Adelaide Literary Magazine No.26, July 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

could redeem her self-worth. He made an him. There’s a rifle in the closet, and she
art of keeping his full approval just out of wonders if it works much like the BB gun
reach, showering her with affec on, then her dad taught her how to shoot.
making some comment like, “You know, Jo,
you’re amazing. Some mes, though, I do *
wish you were just a li le bit pre er/thin-
ner/smarter.” “A world-wide search con nues for Angel
Power, the li le girl abducted from her
The baby was unexpected, conceived front yard on the Fourth of July. Police are
between their breakups, under a haze of searching for her biological mother, Diane
weed and whisky. When she learned she Clark. Anyone with any informa on is urged
was pregnant, Jo knew this might be her to call the FBI or the San Antonio Police De-
only chance to be a mother. She was two partment.” Joanna turns off the six o’clock
years from forty. The food stamp office news, hugs Noah, and mixes a drink.
made her file for child support when she
was in between jobs: she never actually *
wanted a dime from him. The only me
Joshua tried to reach out over the years was One lesson Maria has learned in her twen-
through emails ran ng about her “stealing” ty-four years on this Earth is how to survive
his money, and how, “One day, you’ll see. in the presence of violent men. Submit.
You force me to pay for this kid, I’ll find a Feed them. Fuck them. Don’t give them an
way to make sure he lives with me.” inkling you might use your brain or chal-
lenge their power in any way.
*
Her father raised her to fear his fist. A
Maria makes up a pallet of blankets and pil- group of three cholos held her down in
lows for Angel to sleep on in the closet. She an abandoned building when she was just
brings her two meals a day and takes her to seventeen, plowing into her over and over
the bathroom at daylight and before bed me. again with their disgus ng dirty dicks. And
Every other day, Angel gets to take a shower. Joshua’s not the first boyfriend to slap her,
to wrap his fingers around her neck un l
Freddy’s gone, and Angel knows when she can’t breathe. Joshua seemed so hand-
Joshua enters the room by the smell of his some at first, so tall and fair and strong and
cigare es. At night, she covers her ears, try- gentle. Now all she no ces is how selfish
ing not to hear the same moaning, smack- he is and how much his face resembles a
ing, rumbling, and crying out she had to rat. She’s good at managing men like him,
listen to from her closet in her dad and Jil- though. She’s also good at gardening and
lian’s room. She wishes she could live with cooking and making herbal tea.
Joanna. Jo doesn’t have a husband. Her
room must be quiet and peaceful at night. *

Angel remembers how she and Noah Angel hears it all from the closet. Joshua’s
used to talk about the dad he hadn’t met. slurring, his heavy footsteps ra ling the
They’d imagined he was Batman, Spider- house. The “thump” as his large body hits
man, or the rockstar Noah wanted to grow the bed. His moans, the retching, his cries
up to be. She tears up, feeling sad that No- for help: “What did you put in that tea? Oh
ah’s real dad’s a monster. She wants to kill my God! Help me!” The room is overtaken
by odors so foul she vomits in the closet.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Let’s get out of here, ninita. Move fast, having control over the people in his life
and don’t look at the bed. Don’t look at was his deepest fear, and scared people do
him.” Angel’s grateful for whatever Maria crazy things some mes.”
did to Joshua. She didn’t really want to
have to be the one to kill Noah’s dad. “I kinda wish I got to meet him.”

Maria calls the police and tells them “Have a good day at school, Hon.” It’s the
she’s been held cap ve with the girl in the best reply Joanna can come up with.
house for three weeks. She says Joshua fell
ill out of nowhere and that she hopes the *
ambulance can make it there in me. She’s
already disposed of his tea cup and all trac- Mike sets a serving bowl full of chicken cur-
es of what she put in it. ry down in the center of the dining room
table. “Let’s enjoy.”
*
“Five years. This is the longest I’ve stayed
“Mama, why did my did my dad try to take in any job,” Joanna says, holding up her wine
me? Why was he such a bad man?” Noah glass.
asks Joanna months later, in the car on the
way to school. “Cheers. Your promo on is well deserved,”
Jillian says as their glasses meet.
Her mouth turns dry and it takes her a
few seconds to answer. “Thank you for having us over for dinner.
Noah loves hanging out with Angel.”
“Well, your dad was like this: One me,
we were were driving to Bandera, on a nar- “She’d love to have him over for a sleepover
row, winding road, and the car in front of us some me. He could stay in your old room,”
had one of their res blow out. We were late Jillian says.
to a party. He pulled over to help the people
change their re, and he was so pa ent and Angel runs up to Jo, “Did you get to see
sweet about it.” Joanna takes a deep breath my room? It’s all Star Wars!”
as she pulls up to the school. “And he took
his aunt to all of her doctor’s appointments Noah stands beside her. “That’s cool, An-
and cared for her when she was diagnosed gel, but you should see my room in my new
with cancer. And, any me a homeless per- house! It’s The Spurs.and The Cowboys, and
son walked up and ask him for money, he’d I have two guitars!”
always give them a few dollars, even a cou-
ple of cigare es if they smoked. Never treat- Joanna looks at her son, and her lips
ed them like they were a nuisance, or inferi- form into a half-smile. She no ces the lack
or. I wouldn’t say he was a bad man.” of light in his eyes, and how the the boy
seems only half-engaged in everything he
“Well, then why….” does. His therapist says it’s a natural reac-

Joanna interrupts. “I think he probably on to emo onal trauma, but Jo fears it
figured out you were the best li le dude may be a permanent side effect of chronic
on Earth, so he decided he wanted you for childhood disappointment.
himself. I also think he was afraid, terribly
afraid, of not being in control. I think not “Namaste, Jo! Don’t forget to breathe! I
miss our yoga!” Angel shouts as she runs
away.

Jo stares a er her. Angel’s spirit and
imagina on are without limit. That li le

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Revista Literária Adelaide
girl should never be confined by any form
of closet. Maybe she’ll be resilient to the
a er-effects of the kidnapping that are sure
to pop up down the line. Joanna takes a
deep breath and tells herself it’s all going to
turn out fine. She sips from her wine glass
and almost believes it will be.

About the Author:

Jessica Milam is a teacher and substance abuse counselor residing in North Texas. Her work
has been published in Every Day Fic on and Commuterlit.com. She holds a master’s degree
in school psychology from Trinity University and is a lover of the outdoors, literature, live
music, and wine.

51

MOUNTAINS &

RAINBOWS

by Ma hew Vesely

The Mountain commented on my highlighter, which was
all the rage with all the gays. She knew that
I stepped over a root crawling along the for- too, walking out onto her balcony and look-
est floor, one of the bigger roots, one of the ing down on the fes vi es, the Philly Gay
roots that stemmed off into smaller roots Men’s Choir, the Drag royalty, the dancers,
that crawled farther along before digging colors, floats, and charisma.
into the dirt.
When I moved to the middle of the coun-
I stepped again. Every press of my boots, try a er college, Mom decided a house to
every haul of my pack, every breath into herself in the Germantown suburbs was too
the cool fall atmosphere slowed me down. much empty space, too many echoes rip-
Maybe my mother was right, I thought. pled through the rooms when she s rred her
Maybe climbing this high was a mistake. morning coffee. The house got her a nice sum
of money, enough to not worry about rent in
“Jimmy!” I heard. the city for years. She was sixty-two and joked
with me that it would probably last the rest of
I lted my head forward. Farther up he her life, a form of short-term re rement.
stood, his body against the trees and his
head against the morning sky, his feet in My partner, Noah, and I moved to Col-
the res ng clouds along the mountainside. orado for his deployment. I figured finding
He waved me to meet him. I readjusted my work as a writer out in the middle of no-
pack, stretch out my back, and pushed my where was s ll possible; all that ma ered
feet to meet him. was our proximity being more sa sfactory
with us both in Colorado rather than half
Pride: Year 1 the country apart. We came back every
summer for Pride and stayed with Mom in
“Don’t go chasing a er rainbows,” Mom her small three room apartment, sleeping
told me. in her living room and joining the fes vi es
during the week. I always told her not to
I sat at her kitchen table. She was cook- cook for us – Mom, Noah taught me how to
ing when I stopped by a er the parade. She

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Revista Literária Adelaide

make plenty of meals at the base – but she “A shame.” Noah smiled. “We’ll just cud-
insisted every me. dle under tree branches.”

“Do you know how much take out I’ve “Closely,” I added.
had this year?” she asked. “Give me this rea-
son to make something again. It may not be “For warmth, of course.”
that good though.”
“Are we really talking about cuddling?” I
“It’ll be great,” I assured her. Noah was asked.
s ll out visi ng old friends and drinking for
once since it’s the first me in a year he’s “Straight to the point, are you?”
been out of the base’s sight. “I applied to
the program.” “To the point, but not straight.”

Mom stopped s rring. She tapped the Noah stood and looked again to where
wooden spoon against the side of the pot the embers were fading. “You’re beau ful,”
and placed the damp head on a napkin. She he told me, and it made me turn my head
turned, asking me from the counter, “the back to my drawings to smile. “But not like
one in California?” the embers. You’re beau ful like the stars.
Too bad they’re so far gone, but I’ll never
“LA,” I told her. stop looking at you.”

“That’s far from Colorado.” “Are you trying to be a poet?” I asked.

I swallowed and nodded. “I’m trying to make sure you write about
me when you go away.”
“Noah can’t transfer, can he?”
“Who said I was going away?”
I shook my head.
Noah shrugged and took his face away
“Hm.” My mother turned back, picked up from the stars. “Can I sit with you?”
the spoon, and con nued s rring. “I hope
you do what makes you happy. Just don’t “You haven’t in a while.”
go chasing a er rainbows. They fade quick-
er than you expect.” “Can I now?”

THE MOUNTAIN “Of course.”

The steady fire flickered the shadows along So he sat beside me with his military-built
the dusk trees surrounding us. Noah and I sat arm around mine. I turned and caressed the
on opposite sides of the fire. I draw arches in stubble on his cheek. “I’ll always write about
the dirt with a s ck I had found for firewood. you.”
The embers floated past Noah’s face as he
watched them disappear into the night sky. Noah frowned and dri ed his face away
from my hand. “Writers are very unfair, you
“Anything good up there?” I asked. know. You can be with people even a er
you leave them. Wri ng is a powerful tool.”
“It’s supposed to rain tonight.” He lowered
his gaze to me. “Did you bring a tent in that I shook my head. “But I can’t kiss you.”
bag?”
He took my head in his hands. “That’s a
I shook my head. lie. Yes you can.” His lips placed themselves
on mine, his nose rubbed against mine, his
eyes closed while mine opened.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Pride: Year 2 “Let’s sit in the kitchen. Make some tea.”

My hands shook, but I quietly closed the Mom groaned the en re way down
door behind me, slipping into Mom’s apart- into her chair at the table, but when she
ment while she slept in the next room. The stayed s ll with a mug in hand, blowing at
click of the door echoed past me into the the steam over the outer rim, she looked as
darkness. Rainbows occupied every street, young as years prior. “Is the program worth
confe li ered the sidewalks, and gli er it?” she asked.
stained the eyelids of every young and
beau ful gay in the celebra on, but inside “It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed,” I told
of the apartment was neglected into si- her. “Every day I wake up and have a place
lence, darkness spread out in every corner. to write and people to share it with and
teachers to guide me.” I shook my head. “I
“Jimmy?” a call broke through from the couldn’t dream of something be er.”
other room.
“Noah.”
“I’m back, Mom.”
I spun the tea around in my mug, a vor-
“Come here.” tex. “I wasn’t doing anything for myself at
the base.”
I stepped into her bedroom, where she
lay on her back in the center of a king-sized Mom placed her tea down – she hadn’t
bed. The nightlight in the corner gave a taken a sip – and extended her hand across
navy nt to the room. “Were you asleep?” the table, moving her fingers as much as
she could to beckon my own. I slid my fin-
She shook her head. “Where’s Noah?” gers under hers.

My eyes sank. “He s ll out.” “You have to find your roots,” she told me.
“Do you think California will last forever?”
“Why aren’t you with him?”
I shrugged. “Mom, I’m really enjoying
My neck sank too. “We got into an ar- myself.”
gument. It wasn’t a fight, really, just…you
know, it’s hard when we haven’t seen each She nodded, “Noah is a wonderful person.”
other in so long and…we’re just different.”
“I don’t disagree.”
Mom pushed against her pillow. “Help
me up.” “And he’s s ll with you.”

I walked to the side of her bed and held “Do you think he should be.”
one hand to hers and the other to her back.
When I pushed her up a bit she winced. “I think you should be together.”
“Not there, baby.”
“It’s just not possible.”
I apologized and let her pull herself up
with the support of my arms. She placed “Then maybe you have to sacrifice,” she
her feet on the floor as a child dips their toe told me. “Maybe you’re going too far into
into the swimming pool. She winced again the sky.”
while pulling herself to standing. “Okay, I’m
fine, thank you.” The apartment door opened with the
sound of thick crinkling paper.
“Are you sure.”
“He’s your root,” she told me.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

THE MOUNTAIN below me, blending and mixing like a child’s
paint set or a painter’s pale e. Color dripped
I woke the next morning in dry dirt under the and dropped off the bow, but I was careful
branches, the base of a tree as my bark crest- not to slip, and soon the arch began to curve
ed pillow. I turned away from the never-end- into less of an angle, and when I was finally
ing coali on of trees that faded into grey mist, able to stop at the top, I laid my stomach into
and sat up facing the other, the small clearing the colors and painted my face with green.
and my bag beside a soaked pile of firewood.
Pride: Year 3
The roots had unwoven from around
me. Night was cold, and I woke with goose- Maybe it’s a trick of me, or maybe it’s a
bumps. Perhaps I could sleep again and trick of age, or maybe both are one and
wake a different way. I could not, so I ig- the same, but the color seemed dimmer
nored the hold the roots no longer had on outside, and Mom’s apartment, which I
me, only the feeling like a limb that had had been staying in for months, was grey
been amputated, and stood, and picked up even though it truly must have been closer
my bag, and con nued up the mountain. to darkness, dim enough at all mes so it
wouldn’t hurt Mom’s eyes, evoca ng ex-
It steepened beyond the clearing, it crucia ng headaches for which the nurses
curved up and took longer for me to go gave her higher levels of IV medicine.
anywhere without taking a calculated step
or else tumbling down from the weight on I sat on a stool by her bed while she
my back. Climbing a mountain is like a puz- slept. The machines had go en bigger ev-
zle, you just have to try things, except you ery few weeks, and now they were as tall as
only have so long to climb the mountain me, looming over her on the opposite side
and everyone climbs the mountain at their of the bed, opposing my presence.
own pace, so some mes your expected to
wait for people, or else you’ll be climbing “Hey, mom?” I asked.
the mountain alone, and that’s supposed
to feel terrible, climbing a mountain alone. She was asleep. She stayed asleep.

