Adelaide Literary Magazine No.33, February 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

He went over and patted its yellow seat. eaten. And, there was the cry of a hawk
and then a bluejay squawking and he was
Then took off his cap as a mark of re- certain he heard a barn owl.
spect.
The barn was behind them.
A side window of the house had yel-
lowing lace curtains. Who lived in there? Runaway slaves?

Granny stuck her head out. Robby knocked once on the front door
and entered.
“Can’t hear you, Robby, just know you’re
here by the rumbling of your car,” she said The overpowering smell of buttermilk
in a voice that sounded like it had been biscuits and mold and rot entered him.
sleeping for one hundred years.
Granny wore a long black overcoat to
“Gonna make you the best breakfast keep herself warm.
of your life. Wait outside” – she had a fit
of coughing – “on the front porch until I She stood at the black stove – glanced
gives you the okey-dokey to come in.” She over at her grandson – waved hello and said,
muttered something about being tired of
cooking just for herself. “Gimme another minute or two. I ain’t
gonna die yet.”
He walked up the steps to the front door.
“Promise?” he asked.
The loose boards tried to make him fall,
but he walked carefully. It reminded him of She laughed. It sounded like a wheeze.
those IEDs in Vietnam. He blinked hard so’s Like she had pneumonia.
not to remember his fallen comrades.
“Take these flapjacks and sit yourself on
He sat on the front porch in a rusty glider the porch. I poured real maple syrup on top.”
that faced the dry hills.
The dish she found for him had flowers
Thank you, Lord, for keeping Granny all acrost it. Could it have been from the
alive till I got here. days of slavery?

Gray clouds above threatened a down- He sat outside on the top step of the
pour. He could, of course, spend the night front porch. The stack was high, golden
if need be. Why had he never noticed how brown, the syrup falling off the plate.
beautiful they were. Gray. A simple gray
like news anchors with gray hair. Walter He licked his fingers.
Cronkite, for instance, who unashamedly
cried when JFK was murdered. Was it an exaggeration to say he’d never
tasted anything as good in his life?
He stood up and walked from one end
of the front porch – which was as big as the He took his time eating. What, after all,
house was wide – picked up a broom – and was the rush?
swept off the dead leaves.
He chewed slowly, gratefully. His tongue
A tiny mouse lay in the corner with his washed over every tiny bit. Soft as silk,
feet up. Robby swept it away. Newly dead, toasted in all the right places. Better than
he thought, or else it would have been Sarah May’s sweet potato pie.

He patted his belly, then stood up to see
what was in his pockets.

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A beige napkin from Starbucks and a
coupon for Libby’s pumpkin filling.
“Gran?” he shouted. “Darn good, darn
good!”
He refused to enter the house just then.
He knew what he would find.
And he did.

About the Author
Ruth Z. Deming has had her work published in numerous lit
mags including Mad Swirl, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Pure Slush.
She lives in Willow Grove, PA, a suburb of Philadelphia. She
belongs to the Beehive Writing Group where a dozen writers
share and give gentle feedback to one another.

100

DELUSION

by Ibrahim N. Al-Huraiyes,
translated from the Arabic

by Essam M. Al-Jassim

He threw the pen aside and collapsed on though she’d left him five years ago. Was
the lumpy chair, resting his aching body. it his recurring sense of deathly loneliness?
Dazed, he silently stared into the distance. Verses from a poem he’d read many years
Last Monday, a strange ethereal shadow ago had been weighing his heart down.
had appeared out of nowhere, settled over
his head, and loomed over him ever since. Who will finally get my arm?
He was able to bat it away, sometimes, but
it still peeked out at him from time to time, To whom will my ribs and heart go?
and felt as though it could engulf him, all
of him, at any moment. Strangely enough, To whom will my steps go …rambling?
he could neither discern what it was nor
fathom its nature; he didn’t know why this To whom will my blood turn …my shores?
specter had invaded his body and soul. He
winced at its presence, his face contorting To whom will my long talk go?
with both misery and dread. Every time the
shadow overtook him, he felt overwhelmed To whom shall joy prevail?
by deep confusion and dejection.
Who will laugh more—
Was this the harbinger of age, systemat-
ically invading his body, declaring the immi- Is it the one who strops the butcher’s knife?
nent end of his mission? Was it related to
the recent decrease in his literary output? Or the one who was butchered?1
Had his creative genius run dry at last, with
nothing left to offer? Over the last two Whenever these verses crossed his mind,
weeks, he’d hardly been able to write even he shuddered. The words moved him into
a page of his new novel. another dimension, almost transformed
him into a different entity. They had a great
Perhaps it was connected to the im- impact on his spirit, sailing as it was through
mense grief he still felt over his wife’s death, uncharted waters.

He thought a stroll might help him forget.
He swayed to his feet, dragging his coat
behind him, and wandered out onto the

