Adelaide Literary Magazine No.26, July 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

“I’ll never have a daughter. No more chil- tech advances with specific prac cal appli-
dren.” He orders another tokkuri of heat- ca ons in Japan, to a ract investors here.
ed sake. He drinks with his le hand and Details are told too rapidly. I’d never had any
refills with his right. “The likelihood I’ll die sense that he understood science. My skep-
alone can only grow. It’s no tragedy.” His
fist bangs the table, but nothing spills from cism howls, but I smother it. More details.
his overturned o-choko, which was again I nod and look serious. Then his perora on.
empty. Then, subdued, “Perhaps I’m almost “Our project will be big. Big. Real money.
ready to die.” Basil, however, will not let sad Freedom. For us both.” Basil means for me.
thoughts linger. I want to know why he re-
ally came. So far, it’s just, “I love Japan and I He himself need not work for money,
needed the air miles.” nor for the respect of others. And freedom
is not a phenomenon he celebrates, but
But his cell rings. “Nai?… nai … nai … Tell one he asserts – by voluntarily chaining
them ‘Basil will make it happen,’ those exact himself to his work. It’s not my place to
words … nai …entáxei.” Mu ng the phone, he say that if he did otherwise, sorrow would
thanks me politely for my indulgence. Then expand like a sour miasma into a vacuum.
his voice grows into a shuddering vibrancy. That would imply he lacks the self-sufficien-
His eyes are clear. He sizzles deeply. I stay cy to freely set his life’s course – not Sisy-
back from the lines friendship doesn’t reach. phus, but not free enough.

Basil will return to his hotel room for I, in contrast, have proved my ability to
work. This might be jet lag; I do not know. live in a vacuum. But I know it is wrong. So
He says he’ll sleep the next day on the plane. I sign on, promising hours and hours for el-
Perhaps, but I ask about the stewardesses. egant documenta on of a project in which
Basil assembles himself into order and re- I do not believe. I believe in Basil, and need
plies crisply that he’s efficient in all things. to keep occupied. I will help my friend and
surrender to him some of my will. Besides,
Six weeks later a German client’s busi- it’s not impossible the project will succeed.
ness has brought him back. We breakfast
early at the Imperial Hotel. Even here he’s His client is arriving. “You surely don’t
received as Basil-san – I finally realize that want to hear us jabber away in German.” I
local pronuncia on would render his impos- thank Basil for the meal and he thanks me for
sibly-long surname into even more syllables. sharing it: To eat and drink without a friend is
Basil heads to the Japanese side of the buffet, to devour like the lion and the wolf. I don’t re-
op ng for astringent good health, while per- mind him how he boasts of being an animal. I
petra ng a horrific pun involving Greece and demur, just as when I see him working like a
greasy. I indulge on the Western side. “Eat, robot and refrain from quo ng Epicurus back
drink and be merry,” I say, “for tomorrow …” at him. Not what we have but what we enjoy,
cons tutes our abundance. I take my leave,
“Tomorrow? Danny, tomorrow you shall content to have promised assiduous devo-
live!” It is a command and a commitment.
“Live fully, as you haven’t done since em- on to what seems a lo ery cket.
barking on your challenging marriage.” Then,
with unnatural abruptness, he turns to busi- What holds me back with Basil is what
ness. Basil’s Japan project is, I finally learn, has held me back from climbing out of
a start-up fund for drama c European bio- the narrow, twisted groove I slipped into
23 years ago: Risk aversion, low self-confi-
dence, laziness. It was these frail es that

149

Adelaide Literary Magazine

tripped me into that groove in the first young, when my role was limited, when I
place, when I met and married a superfi- could impress based on certain talents, and
cially perfect Japanese woman, followed when youthful ambi on s ll overrode my
her to Tokyo, quickly produced a child, and weaknesses. But I struggled to sleep nights
soon produced another. and not lose weight. I would walk down
the hallway without showing fear, just long
Laziness lets me tolerate the prolonga- enough to reach some empty place where
on of my failure. And that I have my own I could wipe the cold sweat from my neck
firm shields my failure from view. Moreover, with no one watching. Meanwhile, me was
people in my profession – Basil excluded – creeping toward the Execu ve Commi ee’s
are not primed to no ce my par cular frail- decision on my admission to the lowest er
es. Lawyers will, rather, spot my honesty, of partnership. I lacked the guts to succeed,
capacity for logic, obsession with careful as I s ll do. Basil the Greek wants to save me.
language, and tendency towards kindness. Do not spoil what you have by desiring what
At big law firms, or perhaps anywhere, such you have not. But my soul has design flaws.
traits cannot be taken for granted. Indeed,
they are not universally valued. At my firm, it was “up or out.” You made
partner or you were a purposeless lump of
Why persist in comparing myself to flesh. So I concentrated on cleverness, and
other lawyers? That mixed bag of huck- then departed forthwith, gracefully and
sters, aggressors, punc lioids, intellectuals, forever. Fleeing my chestnut-stained office
workhorses, powerhouses and geeks can- before disaster struck, afraid of the excre-
not possibly comprise an appropriate refer- ment that must otherwise soon hit the fan
ence group. I want to say I have no choice, and be thence disbursed in shreds via the
that I’m locked into a paradox, that around central ven la on system. And what clev-
here it’s only lawyers who are – occasion- erness! Hypno zing the sophists with cos-
ally – free from a delusionally-high regard mopolitan encyclopaedism and pyrotech-
for lawyers per se. Ordinary Japanese play nics of euphemism. Dialogue unto agony.
into my weak hand, seeing lawyers as the All kudos to me – I too could speak Greek.
cream of the cream of the cream. Espe- That is how I shall remember it.
cially ordinary Japanese of my genera on,
who remember graduates of top universi- Basil and I worked the next day through.
His thoughts bold colours, Basil painted a
es cramming for years and s ll facing a bar beauteous portrait of marke ng; the pos-
exam pass rate of 1.5%. Ordinary Japanese, sibility a technology might fail was mere
moreover, conceive of law as a noble call- detail. I busied myself with accuracy. Three
ing. They seem to take pleasure in doing so. hours in one fashionable café and four hours
in another, during which he bestowed busi-
All of that, each dis nct asser on, is true. ness cards on ten or twelve women. I gave
But it’s bullshit. The logic is specious – some- a card to one young woman whose a rac-
thing I cannot abide. My second choice would
be to say nothing at all. But a nagging moral on faltered the moment she le my field
impera ve to learn from experience obligates of vision. “She wants you,” said Basil. “See
me to speak truly: Lawyers form an a rac ve how good this project is!” I felt weakness,
category because they epitomize my failure. both in succumbing to her transitory allure
and in my lack of desire to follow through.
I started at a white shoe firm – region-
al, not Wall Street – and quit. I quit when

150

Revista Literária Adelaide

The project’s words and numbers would childhood reached its end, I came to under-
be sexy and gripping. Downside risks would stand that any chance for glory depended
be fine-tuned so they might be clasped to the on tapping into the dreams of someone
conserva ve hearts of Japanese investors, who had greatness to spare.
upside prospects so as to swell their capacity
to suspend pessimism. For Basil and me, the Basil started visi ng frequently. But his
upside prospects included billing at startling a en on was o en captured by unrelated
hourly rates – but only if money came in to ma ers, and the Japanese men lingering
pay our invoices. And if the technologies had around grew more varied. Occasionally, some
real worth, wealth would abound. dressed too expensively would show up with
others dressed too cheaply, sugges ng cate-
The cri cal success factor was Basil. He’d gories of enterprise to be avoided. S ll, Ba-
lure in major players with promises of early sil invited me along to mee ngs and I went.
profit-taking that did not overly depend on When alone, he’d speak with determina on
the whims of science. He’d tell them that about our big project, but I saw li le evidence
Tekhnologia is a god for our mes. Then, of forward mo on. Some of our targeted
quo ng Epicurus by name, he’d say, It is folly technologies abandoned us; others withered.
for a man to pray to the gods for that which
he has the power to obtain by himself. At the Yet Basil kept genera ng drama c ideas.
mee ngs, Basil’s suit shimmers more than This, I first suspected, was aimed at preserving
the other dark blues and greys in a endance, my own commitment. Next, I saw it as drawn-
and his fluffed pocket handkerchief seems out brainstorming. Finally, I understood it as
to glow vividly. My role is competence and his valida on – to us both – that though our
respectability, which I deliver like the parsi- project would fail, he’d not abandon it light-
monious warmth from a small space heater ly. So even as his proposals grew outlandish, I
dropped into the corner of a large room. tro ed on alongside. It was enough to know
that Basil would treat me fairly.
Alone together, Basil denies that he is any
kind of great spirit. He admits the plainly ob- As our prospects dipped, he spent more
vious, that others fall into orbit around him, money on meals and entertainments, and
and delights in that tendency among wom- more me redirec ng women towards me.
en. “But a great spirit,” he says, “a bona fide This could not be from guilt. As a cogni ve ex-
hero, of any era, will not treat other people perience, guilt must be expelled; as an emo-
as merely instrumental.” This Basil claims to on, it must be resisted. The intensifica on of
do always, regardless how much he respects wine, women and song was, for him, the wid-
some individuals. As to the extravagant num- ening of an alternate path to my happiness.
ber of orbi ng women, his respect seems a
ma er of whim. But he freely grants respect But then he flew away, and an email
to the men, provided what propelled them soon arrived declaring our project over.
towards Basil was neither greed nor desire
for access to the superabundance of women. I now saw the project as ten months of
He values “purity of heart.” ridiculousness. Yet every moment we’d spent
together had been intense, and, suddenly,
My childhood daydreams were of es- whatever this had called out from me was
teem gained through righteousness and ac- freed. I re-read Basil’s brief email and was
complishment. The daydreams persist, but stunned into calmness. Hopes and fears dis-
their scale diminishes year by year. And as sipated into passive memory. Awake the next
morning, I felt capacity for ac on, but would

151

Adelaide Literary Magazine

not pursue the few women who remained in When the owner approaches, I use Greek
proximity following Basil’s retreat. Rather, it is words learned from “my dear friend Vasil-
towards observa on and reflec on that my ios” – whom I kick under the table. When
energy has been principally deployed, though we’re le alone, he says that Alexandros
I s ll cannot say whether this is deliberate. will visit Japan. I will introduce him to my
daughter; it is their lives, but it is also ours. I
Basil the Greek busied himself in other wish to offer Basil advice, but am only bold
realms. Two months pass before his return, enough to say that he must definitely keep
whereupon he invites me to celebrate the prodding his friends towards happiness.
end of a phase. One grand evening suc-
ceeds another. I let myself shimmer, and I men on the erstwhile financiers of our
the women come to orbit more like true failed project, but Basil allows no sympathy.
heavenly bodies – in ellip cal pa erns, as None will be allo ed to persons who can
we studied in school, with me as one of two hear and see, and can live with ease, but
dis nct focal points. But I cherish reason. It nonetheless refuse to learn. Philanthropy
is reason that will guide my ac on. I will do means love of mankind, but does not dictate
nothing – not at this me – that may imper- that all mankind may claim the so feelings
il the stability of my imperfect life. of sympathy. No such claim can be support-
ed merely by the was ng of me and money
Basil’s next project stays in the West; at Basil’s hands. I smile and say, If you wish
he’ll visit less o en. I shall know he is my to make Pythocles rich, do not add to his
friend, but it is I who will incite my vigou- store of money, but subtract from his desires.
rous engagement with the world. S ll, the
clients he’s sent my way bring added in- “Danny,” says Basil, the curled fingers of
come and I can re re in a few years. By his le hand pressing into his cheek’s thick
then, my children will support themselves stubble as his en re jet-lagged counte-
and I may cast off all that is not required. nance rests on his palm, all held alo by an
elbow balanced on the table just so, “you
Why is Tokyo – the centre of culinary vir- are one in ten million.”
tue – so bere of good Greek food? But a
new restaurant has opened and here we are. “A slight exaggera on,” I reply.

About the Author:

Mark Halpern has lived since 1993 in Tokyo, where he
runs his own law firm and writes stories about foreigners
in Japan. He was born in America, grew up mostly in Can-
ada, and has spent substan al me in the UK and France.
As for Japan, Mark has, like some of his stories’ charac-
ters, found a way to be both an outsider and an insider.

