Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 36, May 2020

INDEPENDENT REVISTA
MONTHLY LITERÁRIA
LITERARY INDEPENDENTE
MAGAZINE
MENSAL

ADELAIDE FOUNDERS / FUNDADORES
Stevan V. Nikolic & Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal EDITOR IN CHIEF / EDITOR-CHEFE
Year V, Number 36, May 2020 Stevan V. Nikolic
Ano V, Número 36, Maio 2020
[email protected]
ISBN-13: 978-1-952570-57-5
MANAGING DIRECTOR / DIRECTORA EXECUTIVA
Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent inter- Adelaide Franco Nikolic
national monthly publication, based in New York and
Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco GRAPHIC & WEB DESIGN
Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality Adelaide Books LLC, New York
poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as
well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS IN THIS ISSUE
English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding
literary fiction, nonfic-tion, and poetry, and to promote Susanne Roff, Aubrie Artiano,
the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and Miles Hall, Gail Finch,
established authors reach a wider literary audience.
Ernesto Ignacio Gomez Belloso, Erik Barca,
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação men- Violet Elvena, Jessamyn Violet,
sal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Bonnie Carlson, Zach Murphy,
Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Ade- Jahnavi Misra, Robert Penick,
laide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é
publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de Alan Swyer, Ian Swalwell, Brad Shurmantine,
qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas Jim Zinaman, Mark Massaro,
literárias, escritas em inglês e por-tuguês. Pretendemos
publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim Eugenie Blackwood, Mike Dillon,
como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudan- Diego Lorenzo Leyva, Tina zenou,
do os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiên- Jennifer Ostromecki, Blair Nightengale,
cia literária mais vasta. Rachel Cavell, Susan Bloch, Nancy Wick,
William Alton, Diarmuid ó Maolalaí,
(http://adelaidemagazine.org) Tom Carter, Allen Vega, RC deWinter,
Paul Bamberger, Anvesh Jain, Carol Lynn
Published by: Adelaide Books, New York Grellas, Patricia Feeney, Lynn Dowless,
244 Fifth Avenue, Suite D27 C.S. Fuqua, Nathan Tluchowski,
New York NY, 10001 Gene Stevenson, Elizabeth Montelongo,
e-mail: [email protected]
phone: (917) 477 8984 John Sweet, Eric D. Goodman,
http://adelaidebooks.org Frank Modica, Januario Esteves,

Copyright © 2019 by Adelaide Literary Magazine Daniel King

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission from the Adelaide Literary Maga-zine
Editor-in-chief, except in the case of brief quo-tations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.

CONTENTS / CONTEÚDOS

FICTION CEDAR
by Mike Dillon 89
GRETA
by Susanne Roff 7 PAID HOLIDAY
by Tina Zenou 91
FRACTURE
by Aubrie Artiano 11 FROSTBITTEN PIEROGI
by Jennifer Ostromecki 97
GREEN EYES
by Miles Hall 18 FOURTH OF JULY CONFESSION
by Amber Brandau 102
WAR IS NEVER OVER
by Gail Finch 21 LINEMAN’S HUT NO. 13
by Magdalena Blazevic 104
SPRING-HEELED JACK
by Ernesto Ignacio Gomez Belloso 24 HORSEBACK
by Eric D. Goodman 107
FATHER
by Erik Barca 27 NONFICTION

THE NEIGHBOR REIMAGINING: MARCH 31, 2020
by Fiona Cooke 34 by Rachel Cavell 117

BETWEEN THE AISLES A MOTHER’S SIGH
by Jessamyn Violet 36 by Susan Bloch 119

JASPER & RUBY NO DRUDGE, NO GRUDGE
by Zach Murphy 40 by Nancy Wick 120

MESSINESS NAMES
by Jahnavi Misra 42 by William Alton 126

THE PRICE OF KINDNESS POETRY
by Robert Penick 46
DAYLIGHT ROLLS
THE BRIT by Diarmuid ó Maolalaí 131
by Alan Swyer 50
POEM FOR FAMILY AND FRIENDS
OBSCURA by Tom Carter 134
by Ian Swalwell 55
LOST
BEAUTIFUL IN THE WATER by Allen Vega 136
by Brad Shurmantine 62
LISTENING TO SILENCE
THINK LIKE A THIEF by RC deWinter 138
by Jim Zinaman 66
NUEVO LAREDO
THE BROKEN CONCERT by Paul Bamberger 141
by Mark Massaro 75

WINSOME GOES TO TEACHER’S COLLEGE
from The Guarded Virgin
by Yvonne Blackwood 85

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WINTER IN DELHI INTERVIEWS
by Anvesh Jain 143
DAVID W. BERNER
BEFORE TOMORROW CAME Author of the
by Carol Lynn Grellas 146 THINGS BEHIND THE SUN 181

MOM’S HAPPIEST CHILD LOUIS GALLO
by Patricia Feeney 150 Author of the CRASH 186

WHEREFORE ART THOU, MY LOVE KIPP VAN CAMP
by H.L. Dowless  152 Author of
THE SECRET OF ROCKS HYRAXES 192
INTEGRATION
by C.S. Fuqua 156 DAVID LAWRENCE
Author of the
OUROBOROS IN THE SUBURB OF POSSIBLE SUICIDE 195
by Nathan Tluchowski 159

MORNING WATCH
by Gene Stevenson 163

A NEW BEGINNIN
by Elizabeth Jiménez Montelongo 166

THE ALCHEMIST, GRASPING FOR MEANING
by John Sweet 169

MAN UP
by Frank Modica 172

VERTIGO 18
by Januario Esteves 174

RULE BEYOND
by Daniel King 176

4

FICTION



GRETA

by Susanne Roff

I met Greta in prison. She’d got five years thousands of cars waiting for their lawyers
and was two thirds of her way through and businessmen and secretaries in the
them. We met on the industrial cleaning early evening.
course of all things – that was about the
limit of prisoner training schemes back Three hours up the river I got off at the
then. She was really into cleaning, loved college town. Main Street ran a quarter
the smell of bleach, so that part of jail was mile north and a half mile south. The unisex
no hardship for her. She was well educat- hairdresser also sold cotton butterflies and
ed, had been teaching in college for twen- home made fudge. But it was closed now. I
ty years until she got incarcerated. When I needed a taxi to the college a couple of miles
asked her what she was in for (which you up the road. There was a beat up gypsy cab
don’t do on first acquaintance) she told me. across from the station. It looked to be my
only option. The driver was much my own
“I was taking the train to a job interview age, coarse featured but fit. He came out
at a college in upstate New York. It was an from under the bonnet wiping greasy hands
early Fall afternoon, and through the pollu- on his trousers. “You wanna go to the col-
tion gloam I remember I saw a fat woman lege? Eight dollars.” But he didn’t reach to
sitting in her nightdress in a dentist chair put my bag in the cab for me.
eating doughnuts in front of the televi-
sion. Clothes that looked like they needed He drove past the white frame houses
a wash hung over rusty fire escapes to dry. and churches; family names on the letter
The track was elevated for the first two or boxes above ads for the local newspaper.
three miles so train passengers looked in on Large lawns, no fences. Garages for two or
shabby apartment bedrooms and kitchens three cars. No pedestrians in this part of
and lounges. It took an hour for the train to town but when we crossed the rail tracks
get out beyond the ugly city. The billboards we were in the midst of children and teen-
were hard to distinguish from the trash agers and buxom women and thin men. Not
piled up high on the sidings. Oily bundles of a blade of grass. The wooden houses were
rags that looked like corpses caught under falling down at the edges, sometimes in
the bridges were just as likely to be tramps their centres. Ancient armchairs sagged on
sleeping rough. There was the river with the verandahs and large people sprawled in
its oil slicks and sewage barges. The com- them taking in the evening air. Occasionally
muter car parks ran alongside the stations, a brown geranium in a broken pot. Bicycles
lay strewn where they had fallen.

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The cabbie drove on past the used car He pulled off into a side track next to some
dealership and a factory that had a sign ad- lilac bushes. Now that it was happening to
vising ‘Under eminent domain negotiations me I didn’t know what to do. There didn’t
for employee purchase.’ seem to be any point in screaming since I
hadn’t seen another car since we left town.
I asked “Has that company gone out of I’d been with him less than twenty minutes.
business?” I couldn’t read him in that time. He didn’t
seem very violent despite the spanner he
“Never went in for business” said the held now. But he seemed very intent on me
cabbie sardonically. smoking the joint he took from the bag. He
covered the rear door and reached in to me
I reached into my briefcase for cigarettes and put the roach to my lips and lit it with
and was striking the match when he said a lighter. I sucked on it. Then he pushed me
“Don’t smoke that shit in my cab, lady.” flat on the seat and said

“Sorry”, I said. “Trouble with you, lady, is you don’t get no
dick.”
“I didn’t realise this was a non-smoking
taxi.” I knew he was right and let him do it.
When he was done he sat by me on the seat
“Sure it’s a non-smoking car, lady. You and opened my wallet. He took out the $50
smoke that shit and I get it too. Passive bill I kept there.
smoking. You can kill yerself if yer like but
not in my cab. You wanna smoke something, “That’s my fee, lady. Now I’m gonna drive
I give you something real nice to smoke. you to the college and you’re gonna go in all
Only five bucks. Just say the word.” ladylike and say nothing about our little busi-
ness deal. Folks round here know me. I got
He pulled a small leather pouch from deals with most of them, ’specially the ladies.
his shirt pocket and put it on the dash- No jury’s gonna come out to catch old Joe for
board with his left hand, next to a spanner. fear of the shit old Joe knows. You jes end up
I shrank back into the rear seat, deprived of looking ridiculous saying good old Joe tried
the busy-ness of my cigarette and its nico- to jump your skinny bones. You understand?”
tine. He laughed, looking at me through the
rear vision mirror. I nodded because I did understand.

“What you afraid of, lady? Them ciga- I was in a totally different city, new job
rettes going to make you a lot sicker than before I realised I was pregnant. I’d only
my mary-juana.” found out by accident when I went for my
annual gynae checkup.
“Better the poison you know than the
one you don’t” I said feebly. “You do realise, don’t you, that you’re at
least three months pregnant?” the doctor
“That ain’t necessarily so” he said. asked me. But I hadn’t, what with all the
moving around in short term teaching posts
“Cigarettes and alcohol fuck you up a and the interviewing for a tenure-track job.
whole lot more than mary-juana. I tell my
kids, I’m gonna kill them if I ever catch ‘em I never considered giving up the baby.
with cigarettes or spirits. But grass we grow Truth to tell, I didn’t do much thinking about
ourselves. Just gotta aks and I’ll give. Here,
freebie. First time freebie. Joe’s present.”

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the whole business during the pregnancy. I of bones and gizzards in jars and there were
felt well, people told me I looked beautiful odd chemical smells coming from the shed.
for the first time in my life. A sort of serenity But he put a lock on the door and I wasn’t
shielded me against questions, and I was allowed in. My best kitchen knives vanished
on the move so much anyway. The elderly and my manicure set with its small sharp
remnants of my family showed only a polite scissors and tweezers.
interest in my announcement of the birth
and accepted decision to be a single mother. I knew he was smoking cigarettes in
the shed but I’d only given up myself a few
I found breastfeeding deeply sensual, years ago and while I remonstrated with
there seemed to be a direct connection be- him I couldn’t do more than point out the
tween the sucking on my nipples and my cli- stupidity of it. But then I began to smell the
toris. Which was probably why I let him have sweeter smell of marijuana.
the breast for so long, until he was coming
home from school and demanding a suckle He’d always accepted my explanation
the way other kids wanted their snacks. I kept about who his father was. There were
the rhythm of my college teaching in tune enough other fatherless kids for it to be
with his day and they were unremarkable in almost unremarkable when I said it wasn’t
the college town where I had gotten a job. someone I knew very well and I would much
rather live with him than his father.
The tantrums began when I allowed
men who were interested in me to come to “You’re my man” I would say to him when
the house. The child became almost feral, he was still in short pants.
smelling out the eau de cologne and tes-
tosterone of these few early dates. More When he was about eight he was sitting
often than not we took the child with us for on the stairs with his friend. I overheard the
a drive to the lake and a pizza at the pub. other boy saying
But nothing would pacify him or interest
him. He eliminated most of the men within “My mum doesn’t know who my dad is
three dates, leaving them with bruises and because she was sexing two guys at the
scratches to show for their presumption. same time.”
The only way I could calm him after a man
had gone was to let him suckle and he was My son said “What’s sexing?” and the
not above biting me. The pain in the nipple other boy stood up and humped the stair post.
thrilled my clitoris. Later I saw my son in the garden peeing into
the bushes and thrusting his pelvis at them.
By the time puberty came his sunny
personality was long gone. He was growing He had a couple of friends who closeted
lean and mean. He took over the garden I’d themselves in the shed with him for hours
and made it into his ‘laboratory’. At first it on end. When he was about twelve, I came
was birds that had fallen out of their nests home earlier than expected from the col-
or mice left in the garden by the cats or lege and found the bathroom door locked
roadkill. Then I began to realise that most until two of them came out looking flushed,
of his specimens were still alive when they both defiant and scared. My son was still
went into his shed and neighbourhood cats tucking his shirt into his jeans.
suddenly went missing. He had a collection
By the time he was fourteen he was a
foot taller and twenty pounds heavier than
me, beginning to look like what I could

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remember of his father. We’d always played Suddenly the bird was circling ever closer
tennis together but now if I hit a good shot to my and then dived at me, its eyes boring
past him I heard myself saying into mine and squawking

“Sorry darling!” “Get off! Get off!”

