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Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to
publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and
established authors reach a wider literary audience.
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação
mensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os
escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta.
(http://adelaidemagazine.org)

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Published by ADELAIDE BOOKS, 2018-11-17 09:06:17

AdelaideLiterary Magazine No.17, October 2018

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to
publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and
established authors reach a wider literary audience.
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação
mensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os
escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta.
(http://adelaidemagazine.org)

Keywords: fiction,nonfiction,poetry,short stories,essays,novels,memoirs

young age, I took on my father’s sleeping hab- point for the nightly routine of attempting to
its. These habits include: four to five hours of go to sleep.
sleep, midnight snacking, Walmart trips at
12:30 am, and so much more. We spent many My favorite things to think about were family
nights on our red leather couch, munching on and friends coming into town or us going to
tortilla chips, watching American Pickers or them. I remember crawling into my full-sized,
Storage Wars. My mom would shuffle out of spacious bed, grabbing my worn, stuffed puppy
her bedroom, gently remind me that I had and imagining a visit with my godfamily. They
school the next day, and then retreat back to were visiting us in a couple of days, so naturally
her cozy sanctuary to rest until having to come when I asked what to dream about, that was
out again an hour later to make sure that I the response my mom came up with. I closed
went to bed. These were terrible habits for a my eyes and started my slow, steady decline
teenager in high school to develop, but it was into the real dream world.
the one rebellious thing I ever really did. I am
sure it was frustrating to my mom, but these I thought about the five little smiles that would
nights were some of my favorites. Staying up greet my mom and dad, their godma and god-
late with my dad, talking about life, is some- pa, when they entered through the front door.
thing that I will cherish forever. Their tight hugs would embrace us all in an
aggressive way to show off the strength
However, I do sometimes regret these sweet they’ve accumulated. I imagined Kimmi and
moments when it’s three in the morning and I Andy, who used to babysit me when I was a
am contemplating the meaning of life and ex- child and who both became part of our family,
istence or replaying the conversations of the looking at me and talking about how tall I had
day. My midnight chats with dad brought gotten and how mature I looked. I reflected on
about a firm sense of reality. He reminded me their past trips here. Like the one time we went
of the realistic situations: the good, the bad, to the zoo, and Zoee cried because she could-
and everything else in between. Thinking of n’t jump off of the ski lift into the big kitty’s
these experiences grounded me in truth before cage. It was the tiger’s cage, and we were well-
dozing off. The older I become, the more my advised not to hop in to try to pet them. Or
nights consist of this thinking before bed. As when Zeke was just a baby and he crawled into
much as my brain loves fabrication, reflection my lap, butt naked, and fell asleep on my chest.
is equally, if not more, important. He hated wearing pants and diapers. It was all
commando, all the time. It was weird, but he
Reality Check was such a sweet, cuddly baby boy; I didn’t
have the heart to wake him up just to force a
The Happy diaper on him.

Throughout middle school and part of high While I loved thinking about these moments, I
school, I would occasionally ask my parents really looked forward to the upcoming conver-
what I should dream about before bed. I knew sations with Kimmi and Andy. I was old enough
that the chances of me actually dreaming to finally talk about the serious stuff in life. I
about what they said was slim, but it always couldn’t wait to sit down and pick their brains
gave me something to think about. When I for any advice or wisdom they had to offer.
would ask them this, they would respond with These “dreams” continued until I dozed off,
something upbeat and exciting, which only thinking about all of the ice cream sandwiches
made me want to prepare for whatever was that were going to be consumed the following
ahead instead of going to sleep. Still, the week.
thoughts were nice and often a good starting

The Humorous fill out an incident report the next day. Even as
I write this, I can’t help but chuckle remember-
As much as I loved thinking about these sweet ing the questions and my responses.
memories, my brain also likes to rehash the
experiences and conversations of my day— “Describe the accident that occurred.”
most of these being the ridiculous, embarrass-
ing moments I somehow always find myself in. “I clothes-lined myself with a dumpster lid.” I
joked as I read off the questions and verbally
As I lay in bed, wide awake at 2:00 am, I think answered them.
about my days working as a student worker in
the Office of Advancement over the summer. I “What safety precautions need to be put in
and Taya, a spritely, enthusiastic colleague and place to prevent this in the future?”
friend with boundless energy and a continuous
positive outlook, had been cleaning out and “Remind employees not to get frustrated with
reorganizing the small, wooden shed behind a dumpster. It will win whatever battle is
our office. It was a tight space that only got thrown its way.”
more claustrophobic as boxes were pulled off
the shelves. Being stuck in a room that was “How can we avoid this accident in the fu-
roughly the size of a large handicap bathroom ture?”
stall all day, we had to find things to keep us
entertained. Some days, we put on our Spotify “Hire more intelligent people, I guess.”
Disney playlist and blasted the music until we
would notice the banking personnel next door My brain often reverts back to this memory
looking over at us, and upon the realization when I want to sleep because of its ridiculous-
that they had listened to our best renditions of ness. Sometimes, when my face gets red from
“A Whole New World,” “I Just Can’t Wait to be the heat, I can still make out the lines where
King,” and “I’ll Make a Man Out of You,” we the dumpster scratched the skin off my chin.
would turn the music down and double over Then, I go to bed laughing at myself and thank-
laughing. ful that not many people were around to wit-
ness the short-lived Dumpster War of 2017.
That summer was full of laughter and embar-
rassing moments, but one memory is common- The Hard
ly brought up during the nightly battle between
sleep and my overthinking brain. Taya and I Though there are so many fond memories I
had just cleared some cardboard boxes from reflect on before bed, sometimes it’s the hard-
the shed, throwing them out the door to con- est ones that stick out, forcing me to ruminate
serve our leg room. When we were done for in darkness before I can sleep. Just as quickly as
the day, we took them over to the dumpster. I thought of the jacket attack, I also think of the
Determined to get the lid up in one swift heavy realities that come with living in a world
throw, I grabbed the flimsy black dumpster lid full of pain. My brain generously provides flash-
with both hands, and with all of the strength in backs for me. These recollections are vivid and
my arms, I heaved it as hard as I could up- haunting. The most recurring memory only
wards. However, I had been so focused on my happened a few years ago. I can still picture it
task that I had forgotten to move my head out perfectly.
of the way and was left with a bruised, bleed-
ing chin. After the eighth alcohol wipe and with I was sitting alone in my cousin’s living room on
a large piece of gauze taped underneath my her cream-colored, suede couch, staring at a
chin, I was all patched up. I was sent home ear- baby monitor. The television was on solely for
ly due to my “injury,” but I had to come back to the quiet noise it provided. I was too focused
counting the number of breaths Nana took to
watch a meaningless show. One, two, three…

Wait, is her chest moving? When was the last through me. How could he? I trusted him. I be-
time she took a breath? I got up and ran into lieved in him. He was a mentor, a friend. How
the small bedroom. It was lit only by a lamp on could he do that? The grieving process starts
the side table. Nana’s hospice bed was pushed over again nightly as I try to make sense of how
against the left side of the room, and my Aunt this could have happened. I feel every emotion
Brenda sat across from her. all at once. Each comes and goes whenever it
pleases, and I am left even more of a mess than
“Aunt Brenda, what’s going on? Is it time for I was before trying to sleep.
more medicine already?”
Conclusion
“No. She doesn’t need more medicine.”
I love sleep, but my brain hates it. There is a
“Her breathing is really shaky and hollow. daily fight against the low-level of energy from
What’s happening?” the previous night. When I finally return to my
dorm bed, exhausted and ready to turn in,
“Baby,” she paused. “She’s dying.” there is no avail. There are just some nights
when sleeping is more of a hassle than the en-
I couldn’t believe it. My eyes fixed on Nana. I ergy boost it boasts of being. As much as I love
was paralyzed by fear and sadness. I couldn’t it, there are more important things to focus on
hear anything. I don’t remember what Aunt every once in a while.
Brenda was telling me. I just stared. My heart
pounded faster as hers slowed. Her chest went I will never fully understand why I can’t sleep
up and down. Up and down. Up and down. And sometimes. It seems the night still holds me
then it stopped. captive, as it did when I was a kid. There’s just
something about it that draws me in. The night
My mind provides these short films of my life is terrifying and ominous, but it is so much
often. Involuntarily, I rewatch my Nana take more than that. It is unknown and mysterious;
her last breath. I recall the moment I heard and yet it brings me the most clarity. It reveals
about the passing of one of my godsisters, Lu- the paranoia of the mind, but also uncovers the
cy, at only three years old. I wave goodbye to creativity of it. The night is dark and hazy, but it
my home and friends in Arizona as I move to encourages reflection and shines light on new
Colorado all over again. It’s not that these hard and old situations. I don’t see myself ever de-
memories didn’t have sweet ones that fol- feating this thief of sleep, but if I’m being hon-
lowed them, they are just some of the things est, I don’t think I want to.
my brain won’t ever give up.
I don’t mean to advocate for sleep deprivation.
Most recently, my thoughts before bed have You should definitely be getting sleep when
fallen into this category of reality checks. After you can. I am only attempting to expose the
a long night of trying to write about how I am difficulties some of us have with this idea of
feeling, I give up, going into robot mode. My sleeping: the difficulties of people who aren’t
mind seems to work double time as I brush my up with newborns and children, people with-
teeth and wash my face. My plans for the next out any medical issues, but merely the restless
day are sorted out as I crawl into my multicol- night owls, the wandering souls, trying to make
ored bedding with the perfect comforter for sense of this world. The only time for thinking
bundling up, thick and soft. My pillow calls to without disturbance for me is at night. The
me, and as my head hits it, my mind sounds hours when all else is quiet, and for the first
the alarm, reminding me again of the harsh time in my day, I can process without remorse,
news received only a week ago. My dad’s without the fear of missing important infor-
words still reverberate in my head, your ex- mation from others.
youth pastor was arrested today for sexual
assault charges. A myriad of emotions flow

The monsters we used to get so scared of at
night might not be real, but sometimes their
entities remain, haunting us. The teddy bear
that we imagined raising its sword up to pro-
tect us isn’t always around anymore. My
stuffed puppy is still close by every night, but
the idea of him fighting off any new, fresh dra-
gon has been laid to rest. He has retired and
now sleeps more soundly than I do. As we
grow older, we are left to fight off the demons
on our own. For me, I prefer to process belie-
ving God is by my side, as He provides comfort
in the chaos of my thoughts. But I know others
that the darkness eats for a midnight snack,
their will devoured under its black cloak and in
the morning, the monster spits them back out,
cold and already tired of the battle ahead.

About the Author:

Sara Magruder is currently a student studying
English and Communication. She works on her
university’s campus in both the Residence Life
program and the Writing Center. She is an ex-
trovert and loves getting to know people. In
her free time, she also enjoys writing, reading,
and editing."

HOPE AT LAST

by Jon Epstein

My skin didn’t fit. I was consumed with angst, all the other letterman sweater jerks, he’s nev-
self-consciousness, and low self-esteem. But, er acted elitist and was nice enough to help me
of course, at fifteen, I just thought everyone’s tackle the horse straddle in eight-grade PE in
life was better than mine. lieu of Coach Allayers’s belittling screams. I
always figured since his parents emigrated to
A loud siren blares outside in the distance. It’s the U.S from Japan, they probably taught him
the second week of summer school. Monday. old world manners.
Sunlit dust particles float down to the floor. I’m
standing alone, leaning against the doorjamb in “Really?” I can’t even imagine how that’s even
little more than an uninspired slouch, waiting possible. Sue and I have never spoken. The
for Dr. Weeks to unlock the door and first peri- whole year in algebra she never even looked at
od bell to ring. I hate Mondays. I hate waiting. I me once. I would know, because I was always
hate first period. And I hate being alone. I hate checking her out.
Tuesdays too.
“Yeah, for real.” Kane seems convincing.
Kane Nakamura approaches me from the dark
end of the hallway. That’s weird, what’s he “That’s cool.” I try not to stammer or drool. “I
doing up here? He’s not in my class. “Hey, Ep- think she’s nice.”
stein,” Kane says.
Kane looks as though he has something on the
“Yeah?” I do a double take. I pretend that I’m tip of his tongue but says nothing. He fidgets,
not totally uncool and look around to make switching his weight from one sneaker to the
sure Kane’s speaking to me. other. We stand in awkward silence.

“Do you know who Sue Jolson is?” Kane grins. “What?” I want him to spill whatever he’s hold-
ing on to.
Muted sunlight washes over the semi-polished
floor. I try to weigh things out, wondering if “Well,” Kane says with a sheepish look, “she
this is some kind of joke. I look around the hall asked me to tell you last week but I forgot. She
at kids huddled together in hushed voices. The asked me again, just five minutes ago.” Kane
walls are lined with faded green metal lockers looks at his watch. “You should go up to her
that look welded shut. during Nutrition and say ‘Hi.’ She hangs out in
the quad by the banner wall under the trees.”
“Sure,” I say. I envision Sue’s bra, almost
busting at the seams. “So you think I should just go up to her and say
‘Hello’?” That seems normal, except for the
Kane looks over his shoulder like he’s a Rookies fact that I’m a klutzy nerd who doesn’t know
informant and says, “Sue asked me to tell you how to act cool around girls.
that she likes Jon Epstein.”
“Totally, dude.” Kane says.
Even though Kane’s one of the jocks from Le
Conte, I figure he’s not putting me on. Unlike “Okay.” What will be my opening line? What if
she changes her mind? What if this really is

some kind of prank? My brain seizes up like a “I could eat him alive,” answers Lydia.
hot engine in need of motor oil. “Well, thanks,
man.” Lydia’s words are the last I remember as I drift
to la-la land; the image of Sue waiting for me in
“Hey man, I gotta book it.” Kane walks away, the quad is the closest thing to hope I’ve had
then stops and turns. “Just go up to her.” since that first kiss with Rachel. My attention
drifts out the window. I daydream of Sue’s
“Okay.” So this is how the world turns? Sue thick brown hair, and curves. A hand-holding
dispatches Kane to deliver news that can couple walks into the International House of
change my life. Man, she’s pretty, and jeez, talk Pancakes. I imagine taking Sue there for break-
about B-52s! “See ya.” fast before class; sitting together in a booth on
the same side of the table; ordering blueberry
*** pancakes; impressing her when I leave a nice
tip; opening the door for her on the way out;
The hallway is filling up and I’m no longer carrying her books for her to school; saying,
slouching. I whistle the theme song from “goodbye, I’ll meet you after class,” then kiss-
M*A*S*H. Wow, a summer school girlfriend! ing.
We could take the RTD to the beach. We could
go swimming at Verdugo Pool. We could do “MR. EPSTEIN!” Weeks yells.
Baskin Robbins after dinner—eat ice cream and
watch the sun go down. “Huh?” I’m shaken back to reality.