152

THE HOLE

by Noelle Wall

The hole is ge ng bigger. I can hear it, the “He replaced the pipe.”
sawing, the jackhammering, and even the
digging, though the bite of the shovel and “The crushed pipe? Did you see it?” I ask.
the thwump of the damp dirt as it hits the He knows I would ask.
floor may be more in my imagina on than
in my ears. What I do know, what has noth- “Well, it turns out, it wasn’t actually
ing to do with imagina on, is the sight of crushed,” Tom admits, “but it’s good we
growing piles of dirt in my garage, dirt in have the new pipe, anyway. It’s four–inch
brown clay clumps rising to a point four plas c pipe, instead of three, and it should
feet high, on one, then two, then three be fine for another 30 years.”
blue tarps.
My fa lived in this house for 30 years,
It was supposed to be a two–day job, and this is the first me we’ve had a prob-
I explain to Grant in an email, but now it lem with the plumbing. What he’s saying is
has expanded to ten days, with no end in that we’ll be underground ourselves, long
sight. Today, Jimmy the plumber rose from before it clogs again.
the hole, where he had been tunneling be-
neath the u lity room to the pipes below, Why didn’t you just have it roto–rootered
to say he had found the problem. My hus- out, Grant asks me via text. I am asking my-
band Tom reports his discovery as though it self the same thing. In fact I bring it up with
were good news, but I know be er. Tom, who asks the plumber.

“I thought the problem was the pipe,” I “Nah, couldn’t do that; it wouldn’t go
remind Tom. The only reason we approved through the trap.” The plumber says this
this excava on was because the plumber’s confidently, an expert on handling s cky
snake–camera thingy told him our old cop- ques ons.
per pipe was crushed and disintegrated.
And that was why the toilet wouldn’t flush The plumber has other jobs wai ng, so
and the shower was backing up shit all over he stays late to finish; it will be done to-
the downstairs bathroom floor. night, tomorrow at the latest. The dirt sits
in three s ll piles, seeping damp into the
“It was the trap,” Tom tells me. “The trap concrete floor.
was clogged with grease, but he’s going to
replace it.” The next night Grant messages me, ask-
ing if the plumbing is all fixed. In fact, it’s not.
“What about the crushed pipe?” Jimmy has to jackhammer out more floor,
go deeper to get at the trap. He stands in

153

Adelaide Literary Magazine

the hole, waist–high and shows me where Tom laughs, and I smile smugly. But
he es mates the trap is, under the hot wa- inside, my heart is racing. A month ago I
ter heater, which will have to be removed. didn’t have a brother, or more accurately,
The removal will probably render it unus- a half–brother. In a flush of interest in our
able (something about the sediment), so heritage a er my parents died, I took one
we will need a new one. He suggests a tank- of those DNA tests that tell you where your
less style, energy efficient at about $1200 ancestors are from. We had just discov-
plus installa on. ered, in going through my father’s papers,
that the German man we thought was my
“Who are you tex ng?” Tom asks. father’s father was actually his step–father,
and that his biological father had died in
“Messaging,” I correct. “It’s Grant. He the flu epidemic, shortly a er immigrat-
wants to know if we are worried the hole ing to America from Greece. Suddenly we
will swallow us up.” were no longer Irish–German, but were
Irish–Greek. My sister, Bartan, and I joked
“What did you tell him?” about our new understanding of our love
of baklava, I spit in a tube and off went the
“That I’m terrified.” test.

We are watching TV in the family room, Weeks went by; the test came back, and
while below us Jimmy gathers his tools for another shock. We were surprised to dis-
the night. He’ll be back in the morning, but cover that our grandfather Kostas was not
I’m no longer surprised; no longer do I ask. actually Greek, but Ashkenazi Jewish. Ma-
Two days have grown to two weeks, and zel Tov. We were reborn again: brisket and
he’s s ll down there every day. His pres- latkes. We belong to a tribe. While I rejoice
ence, the holes, the dirt, the inaccessible at life’s clever trickery, Bartan laments her
laundry room while the dirty clothes pile up, loss of iden ty.
the cars at the end of the driveway instead
of in the garage––it’s all part of the new “I don’t know who I am anymore,” she
normal. I don’t like it, but there it is, out of says. “I grew up German, then I was Greek
my control. Just as I seek refuge or respite and now I’m Jewish. What next?”
in certain areas of the house––the kitchen
window where I can view the upturned fac- What was next is Grant. Months go by,
es of my yellow and purple pansies smiling and then my granddaughter calls. She too
happiness from their baskets on the deck, has done the DNA test. Who is Grant West-
or the stretch of hallway where Tom’s pho- erson, she wants to know and I have no
tos hang in perfect gallery presenta on, so I idea.
avoid all sign of the plumbing project. With
it out–of–sight, I’m able to temporarily put “Well, what does it say on your DNA test?”
it out–of–mind. I avoid the garage, won’t
look at the dirt or the hole, now grown “Huh? I only checked my heritage.” So,
to seven feet long, three feet wide, larger she walks me through the links on the web-
than a grave. site––who shares your DNA?-–I unlock my
iden ty, and there are the words: Grant
Tom’s phone signals an incoming text. Westerson is your half–brother. The room
It’s from Grant. falls away; I drop the phone; a choking
sound bubbles up in my throat.
“You be er protect my sister,” he writes.

154

Revista Literária Adelaide

“Grandma, are you alright? I’m sorry; I I don’t know how to connect with
shouldn’t have––” My angel of a grand- Grant. I can’t imagine his pain, and I feel
daughter is concerned, so I take a breath and ashamed. I’m ashamed for my father, the
reassure her. man who sang Broadway songs while mak-
ing our pancakes on Sunday morning, who
“It’s okay, Honey. It’s––” I pause, not chugged beer bare–chested while building
wan ng to speak it aloud, the words unreal, our pa o, who showed off his New York
toxic. “It’s okay; he’s my brother.” City office as though he owned it. The fa-
ther who terrified me with his rage when
It takes a rush of emails and more tests he found out I was having sex with my high
to wade through his reluctance and ours, school boyfriend. Bartan reminds me of the
each step like moving through glue in order nights he came home drunk, the shallow
to piece together the likely circumstances. lies about working late, the fights with our
For all our parents are gone, and we will mother. The DNA test gives confirma on
never know the details. We find out that his of what she suspected, what I buried. If it’s
mother was a stenographer in my father’s hard for us, what is it like for Grant? He lost
office. They were both married to other the father he thought he had, and he will
people. Grant grew up believing the man never know the man whose DNA he shares.
his mother was married to was his father. I wish I’d never taken the test. My mother
He doesn’t want to believe otherwise, but was six months pregnant with me, when
we knew our father, and we believe. Sort of. my brother was born.
Did his mother know? Did my father know?
Who are we now, Bartan and I, now that we At lunch in our favorite café, my closest
are Irish–Greek Jews with a brother? friend assails me with what ifs. What if our
parents were s ll alive? What if my family
The discovery spreads through the fam- hadn’t moved away when I was a toddler?
ily, specula on growing from email to mes- What if we had grown up in the same town,
sage to text, the tale a comical paean to gone to the same schools, dated? I shake
sex; we are a sitcom, a romcom, daughters my head and change the subject, pay the
who grew up in a Mad Men world with a bill, head home.
Don Draper dad. I wonder if he slept with
one of my aunts; Kelly wonders if he slept As I park at the head of the driveway, I
with all of them. see Jimmy packing up his truck. It’s old and
rusted; he is filthy, a lanky Art Carney look–
We try to slot the informa on into a alike in a stained, once white wife–beater.
punchline. Our brother always liked you
be er, my sister texts, and I reply that she “You heading out?” I call as I walk up the
shouldn’t have teased him so much when he steps to the front door.
was li le. She s ll hasn’t communicated with
him, though she friends him on Facebook. “Yep.”
His face peers out from his cover photo, and
we try to see our father’s eyes, his nose, but “See you tomorrow.”
the face is unfamiliar, a stranger. He and I ex-
change birthdates. We were born six months “Nope, I’m done.”
apart. For some reason, this is the fact that
won’t compute, the one I can’t think about, “Done?” It’s been nearly three weeks. I’m
the one I s ck in a box and seal away. so used to Jimmy being there, digging and
tunneling and banging, somehow he had
become a subterranean part of the house-

155

Adelaide Literary Magazine

hold, like a cat or rodent living under the heck we could flush a basketball down it
house. I never really accepted his presence, now.
but neither did I expect him to ever leave.
I don’t know what else to say, so I thank
“Done, filled in, cleaned up and on my way.” him, but I s ll have doubts. A er he drives
away, I open all the taps, flush the upstairs,
I follow him into the garage and the u l- then the downstairs toilets. Everything
ity room. The hot water heater is installed, works. Everything’s back to normal, to the
the grave is covered with cement, the dirt way it was before, before the dirt, before
is gone, the floor mopped. The shower will the hole, before the clog. It’s as though
run now, he tells me, the toilet will flush–– he’d never been there. And yet, he was.

About the Author:

Noëlle Wall’s background is in adver sing and televi-
sion, though wri ng is her first love. She is an alumna
of the New York State Writers Ins tute at Skidmore
College, and a member of the Hudson Valley Writers
Guild and Fic on Group. Her short story, Secrets, won
first place in the New Millennium Wri ngs Short Story
Contest. She recently completed her first novel, Flesh
and Bone, about a young woman’s quest to discover the
secret that haunted her grandfather and endangers her
life. Noëlle lives in the Hudson Valley with her husband,
the photographer, Tom Wall.

156

ACHIEVE

by Robert Rickelman

As my drinking con nued unabated, and Kurt handed her the check. “Do you
cost me yet another crummy warehouse need me for anything else?” Kurt asked.
job, my brother Kurt and his wife Jane un-
derstandably insisted that I move out of “No, we’ll take it from here. Thank you for
their house and find some sort of rehab bringing Robert. We’ll take good care of him.”
that would take me. Kurt found a place
called ACHIEVE, which was a rehab center “Thanks.” Kurt turned to me. “So long Rob.
located in Schaumburg, a northwest sub- They’re going to help you get yourself to-
urb of Chicago. gether.” H hugged me and I s fled the tears
that were welling up.
On mild, but windy Wednesday a er-
noon, January 25, Kurt delivered me to “Thanks for everything, Kurt. I love you.”
the admi ng area at ACHIEVE. It was late
a ernoon, just before 5:00. I was to ng a “Love you too. Get yourself be er.” He
brown paper bag that contained two pairs turned and walked away. I felt lonely and
of jeans, three sweatshirts, and some socks afraid.
and underwear.
“Well, Robert, could I have your bag
Kurt introduced himself to a staff mem- please? We need to check to make sure you
ber. “Hi, I’m Kurt Rickelman. I talked with didn’t pack any prohibited items,” Grace
Lois about ge ng my brother Rob a bed in said. I gave her the bag. She emp ed every-
your detox.” thing, found no contraband, and put it all
back.
A woman said hello to Kurt. “Yes, she le
a note. I’m Grace. And I assume that you’re “Russell here is our health aide. He’s go-
Robert.” She was talking to me. ing to take your vitals.”

In a shaky voice I said, “Yes, I’m Robert.” I looked at Russell. He was huge — gross-
ly overweight. I figured he had to weigh
“Well,” Grace said, “this is a 28 day detox close to five hundred pounds. His shirt and
and rehab. The total price for the en re pro- jeans were filthy and stained. His hair was
gram is $450.” greasy, and he looked like he hadn’t show-
ered in days.
“Yes,” Kurt said, “four-fi y. Do you accept
personal checks?” “Okay Robert,” Russell said, “take a seat
here and I’m going to check your vitals and
“Yes we do,” she said. “A personal check give you a blood alcohol breath test. I’m
will be just fine.” sure you’ve been told that we only accept

157

Adelaide Literary Magazine

pa ents who are completely sober. Why icine like seda ves or sleep aids. The first
don’t we do the breathalyzer first?” few days will be a rough ride. I’m sorry.”

He handed me a black instrument with “But what if I have a seizure? I’m pre y
a nozzle s cking out of one side. worried about having a seizure. I’ve been
drinking real heavily for a long me.”
“Just blow into the nozzle un l I say stop.”
“Well, every once in a while, someone does
I held the breathalyzer and blew into for have a seizure, and we call an ambulance. So
about five seconds un l Russell said stop. we’re ready if you do have a seizure.”