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narrow gloomy street, suddenly realizing want to achieve. Even our facial expressions
he wasn’t sure where to go. and physical movements are but masks we
hide behind so we don’t expose what is in-
As he ambled restlessly, alleys absorbed side of us.
him, passageways drove him, and junctions
spat him out until he found himself sitting We are afraid of being shamed over
in a crowded café. He wanted to talk with simple private behavior. These traits must
the other patrons about their feelings, to be entombed deep in the soul, so it may hurt
meditate on their problems, penetrate here or feel good there, just to satisfy those
their souls. This was what he’d always who are like us. However, what if we don’t
loved about writing—creating characters recognize our inner selves? What if we can
from all walks of life, etched from those he discern no difference between the mask and
observed coming and going before him. He the real face? As if we pass our days wan-
had perfected the art of creating personas, dering in a labyrinth—we may not know
brilliantly interweaving events. But now where we started, where to go, or what
he was unable to delineate even his own truth we seek. We are never really lost, but
personality, incapable of understanding his we can never quite see where we’re going.
intrinsic nature or comprehending what he Liable to fail and go astray, life is simply a
sought. delusion in nothing other than a state of
limbo.
He took a pack of cigarettes out of his
pocket, fumbled in the other for a lighter, He gathered up his shattered soul and
and blew out pale, white clouds that framed left the café as anxiety ripped through him.
his craggy face. He walked for a long time, no doubt giving
those who encountered him the impression
He sipped his coffee as he idly watched he was weighed down. His steps led him to
employees hurry to work and tourists drag a public park where he peered through the
their whining children through the city. metal fence at the human masses that scat-
Staring reservedly into the distance toward tered in every direction. The rattling of play-
nothing in particular, he became absorbed ground equipment nearly drowned out the
in thought as if nothing else was around him. children’s hustle and bustle as they rushed
to and from the different rides. Women
Tales have always walked before me. calling to their kids to remain in sight dis-
Dozens of them, with or without purpose. tracted him. The rustling of the trees, the
Do these people perceive that we’re sucked soothing babble of trickling water, the
into a giant swirl willy-nilly? Or are they just abundant verdant vegetation—it all cap-
deaf and dumb puppets, being moved and tured his senses. A momentary sense of
ordered to talk because there is a power peace encouraged him as he sat on one
manipulating them? Our actions are not of the adjacent wooden benches. He sat
our own but are carried out through us still like a stone statue, barely moving his
on behalf of another’s will. We are com- eyes and silently contemplating the buzzing
pletely helpless, powerless, and weak-willed, world around him.
simple playthings. All that’s important is
what needs to be said and done through us Because life has disciplined me through
as human tools. Maybe we utter the oppo- its days and years, as it has against the will
site of what we think, and do what we don’t of everyone, I chose to discipline it through

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the pages of my books; people called me a shoes. Spontaneously, he grabbed the girl’s
man of letters. But am I actually still? Am I hand and led her to the carousel. He bought
still able to fill up—with fountain pen ink— the ticket and helped her onto the ride. The
time, people, and things and confine them ride spun and turned, carrying her into an-
between two covers? Or has life triumphed other world. Her smile, laughter, and lively,
in the end, as is its perpetual habit? bright eyes snuck into his aching heart.

Life kills those who grasp its tactics and Her joyfulness delighted him. He
tire it out by fleeing. Life is aware of its viewed her as a magical seed that had just
abilities to do this, from the first thread of been planted, sprouting at a supernatural
light that disturbs every newborn’s face. It speed, becoming a fruitful tree, basking
deceives and continues this game till some in the glow of the sun. They rushed from
people think they are outside of its reach. one ride to another with an eagerness he
In their moments of carelessness, life seeks hadn’t known before. At that moment, he
retribution from them. Does life possess us, forgot everything—even himself. No longer
or are we the ones who control it? Do we did he feel the pain and grief, not even the
breathe it, or is it life that breathes us? It bitterness of disorientation and alienation.
confounds me. Light suddenly filled his world. The sea of
sadness and delusion that had clouded his
While his mind wandered, he turned eyes dwindled to a tiny puddle, which he
his head, suddenly realizing someone was trampled underfoot as he made his way to
close. A child sat beside him. He studied her another ride with the girl.
face thoughtfully, reminiscing faintly upon
the giddy days of a childhood fallen into Was it only a coincidence that this hap-
oblivion. pened? Or was it his courageous maneuver
against life as he instinctively took advan-
Pointing toward the carousel ride, where tage of the moment without hesitation?
the child’s attention was fixed, he asked, He didn’t give those absurd and fatalistic
“Why don’t you play with the other kids?” thoughts the chance to permeate and
tamper with the remaining fragments of
“The ticket man at the entrance refused his exhausted body and soul. All that mat-
to let me in.” tered was that the girl was a saving grace,
the buoy that helped salvage what was left
“Why?” of him.

“He asked for a ticket, and I told him I At sunset, he left her with a firm promise
don’t have one. He wouldn’t let me in.” The to come to the park tomorrow at eight
child’s voice broke as the words stumbled o’clock in the morning. On the main street
out of her mouth. outside the park, he hailed a cab to go home.
On the way, he stopped at a restaurant to
The bitter words, wet with tears, came buy dinner. He entered his apartment and
from her heart and fell into his. asked the doorman to wake him at seven in
the morning.
“Why didn’t you buy a ticket?”
Lately, the rhythm of his life had become
She sighed and shrugged. “I don’t have hectic and fast-paced. He no longer had
any money.”

The child’s poverty manifested itself
through her tattered dress and worn-out

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enough time to achieve what he wanted. the writer hadn’t appeared, hadn’t left his
The most important thing now was to wake place. More worryingly, that morning’s daily
up early so he could go to the park to see paper still lay by his door. The alarm clock
the light flowing from the eyes of that little in his apartment also screamed for several
girl, filling the whole world with new hope. minutes until it stopped automatically. The
doorman knew it wasn’t the writer’s habit
After he had finished his dinner, an over- to stay in his apartment so late.
whelming desire to write overtook him. He
headed for his office and wrote nonstop Neighbors came outside as the door-
until he finished a whole chapter of his man’s knocking became louder and more
new novel. Then he went to bed, happy urgent. They gathered at the apartment
with what he had achieved. Peacefully, he door, and when the doorman told them
set the alarm for seven o’clock and laid his what was happening, they insisted on
head on the pillow. breaking it down.

At half past ten in the morning, the On the other side of the bustling city, a
doorman knocked on the apartment door little girl sat on a wooden bench … waiting.
for the fourth time.
1Nasrallah, Ibrahim. “The Heirs.” Au-
No answer. tumn Balconies (Beirut: Arab Institute for
Research & Publishing, 1997), p. 7.
The doorman had been away from the
main entrance of the building all morning,
watching and waiting for the tenant. But

About the Author
Ibrahim N. Al-Huraiyes is a Saudi short story writer. He
graduated from King Faisal University with a degree in Foreign
Language Education.

About the Translator
Essam M. Al-Jassim is a Saudi translator. He taught English for many years at Royal Commission
schools in Jubail, Saudi Arabia. He r‎ eceived his bachelor’s degree in Foreign Languages and
Education from King Faisal University, Hofuf. His translations appear in a variety of online
and print Arabic and English literary journals.