Dr. Weeks interrupts my hopes and dreams “Mr. Epstein, will you please join us?” Weeks
with a loud clearing of his throat. “Do you gestures his pointer in my direction.
mind, Mr. Epstein?” He scowls.
I look forward and pretend to pay attention but
“Oh, sorry,” I say, and step aside so he can un- am incapable. I see Weeks standing in front of
lock the door; his long bony fingers fumble the classroom. I watch his pointer and lips
with his large key ring. He can’t seem to find move, but all I hear is, “Blah, blah, blah, blah,
the right one and mutters under his breath. He blah.”
has a BAND-AID on the top of his bald head.
Probably banged himself on the tree branch ***
while mowing the lawn again. Beads of sweat
trickle down the side of his scalp while he The bell rings and I jump out of my seat and
keeps wrestling with the lock. It’s the first time run down the stairs toward the quad. Stopping
I’ve felt sorry for the man our class refers to as on the landing in front of the steps that lead to
Dr. Frankenstein. the commons, I rise up on my tiptoes and scan
the crowd for Sue. I spot her on a bench oppo-
“Suicide is painless,” I whistle while taking my site Melanie Eberellie.
seat. The classroom fills, kids are talking and
laughing, and for the first time I’m not preoccu- “IT’S A QUARTER PAST TEN, ROCKERS!” The PA
pied with being excluded. system explodes to life. The announcement
bounces off the cement buildings and asphalt
Weeks whips around from the chalkboard like grounds. “This is Radio KHWD coming at you
someone just threw a crumpled piece of paper strong and straight to the pocket.” The school
at his back. “Open your textbooks to page thir- radio DJ blares through multiple loud speakers.
ty-one,” Weeks says, fuming. Chainsaw guitar bar chords lacerate the air.

Eyes roll, books flap open, sighs are sighed, I recognize Black Sabbath’s iron anthem
chairs squeak, and pencils drop. “Paranoid.” It’s pulsating and driving. I don’t
know the lyrics, but Ozzie Osbourne’s trill
“Did you see how tight Jeff Adams’s shorts somehow fills my belly with courage. I grit my
were?” Lisa Brown says to Lydia Stein.

teeth and take a deep breath. I step down and “I’ll split it with you,” she says, twirling a lock of
walk tall, across the quad to Sue’s bench. It’s thick hair.
the longest fifty yards of my life, but for once I
don’t feel invisible to all the kids standing Split it with me? Whoa! What’s next?
around eating and laughing. I’m in hot pursuit
of a girl whom, an hour ago, I didn’t even think “Okay, sure.” I can’t even believe this is hap-
knew my name. pening.

I head toward the bench in cadence with Bill She unwraps the waxed paper, and breaks the
Ward’s solid drumbeat. Fifty feet away, Sue is coffee cake in half. “Here.” She puts my portion
sitting pretty, oblivious to my advance. Then on a napkin and slides it to me. “Mary Da-
Melanie spots me. She leans into Sue, gets up, vidson’s in Driver’s Ed, right?” she says.
and walks away.
“Yeah, she’s in my class,” I say and pick up the
My heart races and my face heats up like a crumb cake. “Are you guys friends?” I take a
fighter-jet pilot under attack. I shove my hands bite.
in my pockets. Sue’s smile waves me in like one
of those flagmen atop an aircraft carrier. Three “Since kindergarten,” Sue says, “and we’re in
more steps, and I touch down and straddle the first period swim team together.” She takes a
bench. I face Sue like we’re old friends; all bite of the cake and a sip of her OJ.
that’s between us is a carton of orange juice
and an untouched piece of crumb cake sitting “Swim team? Huh.” I wipe my mouth and pic-
in the folded waxed paper wrapper. ture Sue in the Sheiks’ one-piece, red-and-
white-striped swimsuit. I imagine her wet hair,
“Hi, Sue,” I say. I haven’t done any acting since wet face, wet arms, wet lips, and those B-52s
I played Old Man Warner in The Lottery, but poking through the sheer, wet material.
here I am, playing a scene that could get me an
Academy Award nomination. “Kane told me “Uh huh.” Sue dabs her lips with a napkin.
you wanted me to say hello.” Did that sound
okay? Should I have said that? Is she going to The bell rings. It jolts me like an air-raid siren.
think I’m a dork? Suddenly there’s pressure like I’m a game show
contestant, and the last seconds of the show’s
“Do you remember me from Algebra?” Sue clock are ticking, and any moment the wrong-
smiles. answer buzzer’s going to buzz.

“Yeah, you sat up front.” Is she kidding? I could “Hey, can I walk with you after second period?”
practically describe every outfit she wore. I raise my eyebrows. I’ve no idea where we’ll
Sweat drips from my pits. “How do you know walk, if I’ll hold her books, hold her hand, or if
Kane?” we’ll kiss.

“We used to go to the same church.” “That would be nice,” she says and adjusts her
blouse. I force my eyes not to look at her
“Oh, that’s cool.” Church? Uh-oh. Is she reli- boobs. “Meet me here after the bell,” she
gious? Does she know I’m Jewish? smiles.

“What classes are you taking?” She makes “Great, see you then.” I get up and walk away. I
small talk. “Other than health class, I mean.” want to turn around and look back and cele-
She blushes. Obviously, she knew where to brate the fact she’s interested in me but am
send Kane. afraid to jinx things. I drift to Driver’s Ed.

“I have Driver’s Ed with Rippey.” I point at the ***
coffee cake. “You mind?”
I pull my chair away from the desk. The plastic
thingamajigs are missing from the bottom of

the chair legs, and the dragging sound makes The bell rings louder than normal, like the time
an awful screech. Several kids look up at me, Grandpa Goldring took me to the Santa Anita
perturbed, but I’m back in la-la land, deeper racetrack and all the horses leapt from the
than before. I take my seat next to Leonard starting gate. I rush out of the classroom and
Feinstein. fly up the stairs two at a time.

“Hey,” Feinstein says, “you okay?” Lenny’s ***
wearing pressed slacks, a tucked-in button-
down shirt, leather belt, and polished penny The doors at the top of the stairs are propped
loafers. He looks like he’s on his way to a bar open. My eyes adjust to the blinding daylight. I
mitzvah. On the totem pole representing who put on my brakes and squint.
is the coolest and who isn’t, Feinstein’s actually
one notch below me; of course, he’s one of the Sue’s right where she told me she’d be, her
only kids who speaks to me. face prettier than a thousand flowers. My
heartbeat accelerates. Should I ask to carry her
“What?” I saw his lips move but heard only books? What about holding her hand? Should I
heard gibberish. let her make that move? I take a deep breath. I
feel like Don Knotts in The Shakiest Gun in the
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Feinstein says. West, but I act like Paul Newman in Cool Hand
Luke.
“Ugh…” I take my seat.
She sees me approaching and does a little waist
The bell rings. Coach Rippey enters the room, -high wave. I want to do a cartwheel but wave
rubbing his hands together like a fat man arri- back instead.
ving at an all-you-can-eat buffet. He’s short,
stocky, and is wearing athletic shorts that show “Hi,” I say, and sit down beside her.
too much thigh. His white, knee-high tube
socks are monogrammed with the Hollywood “Hi to you!” She smiles, places her hands on
High Sheiks’ logo, and his tucked-in polo shirt is her knees, and arches her back in a stretch.
also embroidered with the Valentino likeness. There go those B-52s. “How was class?”
A lanyard and whistle dangle from his neck.
Rippey tolerates no cutting up, on or off the “Okay,” I lie. I have no clue because I was too
ball field. busy obsessing about her, obsessing about our
walking to the bus, obsessing about our hold-
“Tomorrow we’re having a quiz,” he says. “For ing hands, obsessing about our kiss goodbye,
those of you interested in passing, get ready to with or without an open mouth. “Hey, before I
take some notes. Let’s start with turn signals.” forget, let me get your phone number.” I open
my notebook and try to ignore the swarm of
My blurry gaze drifts to the clock above the butterflies in my gut.
door. Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. I
fall under the spell of the rotating second hand “Sure, ready?”
and am lulled back into daydreams of Sue.
Does she have brothers or sisters? Does her “Shoot!” I steady my trembling hand.
family go camping? Does she have a pet?
What’s her dad do for a living? Does her mom “Hollywood four-one-eight-six-nine,” she says,
work? smiling. “What’s yours?”

Click, click, click. “Ready?” Oh my God, she wants my phone
number.
“Any questions?” Rippey taunts, like we’re the
JV team in the locker room at halftime after The loudspeakers turn on again. Hot guitar licks
getting our clocks cleaned in the first two quar- rip through the air. Alice Cooper’s “School’s
ters. Out” blares like Olympian fanfare.

“I don’t mean to rush,” she says, “but I need to “Nothing serious.” She blushes. “I mean, you
get to the bus stop.” know, there were a couple of guys I liked, and
one I used to see at the dances and a couple of
“Where to?” I stand. parties, but nothing steady or anything.” She
pauses. “It’s kind of embarrassing, but my
“I take the Hollywood and Highland Bus to Wil- mom and dad said I couldn’t have a boyfriend.”
ton.” She gathers her books.
“Yeah, I know what you mean; my parents
I offer my hand. She takes it and gets up. “Let make me crazy,” I lie. Mom and Dad have nev-
me grab those for you,” I say, gesturing for her er said two words to me about girls, sex, the
books. birds or the bees, or any of that jazz.

“Thanks,” she says with a smile. “You’re such a ***
gentleman.”
We wait at Highland for the light to turn green.
“It’s my pleasure, ma’am.” I tilt an imaginary Loud, idling diesel buses, honking automobile
ten-gallon hat. horns, and radio music seeping from open car
windows bombard us; my mouth is getting dry-
“Oh, and funny! You were really good in your er by the second. I imagine a distant drum roll.
Lottery performance.” Kiss or no kiss; long or short; open mouth, or
closed?
Oh my God, she remembers that? “What street
do you live on?” “Have you ever eaten at the Longs counter?” I
gesture over my shoulder to the drugstore
“Bronson,” she says. right behind us.

“Those Bronson Caves are so cool!” I get excit- “Sure, my mom and I go there when we’re out
ed. “Remember when they filmed the Batman shopping.” She swings my arm again. “Oh my
TV show stuff there?” God, they have the best malts.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “We live about halfway Should I ask her if she wants to eat there to-
up; I used to spy on the film crews with my morrow? What if she thinks I’m too forward or
girlfriend Katy Epson when they were up there I’m jumping the gun?
shooting the series. Let’s go.”
“Do you want to get a burger there tomorrow
She takes the initiative and grabs my free hand. after school?” I throw a Hail Mary.
Her hand is soft and warm. The whole scene
feels like something out of a drugstore ro- “Okay!” Her light skin and thick golden hair
mance novel. Four hours earlier, we were glisten in the sun. The signal turns green and
strangers. the bus zooms by us.

“What bus do you take?” She swings my hand. “Oh my God,” she says. “There goes my bus.”
She yanks my arm and we rush across the
“Either the 81 or 93,” I say. “I live off Barham street.
up towards Lake Hollywood.”
“Here.” I let go of her hand and give back her
“Did you have a girlfriend at Le Conte?” She books.
gets right down to business.
“Thanks,” she says, taking them.
“Well.” I panic. Does she know about Rachel?
Does she know about Valerie? About Christine? The hydraulic doors on the bus whoosh open.
About Cathy? About Susie Esposito? Does she She tries to balance her books and retrieve her
know about my history of romance failure? bus pass from her large denim purse.
“Uh, not really.” I feel my face turning red.
“What about you? Did you have a boyfriend?”

“Here,” I say and take her books back while she
fishes her wallet from her bag.

“Got it!” She waves her laminated bus pass.

There’s a line of people in front of us waiting to
get on the bus; I have a few seconds to figure
out my move and make it.

“I, uh.” I realize her face is open for business.
Don’t be a schmendrick. I lean in, close my
eyes, and give her a gentle kiss, like someone
who knows what the hell he is doing. She recip-
rocates and all at once I understand how Ben
Hur won all those races. I open my eyes. Sue
does the same. We part.

“Bye,” she says. “Call me later.”

“OKAY!” I feel the fluttering of a thousand
swan wings inside my stomach. “See ya,” I say.
I turn and walk away, wanting to look back,
wanting to stay by her side until she boards,
wanting to run alongside the bus while it pulls
away, wanting to chase it like I’ve seen in the
movies, but I just keep walking.

I float across Hollywood Boulevard to my stop.

About the Author:

My work can be found in The Coachella Re-
view, Poeticdiversity, Foliate Oak, Forge Jour-
nal, Sanskrit, and Poetry Super Highway. I am a
member of The Los Angeles Poets & Writers
Collective. I am an emerging writer and a fine
artist inspired by the daily trials and joys of
simple life—as well as a father, entrepreneur,
musician, surfer, and sober, recovering alcohol-
ic of thirty-one years. I live in the San Fernando
Valley with my wife of thirty years.

