the fridge. “I like you, Kara. I like you a lot,
just… not the way I like Angie.”
-two-three-four, one-two-three-four—was
“Or the way you liked Cindy? Or Ashley? Or Karen
grounding, distracting, and lovely. or—?”

One. I didn’t notice she was in my usual seat and Matt held up a hand for me to stop. “I was
sitting on my fluffy pillow. attracted to them, yeah.”

Two. I couldn’t hear Angie’s giggles or see the Attraction. Right.
way she and Matt sat hip-to-hip.
“But not to me.”
Three. I couldn’t see the way Matt looked at her
or hear That Man’s cockroach-voice telling me of With a regretful look, Matt shook his head.
course of course he doesn’t want you why would
he. It was a relief of the painful sort, like shaking feel-
ing into a limb that’s fallen asleep. Five years of
Four. He kissed her, just a brush of lips between working up the courage to ask that question, and
songs, but still a kiss. I couldn’t feel my hands, but he was just not interested. The one man who did-
they kept moving anyway. n’t make me flinch.

The music was still playing and my friends were “Alright,” I said, chest too tight to be angry.
laughing and singing, but everything was static. I
was static. A computer glitch, an error, as I Matt’s shoulders sagged. “Kara, I’m sorry.”
watched them and wondered how it was so sim-
ple, so easy, so fast for these two people, while I “I know.” I believed him. I could even accept it, as
was stuck in a loop, still decoding texts and emoti- long as there was a logical explanation, a deal-
cons and trying to eke affection through a phone breaking flaw, something. Maybe it would even
screen. be something I could fix, if not for him, then may-
be, someday, for the next man who didn’t scare
When Matt stepped into the kitchen to grab a me. “So why not?”
drink, I followed, tamping down on the hamster
wheel in my head telling me all the reasons why I “What?”

166

“Why aren’t you interested in me, then?” I had About the Author:
changed my looks, kept up with his interests, had
remade myself in the image of the girls he found Kell Smith is a Latin teacher/adjunct professor/
attractive. And yet there he was with Angie, who comic book illustrator who loves words, whether
was imperfect in all the ways I had been, which teaching languages, writing novels, or making
he hadn’t found appealing them either. terrible puns. She graduated in 2010 with a dou-
ble major in Classical Studies and Art History and
Matt looked at me like I was crazy, and I pictured is currently juggling work, grad school, and taking
an error message over his head, over mine, care of far too many cats. She is a member of the
spitting strings of numbers and letters that made Providence Writers’ Guild in Rhode Island and has
sense to no one in this room. “I don’t know,” he been writing novels since she was ten.Kell Smith
said, shrugging. is a Latin teacher/adjunct professor/comic book
illustrator who loves words, whether teaching
“You don’t know,” I repeated, my voice brittle. languages, writing novels, or making terrible
“There is always a reason.” puns. She graduated in 2010 with a double major
in Classical Studies and Art History and is current-
“Not always, Kara.” ly juggling work, grad school, and taking care of
far too many cats. She is a member of the Provi-
He didn’t touch me as he walked back into the dence Writers’ Guild in Rhode Island and has
living room, but I still flinched. I stayed standing been writing novels since she was ten.
there for a while longer, recalibrating my reality,
until Greg came in to make sure I was okay. I
pulled out my phone and deleted my saved texts,
wishing I could delete five-years’ worth of heart-
ache as easily. All the while, there was that com-
puter error, reminding me that I had miscalculat-
ed, and round and round went the hamster
wheel, trying to understand how.

The answer was simple but brought no comfort:
sometimes, people don’t make sense.

Sometimes, hypotheses are wrong.

167

CRISIS HOSPITALIZATION

DISCHARGE

James Buchanan

Her mother and I sit in a small, ecru-painted room Nor could they be undone by a very depressed,
just outside the locked ward. suicidal, and self-harming teenage girl.

Voices echo into the room from down the hall. Why can’t my parents be better to each other,
They are a man and a boy. They are loud and she wonders. What I know, but fail to express
rough, not angry, each trying to show the other adequately is that no amount of nonviolent com-
toughness, but there is a tickle of empathy in the munication and collaborative problem solving can
man’s voice. This is how men and boys speak to release these pains and stinging hurts.
each other when one is in charge of the other.
Each generation and men and boys knows that I inhale a shallow breath to speak and feel the
loudness and swagger accomplish something that pull in my upper left lung of the surgical scar
kindness alone is unable to do. They establish a where the tumor resided, but a nurse walks in.
zone of safety around the body, around the per- Our daughter’s eyes don’t move. I feel some relief
son, around the feelings. that this moment, this awkward moment is bro-
ken. I believe our daughter is relieved, too.
Our sixteen-year-old daughter comes into the
room. Her mother looks from her phone. I re- The nurse carries a bag filled with clothes and
fused to fall into the cliché of the parent lost to another with a CPAP machine, toothbrush, sham-
their cellphone. We are quiet as our daughter sits. poo, and a white, stuffed rat for me to bring
Her arms are pocked by scabs where she’d home.
scratched so deep her brain released enough en-
dorphins to ease the pain of being locked in this This is the first time our daughter has seen her
place on her first night. They weep and the deep- mother and me in the same room in a very long
est are covered by gauze with reddish-yellow time. A wisp of conflict floats on the air and is
stains. enough to hurt her. She feels the heat of it in her
body and wants to escape, to take flight, but she
She cannot, or will not look at us. cannot. Instead, she hides in her body, deep in
her pill-clouded mind.
It is more than understandable she does not want
any part being with us. One at a time or safely in From the outside looking in, she is like a soft
my home, where she lives, is okay, but this is stone, mumbling and dissociated from the room.
overwhelming. Why shouldn’t it be. Between her
mother and I there are years of unresolved anger “Are you okay?” her mother asks.
and recent accusations. “You’re a liar.” “You need
mental help.” “Don’t gaslight me you prick.” Our daughter nods in quick, little tilts of her head.
A whisper of air passes through her lips meant to
These weren’t my words, but because her mother be the words, “I’m okay.”
and I are her parents and inextricably linked, they
might as well be mine, too. Over more than Our daughter will go home with me today, to our
twelve years, they have created a history of pain home and her room she resides in as some bane-
that a little girl cannot wick away or beat back and ful sanctuary.
evade with make-believe.
Her mother and I had agreed she would leave
before our daughter came in so our daughter

168

would not feel the stress of the three of us to-
gether. But her mother didn’t leave. Pride? The
fight? Worry? I don’t know.
All I know is a few moments ago her mother
called me a liar and accused me of playing games
with our daughter’s wellbeing.
I didn’t respond. I rarely do. What’s the point?
When our daughter and I sit in the car and she
feels the security of the closed door, she cries.
Her head does not drop nor does she cover her
eyes. She stares forward with tears rolling down
her cheeks and sobs rise from the back of her
throat.
“I’m ready to go home,” she says.

About the Author:
James Buchanan is a fiftyish writer living in Exeter, New Hampshire. He attended Quaker schools and his
first love has always been storytelling. In addition to his own writing, he works as a ghostwriter of mem-
oir and creative nonfiction and reviews of his recent work suggest that he’s becoming a better writer. His
website is www.orchardwriting.com.

169

HOW TO MAKE LOVE AND

BREAK KIDNEYS

Rachel A.G. Gilman

“Do you think you’re in love with Ben?” and float to the surface of the water in the circu-
lar bowl. I gagged with my throat burning and dry.
Charlie is seated next to me on the couch The pain in my side didn’t stop. If anything, the
in the office at the college radio station where we pain got worse.
work. His question is this warm, slightly awkward
thing he’s placed between us like a Furby or an I started to sweat, clammy and sticky and anxious.
offbeat stuffed animal. “You know, this sounds Everything suddenly felt too close. I removed my
dumb, but my mom says that people come into pajamas so I could lie naked on the bathroom
your life for a reason, a season, or for a lifetime.” I floor in hopes of taking my temperature down as
start laughing. “Yeah, I know, but it’s sort of true the hot flashes continued. The cold surface
when you think about it. And I feel like you think helped a little but not enough to stop the cycle of
about that stuff a lot, Rachel. I do, too, but... Ac- illness. Nothing remained in my stomach but yel-
tually, I’m going to stop talking, because I asked low phlegm, which didn’t feel unimportant
you a question.” Charlie clears his throat and enough to not make its way up my esophagus,
ruffles his overgrown curls. His blue eyes are big too, out of my mouth, and into the toilet. There
when he looks at me. “Are you in love with him?” were towels wrapped around me soaking up my
sweat, keeping me warm when the chills followed
It was one in the morning in Washington, D.C. on the heat. At one point, the vomiting took over so
Donald J. Trump’s Inauguration Day and I was much strength in my body I found myself uri-
awake. My left side was hurting, badly. I figured nating uncontrollably. A few times I muttered a
the pain was only discomfort from a hotel bed, so desperate, “Please, stop.”
I shifted, and when I ended up once again on my
back with my hands clenching onto the aching I physically embodied the thing I am always com-
area, I reached for my phone to search for paring myself to, a situation or state of affairs that
“appendicitis.” I spelled the word wrong, but is confused or full of difficulties. I was a mess.
Google understood. The appendix is on the right
side. By 2:30 A.M. I texted my mother, over three hun-
dred miles away. I can hardly move. I keep break-
I found my eyeglasses and went into the bath- ing into sweats. The pain won’t go away. I don’t
room. It could’ve just been a stomachache, but know what to do.
that was not where the pain was coming from.
My stomach felt fine, other than being annoyed Where’s the pain? she responded. Abdo-
that its neighbor to the left was throwing a tem- men or stomach?
per tantrum and disturbing all of the peace.
When my stomach had had enough (about five Like the back of my left side.
minutes later), it lashed out. My body fell from
the toilet seat and onto the cold tiles of the bath- Did it come on suddenly?
room floor. I began to vomit, seeing all of the
slightly digested food from Carmine’s reappear I woke up with the pain. And I couldn’t get
it to go away. It’s worse than stomach cramps. It’s
like a cross between that and a backache.