104

NONFICTION



WHITEBOARDS

AND COURAGE

by Beth Burgmeyer

The house that love built. I remember the slightest kindness, like someone making
slogan, but never really knew what a Ron- supper for me.
ald McDonald House was. Until now. Until
tragedy brings me to the house in Iowa City. Almost everyone in the house gathers
From the moment I walk through the doors for supper. The groups become obvious
after four days of hell—and however many from their conversations. The parents
more are to come—I feel that love, that with babies in the NICU huddle around
grace. the kitchen. They speak in a language of
ounces—sometimes grams—lost or gained,
The house manager takes me on a tour, feeding tubes, and ventilators. They dream
although I don’t hear much of what she says. about discharge dates.
My head and heart are still at the hospital,
my body ready to collapse from exhaus- The parents with kids in the PICU bond
tion. After she shows me to my room, I sit over the illnesses their children fight. They
on the bed and look through the welcome sit together at tables, looking exhausted,
bag. There are toiletries, a coloring book, a like they’re fighting the illnesses too. In a
notepad and pen, a voucher for a toy when way they are.
my child leaves the hospital. It’s the blanket
that makes me break, that makes me feel The kids who are there for cancer treat-
the love. I pull the thick soft fleece around ment sit in the dining room with their fam-
me, curl up on the bed, and cry. ilies. Masks cover their faces except when
they take bites of food. If they feel well
*** enough to eat. The little girl at the next
table, puts her head down, telling her mom
I don’t know why food is love, but it is, es- her head hurts, that it hurts too much to
pecially in a crisis. The kitchen at the Ron- eat.
ald McDonald House overflows with food.
Every night a group or a family comes in I sit alone in a quiet corner of the dining
and makes supper for all of us who stay at room, avert eye contact, hoping it will
the house. I’m still raw, still tear up at the make me invisible. I dread the thought
of someone asking about my child. What

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

would I say, especially to the mom whose None of that’s on my whiteboard. It’s
toddler is getting her fifth round of chemo? blank, but I write it every day in my head:
My fifteen-year-old daughter Madilyn:
*** fighting to die.

The whiteboards bring my guilt to a new I want to tell her story, how she also has
level. Every door of every room has a an illness that tries to claim her life every
whiteboard. Welcome! Feel free to share day. But so many people don’t see it as an
your story. That’s the message on every- illness. Instead it’s a choice, a frame of mind,
one’s whiteboard when they first arrive. I a flip of the switch that can be cured by an
read the stories as I walk down the hall. inspirational quote.

Michael and Anthony came into the Just get over it. Pull yourself up by your
world at 25 weeks. They’re 15 and 18 ounces, bootstraps. It’s mind over matter. Words
but they’re fighters. Madilyn and I have heard too many times.
It’s that easy in the eyes of so many who
Ten-year-old Bella is getting a stem cell haven’t lived it.
transplant for Leukemia. We’re hoping she’ll
go into remission. She’s a fighter. How do I write that on my whiteboard
in a house where other children are just
At five years old, Aidan is having his third inches or ounces or one cancer treatment
heart surgery. He has an amazing spirit and away from death? Maybe I should write it,
will to live. because my silence only feeds the stigma.

The stories go on for the length of the My hand hovers by the marker attached
hallway. My heart shatters for these fami- to my whiteboard when the mom next door
lies and for their amazing children who are to me carries her bald eight-year-old girl
fighting to survive. down the hall toward their room, both ex-
hausted from today’s treatment. I give her a
I reach my room and look at my white- nod, a quiet hi before I open my door.
board. I spent my own terrifying days in
the PICU, wondering if my daughter would Maybe I’ll write Madilyn’s story tomorrow.
survive, but even those days were spent in
isolated guilt. Now she’s stable enough to
move to a different unit.

About the Author

Beth Burgmeyer writes fiction and creative nonfiction.
Her work is scheduled to be appear in Bending Genres in
February 2020. Beth won first place in the CIBA Somerset
Awards for Contemporary and Literary Fiction. She was
also a finalist in the 2019 William Faulkner-William
Wisdom contest and the 2018 Sequestrum New Writer
Award. Beth lives near Des Moines, Iowa with her family
and a menagerie of rescue animals.

108

POSTMODERN MUD

by Iggy J. Louis

In Lieu Introductions and Frontiers objectivity, morality, truth, human nature,
reason, language and advance, all became
A perfect ideology is as rare as common prey to (what is in this writer’s opinion) the
sense. There are near a billion perspectives chemical-weaponry of its own caustic coun-
when looking at what’s wrong with the tenance. To go deeper: isn’t the existence of
current station of society. And that’s with- postmodernism that’s corrosive and poison,
out upending widely scattered foot-holds it is individuals blinded by hazy emotions
comprising the frame—the language and and ignorance and, in many cases, flatly
the logarithms (as when scrutinising and fanatical corruption. That that leads you
reforming our interpretive fiscal-skeleton to question your own sanctity, along with
and its meat)—and what post-modernism those you’re subjected to interact with in
comes to try to portray is a penultimate such ways, by and by.
subjectivity and the plastic nature toward
reality. Kinda like the obsidian of the West- See, these new-age, bite-size stanza’s
ern World as nothing but false impressions, you will have caught popping up as memes
by dialogue and established conventions in the newsfeed—you know the type: pur-
and misguided inferences, all stemming ple-haired girl shares, acquires nominal and
from modernism. ubiquitous heart-reacts, her content just as
radical as reciting the anarchist cookbook
The movement has gained a fair wack of on a phone-line in the 1990s—albeit emo-
traction recently for anyone paying atten- tionally stirring, altogether seems to forget
tion. Where this writer can’t help thinking the very mettle in each transient layers’
about it in curiosity and faint interest. But singing history, to idly disregard the pro-
yet now, leads me to be conveying a few to-conglomerate arrow-body. I can’t help
points’ query in so far as its efficacy. First think it’s an awful namesake for ourselves
lets touch on its own definition and late an- in this Age of Information.
tiquity.
(What? In where education is deemed
Postmodernism originated sometime in redundant to now technologically-swayed
the late 20th century in response to literary low-frame-rate attention spans, the vast
studies (things like philosophy, the arts, ar- downsizing of interpretive tolerance and ce-
chitecture and even criticism itself) how- rebral capacity; the heavy flowing torrents
ever, due to its widespread shell-fire, the of disenchantment and disillusion cast with
sanctity of universalist notions of reality’s each news scandal, centred over them that