He took the device from me and checked “What if I have a seizure while I’m alone?
the LED readout. “Good news,” he said. Like in my room.”
“You blew a zero. Looks like you are going to
be our guest for the next four weeks.” She cut me off. “You’re worrying too much.
Let’s go find your room.
I was relieved. I had been drinking so
heavily for the last few days that I wasn’t She led the way as we walked down a hall-
certain that all the alcohol would be out of way with faded green walls and old brown
my system. and tan linoleum les. I thought that the
building had probably been a school, and old
“Now we need to get your vitals,” Russell classrooms were now clients’ bedrooms. It
said. “First we’ll get your temperature.” He was a depressing place.
placed a thermometer in my ear, it beeped,
and he read the temperature. “One-hun- We stopped at room number 10, and
dred point one,” he said, “you have a slight went inside. There were three beds. She
fever, which is typical for the first day of pointed to one located against the farther
detox.” wall. “That will be your be for the next 28
days, Robert. Not luxurious, but be er than
Next he wrapped a blood pressure cuff being homeless. Especially in this weather.”
around my bicep and pumped a bulb. When
he released the pressure he got his read- “Yeah,” I said, “I was pre y close to being
ing. “Wow! One ninety five over one fi een. homeless. I’d definitely worn out my wel-
We’re going to have to keep an eye on you. come with my brother and his wife.”
And your pulse is 120, which is way too high.
We’ll be taking your vitals every two hours “Well,” she said, “you have lots of me to
un l they become much more manageable. get yourself together, and we’re going to do
Well, I guess that’s it for now.” everything we can to get you clean and keep
you clean. Okay, so why don’t you put your
“Well,” said Grace, “grab your things, Rob- things away. It’s just about dinner me. I’ll
ert. I’m going to show you your room.” show you the way to the cafeteria.”

I hesitated then took a breath and asked, We walked ways and reached the cafeteria.
“Is this a medical detox? I mean am I going It had probably once been the school gymna-
to get some medicine to calm my nerves? sium. There was a long line of about twenty or
I’m shaking like a leaf.” so people. I took my place at the end.

“Yes, I no ced the shaking. I hate to tell “Enjoy your dinner, then get some rest,”
you Robert, but this is a non-medical detox. Grace said. Then she le .
We don’t have a license to give out med-
When I finally got to the head of the line,
a middle-aged man wearing a hairnet and

158

Revista Literária Adelaide

whose hand shook furiously, handed me a “Three years ago, my husband told me
tray with a plate of corned beef hash and that he was leaving me for another wom-
two cornbread biscuits. All the tables were an. I was devastated. The night a er he
occupied, so I took a seat at a table where told me, I drove to a bar and got extremely
three other pa ents were ea ng. drunk. When I le the bar, I turned onto the
expressway and was speeding in my 1979
“Hey, you’re new, huh? You can get a glass Volkswagen Beetle, a two-door conver ble.
of juice over there,” said a clean-cut guy Well, I was really pressing the accelerator.
who looked to be about my age. I got a glass As I was approaching a large overpass I
and filled it at a dispenser situated on a long knew what I was going to do. With the car
lunch table. reaching its top speed, I aimed for one of
the huge concrete pillars.
“Welcome to ACHIEVE. I’m Kevin, this
is Bill, and this is Lucy.” The sight of Lucy “That’s all I remember, but a week later,
took me aback. Her en re face was terribly when I came out of my coma, I learned that
burned. She did not have a nose and one ear when I smashed head on into the pillar, my car
had been burnt away. She also had no eye- burst into flames. Somehow, I lived through
lids or eyebrows, and she was missing three the whole ordeal, but countless bones were
fingers on her right hand, and the thumb and broken or pulverized and I sustained third de-
index finger of her le . I tried not to stare as gree burns over seventy percent of my body.
I was introduced to her. I shook Kevin’s and I couldn’t believe I had live through the col-
Bill’s hands, gingerly grasped what was le lision. I had wanted to die. Instead, I would
of Lucy’s right hand. Then I turned to eat my have to live through the agonizing pain of a
supper. My hands were shaking like crazy. broken body, and much worse, the disfigur-
ing burns that would turn me into the ghastly
“It really sucks that they don’t give you creature you can barely keep your eyes on.
anything for the shakes,” Kevin said. I was
in your shoes three days ago.” “I was in the ICU for a month, and trans-
ferred to a physical rehab, where I learned
“Same here,” said Bill. “They shouldn’t to walk again, and to deal with the pain of
make us go through this without some kind the healing burns. They gave me a lot of
of meds.” morphine, and a er I le rehab six months
a er the crash, I was hooked on pain killers.
“Yeah,” I said, “I could really use some- So, almost a year a er the accident I ended
thing to help with these shakes.” up here, trying to break my morphine ad-
dic on. So far, a er a week and a half at
“Just try to hang in there,” said Lucy. She ACHIEVE, I haven’t made much progress. I
sounded sweet. I wondered what horrible need the goddamned morphine. It’s all I
thing had happened to her. I tried not to have to help me deal with the torture I suf-
stare at her disfigured face. fer every waking moment of my life.

“Well,” she said, “I know it’s hard not to I felt so sorry for her, and more than a bit
wonder what happened to me. The scars ashamed of myself. But I was going through
and all. So I’m just going to come straight some wicked withdrawal symptoms of my
out and tell you.” own. Surely nowhere as severe as hers, but
my nerves were screaming and every inch of
She was right, I wanted to learn what my body quaked. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to
terrible thing had happened to her. And she
began her story.

159

Adelaide Literary Magazine

make it through detox without something took the L train to a blood dona on center
to calm my screaming nerves. I remem- where I was paid seven dollars for a pint of
bered my first rehab, some eight years earli- blood. To save money, I walked the five or
er. Back then I was given 100 mgs of Librium so miles back home. On my way I stopped
every four hours, and the withdrawal symp- at the supermarket near my apartment and
toms were significantly less severe. bought a cheap package of hot dogs for fif-
ty-nine cents, and a six-pack of Blatz, which
I had no appe te, so I excused myself and cost me two bucks.
went to my room to lie down. My heart was
pounding and I felt like I had a 500 pound I returned home and put the beer and
weight crushing my chest. I stayed in bed un- hot dogs in the fridge. Suddenly, I felt very
dizzy. The next thing I knew, I was lying on
l lights out which arrived at 10:30. My two my back on the hard kitchen floor. The back
roommates came into the room laughing and of my head hurt like hell, and I felt a good-
having a good old me. I envied them. I didn’t sized bump there. The only thing I could fig-
know how long they had been at ACHIEVE, or ure was that I’d seized, and come to a li le
how severe their withdrawals were. later. It was a frightening event.

A er my roommates finally quieted I lay in bed throughout the night. The
down and fell asleep, I relaxed a bit. But I loud snoring of both my roommates did not
was anxious about having a seizure. I knew help me relax.
that seizures were most common in the first
12 to 72 hours of a person’s last drink. It had I finally made it through the night and
been just about 24 hours since my last drink, awoke at 6:30. I looked out the window.
and I was experiencing all the text book It was s ll dark. I didn’t wish to hear the
symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. First of constant snoring of my roommates, so I put
all were the constant, pervasive trembling, on a pair of slippers and le my room for a
and the rapid breathing and swea ng. I was common area. The room was empty. I sat
also experiencing incredible anxiety and in- on an old, over-stuffed couch. My en re
somnia. When I finally managed to fall to body was s ll racked with tremors. I knew
sleep, I experienced vivid, terrifying night- it would be at least a few days un l my
mares. I suffered through the agony of my nerves would finally calm.
first night of non-medical detox.
People began waking and coming into
When I did fall asleep, staff members the common area. On top of a long table
were constantly waking me up to take were two commercial-sized, silver coffee
my vitals. From what I understand, there makers. The last thing I needed was a cup
wasn’t any improvement over the numbers of coffee. As it turned out, both coffee mak-
they got when I was first admi ed. I hoped ers contained decaffeinated coffee, which
that my numbers would stay high, and that was a source of a lot of bitching from peo-
they’d have to send me to a hospital to get ple who wanted their caffeine fix. But I was
my blood pressure and pulse down. But told that ACHIEVE did not allow real coffee.
that did not happen. Too many people were experiencing vari-
ous degrees of withdrawal, so caffeine was
I was certain that I was going to suffer verboten. I’d later learn that even the so
a seizure. I could only recall suffering one drink vending machine contained only caf-
seizure before. I was living on Southport, feine-free sodas.
and I hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. So I

160

Revista Literária Adelaide

Another problem concerned tobacco the shaky hands. We were having waffles,
items. There were no cigare es for sale, but the toaster kind, along with pork sausage
they were allowed if you had your own, or if links. There was orange juice at the long
a visitor brought them for you. A couple of table against the wall. I very carefully filled
people, desperate for real coffee and ciga- my glass and headed to the same group
re es would sneak out and make a beeline that I sat with the night before, Lucy, Kevin,
for the convenience store across the street. and Bill.
Most of them got away with it, but those
who got caught were discharged from the “S ll have the shakes, huh?” Kevin asked.
program. It sure didn’t seem worth the risk He was the most talka ve and outgoing of
to me, but there were several people who the three.
didn’t want to be there in the first place.
Most of those people were brought there “Yeah,” I said, “I know it’s going to take a
by family, and a handful were court-or- while to get be er,” I said.
dered. For the court-ordered, it was either
ACHIEVE or jail. “Just hang in there, buddy. Pre y soon
you’ll be as good as new,” Kevin said.
It was fascina ng to watch the people
as they came back with their contraband. “What’s the deal with the server guy? His
Every one of these brave, or “I don’t give hands shake almost as bad as mine,” I said.
a shit” pa ents returned with cigare es,
many of which they sold to pa ents who “Oh, that’s Larry. He never stops shaking,”
weren’t willing to make the mad dash across Kevin said. “I had a pre y good talk with
the street. Others would return with liters him the other day. He really knows his stuff
of Coke or Mountain Dew, which I learned about how alcoholism can fuck you up for
packed more caffeine than Coke or Pepsi. good. He told me that forty years of chron-
Others would bring large-size cups of real ic alcoholism affected his nervous system.
coffee. A couple, one girl in par cular — her Something about a Mylar sheath. Anyway,
name was Penelope, and she was quite the what he said was that he drank more than
free-spirit — would buy coffee, cigare es, a fi h of vodka everyday for, like I said, for
as well as candy and gum. During the four forty years. He said he couldn’t count how
weeks I was there, five people got caught many cases of beer he drank over that
and kicked out. Penelope got caught once,
but for some reason, the staff allowed her me. But a er he quit drinking and was
to stay. I think they did that because the al- sober for over two years, he s ll had the
terna ve for her was jail. I was amazed that, shakes, mostly in his hands but also his
even a er she was caught, Penelope con- head kind of bobs up and down, and his
voice is always shaky. The doctors told him
nued to risk the dangerous journey across that alcohol eats away at the Mylar, which
the street. She had chutzpah, that was for really messes up your nerves. Some people
sure. And she was extremely friendly and recover, but some people, like Larry, will
kind to everyone, be it a staffer or pa ent. never get over the shakes. The damage is
Maybe it was her charm that allowed her to just too bad. So, he’s stuck with them for
stay a er ge ng caught. the rest of his life. But he’s a great guy and
he has a great a tude. And he really loves
Breakfast began at 7:30. I took my place being sober.”
in line and was served by the same guy with
For the most part, Kevin was correct,
but what he was calling the Mylar sheath is

161

Adelaide Literary Magazine

actually the myelin sheath. Mylar is the foil- psychiatrists and nurse-prac oners who
like material that’s used for shiny, reflec ve railed about its addic ve proper es. Fuck
balloons. But Myelin is different. It’s a cru- them. When you come right down to it ev-
cial component that protects the body’s erything I take, an -depressants, an -anx-
nervous system. Myelin is made up mostly iety, an -psycho cs, and even my asthma
of fat and cholesterol that wraps around meds are just as addic ve. It’s not like I
the nerve cell to insulate the neuron and could just stop taking any of that shit, but
direct the nerve’s impulse to where it’s the fucking doctors are always against the
supposed to go. Alcohol is a solvent and it Klonopin.
eats away at the fa y myelin sheath. When
myelin wears down, that opens up a variety A er breakfast, I went to my room to lie
of poten al problems with memory, move- down. The staff allowed pa ents who need-
ment, and coordina on. The shakes are just ed to rest, to stay in bed for the first day or
one of the terrible results of damage to the two. As well they should have, in light of
myelin sheath. Sadly, in Larry’s case, this their not giving detoxing pa ents any med-
damage is permanent. icine to salve their quaking nerves. I would
stay in bed the en re day, even skipping
“Shit,” I said. “If I was going to have a life lunch so that I wouldn’t have to interact
of shaking like that I’m not sure I would want with anyone. I was just too damn nervous
to be sober.” and sick to be around people, and sleep was
a phantom that I con nued to unsuccessful-
Bill, who didn’t like to talk much said, ly chase. S ll, lying in bed helped somewhat.
“My doctor told me that for most hard-core
alcoholics, it can take as long as two years Realizing that I needed nourishment, I
for the shakes to completely go away. If you dragged myself to the cafeteria for dinner.
go sober for over two years, and s ll have There was no line. I was the last person to
the shakes, he told me that you’re pre y show up. Larry placed two sloppy joes and
well fucked. You’re gonna end up like fuck- some fries on my plate. I thanked him, got a
ing Larry.” glass of juice, and went to sit with the only
people I knew.
I didn’t say anything. I had been sober
for 17 months from Memorial Day of 1987 Lucy was the first one to say hello. “We
to October 1988. Even a er all that me missed you during groups today.”
my hands never stopped shaking. I hated
ea ng with a fork in front of people, and “Yeah, I said, “I just stayed in my room try-
I hated to have anyone watch me when I ing to get some sleep. That didn’t happen,
wrote, like when I had to sign a check or but at least I got some rest. I’ll try to make
something. I didn’t know that to this day I the groups tomorrow.”
would suffer from what the doctors called
benign essen al tremors. There is nothing “Did they give you a schedule?” Lucy asked.
benign about them to me. Doctors would
wind up pu ng me on Propanalol, which “Yeah, I guess the first group meets at
was a beta-blocker blood pressure medica- 9:00 tomorrow,” I said.

on that helps fight the tremors. Klonopin Lucy said, “Some of the groups are pret-
was also very helpful, but staying on Klo- ty good, and at least they fill the me.”
nopin caused a long string of ba les with
I toyed with my food and managed to
eat one sloppy joe and a few fries.