170

My mother asked more questions about the felt I couldn’t allow myself to fully trust Ben. The
symptoms. No, nothing hurt when I peed. Yes, I reason behind it, admittedly, was primarily based
was still vomiting. And I was fine all day. I typed on paranoia, on watching Ben tell white lies to
out and sent the word fuck as the pain seared. people who didn’t matter in grander schemes.
But the distrust has remained. It was especially
No better since it started – right? she sent. present after all of the efforts he put forth to
elect me as General Manager of WNYU. I thought
No. I couldn’t imagine it getting better. Ben was being manipulative, though to what de-
gree I could never quite figure out, even in a two
Then wake Ben up. thousand-word email I sent him at the beginning
of winter break that insinuated he was a liar. I can
About half of my time is spent at WNYU, my col- never point to what Ben wants out of being
lege radio station, and another quarter is occu- friends with me, but I still feel there must indeed
pied with trying to fix its problems. I have met be something. It doesn’t feel like enough to just
two of my best friends there. accept Ben has always been interested in me,
since the day we met, the day he can remember
I thought Charlie was a pain in the ass when we but is blurry for me.
met last year, but a loveable one. He was obses-
sive and creative and driven in a way that made Ben doesn’t let me get away with harboring un-
me feel better about having the same characteris- warranted feelings. He insists I don’t ghost him,
tics. I liked Charlie’s passion for his work, how the as I tend to do in the face of discomfort and con-
interest kept him up all hours of the night, even if flict. He makes me admit he’s never turned on me
that passion also made me worry about him, es- before. He holds my hand and tells me he’ll sup-
pecially when he called me so frequently during port me. Ben understands he’s callous and a little
our first few weeks of knowing each other, re- too forward thinking, but he says he’ll work on
questing and valuing my opinion on his projects. those things if I promise to work on my fatalism.
Charlie really cares – about the station, and about So I don’t know why I’m still so skeptical, or why I
me, too. I’ve never doubted his feelings. That’s don’t openly trust Ben in the way I do Charlie.
why Charlie was the only person I felt comforta- Objectively, I can see ways in which they both
ble taking over my job as News Director when I care. There’s just something different about Ben.
became the General Manager. Charlie was also It’s something incomprehensible. But I do care
the only underclassman I ever considered having about him, a lot.
join me to cover the controversial 2017 Presiden-
tial Inauguration. I love Charlie to bits, and I have I keep him in my phone as “Benjamin Shelley,”
since I met him. That’s saying a lot. I like virtually with that little emoji with the big teeth and dorky
no one from Los Angeles. glasses I’m embarrassed to admit I’m vaguely
attracted to.
Charlie tells me he initially thought I was a real
ballbuster, but he eventually grew to cherish my I dried myself off, redressed, and stepped out of
friendship more than anything else, for which I the bathroom. Ben was sleeping quietly in be-
am glad. Our love is platonic, familial. Charlie is tween the foot of the bed and the desk. I leaned
the only person in my cell phone I don’t keep un- over and placed my hand on his wrist.
der their proper name, including my mother. He’s
listed as “Lyttle Brother” – from his last name. “I really, really don’t feel well.”

It took much longer for me to warm up to Ben. It Ben’s sleepy eyes looked up at me. “What’s
wasn’t because he wasn’t nice to me. Ben was. wrong?”
Ben tried to get to know me, walked me home
late at night and took me out for lunches and con- My voice kept cracking as I tried to speak. I lost
versations, all outside of the duties of the sta- my balance and fell to the ground, my hands now
tion’s Business Director. Ben became the first clenching my side.
person at the station to know about my crushes
and the first to read my writing. But I have always

171

Ben sat up and put on his glasses. “Where is the scared, like a kid seeing their big sister break
pain?” he asked. His voice was all dry from the down for the first time.
room.
Ben was in the bathroom. I knew the painful sen-
“Right here.” I held on to the left side of sation and I knew what would follow – the same
my body. “It’s not like a muscle cramp. That’s thing that had happened nearly half a dozen
what I thought, at first, but it isn’t. It’s just this times already. I somehow was able to stand next
steady, terrible pain.” to the bathroom door, waiting for Ben to unlock
it. His eyes caught mine as I went in. All I could
Charlie woke up with a start. “Who died?” manage to do was make a motion with my hand
he asked. signaling for Ben to leave. But he didn’t.

“Go to sleep, Charlie,” Ben said. I moved toward the toilet and vomited again, the
pain in my side strong as ever. I bent over, making
Charlie turned on a light. “Who died?” the motions of sobbing without actually being
able to do so.
“I don’t feel well, Charlie.”
Ben shut the door so Charlie couldn’t see before
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Ben bending down and taking the messy braid in my
asked. hair in his one hand to pull it out of my face, using
the other to rub my back where my shoulder
“I don’t know what to do.” If I could’ve blades met. Ben rubbed in slow, soft circles until I
cried I would’ve. I managed to sit up with the cold finally stopped gagging and could stand up alone.
desk as back support and my head resting on my I felt awful. I felt embarrassed and disgusting and
knees. “I just want the pain to stop.” I hurt so, so much. But Ben never stopped touch-
ing my body. Ben threw his arm across my shoul-
Ben picked up the hotel phone and dialed ders as Charlie gathered my wallet and cell
down to the front desk. phone, and we went down to the hotel lobby.
Ben only pulled away to get into the driver’s seat
My mother called me. “Oh, thank God,” she said of the car, and even then, his right hand immedi-
when I picked up. I told her we were going to the ately fell on my left as soon as we pulled into the
hospital. “Are you getting dressed?” street.

“I’m wearing my pajamas.” The joke I usu- On the way to the inauguration, we listened to
ally made about going everywhere in them sud- the travel playlist Charlie and I had composed:
denly seemed a lot less amusing when I couldn’t “Two Jews and a Blonde Visit an Angry Orange.” It
manage to put on anything else. was playing “Till There Was You.”

“Get one of them to help you put your “The Beatles are so great,” Ben said.
shoes on,” my mom said.
“This is my favorite Beatles song, and it’s a cov-
“I can put on my own fucking shoes, mother!” er,” I said to him. “Drives Charlie nuts, but I think
Charlie was actually unlacing the yarn strings I’d it’s the perfect wedding song.” Ben looked at me.
looped through my Converse high-tops and trying “Have you ever listened to the lyrics? What it
to put socks on my feet. But I felt like I could’ve says? I think that’s exactly how I’m going to feel
put my shoes on myself, if I hadn’t been on the when I meet the right person.”
phone, if I hadn’t been in a strange place, if the
pain in my side would’ve stopped for five The song carried into the last chorus. Ben started
minutes. to dance in his seat. He moved his shoulders up
and down, wiggling his eyebrows, and he smiled
“Okay,” my mother said, quietly. “Well, when I did the same.
will you let me know where you’re going?”
I thought about what my mother had said about
“Ben will text you mom, I have to go.” seeing Ben and I together for the first time last

I sat down on the bed. The build up was
happening again. I fell over onto my decent side
and held the other, scrunching my eyes into a
wince. Charlie stood beside me. He looked a little

172

spring, how she felt we embodied “simpatico.” The nurse returned to ask Ben questions. “We’re
We simply understood each other and were com- here with a friend to cover the inauguration,” he
fortable together for reasons out of our under- said. “We went exploring yesterday, around to
standing. Although the Italian sounds pretty, I the museums, the White House.” The picture of
have always been skeptical, all while knowing the three of us on Instagram, all smiling, came to
when I’m with Ben, even in small moments like my mind. “We walked a lot.”
dancing to a song, I can never stop from smiling.
“And did she drink enough?”
I threw up three more times at The George Wash-
ington University Hospital after we arrived at “Well…”
3:30A.M. Ben remained rubbing my back as I
puked into the little blue bag they gave me for “The dip test on her urine says she is severely
that exclusive purpose. Ben smiled and shushed dehydrated.” The nurse’s anger dissipated slightly
me as I apologized over and over again. Ben sat when she said the doctors would be in shortly.
and listened as I told nurse after nurse after medi-
cal student after specialized doctor what the From the hospital bed, I turned my head to the
problems were, and answered the other standard side. Ben was still sitting next to me. I noticed
questions. how tousled his dark brown hair was under the
fluorescent lighting. The light accentuated the
“No, I’m not on any medication … No, I wasn’t blonde spot on the crown of his head I have affec-
drinking tonight … The pain is a 5, maybe a 6, but tionately dubbed his “God-given yamaka.” His
I’ve been told I have a low pain threshold … I’m pants were unzipped and his shoes were knotted
allergic to ampicillin, penicillin, sulfa, and eggs … I rather than tied, but he was there, awake, watch-
have no idea if there was blood in the vomit be- ing me. Ben smiled when I looked over. “How are
cause I ate Chicken Parmesan and spaghetti last you feeling?” he asked.
night, so everything was red at first, but now it’s
just clear.” “It hurts,” I said quietly. I reached through the
bars of the hospital bed and placed my hand on
They asked for a urine sample almost im- Ben’s left thigh. He was warm and the fabric of his
mediately. “That doesn’t look right,” I said. There chinos was soft under my skin. The move was out
was clearly blood. I held the cup up to the nurse, of character for me. “Can you text my mother and
and to Ben, who was sitting in the chair next to tell her what’s going on?” Ben nodded. I gave his
the hospital bed. I vaguely remembered the nurse thigh the slightest of squeezes. “I’m really glad
asking if he was family, and Ben lying, saying he you’re here.”
was my boyfriend.
Ben placed his hand on top of mine and squeezed
“Are you on your period?” the nurse right back. “Of course. I want to be here for you.”
asked. I leaned my head toward his and somehow,
something, felt itself start to ease.
“No. It’s not even due.” I continued to look
at the container. “Things have kind of looked like The gastroenterologists finally arrive and felt me
that for a few days.” up. They said everything was “benign,” and when
my foggy morning brain asked what “benign”
Someone mentioned I might have to do blood meant, they explained that all was well. The two
work. There was also talk about the possibility of men were as puzzled as I was.
a UTI, and antibiotics I would have to swallow. I
had never experienced any of it. Ben offered to “The pain is only on your left side?” one of them
cover the co-pay when the insurance woman ar- asked. I held the area of my abdomen that still
rived to say my plan wasn’t sufficient, and com- ached and nodded. It was more like a four now.
pletely frustrated, I told him “no.” Ben offered to “And the vomiting?”
let me hold his arm if they took blood and to buy
yogurt to put my pills in and I said “okay.” “It’s better, but they gave me something. It made
me throw up, too.”

“That’s usually what happens with Zofran.” The
doctor chuckled. That seemed more ridiculous

173

than hilarious to me, an anti-nausea medication The doctor pointed at Ben. As she left, he helped
that makes you nauseous to start. “Hm, well, we me open the package of crackers.
have pain, and blood in the urine.” The doctor
looked to the other doctor before he said, “Do “Did I fall asleep?” I asked Ben.
you have a family history of kidney stones?”
“For about an hour. I let your mom know.
Three days before leaving for D.C., Ben and I went Charlie also got yelled at. He came in here with
to nearly every classroom building on the campus McDonalds and fell asleep on a patient bed.” The
and hung flyers for my feminist arts journal. image was humorous, more so than any other
Though he teased me about only being useful image from the morning.
because of his height (jokingly whisper-chanting,
“let men write!”), Ben spent his entire day help- “How awful does my hair look?” I asked, feeling
ing me in the rain. my squished bangs. I had pushed them off my
sticky forehead. They were crunchy and confused.
We finished at his apartment, a few blocks from
where we started, with takeout Chinese. Ben had Ben looked just as confused. “Your hair looks
me take off my shoes because he didn’t want rain great.” He was full of bullshit. “You seem to be
tracked in, but I didn’t have socks on. I had fresh feeling better?”
blisters the size of silver dollars on the inside of
my heels. “I’m ready to leave.” I started looking for
my clothes and my shoes, only to see my pajamas
“Put your feet up,” Ben said, moving the ottoman folded in the corner and to realize Ben had heard
closer to his couch. everything about my medical history. Ben now
knew when my period was due, what I was aller-
“No, they look gross.” gic to, and about how I wasn’t having sex. The
image of Ben watching me throw up felt so vivid
“Who cares? As long as they’re comfortable.” and vulnerable. The pajamas were only a symbol.

It took me a few minutes, but I placed my bleed- But Ben seemed calm, almost happy. He
ing, swollen, horribly worn down feet up on the stood up and fetched me my clothing. “Drink
piece of furniture. Ben never made a comment. some of the juice, and then we’ll see if you can
All he did was try to rub them (which I profusely get dressed.”
refused) and to give me the cash for a cab home.
He thought the idea of saving a few bucks was not I did as I was told and felt fine, though I
worth further destruction of my body. I guess, I’ll sort of wished I’d worn a bra. I felt presentable
admit, because he cares. enough, throwing the privacy curtain back. Ben
asked me to sit down, to wait while we found the
I woke up around 6A.M. with another doctor in nurse with the discharge papers. I threw my arms
the room. Ben was still seated next to me. The around him in a hug instead. Ben pulled me in,
two of them were talking. The doctor handed me too. I wondered if there was something wrong in
some apple juice and a package of crackers. The the way I felt as we walked out like that from the
pain was maybe a one or two, but that felt more emergency room, something wrong in the sensa-
like exhaustion. tion I had to never let go.