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were propagated [vis. puppeteer-ed] by I tell Brek things I tell anybody (I mean
overseeing corporate conglomerates, or the my associate Brek, an upcoming Sydney rap
elite’s ambiguity. . . furthering decay and artist). And one of my comments I made is
mistrust; then the so-called “silent majority” how when somebody feels the rub against
populating with such variety against main- community dialogue’s most heart-felt cur-
stream media and reflective population rency as being mostly shit, it is easy for
idiosyncrasies; you may just get the USA said-somebody to radicalise and become
electing Donald Trump, conspiracy media, a writer. Or, at least, it is what was the ef-
and a census’s bleeding-heart renaissance forts of past generations’ creatives did. So
for devious political gain [the reaction- maybe the more experimental and busi-
ary-arsonists’ flames popping up countless ness-minded become typed artists.
Earth’s corners]).
These days the comedians are artists
People are looking for emotional nur- of the online era; memers and admins the
turing in a cold dystopia, down in their own unsung heroes of apathy, community, even
subjectivity. Insecure and hate-filled. They progress. This evolution is perhaps harm-
claw at blank canvases, creating—and its less in its pissy synergy . . . So (me and Brek—
no wonder people lap it up like last night’s for the sake of continuity and brevity) have
dinner—maybe they can pin the precise however unknown to us, a kind-a malnutri-
culinary definition that was lulling their tion around pragmatic action. We identify
tongues the first time around. as professionals and artists for all the cu-
rious reasons cognitive dissonance evokes,
Quid Pro Status-Quo lapelled onto our filmy identities’ rebellion
to the status quo.
Back in Terra Firma, it is a slightly differing
narrative. A majority-milieu of conservative Brek has always been the kind of indi-
effulgence and other shit-eating physiog- vidual that completely understands com-
nomy, where characters’ attitudes are even monality and normalcy but has always
less likely to be expressed in the online preferred pioneering his own flavour—in
vacuum; I won’t bother naming the peak response to the internet’s easy access
newsfeed oligarchs’ present on Facebook and popularity for journalists’ publishing,
or Instagram, with their tendency to snuff swaying outrage, he has enough sense (like
out peculiar (cough) self-expression and most Australians) to fall in-line. His (now,
realising and liberty . . . proto-subjectivity more) private-circle humour, is random-spat
shunned, through hashtags and reams of nouns, made articulate with weird vocal
comments’ sniggers (including mine, but intonations to provoke erratic loss of com-
sure, I’ll say it clear, including mine,) so. posure between audience and him. It’s
similar to predictive text from a future AI
So several mates and I delude each algorithm’s proclivity to just take you for a
other to the point of a naive kind-a fanati- spin. He calls the language ‘vision,’ which I
cism: a crescendo of glamour and creativity think is candid (and maybe even a bit genius
staining the retinae, like a wide-eyed artsy regarding its grande overstatement).
child stepping off colouring books into the
blank canvas world, a fresh palette on the He meets the pressures of industry
lee side of their naive mind. standards at eye level, saves the blind jest
for his weekend’s off. His beats and music

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videos are inspired by legendary greats, luggage’s depression; start new and start
Travis Scott and Kanye West and Drake, fast; but fuck the effects, gung-ho son.
yet this Americanisation of the sound is
mixed with the local bottle-o vodka-soaked Perhaps the personal style of Brek’s more
talking and rhymes, the half-drunk accent heartfelt tracks is his nod to the reminiscent
of Australians. What it seems like, is Brek faculty of postmodernism’s grande, mud-
is reconfiguring the proponents flecked in stained and driving epiphany force: we as
the skin patterns of culture’s design, on the humans are pulchritudinous, hard-wired to
frontier of the Australian music direction for search for meaning in a sea of information’s
those unsullied by conventionality (lack of murk. We hope somehow the pressing boot
industry framework, neuroticism in critics will lift off our proverbial necks—but maybe
to boot), he writes his lyrics spontaneously with the milieu surrounding oppressive no-
and with near professional ease, only his tions, we can recycle data and dialogue, es-
stories are rooted in a very subjective and cape.
personal scope. He diarises with intimacy,
drawing some of the hardest pressures of Maybe, in a postmodern community’s
his developing manhood public. widespread reworking, it is your timeline
articles protagonist that you can grow to
This bold experimentation is only “truly” recognise yourself in. You would today,
found in established artists hoping to air need to forget the established judgement
their dirty laundry—now you’re with them which comes with adulthood’s suppression
you may as well hate them—but this pre- of widely accepted tropes, everything you
supposition may not necessarily be naive; now identify with as instead and established,
the rap consulate feeds just as much grand- collating the open-minded congress and
standing and egoism as you’ll find Western kin where the irony and sympathy and net-
media gutting and bleeding with new-faces working are all advocated existentially—a
in front of crowds, contestants and un- universality fed by audiences engaging.
known artists, for money and ratings, and
more money. Each with their own simple What a fucking lucky guy you are, your
and common vagaries. The main aim is circle sharing theories, as such—it might just
pulling anyone led sympathetic’s heart- make publish; sway harrumph sized census.
strings for ratings. And everybody and their
mother know the game these days. P. S Fiscal Finishes

Contemporary Society, with all outlined They say the best creative inspiration strikes
decay and postmodern media, has this in the midnight hours. The half-borne
ability to alienate the weak believers of dream-time reveries, which is why I always
postmodern cause until they radicalise; yet take time to re-read my writing the follow-
a sort of entrepreneurial schtick by Brek is ing day with a freshly washed palette’s clari-
just the kinda provocation to the more cre- ty. On an essay topic of postmodern thought,
ative audience (with their subsequent open maybe the social influence (as outlined in
minds) to gel--how tragic does one’s cliche the early-presented definition) suggests it
have to be to stick? It’s just that. His musical is this very “solitude” I should be salving.
success echoes tell-tale attributes of some- Growing this essay’s merit in itself: a subject
thing that’d never of existed some years reading this very essay may enjoy its anal-
prior. The by-gone modernity, lost holiday ysis of entrepreneurial idealism towering