WE CALL HIM ABBA

by Sasha Gragg

“Sacha, is your family Jewish?” “It’s so Sana and Tristen don’t feel left out,
since they have a different dad. This way they
I don’t remember which one of my soccer feel a part of the family because all of you call
teammates asked me that, but the question Keagan ‘Abba’ and they can still call Farrokh
stunned me. My hand stilled the wooden ‘Dad.’” That was how she explained it to me at
spoon stirring artificial lemonade. I twisted the time.
around to look at the groups of girls sitting at
the granite island in the middle of my kitchen. In her early twenties, my mom, Gina, moved
from rural Michigan to Washington D.C. after
“No, why?” she was disowned by her adopted family. The
stories Mom tells about that period of her life
“Well, you call your dad Abba, and you have reveal a woman who had nothing, was impervi-
Bible verses all over your house.” ous to fear, and was ready to test her mettle
with fire. That’s probably why the community
“Oh, no. We’re not Jewish, my family is just of wealthy Iranians that lived in the Tyson’s
Christian.” It was a sheepish admission, espe- Corner high rise condos outside of D.C. ap-
cially as I glanced at the bronze-tiered Meno- pealed to her.
rah, Christian fish, and Star of David symbol
mashup that hung below the cabinets just to The exotic spices of the Persian culture drew
my left. I’m sure my mom had picked it up at her in. The power and excitement Farrokh the
HomeGoods at some point, along with the little Iranian offered kept her there.
plaques of Bible verses and other Christian
memorabilia scattered around my house. Mom has told me many times, “Your dad’s per-
sonality is like a Labrador, but Farrokh’s was
“We just call my dad Abba because it means like a lion.”
‘father’ in Hebrew.”
They were married for two years when the
That answer seemed to satisfy their curiosity. It blaze of adventure from owning nightclubs,
was the response I always gave when my traveling by yacht, and unlimited income
friends asked me why I called my dad Abba. I burned to ashes. Farrokh had the cultural
don’t know why I was surprised in that mo- mindset that wives were for childbearing, and
ment by the question; the topic had sparked not things like fidelity or “death do us part”
interest for as long as I could remember. love. Two children, the worsening situation of
other women, schizophrenia, alcoholism, and
For as many times as people have inquired drug addictions brought Mom to the limit of
why, the novelty behind saying ‘Abba’ never tolerance. For the safety of Sana and newborn
really made sense to me. It was just what my Tristen, she moved out.
family did, like the families that called their
grandparents names like Mammaw or Pappy. After a divorce that left her with nothing but
The only time I wondered enough to ask my the custody of the two kids, Mom found her-
mom about it was in elementary school, when I self on a bale of hay at a church play, acci-
realized we didn’t refer to her by any other dentally jostled by the gangly elbows of the
name than the traditional English ‘Mom.’ man with midnight hair beside her.

A year later, she married the midnight haired that stemmed from his past eventually mani-
man named Keagan: my dad. fested in Sana and Tristen as well.

Nine months later, I was born. Sana was six, From the beginning, our parents tried to mini-
Tristen was five. mize any distinction that might arise between
the five of us. Sana and Tristen had to visit Far-
Growing up, my family experienced the normal rokh on weekends, but soon Farrokh came to
amount of dysfunction and sibling rivalry. I’ve visit us instead. For several years, when he was
been told that Sana and Tristen resented my in the country, he would live with us to save
birth at first. My addition sparked a new type money, the eighth family member crammed
of family dynamic for them. In turn, four years into our tiny townhouse.
later, I resented the birth of the baby with Elvis
sideburns, my youngest brother, Conner. With Farrokh integrated into the family unit, I
never felt the distance siblings of different par-
With time, my mom sweetened like honey ents can experience. We all had Abba and
added to black tea. But the passion of her Mom, so it didn’t matter that Sana and Tristen
youth was always there, carried with her technically had another dad. I was proud of the
through the birth of her children: Sana, Tristen, shy intelligence hid under Tristen’s afro of curls
me, Conner, and Caiden. She had a will that and his shocking sense of humor. Sana was
could go toe-to-toe with the boiling blood of all beautiful and exotic, with a fearlessness I en-
five kids simultaneously. It never phased her to vied. Even when she only allowed me to play
come home, flicker the lights on in the kitchen, with her cool older friends because Mom told
and find one of us twisted up in rope, left her to, I loved running around the house play-
writhing on the kitchen floor. Or duct taped to ing horsey with her.
a swivel chair and left in her bathroom.
I was eight when the inhibitions Sana never
It made sense then that despite different fa- truly felt suddenly just disappeared entirely. It
thers, we all looked similar to each other. Her began with her dark-haired, edgy freshman
DNA had no problem conquering the compara- boyfriend, Brandon. The wild girl with long
tively subdued, male DNA of Farrokh and Abba, brown hair, a love for horses, and a perpetual
ensuring my four siblings and I each entered smirk faded into someone new. Sana cut her
the world destined to have dark brown hair waist-length hair to choppy angles that hung at
and overgrown hedges for eyebrows. We all, at her shoulders, dyed a base of black with rain-
one point in our lives, came to acknowledge bow highlights of orange or pink or blue that
and then weed-whack our unibrows, our famili- changed each week. Her horse figurines were
al rite of passage. shoved to the side to make room for her new
collection of black makeup and studded Hot
Even with these similar characteristics, if one Topic belts. The playful smirk became hard-
cared to look close enough, they could still tell ened with cynicism.
that Sana and Tristen appeared a little different
from the German, Italian, and Scottish blend She began disarming the house alarm and slip-
Conner, Caiden, and I resembled. The heritage ping out the basement door at night. I had
of their father had passed on a Mediterranean been in my loft bed, trying to sleep under my
coloring of blended earthy brown, yellow, and electric blue blanket, when Sana eased into our
green olives, along with Farrokh’s prominent room. She was talking quietly on the phone.
Persian nose that held up their glasses.
“Okay, but I’ll keep my bra on, though.”
The physical evidence of their heritage wasn’t
all they had inherited from Farrokh. His violent I held my breath. I was old enough to partially
temper, mood swings, addictions, and anxieties understand the conversation and realize it

would not be good if Sana knew I was awake. high school, where he navigated the wreckage
When the blanket’s heat started to suffocate Sana had left behind. He had adopted the cool-
me, I eased my thumb on its remote button as est of the nerdy hobbies, mastering every vid-
quietly as possible, trying desperately to turn eo, computer, and board game he got his
down the heat without notifying Sana. A gentle hands on. The kitchen table would be sprawled
click sounded, and she paused for a moment, with armies of tiny figurines he painted in the
listening, but then continued planning with most careful, minute detail to battle within the
Brandon. epic games he played. Stored in my closet, I still
have the statuette of Pippin he gave me, only
The next morning, I found Mom in the closet- half the size of my thumb, stabbing the air with
like room my parents had built in the base- a painted silver sword.
ment. The room had no windows and was just
big enough for a bed, a desk, and a short book- When we sat at the dining room table each
shelf, but it provided the new personal space night, Tristen would take the coveted spot as
Sana absolutely required. I sat on the paint can the oldest male at the end, sitting across the
of fluorescent green Sana had picked out while length of the table from Abba. From there, he
Mom rolled the vibrant Grinch color on the would tell us stories that would leave us in
walls, explaining what I had heard the night stitches.
before.
But after Sana was gone, Tristen changed. His
The yelling match that ensued between my dinnertime stories became fewer and further
sister and parents was thunderous, but it did between. The random facts he spouted, or the
little to slow Sana down. in-depth monologues about the history of The
Lord of the Rings, began to taper off. The fun-
The day after Halloween, I had to explain to my ny, brilliant Tristen became sullen. There was a
second-grade teacher, Mrs. Wilhelm, that I was quietness about him his last few years of high
late because my sister had run away the night school that lidded an ever-simmering pot of
before. She eventually was found or returned rage. The temper we all struggled with flared
on her own. Just like always. up in a new way for him. Before we patched it
up to move, there was an odd plastered part of
By the start of her senior year, my parents the wall by the front door where he had
were at a loss. Sana was unstoppable, despite punched a hole through it.
detentions, arrests, and parental interventions
that included Farrokh. They had tried every- He was late or absent for so many days of his
thing to help her but were still on a first-name senior year, he almost didn’t graduate. He was
basis with the local sheriff. In a last, desperate so absent from that year as a whole, I hardly
effort, Mom took a flight out to Missouri with remember seeing him before he headed off to
Sana, where she was unceremoniously booted college.
and taken to a therapeutic boarding school for
troubled girls. Whether it was the influence of Sana’s own
metamorphosis, the dual childhood he had
Sana came back a year later, both calmer and with Farrokh, or even if it was just the emer-
more bitter. The family dynamics had been gence of all the issues Farrokh had carelessly
radically changed. passed on to his son, I don’t know what it was
that changed the older brother I looked up to.
The four years of Sana’s reign of terror had Once Tristen left for college, he never came
taken its toll on each of us. Looking back now, I back. Physically, he came home for brief mo-
think Tristen was the most impacted out of us ments at Thanksgiving and Christmas break,
all. No one felt the need to worry about him, but not as the brother I had grown up with.
though. His intelligence easily got him through

The summer Tristen left for college, Conner, room with the strange, free-standing tub no
Caiden, my parents, and I moved out into the one else had claimed.
rural part of Northern Virginia. After I had
gotten over my fear of living with the hillbillies, It was like when distant relatives or old family
the bumps and potholes of the gravel road to friends you hadn’t seen in a while come to
the seven acres I then lived on became the stay. They surprise you with a quick stop in,
jarring sensation of driving home. It was the suitcase in hand, maybe an adopted dog, and
best place we had lived in a long time. the next thing you know, they’ve moved in,
staying for far longer than you ever wanted or
For the next five years, we recovered from anticipated.
what had been the previous four years of in-
sanity. We went from a family of seven to a Whenever my parents decided Sana’s drug
family of five. Without the constant fear of habit, alcoholism, or persistent antagonism
what would blow up next, we actually got to was too much of a bad influence on the rest of
enjoy each other. It was like we formed a sub- us, she would be phased out and find a new
family within the actual family. There was a place to live. Conner would angrily champion
friendship between my two brothers and me her removal, Caiden would stoically agree, and
that grew during that time. Conner and I would I would hedge back and forth, unsure how I
drive the ten minutes to school, after I had felt. This happened a few times. With each
practically pushed him out the door, communi- move, Sana drifted farther and farther away.
cating with each other only through the music First living an hour away in Arlington, the next
that came from the car’s aux cord. time two hours away in Baltimore.

During the three years we drove to high school Holidays became a mixed bag of fear and ex-
together, we managed to come up with several citement. There was the elation that came with
car rules that calmed some of the sibling chaos the holiday festivities. I could feel the warmth
that so easily erupted between us. The rules of family in my bones during the Thanksgiving
revealed the partnership we had worked to and Christmas seasons. But those times were
create. The driver, which was usually me, con- always blended with the fear of the unknown.
trolled the volume. I enforced the rule mostly We never had any idea what would happen
because of the pain that could be induced by when Sana and Tristen came home. It was like
the high decibel whine Conner called music. that feeling you have right before you go
Passenger was DJ, which meant that Conner’s through the security checkpoint at the airport.
music had to have universal appeal, or at least What if you got randomly selected for a routine
appeal to me, otherwise it got vetoed by mut- search? What if you forgot to take the pepper
ed volume. He ruled that singing wasn’t al- spray out of your backpack again? What if you
lowed unless you knew all the words. Hum- said the wrong thing to Sana and she stormed
ming was acceptable, but whistling was strictly out, door slamming behind her, driving away
forbidden. Those high decibels were murder in without a word?
the reverberating interior of a 2001 Lexus. This
only left us to squabble about who had to pay For reasons I have never understood, both Sa-
for gas. na and Tristen had developed an intense dislike
for Mom. It varied from visit to visit, but at
Despite the years we lived there, I don’t think it times their dislike bordered on hatred. I always
ever became home for Sana and Tristen. They thought their anger should have been directed
breezed in and out like strangers. For several at Farrokh, their biological dad who ensured
months at a time, they would live with us as their affection by bribing them with an allow-
house guests. Since there weren’t enough bed- ance each month, often playing favorites and
rooms for everybody, both stayed in the guest paying them each different amounts. But no

matter how mad he made them, they knew not I was sitting at the kitchen island with Sana and
to bite the hand that kept their lifestyles afloat. Mom at one point when Sana’s typical passive
If not Farrokh, then I figured maybe they would level of hostility began to rise. Not in the mood
dislike Abba, the man who stepped into the to watch her throw another verbal right hook
place of their actual father. But Abba is impos- at my mom, I asked as casually as possible,
sible to dislike. He has a calm presence that has “Why are you being such a jerk?”
always absorbed everything I’ve spewed out
until I had nothing left to spew, and then he Immediately I hopped off the bar stool and
would give me a slow nod that validated every- walked away, terrified to face the impending
thing I felt while simultaneously deflating any wrath Sana was sure to shift my way. It was a
lasting anger. cowardly retreat, but at least I said something.

Abba was always the linchpin of the family. A Mom found me later with tears in her eyes and
few years after he married Mom, he tried to said, “Thank you. No one ever stands up for
adopt Sana and Tristen. By changing their Per- me.”
sian last name legally to the German ‘Gragg,’
the hope was to erase any barriers Sana and That was our new normal for a time, but nor-
Tristen might feel about their place in the fami- mal is always changing. I watched Sana slowly
ly. Farrokh ultimately blocked that endeavor, change after the boarding school when she
but the character of Abba remained the same. claimed her prize of independence. It was ten-
He never treated my older siblings as though tative, but as Sana continued to move further
the blood running through their veins was any and further away to Colorado and then Califor-
different from that of my younger brothers and nia, her harder edges eroded into the fluidness
me. of a gypsy. Still an untamed free spirit, Sana
mellowed out, embracing the way of the hippy.
During one family outing, an incident over the She started to become someone we all wanted
possession of a shirt sparked Tristen’s outrage to be around.
right as we were backing out of the driveway. I
sat in the backseat, desperately wishing I had It was exciting. I felt like I had a sister again. In
listened to the little voice that had said I should the past, I had only ever been the annoying
bring headphones. But with a mollifying tone, baby sister—perhaps even less than that to
Abba diffused Tristen’s lit spark. Sana—but now there was a spark of something
more to my relationship with her.
In response, Tristen told Abba, “I respect the
crap out of you. There’s no way I would ever be One of my favorite pictures in the years since
able to love someone else’s kids the way you Sana’s hair grew out into natural brown curls
do.” and she became a student of Buddhist philoso-
phy was when she purposefully stopped on her
Perhaps that’s why any injustice Sana and Tris- cross-country drive to visit me in Colorado. In
ten experienced was to be the direct responsi- the picture, Sana is leaning over my shoulder,
bility of Mom, the originator of all their trou- her olive tones against my peach, smiling mis-
bles in the first place. She was no longer Mom chievously into the camera, framed by dark,
but Gina to them. Sometimes Abba became roiling clouds in the background. That moment
Keagan, but more often than not, he was still perfectly captured the intensity of Sana and
Abba. In their minds, anything Mom said or did the playful connection that we had begun forg-
was always an attempt at manipulation. There ing together.
was a time where I was afraid to mention any-
thing about Mom, never sure what reaction it Despite these shifting family dynamics with
would set off. Sana, relations with Tristen continued to sour.
During the fall semester of my sophomore year