“I think you passed a couple of small kid- Last spring, Ben and I attended the Cannes Film
ney stones, Rachel,” the doctor said. “That’s what Festival for WNYU. On the plane over, we had to
the blood has been over the past couple of days, sleep if we wanted any chance of fighting the
and the reason for the pain and the vomiting. time difference. Ben leaned over to me and said,
We’re going to see if you can keep something in “You can sleep on my shoulder, if you’d like.” I
your system. Make sure to drink a lot of fluids to refused. But in the night I ended up with my legs
wash out whatever is left. I’ve told him to watch pressed against his anyway, the warmth of his
you.” body working to heat mine, too. Somewhere
along the line, Ben moved, and we were no long-
er touching. When he did so I woke up. I was cold

174

and feeling strange, thinking about how such a made fun of the inaugural ball dances. As it got
small interaction could mean so much. It was al- late, I found myself weaving my hands through
most unsettling to have to accept that I was a Ben’s dark hair in the same way he had done to
little dependent on something outside of myself mine earlier in the day. Charlie came back and
and that it wasn’t the worse feeling in the world. found us in the same positions, but did nothing
outside of switch the television from an orange
By evening, Ben and I were exhausted. We man to a Laker’s game with an orange basketball
flopped next to each other on the hotel bed. I before taking a shower and crawling onto the
moved closer to him, putting my arm around his couch.
waist, my head on his chest. We were still dressed
in our nice clothes, which inadvertently comple- “I think we’ll both sleep better if you stay in the
mented each other. Somehow, the three of us bed,” I said to Ben. I never could have done so
had managed to obtain access to a media lunch- without the combination of exhaustion, a slight-
eon with CNN. I had spent the morning trying to alcohol buzz, and frankly, knowing Ben had al-
digest apple juice and saltines, and the afternoon ready seen me at my worst. It’s also how I man-
having no trouble with open bar cocktails and aged to kiss him. “Please?”
lamb cutlets while watching our new President on
an enormous TV as he signed numerous pieces of The only movement Ben made was to
paper, documents I doubt he actually understood. throw an arm around me.
Being in such a political hotbed scared Charlie,
and the country’s status should have sunken in to According to parts of the Internet, something that
scare me, too, but all I could manage to focus on can catalyze the creation of kidney stones is the
was Ben’s left hand being inches away from mine repression of emotions and feelings, which causes
on his stomach and his right one moving through the body stress. That is a problem for my entire
my hair, softly stroking my head until I stopped generation. We feel obligated to repress every-
thinking altogether and fell asleep. thing. Not caring is seemingly “cool.” We think
romantic partners are interchangeable and rela-
Ben and I woke up to find Charlie had left tionships are unrealistic because they don’t lead
for dinner with his other friends in town. I could to career goals. We’re made out to be ridiculous if
only imagine the conversations Charlie and I we put our hearts before our heads. Emotional
would have to have in the near future, about burdens seem frivolous when compared to other
mine and Ben’s intertwined limbs and sleepy, daily issues like the economy, or health insurance,
smiling faces, a position we didn’t move from or the giant, angry orange man taking over the
willingly. country and likely planning to destroy both.

Leaning into Ben, I kissed the area of his face that Honestly, there’s no time for love when we’re
wasn’t quite cheek or chin but somewhere in be- worried about things that feel so much bigger, so
tween, and said, “Thank you for everything you we swallow those emotions down until we’ve had
did today.” our absolute fill. Eventually something breaks.
The repression becomes anything but benign.
Ben put his glasses back on. “My God,
you’re going to have to have a near-death experi- I think of this when Charlie asks me again,
ence before that moves a couple inches over,” he “Rachel, are you in love with Ben?”
said, motioning at his mouth. I buried my face in
his chest, half in embarrassment and half in “I don’t think I’m qualified to make that decision,”
laughter. “I’m really too tired to go out for dinner. I say. That’s probably true, but I also know I have
Would you mind if we got room service and been repressing some strong feeling for Ben, a
watched TV?” Ben pointed to the television, the feeling that has always been there and that I have
thing that took up nearly the entire wall space, been told by people not to ignore because it’s
and then at the menu, sitting across the room. I special. It is a feeling I assured myself was not
agreed. We ordered food to share off the important since it couldn’t be controlled, since I
children’s menu, put on the hotel bathrobes, and couldn’t see the direct benefits. It is also a feeling
I could only ever muster to also associate with

175

something pessimistic while assuring myself I Rachel A.G. Gilman
could do without. But the feeling never disap-
peared. It was this feeling that helped to alleviate About the Author:
my pain in the hospital. Originally from Woodstock, NY, Rachel is a junior
at NYU's Gallatin School of Individualized Study
“I know that when I’m with Ben,” I continue, “that concentrating in creative writing and gender stud-
I feel a sense of happiness I have never been able ies. She is the General Manager of WNYU, NYU's
to feel with anyone else. It’s there when I know student-run radio station, where she produces
I’m going to see him, or when he winks at me the award-winning talk show "The Write Stuff."
from across the room and smiles. I love that when She is also the Creator and Editor-in-Chief of
I’m with him, I feel like I can be exactly who I am NYU's first feminist arts journal, The Rational
and not worry about him thinking any less of me, Creature. Additionally, she is a staff columnist at
and I love that I have always felt this way with Washington Square News's arts blog "The High-
him, even if I still don’t know why.” lighter" and a staff writer for Popdust. Find out
more at rachelaggilman.com.
I feel messy and honest in also knowing (but not
sharing with Charlie) that Ben feels the same sort
of confusing comfort with me. Ben likes the way
he finds strands of my blonde hair on his coat
after we’ve spent the day together. Ben loves my
sassy comments because he reads them as hones-
ty. My silly anecdote text messages are his favor-
ite parts of the day, he claims. Nothing makes Ben
happier than seeing me succeeding and sup-
porting me in whatever ways he can. And even if
I’ll never believe him, Ben thinks my eyes are
beautiful. Ben told me all of this when we re-
turned from Washington, when my body started
to feel a little bit better in hearing and admitting
what had weighed it down.

“Wow,” Charlie says, “that’s big.”

I guess I would agree. It’s certainly something,
even if I can’t think of a better way to describe it. I
can only epitomize it: in the warmth that radiates
within me when looking at the moles on the
backs of Ben’s hands and how perfect things mo-
mentarily seem when one of those hands is bent
and connected with mine.

176

TAME THE DARKNESS

INSIDE YOU

Apoorva Purohit

Darkness is a part of your mind that makes you are equally important. A psychiatrist will pre-
focus more on the negative emotions like fear, scribe you the medication to control your depres-
anger, hatred and detachment rather than the sion, anxiety or anger issues. Don’t avoid medica-
positive emotions like love, care, forgiveness and tion as it has proven to be extremely efficient in
tolerance. It is present in everyone, but some controlling the monsters inside you. A psycholo-
people have more darkness than the others based gist will assist you in your self-introspection jour-
on their personality types and life experiences. ney to understand the origin and the triggers of
Generally, it is seen that the people who keep the darkness inside you. He will not judge you, so
their emotions bottled up are more vulnerable to be truly honest about the incidents from your
such negative energies as any traumatic incident past that have triggered high intensity of fear,
impacts them much more deeply than the other anger or loneliness. These incidents depend from
personalities. Talking helps in calming the nega- person to person and may include bullying, abuse,
tive forces of mind, but it is also important to un- death, betrayal, sexual assault, dysfunctional fam-
derstand that not everyone is comfortable shar- ily, or health disorders. Such traumatic experienc-
ing their feelings with other people. These dark es (especially at an early age) can make you cyni-
forces are tamed in most of the people around us, cal about life and the people around you. During
but some people allow this darkness to run their this self-exploration journey through the psycho-
lives. therapy sessions, you will come across many as-
pects and traits about yourself that you were
How to know if the darkness inside you is taking completely unaware of. Ultimately, these sessions
over your life? If you feel emptiness and lack of will help you in moving on from your negative
purpose, or if you are incapable of loving your past experiences and the darkness they brought
family/friends, or if you feel like running away into your life.
from the people around you, or if you find your-
self getting angry on small things, then it is time 2. Changes in daily routine
to understand that the negativity inside you
needs to be calmed. If you choose to live in deni- Adopt the habit of “Early to bed and early to rise,”
al, then it can permanently strain your relation- as it will increase your positive energy levels. For
ship with your family, friends and coworkers, and many people, the time of the day when they feel
can make you do things that you might regret for the most negativity inside them is the evening.
the rest of your lives. But you should know that it So, reserve that time for spending with family/
is never too late and this darkness can be tamed friends or engaging in some sort of physical activi-
by the following ten ways: ty outside your house. You can jog or walk in
some park, or play an outdoor sport, or even go
1. Medication and psychotherapy to the market and buy some groceries. Try not to
spend the evening time alone inside your house
Consult a psychiatrist (for medication) and a psy- as your mind will focus more on the negative
chologist (for psychotherapy), as both treatments

177

emotions like fear, anger and hatred at this time. 6. Self-motivation
If you have the required stamina, then high inten-
sity exercises like kickboxing or weight lifting can Motivate yourself whenever any person or situa-
be very useful to get your negativity out in the tion triggers fear, anger or hatred in you. Tell
right way so that you can spend the remaining yourself that this emotion is only because of
day with a positive attitude. some past traumatic events, and you don’t want
those events to control your life anymore. Take
3. Yoga and meditation charge of your emotions and actions as now you
are safe and strong. If there are some people
Practicing yoga and meditation every day is a around you, who always try to put you down,
must for all people who have high negative ener- develop a thick skin towards them and don’t take
gies inside them. Yoga and meditation are the their comments seriously. Just remember that
keys to psychological and emotional healing, and you were, you are and you will always be a very
will help you in cultivating a more nonjudgmental special person, no matter what others think.
relationship with yourself and the people around
you. “Pranayama (Bhramari and Anulom-Vilom),” 7. Let the light come in
“Garudasana,” “Uttanasana,” “Salamba Sar-
vangasana,” “Matsyasana,” “Vrksasana,” and Do not cut yourself off from the outside world as
“Balasana” yoga positions can be very useful in it will increase the negative forces inside you. Try
improving the overall mental health. They also to sit, work and sleep near the doors and win-
give you the strength to forgive the past, and the dows so that you always have a contact with the
self-confidence to calmly handle tough situations outside world and the nature around you. This
without getting scared or angry. way, whenever your mind will try to push you
towards darkness, the surroundings will pull you
4. One day at a time only back into the real life right away. Also, make it a
habit to smile and greet the people around you,
Adopt the philosophy of “One day at a time.” Yes- and soon you will realize that all people are not
terday has brought this darkness in you and the the same, many of them can be trusted. It is all
fear of future makes this darkness grow inside right to take your time before befriending some-
you. Thus, the best way to live life is to focus only one.
on making today a fruitful and happy day. When
you wake up in the morning, think about all the 8. Stop substance abuse
constructive things that you plan to do today, and
throughout the day focus your energies on People with darkness often try to numb them-
achieving those goals. While sleeping at night feel selves using alcohol or drugs. But these addictions
proud of your efforts and achievements, and ap- will only make life worse and take you on a much
preciate the strength inside you. darker path than before. In long-term, it will in-
crease the feelings of emptiness, rage, fear, ha-
5. Focus on work/studies and a creative hobby tred, pain and lack of purpose. Thus, stop sub-
stance abuse and cleanse your system by check-
Put most of your daily energy into your work or ing into a rehab right away.
studies and set ambitious career goals for your-
self. “An idle mind is a devil’s workshop,” so keep 9. Take a vacation
yourself busy and work on things passionately.
Soon you will see that your positive energies and Take an affordable vacation as it will expose you
self-confidence will grow. Also, make sure that to new people, cultures, and lifestyles, which will
you spend some time on a creative hobby that help you to develop a new enriched perspective
makes you feel good about life. There is at least on life and people. Travelling will also give you an
one such hobby in everyone’s life that makes opportunity to get away from the outer voices
them forget their fears, pains and troubles, like and focus on your inner self.
watching movies, playing sports, writing, dancing,
singing, cooking, etc. Do not neglect this hobby 10. Look around you
because it will keep your mind calm.
There are many people around you who do not
have money, food, house and family. There are