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over the boredom of conservative notions, attitude from this conversation’s roots allows
the now-vacuous fluidity in common-sense. the slipstream for creatives, perhaps a flung
And an ulterior subject may despise its fa- Molotov to the frontier of new-age fascism--a
naticism and inability to transfigure much system’s defunct depot--a renaissance of se-
other than the explicitly stated faculty, the rious synergy, of being. Note: good art is the
far-flung impalpability. So. very individual’s totality remodelling as either
new or affirming objective truth, so perhaps
I sit writing at the industrial-style IKEA the taboo is the salvation in itself for us as
table overlooking an under-watered and Contemporary Australians.
meekly flowering frangipani lit by pale
moonlight, in the late Wednesday mid- My good friend, who we’ll refer to as
night-hours. I feel the grit and ugly hope Garry, believes in all sorts of greater-pic-
running out my fingers for the original draft, ture criticisms of our established society’s
and think a truer thing could not be said for framework. He and I are very opinionated,
postmodernism’s cynicism and novice mode where they, extraverted and drunk, espouse
. . . the wind of these memories’ comforting anti-system cynicism and extremism to my
me, laid in print. With nothing to do for Brek wavering understanding, or my dismissal. So.
and me but release our art, hoping it strikes Sometimes biting back with my own loose-
true, and inventive and plentiful, prior to the tongued intoxication, one point of bitter dif-
establishment of an audience’s mud-spat- ference is ‘the free-spirited and ill-defined
tered subjectivity. Which, all in all, is a root individuality with harrumph queer attributes,’
cause of the irony. An ensuing smirk. is in itself is maybe too rickety and mapped
with a shaky, unfeasible charter for the ca-
As I reflect back over this, the ultimate reer prosperity, the community values of said
dishwater in this essay’s crux is its personal person too alien to congeal. How straying far
interpretation, with little to no direction for from normality is a filmy poise; the atypical
the two figurehead characters other than beings’ chaos, in the face of . . . Yes?
straying from the convoy-wagons’ back-seat
Navman, to figure out how to make Boule- ‘Who is left to trust then,’ I ask. The air
vard’s West by their own accord . . . of the lounge-room snaps still and in the
bleak and tightness, as their face falls bleak.
To dare to be different is a lost art in most A second passes while unidentified bird coo
popular circles in post-modern Australia, no- with a late-afternoon soliloquy.
body wants to be the guy with a few crazy
beliefs. To flunk creative, miss the fiscal fin- ‘Yourself,’ they say, mocking pep and zeal.
ishing in lieu. Maybe adopting a more rational ‘Just yourself.’

About the Author
Iggy J. Louis is a short story and narrative essay writer and a poet, hailing from Sydney,
Australia. His work has so far appeared in Southerly and Independent Australia.

112

THE PEOPLE I
USED TO KNOW

by Nate Tulay

Yesterday my best friend who I haven’t This cannot be real I told myself as his
spoken with in two years called. And as his nagging voice disappeared into the steep
name and number appeared on the caller and silent air. This nigger didn’t just call me;
id, my body began to shiver because we he didn’t just ask me to be the godfather to
hadn’t spoken since the infamous accident. his unborn child. I have to be dreaming, I
Chills slowly crept down my spine and my slowly repeated to myself as I forced myself
fancy plaid shirt and designer jeans could to wake up. But I couldn’t escape this night-
no longer protect me as the fierce cold air mare; it was far too real to be a dream. Sud-
engulfed the heat within the dimmed and denly, I noticed my right hand reaching into
narrowed hallway. And when the telephone my left shirt pocket for the joint I had rolled
rang, my body became stiff, motionless and up earlier. And as I pulled it out, I noticed
consumed by the burning sensations of a the dimmed and dusty photo hanging above
paraplegic. After a few minutes, the sound the phone. It was a photo of us before the
of the loud bells jingling stopped. His num- accident. Effy was smiling, her slender body
ber and name slowly vanished as his voice was leaning on Flo’s jacked tannish shoulder
started to disturb my silence through the as his middle finger drifted towards the
machine. camera pretending to be a thug.

“Hi bro, I am just calling to check up on Flo was a basketball player, and like
you because it has been a while since we most ball players, he was tall and slim. His
last talked, and I am hoping you’ve gotten powder-blue eyes were envied by the guys
over what took place that morning. I miss and admired by the girls; and because he
you and the guys; and we should catch up wanted to be identified as black, his silky
like old times. Call me back when you get black hair was always cut low to his wavy
this message. By the way, I am going to be scalp. He spoke in a uniquely soft tone
a father soon. Effy is pregnant and we want and was one of those guys who wore their
you to be the godfather,” he said in a deep emotions on their sleeves. His nickname
piercing tone. was Sweetie, and he always complained