of college, he moved back home. Job prospects “What?”
were limited for a degree in geophysics. We Apparently, on the drive up to the ski resort,
had moved again three years prior, this time to Abba had stopped at a Walmart to pick up
a place that had no spare bedrooms. Conner some batteries. That’s when the tension that
had just started his first year of college, which had been brewing between Tristen and Conner
meant Tristen ended up staying in his available snapped.
room.
And so did Tristen’s finger.
Flying back home to Virginia for Christmas
break was the only thing that had kept me go- From what I have heard, Tristen was antagoniz-
ing the last month of the semester. I was ec- ing Conner, who sat behind him in the Ford
static to be home, away from academic pres- Explorer during the drive. In the parked car,
sures. But I knew Conner wasn’t feeling that when Conner ignored Tristen’s baiting and re-
way while Tristen still inhabited his room. fused to take the remnants of Chick-fil-A trash
There had been issues between the two of Tristen threw back at him, something in Tristen
them over Thanksgiving break. Issues that had shifted. He exploded at Conner.
been simmering for years, but the new situa-
tional proximity of sharing a room for a few Though I wasn’t there, I’ve been told Tristen
weeks was causing things to boil over. reached to grab for Conner’s throat: maybe
just to threaten, probably to choke. It seems
During Christmas, it felt like a precarious game Tristen first clutched onto Conner’s sweatshirt
of trying not to upset Tristen. The loser re- in order to leverage him closer. Conner, a dedi-
ceived sarcastic, acerbic remarks. The holiday cated lifter, broke the grip near his collarbone.
was fun, but you never knew what might tip In the removal, the hoodie that was still
Tristen off. One morning, I gave him a wide clenched in Tristen’s hand was ripped away
grin, showing all my teeth jokingly, “Wow. That from Conner’s sweatshirt by the seams.
made me really uncomfortable,” he told me, Twisting Tristen’s hand toward his own lap,
his voice edged in anger. Conner squeezed just enough, unintentionally
breaking the knuckle of Tristen’s left ring finger
I was asleep when Mom got the call. It was on his dominant hand.
supposed to be the day that I had waited three
weeks for. Abba had taken all the boys, Tristen, In a raging frenzy, Tristen got out of the car and
Conner, Caiden, and Conner’s friend, Dev, to go began pounding on the window by Conner’s
skiing for the day. I could finally be an introvert head, screaming for Conner to come out and
in the comforts of my home without the end- fight him. With the prodding of Caiden and
less noise of my family. It was my one day of Dev, Conner remained seated.
solitude before I headed back to school for the
start of the spring semester the following When I got in the Ford two days later, I could
week. My ambitious plans included hoarding all see the smears of blood on the rear passenger
the pillows on the couch to myself as I read the window. I almost threw up.
day away.
A little over an hour after Abba made the call
Sprawled out on my bed, I took advantage of about the situation to Mom, they all made it
the opportunity to sleep in—until Mom shook back home, each with individual flavors of an-
me awake frantically. ger tinging the air from the emotions that
churned in the car ride back. Tristen drove him-
“Sacha, Sacha, get up. We need to pray. Con- self to Patient First.
ner just broke Tristen’s finger!”
Overwhelmed, I withdrew to my room. Every-
It was a little difficult to process the ramifica- thing felt raw and exposed. I had hoped my
tions of that statement when pulled from the family’s issues could have been excused as ty-
depths of unconscious oblivion. pical, but this act of harm revealed the truth of

our internal decay. The details I had learned “Why are you crying?”
about the incident in the car left me nauseous.
I was horrified that my brothers were capable I attempted to explain the heaviness and grief I
of that level of violence, especially toward each felt, but Conner just shook his head and
other. I was also scared. What else were they wrapped me in a hug.
capable of?
“Don’t cry for him.”
Later I came back downstairs and sat next to
Mom in the living room. Abba joined us after But I couldn’t help crying for Tristen, just as I
he had finished talking with Tristen in his office, couldn’t have helped the times when I cried for
who had left the house once more, avoiding all Sana during her split with the family. I hurt for
eye contact on his way out. my family. Those tears came from the realiza-
tion I had made a few years earlier.
During the conversation, Tristen expressed his
anger at Conner for his broken finger and his It was during the time when the subfamily was
feelings of being the outcast of the family. I growing closer. I was walking up the stairs
was shocked, as I had no idea why Tristen when the comprehension of why we call my
would feel that way. dad Abba hit me. My hand paused on the rail-
ing as I stopped and thought about what had
Abba’s deep voice cracked with emotion when just occurred to me. I don’t know what
he shared how Tristen wept in reaction to his thoughts preceded it or came after, but all of
assurance that Tristen had always been his son. the sudden I understood that, technically, Sana
and Tristen were my half siblings. I always
As powerful as this truth may have been for knew that their dad was different from my dad,
Tristen, it didn’t seem enough. That evening but we had never used the language of half
Dev explained that while sitting behind Tristen brother or sister before. I had never made the
during the drive back, he saw him typing on his connection that the fine-haired division I saw
laptop. “I am very angry. Conner broke my left between my older siblings and I could be seen
ring finger on the way to the ski resort. That as a great chasm by others, or even by Sana
makes writing and typing very hard. There is and Tristen themselves. They had always just
nothing like the holidays to make you feel been my siblings, good or bad. That’s why I
alone in the world.” wrote letters to Sana when she was at the
boarding school, despite her four-year ram-
Hearing the depth of Tristen’s isolation, while page. She was my sister, my family. We fought
being surrounded by family, the people that for each other.
persistently loved him the most, was one of the
reasons I sobbed into my pillow that night. It The same went for Tristen, even in that mo-
was grief at the tension that had sprung up ment after Conner shut my door and I slid
again, at the loss of safety and the visible tear- against my nightstand in exhaustion. Tristen
ing of my family I could see right in front of me. was and always would be my brother. There
Some of the questions being wrestled with that were no qualifiers to that statement for me.
week were whose side were we going to pick?
Would Tristen get kicked out of the house be- From that moment on, I understood that we
cause of this escalation of aggressive behavior? called my dad Abba because it broke down any
I hated that there were sides at all. barrier that the title of ‘dad’ might have creat-
ed in our family. Abba didn’t mean father; it
I wiped my tears at the sound of a knock at my meant that we were a single, whole, undivided
bedroom door. Slowly I opened it to find Con- family. Even in our brokenness.
ner standing tall and somber against the dim
light of the hall.

About the Author:

Sacha Gragg is an undergraduate student at
Colorado Christian University. She is currently
pursuing a degree in Communications and
Global Journalism. Her interests include com-
municating across social and cultural bounda-
ries and playing a good rugby match.

TRIAL BY FIRE

by Braelyn Riggs

The first time I ever saw an automatic paper There are no pictures of me from that day, so
towel dispenser was when I was nine years old. I’m not sure why one of my clearest memories
My seven year old sister Jerica and I were is of what I looked like. But I definitely remem-
standing in a bathroom, gleefully ripping paper ber that I was wearing my favorite t-shirt on
towel after paper towel as the dispenser con- October 27, 2007. The t-shirt was dark blue,
tinued to spit them out. The emotions consum- and it had a silver star on the front with words
ing me at the time were overwhelming—we in it that said, “A Star Is Born.” I think I had
laughed at the abundance of paper towels gotten it at Vacation Bible School the year be-
harder than we had laughed in months, yet I fore. My hair was in two braids, a typical look
was on the verge of tears and more afraid for for fifth-grade Braelyn.
the future than I had ever been. What stands
out is not necessarily the fascination of the That evening, my mom was sick, so she stayed
paper towel dispenser, but the fact that I felt home to rest while my dad, my sister, and I
so giddy in the midst of the worst period of my went to a Halloween party at my neighbor’s
life. house across the cul-de-sac. My neighbors had
three sons, one of them my age, one older, and
The bathroom in question was located in the one younger. Most of the party guests were
Grossman Burn Center. It was the first time I friends of our neighbors and families in the
had seen Jer since she had been admitted. As a area, so a few of my elementary school friends
visitor of my sister, I wasn’t allowed in the ster- were there. I spent most of the evening run-
ile area for patients only. Children that weren’t ning around and playing with my neighbor and
hospital patients were not allowed to go back our friend from school. I don’t know where my
there at all; I guess children specifically are sister or my dad went for most of the evening.
considered too non-sterile. As badly as Jer
wanted to show me the room she’d been stay- Soon enough, the main event of the Halloween
ing in, I still wasn’t allowed to, so we treasured party began: jack-o’-lantern carving. My friend
our time together in the waiting room, even and I picked a perfect pumpkin and made a
making trips to its bathroom together, which jack-o’-lantern together. We took our time
led to finding the paper towel dispenser. tracing an outline of a ghost on the pumpkin
and carefully carving it out. I thought it was a
It’s funny how in the midst of a tragedy, certain lot better than some of the other kids’ pump-
details suddenly stand out to you. Maybe it’s kins, so I was confident we had a pretty good
the brain’s way of processing something out- chance of winning—until we brought it over to
side of the realm of normal daily life: latch onto be displayed on the tables with the other thirty
the details you can understand. Two clear -ish jack-o’-lanterns and saw some of the crea-
memories stand out to me from the most trau- tions the adults had made. Our small ghost
matic event of my childhood. One is the auto- pumpkin was suddenly out of the running.
matic paper towel dispenser in the burn cen-
ter, and the other is a detail from the event But the true winner wasn’t even out yet; the
itself—the shirt I was wearing. neighbor’s oldest son kicked the backyard gate
open and slowly led a group of men through,
carrying a 1st place-quality jack-o’-lantern.

The jack-o’-lantern had a jalapeño pepper in its I ran to him, beginning to feel relieved, until I
mouth and a perfect shocked expression, wide got closer to him and stopped. At the end of
eyes and eyebrows raised high. The best part what I thought was a black bag in his arms
was that the top of his head was on fire, as if were pink crocs. My sister’s pink crocs.
the pepper he was eating was so hot, his head
had exploded into flames. I remember thinking It hit me all at once: my dad was holding Jerica
that one would definitely win. in his arms, her body black and burnt beyond
recognition. I hadn’t even realized he was hold-
After my friend and I had finished admiring it, ing a human at first, so realizing that it was my
we went back over to the other side of the cul- sister sent me into something beyond my initial
de-sac again, near my house, to keep playing. shock. I was hyperventilating and looking
I’m not sure how much time passed after that, around wildly, not sure what to do or how to
but I suddenly heard a woman scream. The even feel, until a familiar voice brought me
events of the night that changed my life began. back into reality.

I jumped a little before I spun around to see “Get Stacey. Someone get Stacey,” my dad was
what was going on. Looking over toward the repeating to the people around him. They were
neighbors’ house, I saw the table with the jack- in such shock as well that no one heard him,
o’-lanterns had caught on fire and was quickly and I was the only one who understood he was
spreading over the ground in front of it. asking for my mom. I now had a task to do,
something I could wrap my mind around and
As if they had just started realizing what was try to complete. I don’t even know if he saw
going on, everyone around the area began that I heard him, or even saw that I was there
screaming and running away from the flames. at all, but without saying anything, I turned and
My heart was pounding and I couldn’t breathe; ran back to my house.
the fire was spreading quickly and I could feel
the heat all the way from the other side of the Running between my house and the neigh-
cul-de-sac. Though they were tall, the flames bors’ house probably took five seconds, but
were congregated mostly on the ground, which this was the part of the night that felt the long-
confused me. Can asphalt catch on fire? est to me. The reality had finally set in and I
realized I was sobbing as I ran to my house,
My mind was empty of conscious thoughts as I though I didn’t know when I had started crying.
desperately tried to process what was happen-
ing. At some point in the chaos, my friend had I ran up the driveway, up the front steps, and
run away to find her parents and I was left burst through the front door and down the
alone. I had no idea where my dad or my sister hallway to the living room where my mom was
was. All I could feel was panic. lying on the couch. With all the emotion bub-
bling up inside me, I couldn’t get the words out
The next thing I remember is that the fire was normally.
somehow out, and I was running toward the
neighbors’ house to find my dad. Though the “Jerica’s on fire!” I screamed at her, continuing
main panic was over, people were still running to sob so hard I could barely breathe.
around, looking for their own family members.
What was probably only a minute felt like My mom sat up on the couch.
hours as I tried to find my dad and some sense
of normalcy so I could stop panicking. “Braelyn, calm down. I’m sure everything’s
okay. Is daddy out there?”
At the exact right moment, through a clearing
in the crowd near the house, I finally spotted I nodded furiously.
him, sitting on the neighbors’ driveway, holding
a strangely shaped black bag in his arms. “Then it’ll be okay.” She later told me that as a
child, I had a tendency to exaggerate things

and blow them way out of proportion, so she order to distract myself, because her face is
thought Jerica had probably stuck her finger in hard for me to describe, even now. I didn’t find
a candle or something. out until later that her entire face was covered
in third degree burns. Underneath the severe
I still wasn’t able to slow my mind down and charring, some pink and red tones stood out.
explain, and the frustration of not being taken My childish mind, trying to rationalize and cat-
seriously was brewing up, making things worse. egorize everything, thought it kind of looked
like peanut butter and jelly smeared all over
“No!” I screamed at her. “You need to come her face. Even though by this point I knew it
outside, now!” was my sister, I still thought her face looked
nothing like her.
My mom got up, taking her time, so I grabbed
her hand to drag her behind me and get her After another span of time that felt like hours,
out of the house. In the amount of time it had the firefighters and paramedics pulled up into
taken to run over and get my mom, my dad the cul-de-sac, lights flashing and sirens still
had made his way over, so he was sitting on blaring.
our front steps with Jerica still in his arms as I
opened the front door and led my mom out to I watched in silence as the first responders
see what had happened. came over to assess. They first looked in her
mouth and up her nose to make sure nothing
Before my mom could even realize what was was damaged so badly that she might stop
going on, one of our neighbors told her, “It’s breathing. Then they inspected the rest of her
okay, we called 911.” face and her body.

My mom responded, “How is something okay if Jerica had been wearing her favorite purple
you had to call 911?” and then suddenly real- jacket that day. The men calmly explained to
ized the situation as she took in all the details. her that they needed to cut it off to check for
She sat down next to my dad, taking my sister burns underneath, and it was finally at this
into her arms, and I sat next to her, still com- moment that she started crying, telling them
pletely in a state of shock and unsure what to that it was her favorite jacket and they couldn’t
do now that my task was complete. cut it.