162

Revista Literária Adelaide

“Does anyone want my other sandwich?” “God, I can’t even imagine doing any
I asked. speed right now. Or any me for that mat-
ter. I’m way too nervous for that.”
Bill said, “Thanks. I’ll take it if you’re not
hungy.” “So I guess you’re not interested in a cup
of coffee.”
“No. Go ahead, I have no appe te. These
damn shakes are killing me.” “No, thanks. I’m already crawling out of
my skin.”
“It’ll get be er, I promise,” Kevin said.
“Is that why you drink? Because you’re
I got up and said good night. I emp ed so nervous?”
my tray in the trash and went back to my
room to try to sleep. My blood pressure “Yeah, I guess so. When I drink, I’m a lot
and pulse were s ll high, and staff was s ll more outgoing. A lot more.”
monitoring me every two hours. I hated
that, but I figured it was a good idea. “I hardly ever drink,” she said. I can’t stand
the taste of beer, and I don’t really like wine
I tossed and turn between visits from much either. Which is good because I’m only
staff. At 6:00 the next morning, Marleen, nineteen.”
one of the health techs came to my room
to get my vitals. My temperature was back ‘Nineteen, wow. What’s the age mini-
to 99 degrees, but my pulse was 110 and mum for this place?” I asked.
my blood pressure was 185 over 100. This
was somewhat be er than when I first ar- “Eighteen. You have to be eighteen to be
rived, but she was s ll concerned. A er she admi ed. I turn twenty next month.”
le I got up and walked to the common
area and sat on a couch. “Well,” I said, Happy Birthday.” She didn’t
ask me how old I was. I was relieved. At
A pre y, but very young girl sat next to thirty-three I felt like a dirty old man.
me. She was drinking what she told me was a
cup of instant coffee, with real caffeine, and “Thanks. So. How do you plan on func-
she was smoking a cigare e. This was before oning if you stop drinking?”
there were any kind of bans on smoking.
“I saw a psychiatrist in ’83, and he sug-
“Hi, my name is Darcy,” she said. “You’re gested Valium, but I was afraid of ge ng
new I guess.” addicted, so he put me on Inderal, which
did help somewhat.”
“Hi. I’m Rob. I got here the night before
last. I’m s ll shaking pre y bad.” “Yeah, that was smart of you to stay
away from Valium. I’ve seen so many doc-
“So alcohol is your drug of choice?” tors, and I’ve been in a few psych wards. Oh,
I want to warn you of the number one drug
“Yeah. I was in a twenty-eight day rehab to stay away from. It’s the worst. That’s
in 1981. University of Illinois Hospital, and Klonopin. I got so fucking hooked on Klono-
they gave us Librium un l the shaking and pin, and the withdrawal is hell. But they’re
danger of seizures were over.” not going to be prescribing any meds here.
They don’t have a license for that.”
‘Yeah, this place is pre y low rent.”
Klonopin. Speak of the fucking devil.
“What are you in here for?” I asked.
“Are you on any meds right now?”
“Mostly for cocaine, and also uppers.”

163

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“No, but the doctors have had me on a are having sex back there. Don’t say you
bunch of them. Let’s see. I’ve been on Prozac heard it from me, but I know that Karen has
and Paxil, they didn’t help at all. You know, I fucked at least one guy. His name is Tony,
think that the best medica on the doctors and he gets her blow. She’s married, and
ever put me on was Wellbutrin. Yeah, I would her husband even visits her, but she gets
even consider going back on Wellbutrin if I high with Tony and they screw behind the
could kick my fucking cocaine and speed ad- stage.”
dic ons. I love the rush I get when I do a few
lines of coke. I was really doing a lot before “Doesn’t staff catch on?”
I came in here, probably about three grams
a day. But I’ve been lucky. There is a woman “No, it’s like they don’t even want to
here, Karen, whose septum is fucking dete- know about all the rule breaking and shit
riora ng. You’ll see her. She usually walks that goes on around here.”
around with Kleenex up her nostrils because
of the constant nosebleeds. And one me I “Well, as long as no one brings in a keg-
saw her sneeze and a bunch of pieces of car- ger, I should be safe.”

lage flew out of her nose. She’s a fucking She laughed. “You know, I’ve been here
mess, but she can’t stop doing it. I wouldn’t for almost two weeks and I haven’t seen
be surprised if she was s ll snor ng lines in anyone drinking. Probably because alcohol
back of the stage area in the cafeteria.” smells so strong. Anyway, I’ve go a go take
a shower before breaksfast. Remember
“She’s doing coke in here?” I was stunned, when you get out. Stay away from Klonopin.
and scared, very scared. I wanted this to be It’s the drug from hell. Talk to you later. Try
a safe place. I needed a safe place. to relax, Dude.”

“Oh you don’t know the half of it. Peo- Wow, Darcy sure knew her shit. And I
ple are doing drugs back there, and some have to admit, she was young, but she was
a fucking doll.

About the Author:

Robert Rickelman was born in Chicago and moved to Tucson
in 1995. He earned his BA in Spanish from the University of Ar-
izona, which is where he was introduced to, and deeply affect-
ed by, the La n-American genre of Magical Realism. Robert
had five nonfic on stories published last spring and summer.
His work appeared in Inscape Magazine, Twisted Vine Literary
and Arts Journal, The Long Island Literary Journal, and Blue
River Review. His work will appear this spring in Barely South
Review and the Bitchin’ Kitsch.

164

HAUNTED DEER

by Dan Cardoza

September is blessed by nature, and named in my English Class last May. Even though
the golden child for a reason, born of Blue one of the hardest test ques ons asks, ‘Can
Spruce bows, and rusty leaves. Born ripe on you shoot an adult male deer with only a
spike on each side?’ I, of course, answer
me, when the honeycomb labyrinth puls- ‘No!’ ‘Each horn has to be forked.’ Like all
es sweet with bees. The season of the year, the sudden I am the expert on murdering
when the water is most pure at Beaughan natures revered?
Springs, zests with the essence of white
spice from March storms. It’s my autumn While purchasing ammo with dad, for
of plenty, of rainbows of trout that cyclone my gi ed Winchester 358 grain carbine rifle,
the waters of rivers in knots, just to light up I am able suppress my revolving five-minute
the headwaters of the great Sacramento, at mind movies about how to get in the pants
Mt. Shasta City Park. of all the girls. I am about to become a man
a er all, and right now, I have no pa ence
September is the me of year that a young for quizzing senior boys if girls have two
boy dreams of the rite of passage into man- revolver holes or three. The answer will re-
hood. You can almost feel the jagged roots main, one well kept Peachfish mystery that
begin their sink, take their hold. The birth of can wait for now.
this rite of passage is seen no be er than at
the gun range. The season confirms what you A er football prac ce, my friendly black
have been told, in not so many words all your brothers taunt me about being a sociopath
life, though this is only the beginning. and ask why I can’t just purchase meat at
the local town butcher shop. I point out
I give you the smell of Cordite, both ac- that a few of their dad’s hunt, jack-rabbit,
rid and sour, the hunters crack cocaine. The dove, quail, and yes deer. I receive a pop-
sense of smell is crucial; common is sharing ping wet towel on my bare ass, when I tell
the blas ng of targets by high school boys them at least I hunt during the legal season.
in a ritual of soon to be men. Anything short We all laugh.
of four inches from the bulls-eye, you are
subject to the moniker, ‘pussy.’ And a er I hunted with dad for many years, but
school, the cute girl’s circle, throw shade at just as a shotgun passenger, that is a sort of
each other, at us; wrongly assume we are lookout while he drove. Dad religiously tags
talking about them. two bucks each and every season, always
the ones with the most significant spread
My passing the Hunter’s Safety test feels and so fat. He taught me to field dress deer,
much be er than my ‘B-’ grade I received

165

Adelaide Literary Magazine

then how to skin them in his carpenter smoke wa s in my open nostrils, then onto
shop, hanging them high in the open raf- the roof of my mouth, like a hand delivered
ters, above sawdust, by their sinewy hind aphrodisiac, straight from Pan’s custom
legs, tongue out, to drain the le over sacri- mortar and pastel amalgama ons. The
ficial blood. I am an expert. Of course, this buck drops like a gunny sack full of bowling
is where I was first introduced to the my- balls. It’s then the forest proclaims silence
thology of Cordite and copper. Though back and me reloads. I remain frozen at the age
then, I had not taken a life as yet, not one of sixteen, not a man a er all.
totem, and thus I was not a man.
Dad yells, get in the damn truck, now!
The night before the hunt, I dream of
four-point bucks in meadows––no five- Why, I ask in my pretend man voice.
point bucks in stands of brilliant aspen, hid-
ing behind the minnows of shoaling yellow You killed a spike, he says. That is illegal,
and sienna leaves. They always stand s ll in maybe jail me.
my crosshairs of glass, the apex of course
fixed over their furry hearts. S ll asleep, I I leap back in the pick-up and work the
shape my mouth like the loud sound of a rifle lever, ejec ng all my le -over cham-
rifle shot, with the report raising limbed bered ammo onto the floor. Dad peels
crows and magpies. Of course, I never miss. out in a mushroom cloud. Soon a er, he’s
staring at the rear view like he’s speeding
* at 100 miles per hour on Route 66. He’s
sure the game warden is following him. He
The day of the hunt, we rise at 3:00 A.M. eventually crosses California State Highway
My first thought is to pass on the rite and 99, and soon scouts a turn-out and pulls in.
laze in bed like the Zen-lazy teenager I am.
A er all, I feel exhausted from the quests Son, you just killed an illegal deer, let’s
in my dreams. But I am sixteen, and with a hope no one saw you. It’s ge ng toward
li le coffee, and cold water in my face, I am 10:00 A.M., let’s have a snack.
ready to cross the Alps into Austria.
What the hell, I say.
Fact: Dad has the eyes of a hawk, and can
spot a ck on a deer’s ass at 300 yards. But You shot a spike, I could tell, he says rais-
on this day, like an eagle, I call for dad to stop. ing his voice.

What the hell, he grumps. No, I say. I had him in my scope cross-
hairs, he is legal.
I think I saw a buck. Back up, I nervously
shout, in my new mbre voice. Dad uses his most famed word, Bullshit!

A er hal ng, I bail out of the pick-up, Bullshit, I bark back. I shot a legal buck.
not the least concerned that I sound like I will go back on my own, and tag it myself.
a god dammed thunderstorm in a silence If the Game Warden busts me, then it’s on
factory. To my surprise, in my scope stands me not you.
a small buck, a forked-horn and as far as I
can tell it’s a legal buck, with a very small Okay, dad says, go to jail!
rack. Then before the trigger returns, and
before the loud crack, I smell Cordite. The Dad then creeks his door open, and exits,
heads to a chair-sized rock, with his bagged
lunch in hand, like he’s been asked to wear
a dunce hat, and sit in the corner. I get in

166

Revista Literária Adelaide

the driver’s seat, wave, and peel out of the the magical iridescent pheasant, the fast
gravel turnout, head back in me, with a and nimble co on tail, too slow for buck-
belly full of uncertainty, and balls the size shot. I imagine myself stacking those fro-
of grapefruits. I’m off to the kill site. zen, skinned and dressed marione es, all
neatly upright in the back of my father’s
A er wading through an ocean of sage, snow-filled pick-up, his freezer on wheels.
I finally discover the young buck. He lays I remember all the game we ate, from the
dreamlike, spor ng one ny hole in his side, valleys to the mountains, all winter’s forest-
just behind his front leg where it fuses to ed children, with nowhere to hide. I begin
his body. The hole is the front door to his to feel the coldness of that day, but only
heart, the back door, death. from within.