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about it when we were in public, especially And as I turned to walk away, I suddenly
when we were around girls. But that never remember why I shunned the photo and
stopped us from messing with him, espe- why I couldn’t get rid of it even though I
cially LeoNell. hated the emotional pain it triggers. And
so I slowly walked over to the front door.
Leo was the middle linebacker on the Through it, I went gently making my way
varsity football team and a year older than down the stairs and towards the backyard
as well as my best friend though he was to sit on the old rusty swing. The swing was
indeed a jerk and bully. He was also very a few feet left of the evergreens and their
shy and insecure about his speech growing branches hovered above like a sun umbrella
up given that he was a heavy stutterer protecting my brown skin from the blazing
when we were young. And though others rays of a midsummer sun as I lit the perfectly
teased him about his speech, especially Flo, rolled joint and gradually began to ingest
it didn’t bother me because I had gotten the cannabis. Which effects I also began to
used to it over the years, plus the teasing feel on my body near the half waypoint of
just seemed wrong. Yet, that didn’t stop the the joint. And by that I mean my body had
teasing from getting to Leo after a while. caught a buzz and my mouth had developed
And as a result his brown skin slowly mu- the metallic, bitter, salty and sour taste, and
tated into a shell. A shell he only left around my mind had stopped wondering. And as a
me like a fearful turtle. And as a result we result all the toxic memories that burned in
became very close during those dark years. my head like blistering flames began to fade
I got to know the aspiring writer hidden as the weed began to stimulate my mind.
within the shell. The kid who wanted to My high wore on, and my body began to
change people’s perspective of the world feel wearied, and I dozed off as Effy floated
and free their minds of all the illusions cre- into my mind. Elizabeth (Effy) Pratt was very
ated by their societies, nations, church and tall. Her black dreadlocks sagged below her
ideologies. And he made me believed there shoulders like a bronzed garden of vines, for
was more to life than hanging on the corner they had been dyed bronze like her cosmic
and partying every weekend. Most impor- skin. And her hazel brown eyes brought out
tantly, I got to know the kid who turned his her natural beauty and were also gleaming
suffering into a pure source of knowledge like the sun from her smoothly carved face.
and wisdom. And that kid became my best A preppy red plaid shirt loosely camouflaged
friend and someone who I also encouraged her baby bump and lithesome shoulders as
and helped with his speech. But as the years her arms loosely swayed below her waist.
went by my best friend transformed into a
tall muscular guy blooming in the self-con- “I thought you stopped smoking? Didn’t
fidence of being the first freshman to ever the doctor tell you it’s bad for patients with
start for the varsity football team after his heart failure,” she said in a melodious tone.
stuttering gradually disappeared. And the
success on the football field also changed “He did and I quit afterward but started
his personality too. He became very loud again after Flo left. Do you want a hit?”
and developed his infamous “I don’t give
a fuck attitude”, which led to our infamous “Come onnnn, you know I can’t anymore
accident and his unapologetic voice mail because it’s bad for the baby, and you also
earlier. need to quit... because you promised him
that you will look after me.”

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“My bad, I forgot, plus it’s not showing… if life is the never ending cycle of
and WoW... you haven’t forgotten that?”
suffering, shouldn’t death be
“YES, I remember everything about him...
he was my first everything,” she said with the never ending cycle of peace,
a grin.
love, freedom and happiness?
“I know… that’s why I still can’t believe
you broke the CODE...” And so isn’t it true that we hate

“I had too...” things we don’t understand, and

“Why?” are fearful of people who are different,

“You know why. It’s the same reason you and cling onto the ideas we love,
started smoking again.”
even though they might be wrong?
“HUH?”
Don’t we cry when death takes away
She grinned again but didn’t reply and
vanished into the mild breeze a few seconds our loved ones but cheer when it
later.
takes our enemy? Don’t we complain
I waited but she didn’t return. And so I
turned from the swing and walked calmly about death and claim we are looking
toward the house, carefully dragging my
feet against newly trimmed lawn as the for ways to eradicate it in-spite of us
dank, musty air tiptoed into my nostrils
and down my lungs. And as I treaded being its biggest supporters and fans
across the lawn, an irritating, stuffy
feeling settled beneath the bridge of my given that we kill for pleasure, revenge
nose and erupted as I hiked up the con-
densed and narrowed steps. Leaving the and retribution? And so isn’t it true that
steps, I strolled into the old Levitt house
and marched down the moist hallway. And through our actions and deeds death
as a walked the hallway my heart began
to thump rapidly, and I became scared as has become infamous for being unknown,
sweat started to slip down my steaming
face. And again my fear of death, the in- hated and fear for being different in spite
visible god became real to the point that
I started to pray and weep for my soul in of those things being ideas that might be
spite of not being a believer in Allah. But wrong?
as I prayed to Allah to spare my life, my
mind started to reminisce about Leo and Afterwards, my heart began to thump at
his free verse poems. And I grinned as its normal pace, and so I grinned as fear left
Leo’s “Misunderstood Man” came into my my body. Then I slowly stood up and walked
head. And suddenly I began to repeat the towards and through the bathroom door
following words: and began to wash my hands and face. And
after I got done I lifted my head up and saw
my own reflection through the mirror. It was
an image of a young loser given that I had
evolved into the young man I once vowed
never to become. And as I stood staring at
myself through the mirror, the honest evi-
dence of shame overpowered me and so I left

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the bathroom and went into the living room “WoW... but yea... what was he trying to
and sat on the warmed red leather recliner prove that night?”
and calmly dialed Leo’s telephone number.
“Nothing really, it was all about getting
He answered on the fifth ring and said, laid that night. The girl’s parents left for the
weekend, and so we were going to sleep
“Hey bro, it’s been a while, and thanks over after the party but the plan fell apart.”
for calling back because you didn’t have to.
And I’m sorry for the unapologetic voice “What happened?”
mail earlier. It was out of place but I really
needed to talk to you, and that was the only “The first freak accident.”
way I could’ve gotten your attention,” in a
giggling tone. “Huh, there were two accidents?” I asked.

“It’s cool bro, plus your plan worked... “Yes, around 2AM, shrieking cries in-
I’m on the phone with you... something I terrupted the bonding process within my
thought would never happen again; but room. And the loud echoing led the bawd’s
what do you want to talk about because I friend and me to the master bedroom. And
wanted to talk about Flo and what really when we got through the door, Sweetie was
happened that morning. I think it’s about on the bed gasping for air. His body was
time... that we put our huge egos aside…” twitching as his eyes rolled toward the rear.
The chocolate nightstand right of the bed
“Yea, you are right and I wanted to talk was covered with white powder,” Leo said.
about Sweetie too.”
“White powder? What the fuck bro, I
“Okay... so what happened?” thought you said it was just drinks and
weed.”
“We got struck by lightning twice.”
“I didn’t know... about that shit bro...
“Huh, what do you mean by that?” then Sweetie’s bawd came up to me, and
her eyes were engulfed with water.”
“Come on bro, open your mind... it was
a freak accident... even though I was under “I told him to stop... he didn’t listen, he
the influence.” wouldn’t slow down... He said he was a pro,
he had done it before... and nothing hap-
“Under the influence? Under the influ- pened... now he won’t stop twitching... do
ence of what?” something please...” she said.