My mom stayed calm, telling Jerica everything My mom calmed her down, explaining why it
was going to be okay. Neither of them cried, was necessary, and they took out an orange
and my dad never did, either. Jerica simply sat pair of scissors to cut her clothes off and in-
in my mom’s lap, not saying anything, listening spect the burns.
to my mom and waiting for something to hap-
pen. I hadn’t even noticed yet, but Jerica’s hands
were burnt just as badly as her face, so they
Sitting next to her, I could finally take a good cautiously cut the sleeves and pulled the melt-
look at what my sister looked like. All of her ed material away from her skin, taking some of
visible skin was black, because though not all of the skin off with it in the process.
it was severely burnt, almost her entire body
was at least partially charred. Her hair, which The next thing I knew, she was being loaded on
used to be light brown, straight, and medium- a stretcher into an ambulance, my mom follow-
length, was almost all gone, except for the ing close behind, and the emergency vehicles
matted parts left on her head sticking out in all took off down the street to the hospital. My
strange directions. All I could think in that mo- dad went back inside to get his keys to follow,
ment was that her hair looked like the clown telling me to stay with the neighbors, as he ran
from The Simpsons. out the door to get in his car and follow the
ambulance.
And maybe I kept thinking about her hair in

Before I could do anything else, I decided that I burnt peanut butter and jelly on her face, and
needed to process and to calm myself down. I my mom scolded me for it. Jer wasn’t allowed
don’t know how I managed to do this as a nine to look in any mirrors, because everyone
year old, but I walked back inside my house thought she wouldn’t be able to handle seeing
and to my bedroom, laid down on my bed, and what she looked like, but when she finally did
tried to slow down my breathing and stop cry- see her reflection, she took a moment to look
ing. at the state of her face and examine her burns,
and then exclaimed, “It does look like peanut
After I had managed to calm myself down, I got butter and jelly!” It was then that I knew she
up again and walked back over to my neigh- was going to be okay.
bors’ house. Almost everyone had left the par-
ty by now, but a few people were still there. My mom also told her that because she was
going to have to be in the hospital for a while,
When I walked in, all the moms in the room she couldn’t go trick-or-treating for Halloween.
gave me a hug. I still hadn’t said anything yet, My sister complained and said she wanted to
so the adults had all the kids go in one of the go anyway, even telling my mom, “I already
boys’ bedrooms to play a board game. I don’t have a costume from this gauze! I can just go
even remember what game we played or any- as a mummy!” It was then that my mom also
thing else that happened that evening, except knew she would be okay.
for the fact that I was tossing a rubber ball back
and forth between my hands, and at one point, Even after her time spent in the burn center, it
I finally spoke up to ask, “Who made that took almost another year and a half for Jerica
pumpkin, anyway?” to fully recover physically. During that time,
she wore a silicone mask that covered her en-
The oldest neighbor boy sheepishly raised his tire face for 23 hours a day, seven days a
hand and said, “Me,” and I threw the ball at week—it was allowed to be off for one hour a
him as hard as I could. Then I laughed, as if that day total, only when she needed to eat. She
made everything okay. also wore special gloves on her hands as the
third degree burns there continued to heal,
At some point, my mom’s best friend must and she was almost never allowed to be in the
have arrived to pick me up and to stay with me sun, so she wore a big sunhat and kept a blan-
at my house, because I remember asking her to ket over the car windows when we drove any-
not sleep in the living room like she was plan- where. Even now, ten years later, though she
ning, but to sleep on my top bunk instead, be- has healed miraculously and most of her skin
cause I didn’t want to be alone. looks perfect, she has to be very careful about
being in the sun too much. She can’t risk
The weeks following the event passed in a blur; getting a sunburn on her face or hands.
they felt like years, but I can’t differentiate any
of the specific days. The ambulance had taken When I told one of my friends from high
Jerica to Los Robles Hospital, but upon seeing school that I was going to write a personal es-
her, the doctors said there wasn’t anything say about my sister’s accident, she asked me,
they could do for her and immediately sent her “How is that about you? That’s your sister’s
to the Grossman Burn Center instead, where story.” And she’s right, to an extent, because
she ended up undergoing many skin graft sur- Jerica is the one who experienced the excruci-
geries. She spent weeks in the burn center go- ating physical pain of being burned alive, being
ing through an intense healing procedure; she seconds from death, and surviving through the
told me that even just the simplest part, re- years it took for her to recover.
moving and replacing her gauze bandages eve-
ry day, was excruciating. I found out afterwards that Jer had simply been
observing the burning jack-o’-lantern, about to
At one point, I told Jer she looked like she had

vote for it, when the sticks holding up the tin ness, I think this might have been where that
foil bowl filled with lighter fluid at the top fell originated. As a nine year old, I decided that
down into the pumpkin, which caused the the best way for me to recover from what had
lighter fluid to splash all over Jerica and imme- happened would be to throw myself into my
diately set her on fire. She came so close to work. My parents said it would be okay to miss
death because of that lighter fluid—she would- school for however long I wanted, but I despe-
n’t have been on fire for so long if there wasn’t rately needed to go back to the routine of
a flammable substance that had drenched her school. They made me take at least one day
and kept the flames growing. She wouldn’t be off, but then I insisted on returning the next
here if it weren’t for the bravery of a father at day, less than 48 hours after the accident oc-
the party who saw what had happened from curred.
across the street, and when he noticed no one
was doing anything, he ran all the way over to During the time Jer was in the hospital, I made
jump on top of her and smother the flames. He it possible for me to go to school every day,
also sustained third-degree burns, but his he- even asking for a ride from my neighbors while
roic actions saved her life. there was tension going on between them and
my parents. And perhaps the unhealthiest part
The firefighters also told my mom afterwards of me focusing on school only: I denied any-
that if Jer had breathed in while she was on thing being wrong when people at school
fire, that would have killed her as well. When asked me about it. I separated the two worlds
my mom delicately asked my sister if she had in my head in order to cope. I went to school in
been holding her breath, Jer replied, “No, an the morning, and nothing was wrong, and then
angel was holding my nose for me.” a different Braelyn went to the hospital in the
afternoon, where I played with my sister during
Jerica has definitely been through a traumatic visiting hours.
event that altered the course of her life, and it
is her story. But the question my friend asked Even at such a young age, I wrestled with the
me, “How is that about you?” dredged up the idea of how God could be good if my family
hurt that still exists in me. I told her, “That’s was going through such pain, and after the
exactly what I want to write about.” How I was accident, I slowly drifted away from my faith. I
alone when I witnessed the entire event, how had grown up in a Christian household, where
my parents sped off to the hospital and left me it was expected that I would also be a Christian,
alone again, and how most people don’t con- but I struggled with those difficult questions
sider how witnessing what happened might and that anger for a long time, and I didn’t be-
have traumatized me, too. The idea that this come a Christian until high school, when I final-
“isn’t my story” was communicated to me for ly learned about God’s overwhelming love I do
years, and it made me start to internalize grief not deserve.
that I thought I had no right to feel. People
continue to tell me this isn’t my story, even It took almost a year for Jer and I both to be
though I have come to realize I’m allowed to comfortable seeing a flame. I remember
feel pain over what I went through, too. watching the movie Ratatouille a couple
months after the accident, and being gripped
The waiting room of the burn center was by fear when the chef turned the stove on. It
where I spent most of my time during Jerica’s didn’t even matter that the flames were small
hospitalization. I still went to school and fi- and entirely contained on the stove. It must
nished fifth grade, but I spent every day after have been one of the first times since the acci-
school at the hospital. Throughout high school dent I had seen flames again, and I was sud-
and college, my friends have joked that I’m denly consumed by the vivid memories of the
“emotionally constipated,” but in all serious- fire and the feelings of confusion and terror I

had felt, only worsened by time. It didn’t help difficult for me when I’m watching a movie or
that people tend to be insensitive or naïve, TV show and am surprised with a shot of some-
either. Another time, a friend’s parent even put one on fire. I’ve cried several times already
on the movie Bolt for us, completely forgetting while writing this, forced to remember the
the fact that the ending involves the entire gruesome details I usually try to forget. I still
building burning down with the girl trapped spent October 27th this past year in my bed,
inside. unable to do much. But I don’t suffer from pa-
nic attacks anymore.
I never realized how often people joke about
being on fire until I saw it happen, and every It took me years to reconcile with God, but he
joke over the years immediately brought me was the one who was steadily blessing me even
back to the most terrifying moments of my life. throughout my struggle and my anger at him.
Even the lighthearted jokes often brought tears The most positive thing to come out of all of
to my eyes, and I sometimes had to leave a this was finding a community more closely knit
classroom to go calm down in the bathroom. than most: the burn survivor community. Every
Once, a kid in my 7th grade science class year, the Grossman Burn Center hosts a camp a
thought a ceramic tile burner was a scale and couple of hours north of LA for burn survivors
tried to weigh his hand on it, resulting in his and their families, and every year, it continues
skin immediately melting and ear-piercing to be an incredibly healing experience. While
screams that threw me right into a worse-than- burn survivor kids are used to being bullied at
usual panic attack. It took me much longer to school for looking different, they can come to
come out of my stunned state that time. this camp and feel safe for once.

Some people were outright mean about the At every meal, a microphone is passed around,
trauma I had been through, especially in mid- and burn survivors and family members are
dle school. Some kids thought it was hilarious encouraged to share their stories. The stories
to surprise me by putting a video of someone of sorrow and healing are moving and im-
on fire in front of my face and then watch my pactful in a way that makes everyone cry. We
reaction as I was unable to avoid a panic attack. can all relate, and we all deeply feel each oth-
I learned an incredible lesson about forgiveness er’s pain. This past year, a woman shared that
when my parents refused to sue our neighbors, she had received her burns when her husband
even when their lawyer told them they could poured gasoline over her and lit her on fire
easily win millions of dollars (and Jer’s hospital intentionally. She cried, and we all cried with
bills were in the millions). But it’s still hard for her, as she shared that though she managed to
me to forgive the kids who did that to me, be- survive and he was arrested, she had never felt
cause I honestly cannot understand what pos- safe again, even in her own home—except for
sesses a human to do that to another human. when she came to burn camp. Our community
was the only place she had ever felt her
People don’t tend to consider what I might constant sense of paranoia slip away.
have gone through as a result of Jer’s accident.
I guess that’s understandable, since I, too, felt A few years after my family began attending,
like I wasn’t allowed to feel pain about it. So the camp added a support group specifically
no, maybe it’s not my story, but the emotional for siblings of burn survivors. The fact that they
trauma that resulted certainly is. I struggled for had even considered adding that support
years, and it wasn’t until 2016 that I prayed for group already meant so much to me, but what
God to heal me of my panic attacks. I haven’t really struck me was how the leaders asked us
had any since October 2016. to share our own stories.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever heal completely, but I remember asking, “Like, what happened to
maybe that’s not the goal. It’s still extremely my sister?”

“No, tell us your story. Maybe that includes
what happened to your sister, maybe not.”

The burn survivor community is a group of
people that have been brought together
through tragedy, yet I continue to find joy with-
in. I disagree when people suggest to me that
maybe this is the “reason” why Jer had to go
through what she did, but I do agree that it is a
positive thing that resulted from it, and I am
thankful for that.

This essay would be incomplete if I didn’t
mention that when you look at Jer now, you
can’t tell that she has been burned. She still
has scarring mostly on her neck and hands, but
when you look at her face, there is no trace of
scarring there. It’s something that can only be
explained by a miracle. Even Dr. Grossman
himself, who recently passed away, said that
he had never seen such miraculous healing in
his entire career. Jerica’s story of healing and
radiant positivity has been an inspiration to
thousands of people, including me. She has
quite literally been through the fire and been
refined. And, in a way, so have I.

About the Author:

Braelyn Riggs is a 20-year old college student
from California. She is the recipient of a 4-year
full scholarship to study English at Colorado
Christian University. She has been writing since
she was young, and has completed two self-
published novels. She wrote for The Odyssey
Online for about a year, where she also worked
primarily as a copyeditor. She will soon be
moving to South Korea to teach English after
graduation in 2019."

JOY

by Allen Long

In December 2016 in the San Francisco Bay swimmer and sun-worshipper who revels in the
area, I drove to my orthopedic surgeon’s office bright light and heat. Fourth, I’d been happily
in considerable pain. Despite near-agony in my married to my wife Elizabeth for twenty-one
right leg, I experienced a sudden overpowering years, and marital bliss put me in a generally
joy. It began as a warm glow in the cradle of happy state that made it easy for me to experi-
my stomach, then quickly rose like a helium ence occasional bouts of joy. Finally, Led Zep-
balloon to fill my chest, throat, and mind with pelin II boomed from the stereo, a perfect
golden light and one of the most ecstatic bursts album in my opinion with its mix of heavy met-
of happiness I’ve ever experienced. al, blues, and acoustic cuts, along with Robert
Plant’s and Jimmy Page’s superb singing and
I was sixty and on my way to my one-month guitar playing, respectively.
check-up following full knee replacement sur-
gery. I’d spent three days in the hospital and Led Zeppelin II holds a special place in my
then eleven days in a rehabilitation hospital, heart. The first time I heard it, I’d wandered up
where I received three hours of physical and to my junior high’s gym in Arlington, Virginia,
occupational therapy each day and ate the on a bored winter Saturday in early 1970 to
worst food imaginable. I was only supposed to maybe shoot some baskets or play in a game,
spend five days there, but my doctor extended even though basketball’s not my sport. When I
my stay when he discovered a blood clot in my stepped into the gymnasium, Led Zeppelin II
right calf. blasted forth from a record player just inside
the door. I was transfixed. This was some of
I’d finally been discharged, but I found myself the most exciting music I’d ever heard--I felt an
in great discomfort at home, despite prescrip- exhilaration similar to my first exposure to the
tion analgesics. Beatles. I listened to the entire album.