I am instantly teleported back in me My mother, father, both gone, and I
from this beau ful September day. Back to have been an orphan for some me now.
when my beloved mother read stories and I wrap all my childhood memories around
fables to me. I dis nctly recall the stories me like a warm quilt in my September of
that were my favorite, the ones she read now and have no regrets.
when somehow she knew anxiety was
hun ng me. The ones she was sure I need- I should say there were more hunts, and
ed the most. I recall how the stories end in more killing, because in Northern Califor-
beauty and light. She would read, or recite nia, that is how you feed a family. My father
from memory, the classics, Where the Wild was our hunter. But, even though he and I
Things Are, My Side of the Mountain, and hunted through my college years, I counted
of course, Tom’s Midnight Garden. killing only one legal buck.

In the midst of my own high desert I have not hunted in many, many years.
garden of sage, I find myself back in the My reasoning is quite simple. My love for
Midnight Garden, a wondrous place. But nature taught me the difference between
I am now in a forest of lost ghosts, haunt- my wants and needs. And the awkward no-
ed friends, the quail I killed, the dove, and
on that men don’t have to kill to be men.

About the Author:

Dan Cardoza has a MS Degree. He is the author of two
Chapbooks, Nature’s Front Door & Expecta on of Stars.
Par al Credits: 101 Words, Amethyst, UK., Chaleur
Magazine, Cleaver Magazine, California Quarterly, Cur-
lew, UK., Dissec ons, Entropy, Esthe c Apostle, Fox-
glove, Friday Flash Fic on, Frogmore, High Shelf Press,
Oddball, Poetry Northwest, The Quail Bell, Skylight 47,
Spelk, Spillwords, The Fic on Pool, Urban Arts, Unsta-
ma c, and Vita Brevis.

167

BURBOT

by Brandon S llwell

It secretes a thick slime, so viscous it forms gers and soak into my skin. With no other
webbing between your fingers. Its body the bait, I slipped off my gloves and plunged
color of decaying milfoil, is pa erned as my fingers into the brine, coming up with
if worms have burrowed through its skin. the body of a herring pinched between my
Its eyes bulge and shine in the darkness. pointer and middle finger. I hooked the her-
Its pupils are deep; they suck in wisps of ring through the back under its gela nous
moonlight and starry reflec ons that swim spine. The so flesh started to flake apart
in the midnight water. A single whisker be- in my hand as the barb drove through flesh
low the jaw picks up vibra ons that quiver and caught on the other side of the skin. I
through the crushing pressure of the water. gently maneuvered the lead weight and
It lives in perpetual darkness, solitary and herring behind me in prepara on for a cast.
mo onless. But not always.
Several silent seconds preceded the sat-
During a few weeks in late winter bur- isfying plop of bait striking water. I laid my
bot leave the protec on of their deep-wa- fishing pole in the crook of a y-shaped s ck
ter trenches and congregate near mouths jammed deep into the sand. Spinning the
of rivers or other shallow bays. While most handle of the reel straightened the looping
other fish loll about in a state of lethargy, line un l it stood taught, poin ng into the
the Burbot are invigorated by the win- water. The beam from my headlight illumi-
ter water; they feed voraciously, forming nated my breath and obscured my vision.
writhing masses while spawning. Before All I could see were ny par cles of mois-
the water can even warm in the morning ture rising from my mouth like flocks of ny
sunlight, burbot slink back to the darkness black birds that swoop and dive through
that no light can penetrate, the darkness the air above wheat fields in summer, or
below hundreds of feet of water. the schools of needle-like fish that dart in
waves and form patches of shimmering
* cloth. I let out a slow, controlled exhale and
watched the par cles dance in the freedom
I twisted open the jar of pickled herring. of the dark.
The label stuck to the side read “Sturgeon
Candy.” Floa ng in what looked exactly *
like (but did not smell anything like) pickle
juice, were half a dozen herring — minus Many fishermen consider the burbot some
the heads. I didn’t want to reach inside. I of the best-tas ng white meat of any fresh-
knew the fa y liquid would s ck to my fin- water fish, if you can get past its strange

168

Revista Literária Adelaide

appearance and slimy skin. Some even *
call it poor man’s lobster. Personally, I had
plans to fry it. Fillet out the bones, dip the As hours passed and my mo va on sank
meat in egg wash, flour, and well-seasoned into the dark water, it became clear that
panko bread crumbs — a perfect recipe for this trip wasn’t going to lead to any fried
light and crispy outsides and tender, moist fish. My pole sat unmoved, frozen in place.
insides. Paired with an acidic remoulade I might as well have cast my bait onto dry
to cut the oily taste, I imagined a finer fish land. Frustrated, I gave up on the idea of
couldn’t be bought. paying a en on to my fishing pole, con-
vinced it wouldn’t ma er. I stood on the
I’ve tried dozens of recipes over the shore, the lapping water licking the ps of
years, each calling for fresh-caught fish. my boots. I felt five years old.
There was bluegill chowder, trout jerky,
baked walleye, grilled ginger sesame salm- *
on, fish cakes, and pan-seared perch. Want-
ing to taste for myself how Burbot stacked I remember as a child standing in the mid-
up to the compe on kept me mo vated dle of the couch peering over the window
despite the cold and dark condi ons in sill and out into sky in front of our house.
which fisherman target these creatures. I would call to my mother and ask her if
it was going to rain. Living near Sea le
* meant I hardly had to ask. A er each rain
storm I sat with my mother at the kitchen
The night made of the air water; distances table, watching her stack several sheets of
were distorted and familiar landmarks de- construc on paper and cut out the silhou-
materialized, leaving only shadow and haze. e es of fish. I ran behind the house to find
I rose from my stool, unwilling to sit s ll a the perfect s ck as she punched a hole in
second longer. The beam of my headlight the nose of each fish. A er handing the
swept snow-topped boulders and dri - s ck (a slender one with a slight bend) to
wood, straw-colored clumps of dead grass my mother, she a ached a thin piece of
and impressions of large claw- pped paws white string to the p and ed an unfold-
in the fresh snow as I walked. I paced me- ed paperclip to the end of the dangling
thodically, covering yards or shoreline, try- string, fashioning a sort of fishing pole. I
ing to comfort myself in knowing that I was stretched my arms wide as my mother slid
alone on the river’s edge, despite the paw my coat on and opened the front door. We
prints. I couldn’t stop the feelings of unease walked to the end of the driveway and
caused by the darkness flooding behind me stood in front of a mud puddle filled to
as I moved. capacity by the morning rain. She gently
placed the paper fish on the surface of the
I felt like a child with a blanket pulled water. I stood on the crumbling asphalt
up to my chin, squin ng, straining to catch shore bi ng my lip in concentra on as I
a thread of light, unable to soothe the fear maneuvered the paperclip into the nose
of what lay outside my covers. Across the hole of the first fish. I couldn’t imagine the
water, the outline of the mountains twist- puddle ever ending. No ma er how many
ed and transformed; the absent pin pricks
of light were the only indica on that I mes I saw the dried, shallow dip in the
wasn’t staring into the infinite, moonless road a er a few days of no rain, once it
sky. filled with water, its depth was unknow-

169

Adelaide Literary Magazine

able, the en rety of its contents a mystery wasn’t catching anything from the warmth
to my young mind. of his cabin. Either way, he had to be right
in order for me to salvage this winter trip.
I hooked paper fish a er paper fish,
imagining each cutout I li ed from the *
water was not paper, but a slimy wiggling
fish come from the depths of the puddle. I I clicked off my headlamp and let the dark
taught my mother how to hold the paper press itself against me. A er a few minutes
fish between her thumb and index finger, I could see the so blue starlight reflec ng
the same way my father held them in the off the snow. I lay down on the shore and
pictures from his fishing trips. It felt like looked up as the cold crept through my
hours that I stood in my rainboots at the clothes and nuzzled against my skin. Orion’s
edge of the water. Eventually my father belt was visible in the southern sky; I envi-
would come home and I would run in front sioned an invisible line of light between the
of the puddle, waving my arms fran cally three stars. I could never find the rest of him
to ensure he didn’t drive his car into the — his bow, his kilt, or his outstretched arm.
water. Even as a child, I had the no on that Across from him, the big dipper appeared
I wasn’t going to catch any living fish in that upside down as if all the stars of the sky had
puddle, but staring down into that muddy tumbled out and were carried by cosmic
water, I couldn’t help but imagine thin red, currents into every corner of the universe.
green, and blue shapes swimming circles Amidst the two constella ons, the nebulous
through the cloudy water. milky way stretched and glowed.

* I’ve never been able to find the li le dip-
per; it has hidden itself from me. Even as a
Henry David Thoreau wrote: child when my family would stretch out on
sleeping bags and watch the stars together
It is remarkable that many men will un l we were wet with dew, I never could
go with eagerness to Walden Pond in find that minor constella on, no ma er
the winter to fish for pickerel and yet not how many mes I followed the p of my fa-
seem to care for the landscape… They ther’s finger into the sky. Earnestly I looked
call it going a-fishing, and so indeed it is, up for it, even as cold’s icy fingers — no
though perchance, their natures know longer nuzzling — began burrowing into my
be er. Now I go a-fishing and a-hunt- flesh and wrapping themselves around my
ing every day, but omit the fish and the spine. My focus darted between pin pricks
game, which are the least important of light un l my eyes felt like ice crystals
part. I have learned to do without them weighing heavy in my skull.
(January 26, 1853).
The world went dark as I stood up and
I imagine Thoreau smiling slyly as he jots clicked on my light. The stars receded into
down his observa ons while watching a the vastness of the sky and the distant
group of fisherman chip holes through the shorelines evaporated before the beam of
ice of Walden pond and pull out Pickerel. I my headlamp. I lumbered down to the wa-
don’t want to admit that he is right, that ter’s edge and reached for my fishing pole.
there is more to catch while fishing than My joints ached as I reeled in my line and
just fish. He should have been out there on watched the soggy herring slide across the
that ice with those fishermen — Thoreau sand, completely untouched.

170

Revista Literária Adelaide
*
I caught the starlight in the pools of my
eyes, the cold earth in the hollow of my
bones. I caught memories and sealed them
in my mind before nailing them to these
very pages. Even now I harvest thoughts
and ideas from the night I spent fishing but
not catching.

About the Author:

Brandon S llwell is a na ve of the Pacific Northwest, a fishing enthusiast, an avid gardener,
and an MFA student in Crea ve Nonfic on. He has since le the rainy mountains of Wash-
ington, at least temporarily, for the red rock and deserts of Utah. His memories of childhood
and his experiences with the natural world provide source material for much of his wri ng.

171

APPARITIONS OF

THE PAST

by Aysel Basci

From me to me, when I look back on and ar s cally compe ve, and much more.
my life and ask myself what my happiest I have many fond memories of Holton, but
memories are, as some of us over 60 are in perhaps the most memorable is the school
the habit of doing, June 6, 2004 stands out head, Mrs. Bebe, standing at the school en-
as a very special day. That was the day my trance every morning, gree ng the students
daughter Deniz graduated from high school with a smile as their parents dropped them
in the Maryland suburb of Washington DC, off. She would hold her coffee mug in one
where we currently live and have been liv- hand and hug the girls as they entered the
ing for over 40 years. I do not remember building, then exchange pleasantries with
a me when I felt more proud or happier the parents. This happened every day, rain
than June 2004. For a few days, while the or shine, and even on snowy days. What a
gradua on ceremonies were taking place, I comfort it was to see Mrs. Bebe there every
was simply on top of the world. I have al- morning all those years.
ways appreciated living in the United States
and enjoying all it has to offer, especially The 10 years went by very quickly and
the freedom, equality, and acceptance that it was me for Deniz’s gradua on from
are sadly hard to find in some other parts Holton. Our family’s excitement hit fever
of the world. But in June 2004, my appreci- pitch when we received an email from
a on for living in America and being a natu- Holton a few days before Class Day and the
ralized American ci zen hit a new high. Commencement, informing us that Deniz
would be receiving an award, and we were
My daughter, our only child, a ended invited to witness the event. We were told
the Holton-Arms School in Bethesda for not to share this with Deniz as it was sup-
10 years (from 3rd grade to the 12th grade) posed to be a surprise. What a nice touch.
and she loved it. My husband and I loved
the school too. How can I describe Holton? Finally, Class Day arrived and it was a
Words are not enough to adequately do jus- beau ful day. As a me-honored tradi on
at Holton, a huge tent was erected on the
ce to this special place. It is warm, friendly, school grounds, and the gradua ng class,
nurturing, academically serious, athle cally about 75 girls, sat in neat rows under the