178

also many people around you who have been
victims of traumatic events like bullying, abuse,
sexual harassment, etc. So, it is important to
know that you are not the only hurt person. Some
people have been wounded much more deeply
than you, but they have shown the strength to
forgive and move on in their lives without getting
cynical. By taking inspiration from the people
around you, you can overcome your darkness and
follow the path that leads you and others like you
towards light.
Spirituality is also a way to get rid of the dark en-
ergies inside you as it gives purpose to your life.
However, belief in a superpower is a personal
choice and should not be forced. The above ways
will help you in taming the monsters inside you,
and as a result you will be able to live a happy and
fruitful life.
About the Author:
Apoorva Purohit is a researcher in the field of molecular simulation of biomolecules and materials. She
has a passion for creative writing and is currently working on her poetry book. She says that she is a pri-
vate person and writing is a very important part of her life as it gives her an opportunity to experience
different personalities and their journeys.

179

SUMMER 1961

John L. Stanizzi

(excerpt) would say, Hey, dibs. I didn’t know you robbed
that.
THE BEACH
In the beginning our parents didn’t know we were
I don’t recall who decided that it would be a great going down the river, not because we were trying
idea to follow the dirt road at Station 27 down to to keep anything from them, but because it didn’t
the river. We passed the road each day on our seem like a big deal. We were out of school. It
way to the trailer park where we hung out with was summer, and the days stretched out in front
some friends who lived there. Living in a trailer of us endlessly. I mean, the very first time might
park seemed pretty cool when I was twelve. The have been a minor adventure but only because
closeness of the trailers. Their tininess. That we had gotten to where the field actually ended
vague carnival atmosphere. The Connecticut Riv- at a stand of trees between the river and the
er silent and immense just down the hill past the road, and for some reason the place where a field
pastures that separated the trailers from the wa- ends, or begins (depends on how you look at) was
ter, the pastures where immense Holsteins kind of mysterious. It was a massive cul de sac of
grazed. The presence of the river added to the fields that held mysteries among the corn stalks.
appeal of the park. Twice during my short time on
earth I had seen the river rise up over the hill and We hid our bikes in the brush at the edge of the
put the trailer park under six feet of water, faded woods and headed in, out of the heat of the day
plastic flowers, and trash moving along in the and into the cool shade of the wetland where we
current where the road had been. traipsed and trudged until we came out at the
river.
Out in front of the trailer park was a little cinder
block building with a package store on the left To our amazement there was a little beach nes-
and a convenience store on the right. Of course, tled between eel grass and ferns, wigwam birch
we never went into the package store, only and tall grass that went on as far as you could see
looked through the dingy glass at the shelves of in both directions. And the sand felt familiar, like
bottles. But we went into the store all the time. a regular beach, only smaller. And there were the
Everything in there was covered with a sticky dust remnants of a little campfire, and footprints
that made the whole place dingy. There you around it in the sand.
could get milk and eggs, cereal, instant coffee,
cold cuts, and fruit that had been out too long. Hey, it’s still smoking, Andrew said.
There were cigarettes, cheap cigars, and behind
the counter, behind Al, semi-hidden, the Playboy STATION 27
magazines. When we ran out of smokes we
stopped at the store to grab a pack of Luckies for Dust clouds billowed up from under the five bikes
23 cents. Someone would usually also steal a rattling down the dirt road. The spokes, loaded
candy bar or two. Later, down the river, someone up with baseball cards, whirred like small jet en-
would bust out a Snickers and someone else gines. This was the dirt road at Station 27, a bus
stop on Old Main Street. It was narrow
and bumpy and slithered for a mile through high

180

cornfields down to the Connecticut River, the new no decision to jump into the river. We were excit-
summer air filled with the kicked-up dust from ed and ready to wash away the dust of our ride,
our bikes. that is until we were completely derailed when
Anthony noticed something inside a large hole in
We measured our closeness to the river by the the trunk of a dead maple.
smells. First the pungency of skunk cabbage, cool
and glossy and a rich deep green. If we kicked it Hey. Check it out. There’s somethin’ in this tree.
or stepped on it an odor rose that brought us to
attention and signaled our entrance into the wet- Mickey and I stopped undressing, and walked to
lands which slowly devoured the rotting cadavers Anthony who was removing something wrapped
of trees held fast in opulent black mud that would in newspaper.
suck you in up to the thighs if you chose hastily
where next to place your foot. The mud, slick and What isth it? What isth it? Mickey lisped.
shiny, smelled like the pig farm in August.
Anthony tore at the damp newspaper.
We emerged from the wetlands and arrived at
the river. The surprise of fine, hot white sand was It’s a big friggin’ steak or roast or somethin’!
as welcoming as any beach we’d ever known.
And there it was, the massive brown river that Gross, I said. Put it back!
lumbered slowly by. It seemed to be barely mov-
ing, huge trees, disintegrating, half submerged, Put in back hell! Anthony mocked. We’re cooking
heavy, bobbed gently in the viscous water, and this!
distended fish, dead carp and suckers mostly,
glided by, trailing their veils of putrid death. The He began to re-wrap the steak, his hands working
Hartford skyline gleamed on the other side. and automatically and fast, while his eyes searched
the wide river seemed to go on forever in both for more wealth in the tree.
directions.
Son of a bitch! There’s a Playboy in here, he said,
We stood on the shore, the murky water lapping fumbling to pull it out of the hole.
at our feet. We were tiny.
Yes! I yelled triumphantly, and we stood on either
THE RIVER RATS side of Anthony, gaping as he flipped through the
shiny pages.
It was the summer of 1961. We were on a colli-
sion course with 8th grade. We’d be the “big The thenterfold! Numb nuths! The thenterfold!
kids” in the school, the guys who got the girls and Mickey ordered.
then lied about what happened. We were feeling
pretty good. Grown up. Wise. Rebellious. What I am! Jee-us! Cool yer jets! Anthony said, an-
the hell could our parents do? Nothing. We had noyed.
everything in control.
And for a moment nothing existed, not the June
Our posse (we called ourselves a posse, but this sun, not the cicadas’ early drone, not the river
was way before posse became something scary – with its floating dead fish. All of our attention
we just got it off The Lone Ranger) was Anthony, was on what was being unfolded before us, the
his cousin Andrew visiting from the Bronx, Mark, most spectacular vision we had ever seen. Miss
Danny, Mickey, and me. We all lived less than a July. Absolutely naked except for a little red,
mile away from each other. white, and blue bow tie. Anthony held the maga-
zine out before him and we studied it like a treas-
This was our fourth, and last summer at the river. ure map.
One night in 1961, we saved the lives of some
people stranded in the middle of the river. Ho------ly! Mickey said quietly gawking. Look at
her jugs!
THE TREE
Yeah, Andrew said, look at her jugs. They’re big-
It was, of course, the carelessness of youth that ger than yer mother’s jugs, Mick.
drove us. At twelve we were fearless. We made
Yeah, Anthony said. They’re bigger than yer
mother’s jugs, chortling and making an idiotic
face.

181

Sthtoopid.
And that’s when, out of the corner of my eye, I
caught a glimpse of movement.
Hey you guys! Hey! Look!! I whispered nodding to
the right.
He was standing ten yards away from us. An old
man the color of raw turkey but covered with
curly white hair. His arms. His legs. His chest.
Curly white hair. He was completely naked ex-
cept for a shiny leaf on the bridge of his nose, a
long-handled shovel held across his body, and
one high-topped, unlaced leather boot on his
right foot.
What are ye boys doin’ wit me stooff? He spoke
with a stern, heavy Irish brogue and pointed
sharply at the tree with his spade as if he were
stabbing the air.
What d’ye think yer doin’ he said, poking aggres-
sively in the direction of the maple.

About the Author:
John L. Stanizzi’s full-length collections are Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the
Wall, After the Bell, Hallalujah Time!, and High Tide-Ebb Tide. He’s had poems in Prairie Schooner,
American Life in Poetry, The Cortland Review, New York Quarterly, Tar River, Rattle, Poet Lore, Hand &
Handsaw, Passages North, and many others. John’s work has also been translated into Italian and ap-
peared in Italy’s El Ghibli, and The Journal of Italian Translations. His translator is the poet, Angela
D’Ambra. John has read at venues throughout the northeast, and he teaches literature at Manchester
Community College in Connecticut. His newest book, Sundowning, will be out later this year with Finish-
ing Line Press. He lives in Coventry with his wife, Carol.

182

ON PSEUDONYMS

Viswanath Gurram

What's in a Name? Said the great Bard of Avon. The best part of the story is that she was recog-
nized and appreciated as a female author in her
But believe me, for a young writer who still has own lifetime.
his work cut out for him, the name seems Every-
thing. He wishes to write under a name that So shall I join the choir invisible
would fill the reader's mouth with just the right
sensation and the reader's mind with just the Whose music is the gladness of the world .
right pleasantness. Our writer looks high and low,
and comes up with the most interesting inven- Indeed has George Eliot bestowed on mankind
tions. Lo! some happy music, and is a glorious member of
that invisible choir.
H. H. Munro reads Rubaiyat and adopts the name
Saki, Morris West transforms into Michael East, Alfred G. Gardiner became Alpha of the Plough on
Edith Mary Pargeter surfaces as Ellis Peters and the peremptory demand of the editor of The Star,
Samuel Langhorne Clemens becomes the amazing who gave him a 'whole firmament' from which to
Mark Twain, the creator of our childhood friends choose a name. And this delightful essayist looks
Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. He is feted by society up at the night skies and 'hitches his little waggon'
as 'the Belle of New York'! to the head star of that glorious constellation, the
Great Bear, also called through the centuries:
Fame is a vapour; popularity an accident; the only Charlie's Wain, the Chariot of David, the Dipper
earthly certainty is oblivion', wrote Twain, but he and the Plough.
was proved mistaken. He wasn't meant for oblivi-
on. Agatha Christie was so renowned for her mystery
novels that she felt restrained from experi-
Early in my writing career I decided to take on a menting in any other genre under that name. And
pseudonym. It seemed the most appropriate thus was Mary Westmacott born, who painted
thing to do! Almost all those beloved writers who Landscapes of Loves and Regrets with that mar-
lined my bookshelves had taken on a pseudonym velously sure touch that her alter displayed in
at some point in their lives - George Eliot, whose crime fiction. I strongly feel that Mary was over-
Middlemarch was one of the literary joys I had shadowed by Agatha, and I claim to this day that
discovered in my early teens; Alpha of the Plough, 'Absent in the Spring' deserves as much an hon-
my wonderful, constant companion; Mary West- our as did 'Murder of Roger Ackroyd.'
macott, who gave me such great portions of Gi-
ant's Bread - oh, the list goes on! And then of course, there's that Mistress of His-
torical Romance, Eleanor Alice Hibbert, who be-
The varying reasons for taking on a pen name came Victoria Holt ('Kirkland Revels'), Philippa
make a very interesting story in themselves. Mary Carr ('Daughters of England') and Jean Plaidy
Ann Evans became George Eliot to be accepted as ('The Princess of Celle'), just to fine tune the dis-
a literary force in the male dominated nineteenth tinction between her abundant Romantic Novels.
century England. And heavens, did she succeed! One wrote pure Period Fiction, the other wrote
Historical Novels with a Strong Helping of Fiction,