I reached and pulled up onto the edge “Hey, mom?” Beep…beep…beep. “Mom,
of the highest rock, rolling onto the top I love you.” Beep…beep. “Remember when
with what li le bit of strength I had. I wiped dad died,” beep, “and you told me one day
sweat from my forehead and felt the late I’d be just as sad,” beep, “when the man I
morning sun on my eyelids. When I opened loved died?
my eyes, the sky was so blue, so clear, so
empty, except a rainbow leading higher. “That’s the biggest honor, to love some-
one that much.” Beep…beep…beep.
I slid out of my backpack and adjusted
my coat. The rainbow stemmed from the “I le my root, Mom.” Beep…beep…beep.
peak’s edge, arching up, red orange yellow
green baby indigo violet into the blue. I “Do you think I have enough me, Mom?”
step onto the color.
THE MOUNTAIN
Orange smeared onto my le hand as
indigo did on my right. As I slid my feet up Never try to climb a rainbow, because you’ll
farther, a stretch of color swooshed together never have the me or strength to climb

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
back down. I sat with my legs laid out along
the smeared trail I’d pulled myself up with,
my hands stretched behind me.

My fingers began to sink into the green
and yellow like they were playdough. The
colors beneath my feet were dimming, pal-
er, then greener – the green of the fields at
the bo om of the mountain. I sank into the
dimming colors un l they faded out and
there was no bo om to hit in the sky and I
was falling.

About the Author:

Ma hew Vesely is a blossoming writer who thinks far too much about too big of concepts.
A recent graduate of Rowan University with two degrees in Wri ng Arts & Theatre, he cur-
rently resides in New Jersey with his family. He will defend New Jersey with my life. He cur-
rently works wri ng for an agency, also wri ng for the theatre, music, and literary worlds. @
ma hewvesely on Instagram.

56

THE EULOGY

by Christopher Cooper

The day a er I sold my novel was my fa- most metaphorical for the current state of
ther’s funeral. And while I should have been affairs. My desk was clu ered with literary
looking forward to promo ng my book, all works; from Camus to Chaucer, there was
I could think about were the numerous no shortage of inspira on within reach.
chances I had over the years to see or speak But all of these quintessen al ‘must-reads’
to him while he was s ll cognizant; the days were rather extraneous when it came to
that I could have went over and had dinner fathoming the loss of a parent. A Google
with him but chose to just go home straight search produces a myriad of ar cles about
from work to watch TV, or the many instanc- the difficulty of having to bury a child but
es where I could have picked up the phone almost nothing about pu ng a parent to
to see how he was doing but instead opted rest and how to deal with it. Probably be-
for scrolling through mindless memes on cause it is the normality, and it’s expected
my tablet. The night before his wake, I sat for everyone to outlive their mother and
at my desk; figh ng heavy eyelids and fix- father, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
ated on the fact that I’d never have to dial
his phone number or have another conver- I had already dealt with the death of
sa on with him again, I struggled to string my mother almost 12 years prior, and
together the words for his eulogy. while the afflic on of losing a parent is
heartbreaking, it isn’t like the typical des-
Derived from the La n word “elogium”, ola on of par ng from a significant oth-
which translates to “inscrip on on a tomb,” er. Both losses come with ini al pain, but
I inherited the daun ng task of giving my fa- while the hurt from losing a lover pacifies
ther’s eulogy. It was an easy task to assign a er me and eventually diminishes once
to me from my brother and sister: ‘You just you find another suitor, the anguish from
wrote a book, Colin. How hard could it be to losing a parent never appeases. On the
write Dad’s eulogy?’ The recent dichotomy contrary, it persists; the sorrow grows ten-
of joy and poignancy had le me in a state fold with each passing birthday and each
of ambivalence; every me I wanted to feel anniversary of the death. Each special oc-
excited or joyful about a aining my goal of casion in your life is dimmed with a per-
being published, an overwhelming sense of manent veil over the moment, knowing
guilt overcame me. How could I be happy your loved one isn’t there to experience
about anything when my father was dead? it. The wound from the passing of a parent
is something you just have to learn to live
My 2 bedroom apartment hadn’t been with.
cleaned in months now; the mess was al-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I glanced over to the couch where my and teeth, and stern face. I whispered the
father spent the last remaining months words of the eulogy to myself, prac cing
of his life. His red vintage rosary beads the 2 minutes of content I had stayed up
he grasped ghtly every day s ll lay on the en re night dra ing. It was crazy how
the coffee table. The murky blanket I had cra ing over 100,000 words of fic on was
washed almost every other day due to his a breeze and penning together 300 words
uncontrollable bowel movements was s ll about my father was like the Manha an
sprawled out, hanging on the back of the Project. And it wasn’t un l around 2 A.M.
couch. The TV was s ll on, which I had kept that morning a er I smoked a joint did it
on every day to fill the room with back- dawn on me, that maybe the swarming om-
ground noise and give him something to inous feeling surrounding a eulogy wasn’t
gaze at while he slipped in and out of his as brooding as it really was. And maybe
Alzheimer episodes. From lassitude to ma- life was just a series of delivering eulogies;
niac, each and every day was a plight on saying goodbye to your childhood, bidding
sanity. And while the death of my mother farewell to old friends and lovers, and com-
was quick and painless, the slow, steady ing to peace with the culmina on of certain
demise of my father was like the peeling of
an onion; layer a er layer torn away while mes in your life. Maybe life was all about
I watched helplessly with tears in my eyes, burying things you love and keeping them
un l eventually all that was le was the close to your heart to live on only in your
rancid, decaying core of a carcass. It was memory.
going to be hard to erase the recent mem-
ories of my father crying out in terror as The funeral home was filled with nau-
he begged for his deceased mom, his dead sea ng, charnel fragrances from the array
wife, and some sort of clarifica on on all of of flowers. The outdated, garish wallpaper
his confusion. Some nights I would find him and popcorn ceiling permeated the feel
swea ng profusely, curled up in the fetal of the 80’s, a me when my father was
possession. I possessed a certain animosity healthy and very much alive. I recalled my
for my brother and sister for having laid the childhood home’s basement with its pop-
burden of caring for my father. And while it corn ceiling above and the countless nights
made sense that I take care of him since I I spent sneaking out of my bedroom to play
wasn’t married or had a family, witnessing Space Invaders on Atari with my younger
the suffering my father had endured at the brother Keith in the basement. We’d p-
hands of his own mind was something that toe like stealthy ninjas down the stairs to
would stay with me the rest of my life. avoid waking mom and dad. And at some
point we had snuck down the stairs for the
The day of the wake came in a flash. Star- last me, and we didn’t even know it.
ing into my bathroom mirror, I tediously ed
my e; extending my neck upwards, I slow- I was the first one there at the wake,
ly looped the wide end of the e around my which was typical. We had all agreed that
neck and pulled it through the knot ghtly we would hold a private viewing for the
as I gazed at myself in the mirror. And for immediate family, and then we’d close the
the first me in my life, I saw the resem- casket for everyone else. My father’s sunk-
blance of my father looking back at me; the en face and bri le appearance was not
same translucent blue eyes, wide mouth how he was supposed to be remembered.
His fragile form was a mere shell of his for-

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Revista Literária Adelaide

mer self. He had been a burly, respectable smelled like she bathed in eucalyptus oil,
man who carried himself with confidence as the aroma fumigated my nose. She s ll
his en re life; his loud, imposing voice al- looked overtly emaciated from the years
ways commanding a en on. of ba ling her ea ng disorder. Her makeup
was overdone in a empt to thwart people
I walked up to where my father lay and from guessing her correct age. My brother
looked up at his picture that sat on top of Keith followed behind, holding his 4 year
the casket; it was his navy photo. A youth- old daughter Lacey in his arms; his wife
ful, accomplished man spor ng a visor-less had run off with his best friend only a year
sailor hat with glassy eyes stared back at me. or two prior. The obtrusive shine from the
I stood abreast the dark mahogany casket overhead lights bounced off of Keith’s bald-
with my father lying below me. His salt and ing head, blinding me momentarily. And
peppered hair lay res ully over the side of while my sister had been withering away,
his head while his vacant face peered straight Keith was expanding. He looked uncomfort-
ahead. The cadaver resembled my dad, but ably bloated; his bu oned down shirt was
he wasn’t really my father. He looked more riddled with gaps as it struggled to remain
like a doll, and I guessed at that point, that’s closed, while his blazer constricted his pro-
all he really was; hollowed out and pumped truding torso like a straightjacket. I could
with chemicals in order to preserve, so we tell he had been ea ng his feelings for a
could show him off one last me. while now.

I stood over my father and looked down “This place is big,” my brother said as he
at him; he was finally at peace. The haunt- surveyed the room. He wasn’t much of a
ing images and voices that terrified him at conversa onalist; all he ever did was make
night were finally over. I thought back to glaring observa ons.
one of the earliest memories I had of him;
I remembered gazing up at my father a er I nodded my head.
I had fallen off of my bike when I was 5 or
6 years old. Crying hysterically, I laid on the “He lived a full life,” Meg’s vacuous, va-
pavement, overdrama cally holding my nilla husband said an effort to provide some
knee as I rocked back and forth. My father sort of solace. “Congrats on the book by the
swooped in and picked me up, clutching way,” he added. “Thanks,” I replied.
me in his arms as I yelped. Placing me back
on my feet, he encouraged me to get back “God never gives us more than we can
on the bike, “It’s okay, Colin. Everything’s handle,” my sister u ered, speaking in her
going to be okay,” he cooed. His words typical pla tudes.
were always comfor ng, and his thick mus-
tache and wide neck made him look super- I felt an incredible bi erness swim over
hero-like; he taught me how to get back up me and an unceasing urge to snap: ‘You fuck-
whenever I fell, no ma er how much I hurt. ers got off scot-free the past few months. I
had to wipe the man’s ass, spoon feed him,
“Col,” I turned around to see my sister sleep on the ground next to him in case he
and my brother with their kids. “Hi guys,” woke up bewildered. While ya’ll were out
I whispered stoically. My sister Meg was living your best lives, I was by myself caring
with her generic husband, as they held the for him.’
hands of their 5 year old daughter. Meg
“Why don’t you guys go up and see him
before everyone gets here, and we close

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

the casket,” I nodded towards the casket in mas. Meg with her adorable chubby cheeks
the front of the room. My brother handed and wide eyes, and a slim, ny Keith with
his daughter off to Meg’s husband and then a full head of bushy brown hair; just how I
proceeded to walk hand and hand with my remembered them when we were all kids.
sister up to where my father lay. My sister I walked over and embraced them both.
and brother both lowered themselves down While we all comforted each other in a
on the kneeler and took in the sight of what collec ve cry, I felt relieved. I felt relieved
was le of our father. Simultaneously, they that they didn’t get to see the rapid, har-
began to weep uncontrollably. And while I rowing deteriora on of our father the last
had felt a deep, dark, caus c an pathy for few months. My brother and sister weren’t
them lately, those sen ments subsided. equipped to deal with life’s vicissitudes,
and I was glad I was able to shelter them
“Col,” they both remarked, turning to- from that; I was grateful.
wards me with their arms outstretched, as
tears fell from their eyes. “We’re orphans now,” Keith u ered.

I looked over towards my brother and “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay,”
sister, and for a moment, I envisioned them I whispered, pulling my sister and brother
as children; free from their flaws and trau- close.

About the Author:

A 2010 English literature graduate of James Madison University, Chris Cooper currently
works full- me as a Senior Copywriter and part- me as a freelance copy editor. He was the
recipient of the 2010 “Future Writers of America” award his senior year in college, and his
work has been featured in Across the Margin, Scars Publica ons, and the Minds Journal
Magazine. Chris is an avid health and wellness advocate, and enjoys skiing, golfing, compet-
ing in strongman compe ons, and of course wri ng.

60

THE BEST COMPANY

by Ezra Brooks-Planck

The man blinked. He looked around him. “This is it.”
There was nothing. He stood in a vast emp-
“Then this is heaven?” the man asked
ness. There was no light and no dark. All and figure lted its head slightly.
he knew was that he was exis ng, but he
didn’t know where he was. He didn’t even “Mmm.” The figure’s reply was noncom-
know if he was. mi al.

He hung in the nothingness for a while, “So this is hell,” the man stated.
before he suddenly heard footsteps. He
blinked as smooth white floor material- “Not exactly.”
ized underneath his feet. He realized that it
had been there the whole me. He turned “Purgatory, then?” the man asked. As he
around and saw a figure. It was the same tried to look at the figure, his eyes kept slid-
nothingness that existed all around him, ing off the nothingness.
but it stood pa ently in front of him, arms
clasped behind its nonexistent back. “Closer. But s ll no.”

“Where am I?” the man asked, and his The man squinted. “Who are you, then?”
voice seemed to fade as soon as it le his he asked of the figure.
mouth, but the figure s ll reacted. He could
almost feel it smile. “Don’t you already know?”

“The End.” “Well if this isn’t heaven, then you aren’t
god,” the man said, thinking out loud.
“Of what?” the man asked. The figure
didn’t move. When it spoke, the voice “Hmm.”
seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“And if this isn’t hell, you aren’t the devil,”
“You already know what.” the man said and the figure shi ed slightly.

The man thought and decided that he “So do you know?”
did know. He sat down on the bench that
appeared—no, the bench had always been “I think I do,” the man said, and he could
there, the man decided. The figure mim- feel the figure smile again.
icked him.
“Then who am I?”
“So this is it then?” the man asked and
figure crossed its legs. “You’re both of them,” the man said.

“In a sense.”