In my experience, euphoria comes upon us The person in charge of the stereo was a pretty
when we least expect it. In most cases, we girl with black bangs named Myra who was in
have no idea why we’re flooded with this won- my seventh grade English class and treated me
derful feeling. And maybe, most of the time, like scum--I was a pimple-faced straight-A stu-
the wisest course is to simply embrace rather dent with an out-of-fashion crew cut my par-
than analyze it. However, I have a strong sense ents made me sport so I wouldn’t be mistaken
of why I was struck with elation that day, and for a hippie. I disliked our teacher, who con-
here’s my reasoning. stantly held me up to the class as a shining ex-
ample of the ultimate student, and, naturally,
For starters, that was the first day I’d driven many of my peers despised me.
since my return home, and it felt good to drive
again and reclaim my independence. Also, I “God, I love this!” I said to Myra.
love my car, a silver 2005 Honda Civic coupe
that has plenty of power, handles well, and She smiled and made my day.
provides a smooth ride. Second, the interior of
my car was warm and snug on that wintry day. Within twenty-four hours, I’d walked several
Third, the day was bright and sunny, and I’m a miles with my buddy Will to Giant Music in
Falls Church, where I bought Led Zeppelin II. I

was a budding electric guitar player, and I willingness to suffer agony so I could heal
quickly taught myself a number of Jimmy quickly. This made me feel connected to my
Page’s easier licks. The hottest guitar solo on brother Danny and my son Josh, who had also
the album occurs on “Heartbreaker,” and it recently demonstrated a strong ability to han-
was way beyond my ability. However, I had a dle post-surgery discomfort. This also remind-
friend named Craig V. who was an exceptional- ed me that I’d toughed out some really gruel-
ly talented player. ing practices when I played football and wres-
tled in junior high and high school. I remember
One day when he was at my house, I jokingly thinking then, if I can endure this, I can endure
asked him if he could play the “Heartbreaker” anything.
solo. I assumed no peer of mine could even
begin to deliver the goods, but Craig played the I also thought about how I’ve successfully over-
solo note-perfect without any visible effort. He come child abuse, a nightmarish first marriage,
didn’t crack a smile, but I know he thoroughly a nervous breakdown, and other difficult peri-
enjoyed putting me in my place, oh me of little ods in my life. Now I rejoiced in feeling physi-
faith. This is one of my favorite memories of cally and mentally tough.
Craig, who ended up playing with such headlin-
ers as Steve Winwood but died of a heart Finally, as I sped through the rolling green hills,
attack in 2010 at age fifty-three—heart trouble I thought about all the books I wanted to read
ran in his family. I miss him deeply. during my medical leave—I could consume one
or two a week for the next two months!
So, as I drove, Led Zeppelin II reminded me of
how much I love to play guitar. Even though I It suddenly stuck me that I was still the same
owned two exquisite Fender and Hamer elec- person I was in high school—I remained pas-
tric guitars and a gorgeous mahogany Martin sionate about reading, writing, guitar playing,
acoustic, I hardly ever played them, since I’d and swimming—only I was even tougher now
made a decision a few years earlier to dedicate and with forty-two more years of experience,
my free “artistic” time exclusively to writing. I knowledge, and wisdom than I had at eighteen.
immediately vowed to start playing again and This is when the joy struck. I suddenly had a
to maybe resume my lessons with a local mas- deep, clear reminder of who I was.
ter player when I retired in the not-too-distant
future. I’m still marveling about how I could experi-
ence such bliss while in near-agony. This re-
Another reason for my happiness was that I minds me of a conversation I had with my doc-
didn’t have to return to work until March. I’m tor many years ago. At the time, I was afflicted
an assistant nurse at an inner-city hospital, and with undiagnosed anxious depression and felt
I greatly enjoy taking care of appreciative and constant near-panic about my bad job, my fail-
cooperative patients and helping compassion- ing first marriage, and money. I told my doc-
ate nurses, but my peers and I often encounter tor, “I just need things to settle down for a
verbally abusive nurses and violent, mentally ill while so I can relax and be happy.”
patients. Also, I had high hopes my doctor
would give me permission to swim soon, so I My doctor smiled and said, “The trick is to be
could swim five days a week for the next two open to happiness, even while you’re suffer-
months before returning to work. ing.”

In addition, I was proud when my physical ther-
apist—nicknamed “the bulldog” because of her
ability to inflict pain--complimented me on my

About the Author:

Allen Long is the author of Less than Human: A
Memoir (Black Rose Writing, 2016). He is a
regular contributor to Adelaide. Allen's mem-
oirs have also recently appeared or are forth-
coming in Broad Street, Eunoia Review, and
Hawaii Pacific Review. He has been an assis-
tant editor at Narrative Magazine since 2007,
and he lives with his wife near San Francisco.

I FEEL FIRMLY

by G. David Schwartz

I feel firmly that God will not condemn any About the Author:
hunan being to eternal damnation if because
they did or did not believe in something pre- G. David Schwartz is the former president of
sented to the from out of the past. I feel equal- Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee.
ly firm that God will reward a person with hell Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of
if he (or she) does not believe the reality hap- Dialogue (1994) and Midrash and Working Out
pening before his eyes, if he perverts reality Of The Book (2004)
into an untruth, or if he sees a lie and does not Currently a volunteer at The Cincinnati J, Meals
do his utmost to negate that lie. On Wheels.
His newest book, Shards And Verse (2011) is
I do fell God will not damage anyone for living now in stores or can be ordered on line.
his life within the confines of appalling happi-
ness, attitudes band manifestations of justice
ad mercy toward his fellow man, and vistas as
propagated by Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and
humanitarians.

I do feel that God will suffer humanity with
everlasting banishment if he out his true belief
before the good of the majority, scones anyone
for not accepting what he accepts, and claim-
ing to possess absolute or excrete truth as a
means to excelled others from your fellowship
and help.

I believe atheists will go to the heaven long
before religionists who reject his responsibility
for the betterment of self and mankind.

I do not believe that the Master Of The Uni-
verse is in my reach and hold. But I do believe
that we humans are asked to be what is called
moral. And I do believe that God understated
humans, better than humans understand
themselves. And that that understanding is at
least as important to life as is the abstract
thought of love and even justice.

MY BIG, PERFECT BROTHER

by John Bonanni

My brother is Mr. Perfect. My brother can do I have his birth certificate and the pewter cruci-
no wrong. fix that adorned his white laminate coffin.

At least that is what my mother always insists. I wonder if he would have laughed, fought, and
He never gets into trouble. He always avoids did all those things that younger little brothers
confrontation. His tantrums always have a do. I imagine now the overwhelming transfor-
good reason, I am told. Quite the role model, mation my mother's love was forced to endure
my brother. He is the quintessential first born, to reconcile such a numbing event in her
revered, adored; the unifying element for all of young life. A first born, lost after fourteen days
us. He is the sibling that made a husband and of maternal intimacy, forced to endure a mor-
wife a family. I was just added to the mix later, bid reality.
perhaps even by mistake. The six-year span
between us made a big difference. Even Of course he was perfect, in her mind. He had
though Mother always reminds me that I am given her 14 days of bliss in spite of untold
the apple of her eye, it is my brother that is worry. There were no buddies or girlfriends in
always the subject of wonder, of deep affection his brief life to interrupt their all-encompassing
that I just could not understand. Is he the relationship between mother and son.
better version of me? Even his sharp, cool
name that reflected heritage and strength. She never had to wait up for him. He never left
Anthony Joseph. Tony Joe. I would love to her side and he was with her for his entire life.
have been called Tony, or Joey. I got John.
What son can claim that devotion?
I may as well have been named Brother–the-
Lessor. Little Johnny. Anthony's kid brother. I wondered what he would have been like.
Even though I am the one who gets into trou- Would we have been close? Would I have
ble, who loves to play jokes, get away with looked up to him or hated his guts? Would I
murder, smile his way out of a tight situation, have been any different? Would what I felt, or
Anthony would not be impressed. Little Johnny thought, have mattered?
is the one who laughs, fights, catches more
breaks than he deserves. The one who con- The crucifix that sits casually on a bookshelf in
vinced a girl to take her top off in the front seat my bedroom has been moved to a hundred
of a Plymouth Belvedere if I promised not to places throughout my lifetime as if it were just
touch. The one trying desperately to be a ba- another photo frame, quickly glanced at in a
dass. brief contemplative moment. It is an object
that does not remind one of what was but urg-
I never really understood why my brother is es reflection on what might have been.
always the default topic in the family. He was
born on February 22, 1944 and died 14 days To imagine him, what he would look like, how
later of spinal meningitis. he would have spoken when he had grown up
himself acknowledges a joy I never really knew
but somehow have been compelled to reflect.

Maybe these presumptions can provide the
legacy he never had the chance to build. It
would have been grand to have grown up with
him, to challenge his perfection. We would
have had a full-fledged history instead of one-
sided speculation. What do you say, Tony?
Rest, my brother. I will be the good son for
now.
John spent a career in theatre management on
tour, Broadway, Radio City Music Hall, and
many places in between managing every sensi-
tive personality he encountered. He now writes
about them. He is currently in the MFA in Crea-
tive and Professional Writing program at West-
ern Connecticut State University.

About the Author:

John Bonanni spent the last forty years in the
theatre on tour, on Broadway, at Radio City
Music Hall and many places in between manag-
ing every sensitive personality he encountered.
He now writes about them, among other
things. He is enrolled in the MFA in Creative
and Professional Program at Western Connecti-
cut State University.

PRESENCE

by Marjorie McAtee

I don’t know what happens to people after gressor. It does not tell me why they were
they die. Maybe they go to Heaven or Hell or fighting. But later – maybe years later, maybe
Purgatory, like I was taught in Catechism class the next day – my mother said, “They weren’t
as a girl. Maybe they lurk in old houses, making taking you to a wedding. They were going to
the walls bleed. But they don’t hang around in kidnap you because they thought I wasn’t good
the cemetery, waiting for visitors. enough for your father and they wanted
nothing to do with me.”
I hope.
So I didn’t go to the wedding. I wore the blue
*** dress to my father’s funeral instead.

The first time I visited my father’s grave was My mother had my father cremated because
when we buried him in it. It was 1988. I was she was angry with him for dying, but then she
five years old, and I wore the sky-blue dress I’d felt guilty, and decided to bury the urn, be-
been meant to wear to his brother’s wedding. I cause a burial was what he had wanted. The
don’t know which of his four brothers was undertakers dug the grave with a post-hole
getting married, nor to which of their consider- digger. My memory insists that it was both
ably more than four wives; I just know that I raining and beautiful on the day that we buried
didn’t go, because my mother had a fight with him. My memory insists that when they
her father-in-law, my Grandpa Forrest, on the dropped my father’s urn into the round hole, it
day that I was to leave with them. I remember fell with a shoop noise.
standing on the sidewalk in front of their
house, hand-in-hand with my father, watching ***
my mother and Grandpa Forrest shouting at
each other on his front porch. My memory tells My father’s death had been sudden. He’d been
me that Grandpa Forrest advanced on my working for the West Virginia Department of
mother and shoved her shoulders with both of Highways, directing traffic around a road crew,
his hands, and that she stumbled backwards off and a driver didn’t stop. Thirteen years later,
the edge of the porch, which was about a foot when I was eighteen years old, I would spend a
high. My memory does not tell me whether she summer working on the same crews with the
hurt herself. It does not tell me how my father same men who had worked with my father.
reacted, or if he reacted at all. It does not tell
me whether Grandpa Forrest shoved my moth- “He didn’t even slow down,” said Tom, a man
er in self-defense, or whether he was the ag- who’d been working with my father that day.
“He kept on driving full speed right through the

work site. He was halfway through before we what I told you? Dead people go away forever
realized he was dragging your dad. We all had and they never come back.”
to jump on his hood to get him to stop.”
I thought for a moment, and then asked, “Does
My father was taken via life flight to West Vir- he want to come back?”
ginia University Hospital in Morgantown,
where he spent two weeks in a coma. My “Yes.”
mother spent those two weeks at his bedside. I
spent those two weeks with my mother’s par- ***
ents. I remember watching the news the night
they interviewed my mother; I remember how After that conversation, I stopped drawing
red her eyes were, how she wore a brown pictures for my father, because I decided he
pageboy cap, how she seemed to sway a little was trapped in the sewers.
under the weight of the cameras, but I don’t
remember what she said. I remember sleeping When I was very small, my father had a big,
on my grandparents’ brown-and-white toile bushy beard. Then one day, when I was three
couch, flopping in the night like a fish. I remem- or four years old, he went into the bathroom
ber how the walls looked blue under the star- and shaved it all off. I’d never seen my father
light when I’d wake, confused. I remember without a beard before, so when he came out
asking Grandma and Grandpa where my par- of the bathroom, I asked, “Are you my daddy?”
ents were and when they’d be coming back. I
don’t remember what they said. “No,” he replied, “I’m an impostor! Your real
daddy slipped down the drain!”
When my mother returned, she came alone,
but I was excited. “Will daddy take me to the And I believed him. For a long time afterward, I
carnival tonight?” I asked her. The carnival was was afraid to take a bath. I was convinced that I
no longer in town, but that was not the most would slip down the drain and be replaced by a
pressing concern. silky-smooth doppelganger. My mother was
furious; my father, amused. But after I knew
My mother got down on her knees, so she that he was never coming back, I remembered
could look me in the eyes. “No,” she said. “He what he said about slipping down the drain. I
can’t, because he’s dead.” stopped being afraid of the bath, and instead, I
started standing right over the drain until the
“What does that mean?” last water was gone. He was down there some-
where, and if I tried hard enough, I could find
“It means he had to go away, and he’s never him again. I knew it.
coming back.”
***
In the months that followed, I remember not
understanding why my father was gone. I drew I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was eight-
him pictures and wrote him letters, confident een years old. It was 2001, the summer after
that my mother would deliver them to him, my first year of college. It took me three tries
wherever he was. to pass the test, but once I did, I drove out
route 20 to the Methodist graveyard north of
When I drew my father a picture of a big, gold- Buckhannon where my father was buried, to
en key labeled “The Key of Life,” my mother visit his grave for the second time. He wasn’t a
said, again, “He’s not coming back.” Methodist, but we happened to own the plot,
because my maternal great-great-grandparents
“Why not?” I asked. had sold off some of their real estate holdings
and invested the money in Upshur County buri-
“He’s dead,” my mother said. “Remember al plots. Thanks to their foresight, my mother’s