I knew he was sneaking out at night an But I couldn’t move fast enough. It
hour or two after I had closed my bedroom swooped an inch over my head. I fell flat
door. I suspected he sometimes brought on my back in the peat. I crawled down the
someone back with him. And often there hill, knowing that if I stood up again the bird
was the sweet marijuana smell. would peck out my eyes.

I put a lock on my bedroom door and the He was high when he came in well after
bathroom. midnight and started pounding on my bed-
room door. I yelled at him to go to bed and
“Why’d you do that?” he asked angrily. sober up. He lumbered off but came back
with a mallet and broke down the door in
“Because you’re fifteen now, and it’s only two strikes. Like his father, he brought a
right that we both have our privacy. Besides, couple of spliffs.
I’m fed up with you rootling round in my
closets and wearing my clothes when I’m “I’m your man, Ma” he said.
at work.”
As the legal aid lawyer warned me be-
That made him smile his sly yellow smile, cause I’d bashed him over the head several
sexy but obnoxious with a definite whiff of times with the mallet it was the ‘several’
the smell-smock about him. that got me a prison sentence. The judge
said it was disproportionate. Wonder what
I knew it was going to happen. It was like he’d have thought if he was raped by his
the time I was out walking and went too own son.’
high up the hill to the great skua’s territory.

About the Author

Susanne Rabbitt Roff was born in Milwaukee, grew up in Australia, worked in New York
and now lives in a Scottish fishing village. Her stories have been short listed for the Wells
Festival of Literature, Five Stop Story and Chorley Writers Prizes in the UK and are online at
everywritersresource. Her memoir Memories are made of these was long listed for the Irish
Fish Memoir Prize. Her literary journalism is collated on her website http://rabbittreview.com

10

FRACTURE

by Aubrie Artiano

It’s Saturday. *

When you draw back the curtain, It’s Wednesday.
morning light, grey and harsh as soot, pours
in. Condensation coats your window. Out- The pub is heaving. You fight the sensa-
side, murky puddles dot the road, flooding tion to itch yourself, firmly, on the scalp. In-
entire patches of narrow sidewalk. The trees stead, you occupy your right hand, fingering
on your street dance in the wind, waving up a dried piece of gum in your pocket. You
at you. You’re weary of their bare shapes, look down at your feet. The rubber soles of
spindly and crooked. Chattering like a band your boots stick to layers of stale beer. You’ll
of skeletons. You don’t wave back. have to remember to wash them later.

There’s a pounding in your head, vi- “Kate, here.” Jo reaches through the
brating in the smallest nook of your skull. crush, her hand holds an overfilled pint.
You feel an overwhelming, almost vis-
ceral inclination to open the window and “Cheers,” you say, accepting the glass.
leap out. To splatter like one of those old You withdraw from the bar and shuffle to
time-y cartoons on the sidewalk below. You an empty corner.
imagine it: the colours of yourself shattering
into a million tiny fragments. A bystander You haven’t seen Jo since your breakup
comes by and sweeps up all your bits and with Connell. Truthfully, you’ve not seen
pieces and fit you together again. Right as anyone since the breakup, apart from face-
rain, they say. You thank them and go about less delivery drivers, the elderly tenant in
your day. the flat below you. Jo’s cut her hair and is
wearing a puffer coat you’ve not seen be-
This doesn’t happen, of course. Instead, fore. She looks bright and full of health. You
you close the curtains and recede into dark- know, in comparison, you look unwell and
ness. You climb back into bed, where the hollow.
mattress is still warm from sleep. You sink
beneath the duvet and wrap yourself into a “A nightmare, this, eh? It’s just too bloody
false, tight hug. cold in London. Everyone’s gone and lost
their minds.” She takes a long, measured sip.
You have to hold your sinewy insides
close, so they don’t come tumbling out. “Maybe all this cold is affecting the frontal
lobe, you know? Our cognitive functions are
functioning at half mass.” Jo smiles.

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“So, how’ve you been?” she asks. You “Vomit girl,” you say, “I’ve been called
shrug, opting for your beer. She stares at worse.”
you. “I mean it. I’ve not seen you since, well,
since that night.” You nod. “Haven’t we all,” she says. She tips her
glass against yours. Clink.
“Breakups are never particularly easy, are
they? This one’s no different.” You say this “What about you?” you ask. “Swipe de
with perhaps too much conviction as to be force?” You amuse yourself with your own
genuine. You hope she doesn’t notice. joke. Jo shrugs. “What? Not going well?”

“Yeah, of course, of course it is,” she says, “Oh, well, no, it’s . . . good, actually.” She
“I’ve just never seen you so cut up before.” shifts her weight.
You grimace. Jo never understood your feel-
ings for Connell - she thought the two of “Well, well. Seeing anyone interesting?”
you were mismatched from the start.
“No, er, yes. But not formally.” She scoffs,
The night things ended, you called her feigning enthusiasm. “I suppose I’m sort of
in a moment of desperation, hysterical. She seeing someone.”
came to your side but struggled to console
you. She made you a cup of tea and kept The confession surprises you. Perhaps
checking her phone. this is why she’s invited you out to drinks, to
rub her own romantic success in your face.
“Ah well, what’s the time-worn-adage, You shake your head.
again? Plenty of fish, or something?” you
say. Jo rolls her eyes. “Oh, wow. Great. Since when?”

“I’m delighted to see your sarcasm is still “Since now. It’s only been a few dates. It’s
intact.” not a big deal, really.”

“Right? Thank god for that.” “Don’t downplay on my account,” you say,
more curtly than you intend. She screws up
“You getting back out there, then? Back her face.
on the apps?” A knot forms in your throat.
“Kate, I don’t want to upset you by talking
“Oh, no. Not at all. The thought of a first about it, is all. But if you don’t mind, then
date makes my stomach hurt.” yeah, of course I’d love to tell you about
Will.” You have to stop yourself from
“Probably for the best, in that case. Can’t laughing, the tickle that’s been building in
have you throwing up on Mr. Right.” Jo your throat. You take a drink.
smirks.
“Please,” you say, “tell me all about lovely,
“Actually, I thought it might be sort of lucky Will.”
charming, in a way, like ‘hi, nice to meet you,
yaaaak, and what do you do for a living’?” *
You mock wipe your mouth for affect. Jo
shakes her head. Her short black bob tickles It’s Monday.
the bottom of her chin.
You sit in the breakroom at work and eat
“It’d be a memorable date at the very a stale turkey and cheese sandwich. Fine
least. Vomit girl, he’d call you.” crumbs tumble from your mouth to your
crotch. You bat at them half-heartedly. Out-
side, rain pounds the lunch hour. Through

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Revista Literária Adelaide

the window, beyond your building, a sea make for the door. “Seeya,” you say. The
of multicoloured umbrellas amass, des- word is muffled by the enormity of bread
perate for their daily corporate reprieve. A and cheese on your tongue.
colleague asked you to lunch, but you can’t
process enthusiastic small talk. Everything *
feels too daunting.
It’s Friday.
A colleague comes in to use the micro-
wave. It’s Michael, the new guy. He has a You are the first to arrive at the restau-
baby face that’s always clean-shaven and a rant. The reservation is under Jo’s name. The
closely cropped haircut. You assume this is hostess asks if you’d like water while you
an attempt to tame very curly ginger hair. wait, you order gin. You don’t particularly
You’ve always loved ginger hair. like the way it tastes, but you need some-
thing to take the edge off. It’s only been a
“All right?” he asks. You wave your sand- few months, but Jo is besotted. She insisted
wich at him. He smiles. “Pissing it down, you meet him, screen him. She’s desperate
innit?” he says. He has a husky northern for your stamp of approval. You’re not up
drawl. You wonder if this is his first job in to the task.
London.
You rushed to get here after work. The
“Indeed it is,” you say in between bites. tube was rammed and claustrophobic.
“How you finding it?” Damp clings to your back, your hairline,
your underarms, in spite of the cold. You
“Well, nothing new, is it?” hope Will won’t try to hug you. You don’t
need him knowing you’re one of those pri-
“I meant the job,” you say. “How are you vately sweaty people.
finding the job?”
Your purse buzzes. There’s a message
“Oh, yeah, right.” He plops his leftovers from Jo.
in the microwave. “A job, I suppose, like
any other. Can’t complain just yet, eh.” You Sorry! Mad traffic !! Be there in 10!! Xxxx
smile. The microwave still has one minutes.
His presence is stifling. You down your drink and open your web
browser. You haven’t searched his name for
You examine his shirt; the armpits are seven days. This is a big feat. Looking at his
stained a cloudy white; his loose-fitting social media now means you’ll have to re-
trousers are covered in lint. His posture is start the countdown, like one of those ‘in-
poor and suggests a level of insecurity or cident free’ monitors in factories. You tell
awkwardness. For a short moment, before yourself there won’t be anything new, he
he spoke, you allowed yourself to confuse never was too big on social media. And if
the novelty of Michael’s ‘newness’ for that’s the case, there’s no need to restart
charm. How fascinating that mere seconds the clock.
ago you managed to dream up an entirely
fictitious scenario in which this person res- You type in his name. You click on the
cues you from the impending loneliness of link. You hold your breath. There it is. A new
Saturday night. picture.

“Right you are, mate.” You force the rest You click on it with greedy, spastic fin-
of your sandwich into your mouth and gers, but with just enough finesse so as to

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

not accidentally like it. The picture is of him. weighing you down: I just don’t know if I will
He’s in a pub, leaning against the bar. He ever love you.
smiles coquettishly at the camera, or at the
person holding the camera, you can’t de- A group of cyclists race past. You watch
cide. The sight of it fills with you rage. No them go, mesmerized. Your tongue feels
one is tagged in it. Forty-two people have numb.
liked it.
*
The caption reads: Cold weather, warm
bellies. It’s Thursday.

* Begrudgingly, you’ve forced yourself to
attend a colleagues leaving drinks. She’s
It’s Sunday. off to the New York office next week. You
envy her opportunity for a fresh start, but
You wake at a quarter to five drenched in the distance, the inevitable loneliness that
sweat. Outside, weak light swells, promising accompanies any sort of geographical relo-
to fill the chalky sky. You could try to go back cation, lessens your bitterness.
to sleep, but you’re awake now. You decide
to make the most of it. “To Lindsey!” a co-worker shouts. The
group raises glasses to Lindsey, who smiles
You walk to the park. It’s a small diamond uncomfortably in a nearby booth.
shaped garden tucked neatly in the middle
of your neighbourhood. No one is out at this She’s not a close colleague of yours, but
hour, in this cold. You have the benches, the you thought it’d be good to get out and so-
lawn and the dead flower beds, all to your- cialise. Now, you fight the uncomfortable,
self. You stand beside the fountain, its tiles nagging sensation that you’ve forgotten
dried and chipped and yearning for spring. something important. You linger at the bar,
You don’t usually come to this park. You wondering if your straightener is slowly
don’t like to be reminded. Today, because burning your building down.
of the tightness in your chest, because of
the bad night’s sleep, you give in. “Connell!” someone calls. Every hair on
your body stands tall. You almost can’t bring
You circle the rose bushes and settle on yourself to look. When you do, you’re both
the same bench you and Connell sat on, relieved and disappointed. It’s not your
back when the trees clung to orange leaves Connell, but someone else’s.
and the air wasn’t so stony. You remember
the tenderness, your hand in his. The subtle After a few drinks you retreat to the
pressure of his thumb against your thigh. toilet, locking yourself in a stall. You wedge
The sheer delight of a kiss on your cheek, yourself into the corner, the small, dank
warm breath at your ear. The smell of au- space between the wall and the basin. You
tumn, thick with wood and dirt mixed with begin to cry. You need this cry, and you
his cologne. An odour so incredibly com- hope by getting it over and done with now,
forting and adoring you thought your heart you won’t be taking it home with you.
might explode.
“Kate, that you?” It’s Anna. She works
You remember the last time, the final ex- on your team. You wipe the snot and saline
change. The words that still live inside you, from your face and clear your throat.