The man frowned. “How do you mean?”
he asked. The figure shi ed its sea ng again,

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and then reached forward and picked up its “And this is it?” the man asked, panic ris-
cup that was si ng on the table that was— ing in his chest.
and had always been—between them. The
figure seemed to take a drink before it replied. “This is all that ever was, and all that will
be.”
“I am both of them, and I am neither of
them.” The man stared at the figure. In his
stomach roiled a mixture of fear and anger.
“A duality,” the man said flatly, picking He was fearful, for he had reached an emp-
up his cup. His was filled with tea—the pale ty nothingness where he would spend eter-
green tea that he had always been so fond of. nity, and he was angry that he would have
to spend it with this faceless being whose
“Precisely.” sole purpose seemed to be a bearer of bad
news.
“So if this is the End, and you are . . . who-
ever you are, then am I dead?” the man “And what am I supposed to do in this noth-
said, taking a sip of tea. It was hot, but com- ingness? Sit around and count the seconds?”
fortably so.
“Time does not exist here.”
“Yes. And no.”
“But it also does, doesn’t it?” the man
“The duality again?” the man asked, and asked the figure. He stood up angrily and
the figure nodded, taking a drink of coffee. the table and chairs vanished. The man re-
alized there never had been any table and
“You’ve got it.” there never were any chairs. They had al-
ways been standing.
“So then I’m both alive and dead,” the
man said, and reached forward to take a “Correct.”
biscuit from the small plate on the table.
“So I’m just supposed to exist, then, am
“You always were, and you never were.” I? Float here in the nothingness and do
nothing for the rest of eternity?” the man
“Then I’m not on earth, right now, I take asked, stepping towards the figure. The fig-
it,” the man said and the figure put its cup of ure was just as far away.
coffee down and was quiet while it thought.
“You may, if that is what you wish.”
“Earth never existed. And it will always
exist.” “What else is there to do?” the man
asked incredulously.
“But I’m here now. I can’t go back to my old
life,” the man said, slowly lowering his cup of “You can create.”
tea. He already knew the figure’s answer.
“What?” the man asked, taken aback. He
“That is the only definite.” was not expec ng the figure to be so frank
with him.
“But how did I get here?” the man asked.
“You have the power to create anything
“You reached the End. And then you ar- that you wish. You have several mes al-
rived.” ready without realizing it.”

“So I died?” the man asked, growing fear- “I can?” the man asked, and the figure
ful now. nodded.

“In a sense.”

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“You created benches, and a table, and of situa ons that had made him angry and
coffee and tea. You created the floor we’re smiled again when he looked back on hap-
standing on. You even created me” py memories. A er a moment of eternity
had slipped by, he glanced up from where
“How? I didn’t try to,” the man said, and he had been playing with his shoelaces and
he could feel the figure smile yet again. saw a door. He blinked. He stood up.

“Precisely. You expected them to be It was a simple door—black wood, with
there, and they were.” a small window in it. It stood in a simple
door frame that was also black wood. The
“It’s that easy?” the man said quietly, and window was frosted glass, but the man
the figure surprised the man. The figure could tell that only the nothingness stood
laughed. Then it was gone. The man blinked. on the other side of it. He frowned. He was
The laughter echoed in the nothingness. not surprised that there was a door in the
nothingness—a er all, why not?—instead
“It always has been, but it never will be.” he frowned because it was the door to his
house. He stood up and walked over to the
The man looked around, but saw the fig- door—or maybe the floor just pulled the
ure nowhere in the vast nothingness that door towards him like a giant treadmill.
surrounded him. He stood, alone, in eternity.
When the door stood in front of him,
He sat down on the floor cross-legged he reached out and grasped the doorknob.
and thought. He thought about everything. Turning the handle, he opened the door and
His life, his family, his friends, the places stepped through. As he passed through the
he’d been, the places he hadn’t been, the portal, the figure’s words came back to him.
women he had slept with, and the ones You expected them to be there, and they
who he never had but always wanted to. were.
He thought about the last meal that he
ate, and the first meal that he had eat- On the other side of the door, the man
en. He laughed when he thought of funny found exactly what he expected to be there.
things and grew sad when he thought of
sad things. He grew angry when he thought

About the Author:

Ezra Brooks-Planck has been wri ng for nearly a de-
cade and recently graduated from Northern Michigan
University with a degree in English. He writes whatever
interests him from poetry to travelogues, fic on to fan-
tasy. He lives in the Midwest where he writes between
his adventures.

63

CUTTHROAT GAP

by Larry Rose

THE RANCHER CREAKED BACKWARDS on I first knew of Cu hroat Gap from a
his porch rocking chair. His hand shook geologic map in the old part of the geology
from age, perhaps, as he pointed out to the library at the University of Oklahoma. Old
box valley in front of us. His face was drawn, paper map, torn and dog-earred. Browning.
afraid. I was searching for a field area for my disser-
ta on on mineral transport, one that had
“It was 1832, the Kiowa call it “The Year three different rock types, no more, drained
the Stars Fell”. Too many of the warriors by small streams into a confined area.
were out on raids, and le their camp unde-
fended. The women and children, old folks, Looked good on the map. So, one day
were caught by the Osage from the north- in the Fall, I drove down to the Gap, about
east, their old enemy but this me paid 150 miles from my office at the university,
well by the US Cavalry. On a Kiowa hunt. down through the dry plains, the few trees
The Osage killed all of the Kiowa trapped in the stream beds turning blood red, and
here…., and then cut off their heads and low brown rolling hills of Chickasha, Fort
put them in the camp cooking pots or strew Sill and Snyder. Turning east I drove along
them on the ground to be found by the a narrow straight red clay and dirt road
young men on their return. From then on flanked by fields of stubble, and finally
the sign for Kiowa was the ac on of ge ng there was a ca le guard and rickety gate
your throat cut, drawing the thumb like a lined with barbed wire. Through that lay
knife across your throat, like this”. the road up to the mountain front a mile
away and the entrance to the Gap.
He made the sign then looked at the
high cliff to te north. He looked afraid. The Gap lay through a narrow and sin-
uous break in the mountain along the dry
A great story. I should have known. I stream bed of intermi ent Cu hroat Creek.
should have looked up the origin of the In the shadow of the cliffs the sun was just
name. Hundreds massacred. US Cavalry a glint off the granite near the top of the
paid for it. The Year the Stars Fell. The Peo- defile.
ple whose throats were cut.
Young, scrappy, dedicated to my studies,
He added, “I taught history at OU. Bought science and the earth, I cut a “fine figure”,
this land as soon as I re red sort of to pre- I knew I did, in my suntanned field wear,
serve it, honor it. And to tell its story. Moved shiny black cowboy boots, sharpened steel
here with the wife. She’s gone now.” Geology hammer and fancy Brunton com-

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pass in a worn thick leather case slung to to ask permission to be on the land. The old
my belt. And of course the black cowboy gentleman rancher was on the porch, just
hat I had affected since I came to Norman rocking, a hand rolled cigare e, looking out.
from New York two years earlier. I even af- “Hello! Hi… my name is Charlie Hanson and
fected an Okie accent. Go a get along. I’m down from OU to work on my disserta-

There was one house in the valley, a on... like to study your land on and off for
small valley maybe three quarters of a mile a few months if that’s OK sir.?.”
square, like a box, fault bounded, ancient.
The starkness and the gleam of the rocks, “Come on up, sit down. If you close the
and the quiet overcame me as I stepped gates and don’t collect too many plants or
out of my car for a full view. Seven hundred specimens that’ll be fine.”
foot cliffs of the reddest granite, brilliant,
reflec ve of both deep, rich, and light red, “No, sir. I’m here to collect rocks, I’m work-
surrounded me on four sides, with jet black ing on my doctorate in Geology. I wanna be a
massive sills of crystalline gabbro shining rich oil man”, I chuckled. . .
like a mirror that was stroked through the
granite. Intense contrast in color. And at His face changed. Looked very gray, old-
the bo om a so creamy sandstone called er, stared out at me. “Here, sit down….” He
the Post Oak forma on derived from the mo oned for me to sit on the crude weath-
granite and gabbro during the Cretaceous ered bench by his rocking chair.
some 80 million years ago. Perfect!
Then he told me about the Cu hroat Gap
And the quiet! Only the rapid movement massacre. Of course I was curious about the
of the clouds above let me know there was name.
a world outside. There was no wind. S ll-
ness. Lowing of a cow. It supported a few “There’s more I guess you have to hear”,
head of range ca le.The few trees, scraggly he said as if in a deep depression. “I don’t
oaks, a few willows by the creek, madrona, much like telling this part of the story, but
had lost most of their leaves, the oaks look- you have to hear it”.
ing like streaking black lightning outlined
against the cliffs. He turned quickly,and somewhat unnat-
urally looked me right in the eye. I was star-
The stream down the center of the val- tled by this sudden move.
ley was dry most of the year. Grass, sparse
now with the lack of recent rain, spo ed In a slow, very serious voice he started,
the flat valley floor. The desola on was “Every year about Easter some of the Kio-
beau ful, magical. I breathed deep. But it wa tribal council would come here driving
felt dangerous too. I knew there were cop- down from Carnegie, the Kiowa “Capital”. I
perheads and prairie ra lers. I was glad of would put them up for a few nights in my
my boots! But it was more than just that. spare rooms. I always welcomed their com-
Ancient. The place was ancient. Millions of pany and their stories. Each me a young
years of deep me secrets to be discovered man would be honored by being asked to
or never to be known? go spend the night up there dancing and
praying.” He pointed to a promontory on
I drove to the house, a small cabin really, the cliff on the northwest edge.
gray clapboards and a steeply peaked roof,
“Every year un l 1964 they came. Since
then, never again. Very sad, well, more
strange than sad.”

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This depressed tone started when I men- thing, save climbing up and touching it or
oned geology, rocks. What was going on? harming it in any way, to get rid of the bird.
A solu on? They hoped that if Jim climbed
“The young man, Jim I remember his back up and put the rock back maybe then
name was, came down from his night on it would be OK. . They were desperate.
the High Place and in his hand was a piece Even though the sun was climbing in the
of the red granite. Nothing special. Just a east, my front room felt like it was in pitch
rock. When the elders saw it they started darkness.
shou ng, asking where he got it, how he
could be so stupid? I watched as one of the “Standing right here, they watched him
elders rushed at him and was going to hit as he climbed and a few minutes a er he
him! But then something made them all topped the cliff the owl flew away! It just
suddenly fall silent. They looked up and flew away...I never saw another one since,
pointed to my roof. but I can s ll hear them at night”.

“Si ng there staring at them, at all of us, Okay. Seriously. This guy is having fun
in the fullness of the bright morning, was a with me. A young geologist, all full of him-
large brown and white, deep-eyed owl. self, a creature of ra onal thought, the Sci-
en fic Method… and rocks are sacred, and
“Then the panic really started! They rocks are cursed by Owls that are more
shouted, honked their car horns, screamed, than owls. Big Joke!
wept, banged pots! But the owl just stared
immovably... staring directly at them.. “Look, I think you can be free to collect
but just not from up there. Look, respect
“Now I had heard owls at night, but I nev- for the tradi ons, OK? “Yes, respect. Buy I
er saw one here in the day me. The owl knew he believed in the whole owl mystery.
wouldn’t move. Now you have to under-
stand, owls are an evil omen to just about “Yes, respect”, I answered.
all tribes of Plains Indians. There are stories
of Kiowa raids as far as to Mexico to get For the next few hours I walked the
horses that, seeing an owl, turned to home valley to be sure it was right for my work.
immediately sure that someone would die It was, so I said good-bye to the old gen-
or that there was some sort of calamity go- tleman and drove back to Norman with a
ing to be visited on the people. These peo- great story to tell.
ple staying at my house were good church
going men of course… but the old ways? As I drove northeast, in my rearview
They stay strong. mirror I could see a towering storm forming
over the Washita. It was following me.
“And here, in Cu hroat Gap, the realm
of the ghost spirits of the massacred, their Content… And that was the end of it. No
panic was truly frightening” more stories. Only a field area remained
and months of hard work. .
“An owl! For a shaman his road included
killing an owl to show his immunity to fate Geology students help each other with
and his bravery. He would use the skin as a their field work. I mean being alone, you
hand puppet to foretell only evil. can’t carry too many rocks. So Dave and
Paul volunteered to go down to the Washita
“So they wept, went inside my house Mountains with me the next week. But be-
and paced, just paced. They would try any- fore we le they made me smoke a White

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Owl cigar and we had a lot of fun joking mapping students with me to see if they
about curses and things. could do a job on the Gap. Before I let them
go off to make their maps I warned them
In Dave’s open Jeep the fun was mul - not to go up to the High Place because, I
plied. Also, his Jeep gave us a leg up on get- half lied, the rancher didn’t want anybody
up there.
ng around in the Gap.
So I’m down in the steam bed collect-
We collected for about eight hours, ing sand when I heard a crashing and the
worked hard labeling and mapping the loca- sound of rocks falling. Splintering. Ringing
as they hit. The nineteen year old frat boys
on of at least 100 samples. But as it would and sorority girls, second year majors, were
have it, the soon-to-set sun found us up the rolling boulders off the cliff!
cliff by the High Place. Paul was pu ng a
sample in his backpack when I told him we I flashed at them with my compass mir-
don’t really need to collect here. ror which meant “HERE, NOW!” And I gave
them hell.. Mainly because of the danger to
“New Yorker! I’m from here and we hear others or ca le who might be at the bot-
those stories all the me! Silly. Hanson, get tom… and also told them that I would have
over it. a hard me trus ng them again… and that
grades would be lowered.
I gave in.
WE got back in our cars… them depressed,
We drove back to the glass and brick and me s ll angry, and drove home. When
geology department on the south oval and I got to the department office I got a mes-
we unloaded the samples down into my sage URGENT from Sacramento, California.
basement lab. I went home, exhausted. A My girlfriend, the beau ful, vivacious Carol
great day. Ellen, visi ng family, had had a motorcycle
accident. The prognosis was not good. Same
Banging on my door! Two AM. Paul di-
shevelled. He had been crying. “I saw the me as the rocks came tumbling down? Yes,
owl!!! My father is dead. ! And seriously, of course. Coincidence? A er six months in
KEEP AWAY when you see me!. I want noth- hospital she pulled through… but I had had
ing to do with you!” enough of these coincidences. Was this get-

He turned and walked with long,deter- ng out of hand?
mined strides into the night.
So I went to sources… I read every book
It appeared that his father’s cancer, in I could find about the magnificent Kiowa,
remission, had returned and took him sud- perhaps the best light cavalry the world had
denly. Paul blamed me! Talked wildly about ever seen, their alliance in 1800 with the
an owl… and he never did talk to me again Comanche and the unrivaled war of inevi-
even though we saw each other almost dai- table defeat they fought against the United
ly. The look on this handsome man’s young States las ng almost 80 years. They used
face that night was a mix of hatred, sorrow courage, strategy, buy also magic, mag-
and terror. ic knives, magic tribal bundles, calendars.
And gave no quarter. They carried with
Time passed, a month perhaps, and I them their warrior tradi ons and their sha-
had to return to Cu hroat Gap for stream
samples and a few more rock loca ons. I
decided to bring my undergraduate field

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

manic beliefs from their ancestral homes in rageous ques on. “We don’t go there any
the Black Hills, also granite, moving south more”. I was anxious. Here was this nice
by dog travois un l they found the horses. young man confirming the sacredness of
Cu hroat Gap to his people. Then he fol-
Cu hroat Gap figured in their story both lowed with the rancher’s owl story... detail
as a historical marker and also as a cursed by horrific detail.
place they used to go to but no more. There
were several other such places sacrosanct Then, “You asked about Paul’s curse and
to the tribe sca ered throughout south- yours? Why not Paul? Why not you? “He
west Oklahoma’s mountains and hills. looked both sternly and apologe cally at me.