183

and the third attempted a Purer Historical Literature. It is to her credit that she sold remarkably well
under all her three aliases. Well, it is a world full of romantic people, isn't it? And romance shall flourish
till the end of time, for,

“Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs,

And love is love, in beggars as in kings “

In those days and even now, Urdu poetry has had an intoxicating effect on me. The language itself is like
pomegranate juice - rich and red and tangy, it is the language of passion and love. And in Urdu poems,
the takhallus (the pseudonym) plays a vital role. The poets choose names that are particularly descrip-
tive of their emotions. The last couplet of a ghazal, called the makta, contains the pen name of the artist
embedded in the verse, a sort of a proud signature, a jewel in the clasp. Bahadur Shah, the last descend-
ant of Tamerlane and the last Emperor of Delhi, was a phenomenal poet who wrote under the name
Zafar . The British had then conquered almost all of India and in 1857 had banished Zafar to Burma
where he died remembering the motherland to his last breath.

“hai kitana badanasiib Zafar dafn ke liye

do gaz zamiin bhii na milii ku-E--yaar mein”

(How hapless is Zafar, for his burial he couldn't get

Even two yards of earth in his beloved native land)

This practice of the Urdu poets influenced other Indian writers as well, and among that pantheon we
have the fine Hindi poet Shiv Mangal Singh, writing under the entirely befitting name Suman (Flower).
His poems are simple and smooth, and they were a sweet part of my green years.

“kaise chal paata yadi na mila hota mujhko aakul antar?
kaise chal paata yadi miltE, chir-trupti, amarta poorn prahar

aabhari hoon main un sab ka de gayE vyatha ka jo prasad
jis - jis se path par sneh mila, us - us rahi ko dhanyavad .”

(How could I've moved ahead on my path, had I not a spirit dissatisfied
I wouldn't have moved at all, had I boundless joys, immortal dawns

I am beholden to all who've gifted me heartache
I am thankful to all who've befriended me; on my wayfaring path…)

While I was neither seeking anonymity like Acton Bell nor was I trying to distinguish between genres (I
did not even have a genre to boast of, and my whimsical literature, my friends point out kindly, definite-
ly does not fit into any), I just was entranced by the allure of the Pseudonym. All my repressed dramatic
instincts came to fore as I forayed into the Land of Names to choose a Persona for myself. Whatever
mask I put on that day, perhaps I once was that mask itself, somewhere in the centuries past…

“Ipse ego (nam memini) Troiani tempore belli

Panthoides Euphorbus eram “

(I can declare, for I remember well,

that in the days of the great Trojan War,

I was Euphorbus, son of Pantheus…)

184

I sat on the porch steps gazing at the evening skies, orange and dust laden. The scent of jasmines was
strong; it was the height of summer in Hyderabad, that wonderful Indian city where most people are
either poets themselves or read poetry the way the rest of the world reads the daily newspaper - as a
matter of absolute necessity! I remember well that day when I was going home from Alliance Francaise
in an auto-rickshaw, loudly practising the pronunciation of the French verb 'boire' and its past participle,
trying to produce the proper throaty sounds. I was totally oblivious to the fact that I must have first con-
fused and then irritated the poor driver with my concerted efforts at getting 'bu' just right! And then
came the Gentle Blow! The driver sang a couplet of Ghalib, the master of Urdu poetry, in a casual mono-
tone. I quote the original, and translate it for you, dear reader:

imaaN mujhe roke hai jo khiNche hai mujhe kufr
ka'aba mere peeche hai kaleesa mere aage
(My impiety pulls me hard while my honour holds me in check
The pub lies behind me and the cathedral lies ahead)

Sitting in the back seat, I got the message, though it was devious. Poor man, how he would have loved
to be impious and tell me to zip it! Suffice it to say I was contritely silent for the rest of the way home.

But I digress. Where was I? I was sitting on the porch steps, trying to find a name for myself. My diary
was open on my lap and my Camlin fountain pen was uncapped and ready. I wrote:

Art Garden

I do remember thinking then that it was a pleasantly comforting name. The second on the list was
Meeth Mitra, which I thought delightfully redundant, since both words meant 'friend' in Hindi.

My good friend G_, who joined me on the steps at this point, laughed outright at my first two inventions
and without actually explaining why, pronounced them both 'unsuitable'. My little grey cells produced
further nomenclature, which I list below, along with the enlightening comments made by my well-
meaning friend.

OmkarNath (the Master of 'Om', the yogic word) - 'too sanctimonious'

Percy Marvell - 'ridiculously obvious that I was stuck on Shelley and Andrew Marvell'

KamalKanth (the King of the Lotus) - 'sickeningly romantic'

And thus we went on, till the sun had fully set. I went to bed, without having created an alter-
personality and feeling quite shadowless and disappointed. All these years later, and many deeper frus-
trations later, I look back upon those days of youth and its inconsequentialities with unbecomingly
sweet nostalgia. Those were the days that held so much promise, and they went by ever so swiftly. Yes
indeed,

I have seen priestesses of Life go by
Gliding in samite through the incense-sea…

I discovered that selecting a name for myself was as difficult as picking a title for one of my poems or
stories. Nothing ever seems right! I find myself reverting, like most writers, to the likes of John Donne,
Walter Savage Landor and Shakespeare, seeking apt phrases from their works to entitle my literary
efforts. Colin Dexter had to resort to Gillian Cooper for a classic title for one of his Inspector Morse
books:

Espied the God with gloomy soul
The prize that in the casket lay
Came with silent tread and stole
The jewel that was ours away

185

He could well have called the novel 'Death of A Daughter'. But then there would not have been that
poignant sense of loss that the reader feels so deeply when he reads the words - 'The Jewel That Was
Ours', which was the phrase the author wisely chose for the title.
One fine day I sent in a poem to a biweekly magazine, under the name of Gangadhar (the Lord of the
Hills from whose coils of hair flows the mighty river Ganga). I was particularly fond of that name and I
adopted it without the consent of my friend - actually I never apprised him of my assumption of that
pseudonym. Just as well, since my poem was returned, with a Kind Letter of Regret; and I dropped my
alias, with a Heavy Sigh of Regret.
I knew well that the quality of my literature and people's response to it was most surely unaffected by
the pen name I used; but I was young, and quite insanely superstitious, and thus I am still on earth,
years later, writing under my own name.
Give me my robe, put on my crown, I have
Immortal longings in me
Perhaps it's time to be adventurous, kind reader, and bravely tackle all my aspirations! I therefore re-
main, your friend Gangadhar.

About the Author:
Viswanath Gurram is a poet and a writer who spent his formative years in the multicultural milieu of
Hyderabad, India. He is fascinated by the little incidents that arise in people’s everyday life, and aspires
to capture them in stories and poems. He currently shuttles between United States and Canada under-
taking human resources work, which provides him greater insights into the human psyche. Some of his
poetry can be perused at http://www.chesterfieldian.blogspot.com/. A collection of his short stories is
available as a Kindle book at: https://www.amazon.com/s?field-keywords=viswanath+gurram

186

EXOTIC FLOWERS

Zac Pingle

Chapter One: Before the Summer Nicole was the only woman I’ve ever asked to
dance with. That summer Nicole stole me away
Warm winds rolled in from the south just before for hours to walk under the heavy amber glow of
the summer. In the afternoon dew would still streetlights. Years of being in marching band
linger on blades of grass, and grasshoppers would trained Nicole to always step in unison with me. I
sing. Clouds in the west blocked the body of the asked her to tell me her favorite memories, and
sun, allowing thin strands of orange sunlight to she told me she was still making them.
peek over.
After leaving the diner, Nicole threw me down on
Nicole sat across from me in a diner. I rested my the soft grass in a park and laid down beside me.
hand on a cup of coffee and steam glided through The moon had come up, and the remaining sun-
my fingers. I loved Nicole’s little habits when she light bounced off the ripples of a nearby pond.
sat in restaurants. She fiddled with the paper
binding that held her silverware together as she “Tell me a story,” said Nicole.
talked, tearing it into strips and re-attaching them
into a paper chain. Nicole bit her lip when she “Scientists are helpless romantics. Tesla is a good
was trying to guess which song was playing on the example.”
speakers at restaurants.
“You’re such a nerd sometimes.”
A woman sat with her son a few booths down.
The boy peered over the seat, and the mother “I know.” The air began to cool, and I put my jack-
poked him in the side. “That’ll be you one day. et over Nicole. “Tesla was the son of a preacher in
They’re cute, aren’t they?” said the mother. The Austria. He had grown up with a beautiful woman
boy sat back down on the seat and crumpled his named Katherine, and Tesla quickly fell in love
face. “Gross.” with her. They would swim in the rivers, and feed
the pigeons. When Tesla returned from school,
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Nicole. Katherine was the first person he wanted to see.”

“I guess so,” I smiled at her. “It’s like when Nicole rolled over onto me and laid her head on
you’re at an art museum.” my chest. “So what happened?”

“I wouldn’t know,” replied Nicole, “I’ve “Katherine was promised to another man. As the
never been to one.” story goes, Tesla was so distraught over Katherine
getting married that he moved to America to start
“Well, I’ll have to take you then. There’s his life over again. Soon, Tesla began working for
this moment when you find a painting or a sculp- Thomas Edison and invented alternating current.
ture and forget everything around you and just He became rich and famous, but remained alone
freeze. And you forget to speak.” for the rest of his life.”

Nicole ran her finger around the lip of her water “That’s kind of a sad story,” said Nicole.
glass. “The Beatles” she whispered, and I knew
that she had figured out what song was playing. “Yeah. The good stories always are.”

187

Chapter Two: A Year Later they chased each other and tussled on freshly cut
grass. “You chase me, then I’ll chase you,” one of
The night I found out Nicole had gone missing, it the children said to another.
was already a week too late.
I marched through suburban infrastructure,
“If you stay home from school today, checking the school grounds, behind alleyways
they’ll know it’s about Nicole,” my mother told and in abandoned grain mills. An owl resided in
me. I had not slept, and my clothes were damp in the grain mill to the east, spying at me through
perspiration. Nicole had been living with her the cracks of remaining plaster and steel. A
friend Tina for three months before she disap- church was a block to the west of Nicole’s house.
peared. Tina called me a week after this hap- The steeple had a neon red cross fixed at the top
pened. “I didn’t know how to tell you, Zac. She that drenched the sidewalk in a red glow as I
just walked out into the night while I was asleep. walked under it.
She just… walked out into the night.”
I called Nicole’s phone number, “I’m sorry, but
“Come on, get ready for school,” Mother the number you have dialed is no longer availa-
told me. “You can look for Nicole once you’re ble.”
home. And try to eat something today.”
Chapter Three: Two-Dimensional Horses
The brick corridors of my high school were lined
with dented and scuffed vermillion lockers. I was in the process of reading Nicole’s diary. Not
Teachers herded students into the cramped con- a breach of privacy that I would normally con-
fines of classrooms like cattle to slaughter. My done, though as Tina and I had agreed upon, the
hands shook during my first class, and my hand- right to privacy is not valid in cases of a missing
writing was nearly illegible. person.