“I’m fine, yes.”

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“Can, I, er, can you let me in?” she asks. “A linear fracture, have you ever had one?”
You don’t particularly want her to see you You stare at her. “Er, it’s when you fracture
this way, but you sit up and lift the lock. the bone rather than break it clean.”

“I’m really OK,” you say. The glaring ex- “Yes, I know what a linear fracture is.”
pression on her face suggests you appear
otherwise. “Right, sorry, well, it’s just they’re incred-
ibly painful, you know, almost worse than
“Ah, come here,” Anna coos, and folds a fully broken bone, in a way.” The toilet
herself around you. This makes you cry flushes and the girls emerge, red-faced. They
harder. She pats your back in considered, don’t wash their hands. Anna sneers at them.
circular motions.
“You’ve lost me,” you say.
“I’m really sorry,” you say.
“I know,” she laughs, “I’m not making
“Nonsense! Tell me what’s going on, but,” much sense. Too much wine.”
she says, “let’s go out here, shall we?” Anna
leads you out to the sink and hands you a She brushes her hair back and takes a
tissue. deep breath. “What I mean is, fractures like
that are secretly painful, see? There’s not
“Thanks,” you say, “I’m so embarrassed.” always a cast, takes ages to heal. And after it
does you sort of wonder if the bone is ever
“Please, if I had a quid for every time I’ve as solid again, you know? It is, though.”
sobbed in a public toilet.” You know she
only says this to make you feel better. You “OK,” you say, “but what’s that got to do
force a weak smile. with anything?”

“I’ve just gone through a breakup, about, “It’s like a fracture, is my point.”
er, nearly three, four months ago,” you say.
“What is?” you ask. Anna looks at you
“Oh no, that guy, what was his name?” with perturbed, dark brown eyes. She
reaches out and pats the back of your hand.
“Connell.”
“Breakups,” she says, “breakups are sort
“Right. Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. of like linear fractures.”

“It’s OK,” you say. “I mean, I’m not OK, *
right now, not yet, but there’s nothing I can
do about it, you know?” It’s Saturday

“Oh, yes, I do know. Been there many You help Jo move into Will’s flat. It’s
times myself. It never gets any easier.” newbuild in Camden overlooking the canal.
It’s only been seven months, but you’re not
Two girls rush in, stumbling over their judging. Jo’s labelled every box in perfect,
own feet. tidy handwriting. Kitchen. Bedroom. Misc.
Even with the writing, Will places boxes in
“Sorry,” one mutters. They go into the the wrong rooms. You smile at him as you
same stall and start giggling. reorganize his efforts.

“Have you ever had a linear fracture?” “And Jo said she didn’t have much,” he
Anna asks. says, chuckling. He’s been making an effort
with you. You appreciate his small talk.
“Sorry?”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“That sounds like Jo,” you say. marvel at the way your right foot fits per-
fectly into the arch of your left.
She elbows him on her way into the
kitchen, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. It *
feels intimate. You and Will exchange a look.
He blushes, grinning sheepishly. It’s Saturday.

You know this is the real thing; two Summer thrives around you, full sun,
people finding things easy. When the chem- high humidity. You poke around an antique
istry is so thick it’s nearly tangible. When no shop along the high street, looking for
feels hurt or discarded or unloved. nothing in particular. A hand connects with
your arm. The body and face it belongs to is
You smile to yourself. one you recognize. It’s your old friend Mad-
dison, from uni.
*
“Maddy! You all right?” you ask.
It’s Monday.
“I’m fab, how are you?” You exchange a
It’s a bank holiday and the sun is shining. hug.
You walk to the local grocers where you have
first pick of the morning’s vegetable de- “I’m good,” you say. “What brings you up
livery. You stop at the corner café and treat north?”
yourself to a latte. It’s frothy and delicious.
You sip it in the park, your park, not his park. “I’m seeing this guy. He lives just ‘round
You admire the budding roses, the vibrant the corner.” She gestures behind her.
colours bursting from the thicket. It’s quiet.
A light breeze rustles your hair and warms “Oh, lovely. How’s it going?”
your cheek. It’s gentle and friendly.
“Good! His name is Sean, he’s in tech.
A mum with a pram strolls up the path. The quiet type.” She winks. “What about
Behind her, a chubby toddler teeters side you, you still with that hunky guy?” You rack
to side. He trips over his own feet and col- your brain, wondering if she’s confused you
lapses. He giggles to himself, limbs akimbo. with someone else. Then it dawns on you.
The last time you saw Maddy you were with
“Come along, Connell,” the woman says. Connell. Last September. You mull this over.

The name echoes in your head as the “Ah, that’s over. Been ages now,” you
boy stumbles past. You think about this chuckle.
new idea of the word, Connell. It reminds
you of the time you’ve lost, the time spent “Oh, no! What happened?” she asks, ea-
gnawing on your grievances. The days and gerly and without tact. You don’t mind it,
night you agonized over. Enough of that, though. You don’t mind much, these days.
you say. You know you’re deserving of a You’re not even bothered by his name or
fresh start. the memories unleashed behind the flood-
gate.
At home, you make an omelette and eat
it outside on your stoop. It’s midday; me- “You know,” you say. You pause to admire
lodious church bells sound in the distance. a chipped wine glass, smiling to yourself. “I
You look down at your legs, your feet. You just wasn’t sure I would ever love him.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Aubrie Artiano is a doctoral candidate in the English and Comparative Literature department at
Goldsmiths College, University of London, where she previously completed an MA in Creative
and Life Writing. Her work has featured in Goldfish and Ethisphere Magazine. Originally from
Washington, D.C., Aubrie lives and works in London.

17

GREEN EYES

by Miles Hall

Every time he leaves the house, Nathan rid himself of stench of the woman’s putrid
feels a pair of judgmental eyes damning perfume. Looking into the mirror, Nathan
him for his sins. On Tuesday, when Nathan reflected on the eyes. The only people who
went outside to check the mailbox, he saw know the truth are Sam and me. No one
them. A set of deep green eyes glaring at cares enough about the old woman to try
him from the neighbor’s window. and stop me.

I know what you did, the eyes seemed *
to tell him as they floated in the darkness
of the window. Nathan ran into the house Everything was going according to plan.
and bolted the door shut. Two months ago, Nathan showed up at
Barbara Reynold’s doorstep claiming to be
“What has you so riled up, sweetie,” asked the son of her estranged daughter. The old
a concerned Mrs. Reynolds and she hobbled woman was gullible and desperate for com-
into the room, “Is everything alright?” panionship, accepting him with open arms.
Nathan had spent weeks beforehand learn-
Nathan looked at the pathetic, decrepit ing as much as he could about the Reynolds
hag as his mask slid into place. “Nothing family so that he could convince the wom-
wrong, Grammy, I was just testing the locks. an of his legitimacy, but it turned out to be
You know how important it is to stay safe.” unnecessary, as the woman was too busy
telling him of her experiences to stop and
Mrs. Reynolds pushed her walker across question him.
the carpet and came to stand in front of Na-
than. Reaching out to cup his cheek, she said Nathan and Mrs. Reynolds had an ap-
“I am so lucky to have you here taking care of pointment with a lawyer to alter her will
me. Your mother would be so proud of you.” set for next week. Nathan spent his nights
dreaming about how he and Sam would
Gently prying the wilted talon off of his soon reunite and be able to start a new life
face, Nathan gave the woman a quick peck together. As the date drew closer, the eyes
on her cheek. I wish that I could speed up began to appear more frequently. While
this process and kill you now. “I love you, before Nathan would only feel like he was
Grammy. C’mon, let’s make some lunch.” being watched when he was outside, he
was starting to see the eyes every time that
After making Mrs. Reynolds lunch and he looked at the neighbor’s house.
coaxing her into a nap, Nathan spent the
next hour in the bathroom attempting to

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Revista Literária Adelaide

It felt like every time he looked outside; got their groceries. On the way home, Mrs.
the green eyes would appear to shame him. Reynolds insisted that she drive, and Na-
You don’t know my story, he wishes he could than sit in the passenger’s seat.
shout, I deserve this. Nathan began leaving
the house only when absolutely necessary, As they approached home, Nathan felt
only going outside two times that week, the eyes fall upon him once more. Once
once to take out the garbage and once to they pulled into the driveway, Nathan got
collect the empty garbage cans. He would out and opened the trunk to retrieve the
check the mail during these brief outings, groceries. As he was grabbing a bag con-
hoping to receive confirmation for Mrs. taining milk and eggs, Nathan looked up
Reynold’s updated life insurance policy. to see the green eyes in the neighbor’s
window, taunting him.
When Nathan made these outings, he
felt as if he was being burnt alive by the Unable to contain himself anymore, Na-
glare of the green eyes. He would run as than walked up to the neighbor’s window
quickly as he could to get the tasks done and threw the bag of groceries at it with
and be back in the safety of the house. all of his might. The window shuttered and
several large cracks appeared in it, but the
* bag did not break all the way through. Let-
ting out a cry of frustration, Nathan threw
On Sunday, Mrs. Reynolds asked Nathan to himself at the window.
take her to the store and get some groceries
for the upcoming week. Reluctantly, Nathan Crashing into a lifeless Livingroom floor,
agreed to the proposition. At 10:30, they Nathan rose to his feet. “Where are you!?”
loaded up into Mrs. Reynold’s blue 2003 he cried out as he began tearing the house
Chevy Astro and pulled out of the garage to apart. The house looked like its owners
go to the store. As he was pulling out, Na- were on vacation, but Nathan knew that
than felt the eyes judging him from afar. He someone was watching him.
peeled out of the driveway as quickly as pos-
sible and started racing towards the store. Nathan ignored the screams of Mrs.
Reynolds from outside as he pulled photos
“Jesus, Nathan,” said Mrs. Reynolds, grip- off of the walls and threw them onto the
ping the grab handle as tightly as she could. ground.
“What has gotten into you?”
“I know you are here, somewhere,” Na-
“Sorry, ma’am,” Nathan replied as he at- than cried out and he frantically searched
tempted to regain his composure, “I guess I the house for any sign of life.
just pushed a little too hard on the gas.”
So caught up in his breakdown, Nathan
“Fine,” Mrs. Reynolds said, “but I am failed to hear the sirens. The door burst
driving home.” open and several officers rushed in, tackling
Nathan to the ground and handcuffing him.
Once at the store, Nathan helped Mrs. Struggling with the police, Nathan looked
Reynolds out of the van and tried to act as up and saw a small black cat, staring at him
normal and friendly as possible while they with piercing green eyes.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Miles Hall is a screenwriter who enjoys reading and writing stories with deeply flawed
characters and complex situations. He is currently earning his Bachelor of Fine Arts in
Creative Writing at Full Sail University. When not writing, Miles enjoys collecting all forms
of Aquaman related merchandise. He can be reached at [email protected] and on
twitter @MLHallWriting.

20

WAR IS NEVER OVER

by Gail Finch

It was the summer of 1954. The screams of Elyse was German-born. Relocated after
cicadas could be heard through the humid WWII because her father thought there’d
air of the twilight. Stars twinkled in the sky be more opportunities in America. He’d
as the sun started disappearing behind the been captured on the African front, so he
horizon. Perfect time to start the fireworks. was transferred over to the prisoner of war
camp in Hearne, Texas and decided to stay
“Are you sure you want to do fireworks and move his family over.
this year? We don’t have to, you know,”
Elyse asked. The little Jones family was made right
before the start of the Korean war. Adam
She looked up at her husband of four and Elyse met when she transferred into his
years with sparkling pools of baby blue, high school in 1946 and after two and a half
which melted his heart every time he saw years of asking, the two married the spring
them. He’d probably drown in them if he of 1950 before the onset of the war. Little
had the chance. However, he decidedly ig- Otto was born that December, three days
nored the slight bit of concern in them. after Christmas.