172

Revista Literária Adelaide

tent – both for the Class Day and for the In fact, as we had feared, a new war did
Commencement. The parents and oth- break out in 1974, a year a er I graduated
er guests would sit on wooden benches from high school, and I barely survived it.
across from the tent, with a good view of The terror of those nights ducking bullets
both the tent and the podium from which in a house that was constantly under fire,
the speeches would be made and the and the fear that we would never get out
awards and diplomas given. The teachers of there alive, remain deeply embedded in
and honorary guests would sit behind the my mind. How can I forget the pain I felt in
podium and they too had a good view of the a ermath of that war, when I did not
the gradua ng class under the tent. These know whether I would manage to get out
special events were planned and organized of Cyprus and con nue with my educa on
to perfec on every year at Holton. or not? There were mes when I thought all
hope was lost; that it was the end. How I had
A er spending 10 years together, we grieved about such thoughts, so long ago.
knew all the gradua ng girls and their fam-
ilies quite well. It was almost like a family Those dark thoughts of 1974 filtered
affair. We were enjoying the ceremony and through my mind like a ghostly and surreal
feeling happy for the girls receiving various appari on of the past as I sat amidst the
awards for their respec ve achievements. lash green lawns, newly blooming crape
As me passed, we also wondered what myrtle trees and spectacular looking mix-
type of award Deniz might receive. We tures of blue and pink hydrangea flowers,
were quite certain it would have to be in on that day in June 2004 years later, watch-
either theatrical ac ng or in music. During ing the Class Day ceremonies. Then I looked
her 10 years at Holton, Deniz had done a lot at the happy faces of the girls gradua ng
in those two disciplines and she must have from Holton, including my daughter. These
dis nguished herself. That was our thinking. faces were full of posi ve energy and the
endless op mism of youth an cipa ng the
While watching the ceremony that day, I promise of the future. It was such a relief
could not help but remember my own grad- to know these girls were in a much differ-
ua on from high school in Nicosia, Cyprus ent, a lot happier, place than I had been
back in 1973. I was born and lived the first at my high school gradua on. They were
19 years of my life in Cyprus. There was a Americans, whereas I was born a Cypriot.
stark contrast between the two gradua ons. I did not have any other faults or commit
This was a happy event. All the gradua ng any crimes, but the price I and many others
girls knew what they were going to do next. had to pay for being Cypriots was very high
There were no dark clouds hanging over indeed. Once again, I rejoiced in the knowl-
anyone’s head. However, in my case back edge that my daughter, as an American,
in 1973, there was no certainty from one would live a safer, happier, and prouder life
day to the next. Nothing could be taken for than I had in my early years.
granted. Poli cal hos li es could break out
afresh at any given me, and we could not Ge ng back to the ceremony, the mu-
assume we would be all right from one day sic award was given to a girl and it was not
to the next. We lived in constant fear for our Deniz. Then, a li le later, the theatrical act-
lives and had to take it one day at a me – ing award was also given, and that too, was
pre y much everything was up in the air. not Deniz. My husband and I were a li le

173

Adelaide Literary Magazine

puzzled. We could not understand why recognized as an all-around student in this
Deniz did not receive one of those awards – great school by such a great head of school
those were her strengths, her compara ve as Mrs. Bebe. We were delighted, very
advantages. We concluded that the email proud, and endlessly apprecia ve. “This,” I
we had received from Holton indica ng said to my husband, “is America!”
that Deniz would be receiving an award on
Class Day had been sent by mistake. It was How can I not count those days as among
a good thing we had not shared this with my happiest memories?
Deniz – she would have been disappointed
a er ge ng her hopes up. A er our excitement over Deniz’s award
subsided, I could not help but get back to
Then, towards the end of the ceremony, my earlier line of thought. I knew I had
something quite unexpected and extraor- come a long way since I was a scared lit-
dinary happened. The principal, Mrs. Bebe, tle girl running for her life in Potamia as
who had been making the announcements we became refugees for the first me. No
and handing out the various academic, ath- ques on about it – I have come a long way!
le c, and ar s c awards to members of the More importantly, here in America, there
gradua ng class, announced that year’s are no dark clouds constantly hanging over
Head’s Award – a pres gious award given my head. I can finally hope. I can finally
by the principal to a student who had ex- look forward to a bright and happy future
celled in many different areas. That student for myself and my immediate family. My
was none other than Deniz! We could not only wish is that my family and all the other
believe it. The email we had received from Cypriots remaining in Cyprus could also ex-
Holton turned out to be correct a er all. perience this wonderful thing called “hope.”
What an honor it was that Deniz was being
Perhaps, one day…

About the Author:

Aysel K. Basci is a new writer working in nonfic on. She was born in Nicosia, Cyprus and
moved to the United States at age 19. She holds a BS from American University and an MS
from George Washington University. Before re ring from the World Bank, she traveled and
worked extensively in the poorest regions of the world including Sub-Saharan Africa, Central
America and South Asia.

174

THE WRITING
THERAPEUTIC EXPERIENCE

by Raymond Fenech PhD

Does Inspira on ed very much a realis c phenomenon be-
Always Come from Within? cause it is used as a normal exercise by
many writers and poets to fight writer’s
I always knew that there was something block. It is also used to bring about higher
special about being a writer, whether awareness, which helps a writer dig further
one conveyed messages in prose or poet- beyond the normal human percep on. Un-
ic forms. Since aged 13, I started wri ng knowingly, free wri ng can trigger off a di-
poetry and keeping a journal. I had heard rect link with the higher self.
someone say that writers are among the
few who achieve immortality because Personally, I know this state of mind
what they think and say would be around from experience because there have been
long a er they have crossed the lighted
tunnel. mes when I would dri into a spell-like
trance, very much oblivious of what I was
Yet whenever inspira on forced my actually wri ng. The results o en mes
hand to take up pen and paper and to scrib- have been very amazing. Similar to this, ex-
ble my thoughts, I felt as if this informa on cept that it happens when one is complete-
I was receiving was not en rely coming ly conscious is open channelling. For those
from inside my mind, but from beyond, as who are not familiar with the paranormal:
if it was channeled informa on. As I pro-
gressed and my wri ng capabili es became Open channeling is the recep on of
more refined, I was all the more convinced, channeled informa on from a source that
because many mes the best poems and is uniden fiable. The informa on is from a
extracts of wri ng came at such a speedy dimension or level of reality other than the
flow that I hardly had the me to know unconscious mind, the physical world, or
its significance contemporaneously whilst one’s own psychological being. This is sep-
I jo ed it down. Some mes, it took a few arate and dis nct from receiving informa-
readings before I could make any sense of
what I wrote. on by telepathic means, or clairvoyantly,
clairaudiently, or similar. (Sources: Klimo,
Then as I went into academic wri ng, I Jon: Channeling: Inves ga ons on Receiv-
learnt about automa c wri ng. This sound- ing Informa on from Paranormal Sources.
Los Angeles: Jeremy P. Tarcher, 1987).

175

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Wri ng can be used as Self Therapy great cost, because my parents were not in
the least bit amused by my decision and I
When I embarked on my wri ng career don’t blame them because in those mes,
aged 17, it hardly ever occurred to me that journalism was not considered as a profes-
wri ng was actually therapeu c. What I sion and becoming a writer or a poet was
knew at that me was that I enjoyed put- more like wishing to travel to the moon and
back. Finding a job with one of the only four
ng words together, expressing myself and exis ng newspapers was wishful thinking,
le ng it all out. I also seemed to think that but in the end I managed to work for the
poets were privileged because of their leading English newspaper, The Times of
great capability of observa on, sensi vity Malta. So the dream I was the only one to
and a determina on to change the world. believe in finally came true.
That was over 44 years ago and it all seems
like yesterday. Learning How to write
Poetry the Hard Way
In those days, I was at an age when
I could easily be hurt by the afflic ons of In those days, there were no computers
young love and all I know was that each and since I was determined to publish
my poems abroad, I had to find a way to
me my heart was broken in shards, I used reach editors of relevant publica ons that
to feel be er each me I resorted to writ- would be interested in reading my work. I
ing. Some mes I wrote in my daily diary found out that there was a poetry publish-
and some mes I wrote poems, most of ing guide, The Writer’s Handbook, which
which were then highly influenced by my I ordered every year from a local book
favourite poet, John Keats. Whilst other shop and embarked on the difficult task of
young people of my age had rock bands as studying the market and trying to write in
idols, my idol was this poet who was every- a professional way, good enough to per-
thing I would have wanted to be. He was as suade editors to read rather than place my
courageous as he was good with words and submissions in their bin. I also joined the
when I read about how once he beat up a Poetry Society of the UK and other literary
bully who was kicking a puppy, he won me organiza ons, subscribing to several maga-
over heart and soul. zines from which I started to learn without
any guidance the art of wri ng poetry.
Hardly realizing what a huge strug-
gle becoming a journalist and a poet was Crea ve Wri ng in those days was s ll
going to be, I set off chomping at the bit a far cry from becoming a profession and
with more determina on than ever. I was to date, the situa on has remained status
then a ending science classes, but we s ll quo in schools, colleges and even the Uni-
had English Language as one of the main versity in Malta. It was quite a task sending
subjects, something I excelled in. One day, numerous submissions by snail mail and
when I was s ll 13, we were given an essay wai ng some mes for many months, even
to write on the subject, Snowstorm. I went years for a reply. I received enough rejec-
about it very seriously and came out with
almost a short novel. My English teacher, ons to plaster my whole study, but then
Kay called me aside a er class and very sim- the occasional acceptance came as well
ply, in her so ly spoken voice told me that and eventually I started winning the odd
I should reconsider and perhaps change
to arts and language classes. I did this at a

176

Revista Literária Adelaide

second, or third prize in small press wri ng silence and no poet can refuse to be the
compe ons. medium.

As I wrote more and more poetry, I Poetry is the strength, the fiber behind
started to realize that the way inspira on humaneness, sensi vity and the great-
seems to come to the poet was in fact like est privilege endowed on men, his spirit.
a sort of miracle. It was like a trans- state Without poetry men would be missing an
of mind that bequeathed lines full of words important link, that which makes them
that at mes I hardly realized I was actu- complete, in full synchroniza on and one
ally wri ng. Then I came to the conclusion with nature, the environment and last but
that poetry comes from the spirit, the very not least, the soul.If man is to regain his hu-
depth of the human soul. Hence, why, it is mane state, then poetry must become an
so perfect and divine. Perhaps it is also the integral part of his life and poets must be
reason why poetry can help man to stay given more credit and respect.
human as American poetess May Swenson
once stated. Every poet is only allowed to How the World can regain its Love
write a li le por on of this poetry and this for Poetry and Awareness
is a privilege in itself.
For this to happen, children must be taught
Poetry is the only form of art that can how to love and appreciate poetry. Most
actually serve as a constant reminder that children dread even the men oning of the
there is more to life than the eye can see. word, poetry. Most young people literally
Keats claimed he was God’s spy. American hate poetry and those who don’t, are indif-
poet Gregory Corso wrote: So I will con- ferent to the art. America’s poet Laureate
clude with the feeling that the poet today Rita Dove once said she intended to change
must be unlike the poet; he cannot be a this situa on in her country. In an interview,
discriminator between heart and soul, flesh she had stressed she wanted to set Amer-
and spirit, beauty and ugliness, truth and icans at ease with poetry, especially those
untruth - he stands merely a man, a man bored by the whole subject during school
who feels that he is but the guardian of days. They’ve been frightened away either
the human consciousness, and that when through some luckless encounter in the
he dies there will be another poet to take school system where they were required to
his relay, that the consciousness grow ever ... interpret it first, let’s say, instead of learn-
more perfect, and man ever more human, ing to enjoy it first.
and life ever more total. Plato defines the
poet as, A light and winged and holy thing. I would add on to that statement that
cri cs and academics have contributed a
Poetry strikes when you least expect great deal towards rendering poetry so un-
it. It is a lightning inspira on that must be popular. Publishers on the other hand have
vented forth from the system. It froths and become the nightmare for all aspiring writ-
bubbles; it kicks the poet to a higher level ers because they have turned the indus-
of consciousness and makes him the num- try into a parochial system. Some publish
ber one human observer, with extremely books because of the name of the author,
sharp hyperac ve senses, vola le, almost not the content. If the author is well known
spiritual. Poetry is a bridge between man- it becomes easier for them to market and
kind and everything else. It calls as loud as