That reading and talking enriched me “Never the guilty party! Always the loved
and I am grateful. ones!”

But the ques on nagging me was not I went back to Cu hroat Gap a few mes
answered. Books didn’t talk about such more. My scien fic self overwhelmed by
things. The ques on... Why was Paul’s fa- magical thinking, by Vibra ons, history, dull
ther the vic m of Paul’s “transgression”? music on the wind, I never ventured any-
And Carol the vic m of mine? where near the High Place again. The world
is full of such stories as I found out over the
“We hear you’ve been working in Cut- years. Do I believe them?
throat Gap:”, said Fred Wills, young mem-
ber of the Kiowa na on, a student of mine Lesson. “What is fact today will be here-
in Freshman Geology. I sought him out a er sy tomorrow”… Audric Baillard.
class. Yes I imposed on him with my out-
My life took a rapid turn.

About the Author:

Larry Rose is an earth scien st, travel, environmental and educa on writer. Blending a ca-
reer as a science writer for the Na onal Science Founda on with a Grammy nominated
career as a musician, his life has been full of contrasts. Born in New York, he has lived and
worked in Paris, Oklahoma and San Francisco.. Now making his home in Medellin, Colombia,
he is enjoying the country, its people and its always surprising culture.

68

HAIR IN THE BATHTUB

by Greyson Ferguson

I’ve never liked hair in the bathtub. Even One foot steps into the tub, pulling my
my own. The way a strand twists and swirls breath in, as if to cool the fire around my
through rising water before bobbing to the toes. I accept the heat as goosebumps run
surface. I take a towel to the dry porcelain, down my arms. As the inhale of my lungs
wiping out any would-be strands. Sa sfied, returns to normal, my second foot joints
I fold the towel and set it down on the toi- the first.
let seat, palms ironing out cres ng dunes in
the thick co on. Si ng down, the water pulses against
the front of the tub before gently pushing
I plug the tub and twist open the faucet. against my chest. My knees remain two
Water, the perfect temperature, surges to islands above the water. The warm water
the white surface below. It’s always frus- wraps itself around me. A hug, which soon
tra ng when someone comes to visit and will cool. A metaphor for most of my rela-
they adjust my temperature se ng, forcing
me to fiddle with the handles un l I unlock onships.
the combina on of perfect bath water. But
nobody ever visits. Guess I’m frustrated for My eyes scan over the water. Bubbling
another reason. up from the waterfall near my toes. No
hairs to be seen. Or the twis ng threads
Reaching for the bubble bath pushed in are lying in wait under the surface. I
a corner I stop, my finger tracing along the choose not to look. Instead, I look at the
oversized plas c container. I like bubbles plas c tub of bubble bath, the purple liq-
in my baths. It hides the floa ng hairs. It uid wondering why I neglected to invite it
keeps me from looking into the water and in. The shampoo I over-pay for in hopes of
seeing me. But today, right now, it doesn’t thicker, fuller hair. The safety razor gi ed
seem like the me for bubbles. At least I’ve to me by the company, in hopes of a favor-
never heard of someone using bubbles. able review.

I take off my clothes, folding and adding The company’s gi represents the nicest
each on top of the towel. Checking to make gesture I’ve received in some me. People
sure the door’s latched, I stand over the stop offering nice gestures in adulthood. At
tub, steam rising. Warmth filling my nose. If least that’s my experience. Only birthday
I don’t check the door, one of the dogs will card I received last year came from the in-
come in and confiscate my underwear. It surance company. People have to gesture
makes her happy. Maybe I should let her in. one another somewhere, right? I’ve read
about people paying it forward at Star-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

bucks. I’m not sure how I can pay it forward Bested by a weed.
with my birthday card. Perhaps that’s why
my premium went up. When you need to talk about in mate
details, at least when I need to talk about
The safety razor is heavy. The handle in mate details, I don’t just want to talk to
twists off to reveal the razor blade. It’s anyone. There’s only a select few I’d want
thin. Paper-thin. It gently flexes between to open up about that too. A er aban-
my thumb and finger. I wonder if this is the doned for a medicinal mental high I can’t
right kind of blade. call the landlord and tell them to shut the
water off—
Li ing my le arm, water drips from my
wrist. Tears from my body. A body no longer –I reach and turn off the water. I feel
capable of feeling. I haven’t felt anything in weak. Lightheaded. Like my body is caving
a long me now. No good. No bad. No ex- in on itself. I’d hate if my water pooled down
citement. Nothing. Like in a bubble as the onto the neighbors. Probably wouldn’t get
world goes by. I go through the mo ons. I my security deposit back either.
work. I eat. I walk dogs. A human on auto-
pilot. I’m not sure if the pilot remains or if I wonder when they find me if my
he hopped out, strapped with a parachute friends will say they wish I had called. Told
a long me ago. I just want to feel. someone. Said something. Did something
other than what I did. I wonder if that per-
I met someone online the other day. I in- son, that one friend, would realize. I won-
vited them over. I just wanted to feel some- der if they’d blame themselves. Or blame
thing. I didn’t. Some mes you just want to me.
feel.
Coldness envelops me. I shudder as the
The blade pulls down my skin, follow- bath water turns from a watery pink to
ing the vein. It pulses with the beat of my thick crimson. It’s eerily beau ful.
heart. Blood flows. The water swirls into a
pain ng of red, but there are no happy lit- As I make the last cut, I con nue to feel
tle trees here. nothing. I’m just there. At least for a few
more breaths, I’m just there. I wonder what
I watch the blood pool. I can’t remem- comes a er when I fade out? I’m okay if it’s
ber if I felt it, even though it just happened. nothing. Because that’s what I already am.
Maybe my brain is numb. It’s been numb How I already feel. Just more of the same.
for a while. I don’t know.
Vision blurs. Spots of green and yellow
Whenever I’ve heard about suicides on move in, taking over my field of view. Void
the news, family members and friends al- of strength, I slump into the water. As my
ways say they had no warning. They were head wobbles and life fades, I can see it.
kind and happy and sa sfied and full of life. There, bobbing by my toes, a hair.
They cry and wish their lost loves had said
something. Called someone. Told someone. I hate hair in the bathtub.
Did something other than what they did.
I called someone. I told them I needed to
talk. That I felt down. Lost. Alone. Numb.
Empty. They told me to hold that thought,
pot delivery at the door.

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About the Author:

Greyson Ferguson is a graduate of the Savannah College of Art and Design with a Bache-
lor’s degree in Film and Television. He has wri en for numerous publica ons, including USA
Today, Yahoo, CBS Interac ve, and The New York Times. Greyson is the author of the travel
memoir Travel For the Soul (Even If You Don’t Have One), which became the #1 Peruvian
travel book on Amazon upon its release. When not wri ng, Greyson can be found walking
his dogs, discussing all things beer on his YouTube channel (2 Dudes and a 6 Pack), and ex-
ploring new books and music in the NBBC Book Club.

71

UNCLE

by Amanda Gamache

I realized he knew he was dying by the look “Bah,” Ciocia yelled from the kitchen. I
in his eyes, by the tone in his voice, as he glanced across the breakfast bar and saw
began to tell me about his experiences in her washing dishes. She gave me the hairy
World War II. I had heard about his child- eyeball. “Finish your breakfast.”
hood on the farm. I had heard about his life
with Ciocia, but always there was that sev- “Carol you had the hots for Chuck, huh?”
eral year gap, like 1941 through 1945 never My father shouted from the couch. I wouldn’t
happened. Like they were dull and boring find out that Ciocia’s name was not Carol but
and not worth men oning. He was si ng Caroline un l she died two years later.
in his ruddy pink recliner, a fleece blanket
pa erned with green palms draped over Ciocia made a throaty noise, a shut-the-
his lap. fuck-up type of noise. My father chuckled.

“This was me,” he grimaced as he reached My father had finished both his first and
into the pouch on the side of the recliner, re- second breakfasts. He wrapped his fingers
trieving a small, yellowing black and white around a mug that was pastel pink with yel-
photograph of himself. “I was eighteen low seahorses.
there, fresh in the Navy. They took our pic-
tures before they sent us off.” “Coffee Dad, really? I thought it gave you
the shits.”
I looked at the photo. It was my Uncle
but it wasn’t. It was not the Uncle I had “No. It’s vaca on. I’m enjoying myself.”
grown up seeing. In the photo he was sit- He wagged his feet as he watched Regis
and Kelly Live.
ng in front of a tarp backdrop. It was al-
most like a school photo, Charles Webbing, “The caffeine’s going to make you crazy.”
Age 18, 1942. He smiled, teeth just a small
flash of white between thin lips. His hair “Worry about yourself.”
was cropped short. I couldn’t decipher
what color it was. I would guess a dusty “What are you wearing? Is that under-
blond. His skin was smooth, plump, wrinkle wear?” Ciocia came around the counter
and callous free. His eyes were clear, white and flicked my shorts.
with gray irises.
“They’re pajama shorts.”
“Look at you,” I exclaimed, grinning a bit
too much. “I bet Ciocia swooned over you.” “Li le short.”

“Hence the term shorts.”

“I hope you’re wearing underwear.”

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“Ugh, really?” Ciocia walked back into the “Come on. We’ll have other vaca ons.” I
kitchen. I always made sure to wear granny twirled my fork in my pasta, looked at my
pan es around her. She had once li ed my brother. He shrugged. It’s dad. I don’t know
denim mini skirt, in the middle of a busy mall, what to tell you.
when I was fi een. She claimed she wanted
to make sure I wasn’t wearing those thongs. “No, no we won’t. You just graduated
and will have a full- me job soon and move
I looked at my Uncle. 71 years had passed out. Your brother is star ng college. This is
since the Navy had taken that picture. The it. This will be our last family vaca on. This
whites of his eyes were now a dim color, a will be the last me we’re all together. This
white without its luster, almost a gray. His will probably be the last me we see Carol
cheekbones protruded a bit while his fleshy and Chuck in Florida. It’ll be the last vaca-
cheeks had sunken in. The skin below his eyes
puffed slightly. He was wrinkled, calloused. on we spend with them.”
The pores on his nose were enormous.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Here, take this.” He pulled a few pa-
pers from the same pouch, leaned forward, “No.” My father slapped the table. The
winced slightly, and handed them to me. water in our glasses sloshed.

“Is this the boat you were on?” “Alright, fine, whatever. This is it. This is
our last vaca on. A er this, I will never va-
“Ship. It was a repair ship. We went to ca on with you again.”
ships that were a acked and fixed them.”
He stared at me intensely, willing me to lis- My father grunted. My brother looked
ten, willing me to understand that he knew down as he slurped some fe uccine alfre-
he was going to die soon. Willing me to do. My mom was taking garlic bread out of
know everything he wanted me to know. the oven.

I wanted to be interested. I knew I “This will be our last family vaca on. We
should have been, but I didn’t want to read need to enjoy it. We need to remember
the ar cle about the re rement of the ship that. We need to make it nice. We need to
he was in. I didn’t want to think about him spend me with Carol and Chuck. You kids
dying. I was on vaca on, a week with Uncle will appreciate it later.”
Chuck and Ciocia, a week at Disney World.
My parents had booked the trip over the “It’ll be fine. It’ll be fun. We’ll have fun.”
summer. At dinner one night, my father My brother grunted his agreement. My fa-
glared at my brother and me. His eyes were ther leaned back in his chair, looked at me,
narrowed. His body was lurched forward. then began to eat.
His face maroon. His fingers tried to knead
the wood of the dinner table. I thought I looked at my Uncle. This vaca on wasn’t
he was going to yell at one of us. I tried to as fun as I wanted it to be. I wanted my Un-
think of anything I had done over the past cle to be happier. I wanted to be happier. I
week that would have pissed him off. wanted to go to the beach and lie in the sun.
I wanted to shop and eat ice cream cones. I
“This is it, you know.” My father’s voice wanted him to take me to the shark-tooth
was vehemently calm. “This is going to be beach where my brother and I could scav-
our last family vaca on.” enge for shark teeth and shells. I wanted him
to sit in the mall while Ciocia, my mom, and
I went shopping in the “down south” stores.

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But my Uncle didn’t want to, or couldn’t, do to want to live? He did help soldiers, help
that. He could go for a short car ride with Americans. He was trained to be a den st,
my father. He could go out to dinner. But a medic. Was that not patrio c? I remem-
he didn’t want to go to the beach. He didn’t bered how my other uncle, Uncle Fred had
want to play mini golf. He didn’t want to shown me all his war medals when I was lit-
shop or stroll. tle. He got that one for killing those Italians
in North Africa. He got that one for killing
“I was a medic, a den st. I enlisted. I those Krauts in Southern Europe. Did Uncle
didn’t wait for the dra . If you enlisted, you Fred look down on my Uncle because he
had more of a choice on where you went. If didn’t kill people? My Uncle never talked
you were dra ed, you had no choice.” My about the war. Uncle Fred talked about it
Uncle looked down at his hands. His hands incessantly, but Uncle Fred also told me an
seemed to constantly shake. alligator was going to crawl onto his boat
and eat me. He laughed when I hugged my
I looked over the ar cle, skimming it father’s legs and cried. I didn’t much care
at first, then reading it thoroughly, taking for Uncle Fred.
mental notes. I had to remember this. This
was part of my Uncle’s life. But my Uncle, the man who had been
like a grandfather to me, he hadn’t killed
“The men were crazy,” he told me. “They anyone. I think. No, I knew. I would be-
would set off fireworks and…” The short an- lieve that. He hadn’t killed anyone. Maybe
ecdotes were funny, entertaining. The sail- he couldn’t save someone. But that was
ors had done things that only a group of tes- different. He never killed anyone. He nev-
tosterone-filled young men trapped at sea er pointed, aimed, and sprayed bullets at
could think up. There were homemade fire- random enemy soldiers. He never tossed a
works, card games with bizarre rules, hazing, grenade. It was okay to do that, but it was
and an overabundance of chlamydia and also okay to not do that. Maybe. My Uncle
syphilis–par cularly a er they had docked. never killed anyone. I loved him more for
that. I loved him for living. I loved him for
“You were a den st, why did you see guys loving Ciocia, for loving my mother, my fa-
with STDs?” ther. I loved him for staying alive. I would
never tell him that.
“A medic, technically. I helped the infir-
mary.” His voice was rough as he said infir- “We went all over,” He started talking to
mary. I was sure he didn’t just see men with me about what the ship did, what islands
burning piss. I looked at my Uncle. I won- he saw, what countries he visited. As he
dered if he ever saw a man wearing a neck- spoke, he tried to cross his legs. The color
lace of ears or watched a soldier box up a drained from his face. His lips puckered.
penis to send home to his wife. Momentos. He stopped talking. I knew that soon there
would be call a er call, surgery a er surgery,
He lived through WW2 propaganda and organ a er organ shu ng down. I’d seen it
Americanism—grow cabbage for victory! I before. My Uncle would die bit by haggard-
wish I was a Man, I’d Join the Navy! Avenge ly bit, drown in each bit of pain, un l he
Pearl Harbor! The Enemy Laughs as You would die in an un mely manner. I didn’t
Loaf! He probably watched men die. I won- want to sit through each one of those bits.
dered if he felt guilty about not wan ng to If he was to die then he should just die in
be on the front lines, not wan ng to die so
randomly, so easily. Was it un-American