“Calm down bro... it was alcohol and “What do you want me to do? I’m not a
weed, the usual house party shit.” doctor... call the ambulance... tell them to
hurry... he overdosed on cocaine,” Leo said
“So you guys were coming from a party?” in a loud tone.

“Yea, it was Sweetie’s bawd sweet six- “No.”
teen. He didn’t tell you... he didn’t want Effy
to know he was cheating on her.” “What the fuck?”

“Hold on... Flo had a side girl when he “I can’t, my parents will find out... they
was going out with Effy?” don’t know about my night life.”

“Yeah bro, he was actually messing with “WHAT THE FUCK... do you think his
two other chicks. You know Sweetie always grand-mom knows he smokes or drinks???
had something to prove.”

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Plus he never sipped a lean before...we towards the bed, reached over and grabbed
don’t fuck with that shit... what the fuck... Sweetie. His body was unpleasantly cold. I
how am I supposed to explain this shit...” cradled him and went through the broad
door, quickly making our way through the
“I don’t know...” the bawd said. massive hallway and down the lanky stairs
and towards my silver Crown Vic. When we
“Drive him to the hospital” the bawd’s got there, the right rear door was opened
friend said. She had Sweetie’s head cradled and I gently laid Sweetie into the rear seats
in her arms. His body had stopped twitching. and ran towards the driver seat and started
to drive.
“Hurry, he’s breathing but slowly,” the
friend said again. It was foggy. I tilted my head around and
looked at Sweetie. He was still breathing but
“Fuck, I can’t drive... I’m faded,” Leo said. his body began to shiver from the cold and
mine did too. We had forgotten to put
“You have to, he’s dying… his body is proper clothes on when we left. And so I
cold... if you don’t hurry Flo will die,” she turned the heater on and gently stepped on
said. the gas without removing my right foot.
And after all hope seemed lost, we passed
“Fuck, where is the keys?” the (D9-2) sign, which had two miles be-
neath it. I tilted to the rear to check on
“It’s in his pocket,” the bawd said. Sweetie. He was still breathing and so I
grinned, but as I turned my head back I saw
“Where’s his jeans?” Leo asked. The a beaming light from the right and it floated
bawd quickly ran around the queen size rapidly towards us turning my memories
bed. The denim was lying on the flood, with Sweetie into memories that still burn
left of the bed and by the huge choco- in my head like a creek of flowing lava.
late dresser. She reached into the right
front pocket and pulled out the blue Con-
well-Egan key holder. Coming back, she ran
passed me and through the door. I walked

About the Author

A wise man once said, “That which does not kill us, makes us
stronger.” – Nietzsche. My name is Nate Tulay and I am an aspiring
Liberian-American poet. I was born in Liberia during a civil war
with a tied tongue and some deafness in my right ear and also
experienced another Civil War when I was four and lost my
childhood innocence to it. Furthermore, I also did some things in
life when I was 12 and 13 that I too am not proud of and cannot
truly forgive myself for which along with my other experiences and
struggles made me a philosopher sooner rather than later in life and are still my motivations
to strive for greatness and be a fair and kind and friendly and loving and understanding and
compassionate and honest person one day at a time.

117

WE THE LOSERS

by Matthew Conte

I was standing by the oven when I saw meaningless and shouting into something
them, clamped together tight as lovers on that could just swallow them up if it wanted
a station platform, beating each other. It to. Whether I was writing a thousand words
was a midsummer Saturday at the board- on an uncontested school board election or
walk restaurant I’ve worked at off and on making a pizza that someone was going to
for the past decade, meaning there were a pay for, throw up on, and then leave for me
lot of people in the building. It’s a counter to clean up, I was typically asking myself
service joint filled with bennies and fami- why any of this was happening in the first
lies during the day and drunks and week- place. But one was a lot of sitting, a lot of
enders at night—my shift. A graveyard shift manners, a lot of middle-aged suburbanites
if every night were All Saints Day thanks to yelling at me for this or commending me for
the summer rental houses and the two bars that. Meanwhile, at Gee-Gee’s I lifted things,
across the street. A shift for those with a lit- I fought with teenagers over the auxiliary
tle tougher skin, as steady streams of juke- cord, and I ended most days with a beer. At
box hijackings, over-orders, and fist fights the end of holiday weekends I slept on the
could get taxing. beach, woke up with a swim, and brought
the beach home in my shorts. I ran into the
I quit my job as a reporter with a news- paper’s manager at the annual week-long
paper so that I could time things right to fireman’s fair, one of the biggest weeks of
come back to Gee-Gee’s, where I could work the year in Manasquan. She told me at least
as many hours as possible. Back living in Ka- I had the summer to prepare and relax be-
tie’s grandma’s second floor thanks to the fore I moved. I didn’t bother to tell her how
fire that took our first apartment, I decided unrelaxing it was.
to buckle down for the summer and spend
the four months or so trying to make enough ***
money to move to Philadelphia. I would put
in around 50 hours a week plus another 20 One night, a Fourth of July weekend night
or so at Brielle Recreation’s summer camp during my last summer there, Hazy Davy
program in the mornings. Both the job I left and his girlfriend Crazy Janie came in, yell-
and the one I left it for were hectic at times, ing back out the doors. I had played Little
with deadlines at the paper and long lines at League baseball with Davy and he was a
Gee-Gee’s. Both could feel trivial, had a way year below me at Manasquan High School.
of making the worker feel like they were His dad was one of two people in my life