“I’ll be fine, darlin’. Little man hasn’t seen “Y’all ready to see one hellova show?”
‘em yet and I kinda wanna see his reaction,” Anson asked with a toothy grin and a sparkle in
Adam said, giving Elyse a reassuring smile. his eye tha rivaled the twinkling lights he was
about to set off into the murky black above.
Adam Jones, a spry man in his late-20s, He was Adam’s distant cousin, probably on
was a war hero. He was an airman for the his dad’s side somewhere. He served in the
U.S. airforce during the war in Korea that air force with Adam, but he was the radio op-
had ended almost a year prior who had erator on base and wasn’t allowed to fly.
nearly lost his life in a war he didn’t feel was
all that important, other than trying to keep “Language, Anson,” Adam warned play-
the commies from spreading their ideolo- fully, gesturing to the four-year-old on his
gies to unsuspecting countries who didn’t wife’s hip.
know any better.
“Aw, he’ll be fine,” the brunette man said
“Alright, liebchen. I’m going to get Otto dismissively.
ready, then we can head over to Anson’s
land,” Elyse said, kissing Adam’s cheek and Branches of post oak trees swayed in
patting his shoulder before heading off. the nightly breeze, the only source of light

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

coming from the bonfire set up beforehand. “Adam, is everything okay?” Elyse asked
Anson started setting up the colorful explo- him worriedly. “The fireworks have been
sives, lighting them off one by one before done with for about five minutes.”
running off so he didn’t catch himself on fire
as he did the year prior. “I’m– yeah, I’m fine,” Adam replied shakily.

The first few colorful explosions went off There was a pause between the two, the
without much incident, Adam reveled in the blonde woman looking Adam straight in the
look of pure joy on his son’s face and the eye. Almost as if she were piercing through
one of content on his wife’s. Though after his soul.
a particularly loud one set off, Adam sud-
denly felt himself in the cockpit of his F-80. “You had another episode, didn’t you?”
There was a sudden feeling of falling and
Adam could feel it in the pit of his stomach, “No, no, I stopped havin’ those a while
the taste of bile tingling at his tongue from ago, darlin’. I’m fine, seriously,” he said,
the turbulence that shook him to his very trying to convince himself of that as well.
core, rattling his bones nice and good. Blue
oblivion filled with white fluffy clouds, Elyse squeezed his arm gently, a gentle
streaks of black in the sky painting a bitter and warm look on her face, those pools
end. One of his engines had been shot to of baby blue that made him fall head over
hell. Dammit. He instantly pulled up in an heels for her filled with genuine concern.
attempt to stop his free fall, leveling himself “Liebchen, you don’t have to tough it out
out in the process. He needed to land and alone. That’s what I’m here for,” she re-
he needed to land soon. He heard another minded him.
explosion, someone in his squad just got
hit. Dark clouds spiraled downward as the Adam couldn’t get anything past her,
plane barreled toward the deep blue abyss now could he? She was almost too per-
down below. Swallowing his despair, Adam ceptive sometimes. Maybe he was just too
kept at it, shooting at any enemy plane he oblivious. He took in a breath and let it out
saw while scanning for a place to land that before nodding. His lungs stung a bit for
wouldn’t kill him. All he could think about some reason. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right,”
was getting home to his wife and son he had he relented with a nod.
yet to meet, but he feared he might not be
able to make it to them alive, let alone in He embraced his wife in his arms, being
one piece mindful of the sleepy toddler in her arms
as he held her head close to his chest and
A shake from his wife made him jump a planted a kiss in her hair that always smelled
bit, looking down at her with fear in his eyes like vanilla. She could hear his heartbeat
and sweat beading on his face. Whether it start to slow down from a hammering to a
was from the episode he was just in or the slow drum, closing her eyes.
humidity, he couldn’t tell.
“I love you,” Elyse said softly.

“I love you too, darlin’. So, so much.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Gail Finch is an artist and online creative writing student for Full Sail University currently
living in Central Texas. In high school, she wrote for the school newspaper and went on
to win first in the Texas State UIL write-in competition for entertainment writing in 2016
and second in the state for editorial cartoons. Currently, she’s working towards writing and
illustrating a comic in the near future so she can bring her love of writing and passion for art
together.

23

SPRING-HEELED JACK

by Ernesto Ignacio Gomez Belloso

Gottfried and Freischütz were not artsy. “Freischütz,” said Gottfried in a harsh
They didn’t know the complexities of paint- whisper. “If ya could stahp stroking yer ego,
ing, nor did they ever bother to look into I’d like to remind you that we hav’ a demon
them. But they could see the beauty in the to catch!”
oil painting they were sent to guard. The
painting showed a young man standing atop “Oh fine, you spoil sport.” Freischütz
a mountain. He was staring at the world be- grinned. He lowered the gun and leaned
fore him: mountain peaks, ridges, and the back against the marble wall. “I still think it
clouds further beyond, all enveloped in a to be moronic that the demon would bother
sea of fog. to steal the painting. Why not just seek an-
other artist and influence their dreams to
The painting revealed how man can rise produce another piece?”
above life’s misfortunes through willpower
and resolve alone, without the help of God. “Demons spread their influence through
art,” Gottfried explained, pushing up his
To the common woman or child, the glasses. “In order to cross the threshold,
painting was merely that - a painting. But they influence the minds o’ creative types:
to The Vatican it wasn’t. musicians, writers, and others. They spread
their influence and- wait why the hell am I
And that was the reason Gottfried and explaining this? Yer supposed to know this
Freischütz were there. stuff!”

Gottfried looked at the window, his eyes “Father Nathanael is boring. You explain
sullen and irritated through his glasses. it way better than him.” Freischütz smiled,
Hamburg was enveloped in mist. giving his partner two thumbs up.

“Behold, my fellow German!” The lanky Gottfried groaned, pulling out his book.
man made a grand gesture towards his The book’s cover looked like torn and burnt
handgun, startling Gottfried. “The SACRÉ flesh, a distorted face as its cover. He flipped
Model 471. The perfect weapon. I was the through the pages rapidly and reread the
one that made it after all. Each bullet, or marked chapter.
like I call them; Acts, are made of silver, salt,
and cold iron. They are cursed, blessed, and Max Freischütz kept his eyes on the
have runes all over them, and-” north hallway, sweat ran down the back of
his neck.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

After an hour of silence, they were soon ceiling he bounced back onto the ground.
greeted by the sound of a window creaking Then onto the wall, then the next wall, then
open. It sounded like a whining dog. They the ceiling and so on and so forth. Disori-
both looked at each other and nodded. Max enting the enemy, he cocked his charred
loaded his gun and Gottfried recited an in- arms back and langued towards his prey.
cantation in his mind. Freischütz could barely land a single shot
on him with any of his Acts.
Afterwards, a black tar-like substance
crawled in from the open window. It slith- Soon greeted by a clawed fist digging
ered along the floor and the walls of the straight into his stomach, Freischütz was
museum as it made its way towards the launched towards the wall and cracking it
painting. by the sheer impact of his body.

Soon a figure formed right in front of said Gottfried finished his incantation and a
picture. A monstrous figure with clawed hands, pulsating red eye formed on his forehead.
legs like a jackal, and eyes resembling burning The eye tracked the beasts’ movements as
balls of fire - with a cavernous maw filled with best as it could, which was just enough. He
mangled teeth like hooks and daggers. It also dodged most of his pounces, leading him
had horns curving upward like a bull. on through his hallway. The daemon’s fist
winded up and lunged towards Gottfried.
The creature stretched a clawed hand
towards the painting, in a flash, golden “The painting is mine, church dog!”
chains erupted from the floor, wrapping
around the daemon, dragging it towards Gottfried barely managed to dodge the
the ground. Now kneeling, it wriggled, until attack. But it didn’t matter, he had won.
it felt the burning touch of cold iron in the
back of its head. Spring-Heeled Jack, for all his acrobatics,
could not change his trajectory midair. He fell
“Spring-Heeled Jack,” Freischütz said. “In exactly where he wanted him to be, directly
the name of our Lord in heaven, who you upon a sculpture of a giant wooden cross.
have scorned, and by the authority vested
upon us by The Vatican, you shall be cast As he landed, he could feel a searing
down to the pit from whence you came. burn travel through the entirety of his body.
Any last words?” It burned like if someone had poured liquid
metal down their earhole. He could feel
“I have committed no crime!” The crea- his own strength leaving him, his muscles
tures spat. “I weaved the dreams that the rotted away, his bones crackled like old
artist dreamt. My dreams birthed that wood, his leathery skin turned to paper.
painting. It belongs to me!”
“Y-you… y-y…YOU-”
Before the bullet could be fired into his
skull, Spring-Heeled Jack used his talons to The sound of a gunshot flooded the
launch itself towards the ceiling. The chains hallway with a thunderous roar. The shot
broke, the links spreading across the floor landed in his throat, his vocal cords de-
and the struggle began. stroyed, and every breath became a fruit-
less endeavor.
Spring-Heeled Jack’s legs winded like
twisting springs, and from the cavernous There in the hallway limping towards
him was that cursed gunslinger, Freischütz.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

His church robes stained in blood and con-
crete, he stood above him like an execut-
ioner, looking down at a prisoner of war.

“And you, monster! When you reach the
sixth floor of hell, tell Alighieri that Max
Freischütz send his regards.”

Another shot echoed in the halls, shot
through the heart like the rabbid dog he
was. The hunt had ended.

About the Author

Ernesto Ignacio Gomez Belloso was born on November
3rd in the year 2000, in the South American country of
Venezuela, more specifically the city of Maracaibo in the
state of Zulia. At the age of five he was diagnosed with
Asperger’s Syndrome and struggled with social interaction
throughout his school life. He went to an international
school in his hometown and discovered his passion for
writing when his literature teacher picked up One Hundred
Years Of Solitude as the book they were going to read for
the semester, afterward, it all snowballed from there; Harry
Potter, Lord Of the Rings, The Inheritance Cycle, Infernal
Devices, etc. Now he is attending Full Sail University’s Creative Writing Program with the
aim of learning the fine craft of storytelling in all of its aspects, from Story Arcs, to Character
Development, to the Three Act Structure and much more. His goal is to become a successful
writer, be it for Television, Movies, Animated Features, Graphic Novels or otherwise, all he
wishes to do is to share his ideas with the whole world as well as bringing the ideas of others
to life.

26

FATHER

by Erik Barca

“He doesn’t want me around. I’ll need to He flips on the radio and cycles through
rearrange my work. I can only stay through news stations, straining to see through the
Wednesday, maybe.” fogged windshield and beating rain.

“But I can’t take care of him until Sat- “Brutal road rage punch leaves man un-
urday … Yes, I’m Niki, his daughter… It’s on conscious for a week…Loneliness may be a
the healthcare proxy … Marcus, I’ve got to bigger health threat than smoking… Feel-
go. The doctor is here. I’ll call you back.” ings of isolation and emotional detachment
on the rise …”
Marcus lies in bed staring at himself in
the black reflection of his phone. The call He reaches for the controls on the oak-
is a contusion under his skin demanding a trimmed center console.
response. He sits up, puts his hand to his
forehead and lays back down, refusing to Silence.
pursue this feeling of obligation. He turns
off his bed-side light, rolls over and sleeps About a year ago, Marcus turned fifty, a
through the night. milestone he acknowledged by resolving to
live more deliberately, to clear the clutter
Early Monday morning, Marcus leaves from the edges of his life. One Sunday af-
his Boston Brownstone apartment. He ternoon after deleting messages and old
throws his overnight bag and soft leather photos from his phone, he discovered he
briefcase onto the back seat of his black could block calls, or more accurately, send
Mercedes and pulls out of his parking spot them directly to voicemail. A revelation. He
on Commonwealth Avenue. His father is could lower the volume to the outside world.
home from the hospital, recovering from
a fall. Niki said that it was important that Only his sister Niki is given special dis-
Marcus visit, that his father had something pensation. She has permission to vibrate.
pressing to tell him. It’s been a year since
Marcus has spoken to his father, a not un- Marcus’s phone vibrates.
usual span of mutual and agreeable silence.
Marcus feels as if he has been asked to care “Hi Niki. Yeah, I’m on my way … Uh-huh…
for an estranged relative. Which is true. I’m sure it’s nothing. He probably just
doesn’t feel like speaking. He was never a
As he turns onto Storrow Drive, the gray talker. Okay. I’ll call you later.” His father is
sky-cover rips open and rain pounds down. home resting; this will be a short visit he
thinks. The stab of tension in his shoulders

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

subsides, replaced by a warm sensation his side mirror, arcs around the Mercedes
that extends the length of him. and skids to a stop ahead.