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one moment, instantly, painlessly, without “I don’t need that.” My Uncle walked
the sobbing for months, without the shut- slowly out onto the lanai. My father darted
ahead of him and moved a chair so that my
ng down a er shu ng down. I wished Uncle could sit in the sun.
him to die quickly so I wouldn’t have to
deal with a drawn-out death. I was selfish. “I could’ve done that.” My Uncle sat down.
I was awful. I didn’t want him to die, but if
he had to, then I wanted it suddenly, peace- “Well get to it, because you’re si ng in
fully, maybe in his sleep. I wanted him to my chair.” My father snickered as he brought
go to sleep laughing about how he beat my another chair over.
father at cards, remembering a fun family
vaca on, or thinking about how much he Ciocia was right. It was a beau ful day
loved Ciocia. His last thought should flood outside. The sun was almost straight over-
his brain with oxytocin, dopamine, and se- head. All the morning dew had le the
rotonin. Ela on, then silence. grass. I could see anoles si ng on the
palms around the lanai, heads lted up,
“Charlie,” Ciocia said, “why don’t you go eyes closed, basking. I brought my Uncle
sit out in the sun? It’s warm outside.” She a small bowl of macaroni salad to eat for
was bent over a li le, it had become her lunch. Ciocia brought him an ice water. He
standard gait as she got older. She didn’t seemed to have trouble sipping his drink.
have the hunch like many older women
get, but she seemed to bend at the waist I grabbed my breakfast plate and threw
a slight bit in an a empt to keep her center away my toast crusts. As I handed it to Cio-
lower and her balance steadier. cia, my mother called me over.

“I’m fine here.” “What’s up?”

“Go sit in the sun.” “Look what I found in the flour.” My moth-
er pulled out a picture of my Uncle kneeling
“Come on Chuck,” my father bounced next to a tomato plant.
up from the couch. Caffeine a-go. “Let’s go.
We can’t have a good conversa on with all “When was that taken?”
these women around here. Man me, real
conversa on.” “It’s dated 1982.”

Our conversa on was cut short. We “Why was it in the flour?”
would never finish it. I watched, glancing
back down at the repair ship ar cle once My mother shrugged. I took the picture
and while, as my Uncle struggled to get up. and headed towards my bedroom. My moth-
He slid to the edge of his chair with diffi- er began to work on tonight’s pierogis.
culty. His breathing labored slightly. Then
he gripped ghtly onto his walker and tried I put the picture in my suitcase and slipped
to pull himself up. I saw the purple color on a bikini. I checked my legs, armpits, and
deepen in his cheeks. His legs shook. The bikini line for stray hairs. Plucked a few out.
muscles and tendons in his arms went taut I looked at my body in the mirror. I stopped.
under his thin skin. I was on vaca on. Body shaming could wait.

“Chuck, I can raise that chair up for you. I walked out to the lanai.
Make it easier to get up.”
“Not much to that.” My Uncle said.

“Hmm? It covers everything.”

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“Not nearly enough.” “Cut throat. Let’s go.” The cards moved
rapidly between my father’s fingers. He
I shrugged. I wondered if he had said threw some cards at my brother (nuts, nuts,
the same thing to my mother when she nuts) my Uncle (nuts, nuts, nuts), himself
was my age. I’d seen the pictures. Bikinis in (everything, everything, everything).
the 1970s weren’t much different than the
2010s. I lied down on the hot tub cover. The “That never works dad.” I said. I had my
sun wasn’t very strong. I wouldn’t burn. I arm draped over my eyes. “And you sound
wanted to burn. I wanted my skin to turn like grandpa. That’s not a compliment.”
pink and feel the heat radiate off it. I loved
a light sunburn in the middle of winter. “Shut up you.” Nuts, nuts, nuts. Every-
thing, everything, everything.
“Charlie you want lunch?” Ciocia asked.
I closed my eyes and listened. I listened
“I’m ea ng macaroni salad.” to knocks on the table, pass, the whish of
card against card, the heavy sighs and ex-
“When’d you get that? You want some- cited quick breaths.
thing else? A sandwich?”
I woke because I was cold. My fingers
“No. This is good.” and toes were numbing.

“You want your jacket?” “It’s too cold,” I grumbled. “I thought Flor-
ida was supposed to be warm. The land of
“I’m wearing my jacket.” constant beach weather.”

“That’s not your jacket.” “It’s 70 and January.” My brother looked
at me, eyebrow cocked.
“Then whose is it?”
“It should be 85 and I shouldn’t be cov-
“You want your jacket? The yellow one?” ered in goosebumps.”

“No. I got this one.” “You’re a rep le.”

There was a long silence as Ciocia “Asshole.”
washed dishes, some for the third me,
and my mother pu ered around inside “Hey,” my father yelled.
the kitchen. My brother walked out, hair
s ll wet from the shower, smelling like Old “Four,” my Uncle said.
Spice, with a deck of playing cards in his
hand. He put them down on the table au- I went into the house, showered for too
thorita vely, along with a pen and paper. long. My Uncle was yelling through the
bathroom window that I was cos ng him a
“Morning sunshine. What me did you fortune. But the water wasn’t hot enough
go to bed last night?” My father tapped and my toes were s ll cold. I regre ed leav-
the arms of his chair. Caffeine, tap tap, too ing my UGGs at home.
much caffeine, tap tap.
A er being scolded again by my mother
“Let’s go, we’re playing Set Back.” He and Ciocia—listen to your Uncle—I walked
took my Uncle’s empty bowl and put his back to the lanai with my own bowl of mac-
glass of water on the table. My dad moved aroni salad and watched as my Uncle, father,
some chairs, and slowly, purple faced, my and brother con nued to play Set Back.
Uncle moved to sit down and join them.

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“Chuck, what do you want for lunch?” Ci- My Uncle glanced at the photo. “Yeah,
ocia asked. out back. When we first moved down, we
had a small garden.”
“I already ate.”
“How old are you here?”
“No you didn’t. What did you have?”
“Your age.”
“Macaroni salad.”
“Jesus. 58 and re red.”
“Do you want your jacket? Are you cold?”
“It’s your bid.” My brother was annoyed.
“I’m wearing my jacket.”
“Look at these.” My mother sat down
“You are?” beside me, handed me a stack of pictures.
Some were recent, me at my college gradu-
“Sandbagger!” My brother looked angry. a on. My brother at his high school gradu-
His eyes were wide, and his brows were a on. Some were old. Ciocia and my Uncle
pushed together. He put his head in his at the beach. My mother and her cousins
hands. “There’s no point in bidding. Uncle dressed for Easter, standing in front of a
Chuck sandbags you every me. He has all stoop frowning. I passed the pictures around.
the aces.”
“Look at this one.” My father held out a
My Uncle chuckled, pulling in a hand of picture of Ciocia. She was si ng on top of
cards—ace, low, queen. My brother was in a picnic table, hair curled, body leaning for-
the hole. ward. Her eyes were shut as she laughed. It
looked like a laugh that would make your
“How many games have you played?” eyes tear and your stomach ache. I won-
dered what was so funny.
“Two. You can’t do anything because Un-
cle Chuck doesn’t bid. He just puts you in “You know Carol then?”
the hole and slowly gets a point at a me.”
“No, a few years later,” my Uncle threw
My father grinned. “Didn’t expect your down a king and stole my brother’s jack.
Uncle to be a shark huh?” My brother crossed his arms.

My brother grabbed the deck and “Tell me,” my father leaned towards my
spread the cards all over the table. Then he Uncle, whispered, “tell me. Was Carol a
haphazardly grabbed one, then two, then brick shit house?” My father smirked, then
a pile, then one, un l he had restored the let out a throaty cackle. I shook my head.
deck. He shuffled.
My Uncle looked at my father, then the
“Trying to change the rhythm of the deck photo. He nodded his head slightly, and
doesn’t work either.” then grinned and said, “Yes.”

My mom stuck her head out, “Show “What did you call me?” Ciocia was be-
your father the picture I found.” hind them. One hand was on her hip, the
other was winding up. Her hand came down,
I retrieved the photo, gave it to my fa- down, down, and crashed onto my Uncle’s
ther, and sat down on the chaise lounge. I chest, his heart. It was a slap, a smack, quick
shoved a large spoonful of macaroni into as a blink. It was so hard that everyone
my mouth.

“Is this here Chuck?”

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heard the thud of palm against chest. Ciocia “Woo,” my father sat down. “Jesus, that
began mu ering as she made her way back Carol is a feisty one huh?”
into the house.
“Quiet over there.” Ciocia sipped some
My mother, father, brother and I iced tea.
watched my Uncle. We all held our breath,
waited. She killed him. She killed him. She My father pointed at Ciocia, “You be-
killed him. She slapped his chest and have.” He moved his eyes to my brother,
stopped his goddamned heart. “You, re-deal.” He threw his cards at my
brother. My mother stood over my Uncle
“Chuck, you alright? Chuck?” protec vely.

“Uncle Chuck?” “It wasn’t a misdeal.” My brother pushed
my father’s cards back.
“That language in my house, hmph.”
“Look, misdeal. I have seven cards.” My
“Chuck?” father had pulled an extra card from the
deck. He threw his cards back at my brother.
My Uncle let out a breath. He rubbed My brother shuffled, making sure he’d keep
his chest with a shaking hand. his good cards on the next deal.

“Chuck?” “I knew she was a brick shit house,” my
father whispered. “A hot tamale that Car-
My mother was suddenly behind him. ol. A hot tamale.” My mother pinched my
My father was standing up, his cards face father. Ciocia looked over, eyebrows raised
up on the table. My brother and I sat, mo- menacingly.

onless, wai ng for our parents to tell us “Behave.”
what to do.
“Her high school friends called her Spit-
“I’m fine.” My Uncle reached out and fire.” My Uncle looked at his new cards.
took a sip of water.
“Nothing’s changed, huh Chuck?”
We didn’t move. We waited. My par-
ents hovered. My brother pulled out his “Do you need anything?” My mother put
cell phone. I tried to remember where the her hands on my Uncle’s shoulders, held
aspirin was. onto him lightly.

“Charlie, here.” Ciocia was back out on “No, thank you.” My Uncle rubbed his
the lanai. She placed a cup of black coffee chest more.
in front of my Uncle. “Who’s winning?”
They con nued to play.
“Uncle Chuck,” my brother said.
About a half hour later, Ciocia was
“Hmph.” Ciocia lied down on the lounger asleep on the lounger, my mom was pu ng
next to mine. the pierogis in the oven, and the men were
on their fourth game of cards. My brother
“Chuck, you okay? Chuck?” would demand to play un l he finally won
a game.
“I’m fine.” My Uncle’s face was pale. His
eyes were dilated. “There’s the alligator,” I said, looking out
at the pond.
“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes. I’m okay.”

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“Your real rela ve.” My brother looked take a few shots. Rich green pieces of grass
up from his cards. stuck to my knees and shins. I was fi y
feet away from the alligator when it took
“Fuck you.” more serious no ce of me. It did not hiss,
did not charge, but in a movement faster
“Hey,” my father yelled. than I could reconcile it spun around and
dove snout-first back into the pond. I was
“I’m going to see if I can get a good pic- defeated.
ture of it.” I grabbed my camera and slipped
on my flip flops. The door to the lanai I turned around. My family was si ng
creaked as I opened and let it bounce shut. on the lanai. The men were s ll playing
I thought that maybe I should put some oil cards. I saw my brother throw his hands
on it. Before my Uncle had picked up a six- up. I heard my father and my Uncle laugh.
ty-pound bag of fer lizer and hurt his back, My mother and Ciocia were si ng on two
no door in this house would have emi ed chaise lounges. They sipped lemonade and
any sound. But I enjoyed the creaking noise cha ed. I adjusted my camera se ngs,
it made. I enjoyed the pronounced sound pointed, click, click, click. I looked at the
of in and out. preview screen. I would show my grandkids
this picture. I would tell them about my Un-
I walked through the s cky grass, creep- cle. I smiled.
ing slowly towards the alligator. My camera
was on. I held it at the ready. Every few My Uncle didn’t last the year.
feet I would stop, drop to my knees, and

About the Author:

A.L. Gamache is a New England Na ve with a BA in English (Specializa on in Crea ve Writ-
ing) and an MA in English from Southern Connec cut State University. When not wri ng,
A.L. Gamache is teaching college Composi on, Crea ve Wri ng, or Human Communica on
courses. She loves all forms of storytelling, running, and summer holidays on the Rhode
Island coastline. She is currently working on her first novel, combining aspects of French
folklore with mental health.

79

THE LAST LIVING

INDIAN

by Logan Giese

Tom Har ield sat at his cubicle in one of The blessing, the ineffable view, which
many iridescent spiral towers sca ered happened to be on the 158th floor of Spiral
across Manha an. He felt sa sfied with his Tower 3 in Midtown Manha an. The curse,
morning work crunching the daily numbers always having the boss around. No playing
and took a drink of his scolding hot coffee on the cyber communicator like everyone
he just poured himself. else because the boss could clearly see the
holographic images projected in front of
“Damn it,” Tom said almost spi ng out the eye when he passes.
the scorching liquid that must have burnt
away several hundred taste buds. He knew An alarm hologram went off in front of
it was a fresh pot and that wai ng a minute his lower right eye viewing area, blinking
was the right move, but the aroma of the ‘12:45 pm’ repeatedly in neon pink. Tom
coffee beans was pure heaven. moved his right hand and clicked the home
bu on connected to the cyber communica-
His work was important to him. Helping tor a ached to his right ear to turn off the
predict and approximate the daily solar out- alarm. It was a basic cyber communicator
put from the sun. Then conver ng it to reus- model, standard government issue black
able energy for the world’s largest city was of CC that looked like a rudimentary ear piece
great significance. Construc ng a solar pow- with a speaker s cking out.
ered dome around New York City was the
biggest human building project in existence. The alarm was for an in-person live
event that Tom had purchased ckets for
Tom looked out the window at the edge in advance. He hoped to impress a tradi-
of his cubicle, near the coveted corner office
his current boss occupied. The corkscrew onalist co-worker who canceled on him at
towers made of metallic glass reaching the the last second. He hated the idea of actu-
heavens looked like spears, wedging war ally going to something in-person. All en-
against the sky. The scene was awe-inspiring. tertainment, such as rock concerts, movies,
and travelling, was created as an enhanced
It was a blessing, and a curse, to work personal experience through the cyber
in a cubicle sta oned so close to the boss. communicator.