“Are you alright?” the girl next to me “I don’t know what you’re expecting to
asked. find,” said Tina when she gave me the diary after
months of pleading. “Maybe you shouldn’t read
“Yeah,” I replied, “just too much coffee it.”
this morning.”
I already knew that Nicole had sex with another
The lunch room was a roar of teenagers acting man while she was with me, I just didn’t want to
out their own hormone-fuelled dramas. I tapped believe it. A man, Richard, is written about in
the tips of my fingers on the grey, round table great detail in the fourteen pages that Nicole had
that I sat at, trying to tune out the laughter and filled out.
screams of the people around me. I wanted Earth
to stop turning. April 14, 2013, “Richard… he’s my 22 year old
manager who constantly hits on me.”
Sage, an acquaintance from middle school, sat
across from me. She had also lost a “Nicole” be- I close the diary. The couch that I lay on has be-
fore. Her best friend of the same name had com- come morphed to my outline because I can no
mitted suicide the first year I attended school in longer sleep in my bedroom. Not since I found
town. Sage’s rose colored nails pierced the skin of one of Nicole’s hairs under my pillow. I get up
a tangerine, and darted her eyes from the fruit up from the couch and stride to the cabinet above
to me, and then back down again. the oven where the whiskey is stored. The first
splash of liquor goes down easily, as does the
“I’m sorry you lost your friend,” said Sage. next when I sit down to examine the cover of the
diary. Two-dimensional horses are painted in iri-
I left mother a note at home after school saying descence on the hard bindings. I continue to read.
that I would not be back until late. It’s a thirteen
mile walk to the town Nicole used to live in. May 18, 2013, “Me and Zac are in a bit of a rough
When I arrived, the sun hung low to the west and patch… Richard left a few weeks ago, back to
dogs rested in dry weeds. Coffee beans and bread Phoenix.”
emanated the air as restaurants closed. Children
shielded their eyes against the setting sun while A white moth landed on the coffee table. I turn

188

over my glass and trap the flapping insect under “You’re right. I should have let you drown in that
it. Thin yellow drops of whiskey slide down the bottle, but watching you be uncomfortable in an
walls of the glass. The glass taps as the moth rams arcade would make me happy.” Sage stuck her
into its sides and breathes in alcohol. I know that tongue out at me.
mother is awake. I can smell her cannabis rising
through the vents in the floor. Sage’s younger sister, Nelly, stepped closer to me
and smiled. “Don’t test her. She’ll tackle you to
“I told Zac about when mom caught me and Rich- the ground if she has to.”
ard in the driveway after work... I told him that
we were just talking.” Nelly, Sage and I towered above the line of boys
and girls to the “Laser War Room.” The boy in
I close the diary. I throw it across the room. I front of Sage reached a height just below her
drink as much whiskey from the bottle that I can breasts. He craned his neck back gawked at her.
manage. I storm through the livingroom and
kitchen. I can’t stand still. A knocking comes from A worker addressed the line of laser soldiers,
the door, and for a moment I believe it’s Nicole. “Okay, here are the ground rules: if you get shot,
you must return to your base to recharge,
I rushed to the door with bottle in hand. Sage was shooting targets will give power-ups, no physical
standing on the concrete step with her younger contact. Have fun!”
sister.
Sage pulled a hair tie from her pocket and gath-
“I’ve come to the rescue,” said Sage. ered her white hair into a ponytail. Her blouse
hung over the vest at the shoulders. Kids scurried
My grip on the bottle loosens, and I let out a into a laughing massacre at the sound of an
breath of air. alarm. Nelly dodged and rolled from cover to cov-
er. Sage held down a small pack of fifth graders
“Sage, I’m not really in the mood--” with suppressing fire. I was quickly flanked and
subdued by a boy with a pizza sauce-glazed chin.
“To bad,” Sage said with a smile. “Come on, let’s
go. It’ll be fun.” Another siren sounded in the room, and the lights
changed to neon red. My mind forgot that I was
“I’m really not a ‘fun’ kind of person.” fighting in a laser war, and I was raptured back to
Nicole’s house. I was looking down the street. My
Sage tugs at my arm, and I nearly drop the whis- silhouette on the sidewalk was casted by red ne-
key which I forgot I was holding. on from the church. It was the night I found Ni-
cole’s house abandoned. I thought that perhaps
“Stop brooding. It’s bad for your skin, you know.” Nicole was hiding out in the yard, or maybe just
wanted to see someone she knew again.
“Fine,” I say, and turn back up to the stairs.
I felt a hand clasp onto my collar and push me
I entered the living room, put down the bottle, against the wall. Sage’s crimson nails blended into
and released the moth. the background of the room.

Chapter Four: Vandalism “Die!” shouted Sage. Her laser blaster is
pushed into my gut.
Blue and green squares of carpet in the laser ar-
cade were interrupted by soda stains and crushed “Okay, okay. I’m dead,” I said.
popcorn. The man at the counter locked his gaze
on Sage, perhaps because sixteen-year-olds don’t “Dead people don’t say their dead. They
normally play laser tag. Perhaps he just wanted to go like this--” Sage put her hand to her forehead
watch Sage sway to him and ask for tickets. and feigned a glorious death only seen in World
War II movies.
“This is juvenile,” I tell Sage.
“No physical contact!” a voice shouted
She whipped around, holding three red tickets. from near the door, “You two. Out.”
“When was the last time you acted like a kid?
Never, I bet.”

“When was the last time you acted like an
adult?” I asked.

189

Nelly and Sage insisted that they rest and recu- I started for the hallway. The lights of my room
perate at my apartment after the war. I crept were on. “I think I should check on her.”
through the dark hallway in the apartment. Moth-
er left note on her door, “I’m going for a drive. Be Sage tackled me to the ground and put her full
back later.” Sage and Nelly were sitting on the weight on my ribcage to keep me pinned. Plati-
living room couch when I returned. Sage plucked num hair draped my face, and she laughed in my
strings on my acoustic guitar and stared at me ear.
while trying to strum a chord.
“The mission’s been compromised!” Sage
“Know how to play?” I asked. called to Nelly.

“Nope.” Sage nudged her sister’s arm with her The two girls dashed for the door and made a
elbow. beeline for the car. Toilet paper lined each crevice
and ledge in my bedroom. Strands hung from the
“I have to go freshen my makeup,” said Nelly, ceiling, and covered my bed entirely. Just as I
who then strode into the dark hallway. walked through the doorway, my phone goes off.

I took the bottle of whiskey back to the kitchen, A text message from Sage reads, “You should
and Sage handed me the guitar. check your car.”

“How long were you and Nicole together?” On the street corner I find my car has suffered the
same fate as my bedroom. The upholstery was
“Almost two years.” completely covered in toilet paper. A large heart
is drawn on the driver’s side window with lipstick.
Sage removed her hair tie and placed it back into The crows screech and mock from the power
her pocket. “My boyfriend and I have been to- lines. I cannot will myself to not laugh.
gether for almost that long. How long have you
been single?” Another text comes from Sage, “See? Wasn’t that
fun?”
I pluck a few guitar strings, and realize how out of
tune the instrument is. I had forgotten to look for Nicole that night.

“Hmm. Nicole went missing about six Chapter Five: The Flower
months back, and we split up three months be-
fore then so… nine months.” Search dogs will go into a psychosis if they never
find what they’re looking for. Roads do not cease
The living room felt larger after Sage kidnapped when looking for a missing person. Instead they
me. Crows cawed from a power line outside, and stretch and loop. Like a hedge maze from hell. My
nudge each other over on the wire. A dog is bark- searches began after dark, when Nicole was most
ing and whining in contest, but the birds do not likely to be mobile. I know that I won’t find her.
budge. It’s been almost a year and a half since her disap-
pearance. Richard was in Phoenix when Nicole
“That’s long enough to have a baby!” says went missing, the county sheriff’s department has
Sage. “Have you at least tried to date anybody?” posted a notice online, but the posters had been
taken down from light posts.
“The thought hasn’t crossed my mind to
be honest.” This night in particular is when Tina joined me in
the search. A private investigator had come to her
Sage moved in closer. Her lips parted, her blue house the week before. He told Tina that authori-
eyes darted to the hallway then to my own. “I ties had found Nicole’s dead body. This type of lie
think Nelly has a crush on you.” is a common tactic. Investigators and search dogs
will go to extremes for a lead. After hours of sob-
“I think thirteen is a little young for me. bing the investigator told Tina that it was a lie.
Where is she by the way?” “I’m sorry,” he told her, “I’m just trying to find
Nicole.”
Sage’s eyebrows rose. She stood from the couch
and the muscles of her mouth constricted to hide
a smile. “I’m sure she’s still fixing her makeup.
You know how girls are.”

190

“Do you think we’ll ever see Nicole again?” Tina to school with black eyes and a split lip. Boxing
asked me. and car repair was the only way that I could go
without thinking about Nicole anymore. At the
“I don’t know.” rate I was going with restoration, the car would
be finished when I retired.
A woman walked down the street. Same height as
Nicole, and same hair color. Part of search dog Sage slid into me when I made a sharp right turn,
psychosis is that you start seeing what you’re as the car did not have safety belts.
looking for when it’s not there. Tina stops, for she
too suffers from the disorder. “I may need you to sign a waiver if you
keep getting rides with me, Sage,” I said.
“She doesn’t have Nicole’s ears,” I say.
We pull into the parking lot of a swimming pool
Tina nods and we continue walking. and I inspect the carburetor. The engine was
shaking, the pistons were all firing. I feared a
“I read Nicole’s diary. I need to ask you some- bearing was jarred in the rear axle. Something
thing.” you can’t fix on the side of the road.

Tina looked to the south. She produced a ciga- “I still love your car,” Sage said.
rette from her jacket. The orange glow overpow-
ered the amber streetlights. “Why do you torture “Why’s that?”
yourself?”
“Gives you something to do.” said Sage.
“Humor me,” I say. “Why did Nicole cheat on me “Gives you something to fix.”
with Richard?”
Sage and I pass the fence to the pool. Sage wore
“It was complicated.” an American flag bikini. The sun refracted off her
skin, and her freckles scrunched together when
“No shit. A twenty two-year-old meth addict she smiled. Her body looked spirit-like after she
sweeping a sixteen-year-old girl off her feet is emerged from the water.
inherently not simple.”
“Does your boyfriend know that you’re
The wind picked up. Leaves scratched on pave- here?” I asked.
ment, and rain clouds began to invade the sky.
“Of course he does.” Sage spread a towel
“Richard was like an exotic flower to Nicole,” said down and laid on the grass. “He trusts me, you
Tina. “He just had a personality that you were know.”
missing. She wanted him because he was a meth
addict, and because he was complicated. There “I believe you,” I say
was a list of personality traits that Nicole loved
about you, but Richard filled the other part of the Sage rolled onto her side. Her hands reach over
list that you didn’t.” and grasp my cheeks. She looks over the bruises I
have from boxing. “You’re just a mess aren’t
I remained silent. The air I breathed turned white. you?” Her right hand trails down my neck and
Dust-sized flakes of snow began to fall. caresses a scar on my chest with her finger.