Marcus recalls when he was small. His Marcus puts both hands to his forehead
father sang to him, played on the floor with and exhales slowly.
him, made up bedtime stories. But by the
age of ten, it was as if a light switched off. A bulky man approaches the Mercedes,
The climbing, smiling, curious toddler grew screaming. The man peers inside and
into a questioning, challenging boy. That boy, knocks on the driver window. Marcus can
grew into a sighing, sneering, eye-rolling, see black, wet strands of hair plastered to
sleep-until-noon adolescent with dark hair his forehead, but the outside darkness and
flopping over his eyes. His father wanted rain blur his features.
no part of that. The space between them
became heavy and fraught. And so, the two “What the FUCK are you doing? You al-
spoke in two-word sentences for the next most killed me. Learn how to drive.”
ten years. Then Marcus went off to MIT, cut
his hair and ten years became forty. They Marcus stares ahead, his heart pounding
never fought. They never hugged. After col- in his ears. It’s hard to think. He tries to make
lege, Marcus visited his father twice a year, sense of this man’s spitting rage – how he
and after his mother died, even less. can be so disproportionately angry. Marcus
wants to rise above this moment, to speak
The heated car seat is like a shallow in words that make clear he is sorry, that
warm bath. Heavy beats of rain accom- he and the man are on the same side, just
pany the thump of the windshield wipers. variations of each other. But he stares at his
It’s dark outside and difficult to see, like dashboard and does not make eye contact.
peering through glass smeared with gel.
Marcus wonders what could be so pressing. The man awkwardly pounds his fists on
The dashed white passing line strobes to his Marcus’s windshield. “Can you hear me as-
left and syncs with the sound of the wipers. shole? You almost killed me!”
His eyes flutter and shut briefly. He catches
himself and snaps his head up. His eyes The man walks away, stops, and turns
close again as the Mercedes drifts into the back. He takes both hands and rips the Mer-
passing lane. The back of an orange Mini cedes’ wiper out of its socket and beats the
Cooper is suddenly upon him. metal arm against the windshield until the
glass spider-cracks. He throws the wiper
Marcus jerks out of sleep. He grips the onto the side of the road, climbs back into
steering wheel and fixes his eyes wide. A his SUV and peels rubber. Drivers zoom by,
current of fear cuts from under his ear sending up arcs of spray without a thought.
down to his stomach as he yanks the
steering wheel to the right and slams the Time slows – ugly and out of joint. Sev-
brakes. The Mini Cooper continues ahead, eral yards ahead the orange Mini Cooper is
but headlights blind him from behind. A stopped with its hazards on. He only tapped
sharp blow. His body is jolted forward and the car. Why is it stopped? Marcus closes his
his head snaps back. The Mercedes swerves eyes and considers his options.
into the breakdown lane, ricochets off the
guardrail and brakes. An SUV nearly swipes He searches his phone for the nearest
same-day windshield repair.

There was a woman. She taught Ad-
vanced Econometric Techniques and

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Applications at MIT, a subject that didn’t or was never part of. He wonders why his
interest Marcus in the slightest until she ap- father ever sold his childhood home and
peared. They lived in Cambridge for seven moved to this forgotten place.
years, and when they were first together,
they agreed to marry after Marcus gradu- Pushing open the side door, Marcus
ated. After he graduated, he worked at Har- steps into the kitchen. He sets his brief-
vard Management Company managing a case and overnight bag down by the door.
$25 billion endowment. She was promoted The house has a fruity sewage smell, like a
to Associate Professor and Marcus made a nursing home. A baseball game is blaring
lot of money, but he wasn’t happy. He told from the living room. It’s November.
the Professor they would marry when he
got a new job and she believed him. After a His father is sunk low in his BarcaLounger
couple of years, Marcus got a job at Fidelity under a blue wool blanket. He is watching a
Investments and the Professor got preg- replay of game six of the 1975 World Series.
nant. They agreed to marry after the baby Actually, he is not watching. He is sleeping
was born. A baby girl was born, and they among the muffled sounds of the game.
named her Marisol and they did not marry. Marcus turns off the TV. He remembers his
Marcus sang to Marisol, played on the floor 14-year-old self, staying up alone in his bed-
with her and made up bedtime stories that room watching that game.
she couldn’t yet understand and never got a
chance to understand. In her eighth month The silence brings the living room into
she died in her crib. relief. A small clock embedded in a min-
iature globe sits tilted on its axis on the
After the funeral, Marcus worked hard mantel. A faded braided rug, frayed at the
not to be home. The Professor would make edges, covers wide floorboards. The finish
dinner for two and throw the rest away. She on the flooring is worn in several places, to
would spend evenings alone sorting, re- the bare wood. In one corner of the room,
sorting and then discarding bibs, blankets framed photographs sit on top of a small
and stuffed animals. After a year, Marcus antique desk. Most of the photographs
moved to an apartment on Beacon Hill are black and white. Others have faded to
and the Professor moved to Hanover New greenish brown.
Hampshire to teach at Dartmouth College.
The room, the photographs. They impart
Marcus has replaced his windshield and a feeling Marcus can’t quite unravel; a kind
it is now late afternoon. He turns off Route of loss – people and connections that could
28 onto Old Queen Anne Road and drives have enlarged his life of self-contained mild-
several more miles until he arrives at his fa- ness. But now: his mother, his grandpar-
ther’s house. Chatham Cape Cod is a seaside ents, relatives he cannot name. They are all
town with many large and exclusive homes, smiling from the picture frames, and they
but his father’s is not one of them. The yard are all dead.
is ornamented with a rusted grill, a broken
croquet stick and a small wooden rowboat, Marcus jostles his father’s shoulder.
half rotted into the ground. The objects are His eyes open and brighten. He opens his
unfamiliar – remnants of cookouts, games mouth as if to speak, but instead smiles, re-
and celebrations that Marcus has forgotten vealing two broken upper teeth.

“Hello Dad.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

His father reaches out and grabs Mar- turns his father onto his side. His father
cus’s arm, closes his eyes and exhales warily. starts to cough, eyes closed, a wet, gurgling
Marcus stands awkwardly, not sure what to hack that seems like it will never end. But it
do. His father releases his grip and drifts does end. He looks up at Marcus through
back into sleep. pale blue watery eyes. Marcus props him
to a sitting position and his father brings the
Marcus is now settled on the couch palm of his hand to Marcus’s cheek. Marcus
across from his dozing father, running sto- flinches, almost imperceptibly.
chastic asset models on his laptop. He re-
calls his years at MIT, burrowed alone in He places his arms under his father’s
his dorm room, studying for days. He has arms and struggles to his feet. He helps his
always been able to work hard. He thinks father down the hallway to his bedroom
back to the late nights in his office when he and sits him on his king-size bed. He swings
was detaching from the Professor, working his father’s legs onto the bed, lays him
to keep from drifting into despair. When he down, pulls up the bed covers and wipes
works, things make sense. the corners of his mouth. As he turns to
leave, he notices his father gesturing. Air
At eighty-seven his father is still hand- kisses. Marcus smiles and looks down at
some. His sleeping expression is hard, but the floor, not knowing how to respond. He
not unkind, his chin resting on his chest. turns out the bedroom light and closes the
Several grayish spots cover his bare head bedroom door. Under the hall light, the wet
and Marcus wonders if this is normal. He is tissue glistens bright red with blood.
lean – wiry, but not frail. He has never been
frail. This will be a short visit. He considers Marcus’s phone vibrates.
rescheduling his Wednesday work appoint-
ments, but decides to wait. “Hi Niki. … Yes, everything is fine. He had
a minor fall, but he’s fine. He’s sleeping
Marcus is sitting on the toilet when hears now… Yes, of course I was watching him.
a loud thud followed by a sickening moan. Stop worrying … Uh-huh… What time is
A flash of irritation passes through him. He she arriving?... Okay, I’ll tell her … Yes, I can
pulls up his blue dress pants and hurries to probably stay through Saturday. Okay, see
the living room. His father is sprawled face- you then. Good night.”
down on the floor several feet from his chair.
His left arm is outstretched, and his right- *
hand palm down at a right angle to his body,
as if he were trying to push himself up. His Marcus opens his eyes. Yesterday’s rain
bare head is flushed bright red. has passed and early morning light shines
through the living room window. He looks
Why didn’t he call for help? Marcus around and takes in yesterday’s forms. The
reaches for his phone, hesitates, and then BarcaLounger, the photographs in the cor-
kneels next to his father. He can hear him ner of the room and the braided rug. He rolls
breathing. He thinks, absurdly, about over on the couch and looks at his watch.
Marisol lying in her crib that morning, not It’s 6:30 AM. His father has slept through
breathing. He did not know what to do. the night. Or Marcus has slept through the
night without hearing his father. He isn’t
The worn braided rug pushes hard sure which. The hospital caregiver will ar-
against his knees. He shifts his weight and

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rive by 10:00 AM, his sister told him. His fa- leather-bound book and glancing all around.
ther must be hungry; he hasn’t eaten since Marcus opens the door.
Marcus arrived late yesterday afternoon.
“Can I help you?”
Behind the bedroom door his father is
making sounds – garbled sentences and “Yes, my name is Pat. I’m here for Robert.”
grunts. The bed mattress squeaks, inter- She grins widely, but her eyes are indif-
mittently. Marcus stands behind the closed ferent. She holds her smile and blinks hard
door. “Dad, do you want some breakfast?” twice until Marcus feels compelled to smile
The sounds stop. He knocks gently and back. She appears older than Marcus, sixty
opens the door a crack. “Dad?” or sixty-five, despite the yellow color of her
hair.
He opens the door wider and steps into
the room. His father is propped up in his “I’m Marcus. Robert is my father.”
bed. He is looking down to his left and right,
as if discovering his bedsheets for the first “This is my first session with your father.
time. His father looks up. His eyes are ques- Is he inside?”
tioning with a hint of fear. The smell of urine
and excrement is overwhelming and causes “Oh yes, you’re from the hospital. He’s
Marcus to gag. He puts his hand over his sleeping. He had a small fall yesterday and
nose and mouth and walks to his father’s an accident last night, but he’s cleaned up
bed. He hesitantly pulls back the bed cover. now. He coughed up a little blood. I can
wake him and let him know you’re here for
“Oh, Dad.” his medical check.”

The next hour is not comfortable. Pat looks at Marcus quizzically. “Oh, no,
no. You don’t understand, dear. I’m not
“Let me take off your pajamas… I’ll get certified for that. I’m from hospice. I could
the baby wipes... You need to pull off your contact the GP if you want, but you must
boxers… The soap is to help clean you up… remember, your father is in palliative care.”
Nod if you understand … Dad, it’s okay. You
did this for me at one point in my life ... Don’t Marcus looks at her blankly. A long si-
get up… I’ll hold your left hand while you lence follows, but Pat’s expression does not
use your right to wash yourself … Do you change.
understand?... Is the water warm enough?
… Relax. Wait until your cough stops … It’s “I know. This must be hard on you honey.”
okay… More blood… Dad, please don’t cry. She reaches for Marcus’s hand and he re-
Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere…” flexively pulls back. “We can sit for a talk if
you would like. During this difficult phase,
The father is sleeping in his bed under we find that connecting with others is im-
clean white sheets and the son is sitting portant – expressing your feelings about
at the kitchen counter. His thoughts are loss as you grieve...”
interrupted by an impatient knock at the
door. A short, bulky woman with cropped “No, no, no. I haven’t lost anything. I don’t
blonde hair and a turned down mouth is want your... I don’t need to talk. This is just
standing at the doorstep peering through a bad time. Thank you for coming by. I will
the side window. She is holding a small tell my father you were here. I’m sorry. This
isn’t a good time at all. We will schedule an-
other day.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Pat concedes quickly and begins to talk His father awakes and tries to sit up, but
about her next appointment: a dying man falls back. “Dad, you’re weak from no food.
living alone with no children or relatives. Let me heat up some beef broth with bread
But Marcus isn’t interested in her dying pa- and butter.” His father moves his head from
tient with no family. He wants this woman side to side on the pillow. “Do you want
to leave. some water?” His father nods, yes.