family has had places to bury their dead for five to read my bedtime stories. So he bought a
generations. My older sisters, Jill and Susan, tape recorder and recorded himself reading my
who died within hours of their premature favorite books. Every night, after my mother
births, are buried in another cemetery, but my put me in bed, I’d lie there alone and listen to
great-great-grandmother, Mabel Hinkle, and the tapes.
my first cousin, John Steven, are buried at my
father’s side. After my father died, my mother threw away
his things, including the tapes. Before I lost it, I
My father is buried at the back of the ceme- had one picture of myself and my father. In it,
tery, up on the hill, beyond the old graves with he was sitting in a recliner, and I was standing
their crumbling, weather-worn stones. When I between his knees. He was leaning forward,
first saw his tombstone, I was shocked at its arms wrapped around me, grinning. I was hold-
size – a slab of red marble at least five feet tall. ing a teddy bear and smiling. When I’d shown
It’s engraved with a poem my mother wrote, people this picture, they’d said, “Wow, you
called, “That Voice We Loved Is Silent.” The look just like him.”
poem has four or five stanzas. I don’t know any
of them. Before I lost it, I had one picture of my parents
and myself. In it, I was sitting cross-legged on
I stood in the cemetery for a while, staring at the tan linoleum of my grandparents’ living
the stone, unsure of what to do. I had for- room floor. My parents were sitting on the red
gotten to bring flowers. I should bring flowers corduroy couch behind me; the photographer
the next time I come, I thought. That’s what must have been sitting on the brown-and-
mourners do, right? white toile couch that faced it. In the picture,
my mother was young; her skin was unlined
Flowerless, I laid my hand on top of the rock, and her hair was cut short, and she hadn’t yet
and found that it was just a rock. I stood there gotten the large, pink orchard tattoo that, from
feeling awkward, as if I were trapped with a the year after my father’s death, would cover
casual acquaintance to whom I couldn’t think her entire right cheek. In the picture, there was
of anything to say. What happens now? I won- space between my father and my mother on
dered. Am I supposed to do something? Feel the couch, and in the moment when the
something? Is there supposed to be a presence, shutter had clicked, my mother had had her
maybe? But there wasn’t a presence. There face turned toward my father, so that the cam-
was only, as always, just me. era had captured her in silhouette, mid-
sentence, mouth open, arms crossed, forehead
Eventually I decided to leave, but bright colors drawn into a frown. My father, too, was pic-
at a nearby grave caught my eye. When I drew tured speaking, but he had avoided her gaze.
closer I realized that the colors were those of He’d stared instead at the floor before his feet,
toys – plastic trucks and tiny earth-movers ar- his gaze baffled, his shoulders frozen mid-
ranged across the plot as if a child had been shrug.
playing with them, just now, and had been
called away to supper. The grave was that of a I alone looked into the camera, diligently pick-
little boy, only three years old. His portrait ing my nose.
smiled from beneath an oval of glass. The toys
on his grave were new and clean. Fresh flowers ***
lay on the stone.
The third time I visited my father’s grave was
*** during a reunion of my mother’s side of the
family in 2003. I went with my cousins – John
When I was three or four my father started Steven’s siblings – and his mother and step-
working nights and couldn’t be there any more father, and some of my mother’s sisters. They

wanted to see John Steven’s grave, which did- shouting, “I can’t believe you treat me this
n’t have a stone at all. While we were there we way!”
looked at my father’s grave, and I learned why
his stone was so big. The job I had to get to the next day was as a
cashier in an adult store in Candler, a suburb
“When he died your mother didn’t have much about fifteen minutes away. Two years earlier,
money for a stone,” my Aunt Donna said. “She Gene, who’d been out of a job himself at the
ordered the smallest, cheapest one they had, time, had been looking through the newspaper
one of those flat ones that lays flush with the classifieds when he saw their help wanted ad.
ground. But when she went to check the en- “Here,” he’d said, pointing it out to me. “This’d
gravers’ work they’d spelled his name wrong. be the perfect job for you, since you’re such a
She raised such a big stink that they offered her slut.”
any stone in the catalogue, with any amount of
engraving, for free, just to get her to leave. So I’d gone in for an interview, and the long-
she picked the biggest, most expensive one haired, snaggle-toothed manager, Dave, had
they had, which was this one, and then she hired me on the spot. I’d taken the job out of
wrote this poem to have engraved on it.” spite, but I’d kept it because, when I’d arrived
on the first day, Dave had asked, “Did you bring
“Wow.” I was impressed, but not surprised. No a book?”
one can rage like my mother.
“No, sir,” I’d replied, “I’m here to work.”
After we finished looking at our family graves,
we all wandered over to look at the grave of Dave had nodded and said, “Well, from now
the child that none of us knew. The toys were on, you’re going to want to bring a book.” Busi-
still new and clean, still arranged as if he’d just ness, it had turned out, was slow at the adult
finished playing. The flowers on the stone were shop; state law prohibited them from running
fresh. The little boy’s face grinned from his advertisements anywhere but on the radio, so,
photo. aside from the crowd of lunch-rush regulars
who came in to use the dirty video arcade, cus-
“It’s so sad when a child dies,” said my older tomers were few and far between. There was
cousin, Roxie, whose brother John Steven had about an hour’s worth of cleaning to do every
been a baby at the time of his death. day, but mostly I spent my shifts reading my
way through the entire collections of the Ashe-
*** ville Public Library, writing long letters to my
college friends about how miserable I was, and
“No! You’re not going to sleep!” Gene grabbed gossiping with George, a regular I’d befriended.
me by the upper arm and yanked me out of
bed. I thudded to the floor. This was a normal I was one of two cashiers who worked at the
Sunday night. store; each week, one of us would work a
twelve-hour double shift so the other could
“I have to work tomorrow!” I protested, from have a day off. Monday was my double-shift
my new position on the Berber carpet. It was day, so on Sundays Gene always found a rea-
2008. I’d been living in Asheville, North Caroli- son to pick a fight. He’d follow me around the
na, for three years. I’d washed up there after a apartment all day and night, yelling. “You’re a
year of post-college drifting around the coun- horrible person! You’re so selfish! You don’t
try, mostly in California, where, at about this care about me at all! Everything’s always about
time, I was wishing I’d stayed. you!” Every day he’d find new things to be an-
gry about, but he’d always use the same words
“Get up!” he shouted, and yanked my arm to express it. When he got really worked up,
again. He was only about 5’4” – too small to he’d scream, “I HOPE YOU HAVE A HORRIBLE
pull me to my feet – but it hurt, so I stood up MONTH!” because one bad day wouldn’t cut it.
and walked into the living room. He followed,

I was almost always on my own in the adult “Well, I might, if these guys leave,” I said, and
store. The manager, Dave, lived five minutes nodded at the monitor, which displayed two
away, and if I needed anything, I could call him. regulars drinking Pepsi and chatting in a porno
But I usually didn’t, and he usually didn’t check theater on their lunch break from work, you
in. But one Monday he came to collect that know, as one does.
month’s security tapes.
Dave narrowed his eyes somewhat. “If I were
“Whoa, you look rough,” he said. “Do you need your father, I wouldn’t stand for it,” he said. He
to go home?” wasn’t talking about the porno theater.

“No, I’m fine, I was just up all night fighting “My father’s dead,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear
with my fiancé.” that,” Dave said, and left.

Dave didn’t say anything about that; he just ***
took the tapes and left. But an hour later, he
and Pete, the owner, showed up with a sofa. I had wished my father alive every day since
the day I first understood what dead meant,
“I just need to store this in the office,” Pete but I had never wished him alive as fervently as
said, as I buzzed them through. I shrugged. I did after I met the man I would promise to
What he did with his furniture in his store was marry, then walk out on. While Gene kept me
of no consequence to me. up all night the night before a double shift,
screaming at me about how selfish I was, I
After they dropped off the sofa, Pete left, but thought, If I could call my father, he’d take me
Dave lingered. State law said I had to check out of here so fast. When Gene took a bite of
every customer’s ID before allowing them into the steak I had cooked a little too long, spit it
the store, so there were two doors – one that out, and then shattered the plate on the wall
opened onto the street, behind which I sat at a while shouting, “I can’t believe you expect me
glass counter filled with bottles of lube and to eat this shit!” I thought, If my father were
packs of dirty playing cards, and a second one here, he’d feed you that fucking thing. When he
that opened to give access to the vibrators, screamed at me for hours in the car while we
butt plugs, and DVDs within. An alarm blared were driving home from visiting his mother in
whenever anyone came in, to summon me Utah, I thought, If my father were here, he’d
from anywhere in the building. tell me to leave your ass on the side of the
road. Dave had been right; my father wouldn’t
Dave milled around in that liminal space be- have stood for it. But what he would or would-
tween the outer and inner doors for a few n’t have stood for didn’t matter, because he
minutes, while I checked the security cameras was dead.
to make sure no one was having sex in the vid-
eo arcade in the back. It was lunch time, and Every time I tossed Gene out, he’d come back
the regular crowd was back there. Sometimes pounding on the door and threatening to break
they stayed in their respective booths. Some- it down if I didn’t open it. I’d call the cops, and
times they bought sodas from the vending ma- he’d go away, and then come back the next
chine and chatted. Sometimes they got naugh- day. A friend of his lived up a cross street; he
ty with each other. I was supposed to shut that could watch my movements from her porch. I
down, which I usually did by getting on the thought about getting a restraining order, but I
intercom and saying, “Sirs, I can see you.” knew it wouldn’t stop him from hurting me, so
I decided to leave town instead.
Dave cleared his throat. “You know, if I were
working a double shift, and I hadn’t got any I say that like I planned it carefully, but I didn’t.
sleep the night before, and the store was emp- I left and went back, left and went back, left
ty, I might just go back in the office and take a and went back. One day I got home from work
nap on that couch,” he said.

before he did. I was reading a novel from that WV, arguing with Gene over who got to stay in
week’s stack of library books. I don’t remember my rented apartment and who got to keep the
what it was about, but I was engrossed. I sat car that I bought in my own name and paid for
down on the couch and started to read; not with my own money. I thought that I ought to
long after, Gene stomped through the front keep both car and apartment, and that he
door, slammed it behind him, and got right to could fuck right off, and told him so, but as the
shouting. weeks passed it became clearer that I would
have to at least get another place. When he
“Look at you! All you ever fucking do is read wasn’t at work, Gene would sit on the porch of
fucking books! You think you’re better than me the friend down the cross street and watch my
just because you went to college? You’re not house. Every time I tried to move any of my
better than me just because you have some stuff out of the apartment, he’d appear to
piece of paper! Why don’t you do something make a scene. “You’re not going anywhere!”
useful instead of wasting your time with those he’d scream, and when I ignored him, “You’re
stupid books?” And then he snatched the book not taking the car!” To this day, I still have
out of my hands and tossed it on the floor. dreams that I’m in that apartment, trying to
grab what I can before he comes back. Of all
I hadn’t said a word. I was still in my work the things I had to leave behind, it’s the picture
clothes. I looked at the book lying on the hard- of me with my father I miss the most.
wood; the cover was yellow like coal mine ca-
naries, and it had something like a biological I felt like I was disappearing, and I wanted to.
hazard symbol on it. At college, I’d studied in Paris, and I’d been
homesick for France for the entire four years
I stood up and bundled my cat into its carrier, since then. At night I’d walk the curious streets
threw some clothes into a bag, and left. I drove of a dreamlike city, and in the morning wake
to Black Mountain, to the home of a friend confused, not knowing, for a moment, where I
with whom I’d stayed the last time I’d left. I sat was. I’d made a mistake, and it was time to
on her couch and wept sobs that were almost correct it. I’d been talking to a friend who lived
screams, while she sat beside me, speechless in Chamonix-Mont-Blanc, and I thought I’d take
and terrified, and my cat glared at hers from my cat and go to France for a few months, just
his perch behind my shoulder. Later that night, to clear my head.
or maybe it was the next night, I felt guilt roll-
ing behind my belly button, hot, heavy, and The longer things dragged on in Asheville the
huge. I went out and sat in my car alone, in the better that sounded, and I stopped thinking
dark, and opened the flip phone I shared with about my father. When Gene came pounding
Gene. I had turned it off so he couldn’t call it. I on the door and screaming, “If you don’t open
sat there under the jaundice glow of the street- this door right now I’m gonna break it down!” I
lights and stared at the little blank screen for thought, I’m going to Europe, and it’s gonna be
what felt like a very long time. I rested my okay. When he broke the lock on my back door
thumb on the power button, feeling that hot, and smashed the framed photos of Paris I’d
heavy ache expand in my belly, but I didn’t had hanging on my walls, I thought, I’m going
press down to turn the phone on. If my father to Europe, and it’s gonna be okay. When he
were alive, I knew, he’d never have let things stormed up to my packed car and yanked open
get this far. He’d have saved me long ago. But my unlocked door and tried to wrench me out
he wasn’t alive, and he couldn’t save me; I’d of the seat where I was belted in, screaming,
have to do it myself. So I broke the phone in “You’re not taking the car!” I stomped on the
half, and went back inside. gas and knocked him down, and then I thought,
I’m going to Europe, and it’s gonna be okay.
I spent the next two months bouncing like a When our mutual friends knocked on my door,
pinball between Asheville and Buckhannon,

saying things like, “If you ask me you’re just by Matthew Tennery.” I remembered Matt;
being silly and overreacting. You know he loves we’d graduated high school together. I won-
you and you love him. Give him another dered if he remembered me. I wondered if he
chance,” I nodded and said, “I’ll consider that” knew the big, red marble stone on the hill was
and thought, I’m going to Europe, and it’s gon- my father’s.
na be okay.
No one was there that day, and I walked alone
Before I left for France, in the summer of 2008, through the rows of old graves, with their
I visited my father’s grave for the fourth time. I stained, slanted stones, to the newer ones to-
took my youngest aunt, Martha. She’s ten ward the back. At my father’s grave I remem-
years older than me, more like a sister than an bered at last to get flowers; again, I hadn’t
aunt. I took her to the cemetery because I brought any. I looked around, hoping to see
thought she could answer my questions. some growing nearby, but the grass and the
fence line were immaculate. Matt was doing a
“What should I do? I mean, what does one do good job.
at a grave?” I asked, as we stood before the
stone, which was still just a stone. “Should I I stood there and looked at the stone for a
feel something? Should there be a presence?” while. What else does one do at a grave? It’s
the question to which I have never found an
Martha took a drag of her cigarette and looked answer.
at me askance. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m
not sentimental.” After a bit, I wandered over to the other grave,
the one of the child I didn’t know. The photo
I knelt on the grass, and placed my palm on the on the stone was washed out to nothing; water
cold, slick stone and felt the edges of my moth- had seeped beneath the glass. The toys were
er’s words etched sharp into the surface. Mar- faded and broken, though still arranged as
tha stood behind me, smoking. I forgot to bring neatly as they’d always been. I imagined Matt
flowers again, I thought. I knelt, while the sun carefully picking them up, mowing the grass,
warmed my shoulders and the earth cooled my and then putting them back.
knees, and felt, between my ribs, an emptiness
twenty years wide. As I walked to my car I thought, as I always did,
I ought to bring flowers the next time I come, if
Help me, I thought. Please help me. I pressed there is a next time.
the stone’s surface harder, as if I could press
my need into it, as if by pressing hard enough, I
could make it matter. Please. Help me. If you’re
there, please help me.

But he didn’t help, because he wasn’t there.
There was only, as always, just me.

***

The fifth time I visited my father’s grave was in
2010. My few months in France had turned
into years, and I couldn’t say that my head was
clear yet, but I was home for a visit anyway.