“After you left, all she had was an exotic flower.” “Tell me a story,” she said.

Chapter Six: The Art of Car Maintenance Chapter Seven: Headlights

A faded outline of Sage’s lipstick heart remained Rain fell heavily as I walked in the downtown
on the window of my car. It was a 1963 Ford Fair- streets of Denver. Water rushed down through
lane 500. The underside was consumed in rust, the gutters, carrying paper cups and cigarette
and much of the engine’s components needed to butts as it funneled into a storm drain.I had
be replaced in order to run smoothly. During the stopped looking for Nicole in Mead and Long-
summer, my head would often be between pave- mont. I had covered so much ground that I need-
ment and the oil pan as I toiled on repairs. I had ed to branch out my search to sites that were
started boxing at this point. Often I would show hours away by car.

191

Maybe I would find Nicole on Federal Avenue. wanted to step in front of the cars, wave them
Last week I had been here. A pile of clothes down and do anything to make one stop help this
burned on a sidewalk during that visit, and pedes- woman. The cars continued to pass, and I stood
trians passed by without panic or apparent con- under the glow of headlights.
cern. There’s a hotel on Federal called “The Lucky
U.” Women hung over the railings to observe I didn’t want to find Nicole after that night, but I
clumps of clientele without names. Perhaps Ni- never stopped looking.
cole had found her way here.
Chapter Eight: I Need My Pain
A man leaned against the hood of his car as I zig-
zagged through the open corridors. His stare fol- I stood on the balcony of my new apartment. Cars
lowed me as I zigzagged through the open corri- were parked like pill boxes in the lot below. Fat
dors of “The Lucky U.” A stare so wide and pene- drops of rain collected into small pools on the
trating that I thought at first that his eyelids had blacktop. Sage stood next to me. She had put on
been cut off, leaving him with a perpetual pene- ruby lipstick, and a black dress.
trating stare.
In the room adjacent to the balcony, Star Trek V:
A half naked woman called down to me, “I got The Final Frontier was playing. In the movie, the
what you’re looking for. Come on back… I got Enterprise is taken over by a man who claims he’ll
what you need.” escort the crew to God. The man has one power
which he uses to convince the crew. He can take
My phone rings, and Tina is on the other away people’s pain.
line. “How far have things gotten with Sage?” she
asked. Sage reached to my head and ran her hand
through my hair.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Things haven’t gone
anywhere. Neither of us want to make the first “Why are you here?” I ask.
move.”
“Don’t ask me that.” Sage takes away her
Before this night I had imagined finding Nicole in hand and moves in closer. “Can’t we just be hap-
a diner by a highway. I imagined that I would find py right now? Why must you always brood?”
her sitting at a counter with a coffee in her hand
on a star-filled evening. Something that Norman I listen to the tv in the other room. I hear Dr.
Rockwell would paint. I would ask her why she McCoy’s voice, “Jim, try to be open about this.”
left. I’d tell her that she didn’t have to keep hiding
if she didn’t want to. “I don’t want my pain taken away,” Kirk
retorts. “I need it. I need my pain.”
Nicole wasn’t at “The Lucky U.”
Sage leans over the railing. An owl is roosting on
I walked back to Federal. A woman was curled the tree, its large eye glare at me. I grab Sage’s
over on the sidewalk of an overpass with her face hips and pull her back onto the center of the
in her hands. A man was standing over her with deck. Sage places her right hand on my shoulder,
his hand balled into a fist. and her head on the other.

“Stop!” I yell to him. “See?” she says, “Isn’t this nice?”

The man puts his hand in his pocket, and I see I stopped wanting to be happy, or to make every-
something silver peek out from the pocket’s cor- thing okay again. I pushed Sage away. I told her to
ner. “Not your business,” the man says. go home. I ask her to leave because I’m not a bro-
ken thing she can fix. Because it’s better to be in
The woman removes her hands, and I see that it pain. Because I can’t become anyone’s exotic
is worn and rough like carpet. It’s not Nicole. I still flower.
hadn’t found her. Tears are streaming from the
blue eyes of the woman. Cars are passing by, and
their headlights gloss over us as though they too
had heard the man. None of the cars stopped. I

192

About the Author:
Zac Pingle was born in Florida, and grew up in
several places across the United States. From a
young age, Zac developed a taste for writing,
reading under trees and getting into trouble. Cur-
rently, Zac resides in Oregon as a college student
where he aspires to become an English professor.

193

A SHUT IN PLACE

Cameron Kenny

We could see the Louisiana State Penitentiary at I didn't see how I could persuade a parole board it
Angola looming far off in the distance. Angola is was a weekday, much less convince them a rapist
hard to miss. It is an island unto itself and has a should be released.
palpable timelessness to it, as if you're looking
back into the 1960's, or the 1930's, or really any- Our chariot for the adventure into darkest Louisi-
time at all. The guards in watchtowers rest their ana was my banged-up red Ford Festiva that
shotguns in the crook of their arms, their sun- splashed rain on my head and left shoulder
glasses on despite the drizzle. Below them, work through duct tape on the driver's side window. It
crews march in long lines carrying hoes and was like motoring in a crushed Coke can. The
flanked by deputies on horseback. O brother, scenery en route to Angola was grim to the point
thou art here. of surreal: broken down shacks, tarps for roofs,
cars on cement blocks, mournful-looking dogs
Our law school, Tulane, had a pro bono require- and kids. Despite this, we lapsed into hysterical
ment for students. Shana and I had opted for the laughter during much of the long drive, what with
Parole For Pops program, wherein we were the debilitating hangovers and the rain bouncing
meant to help deserving old souls who paid their off my forehead and the Festiva slipping all over
debt to society go home and spend their last days the road.
with loved ones. We were assigned a pair of in-
mates – a white rapist and a black murderer – for When we reached the main gate, though, we re-
whom we would act as quasi-lawyers at their up- alized we needed to straighten up immediately.
coming parole board hearings. Naturally we both The entrance to Angola is not a place for gaiety.
wanted the murderer, but when we drew straws, The guards are all business and they search your
I got the rapist. I tried to be gracious in defeat car with real concentration and zeal. You just
but privately I was very disappointed. hold your breath and pray they won't find any-
thing, not even the tiniest marijuana seed, that
We stayed out late drinking the night before our would cause you to spend the rest of your life
trip to Angola, mostly out of dread, and had terri- trapped in Angola. I worried they might just im-
ble hangovers. The Parole For Pops coordinator pound the Coke can because it clearly wasn't road
had stressed that we dress conservatively, which -worthy, and then we'd be stuck here anyway.
in Shana's opinion apparently meant a long black Shana had some reason for us not taking her
skirt with a very long slit that went all the way up, BMW and I struggled to recall it as the wolves
and bare legs underneath. I asked her about the circled the injured Festiva. Maybe she didn't
skirt before we left New Orleans, while she still want to expose the BMW to the abject poverty
had time to change it. “It's full length,” she an- and dysfunction we saw during the drive. It
swered, as though I hadn't noticed that. Through might've been an affront to the car's Germanic
the thick fog of the hangover, I struggled to think love of prosperity and order.
how I could persuade her the skirt was going to
be a big problem. After ten seconds of fuzzy con- When we finally cleared the gate inspection and
templation, I gave up. Since formulating even this walked into the outer reception area, there
simple argument was impossible in my condition, was immediate uproar about Shana's skirt. The

194

eyeballs of the matron behind the desk practically unsophisticated, so poor, so unattractive, and so
popped out and bounced up and down on springs inadequate in every way that I gave up on life and
like in a cartoon. “THIS IS A PRISON!!,” she ex- developed an addiction to Space Invaders that I
claimed, as if we hadn't realized. We both waited financed with a life of crime. The only upside of
as other guards joined in the fracas, unsure how this experience was I achieved lasting peace with
high the outrage might escalate. Clearly the staff academic mediocrity. Grading on to a Law Re-
was worried that Shana's appearance bare-legged view many years later was a fluke, and I expected
in the slitted skirt would cause a nuclear bomb to to settle down in the class ranking to where I
go off inside the jail. I thought this was a legiti- would feel more comfortable. Shana, on the oth-
mate concern. Not only was the slit really long er hand, was ranked 4th and was amenable to
and wide, but Shana is stunning, gorgeous. She climbing the last few notches.
stared at the matron for a while, thinking, her cat
eyes slanted more than usual. The matron brought Shana the stapler and she
quickly stapled the length of the slit and handed it
“Do you have a stapler?” she asked calmly. The back. Phew, I thought, thank fucking God. The
matron huffed and puffed to go look for a stapler, matron, surprised the stapler had solved the
muttering I don't know what the hell that girl problem and oddly not happy about it, said some-
thinks a stapler is going to fix with that indecent thing to suggest the incident had been above and
clothing. I hoped to God she was wrong because I beyond the call of duty and had completely worn
didn't want to go in there alone. The combina- her out: “Well, finnnnnnnally, THAT'S resolved!”
tion of the hangover and the insidious creeping
up of my terrible claustrophobia and the dread of We then crossed through what felt like a dozen
meeting "my client" -- and assisting him, no less -- internal security checkpoints and prison doors
was about all I could handle on my own. While into an interior waiting room. To report that I
Shana and I sat and waited in the inappropriate didn't enjoy the feeling of being deep inside An-
attire doghouse, I opened my client's file and re- gola would be a bit of an understatement. It was
viewed the facts of his case. He had forced his like being inside a whale -- moist and smelly and
way into the car of a 15-year old girl outside a no view whatsoever. I was suffocating with claus-
strip mall, brought her to a sugar cane field near- trophobia but struggling to appear calm. This, I
by, and raped her while her toddler nephew would learn later in my almost eight years as a
watched from the back seat of the car. It was a prosecutor, is a fundamental requirement of
small community and the girl recognized him working as a criminal lawyer or a trial lawyer in
from around town. Physical evidence also tied general -- hide your fear.
him to the crime and he confessed quickly.
My client's wife and mother were there waiting
Unlike Shana's 1000-year old murderer on death's for me in the belly of the whale. Now while there
door, my client was 48 with pre-diabetes. What is a cute and fuzzy "WHO DAT?" Louisiana on dis-
was pre-diabetes, anyway?! Aren't we all in this play in N'Awlins during Mardi Gras and at Saints'
category? Even more unfair, he had barely quali- games, it seemed to my immature and hypercriti-
fied for a parole hearing in that he had only cal 23-year old mind that the larger constituency
served 7 years of his 15-year sentence. Shana's was what I suspected was real Louisiana. Real
murderer had served about 70 years of his 75- Louisiana was maybe mostly swamp and mist and
year sentence. I like to think I'm above petty jeal- droopy gnarled misshapen trees and enormous
ousies, but COME ON! water rats called nutria, which are eaten and
worn as fur. I'd had the privilege to canoe in the
I expected all along that Shana would get the bayou, which was magical except for trying to
murderer, though, truth be told. She had a ignore the nutria frolicking around me like ghastly
charmed life and good fortune just inevitably nightmare-otters. My client's mother screamed
flowed her way. While we had both graded on to nutria to me. She either ate it or wore it or was in
the Law Review at Tulane, for me this was a major some way living a life in kinship with it. She had
aberration. So-so grades had been my calling two teeth and could not form a coherent sen-
card since I went to Andover in 9th grade tence – at all. The humidity coming off the
and discovered I was apparently so dumb, so swamps had evidently gotten into her brain and it