He sits alone at the kitchen counter Marcus returns from the kitchen with a
studying the lines in his hands. The com- glass of water. His father is now sitting up
prehension strikes him as suddenly as in bed. He takes a sip, puts the glass on the
someone shoving him to the ground from bedside table and lays back down under the
behind. Why didn’t Niki tell him? Or maybe bed covers. Marcus pulls a chair next to the
he didn’t hear. He recalls Niki’s comments bed and they are silent for a bit. His father’s
about his father’s pressing need to tell eyes are closed, but he is not asleep.
Marcus something. Perhaps his father
knew all along. He struggles to get his mind “Dad, I was sort of thinking I would
around the thought – that his father will not come for Thanksgiving. I could bring turkey,
recover. That he will soon die. stuffing, mashed potatoes. Would that be
okay?” His dad smiles, eyes still closed.
He thinks back to the night Marisol died.
His parents came to visit, to see the baby. Marcus looks around. A bookcase from
His father would not stop holding Marisol – his childhood stands next to his father’s desk.
kissing her stomach, nose and ears, singing When he was small, his father would read
his ridiculous made-up limericks. Babies him a story every night from that bookcase.
brought out the best in him, Marcus’s He remembers the lamp by the bed, the dark
mother often said. glow of his bedroom and the light reflecting
off the pages. He remembers the pictures
The new parents hurried home from in the books: watercolor-filled pencil draw-
dinner; this was their first night out. At first, ings of horses, dogs and woodsmen. And
they were relieved. Marisol was a breeze, he remembers the woody smell of whiskey
his father said. She hadn’t stirred all eve- and the inflections in his father’s voice. He
ning. Marcus would seal those brutal words doesn’t remember the stories, but he re-
in his thoughts to this day. Why didn’t he members these things distinctly.
check her breathing? Place her on her back
or stomach or whatever the fucking rules Marcus tries to make sense of the trajec-
said you were supposed to do? tory between those books and his current
life. He has wasted time. He pulls a book
* from the bookcase and reclines on the bed
while his father lies next to him. His father,
It is late afternoon. Marcus stretches his his eyes still closed, searches for Marcus’s
legs and leans back against the headboard, face, reaches around and gently tugs Mar-
his father sleeping next to him. His thoughts cus’s ear. Marcus turns away.
drift oddly to the orange Mini Cooper on
the side of the highway. Maybe it was a hit, He opens the book and beings to read.
not a tap. It doesn’t matter.

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About the Author
Erik lives in Boston Massachusetts. He holds a Bachelor of Science in mathematics and a
degree in violin performance from the New England Conservatory of music. After obtaining
a few professional designations and working a career in consulting, he has decided to turn
to short story writing.

33

THE NEIGHBOR

by Fiona Cooke

Tommy was always the paranoid type; he “What the hell are they doing” Tommy
bought 1,000 dollars’ worth of security burst in confusion.
cameras and security locks, so if anyone
were to show up, he’d see them. The only 2
thing is sometimes the people that arrive
aren’t there. Tommy had been diagnosed Cooke, The Neighbor,
with paranoid schizophrenia when he was
8, his childhood was difficult. Kids always He then quickly went through the house
thought he was a freak, but it wasn’t his locking doors and windows. He hid in the
fault; after his mom passed his dad had a bathroom for the rest of that night. The
mental break down, Tommy was tough to next morning Tommy mentioned the event
be cautious… Maybe too cautious. to his therapist, who did not believe that
the event happened. His therapist tried to
* tell Tommy it was one of his “episodes” and
that she’d be upping his doses. For the next
Now that Tommy was 30, going to therapy 3 weeks he would see his neighbor sneaking
and taking medication he didn’t worry so around his house.
much. It helped that he moved to a safe
neighborhood, suburban houses, white *
picket fences, happy smiling faces, but re-
cently things have been off. A new neigh- Tommy had finally had enough and decid-
bor named Vic had moved into the house ed tomorrow was the day he would con-
next to him; at first everything was fine. Vic front his neighbor. He thought about what
would have weekly cookouts and invite the his neighbor would say after being caught.
neighborhood; they would celebrate for “damn you caught me.” or maybe even “My
hours before going home. Vic was extreme- plan has been foiled!!” Tommy chuckled at
ly outgoing and would always be out at par- that one and thought back on childhood.
ties which Tommy had no problem with. When he sat down in the chair across from
his therapist he sighed.
One night however Vic decided to have
the party at his place; Tommy was fine with “I have decided to confront Vic about
it till he noticed Vic and his friends were stalking me” he said weakly worried of her
lurking around his house. response.

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“No Tommy, this is just an episode, your “Hello?” He stepped into the house and
neighbor is not stalking you” she sounded looked around. The house was beautifully
annoyed as if she was telling a toddler that decorated with exotic decor; Tommy could
they can’t have a snack after the 100th time tell just by first glance that Vic traveled.
they asked. “Hello” he said a little louder in hopes that
his neighbor would respond, but he didn’t
“He is watching me I know it” Tommy ex- get one. The house smelled of blackberries
claimed. and vanilla, the combination made Tommy
feel hungry. Soft classical music played
“How can you be so sure do you have throughout the house, which relaxed
prof” she asked. Tommy.

“Well no but- “she cut him off “Then he “Anyone home?!” Tommy yelled.
isn’t stalking you and until you have prof, I
suggest not bringing it up again.” Tommy “Yes, yes, we’re downstairs” Vic finally
was shock, upset, and embarrassed; so, he responded back.
made the decision to walk out.
Tommy walked over to the basement
When Tommy got home, he thought door, when he opened it his stomach filled
about what his therapist said. “Maybe back up with dread. “Maybe he’ll under-
she right maybe it is just my episodes”, he stand” Tommy thought to himself. Each
thought to himself “but it wouldn’t hurt to step down made him feel more and more
ask”; and on that note Tommy leaped off the panicked, something was off, something
couch and headed to is neighbor’s house. was not right, Tommy could feel the blood
running through his veins. When Tommy
3 got downstairs, he looked around. He was
meet with 6 men dressed in black, a large
Cooke, The Neighbor, pentagram made from what looks to be
blood, skulls hanging from the ceiling. Tom-
* my’s heart dropped to his stomach and ev-
erything made sense, the creeping around
Tommy stood at Vic’s door fidgeting with his house, the people that would come over
his hands and trying to bring up the cour- but never leave, the other neighbors that
age toknock. He stood there for five whole went missing. “Is this a bad time?” Tommy
minutes debating on if this was a good mumbled out
idea. Then he knocked, and his stomach
tightened. His thoughts were racing and “No, not at all” Vic smiled and walked
screaming on if he should chicken out, but closer to Tommy, “as a matter a fact your
the door opened. Tommy stood confused right on time.”
when no one stepped out.

35

BETWEEN THE
AISLES

by Jessamyn Violet

Fixation: An obsessive preoccupation. I didn’t mind a bit.
Sometimes, the only thing I can do to keep
my mind off of him is to go shopping—main- My car is parked and I’m already walking
ly for cheap, useless items that make me into the B-U-Y Store. Ever since he moved
more aware of the months passing. Holiday out, life is a thick cloud I am left blindly
tablecloths; candles in glass jars that smell feeling my way through. His absence—a
like pine trees and roses; soap dispensers cold, moist film, clinging to me everywhere
with plastic ducks trapped inside. These are I go. I barely notice where I am or what I’m
all mind-filling for a few precious moments. doing most of the time. Everything’s in the
Then, reality seeps in. process of shutting down.

These are all just useless trinkets to fill A woman rolling a cart past me almost
an empty house. plows into my side.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life “Watch out!” she says, glaring. I shrug.
alone.
Then, my eyes narrow with recognition.
There are several shopping complexes in My body slowly numbs.
the area. I’m fond of the one that the two
of us went to together the least. Sure, it’s a It’s her.
longer drive from the house, but well-worth
the unfamiliar territory. At Parker’s Plaza, I She walks ahead of me now, shoulders
don’t see the shadows of us strolling the moving up and down under a long corduroy
aisles of the hobby store, checking out the jacket. Her blonde hair is done up in a bun,
latest baseball cards to add to his collec- and her tight jeans display her slender hips
tion. There isn’t a silhouette of the two of and legs. Immediately, I look down at my
us eating at Harper’s—me with my chicken own faded fleece stretched over my chest
sub, and him with his huge, greasy stack of and torso, the size 16 khakis cutting into my
pizza slices. I always had to pick the strands waist. I press a hand to my frizzy ponytail
of mozzarella out of his beard. and feel shame.

Then, the fury comes.

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It creeps in slowly, like that feeling of shape his twice the size of mine. He wouldn’t
adrenaline when you first begin to think let me break them up, either, as soon as he
that someone’s following you. Then, as set them down on the cutting board. We’d
soon as it hits my heart, I feel it, and it’s usually end up having a meatball fight, the
the first thing I’ve felt in so long that I stop greasy raw beef squishing through our fin-
walking and close my eyes. gers as we tackled each other. By the time
they were cooked, they looked more like
I want to hurt her. misshapen- meat nuggets.

The thought comes into my head, but it I try not to acknowledge the tears rolling
flees quickly, leaving a residue of discontent, down my face as I watch her move on to
and a drunken feeling of boldness. Why is the next aisle, and wait a minute to follow. I
she here? She took him from me. Does she hear a cell phone ring, and her voice carries
have to take my new safe haven as well? clearly over the soft easy-listening music
playing in the store.
I hardly realize I’m following her. Luckily,
she doesn’t notice it either. She turns down Yeah, just picking up a few things… Now
the “kitchenware” aisle. I eye the knives, I can see her as I turn down the “bath ac-
briefly indulging a fantasy of bringing her cessories” aisle. She’s stopped in the middle
to her knees, her begging for me not to cut of the walkway, hand pressed against her
her perfect blonde bun off of her head. That forehead. Oh! Didn’t you say that you had
would give me some ill satisfaction, how- to work late? I was going to order in, but…
ever little it could actually change things. She pauses and turns her head. I hide my-
self behind the rack of shower curtains. No,
She’s looking at the blenders. Touching don’t be silly, I’m glad you’ll be home. We
the boxes, but not picking them up, as if can make ka-bobs or something for the grill.
she is telepathically reading whether or not I’ll pick up some skewers while I’m here. Ok?
they’ll make the perfect frozen margarita. Her foot taps nervously. I can’t wait to see
Which is what I assume she’s buying one you either. She giggles. I’ll see what I can do.
for—Keith loves his frozen margaritas. Now I’ll surprise you.
that they’re living together, she’ll find out
that he’s very particular about how much I stifle a sob. My vision is blurred and I
salt goes on the rim, and how if you use any- feel like an absolute loser, here, hiding be-
thing other than Cezar’s Molten Margarita hind the shower curtains with a pine-cone
Mix, he won’t get past the first sip. wreath in my hands. Who knows when
I picked it up? I clutch it desperately. The
She selects a smaller-sized blender— ridges are digging painfully into my hands,
not top-of-the-line, but I suspect that she but I hardly feel it. What have I become? I
has better things to offer him than a per- scream inside. How did I lose everything so
fect margarita. She pauses at the end of quickly, so permanently?
the aisle by the cutting boards. Her hands
again reach out to feel for a flawless block I wish I hadn’t followed him that night. I
of wood. wish I had no idea who this woman is.