177

Adelaide Literary Magazine

sell his book quickly. One book publicist living, which I was losing quickly due to the
in the UK who has been on the job for de- cancer I was ba ling and the devasta ng
cades actually told me even literary agents side effects of chemotherapy, I enrolled for
have become very snobbish and won’t an online BA degree. Throughout my life as
even bother to look at a Manuscript, never a child and eventually as a young man, my
mind represent a new author. dad used to tell me that, everything hap-
pens for a purpose, even the worse thing
From experience, this is unfortunately one can think of – if it doesn’t kill you, it will
the realis c scene of the publishing world make you stronger. Well that dictum was
today. I have wri en to several literary about to come true. I was also about to
agents myself in the past, following their realize that poetry/wri ng can be used to
submission protocol to the le er, but their cure people with depressions, something
ego seems to block their vision to the point, that I had only experienced earlier as a boy
they think they are so aloof and above us who was in love with some dream girl.
mere mortals that they don’t even have the
courtesy to reply. Some even have the gall As I was deciding what theme to choose
to inform you that they will answer only if for my thesis, I was going through some
they like your chapter samples and when books on Amazon books and came across
you have proven yourself as being a very one on poetry therapy. It was en tled, The
good writer, it really looks quite strange, Healing Word, by Fiona Samson. I didn’t
perhaps even crooked that they don’t even know what the subject was all about, but
send a reply. To me it seems more likely on reading the book I became more in-
they didn’t even read the sample chapters trigued and curious and decided to base
because they are being kept in business by my research on poetry therapy and use it
the usual members belonging to their pa- for my bachelor’s degree short thesis. One
rochial system. thing very much led to the other and sud-
denly I found myself wan ng to undertake
Then we wonder why aspiring writers a basic course in poetry therapy, simply to
have been forced into the vanity publishing be able to know the subject be er and to
world because let’s face it, vanity publish- be able to present my thesis in a more pro-
ing and subsidy publishing means the same fessional way.
thing. If you pay to be published, you will
never be sure that you are a good writer Most of the replies from the ins tu ons
and most certainly the book was not pub- that taught this subject listed in the book
lished because your wri ng capability mer- were very discouraging, because the fees
ited being showcased. Of course, there are for such courses ran into thousands of dol-
the excep ons, but one must be realis c lars and at that me, I simply couldn’t afford
and to find one of these excep ons would that kind of money. There was one par cu-
be like winning the na onal lo ery. lar ins tu on I decided to write back to a er
I was given all the details about the course,
Discovering Wri ng/Poetry therapy including the tui on fees. I felt the course
organized deserved to know the truth. So
It had always been my dream to undertake I told her there was nothing be er I would
a degree in crea ve wri ng and in a desper- wish for but I could not enroll because I just
ate a empt to regain some of that joy of couldn’t afford it. I confessed I was figh ng
cancer and my future was uncertain.

178

Revista Literária Adelaide

In 2008, a few weeks a er I had emailed embarrass myself confessing my most in -
my reply, out of the blues, I received a le er mate thoughts, or risk someone laughing
from The Crea ve ‘Righ ng’ Center of New at such ‘trivial’ tribula ons. In fact, this is
York informing me that I was being award- the reason why some young people drown
ed a scholarship in wri ng therapy. My themselves in their sorrows and keep it all
mentor was none other than Prof Sherry cooped up inside them. That kind of grief
Reiter, a crea ve arts therapist and licensed brings frustra on, and psychological pain
clinical social worker. Prof Reiter is a Poetry that makes them o en turn to drugs and
Therapist/ Mentor-Supervisor (PTR/MS) as alcohol, hoping these would momentarily
designated by the Na onal Associa on for solve their problems by numbing that pain.
Poetry Therapy (NAPT) and Registered Dra- It only works for a short while and when ad-
ma Therapist/Board Cer fied Trainer (RDT/ dic on kicks in another even bigger prob-
BCT) as designated by the Na onal Associa- lem is created, preven ng the vic m from
thinking straight and forcing him to see his
on for Drama Therapy (NADT). life as worthless and not worth living.

Now, I know for a fact that wri ng, in Therapeu c journaling keeps your mind
which ever form it comes, gives the holder alert and crea ve and once you get ‘addict-
of the talent that extra surge of superhu- ed’ to wri ng by star ng to do this exercise
man strength, which makes one want to for a few minutes every day, you will find
move forward, allowing the inner spirit to that the answers to your problems are all
guide him forth. It is perhaps because the in your own wri ng. Once you exorcise
power of the mind prevails even more over the pain inside your mind, you feel as if a
a serious life -threatening situa on espe- weight has been li ed off your chest and
cially when one is at death’s door. Poets you will sleep like a baby. As me passes,
and writers never give up the fight knowing you will read back what you wrote and re-
that no one can take their immortality away alize that some of the problems were either
from them, because everything they write self-made, angry over-reac ons and things
during their life me will always remain as a which might even have been so frivolous
legacy, no ma er what, for genera ons s ll that you actually end up smiling and think-
to come. ing it was really much ado about nothing.

So most teenage suicides, drug and al- Wri ng helps you face your inner most
cohol addic ons could probably be avoid- problems, or your inner self and the one
ed if every young man who feel vulnera- thing you must never do is sweep those
ble to the jungle we live in can find solace problems under the carpet hoping they will
and as Dr Reiter rightly puts it, Exorcise his go away on their own. They won’t, they
demons by ven ng his anger at anything will come back to haunt you. But if you put
that is giving him grief or pain by wri ng them under the spotlight by highligh ng
his feeling in a journal in prose or poetry them in your wri ng, dissec ng each one
forms, or even write a le er to the person and looking closer, you will find that they
or persons that are making his life difficult. are not that impossible to deal with a er
I have tried it and I can tell you that at 14, I all. You will also learn that to every problem
o en used to think about suicide but then there is always a solu on, no ma er how
I turned to my diary and vented my anger enormous a task it might seem at that me
inside it. I didn’t have to face people and

179

Adelaide Literary Magazine

when it starts to bother you. Whatever you I never came to terms with her death and
do, problems must never be kept inside – I o en s ll find myself in situa ons when I
and once you solve one, you’ll be ready to feel angry at her for leaving us the way she
solve the rest that we all have to face on did, at a me when we really needed her.
our short journey on earth. To this very day I also blame myself for not
realizing in me what was going on in her
Suicide is the most selfish thing one can mind and keep thing that if I had, I could
do, especially to his loved ones. I know be- have made this horrific deed go away. Kill-
cause I went through it myself when a very ing oneself is the easiest way out, but al-
close family member decided to commit ways remember that those who love you
suicide when I was s ll 17 years old. She will have to live the rest of their lives fight-
was my aunt, but more like a second moth- ing the con nuous grief that will stay with
er to me. I spent most of my childhood and them ll death. And living with that, I can
my youth with her. When she passed away, assure you is worse than death itself.

About the Author:

Raymond Fenech embarked on his wri ng career as a freelance journalist at 18 and worked
for the leading newspapers, The Times and Sunday Times of Malta. He edited two na-

on-wide distributed magazines and his poems, ar cles, essays and short stories have been
featured in several publica ons in 12 countries. His research on ghosts has appeared in The
Interna onal Directory of the Most Haunted Places, published by Penguin Books, USA.

180

FIRST AS LAST

by Midori Gleason

First as Last

We were two men le out on the sea, I took the money they offered to build a tavern
two dark shadows in a snow-flecked night. Who could tell me that it couldn’t be done?
By day the golden waves Yet I was drawn to the boats and the water,
would speak of dreams I wondered what else I could not do or be
of freezing on the sea so far from sight. Till’ gathered thoughts swirled a current below
Strangers stealing through a liquid land And buoyed me alongside back to sea;
must dip the oar without making a sound. the sea called to me and I rowed out for home.
Salt air eats flesh as brine Whenever anything had to be done, I felt
will crust cold hands— it best to give orders…and do it myself.
We’d row un l we stood on solid ground.
With my hands as oars I would Laskow, Sarah. “The Man Who Sailed Across the
s ll be able to row— Atlan c…Without the Benefit of Fingers.” Atlas
Not a man, just the sea I’d coast being unseen. Obscura, www.atlasobscura.com/ar cles/how-
I curved my hands around the ard-blackburn-wasnt-the-first-to-sail-across-
oar, un l they froze, the-atlan c-solo-but-he-was-the-first-to-do-it-
welcomed every wave, kissed every breeze… fingerless. Accessed 1 January, 2019.

I have always been sorry that I
showed him the hand
for he sighed, “what is the use…
might as well go first as last.”

Along the coast at night yet s ll alone
Un l I was found dripping and dropped afresh,
the li le finger snapping from the bone
finger and thumbnails s ll hung to the flesh.
Alive, though and ready to mark my own

181

Adelaide Literary Magazine

“The Liberian Greenbul”

The liberian greenbul is one of the world’s like me they had no belief in anything
rarest song birds—so rare, in fact, that either—they smiled and winked,
experts are beginning to wonder if
it ever existed in the first place. neither do we! no meaning in joining
hands—unless, of course,

I used to live under trees covered it was never my dance, always they and
in snow—unless, of course, not we, they le me the bill to pay,

I can’t remember the feel of my face teeth twinkling, bow, smile, and
in the breeze—unless, of course, leave—unless of course,

I never pulled my babe in a sled, They told me from the start I’d pay the
rope over my shoulder, price—How about his blue eyes?—

replaying the morning mee ng—what Although you deny it, Midori you know
to think?— unless, of course, they stole him—unless, of course…

I was not me, I fell through the ground Frost, Natasha. “Birds and Beasts that May Have
and was reaching out for roots. Never Actually Existed.” Atlas Obscura, www.
They stood out of reach handing me atlasobscura.com/articles/birds-beasts-nev-
poisonous weeds—unless, of course, er-existed-liberian-greenbul-panther. Accessed
1 January, 2019.
I didn’t mind if all they had to offer was deceit—
I had no belief—Give it to me,
please!—unless, of course,

About the Author:

Midori Gleason is an ar st and writer living in Glouces-
ter, Massachuse s. She has previously been published
in UMass Boston’s The Watermark and the Dorchester
publica on, Write on the Dot.

182

JOY

by Lauren Bishop

Joy The Garden

So flee ng like the fizz of bubbles. Dew on the green grass, life grows
Laughter pops and spla er with me. Lily picks her fruit, rosy red
Ar ficial smiles mask the hint of fire. cherries and prickly pears
It licks my spine and ckles my brain. Sunshine, water flows.
Fuzziness gone and here again.
The secrets I can’t tell burn Her mind hops from primrose to primrose
my lips ‘ l they’re chapped and sore. Hiding secrets like squirrels with
Fizz. Pop. Spla er. chestnuts, need to beware
Promise not to tell. Dew on the green grass, life grows.

The Valley Pollen travels and ckles the nose
Shadows overhead means the
I never knew the mountains could change me. hunter is near in the air
The wind blows the minutes by. Sunshine, water flows.
Grass blades cking to the clock’s rhythm
The sky is bluer and the clouds So soil sinks under warm toes
Are fluffier at the peak. There’s no saving the secret
Each rock and each ridge take me away. squirrels and cuddly hares
Gray points turn to so brown Dew on the green grass, life grows.
Dirt, figh ng to climb in between my toes
I step where the flowers must grow. Wings, feet, legs, and bone all decompose
Rolling hills hold my heart and is my home, She’s in her own world, it’s hard
the valley where I have flown. to tell that she even cares
Sunshine, water flows.

Beauty in the garden, but will it show?
With happiness comes despair
Dew on the green grass, life grows
Sunshine, water flows.

183

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Love for Eternity

I don’t know if we should stay. This house
is so dark, murky with shadows that nip
at our finger ps. The feeling is slippery
and reeks of gator feet. No freedom felt in
escape. Tangled in seaweed, we’re pulled
back under. The rooms get muddy but there’s
a sliver of light bobbing in the distance.

About the Author:

Lauren Bishop, the Amazon bestselling author of Bleed-
ing Heart, a ended Michigan State University where she
studied Apparel Tex le & Design and Studio Art. The De-
troit na ve is currently pursuing her degree in Crea ve
Wri ng and English at Southern New Hampshire Univer-
sity. Art dominates her world with her interest in photog-
raphy, movies, installa ons, pain ngs, poetry, novels and
even makeup. When Lauren isn’t wri ng, she’s traveling or
relaxing with her cat Nomi Malone.

184

SOFT THINGS

by Mary MacGowan

So Things By the Time We Couldn’t See the Mona Lisa

It comes to her on so things. The mime floats up
Boiled noodles. Fresh bread. on a helium balloon
Cinnabons and strudel. then he’s stuck in jail
un l he stops figh ng
With each chew comes a shrillness and lies floor flat.
- A440 - heard in her jaw bone
[sopranino-crickets-porch- A glowing Christmas tree
swing-squeaking-headache]. stands on our frozen lake,
lights plugged in at the house.
S llness is rare so she’s spared
a constant high ||: a a a a :|| She’s It melts, the tree sinks
safe in cars, at malls. She’s safe I’m electrocuted
ea ng granola for its crunch. Potato my house burns down
chips. In this noisy world she forgets my children inherit

that A lives there in her mouth scorched land. There are
‘ l hunger strikes late night rules. Every me you call out
in a small and plain room. Marco, you must blindly follow the
It screeches high A’s on frosted cake, Polos, and catch one to win.
her mouth opening and closing
around the ache of taking in. If you could just
touch an arm, a leg
or their hair,
water streaming down.