I pulled up to the cemetery gates in my rental
car on a spring day when the sun gleamed off
the green hills. On the gate, I noticed a small
plaque that read: “This cemetery is maintained

About the Author:

Marjorie McAtee is a professional writer and
editor with more than 10 years of experience.
She was educated at Hollins University, the
Sorbonne University of Paris, and West Virginia
University. Her humor writing appears online
at Don't Call Me Marge, and her creative non-
fiction has appeared in Amarillo Bay, The
Blotter, Flashquake, and Center: A Journal of
the Literary Arts.

LIGHT
OF DELIGHT

by Catherine Rohsner

College is where life fantastically blooms Light of DeLight

a setting of great expectations, and when The day lifts away our gloomy thoughts,
you’ve lived it: Our dismal weights to the air;
Immortality, Immaturity—a gathering of the I know of none who could not look
young. At the sunlight, and lose their care.

Take your turn and consequences will abound: Though midnight may provide our Muse
friendships, hot tea warming hands, It brings the weight of gloom;
plentiful smiles on sidewalks catching you una- Its somber hue it shows in full,
wares, The holiness of doom.
which are necessary moments to remind
you’re loved. Oh sunlight! What promises it shines!
(Not in the grandest way, perhaps; A pale white streak
yet, a joy is a joy.) Upon a bedroom wall cheers
The heart and makes it leap.
This, of course, is what everyone says to you—.
It might be foolish, youth living so, Someday our long, woeful burdens
three thousand like you inside one mile. Will be cast aside;
And every moment we may know
Better to guard yourself in every social move. That Someone is beside.
Not without friends, but some wisdom.

Living in the Present Love and Longing

What use are words when you know every- I mustn’t speak—
thing I mustn’t feel—
You write is broken, or embarrassing I mustn’t long—
At best? What use are words, or books, or art I cannot think on it longer.
When millions crowd the world, and cease to
be Then, heart pounding,
When ruined or forgotten? Do you think The gray of night, and a brain
It’s you, the author, who is worth the pen’s That will not fall asleep for fear of . . .
Immortalizing, with your flaws and sins? Of what?
(What else can I come up with so that you
Will cease to write, or think, or dream, or act?) I must deny myself, I know this to be true.
“I really don’t trust your judgment,” says
It is a sunny, wintry day, the one The Mentor. “The way you’re going back and
Just after Spring. The sun shines some into forth is scary.”
The room, and more so since the snow’s so Am I sane?
white.
Remember when you lay upon the grass, You are not condemned! says my friend . . .
And stroked the neighbor’s cats, a mother and tears
A daughter, on a Sunday afternoon Roll off my heart’s rim. Idolatry
In Spring, a real Spring with flowers and Isn’t easy to work oneself out of. Work on my-
A breeze. Remember well, and look around; self?
The calm speaks better than your weary mind. The LORD needs to do a work in me.

Do not forget that God has something far Curled-up exclamations busy my soul.
More glorious than what you can believe, Vain attempts at analysis blur my mind.
Or hope, or ask in store for you. In time, Fear of getting hurt again blinds my heart.
Though pain surrounds and breeds inside the Hardness of heart keeps me from my God.
wound
You got from similar horrors of the past, My beloved friend, contradiction of both be-
Again refreshed, and not accompanied loved and friend,
By any balm, no knowledge of the hour I either love you so much and yearn for you,
When hope will be fulfilled for once in sight, Or quiet down, and accept congenial acquaint-
Remember then the suffering of the Lord. ance while I work.
I must sever that selfish longing or perish.

Except—LORD, if it be Your kind will,
To permit me to walk in Your grace,
To teach me and make me new day by day,
Might my longing be met . . . but in Your way?

Ode to H.M. About the Author

If I could name that which I most desire, Catherine Rohsner grew up and lives in Mary-
I fear my tongue would slack, for want of heart, land. She is a ’18 graduate of Grove City Co-
Or rather, will collapsed and weariness llege with a degree in English, minors in Music
Within. It can’t have only been a dream, and Spanish, and a concentration in Creative
A tumult swiftly come and gone, and past? Writing. She has also self-published a co-
I fear it’s true, for now no heart remains created novel called Fish Out of Water in Au-
In me to ache, to yearn, to warm, or grow, gust 2017.
But only rest, return to mind’s clear eye,
And pay respect towards my daily cares.
I am content to think no more what’s past.

Yet do not think that I might scorn our time;
No, no! Cast far the thought that I may scowl
When glancing back upon our month of trial,
Of tossing back and forth upon a sea
Of doubt, of slim to overwhelming swells
Of tearful, bittersweet devotion not to
You, but to the truth. Though as you know,
The tide swayed mightily toward your shores
As well, alternatively. Ah, no more!
Our time is spent, and so my heart is dry.

And dripping wet with hope’s last cries,
I sit above the roar and live my life,
A life not unchanged from that fiery pass,
But, as we know, burned free from former
dregs
Which hardened thick around my heart and
mind
From ancient battles won but wounding still.
Do I still dream? Hold fast! There’s music in
The air! Away from here! Beyond the shore!
Do listen. Though our time resembles waste,
I stand, and stride in knowing naught was vain.

My dear H.M., you poet who thinks so low
Of poetry, may likely fail to hear
My distant message. But! As you, across
The isle, are still within my sight, still I’ll
Wave, and smile, until you’re out of view.
And you will music make on instruments,
And I will music pen in words of ink,
Apart, but still a part of what’s unheard:
That symphony which plays about our sphere,
Which never ends; perhaps you might return.

FILE NUMBER
THIRTY-ONE

by Ken W. Simpson

Drowning

Shadows of familiar faces
appear in dreams
as memories
empty of empathy
before disappearing.

The Vanity of Disbelief

The lure of lunacy
beckons minds
deprived of honesty
exploited by myths
amd lies
about patriotism
paradise and pride.

ELVIS

by Gayle Compton

Elvis just wants to be your Teddy bear.
Teddy bear my Virgie, Kentucky, hind end!
The whole world's gone crazy! The world's gone crazy, the world's
Gone hog wild over Elvis Presley and that "all shook up."
old sinful rock and roll! The cat runs under the bed, the dog
Daddy slams his big coal miner's fist crawls under the porch.
on the supper table If I weren't a god-fearing, blood-bought,
sloshing red rot Krogers Spotlight coffee born again Christian
all over Mother's new white table cloth I'd ask the Lord to paralyze that left leg
priced at a dollar but knocked down stiffer than a fence post.
to a quarter Mark my words, the End is near.
at the Abundant Tithings True Gospel Church The old horny-headed devil is on the loose,
of the Heaven Bound wearing blue suede shoes
rummage sale mouth of Doc Bill. and driving a pink Cadillac.
The world's gone crazy Pour me another cup of that coffee, Avalene,
and the baby lets go of the titty, and turn on the radio.
bawling and showing his gums I'll show you what I mean.
over this Elvis thing.
Get it on your mind!
That old Elvis singing about a hound dog,
shaking that leg
and girls screaming and passing out
like a bunch of Pentecostals
slain in the spirit.
A truck driver from Mississippi
in a jailbird suit,
shaking that leg, curling that lip,

Cold Cocked

Ungroomed and randy Apollo stud,
Mott Blackburn, shucked down, drawers on a limb,
takes his Sunday bath in the silt-fed creek
by the washing plant (Apache No. 5).

Shakes his old whatchamacallit (penis erectus)
at good women on the way to church:
bunned and bee-hived Old Regular Baptists, foot-washing Freewills
and Holy Ghost-filled Pentecostals
turning one by one into pillars of salt.

Where the road forks at the Jot’m Down
he lives to stalk the dog-muzzled, blue-assed baboon
(papio ursivus) through the chin-high broom sage--
never missing a shot--
save for the errant Remington long rife, copper-coated hollow point
that got Minis Calhoun in the forks of his galluses
in the hot August noon.

One hour past the dayshift whistle,
Mott Blackburn, barefoot and shirtless
robs the motor barn
of 10 gallons of high-gloss, heavy-duty, Joy orange paint;
Puts twelve coats on his Corvair and two on his cow
(dyspeptic domesticated bovine)
with a four-inch brush,
gloved and booted in the night sweat, moth swarm, cusp of new moon.

Unable to sleep for the banjo-eyed bullfrogs (rana catesbeiana)
swinging from the curtains
and melon-headed moon men peeping through the window,
Mott rides herd on the fleet and flatulent
Two-toed sloth, Chawbacca, Baloo and Rudyard Kipling.

Mott Blackburn, BA, MA, PhD, was a zoology professor
before his brother Caleb cold cocked him with a
ball-peen hammer in the hot August noon.

The Formosa

Some would call you a weed,
you whose seed was sown
by the "fowls of the air,"
O tree whose name is "Beautiful."

It is a haughty mountain
that wears your Persian jewels,
a not so humble valley
that flaunts your pink and silken fans.

Behold!
From out of the wall of thundering earth,
out of the smoke that steals
your fragrant breath
the "slouching beast" has come.

Shall I rue this day, or gaze the ebbing hour
upon your fancy dress.
Should I curse the sun that sets too soon,
even before the twilight closing of your leaves.

Proud flower of summer,
you will come again.
In one hundred years your garlanded arms will
hold
the bee, the finch and hummingbird.

O bright tree, be not late
to gladden these sorrowing hills.

About the Author

Gayle Compton is a redneck hillbilly from East-
ern Kentucky. His stories, poems and articles
on the Appalachian experience have been pub-
lished widely. Gayle lives with his wife Sharon
near Pikeville, Kentucky, capitol of coal mining
and internecine feuding.

SAVE FACE

by Marissa Lucatorto

You Save Face
You The mask I’ve worn has crumbled,
You who invade my dreams its pieces scattered now.
Attack my mind I cannot hide my feelings,
Enrage my spirit nor put on a plastic smile.
You The line that I once drew,
Who comes to me they violently have crossed.
When it is dark And yet they expect,
When no one else is around that I’ll stand by and watch.
When everything is quiet, silent, still The mask I’ve worn is lost now,
You but won’t be long ‘til it is found.
Who make me think terrible thoughts And I in turn will wear it,
Make me dread simple occurrences to please the endless crowd.
Strip me bare until I don’t know who I am
You About the Author:

You bitch Marissa E. Lucatorto is a full time student
You bastard at the University of Pittsburgh, where she
Who kills me so pleasingly studies Italian culture and language. Cur-
So slick, so rapid rently, she is working on a collection of
That you barely think twice short stories and is often found scrawling
Before doing so poetry at late hours of the night.
You
Who tortures my mind
Let me be
You

And when tonight I lay down
Shaking, trembling, quaking
Don’t come into my room
Don’t come into my head
Don’t penetrate my heart
Because you
You
Don’t know
You
Don’t care

You made it clear
Long ago
That circumstance
Had divided us
You

GUITAR
STATUE

by Helen Hagemann

Guitar Statue Archways

A dark grey, a very dark grey, quite dark it is Archways are charming places when it’s raining
almost black. This statue is a composition not Umbrellas are out and this shows direction.
for practice. Ordinarily, a guitar would Looking into its space it’s hanging, a shape
stand in a better place, a better place where heavy above with melody. It leads to sweet
the strings are alive with every occasion. Solid singing, a stage of learning and it’s not disap-
and far from untidy, it rests on cobblestones, a pointing when a ticket is entry. Returning,
reminder of cherished refrains, an exterior sur- there is semblance where shadows are darker
rendering and not quite dreary in wind as there and there is no dust and no dirt within. Stones
is so much of its shape working not to be ordi- are arranged in splendour, stone on stone and
nary, and not tardy. It’s a receptacle, a symbol, cheaper and not shown by marks or by wetting.
silent in its custom, but never silent when A statue is looking into this place and seeing a
there’s anticipation, a lively concert with ex- statue means relief, it does, it certainly does
ceptional meaning and feeling from exuberant not cause frustration. Through the archway
voices. there are courtyards, a line of life and stair-
ways to an amusing side, a little dog holding a
cup to a tuneful accordion. An archway will
take you to all this and coffee, and short or-
ders, waiters and cooks.

Bridge A Fountain
What is a bridge but a cover, a right way to A fountain is a point of return if lost. The heart
cross. Certainly from point to point and all that will embrace the sound of water. So pure is the
and more in reverse. If arched in stone, it is flow that nearly all of it shows pearls of light.
quite possibly solid, a habitable space, a place It’s remarkable when the basin is level and not
of old age and soldiers with sandals anxiously an inch over, one spout covering the work of
passing over. Characteristically, there is a full two. It’s a spring of hope if hot or cold but does
carriage of river beneath its passage. Water of not mean soap. Unprecedented change and
no particular colour, except there is a powerful the whole thing blackens, is broken, so the
release of white spillage, this shows reason and mending shows the culture is Portuguese. The
a steadiness to fall, to fall is the best way. Here, blue and gold tiles can cause the whole thing to
the river is broader and wider which makes the be a church.
length a sudden place. There is a kind of eddy,
a sound deafening and a joyful mist spraying.
The bridge spans two meadows, hills of tiny
purple daisies. Of course, two sides to a bank
and one calls for repose, wine and a blanket.
It’s remarkable how peaceful each one sug-
gests. This is a separation, yet the bridge joins
the two to be a whole.

Souvenirs

There is a whole collection made. Three boards
and there is a filling, no delay with the right
measure. There is pleasure in fired clay, arte-
facts of cork and country. They are little gifts of
language, too, to be kept and mounted. Ladies
will be sales of beautiful, beautiful! Very likely
it is a passion and can speak of reckless spend-
ing, eyes on wristwatch, a parcel nicely and no
ribbon. Some might be dearer but in any case
there is a bargain. The best thing to do is to
take it away and register its purpose with grati-
tude. Its place will be a revision of time.

About the Author

Helen Hagemann lives in Perth, Western Australia. She has two collections of poetry, Evangelyne &
Other Poems (APC Melbourne) and ‘of Arc & Shadow’ (Sunline Press, WA). Helen is working on a
series of prose poetry recently inspired by the environment and architecture of Portugal and by
spending time at ARTErra Rural Artist Retreat, Lobão da Beira.

PLEASURES

OF THE STREET

by R.T. Castleberry

PLEASURES OF THE STREET

Standing in the doorway
trying to make out
who’s crying in the flames
Sister says it’s redhead Judas
she can place it in the Holy Word
Sheriff leans from the passenger side
says it’s gamblers playing side bets
while the faro banker steals
Papa says it's one more watchman
gutted by a thief
Preacher headed for the hanging
says it’s a soul sick enemy among us
The wife knows it’s ghosts of brothers
lost to road gang heat
Standing in the doorway
trying to make out
who’s crying in the flames
I roll my cigarette tight
turn aside so they don’t see
how much it pleases my heart to hear


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