I’m plunged into the memories of times I’d foolishly hoped he’d have second
we cooked together. Our favorite meal to thoughts about this previously-unidenti-
make was pasta with meatballs. When we fied mistress during his parent’s fiftieth
would form the meatballs, he would always

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

anniversary celebration. At the dinner party, No longer am I glad that I played detec-
over cake, I caught his eyes and tried to tive. Give me back the security of denial,
show him how grateful a wife I was with a over this sick, heart-killing freedom of truth.
long, lingering look. He’s still so handsome
to me, with his hazel eyes, strong brow, and After she tosses a few skewers into her
salt-and-pepper short hair. cart, she proceeds to the check-out. I sud-
denly want nothing but to escape from this
No longer than an hour after we’d ar- nightmare shopping trip. I head for the door,
rived back home, I heard the creak of the fast.
chair in the study, and the phone being
carefully hung up. His eyes were glazed and As I’m walking through the first exit, an
wouldn’t hold mine as he told me he was alarm sounds. I look around to see who’s
going out for a drink with his friends. triggered it. All I see is a ticked-off younger
man in a blue uniform charging towards
Usually, I’d protest for a few minutes, me. I begin to redden, as I realize that all
trying to get him to admit that he was lying the clerks and customers are staring at me.
to me, without actually coming out and Fixed in-between the double doors, I try
saying that I felt like there was someone to pull open the second door to leave, but
else. That night, though, I just advised him somehow it’s been locked automatically.
to drive safely. Then, as he was pulling out
of our driveway, I was pulling on my shoes “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step
and grabbing my keys. back into the store here,” the man says like
he’s all business. His nametag says “Frank”
The streets in our suburban town are and he has a handlebar moustache.
straight and well-lit, so I kept track of him
easily. When he turned into the apartment My cheeks are flaming hot. “But I didn’t
complex, I was shocked by how familiar he take anything—or even buy anything,” I say.
was with the security guards at the gate. My voice is high and thin. Am I whining?
They waved to each other, and the gate
was lifted without him so much as saying a “Really?” Now he’s looking less pissed,
word. I parked down the street, and slipped and more concerned. “Miss, that’s a wreath
in the side entrance. He turned the car off from our store in your hand, there, isn’t it?”
and got out whistling. Whistling. That really
threw me into the ice-cold water of reality. I lower my eyes to find my left hand still
He became someone else, that moment. A wrapped around the pine-cone wreath. I
man I had never seen before, never known; look up again, blinking back tears of shame.
a man with no true face.
“I didn’t want to buy this,” I say.
This woman in front of me now; this tall,
blonde, thirty-something-year-old, was the “Clearly,” he says, and the right side of
woman waiting for my husband outside of his moustache twitches. His eyes hold mine
the apartment building that night, smiling for a second. Then, as he realizes that I’m
like a little tramp. And right now, every uncomfortable enough not to understand
piece of me wishes not to know her face; my own words or the joke, he shifts his feet,
wishes I’d remained ignorant to his dou- clears his throat, and holds out his hand.
ble-life; wishes that I hadn’t told him I was “Well, then, why don’t you step into line if
on to him and cut the cords myself. you changed your mind. I won’t be too hard
on you.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

I hold it out but my fingers won’t release the corner of my eye, I see her staring at
their grip. It’s like suddenly I’m not in con- me in abhorrence, like she’s never done
trol of my hand. The wreath has become a anything unethical in her whole home-
part of me, an extension of my arm. Strug- wrecking life.
gling to buy some time, I say, “No. I mean, I
meant to put it back.” I cannot form the words to thank Frank.
Instead, I turn and walk out of the store,
He stares at me now with concern. I don’t nodding like a robot.
dare look at the other witnesses to this new
low point of my life. Age forty-six, trying to My hands are empty. My mind is full.
steal pine-cone wreaths from the discount If I were thirty years younger, I might try
store. I’m positively wishing that a car would to score some drugs and/or sleep around.
drive by and randomly shoot at me, putting Being older limits the amount of expend-
me instantly out of my misery. I envision able energy you have to try and numb your
myself falling to the floor in a pool of blood; own pain. I decide to go home and eat.
Frank shouting for an ambulance; grasping
my wrists; telling me to “hold on.” I realize Once home, I pull a chicken breast out of
my subconscious has never been as violent the refrigerator. The cutting board is on the
as it has on this shopping trip. I wonder counter and I slap the meat down, making
where my imagination will go from here. a splattering sound. Without hesitation, I
grab my biggest, sharpest kitchen knife off
My hand and the wreath are shaking the rack, and begin slicing the flesh into
over his extended fingers. I finally, after who strips, and then cubes. My fingertips are
knows how many seconds of brutal silence, dangerously close to the blade, and I’m sa-
realize that I have another hand, which, distically hoping that I’ll slip and cut a few
in fact, happens to be working. With that tips off.
hand, I start to pry my fingers off, one by
one. Frank pulls the wreath slowly away as This is not my life, I keep thinking, over
my last finger lifts. and over.

“Why don’t you go home and get some This is your life, reflects the chicken meat,
rest, now,” he says. In the background, in staring back up at me in cold truth.

About the Author

Jessamyn Violet is a writer and musician living in Venice
Beach. Originally from the Massachusetts, she attended
Emerson College and then moved out west to earn her
MFA in creative writing from California College of the Arts.
She’s the author of Junkfood Sexlife, a genre-bending
fiction novel, as well as a collection of poetry entitled
Organ Thieves published by Gauss PDF. For more info on
the author visit www.jessamynviolet.com

39

JASPER & RUBY

by Zach Murphy

“These guys have been around longer than The two gaze up at a trio of magnificent
us!” Jasper says to Ruby as they admire the Giraffes and their towering necks and their
Galapagos tortoises at the Como Zoo. long blue tongues and their gentle eyes.

“I bet they’re wiser than us too!” says “They look like they can see into your
Ruby. soul,” says Ruby.

Jasper chuckles and coughs violently. “They look like they know something that
“They definitely look wiser!” we don’t,” says Jasper.

Jasper and Ruby are a pair of inseparable “We’ll never know what that is,” says Ruby.
sweethearts who ceremoniously retired
from their Post Office jobs on the same Jasper and Ruby continue on the path to-
exact day, though it ended up being a few ward the Aquatic Animals. Ruby slows down
years later than originally planned. To en- and begins to breathe heavier. “I just need
rich their free time, they started a new tra- to sit down for a second,” she says.
dition by going to the zoo together once a
week, and they haven’t missed a single visit. Jasper holds Ruby steadily and sits her
down on one of the benches near the food
One of their favorite zoo animals is an patio. “I’ll go get you some water,” he says.
Orangutan named Amanda, who loves to
paint on canvases. Every time they see her, Ruby looks over at a bin that reads:
Amanda sends them big smooches. “Help keep the environment safe and recycle
your old cell phone!”
“She really likes us,” says Jasper.
Jasper comes back with a bottle of water.
Ruby’s eyes light up and she smiles as “Here you go sweetheart,” he says.
bright as the sun. “I’d much rather put up
Amanda’s art on the wall, instead of some Ruby takes a small sip of water. “I wouldn’t
of that strange stuff I see on the television.” know how to work a cell phone if I tried,” she
says.
“Ain’t that the truth,” says Jasper as he
coughs again. Jasper sits down next to Ruby. “Now they
got those smartphones,” he says. “I heard
Jasper and Ruby lovingly hold hands and they can make people do stupid things.”
make their way toward the Hoofed Crea-
tures. Ruby attempts to stand up. “I’m ready to
go see the Polar Bears,” she says.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“Are you sure you don’t need some more “Tell me about it,” says Jasper. “Future
rest?” asks Jasper. generations will have to learn about them in
school in the way we learned about dinosaurs.”
“They’re calling me!” says Ruby.
Ruby sighs. “What a world.”
“Okay,” says Jasper as he helps Ruby up
from the bench. “They always say that elephants never
forget,” says Jasper. “So we should never
Jasper and Ruby head inside to the Polar forget them!”
Bear exhibit. They stare through the glass in
awe as the formidably sized mammals with “You’re so good with the sayings,” says Ruby.
the thick, white fur glide through the cold
water like they don’t have a single care in The two walk speechless for a few minutes.
the world.
“You know,” says Ruby. “There will come
“It’s amazing how their coats keep them a day when one of us won’t be around to
so warm,” says Jasper. go to the zoo.”

“If things keep going the way they are I’m “I don’t think I’d be able to come here
afraid they might be too warm,” says Ruby. without my sweetheart,” says Jasper.

Jasper sighs. “I would still want you to go,” says Ruby.

The couple takes one final stroll through “Do you promise to do the same?” asks
the zoo. Jasper

“It’s so sad to think that a lot of these an- “Mm-hmm.”
imals might not exist in a decade from now,”
says Ruby. Ruby leans her head on Jasper’s shoulder
as they listen to the rainforest birds sing.

About the Author

Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born, multi-faceted writer who
somehow ended up in the often chilly but charming land of
St. Paul, Minnesota. His stories have appeared in Peculiars
Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, WINK, and the Wayne Literary
Review. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly and loves cats
and movies.

41

MESSINESS

by Jahnavi Misra

“Does this spark joy?” Nita kept asking her- could she ever throw them out? They had
self. to remain there, dead and sad, reminding
her everyday of their lost loveliness. That
She went around the room, tripping on was her punishment. She refused to get rid
random items, picking up one thing after of them, and did not know how to explain
another – a figurine, a coaster, a vinyl – and her reasons to those who would never un-
repeating the same question again and derstand. She had felt pain when they died
again. Sometimes out loud and other times and she wanted to hold on to that pain; it
quietly to herself. was precious to her. Just like the large green
ceramic frog that she constantly tripped on.
“Decide already,” her sister, slouching in She freely admitted that it was not the most
one corner of the room, warned her, more beautiful thing she had ever seen, but her
firmly than gently. heart had broken into a million pieces when
her boyfriend – now an ex-boyfriend of
There had been a pattern to that living twenty years – had given it to her as a token
room once. A design that had appealed to to remember him by, just before breaking
those who called themselves ‘maximalists’. up with her. It had been a profound, deli-
Nita did not have friends, but every once in a cious pain when he had turned his back on
while a rare visitor would say, “I like how you her, becoming smaller and smaller, van-
have done up your house. Some people might ishing from her line of vision forever. She
think it’s too much, but I am a maximalist.” might as well be a dead, stony thing without
that ache that started in her heart and ra-
Gradually, all those carefully and not so diated out to her entire body, leaving her
carefully curated items started to take over bed-ridden for months.
the space and her lush green plants started
to take on a brown tinge. She watered them “Does this spark joy?” Nita asked herself
more, then she tried to dry them out . . . but again.
nothing helped. The plants started to disap-
pear in the crayon box that was her home, “It is the only way,” her sister was telling
and slowly lost all their colour – drooping her. “You absolutely need to sort this shit
and withering as she alternating watered out before it consumes you.”
them and dried them in desperation. But
now that they were completely brittle, she Nita knew this to be true, her therapist
loved them more. They were her respon- had told her many times to throw away
sibility and she had let them down. How

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Revista Literária Adelaide

everything that did not spark an instant “Not yet. Let’s look through a few more
feeling of joy. She tried to steel herself. But things.”
then she looked down again at the vinyl
that she had been clutching, wondering The little dress that Nita had worn for a
hard whether it made her feel joyous, and school play was the next cause for debate.
remembered again how idiotically young It was a little pink dress with red and gold,
she had been when she bought it. It was glittering flowers sewn all over it. It was
a boyband that she grew to hate almost garish, cheap, and exactly what most little
immediately afterwards. They were utterly girls lust after. Nita remembered so well
“uncool” her peers had told her. And they how the dress had made her feel – like she
really were – they had an irritatingly nasal was all the beautiful, flawless girls in movies,
sound that she could not bear to listen to television and magazines rolled into one.
any more. To think that she was ever so She had felt like the ultimate beauty queen
young and foolish to have thought them in that dress. Her sister was also given one.
interesting. How could she let that go? She They were made to play twins in that school
replaced the vinyl slowly, very conscious of play because they used to look almost iden-
her sister’s deepening frown at the other tical then.
end of the room.
“I threw it out a long time ago. Why do
“I promise to do better tomorrow,” she you still have it?”
said.
“But we were so pretty in that play.”
“At least I got you to give this up,” her
sister said holding up a tattered t-shirt, Her sister felt a pang of that deep ten-
smiling. derness again, which, so far, had kept her
from abandoning Nita to a social worker
Nita had spent countless days and nights and continued to bring her back to that
wandering around her apartment in that godforsaken apartment. “You can’t do this,
dependable, comfortable shirt after their Nita. You can’t get stuck like that. You need
mother’s passing a few years ago. Her sister to move with the ebb and flow of life. Con-
and the few other people who still turned stantly changing.”
up to see her then would insist that she take
off the shirt and get under a shower. But “It’s not like I want to wear that dress
she couldn’t, because the t-shirt made her again. I can only bear to wear kaftans now.”
feel like a kid, and it made her feel that her
mother might rise from the dead if she kept Her sister threw up her arms in the air,
it on long enough. When her sister finally exasperated.
managed to pry it off her body, it felt like
peeling skin. Her eyes stung to see it being Nita hated to see those arms go up like
held by her sister like that between the that, it indicated that her sister was giving
thumb and the index finger. up on her; that she might not return. “Okay
I will give you this,” she said panicking, and
But instead of lunging at her, knocking picked up an old Barbie doll lying carelessly
her down and retrieving the shirt, she said, on the floor. Its hair had been cut with blunt
“let me get some coffee.” No one could say scissors by two little girls trying to give it a
that she was not making an effort. trendy hairstyle, and its face was marked
with sketch-pens and markers to emphasise
its otherwise insipid features.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“This is fine for now. But we need to be “I will try and take you outside one day
braver.” soon; after we have made some headway
with all this junk. You’ve locked yourself in
“I’m trying.” here for far too long,” her sister said, sip-
ping her coffee contentedly.
Nita was finally allowed to make her way
to the kitchen, wading through piles and “Why should I go out when I have every-
piles of everything, to get coffee. She loved thing here?”
to see her sister drinking it; it was bought
with her money anyway. Coffee time was “Don’t you want to make more mem-
for simple chatter, it signalled the end of the ories? New memories?” her sister asked
intervention, until next week. gently.