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Anything and everything was at Tom’s behind in year 3 of a 10-year project, his
finger ps when he went home. Annoying- free me would cease to exist. Using new
ly enough, this event was in-person only tech comes with growing pains.
at the Museum of Modern Art. He had
already spent a thousand dollars ge ng He got to the elevators, which had just
the two ckets. Tom had closed his touch- opened to let some off. Half a dozen peo-
screen before ge ng up to leave when his ple with four-inch hologram displays in front
boss Jim interrupted. of their right eyes stood facing the elevator
doors. Tom thought it was like looking at a
“Tom, did you get the numbers yet for human Christmas tree with all the reds, blues
Solar Panel 43?” and greens hanging on the occupants’ faces.

“Yes, Sir.” Tom said glancing up at Jim’s The elevator had stopped at the 143rd
raised brow. floor and an a rac ve brune e entered
and stood in front of Tom. He no ced she
“What was the output?” was watching the latest episode of ‘Three’s
a Crowd’, a popular sitcom about friends in
Tom grew frustrated and turned on his their thir es mee ng in a bar to complain
touchscreen specifically for solar observa- about their insignificant lives. Tom liked
the show and decided to turn it on as well.
on with great speed. Now he was going to Maybe he could get three episodes in be-
be rushed trying to get to the museum and fore he got to the Museum, since they ran
back before the a ernoon conversion rates 5 minutes a piece. Tom hoped she would
came in. take no ce, and the show could spark a
conversa on. Tom was wrong.
“Solar Panel 43 is reading at 8.65 Kilowa s,”
Tom said. “Way below what we need it to be.” Talking to strangers had become taboo be-
cause when people were in public, they were
Jim frowned and shook his head, “Not on their CC’s watching their latest shows or
good enough, not good enough at all. bands. The person interrup ng them would
These new Icarus nano-panels can magni- be considered rude or an annoyance. Talking
fy the 99.9% efficiency rate by ten. We are to and mee ng people was done through the
missing 1.35 Kilowa s. Find out where it city’s exclusive Social Status Site ‘Tri-S’, which
went. Building a dome that lasts 100 mil- by law, everyone had to register on for cen-
lennia is a tremendous responsibility Tom.” sus and popula on control reasons.

“I know sir.” As the elevator landed on the main lob-
by of Spiral Tower 3, the doors opened and
Everyone knows that your highness. people started exi ng. Tom waited his turn.

“Make sure to triple check the readings “Oh, well,” Tom said, missing his chance for
a er lunch. This is a top priority,” Jim said conversa on with her. He thought he could
while waving his hand to signify he was try to pin her later on Tri-S if he saw her again.
done with Tom.
“Excuse me?” the a rac ve brune e said
Tom nodded while turning off the touch- glancing his way.
screen to get ready to leave. Triple check-
ing the numbers of Solar Panel 43 would be Tom forgot he s ll stood next to her, and
not on Tri-S’s swiping main page.
me consuming. He would have to work an
extra couple of hours on top of his standard
12-hour shi . The constant deadlines need-
ed to be met, and since they were 6 months

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“Sorry, just thinking out loud,” He stam- loosened his e and wiped the beads of
mered. sweat already forming on his forehead with
the standard handkerchief that had become
Tom realized this was an un-taboo mo- fashionable again.
ment since her show revealed the end
credits and started the process of loading “Let’s walk instead of taking the tubes or
the next episode. “It’s just I have these the metro, shall we? I need some fresh air
two ckets to go see this in-person event every now and again,” Rebecca said.
right now and my friend canceled.” Tom
removed the ckets from his outer jacket “Agreed,” Tom said reluctantly.
pocket, showing them to her while they
were exi ng the elevator and entering the Instead of taking a le for the floa ng,
main lobby of Spiral Tower 3. Icarus-powered metro, they took a right on 7th
avenue, right in the middle of Times Square.
She peeked at the ckets. “Last Living
Indian, sounds interes ng.” “It’s busier than usual today,” Rebecca
said while glancing up at the connec ng
A er accep ng Tom’s invita on, he buildings’ metallic glass tubes, passage ways
asked her for her name, and she responded filled with people.
with Rebecca. A pre y name, classic.
“Yeah,” Tom said looking in the oppo-
“What do you do, Rebecca?” site direc on, towards the beginnings of
the dome construc on Southwest of them.
“I’m a civil engineering assistant over at Icarus-made robots worked on metal scaf-
Icarus Improvement,” Rebecca said. “It’s folds and could be seen from miles away.
a sub-division of Icarus Corp that focuses Some robots, viewed from such distance,
on future construc on of the city once the were giants, using their crane arms to move
dome is up.” and insert the panels. Other robots looked
like ants searching for food, scurrying all
Everything is Icarus, why even ask? across the panels. They were human sized,
a feature which allowed for the precision
“Do you enjoy your job?” Tom asked while needed to a ach the panels to each other.
they exited Spiral Tower 3, and walked into
the jarring summer heat New York had be- They got to west 54th St and took a right.
come accustomed to for over a century. Go- He had planned on catching up on all the
ing from a comfortable, air condi oned 20 new episodes of ‘Three’s a Crowd’ during
degrees Celsius to a malevolent heat index his walk from Spiral Tower 3. That could be
of 40 degree Celsius was a rough adjustment. pushed back for the commute home.
The sunlight temporary blinded Tom for a
second while his eyes adjusted. “So, what do you do, Tom?” Rebecca asked.

“It’s challenging enough, but working on “Quality Control, making sure the panels
city planning 300 to 400 years from now, will work at max capacity,” Tom bragged.
chances are you will never get to see the fin- “Any work with the panels is considered
ished product, even if you keep up with all pres gious, mediocrity notwithstanding.”
the bio-upgrades and gets to second-cent,”
Rebecca replied. “Oh, that’s pre y cool.”

“That’s for sure,” Tom said. “By then you “I can’t wait un l we have the panels up,”
will be 90% cyborg, pre y gross.” He had Tom said. “Ge ng out of this sun will be a

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blessing. They say that snow machines will Tom’s viewing area. Rebecca preceded to
be created to produce a winter, could you do the same. Her avatar seemed to be the
imagine that? An actual winter. It had been a standard library lady avatar.
century since New York has seen snow.” Tom
paused and an awkward silence followed. “Good day, Sir,” the avatar said with an
English accent. “How may I assist you?”
“I always thought winters would be ro-
man c,” Tom said. “everything white and “One minute, Henry,” Tom said pu ng
cold, feeling cold. To wear clothes to stay his avatar, Henry in freeze mode. “Look at
warm, it is unfathomable.” this archaic glass building, Rebecca.” He had
to use her name so she knew he was talking
“Yea, but at what cost?” Rebecca replied to her while his avatar was turned on. Stan-
as the an -gravity metro train flew over- dard e que e, since only the person with
head with a sonorous roar. the CC could hear their own avatar. “What
a space waster this place is. There could be,
“What do you mean, Rebecca?” maybe, a thousand residence units placed
above it. They really need to tear this down.”
“That Icarus will own this city and every-
thing in it, including us. Pre y steep price “Didn’t you hear? I guess not since the
if you ask me. Who knows what Icarus will civil engineering department has not shared
be like genera ons from now? They might the press release yet, but that is exactly
create the perfect utopia everyone dreams what Icarus is doing once they get full city
about, or they might enslave all our chil- rights in a couple of years,” Rebecca said.
dren’s children. With robots handling ev-
erything, one has to wonder, what is the “Good riddance,” Tom stated while hold-
future of humanity?” ing the door open for Rebecca to enter. S ll
has manual doors, this place is ancient.
Rebecca turned her head to hide her
flushed cheeks. “Sorry Tom. Some mes I “Yeah, maybe,” Rebecca said.
get carried away.”
The couple entered room 315. Tom was
“You have every right to. We are living in taken aback by what he saw. The room
a crazy me.” Tom said. “I do agree though, had two dozen or so chairs facing a long
it is scary if you think about it since this will red velvet curtain with red velvet ropes
be the first corporate dome.” separa ng the audience from the curtain.
It was like the pain ngs in the lobby area.
So far, all the world’s domes were slated How absurd. What also startled Tom were
to be run by democracies. But that was what all the rich and old people there. Rebecca
people assumed, considering they had be- and Tom, the youngest people by a good 50
come self-contained units a er construc on years, took two seats near the back.
with limited access from entering or leaving.
Everything was included in the design from “Do you think we are in the right place?”
hydroponic crops, research development, Rebecca whispered jokingly.
and manufacturing to sewage recycling.
“No kidding,” Tom mu ered back while he
As they reached the museum, Tom surveyed the small crowd. “It’s much easier
reached up and tapped his CC to access to tell who is second-cent up close isn’t it?
his avatar. A small man with a bow e and Not that it ma ers, but they blend in so well,
suit appeared in the bo om right corner of my co-workers and I play a game on trying to

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

figure out who is second-cent and who isn’t On the other hand, the wealthy could be
while watching inside the tubes.” Since the up to all 30 different subgroup races, which
tubes were the best spot in the city to people start looking like a different race all of their
watch, a lot of other people must do it too. own. They could pick and choose the best
features from all the races in the world to
“I’m not from a big city originally, so see- create what they say was the perfect hu-
ing people over two hundred years of age is man. A race that represents the en re plan-
s ll new to me.” Rebecca said quietly. et earth. The elite wanted to add the na ve
North American genes, but the Indians, as
“If you can afford it,” Tom said. “A person whole, resisted saying it would taint their
can live un l they are 250 easily, some even legacy and won certain protec ons against it.
push 270. You can tell by their skin.” Tom
looked at Rebecca and then signaled with “I am sure you know this already, but if
his eyes over to an older lady that sat 10 you ever meet someone who is tall, dark,
feet in front of them. “Their skin is made of and has blonde curly hair and blue Japa-
a translucent synthe c wax that was melt- nese eyes, they are very wealthy.” Tom said
ed on first, then molded with whatever col- with a hint of jealousy.
or you want added later. So, from afar, they
look normal, but when you get close you “Of course,” Rebecca said. “Just because
can tell something wasn’t natural. Pre y I am not from the city does not mean I am
pathe c. People pretending to be in their stupid.”
twen es and thir es but are two hundred
years older.” He chuckled. “Sorry,” Tom said.

The new aristocrat class stood out from Rebecca mo oned to the front row. “Look
the crowd like a sore thumb, but this was who is here.”
common knowledge Rebecca had to al-
ready know. Gene splicing and edi ng had Tom moved to his right to get a be er
become so mainstream, even Tom’s parents view. “Oh my God,” Tom said. “That’s Thane
could afford to add one race to his genes, Icarus.” Si ng in the center of the front
which was Korean. Tom felt lucky his natu- row, surrounded by other high-net-worth
ral family already had two of the more ex- individuals, in very expensive suits was the
pensive races in it. His West African grand- Founder and President of Icarus Corpo-
father, mixed with his Italian grandmother ra on. He was more a rac ve in person.
made for a great combina on. Adding an Tom had sat five rows behind Thane so all
Asian race to the lineage was the next com- he saw was his long blond curls that ed in
mon step. His mom wanted Japanese but a lengthy ponytail res ng on his back, and
couldn’t afford it. Tom would need to add what looked like the beginnings of a blonde
one more race, Australian Aboriginal, for bushy beard on his dark, strong jawline chin.
his future children, and his lineage would
then be completed with all 4 major race Tom found his bearings and started to re-
classifica ons. Australian Aboriginal genes assess the situa on. He no ced the whole
were the most expensive to add. People room was staring at Thane Icarus. All the
who only had one of the four major races people that were si ng by Mr. Icarus, must
were typically poor, and considered to be at be his business associates, or more realis -
the bo om of the social economic ladder. cally, his servile followers Tom assumed.

“The man is a genius Quadrillionaire,” Tom
whispered. “What is he doing here?”

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“No idea, but this sure got interes ng this integra on process, there had been a
quick.” Rebecca said. few holdouts that had clung to their Old
Ways. With years of integra on, and the
Everyone’s avatars all turned on at once. rise of interracial breeding, the race of the
“Good day and welcome to ‘The Last Living North American Indian will cease to exist
Indian’,” Henry said. “Today, we are here to a er the passing of ‘The Last Living Indian’
witness the last living Na ve American, and who had no children. Her name, Silver Bird-
to hear a short speech followed by ques- song and her tribe is Lakota. Her parents
were prac oners of the Old Ways and
ons you may have for her.” came from the same tribe that produced
the legends of Si ng Bull and Crazy Horse.
“Thousands of years ago,” Henry said. Let us introduce to you all, ‘Silver Birdsong’.”
“late in the last Ice Age, human beings trav-
eled across the great Bering land bridge, The avatars all turned off at once. There
from Asia to Alaska. They migrated across was a small applause from the audience as
both North America and South America the red velvet curtain started to rise. Tom
and established great farming techniques no ced behind the curtain was the same
to cul vate the land for op mal produc on. thick metallic glass, crea ng a cage for
The European Invasion started with Colum- whomever was inside it. With the curtains
bus and his voyages to what they called the fully drawn, he got a be er look. There was
‘New World’, and started one of the worst an empty, standard, black, rocking chair
human holocausts the world had ever wit- front in center with a door to its le . That’s
nessed. The effort to eradicate American a weird looking chair, it had limited func-
Indian culture in the 19th and 20th century
by the United States government reduced onally and does not help one’s posture like
what was once 12 million North American the ball shape, An -Grav chairs we use at
Indian inhabitants in the 16th century, down work. The door slowly opened and the last
to 200,000 by early 20th century.” living Indian made her appearance.

Tom rolled his eyes and boredom start- She was at best 5 feet tall, but judging by
ed to seeped in. her hunched back and fragile appearance, she
much taller in her youth. Her face was buried
“How much longer is this introduc on in wrinkles and her skin was a deep, dark, sun
going to take?” he whispered to Rebecca. burnt brown-red. Her eyes were sunken and
her hair, a long thick grey braid. She was re-
Rebecca didn’t respond. vol ng to Tom, but he couldn’t deny that the
woman had an ethereal glow about her. This
“…concentra on camps called Reserva- was the first me he had seen what a person
ons where all the North American Indians would look like if they aged naturally.
were placed. Two hundred years a er the
first incep on of the concentra on camps “Do you see that?” Rebecca said.
in 1851, the United States government
deemed Reserva ons uncons tu onal be- “Yea, very disturbing.” Tom replied while
cause of the dwindling Indian popula on he readjusted in his chair. He was feeling
rate, and the culture worship that hindered very uneasy about his whole situa on.
the progress of their society. The govern-
ment had disbanded the concentra on “No, her cane,” Rebecca said nodding her
camps and forced the occupants into all the head in the direc on of the old lady’s walk-
major ci es across the country. Through ing s ck. “I bet it’s made of real wood.”