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was all sogginess up there. Despite the babbling Every board member frowned and one of the
and steady sobbing, I got her general gist, which women leaned away, crossed her arms over her
was the legal system had done her baby wrong chest, and rolled her eyes. If they're unhappy
and he should be released forthwith. In odd con- now, I thought, wait till they hear about the pre-
trast, my client's wife seemed like a fine person. diabetes. They won't be able to get him back to
She was appropriate, well-spoken, reasonable. his cell fast enough.
She forgave her husband and wanted him to
come home. I figured some people took “till They asked me if I had anything to add and I hur-
death do us part” more seriously than others. riedly listed the favorable parole factors Rat-man
was supposed to mention on his behalf but ap-
My client was brought out from the back to join parently forgot. The eye-roller looked at me
us. My impression was he didn't seem sick woman-to-woman: admit it, you want him to
enough, or sick at all. He also didn't even seem stay under lock and key as long as possible. I
old for his age, so what the hell was I doing here quickly looked down so I couldn't telepath to her
anyway! We discussed his first unsuccessful solo with my eyes YES! KEEP HIM IN FOREVER!
appearance before the parole board a few
months earlier, where he had tried the I'm the Mercifully I was done talking at that point and his
victim here strategy. He apparently thought it wife came up to bat. She made an impassioned
was a good idea to rail against the injustice of the plea for him, crying a lot but respectful and polite.
system, juror bias, and the mean judge who sent The board was genuinely sympathetic to her,
him up the river in the first place. He also pep- probably thinking like I was what the hell is she
pered in some complaints about the slowness of doing with this guy? They asked us all to step out
his many pending appeals. of the room so they could pretend to deliberate,
which was a polite thing to do given the "stupid I
I suggested to my client that maybe, instead, the guess" circumstances. Then they called us back in
board might want to hear he was contrite and no and said they were concerned that the inmate
longer posed a threat to society. I told him the didn't yet seem to grasp the seriousness of his
board probably wanted to know that he had en- behavior and needed to spend more time
gaged in some deep reflection on why he did “thinking,” as if he had the hardware to accom-
what he did, and why he had that impulse, and plish that task.
why he wouldn't do it again. He seemed to un-
derstand what I said in that he nodded at appro- It could have been worse, I thought as I shook
priate intervals, but real comprehension may their hands before leaving to find Shana. At least
have been beyond his ken. He had a little nutria they didn't let the mother in there.
in him, too.
Shana's appearance before the other parole
When my client and his wife and I walked into the board with Methuselah was playing out very
parole board -- leaving his wailing, mumbling differently from my fiasco of The Stupid Young
mother behind in the waiting room -- I was sur- Healthy Rapist. Producers from ABC's 20/20 were
prised by what I saw. I assumed a parole board in at Angola that day filming a segment about the
Louisiana must look like Steve McQueen's in The most famous inmate, an award-winning journalist
Getaway. Everyone was supposed to be wearing named Wilbert Rideau. After finishing up with
a pushed-back cowboy hat with a toothpick in Rideau, they immediately honed in on gorgeous
their mouth, squinting at the criminal suspiciously Shana with her concealed hangover and her sta-
with their PAROLE DENIED stamps poised and pled skirt and her divine murderer who looked
ready. Instead they seemed like reasonable peo- like he'd come straight out of central casting for
ple, a mix of men and women dressed nicely in The Shawshank Redemption. He was a slender,
regular clothes. They recounted the facts of his kind, lovely, refined black gentleman in his 80's,
offense and asked him why he'd done such a hor- smiling wide from his wheelchair and using his
rible thing. My client paused for a really, really long beautiful fingers to gently shake hands with
long time. We were all at the edge of our seats, me and the producers from ABC, who were gaga
curious about what he was going to say. Finally, for him. He'd had a barfight in the 1950's that
he shrugged and said, “Stupid, I guess.” went bad, and he said to us very convincingly that

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the other guy, the murderer, "was a bad fellow Throughout my tenure as a prosecutor, I became
who would've killed me otherwise.” very familiar with the rattle of handcuffs and the
clanging of iron gates. But despite constant expo-
While Shana and he waited outside the door of sure to this, I never felt comfortable in this envi-
the parole board while they deliberated his fate, ronment, or being in the confinement business in
the cameras were rolling and zooming in on Sha- general. I suppose no claustrophobe is comforta-
na's face. She said, “This is his life we're talking ble when confronted with the reality of confine-
about,” and she wiped a tear from her eye. I and ment.
others did the same because her old fellow was
heartwrenching. He was granted parole and it The term claustrophobia derives from the Latin
was quite a nice story of everybody doing the claustrum -- "a shut in place," a cloister -- and the
right thing: Tulane, Angola, the parole board, the Greek phobos, meaning fear. "A shut in place" is
ABC production people, the stapler-provider. a particularly apt description for prison and for
Sadly, Shana's challenge afterward was finding a how nearly all people, claustrophobic or not, feel
place for him to go in the outside world. Nearly about the shut in place that is prison: we fear it.
everyone he knew or who once loved him had Indeed, the criminal justice system runs on mass
either forgotten him or died long ago. claustrophobia. What would happen to our socie-
ty if law-abiders and law-breakers alike had no
As for me, I tried as hard as I could to pretend I fear of being shut in?
was at the circus, largely to distract myself from
the overwhelming claustrophobia of being locked The derivation of the word claustrophobia also
inside that enormous labyrinth. But even with has distinctly religious overtones. In addition to
the surreal atmosphere created by the presence the Latin "cloister," the Greek translation of claus-
of the film crew from New York and the blubber- trum is μοναστήρι, or monastiri. And at its most
ing incoherent nutriarch and the cartoonish fe- fundamental level, of course, crime and
male matron with eyeballs-on-springs and the punishment has spiritual dimension. The
terrible hangover, it was awful being trapped culmination of confession (usually known as a
within the recesses of that place. I was over- plea) and punishment and forgiveness and
whelmed with relief as we finally cleared the last reflection-while-cloistered can lead to
security checkpoint and left the building, and felt enlightenment, redemption, peace, rebirth. In
even greater relief once the Coke can wheezed theory.
and splattered its way out of the main gates and
we were back on the road -- FREE!-- to New Orle- After all my experiences in and around jail in an
ans. official capacity, dressed in a suit and on
weekdays, my last time inside the shut in place
Angola was only the beginning of my long non- was as a former lawyer, and a regular Visitor, one
love affair with prison. In my work as a criminal Sunday afternoon in 2006. I went to see our
prosecutor, I meted out hundreds of years of jail family friend Michael Skakel, who was convicted
terms in the form of plea bargains. I conducted in 2002 of having murdered Martha Moxley in
upward of 20 trials where many other jail terms 1975. Michael was interred in Suffield,
resulted. I wrote oppositions to appeals in which Connecticut, which is a small town in the
I argued in support of upholding convictions and northern part of the state, almost on the
sentences. I attended habeas corpus proceedings Massachusetts border.
in prison chapels that doubled as courtrooms,
wherein my job was largely to oppose anything I sat in the waiting room with all the other
about which an inmate was complaining. Getting visitors; quiet wives and children in their nicest
bad medical care? The People disagree. The war- Sunday clothes, waiting patiently to see their
den has counted your days wrong and you were husbands and fathers. Nearly everyone but me
due to get out two days ago? The People say the was black or Hispanic. All the women had
warden is right, as always, of course. Getting on fresh lipstick and pretty skirts and it was clear
beaten up by other inmates? The People say stop
complaining -- it's prison.

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they had made a real effort to look their best. It Michael picked me up off the floor and bounced
all made me want to cry. me over his shoulder a few times like an exuber-
ant polar bear, which made me think it was prob-
I looked down and thought too late that maybe I ably better I wasn't wearing a skirt. He was look-
should have worn a skirt. Not a Shana prison ing a bit like a polar bear in those days, too. He
skirt, where staff would have to scramble for glue had gained some weight and his hair was turning
or rubber cement, but maybe just a regular skirt. white.
I'm not bragging about my legs, but they're cer-
tainly okay for anyone who's been in jail for a few We sat and talked until visiting hours were over.
years. It's a basic courtesy, I realized, to wear a There wasn't much to say to someone in
skirt to prison when you're a Visitor. Michael's situation, whether in person or in
letters. I believe he didn't kill Martha Moxley, and
It was very cold in the waiting room and I made so in my opinion an innocent man was trapped
this observation aloud to the family sitting next to and helpless and sentenced to 20 years, which
me because that's what I'm wont to do -- I'm a was the most unfathomable part because even if
compulsive extrovert and I foist my opinions on he had done it as a 15-year old minor, his maxi-
others. I expected a yeah in response or some mum sentence would have been four years. It
non-committal nod of agreement. Instead, every- was painful to be with someone in Michael's situ-
one in the room looked really startled and afraid ation because how often can you say "I'm really
of me, as though I had said "LET'S BLOW THE sorry this is happening to you"? It's even harder
FUCKING PLACE UP! WHO'S WITH ME?!" I when you've been part of the criminal justice ma-
shrugged in an apologetic way to the whole group chine, an official opponent. I imagined Michael's
and said, "I'm just saying, it's cold in here, right?" habeas proceedings in the prison chapel: getting
This helpful clarification made it even worse and bad medical care? The People disagree. You
now everyone seemed to want to avoid eye con- think your sentence is unfair? The People say
tact with me. Just shut up, I said to myself. your sentence is just right, as always, of course.
You're freaking these poor people out. I sat then Getting beaten up by other inmates? The People
in an agitated silence, thinking oh how I hate that say stop complaining -- it's prison.
the system makes people so goddamn timid! I
hate how afraid they are just visiting this place. I I left the jail in Suffield and walked out to my car,
hate how I've been a part of this process, sending the relief of being outside -- FREE! -- flooding over
people to places like this, sending their wives and me, like always. But even as I stood in the parking
children on Sunday afternoons to see them. lot taking deep breaths, the thought of Michael
shut in behind me was sickening. It bore down on
The door from the waiting room swung open to my chest like physical pressure. I wondered, like
let us into a hall where we were instructed to line always, whether an innocent person might be
up to go through security. The line was long and I incarcerated because of me. I prayed this wasn't
was midway down it, sticking out like a pant- the case, but I don't believe any prosecutor can
legged white light bulb. I saw Michael standing know that with absolute certainty, nor can any
behind one of the guards' shoulders, pointing me judge or police officer. You have to tolerate a
out and beaming. Michael and the guard ges- margin of error in the confinement business, as
tured me forward, which I felt bad about. First I abhorrent as that is.
made everyone nervous bitching about the tem-
perature, and now I was cutting the line. I tried to Why do some of us become trapped, besmirched,
gesture back to the guard, oh no no, I don't want or even ruined, while others go off scot free?
to cut, but at that point the guard was making it Most of us clean-record law-abiding citizens have
clear that now I should do what I was told. I done something illegal at some point in our lives,
glanced around at the other people on line and especially in our younger years, but somehow
no one seemed outraged by the possibility that I we’ve just had the dumb luck to avoid arrest or
might cut, like I would be. If anything they any repercussion. I stole money to play video
seemed relieved at the prospect of getting rid of games (granted I was 14, but it’s certainly against
me: yes, by all means, let the loose cannon go the law). I’ve driven drunk, and I probably
first. Let her be the guard's problem now. So I don’t have a close friend or family member, all
cut the line.

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