Her sister was always impressed by the “Where will I put all those memories
kitchen. It might not have any space to walk, then? You call the house cluttered now,
but there were never any dirty dishes to be imagine what would happen if I brought in
seen. It gave her hope for Nita. more stuff.”

“Why do you still keep the old one?” she “But sometimes it’s best to keep your
asked her standing outside the kitchen door, memories in your head instead of your
pointing at the old coffee machine in the house. That’s what your therapist and I
corner. have been trying to tell you. Maybe going
out again will give you a chance to practice
“It is from the time when I was better. that.”
When you used to like coming here. You
even used to bring your boy and girl here “You think you can just store things in
sometimes.” Nita touched it lovingly. “This your head and think of them whenever
definitely sparks joy!” she said, confidently. you want?” Nita asked. Her sister’s conde-
scending tone was getting on her nerves.
“Why do you do it, Nita? Why can’t you She got up, opened a drawer on the televi-
embrace the fact that life is flippant? We all sion stand and brought out a tiny slip. She
have to do it. Nobody can carry the weight waved it in her sister’s face and asked, “do
of every passing moment.” you remember what this is?”

Nita giggled nervously. “Otherwise it Her sister grabbed the chit and read out
would be like nothing ever happened. Like loud, “‘Get well soon, mum!’ I don’t know.
I never happened.” She could sense her sis- What is it?” she asked.
ter’s discomfort. She always got like that
when Nita started answering back. “But “I stuck it to the sandwich I made for mum
you’re right, of course,” Nita said quickly. when she was sick with jaundice. I kept the
“Both you and the therapist. I do cling on sandwich on the kitchen counter before we
to useless things . . . but I’m trying to get left for school. When we returned that eve-
better, promise!” she said, adding sugar to ning, mum held me and cried for ten min-
the coffees. utes straight.”

They sat down once Nita had made some Nita’s sister had no recollection of the
space on the tiny sofa by throwing tattered event. She handed the chit back to her and
stuffed-toys and smelly old throws on the took another sip of her coffee.
floor.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

But Nita was not done yet. She opened to you and handed you this. We giggled so
another mysterious drawer and brought out much that day.”
a cheap looking ballpoint pen. “Do you re-
member what this is?” Nita’s sister stood up. “Alright. I can tell
that you have had enough for today. You
“No, Nita. I don’t.” should rest now.”

“I’m sorry for that. Because it is the pen “Will I see you on Saturday?” Nita asked
you gave me after English class in the sixth- in a tiny voice.
grade. The teacher called out my name for
the best essay and you gave me your pen “Of course you will. I will call you as soon
saying, ‘I want you to never stop writing.’ as I get home.”
Those were your exact words.”
Nita smiled up at her. Surrounded by
Nita’s sister felt defensive for not having bitter sweet memories. Full to bursting, if
any memory of the incident and said, “But not necessarily joyful.
you did stop writing. You got so over-
whelmed with all this that you stopped Her sister hurried out of her apartment.
writing.” “Thank god I don’t have so much weighing
me down,” she said aloud to herself. She
Nita paid no attention to the comment descended the stairs quickly, feeling light.
and brought out a childishly hand drawn Maybe a little too light – like a gust of wind
card instead. It had pink and purple flowers might pick her up and deposit her on the
on the outside and inside it said, ‘I love you.’ moon. She decided to buy some cream
cones for her kids on the way home, just as
“What is this now?” a small treat. They loved the ones from that
bakery. She crumpled the receipt, ready to
“I am truly sorry you don’t remember this throw it in the bin on the way out. But then
one. I think we were five years old, in pre- she stopped and stuffed it in her handbag.
school. You really liked a boy in class. And “I’ll throw it later,” she told herself.
one day a miracle happened, he came up

About the Author

Jahnavi Misra is a writer, researcher and filmmaker
living in London. She has a PhD in English literature from
Durham University, UK, and is exploring new and exciting
directions in which to take her research work. Her interests
in filmmaking lie mostly in animation, and her first stop
motion film ‘The Sweetmeat Boy’ was shown in multiple
film festivals around the world. She is currently working on
her second animation film based on the death penalty in
India. Her first commissioned book of short stories – also
based on the death penalty – is forthcoming, and she is in
the process of wrapping up her novel.

45

THE PRICE OF
KINDNESS

by Robert Penick

I was born in Mississippi, which is a big for my nutritional needs. A good day meant
Strike One right off the bat, but I was also ducking in, ditching my books, slapping
born poor, to people who didn’t need to be some butter on crackers and getting the hell
poor, who eschewed books for television out of there before any fireworks started. A
game shows and family dinners for thirty creek ran behind the trailer park and I spent
packs of Busch beer. I grew up mainly on hours there with Buford Jones, my only
Cheetos, belt whippings, and The Price is friend. Buford had a unrepaired hairlip and
Right. What I remember of our house trail- was way off the autism charts. Nearly mute,
er was the disparate odors of sweat, urine he got on a little bus and went to a different
and reefer. Childhood’s supposed to be a school every day. We built forts, dammed
magical time, everyone a fairy princess or the creek (complete with spillways), and
superhero, but adults can take that away, spent hours staring into space. That winter
can make the world small, dark, and terri- we built a four-room igloo and day-camped
fying. More so once they’ve discovered all in it for a week. No one seemed to miss us.
your hiding places. I suppose Buford had his own ugly home life,
or he wouldn’t have come on bivouac with
My father was a brutal man, he said, be- me.
cause his father was a brutal man. Fortu-
nately, the guy who would have been my School was a lesser hell. There were re-
grandfather died of liver disease sometime marks about my thrift store clothes and I
before my appearance. Dad had an 8th got knocked down in the hallway every day,
grade education and worked at a factory but florescent lighting made rooms bright
that produced plastic pellets for use in in- and the free lunch I got was the same food
jection molding. He’d come home with his the kids with Nike shoes and Tommy Hilfiger
arms blackened up to his elbows and imme- jeans ate. Some moments I forgot I wasn’t
diately start slamming down beers. Mom like everyone else. Of all the kids at East
worked days waitressing and kept peanut Oktibbeha Elementary School, I was a bit
butter and various bagged snacks available sharper than the median. My homework

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Revista Literária Adelaide

was completed on the bus ride home and in the stained glass windows: Mary, the
the teachers never caught me guzzling El- lamb, the dove just released from a pair of
mer’s glue or looking up skirts. Unpopular, I hands. Afraid to sing, I mouthed the words
was not a magnet for valentines or crushes, to hymns. After a couple of weeks I got the
but I survived. There was always the end idea I might become a minister of some
of the school day to point toward. Peanut sort, especially if I could pick up some of
butter crackers, the creek. Jesus’ miracle-making abilities. Heal the sick,
smite some bullies, have people look up to
In my ninth year my lot improved. One me. Be kind. Teach charity. Is there a better
night I was trying to sleep while my folks had gig anywhere? Name it.
their nightly get-together and toke-athon in
the living room with Dad’s friends and some I spent an entire year in that beautiful
of Mom’s co-workers from Waffle House. oasis, loved and respected by people who
Their Kid Rock concert was interrupted by wanted me to turn out well and have a
the Starkville Drug Task Force using a bat- future outside a penal institution. It was
tering ram to knock down the front door of joyous, and it taught me there are con-
the trailer. The door was unlocked, further nections to be made in even the bleakest
proof that absolutely no one in Mississippi life, tribes willing to adopt new members.
has any sense. The cops found everything: However, once you are cast out of proper
the weed, the methamphetamine, the thir- society, whether due to bad lineage, your
teen Oxycontin Mom had stolen from an parent’s recreational preferences, or dollar
old woman she cleaned house for. All of store sneakers fished out of a donation bin,
the stuff was stashed in predictable places, you don’t easily get readmitted. This social
like under the mattress and sofa cushions branding is permanent. Yet by springtime I
and inside the freezer. Worst of all was the had become more tolerated at school and
Dan Wesson .357 magnum revolver in their got a second-hand invitation to a class-
nightstand. Both my parents were convicted mate’s birthday party. Regina Johnson’s
felons, so statutes kicked in with additional family was wealthy by Starkville standards,
prison time. meaning the antebellum mansion they
lived in had been restored with enough
Picked up by social workers that same Home Depot replacement windows and
night, I found myself in the house of the Dutch Boy paint that it looked okay if you
Phillips’, an elderly couple who occasionally were driving by fast enough. Regina was a
took in displaced children. Foster care gets snot who thought she was royalty because
a bad rap but, for me, it was heaven. New her family had owned a bunch of people
clothes, shoes that fit, sitting in a barber’s before General Sherman used the Army
chair for a haircut. It was a different planet. of the Tennessee to sodomize the Confed-
Every evening Mr. Anderson sat with me at eracy. No way would I ever get an invitation
the kitchen table, going over multiplication from her other than to jump off the Josey
tables and state capitals. He also taught me Creek Bridge. Anne Marie Everson, her pro-
the game of blackjack and how to clean a tege and constant shadow, on the other
.22 rifle. Mrs. Anderson doted on me and hand, was a girl scout and generally kind
quickly became “Grandma.” On Sundays we little soul. Bushy hair, crooked teeth and
went to the Methodist church and I sat as sallow complexion, she made up for it with
still as possible, studying the saintly figures her sweetness and inclusive nature. It was

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

she who told me to show up at Johnson impending, avoidable humiliation and
Hall (I swear they called it that) at eleven walking the three miles over to the trailer
o’clock the next Saturday to partake of ice park. I could give Generic Barbie to Buford.
cream and cake, cream soda and potato He’d make her into a blonde Godzilla and
salad. Anne Marie was insistent. I said I’d use her to attack the fort. After killing
be there. the afternoon, I could walk back and
tell Grandma and Granpa Phillips what
I was so unsocialized that I had no idea a wonderful time it had been. But the
that anyone attending a birthday party door was in front of me now, just down a
needed to bring a gift. Grandma Phillips cobblestone path flanked with little pink
remedied that, taking me the night before flowers. Petunias? Zinnias? They could be
to Walmart to browse through the toys. We palm trees for all I knew. I felt the urge
were on a budget, so we came away with to find a library right away, look them up,
a generic Barbie doll with a glittery skirt gain some knowledge, put my Saturday
and ti 66ny denim jacket. I was optimistic. to better use than getting socially eviscer-
It was a Chinese knockoff, but cute as could ated at a party.
be. Perhaps it would be acceptable. We
wrapped it up in leftover Christmas paper But I didn’t go to the trailer park or seek
and scotch tape, and it hung together like refuge at the library. I crept up those cob-
a badly-dressed mummy. I went to bed blestones to the house that become more
scared but happy. Something new was oc- formidable the closer I came. After three
curring, and there was a chance it would be timid knocks, I waited a small eternity
fun. If not, business as usual. and willed down the fear that gave me a
sudden urge to pee. After a moment the
The next day I traversed the four blocks door opened and Regina Johnson’s mother
with my gift held in both hands like an of- appeared. Her look went from welcoming
fering to a deity. Johnson Hall was festooned to displeasure to a phony sort of cordiality
with balloons and streamers that could be in a single second.
seen a hundred yards away. From half that
distance I could make out the squeals of “I haven’t met you before, have I?” she
delighted children in the back yard. Then I asked, holding the door open.
shuddered.
And, just like that, I was admitted into
I don’t belong here. society.

This was all wrong, a thousand times *
wrong. It had been drilled into me since
conception: be small, be non-obtrusive. If So, what is the price of kindness? I believe
possible, disappear completely. I was tres- it is a thin slice of birthday cake, served on
passing in another world. A curtain came a paper plate, in a back yard on a warm
up in my mind, a scene of me ditching the spring day. That or any equivalent currency.

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