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“Must be worth a fortune.” Tom said bought this hogwash. Rebecca was entranced,
as he s ll shi ed in his chair. He no ced with her eyes wide open and her stern figure
the cerulean necklace of a cross she wore si ng straight up. Just then, Thane Icarus
across her shriveled chest which was weird stood up and proceeded for the door.
since religion had been outlawed for de-
cades. She must have had certain protec- “What a waste of me,” Thane mu ered
under his breath as all his budding assis-
ons he thought, but he couldn’t get over tants got up to follow. Tom agreed.
her fragile appearance.
“Did you see that she was wearing a cross?”
“Why didn’t she get any of the upgrades?” one of the fawning subordinates said to the
Tom said. “The basic economy ones are free other.
for the public. Why wouldn’t she at least ac-
cept the free hip and back upgrades, I mean.” “Yeah, seems she is s ll a savage.”

“Shhh” Rebecca said holding her finger “No wonder why they went ex nct,” he
to her mouth looking annoyed. replied. They both chuckled as they depart-
ed, leaving the room half full of people.
The last living Indian sat down and laid
her walking cane on her lap. “Mithawa chaze Tom both admired and envied Thane for
mazaskaska zintkala olowan,” she said with leaving. If it wasn’t for Rebecca, he would be
a toothless grin. “My name is Silver Birdsong leaving as well. The crowd started to murmur.
and I am Lakota.”
Silver Birdsong did not look fazed and
Rebecca started clapping but stopped kept going. The audience quieted down
once she realized no one else was going to and brought their a en on from the great-
follow. She no ced there was a weird tension est man in the world leaving, back to the
filling the room and started to get agitated. li le old lady si ng in the rocking chair.

“Let me tell you a story,” she said s ll “The Great Spirit grabbed his huge pipe
grinning with amusement. “A story about bag containing all the animals of the world
crea on. There was another world before and selected four of them known for their
the one you see now. But the people of that ability to remain under water for a long
world did not behave the way they were
supposed to,” she said, gently rocking in her me. He took out a wise loon, a proud ot-
chair. “Being very displeased with this, the ter, a clever beaver and lastly the slow tur-
Great Spirit decided to make a new world tle. He told each of them to retrieve a lump
and he started to sing several songs to bring of mud from beneath the flood waters. The
rain. Each song brought more and more rain, proud o er, with its strong webbed feet
spli ng the earth apart with water gushing tried first but failed, followed by the wise
up through the cracks, drowning all the peo- loon and clever beaver, who both brought
ple and animals with only one simple animal back nothing. Finally, it was the slow Turtle’s
surviving, a crow. The crow flew around for turn. The Turtle disappeared into the great
days, weeks, years, and decided to plead with waters and was under water so long that
the Great Spirit to make him a new place to everyone thought it had drowned. Then,
rest his wings. The Great Spirit decided to with a giant leap, the turtle sprung from the
help the crow and to create a new world.” waters holding mud in its mouth and claws.
Tom looked over at Rebecca to see if she Singing, the Great Spirit shaped the mud
into land and it spread the land all across
the world. Feeling sadness for the lonely dry

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land, the Great Spirit cried tears of lakes and “That was interes ng,” Rebecca said while
rivers. The Great Spirit took handfuls of dif- they were entering the elevator, back to
ferent animals from his pipe bag and spread their respected floors.
them across the earth. He grabbed red,
white, black and yellow earth and turned it “Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” Tom said.
into men and women. The Great Spirit gave “Because it didn’t hold my interest in the
them his scared pipe and told them to lis- slightest.”
ten to it. The Great Spirit also warned them
about the fate of the previous world and the Rebecca sighed. “Thanks for the cket.
blunders the people had made. He prom- I really got to get back to work now. I am
ised the people if they lived in harmony with swamped with revisions,” she said while
all living things, all would be well. But if they punching the 143rd floor bu on.
decided to make the world bad and ugly, he
will destroy the Earth again.” “I need to get back to it too.” Tom said
while hi ng the 158th white circle turning
Silver Birdsong stopped rocking in her it yellow. He looked awkwardly at Rebecca
chair and looked into the eyes of everyone than back to the elevator door. “Maybe we
in a endance. When she got to Tom, he can do this again.”
had to look away. Such direct eye contact
was very uncomfortable. “Yea, maybe.” Rebecca turned on her CC
to start the next episode of ‘Three’s a Crowd’.
“Any ques ons?” Birdsong asked.
Tom, defeated, u ered “Can I pin you on
Tom looked at Rebecca, who he thought Tri-S?”
would be the only person in the room to
asked a ques on, but she fell silent. Silver “Sure,” Rebecca said disinterestedly look-
Birdsong waited a minute in case anyone ing up to see the floor number they were
wanted to ask a ques on and then slowly on. The elevator doors opened for the 143rd
got up using her cane. Rebecca stood up floor. “Thanks for the ckets again, it was
with a ferocity, “Does the Great Spirit come fun. But on second thought, don’t pin me,
back? Does he return in your story?” OK?” she said with a fake smile.

The old lady crackled looking at Rebecca That surprised Tom and he did not know
with amusement, “You tell me?” The red how to process the ques on. “Um, OK.” Re-
velvet curtain dropped and everyone’s av- becca bolted and the elevator doors closed.
atars turned on. The limerence leaving Tom, he shrugged
and waited his turn to depart. The elevator
“Thank you for a ending ‘The Last Living doors opened to the 158th floor and Tom
Indian’,” Henry said. “Please check out the headed straight to his desk and turned on
other upcoming events at...” Tom turned all his touchscreens. “That took way too
off his CC. long,” Tom said to himself as he no ced his
boss, Jim, approaching.
“Thank God that is over with. I thought
it was going to last for eternity,” Tom said. “You triple checked those numbers then?”
Jim asked.
*
“No, Sir. I just got back from lunch and I...”
Tom and Rebecca both decided to take the
tubes back to Spiral Tower 3 because of the “Jesus Christ Tom!” Jim yelled. “I said this
heat. They both entered the main lobby. was top priority. I need it done yesterday.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“…will do it now, Sir.” has gone bat-shit crazy, not him. Birdsong
was right, the reckoning is upon us. If this
“Get it together Tom. There are plenty dome was humanity’s last stand against
of people who would kill for your job. You an Earth that wants to kill it, what was the
know that?” point? Just to survive?

“Yes Sir.” “So, Tom, about those-,” Jim said.

“Icarus can only give you so much. Get “You know what Jim, screw it, screw you,
those numbers done.” Jim said while re- screw Icarus. I quit!” Tom rose from his
trea ng to his corner office. desk and starred directly into Jim’s shocked
eyes. “If I have to waste my life answering
Tom looked back to make sure Jim le to people like you, I’d rather die free, on the
and sighed. He had so much work ahead of outside. Being stuck in this prison, working
him that to catch up, he had to start work- most my waking hours, then becoming a
ing 16 hour days. With his burden of work zombie watching the same garbage over
in front of him, he decided to take a minute and over again is not life. Pretending to be
to peer outside his window. The dozens of twenty for two hundred years is not living. I
coiled, circular metallic glass buildings with don’t know what it is.”
thousands of protruding lights surrounded
his field of vision. They were all connected The silence of Jim and the en re office
by glass tubes that reached the hundreds was deafening.
of equally sized, rectangle residen al units.
Tom went straight to the elevators and
Tom had wondered what it was like, punched the bu on for the 143rd floor.
roaming the empty, grass flat lands on While he waited he reached up and tore
horseback, running against the wind. Touch- off his CC and threw it on the ground. The
ing the bare earth against his toes, feeling rewarding sense of freedom from the con-
wet grass a er a rain, to breathe uncirculat- fines of the CC was intoxica ng. The doors
ed air. “Must have felt free,” he whispered opened to the 143rd floor.
to himself. “What have we done?”
“She was not only the last living Indian,
Tom realized he was being ridiculous but she was the last living human,” Tom whis-
didn’t care. Maybe it was the world that pered.

88

I LIVE IN THE CEMETERY

by Faye Reddecliff

Cemeteries are not scary at night. At least So right off, I think, we both had the
the dead are not what’s scary. They’re wrong ideas about marriage. Like any oth-
peaceful – the vandals and drunks, now er marriage, I guess, we had our ups and
that’s something else. downs except it seemed like more than
our share of downs. It was like we weren’t
I know because I live in the cemetery. on the same wavelength. He had his ideas
Other than that, I think I’m your usual per- and I had mine. The part I wanted, the con-
son. In the day me, I’m a waitress at a cof- nec on, didn’t happen. In fact, being with
fee shop. I talk to people regularly. They’d Lloyd just made me even more aware that I
never guess. Take Lorraine, she’s a waitress didn’t have it. It began to feel lonelier with
on the shi a er mine, and I guess my best Lloyd than when I lived by myself. There
friend. She thinks I’m staying at the motel I was with another person and I was s ll
on the edge of town. Just un l I find an alone.
apartment, I told her.
One day, we were driving out in the
So, how did I get into this living in the country. We’d just had a really big fight over
cemetery? It all started with Lloyd. I met him, as usual, wan ng to watch a football
Lloyd at Tops Café where I work. He’s a me- game and me wan ng to talk. He watched
chanic at the garage down the street from the game and then, to make up, suggest-
the Café. He was a regular customer – cof- ed we go for a drive. I figured I’d go for the
fee and doughnut in the morning, every drive but, to get my own back, wouldn’t
morning, before work. Got so, I’d just set speak to him.
out his cup and saucer and a fresh dough-
nut as soon as he walked in the door. One It was a fall day, the kind with a beauty
morning, as he lay down his quarter p, he that’s full of sadness and regret: the sky an
up and asked me out. One thing led to an- intense blue and a kind of gold light in the
other and a couple of months later, on a air that nts everything. Those days just
drunken weekend trip to Reno, we got mar- make me feel there’s something wonderful
ried. For myself, I think I wanted some kind out there and that it’s something I don’t
of connec on, another person to make me have and can’t ever have. It’s hard to bear.
part of the world. As for Lloyd, maybe he
just liked the way I waited tables. That was We’d been driving about an hour, nei-
pre y much most of our interac on a er ther of us saying anything, when he sud-
we married. I waited at the café during the denly spoke. It startled me. I’d been day-
day and at home at night. dreaming about going out to dinner. I imag-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

ined the whole works - fancy place, candles, “No. I want to see the cemetery.”
roman c - ge ng waited on instead of
doing the wai ng. I couldn’t make out who “You’re likely to more than see it with
I was with at this dream restaurant but it that kind of stunt.” He grumbled but he did
was not Lloyd. turn the car around.

“My folks are buried there,” Lloyd inter- We drove back a ways before he turned
rupted my dream, both hands on the steer- up a narrow road. The road wound around
ing wheel, looking straight ahead. quite a bit before we finally turned off
onto an even narrower road that took us
We’d been married a year and this is the between two huge stone pillars with worn
first I’m hearing about these “folks.” As far carvings and under a wrought-iron arch
as I knew, Lloyd had no folks except a step- that connected the pillars. Lloyd stopped.
mother in Cincinna . “What? What folks?” On either side of us there were trees and
underbrush and beyond were rela vely
“You know. Ancestors,” he said, s ll star- open spaces. Among the overgrown shrubs,
ing straight ahead without slowing or look- weeds, and grass were strewn tombstones
ing at me. in various posi ons. Some bent almost to
the ground. Some stood near each other
He certainly got my a en on. “Lloyd!” I but leaned in opposite direc ons like mag-
don’t know who or where my folks are, if nets that repelled each other while oth-
I have any. I grew up in four different fos- ers almost knocked together. There were
ter homes a er my mom died when I was mostly rectangles and cubes except for the
two. Having folks seemed major to me not occasional angel or lamb. In front of most
something you’d men on out of the side of stones, the earth had se led marking the
your mouth. “Lloyd!” dimensions of each casket or, pine box may-
be. The dates were mostly worn away but I
He finally looked at me. knew the lambs were for children. It wasn’t
only that the depressions were smaller
“Go back!” there was just a different feeling around
the lambs. Like something was being asked
“Back where?” of me. A ques on or need for which I had
no answer.
I could have slapped him. “To the cem-
etery!” Turned out, Lloyd didn’t know where
these “folks” were. “I’ve only been here
“For god’s sake, why?” He didn’t even slow once before,” he said, by way of excuse,
the car. “and I was only a kid.”

“Because!” I grabbed his arm. Whatever. I don’t think there’s any ex-
cuse for losing your folks. We wondered
At this, he slowed and pulled over. “Cass!” around the cemetery for almost an hour.
Lloyd mu ering all the while. What, I didn’t
My name’s Cass for Cassandra. That’s care to hear.
not what my name was in the foster homes.
I changed it to a name I liked when I was “Wait, a second, Cass.” He paused at a
eighteen. I’m pre y proud of that. At least, grouping of three gravestones. “I’m ge ng
I can have me. something here.”

”What the hell’s wrong with you? Are
you trying to get us killed?” He was looking
at me now.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The wri ng on the stones was so worn of a rela onship with them than he did. By
we had to read it with our fingers as well as now I cared about more than just Lloyd’s
our eyes. The stones were warm in the sun, folks but other people’s folks, too, - folks
like living beings. that nobody seemed to remember or care
about – never any flowers on the graves,
“Renfield. This is it. Eighteen fi y-nine, overgrown with weeds. They had me now.
eighteen ninety-nine, nineteen thirty-four.” And, I had them.