185

Our marriage Adelaide Literary Magazine
was already over
by the me we You Are a Child, Now
couldn’t see
the Mona Lisa. a.

Someone always Mayhem. Friends
blocked our view – running around a yard.
resistance When you tag one,
if we pushed they must freeze –
forward, a leg raised, mouth open,
arms reaching out.
anger You must con nue tagging
if we asked for help. un l all are frozen
except for one, who will
Someone in the audience suddenly no ce that
calls out everyone else is a statue.
A man with his hair on fire!
The mime b.
sloshes
pretend buckets of water They’re cars, parked
gasps for breath. across a yard
ready to step on the gas
We carry on skyless. when you turn away
An unmade open yelling
window, the Green light!
fu le But you are to stop them
brushing of love so you must surprise them
into untamed curls. by turning
suddenly back around
yelling, Red light!
Those you see in mo on
are sent back.
You con nue thus
sending some back,
allowing some
to stay as they advance
forward that way.

186

Revista Literária Adelaide

c. e.

You’re an adult. Your friends
A spell upon in a line, far away.
two girls makes You tell them what steps
them mute. Only they may take –
saying the word ginger baby, giant, ballerina.
You Are a Child Now (cont.) They ask you
will release them. Mother May I?
You’ve been given the job
of listening for silence. You choose steps
Reading the paper, you forget... and how many
How they stamp their but if they’re naughty
feet at you, eager, snor ng. you can send them back
Ten umbrella steps!
d. They do their best to obey
but you are a strict Mother:
Mayhem. Friends running No! Not good enough!
all over a yard. Go back!
When you tag one, In this way, some move
they must freeze – forward, some do not,
a leg raised, mouth but all seek your favor.
open, arms reaching out.
You must con nue tagging At the last, a favorite child
un l all are frozen You Are a Child Now (cont.)
except for one, who will
suddenly no ce that will reach out and touch you.
everyone else is a statue. This is how you know
your me is over.
You run to stand on the line.
You are a child, now,
eager to touch a new Mother.

187

Don’t Let Go Adelaide Literary Magazine
A Land With No S

It’s a belt swing that loops down - The Chinese write in complete planets.
the boy asks his grandma
to swing him. She stands behind Characters. S-free.
the boy, helps him up and onto If I were Chinese with no S
the seat. He’s new to swinging, could I s ll lisp?
so she squeezes his hands
which hold the swing chain Of course they make the sound.
and says, Don’t let go. She A whisper sliced open
insistent from the throat.
squeezes them again, each one,
she makes it important. Up you A snake.
go! she says, giving a grandma-
gentle push on his li le back. Tongue, teeth, lips:
To and fro he goes, his all untouched,
red sneakers dangling. an empty river rushing.
Keep holding on, she reminds
him, you’re doing a good job. English teachers give it
for Sa sfactory (S).

It was 1954 when
we dug holes to China.
American children climbing out

upside down
waving (W).
Chinese children watching
horrified (H).

As if
it doesn’t break out hearts
every me we say S
and know

it can’t be said.

188

Revista Literária Adelaide

(un tled)

In the 60s, motels
had vibra ng beds.
We went nuts over them.
25¢ to go. We begged dad
for quarters for the
carnival-style mechanism
behind the beds.

Tink and one dropped in.
We laid down hoo n’
and hollering. There were
always 2 beds, shaking and
trembling at our command.

189

LOST CITY

by Ian Allaby

Lost City Superman

are these the streets of ancient mes In deep of night a hot embrace,
where famous faces once did rove? A mys cal zap from outer space,
where voices rang by torch-lit walls Then poof! there I was in a super-bib,
where golden chariots drove Craving a nipple, ra ling a crib.

is this the grove where we embraced Folks came by to ckle my chin,
is this the home we laughed and cried They stuffed mush in my mouth
is this the hall we held great feasts so my growth would begin.
for friends the country wide I mimicked their manners so no one would see
My extra-terrestrial pedigree.
is this the square I roused the crowd
with speech of gems galore I covered the crime beat for the Daily News
is this the dock where I dispatched While in secret I harbored quite radical views:
the ships that sailed to war In high-flying moments I dazzled my fans
With logical leaps and super-human plans.
are these the temples wherein dwelled
the gods that I revered For fun I had Lois, a sheer delight,
is this the town that drowned in ash And Annie and Zelda — there
the day you disappeared was one every night.
For the Man of Steel there was no Miss Right:
is this the world we used to love To pin him down you’d need kryptonite.
that nothing could assail?
that world is gone and I alone But now that I’m old and I find that I’m made
survive to tell the tale Of twigs and pulp and wires frayed,
I pray a second chance awaits me when
On some other world I get born again.

190

Revista Literária Adelaide

God

God is the ever-commencing
and the ever-ending
and the ever bigger, the ever smaller
the ever distant, the ever near
the ever hidden, the ever perfectly clear
the lord of purpose, lord of chance
lord of quasars, lord of ants
the home of the far-flung orphans
the peak of human ambi on
the hero, the bum
the unsummable sum
the leap
the call from the deep
the harvest you reap
the feeling the seeing the thinking
the clinging the thinging
the winging
the inging
the singing that soothes you to sleep

About the Author:

Ian Allaby lives in Toronto and publishes an online literary
mag (spadinaliteraryreview.com). From me to me he
sends round some of his own poems and wri ngs.

191

PARABLE OF THE

FATHER

by Kimberly Nunes

Facing Duende eyes and visage, frozen.
Breasts flag in brown
Dusk shadows of branches and leaves charcoal outline.
are morous pa erns
on the golden wall. Her clavicle, angular
Inside her head she swims and throat taut, where me
a red river as violet eyes dri is the jewel she wears thin.
in and out of context.

Again, she is luminous halo
absorbing and fading—
light to dark to light
down the ombréd hall

where a dead mouse floats
in its watery bowl—
presents the tail
then swivels to head. She knows this to be
the snout of her soul.

In the portrait on the wall
her head’s thrust back
in gray strokes, the mouth red,

192

Parable Of The Father Revista Literária Adelaide
Swallowed

This summer I learned about loneliness. The clouds are white tablets floa ng in blue
Hear me out, I know the difference above the park out my window
and my husband’s voice comes through
between solitude and loneliness.
the black phone at the corner of the desk
Solitude is a secret you want to keep. to say we should talk about property—

Loneliness happens when who will care for the house before it falls down,
you return from a trip and the problem with money,
and find yourself in Safeway at 10 pm, there is always less.
and find your basket filled
with frozen dinners for one He says,
and twelve dollar bo les of wine.
have you met someone, have
~ you met someone?
The volume, now, too loud.
There is a man who has lived alone
in a perfect house And I have no power to rise from this chair.
most of his life. The floor shines. The clouds are in my belly, and
His sweaters are stacked by color. they hold me down.
The car leather smells new.

He has someone to hack the weeds away
around the garden.

His says old age is like being a newborn babe
half in the place they came from

before birth, and learning to go back.

193

Inside The Fermata Adelaide Literary Magazine
A Dream In Color

In the opera last night At the head of the bed
there was the usual hero two Hermes neck es
and the long note held— with loops for wrists,
one pale yellow with thin red stripes,
as he was thinking,
the other is gray with green dots.
thinking he would save the girl
from fire, wake her And on the bench
from a long, fine sleep at the foot of the bed,
a large venous silicone phallus
as flames crept toward her bed. in chocolate brown.

He appeared sincere, but took his me It’s a gi , he had said,
to get to her. First, as the woman tore at the wrapping paper,
he had to sing a new designer clutch to carry around.

un l she nearly burned— Outside, the windy tree circled
and scraped branches on the window
she’s almost gone like a hand clawing at glass,
and the violins plead.
and the man said, Venus,
While in the real world,
these moments endure beyond
the realm of an hour,
beyond the gaze

of any lead actor.

The girl becomes the maiden, becomes
a sullen queen—
on the stage,
in the New York apartment,
the abandoned house back home.

About the Author:

Kimberly Nunes holds a bachelor’s degree in French
and several master’s degrees, including her MFA in
poetry from Sarah Lawrence College, 2013. Some of
her poems have been published in journals such as
The Alembic, Caveat Lector, Man s, Marin Poetry
Center Anthology, The Madison Review, and Wom-
enArts Quarterly.

194

THE GAZE

by Anthony Melekwe

The Gaze Collateral

Hill, planes Bigger the be er, smaller the frost.
Across rocky sloppy grounds On that edge of stones
I am none. You could never touch Six counts down,
I stay lone surrounded by the air phases this sleeve at that bite.
moonlight and nothing The fruit that makes all disappear
The dreams that fly, daze of lullaby Blo ed by darkness but snatched by voices
my feet maunders prints of Gravity now pushes sideways
Columbus and I...am and no hope except
Crippled of my reality the recall of those tears
clothing your face maps.
Only you can tell why.

About the Author:

Melekwe Anthony is a writer who hails from Lagos, Nigeria. He studies Mass Communica-
on at University of Nigeria, Nsukka. He is an editor with Redeemed Chris an Fellowship

(RCF) UNN’s Bulle n. He is a member of Guardians Impact Interna onal and The Writers
Community, UNN. He is also the founder of Vision Mountain. A freelance reporter and an
editor, Anthony believes in each breath readers can inhale from his work.

195

THE GREATEST OF THESE

by Benjamin Daniel Lukey

Familiar But the poor rabbits—
See by their tracks, here, and here—
I hear Must all turn aside.
All the old things
Calling with sweet voices. For it is too tall
I didn’t think I missed them, but To safely leap over it.
I did. Look: one of them tried.

Look His blood stains this branch,
Dry, but s ll brilliant crimson,
A well-worn game trail, In a wreath of fur.
Long used by deer and rabbits,
Has been rudely blocked What was chasing him?
He thought, on the open trail,
By an old cedar. He could outrun it.
Time and disease wasted it
And its roots gave way. Perhaps he could have,
Were it not for this blockade.
See, here, what is le What a wicked end!
Of its long, feathered branches:
Spikes, long as my hand! And just to this side
The trunk is bare of branches.
The deer do not mind, He could have made it.
For their legs are long enough
To step over it. He missed by inches
And paid for it with his life.
Look before you leap.

196

The Greatest Of These Revista Literária Adelaide
Beloved

The talking heads will babble To know you is to love you.
And weigh you down with trouble What a blessing it is
And fill you with dismay, That you are mine!
But do not heed the pundits While I breathe, I am yours.
For trouble has its limits
And Love can win the day. To know you is to love you.
I know you be er than anyone,
For Love, dear friend, is stronger And so I love you in equal measure.
Than hatred, greed, or anger, I’ll love you s ll more, someday.
And more to be revered
Than wisdom, wealth, or courage— Every day I see more clearly
Than power, strength, or knowledge— What a blessing it is
And never to be feared. That my soul is bound to yours
With links forged in Heaven.
It won’t be comprehended;
It cannot be demanded, Not a day goes by
Yet it is free to all. That I don’t thank God
It wears the oldest mantle, That you are mine
And though its mien is gentle, To have and to hold.
Its subjects are in thrall.
I don’t know where life will lead,
For Love is God’s own essence! But I know who will go with me.
To Love we owe obeisance, Whatever else may happen,
And how can we refuse? While I breathe, I am yours.
So be you saint or sinner,
Take up Love’s splendid banner
And go and spread the news.

Go forth and love your neighbors!
Go fan the dormant embers!
It has been said before:
That Love, dear friend, is stronger
Than prejudice or anger
And Love must win the war.

About the Author:

Benjamin Daniel Lukey lives in Monroe, North Carolina. He
teaches high school English classes whenever he is not fishing
or wri ng poetry. His work has previously appeared in Edify Fic-

on, Sincerely Magazine, Gathering Storm Magazine, and other
publica ons. Please visit hellopoetry.com/bdlukey to read more.

197

VISIT TO FERN HILL

by Byron Beynon

Visit To Fern Hill presented no clue
to his untethered wordscape
I walked there, where a green frac on of fern
following the road was placed on the mindful page,
three miles or so an abiding calligraphy,
out of Llansteffan’s reach. nature’s reading
That unhurried summer by the filigree of strong leaves.
the tranquil Tywi flowed
through high August country
as the abundant sun made salt,
soon the river disappeared from view,
I was alone
before a private house,
where amongst the dark
conifers and la ce of dizzy pylons
a childhood world
was one recalled.

His words of celebra on and praise
brought me here,
a boyhood recreated
unaware that innocence
would end;
outside that day
a sign warned
Beware Guard Dogs
In Opera on,

198