He straightened. “Okay, we’ve found them. Finally, I just moved into the cemetery.
Let’s go. I’m starving.” I had no idea I was going to do it un l the
very day I did it. I told Marcy I was going to
I would have liked to say, “Go. Let me stay at the motel outside of town for awhile
stay here a bit. You can come and get me in and I planned to do it, too. But in my car,
an hour or two.” But I didn’t. I just followed towing the li le trailer, I stopped at the
him back to the car. On the ride back, we cemetery on the way and then just stayed
were s ll mostly silent but this me I was for the night. One night became two and so
thinking my own thoughts not worrying on and so forth.
and angering myself with what he might or
might not be thinking. In the days, I s ll waited on tables –
wai ng for people to decide between lem-
A er that, I came o en to the ceme- on meringue and coconut custard and in
tery usually by myself. It felt so peaceful. the nights I wait to know why they sigh or
Through the wind in the treetops and the why I do.
occasional bird cry, I thought I could hear
sighing. Not frightening sighing at all just No one suspects, when I come into the
a quiet longing sighing. I brought flowers Café in the morning, that I live in a cemetery.
when I could and pulled weeds and listened.
I came to know the names on the stones Lloyd found out. I don’t know how. I
and a bit of the history of those people think he might have followed me one night.
whose graves they marked. Emily Candless: It was late at night and it gave me quite a
born 1848, died 1898; George Reynolds: start when he came to the trailer door and
born 1918, died 1978, ‘Rest in Peace, You pounded on it. I mean how would you feel?
Are Loved’; Lorraine Evans: born 1902, died There you are in a cemetery and there’s a
1968, ‘Beloved.’ I began to imagine their knock on the door? Too scared to ask who
lives – hopes and dreams, suffering and loss was there, I hid under the fold-down table
– maybe not so different from my own. un l he shouted, “Cass! Open up this door!”

Meanwhile my own life went on. Lloyd When I opened it, I saw he’d been drink-
and I finally threw in the towel. Probably ing and he was furious. His face was all red
a good bit later than we should have. He and contorted. “What do you think you’re
went his way and I went mine. He took the doing?” He shouted at me.
car and I took the pickup and trailer. We let
the apartment go and Marcy, the weekend “I’m taking care of these folks.” It was the
waitress at Tops, lent me her couch un l I first me I’d actually put what I was doing
could figure out what to do. into words.

I con nued to visit the cemetery. Al- “Have you gone completely round the
though they were Lloyd’s folks, I had more bend? For god’s sake, they’re not even your
folks!”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“They are now.” up all night but heard nothing from Lloyd.
It was about 6 in the morning when I heard
“Cass, it’s not safe out here by yourself. A his car leave.
woman alone out here?!”
That night, just a er sunset, he returned.
“Lots of women are alone out here.” That
should have been obvious. It’s been two weeks now and Lloyd
has been coming every night since then –
“Get serious.” comes late and leaves early. He must sleep
in his car. I know he’s there. He thinks I
“I am serious. I take care of things out don’t know it. Even though I don’t see
here. I care for them.” or hear him I can feel his caring. Just like
I imagine somehow all the dead folks can
He stomped off and I heard gravel spray feel my caring. I look out the trailer window
as his car dug out. and see everyone safe — the moonlight
touching the stones. I think of Lloyd’s car in
About an hour later, I heard his car again. the moonlight, too, out of sight over the hill
I know its chug sound, surprisingly heavy with Lloyd curled up in the backseat. I won-
for a li le car. The engine cut off just over der if he’s warm enough and worry that
the hill. I waited wondering if he’d come he can’t stretch out to sleep properly. I’m
by to try and convince me again. When he thinking tomorrow I’ll take him some cocoa.
didn’t, I wondered if he was going to try to
scare me in the middle of the night. I sat

About the Author:

Faye Reddecliff was born and grew up in Pennsylvania. She now lives in northern California
and writes both fic on and non-fic on. She has had her work published in various magazines.

92

LOVE D

by Sasha Chinnaya

Night. A stack of blank pages in midates ve and interrogate me, never breaking
me. A few empty containers once filled with character. Your small fingers try to make
coffee form a wall on my temporary desk. a fist. It slams on the wooden table. My
My mind searches for answers wrapped in excuses don’t console you because you
a pre y li le box, not half-baked thoughts miss the way the so , silky fur hugs you at
that won’t sit s ll on a page. My eyes night. You dragged it around everywhere
are strained like overused ba eries. My you went. Every detail about that bear was
cramped legs walk around the room every embedded in your mind. Its fuzzy chestnut
way they can. Next my fingers get a shake nose that lit up when you pushed it twice.
and sway as I crack each one thorough- The li le bit of pale pink under its gold ears.
ly. I no ce my nails are like ships wrecked The red star s cker you pasted on its chest
at sea. The paint has long chipped off of to make it yours.
them too. I need to write down everything
between us before I forget. It seems an im- Your cheeks are tomato red even when
possible task for one person. To document tears gloss over them. I’d never seen you
the life of one they loved. Hands on the this upset before and I was almost tempt-
clock are spinning fast. They remind me I’m ed to put you on a sugar rush with cherry
on a deadline. I imagine the hands rotatat- fruit rollups and milk chocolate brownies.
ing backwards, racing over the numbers At least that would take your mind off of
so that they all blend together. Memories the damn bear. Then I thought of another
blend like that too and that’s how I think of solu on. Instead of trying to make you for-
you. Never in clean-cut chronological order. get about the bear I told you to think about
Simply a collage that is as messy as the fin- it. To think about the comfort you get from
ger paint stains on my walls 25 years later. it. The ones we love should never be for-
go en.
I remember the day we added color to
those gray walls. Oh take me back. Back to Art used to be my therapy for more
humble, brown eyes too big for a serious explosive problems. If it could help me,
face. 5 years old and you’re already upset maybe it could heal your 5 year old bro-
at me. You want to know where I hid the ken heart too. Your eyes grow wide when
golden haired bear. I tell you Some things I bring out buckets of paint in several col-
just get lost. That I wasn’t punishing you ors. You submerge your hands into the liq-
for not cleaning your room. I’ll even help uid yellow and then spread it on the wall. I
you look for it. You play the role of detec- join in too, mixing your piece on the wall

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

with greens and blues. Paint drips from I thought you would return the favor by
the wrinkles on our clothes and even our making me proud. All you’ve done is crush
skin starts to resemble the colorful, messy the hope I kept for you, hope like a candle
wall. Wide smile forms on your face, that in the rain I refused to let burn out.
precious dimple emerging in your cheek. I
know you’ll be okay. You are detached from me now, where
once we used to be the same body. I knew
16. Suddenly you are a nightmare stand- a distance would grow between us. S ll, I
ing in the kitchen, arms ghtly crossed. No gave you all my love. I love you through all
warmth glows in these brown eyes. Where your silence (your way of pushing the knife
did my li le boy go? If I do anything for you, deeper in my wound), I love you through
I receive an empty Ok. I don’t see a Thank your self-destruc ve ac ons which seem to
You in that singular, dull word. My life scar me more than they do you, I loved you
wasn’t always just you, you arrogant son of many years ago before you came into this
a … Funny how that insult wouldn’t even world and I will love you even when…
be targe ng you. A ny tantrum escalates
to nuclear war. You’ve skipped school for 2 Morning. Neon yellow alarm screams
weeks and failed every math test since the for 5 long minutes. Every trace of comfort
beginning of the school year. Now you want leaves my body when I pull away from the
to go to the mall with friends, con nuing co on sheets. Through a window, I see that
to avoid your work. I lay down a firm, ag- the sun has barely risen in the pale gray
gressive NO. Your reply is unexpected and sky. Not enough warmth for today. My skin
cruel. I realize how much I miss your toy trembles even before the cold hits it. I wrap
guns now when I’m ambushed by the sharp myself in a sweater and jeans ensemble,
edge of words. How can you say such aw- but it barely covers me from the icy morn-
ful things to me? You HATE me? Fine, I get ing air of late Fall. Scarf, jacket, and boots, I
it. Yelling doesn’t make your point sound walk out the front door in a suit of armor
poe c. It unravels your immaturity, which against the weather. You’re not too far from
I might add is not even hidden under many me now. Maybe 6 feet away, no more. It’s
layers to begin with. What do you do with not that I’m not happy to see you. That
my trust? could never be. But, it’s not always easy to
come to you. You’re not a daily part of my
You throw it away in a garbage can just life anymore.
like all that junk you eat. It’s weightless
to you because you don’t acknowledge I’m afraid to admit that my love has
the value it has. Or maybe you do. May- changed for you. Is it fading? I doubt it
be you’re all too aware of the depth of my could, but my memory of you isn’t as intact
trust. That’s even worse because it would as it should be. We fought through most of
mean you enjoy manipula ng that trust. our days together. If I had any clue how fast
When did you get so destruc ve? I stress
all of this to you and you don’t even care. me spins, I would’ve changed the harsh
A mild shrug of the shoulders, followed by exchange of words. I would’ve tried harder
mumbling and a roll of the eyes is your only to make every day like that one special day
response. You don’t give me your a en on from your childhood. I have to document
for even a second. I gave you so much and us so I never forget even when my body
turns on me and lets this disease in. I think
I’ve been ignoring the problem for some

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Revista Literária Adelaide

me. I would forget small things at first like you in a whole new way. It’s ge ng harder
my car keys or a purse. Then, it got bigger to pick out the few sweet moments from
when I forgot your name. It was only for a the wreckage of our past. You know what
second I swear, but it did happen. Problems hurts the most? I can barely bring myself
can’t be outrun forever though. Coming to to speak in the past tense. I’m staring at
this place is proof of that. When I heard my dry, old grass and a name when I should be
diagnosis, YOU were s ll the first thing to looking at you, the real person. My real, im-
come to my mind. I shouldn’t have to lose perfect Chris.

About the Author:

Sasha Chinnaya is a recent graduate from St. John’s University with a Bachelors degree in
English. Previously, she had another one of her short stories published in Adelaide Literary
Magazine (January 2018 issue). She is also a film reviewer for an online magazine called
Monologue Blogger where she reviews a wide variety of short films. She also built and main-
tains her own film website: h ps://avoicewechoose.weebly.com.

95

ABANDON

by Owen McGrann

The light streams through the blinds and ing into the music blaring from the speak-
floods the room. It awakens me, unbidden ers. I had too much to understand, too
– o en mes before 6 am. The park across many ques ons I needed to be answered,
the street bleeds its bluster into the house. to fall prey to consciousness. Ques ons are
The dog is up in arms. Five days ago, she always best answered in daydreams, which
le . She had good reason. I spend my me are des ned to be forgo en. I knew this.
working like crazy as a way to distract my-
self. She is ready to leave, and if she does, I I remembered a dream The Girl related
will be destroyed. I will not survive. to me just before she le . She sat cross-
legged, with her curly black hair in a mess
The world shades to invisible. Automo- like a bird’s nest and her brown eyes half-
biles race at the same speed to the same shut, on top of the bedcovers like Athena
stop sign, a constant red-tailing blur splash- dispensing wisdom from on high. It was a
ing down the wet pot-holed road. Power recurring dream, she said, visi ng her at
lines—electric snakes poised to a ack— least once a week for the past month or
cease to hang overhead slithering pole to two. She didn’t remember how long, exact-
pole to pole. Buildings fade into a long, face- ly, but it didn’t really ma er. A woman was
less façade of collec ve resigna on, every- in an old city—it could have been Europe-
body hiding behind blinded windows and re- an or eastern American, she couldn’t tell.
coiling from the ineffable doubles surround- The city sprawled in all direc ons with un-
ing us. Most days I would fail to recognize checked aggression. She wasn’t quite sure
my own face in a line-up. But every once in why she was there, but she knew the date
a while, the world announces itself and I am she was to leave: five days hence. That date
bludgeoned into stammering recogni on. was absolute. Five days.

She disappeared last week, and noth- The woman walked over an old stone
ing makes sense any longer. I am remind- bridge. It wasn’t par cularly imposing, but
ed of a dream, a happenstance. I began my the sapling trees on either end made the
daydreaming as I was driving with visions bridge appear larger than it in fact was. Un-
of discrete electronic numbers and quick- derneath, a calm, brown river did not move.
ly slipped into more freeform reverie. My About halfway across the bridge, the wom-
mind worked silently to hush the conscious an’s heel got wedged into a crack in the
stream of thought which threatened to pathway and broke clean off, sending her
take over, recalling images, stories, bleed- careening forward. At the last moment, a

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Revista Literária Adelaide

man caught her shoulder with long, sinewy Clearly, the liaison con nued in the mean-
hands and li ed her back to her feet, say- me. The second dresser in the hotel suite
ing, “You should get yourself a pair of flats.”
The woman looked up at the man, who was was filled with his clothes, even though he
about her age, maybe a few years older, had a flat somewhere in town, which she
and said, “Flats?” Blushing, she mu ered would not let him show her. During the day,
something about being new to the city, they would go shopping at the great old
and then, “Oh, you mean shoes. Flats.” He vendors which lined the great old streets.
asked if she was all right and suggested that Restaurants faded into nightclubs, late
he might drive her to her des na on as his nights into early a ernoons, a ernoons
car was just over the bridge and…well, she into lovemaking.
wouldn’t be walking very far in a pair of
broken four-inch s le os. They talked and talked, but about what
remained vague. It was the communica-
It was at this part in the dream that
events always began to lose focus. The on that moved effortlessly beyond small
scene on the bridge faded into a scene at a talk, but which proceeded with small talk’s
sidewalk café. On opposite sides of a small quiet assurance, as though an impromptu
circular table sat the man and woman. They script lay before them. Only one thing that
were clearly a racted to each other, flir ng was said was vivid: “Love falls prey to the
as they sipped their tea. The woman had same disaster as life: it exists in me.” But
her legs crossed and one of her new shoes even this, even this was not a ributable to
dangled on the p of her toes playfully; he either of them. It was simply there, a fact
didn’t no ce, but she didn’t mind. They that hung between them, connec ng them,
never asked about the other, rather talked claiming both even as it baffled them.
poetry and post-impressionism and preten-
There was another pause in dream-tell-
ous novels. In fact, they never exchanged ing. The Girl got off the bed and walked to
names. the bathroom. For a moment, I thought the
dream had reached its end, that she was
The scene faded again, and now they about to brush her teeth and get dressed,
were in her hotel room. She wasn’t sure make some coffee; then she turned around
how they got there, didn’t recognize the and began again.
clothes in her suitcase or her lingerie, but it
fit for the few moments he allowed her to Lately, the dream has ended like this:
keep it on. She felt his hand on her shoul-
der again, but it was different this me; it On the fi h day, she told him she had
wasn’t a rescue but a request, and she took to leave, that she had a flight to catch. She
his arm and gripped with equal pressure. was to head home, back to the claims and
Neither let go. du es of her life. At first, he tried to con-
vince her that she ought to stay. She merely
The Girl stopped for a moment as she laughed at him, and le . She said goodbye
told the dream. She shivered. Then she to the man whose name she s ll did not
said: The first me I had the dream it end- know. Never in her life had she felt so ex-
ed there. It was just another produc on alted, never so happy. Never again did they
from a smu y mind. But the next me, the see the other.
dream picked up again a few days later.
When I emerged from my daydream,
rain was falling hard against the windshield.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
I was angry with myself for thinking of her—
something I knew I must do, must face, but
something I regre ed doing each me I did.
To distract myself, I pulled into the right
lane and watched the trees slide past un l
they looked as if they were in slow mo on.

Owen McGrann
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