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who called me “Matty.” I didn’t know him a story about playing the same song over
too well but when we drunkenly bumped and over again to see what would hap-
into each other at the senior formal at Rog- pen. I once heard “Higher” by Creed play-
er Williams University, me as a guest of a ing, and thought that was kind of a funny
student and he as the guest of a senior, we song to put on. People like to shit on bands
were so shocked at the sudden familiar like Creed and Nickelback because they’re
face that we, the polite party fringes, the not good and they’re very successful, but
beach bums who still recognized each oth- I learned to let go of any music snobbery I
er in ties and clothes with buttons at this might’ve had back in college. It’s stupid and
fancy-ass, seafood-serving ball hugged and useless; Creed is harmless and even though
danced together and got each other drinks it’s probably playing through a jukebox
at the open bar. ironically, I don’t really care. In the hectic
workplace of the pizza ovens, it wasn’t un-
This particular holiday weekend had so til a few minutes later that I realized that
far seen its fair share of wild conversations “Higher” by Creed was still on. When I came
with customers. One told us she had been up to the counter, I didn’t even have to
running a one-woman drink chip-for-pizza say anything before the cashier girls said,
slice deal with various employees for years “You have to do something.” Apparently it
and needed a new trading partner. A pair had played at least four times already, so I
of 25-year-olds made their way up onto the found the remote and turned the jukebox
grill stage to try to coerce the college-aged off. A few minutes later, a guy came over
boys on the fryers into some free food, slip- to me and yelled over the counter that the
ping on a pair of greasy aprons. A former jukebox was broken.
employee stepped behind the counter to
pound out some dough. After closing, we “Oh, yeah,” I told him. “I don’t think it
watched from our encampment on Riddle was broken, somebody just put on the same
Beach as a man stumbled from a house with Creed song over and over again, so I turned
the sunrise, fully clothed with beer in hand, it off.”
and walked straight into the ocean without
stopping. When he came out sopping wet “Yeah! I put in $5 and I didn’t hear all my
and continuing to drink from a 50-50 split of songs.”
Bud Light and saltwater, we asked how long
he had been drunk. He asked us what day I then realized he was the Creed guy,
it was, which is sort of all the answer you so I tried to change my tune hoping that
need to that question. someone who was drunk enough to spend
$5 to hear “Higher” that many times was
*** also drunk enough to lose himself in this
conversation. “Oh, yeah, it’s broken, sorry,”
Modern day jukeboxes are controlled I said.
mostly via iPhone apps and touch screens.
At Gee-Gee’s, I witnessed joyous Elton “This is horseshit!” he said before turning
John sing-alongs, intoxicated faux-karaoke on his heels and stomping out the double
battles, and birthday wishes granted. But doors.
there’s always someone with the mindset
of teenage John Mulaney, a comedian with He and his friends came in again on
different nights, mostly playing the same
song. One time, I turned it off and they

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

just gathered around and sang the song ***
acapella. It became a tolerable and some-
times welcome distraction. The story got Davy and Janie were basically regulars. On
around, with the Creed guys gaining a little a normal night we might have exchanged
mythic notoriety amongst those clocking casualties or a story or two about his broth-
in and out. At the end of the summer, the er, Killer Joe, who was my wife’s sister’s hus-
last late shift of the Labor Day weekend, in band’s best friend. I didn’t know Janie well
the flimsy barrier of moments between but had seen her name occasionally in the
the end of summer and the beginning of sports section of the hyper-local newspa-
Local Summer, we closed the place down— per I worked at her success with lacrosse in
swept and mopped the floors, plunged college beyond the borders of Manasquan.
the toilets, shooed the nappers from the On this night, I came over to see what the
porch, tossed or boxed up or ate cold any commotion was, as the job of makeshift
remaining pizza. We left the jukebox on, bouncer often fell to me. Once he calmed
paused, with the volume all the way up. a bit, he told me of an encounter just out-
We parked ourselves on the sand near the side the doors with a few guys who had just
water and sat there with the case of drinks walked out, which began when they called
the bartenders had traded us for boxes of him a “faggot.”
pizza, going for a swim when we had to
piss, passing around joints and stories and “Which like, I don’t really care, whatever,”
insults, dodging the tractor sweeping the he said. “But then they kept calling her a
beach, waiting for the lights to come on. slut.” Apparently these guys could only in-
We gave the openers a little time to settle sult someone in some relation to the variety
in and turn some appliances on before we, and frequency of their sex lives.
a ragged group of beards, teenage-boy
dishwashers, college-girl cashiers, single He steamed there in front of the pizza
moms, calloused burnt hands, ex-Navymen, display, his hands in fists and his face deep
sand-covered calves, teachers, struggling red. Janie wiped tears from her eyes. I asked
artists, bloodshot eyes, Soundcloud rap- them what they wanted to eat. This was a
pers, rent-a-cops, bartenders and backs, couple that came in often, almost never too
moonlighters, addicts, dropouts; we of the drunk, and never caused a problem. They
night who make your food and take your were locals who were usually alone, occa-
shit and thank you for it; we who fall asleep sionally with a few friends. He got a grilled
to the robins’ dawn chorus, who huddle in cheese. She got a ‘tie-dye’ slice, which is
the fringes of big nights out for sleeveless a disgusting concoction of fried chicken,
New Yorkers and rich young professionals, buffalo sauce, barbecue sauce, and ranch
for tight dresses and popped collars; we dressing that inexplicably flies off the pan
who’ve been told by our wages are min- once the calendar turns with the stroke of
imum; we the fiery, the sleepless, under- midnight. I told them it was on me. A pizza
educated, greasy, we the losers slow-mo- pie only needs to sell about two slices be-
tion rolled in before service to the sound of fore it becomes profitable, and bread and
a maxed out jukebox playing “Higher” by melted cheese isn’t exactly breaking the
Creed and the exasperated sighs of the still bank either. We give out free slices all the
sleepy eyed breakfast crew. time late at night. To former employees,
to people we’re flirting with, to friends or
family or other service workers or cops or

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people we’re just trying to impress. Some- both bleeding from their faces, dripping
times even strangers with drink chips. Davy onto the pavement. With his belt buckle in
and Janie were both so happy, they thanked my left hand and his arm in my right, I was
me over and over again and left a nice tip for pulling and prying when an officer came
the girls at the counter. running down the macadam and took him
straight from my arms. When the officer
*** who took my statement—a former cook at
the same joint and my wife’s co-sibling-in-
It was post-2 a.m. when I stood up on the law—I told him the big guy was on top and
pizza station and hollered down at the two the kid was defending himself. I don’t know
combatants in my substitute teacher voice. how it started but for some reason, maybe
Only these weren’t grade schoolers, they because he was punching below his weight
were a 32-year-old man and the 17-year- class, or maybe because of a misguided
old he was apparently too drunk to know need to protect my home and people from
better than to fight, who had most likely the rowdy three-to-four-month invaders, I
been smoking weed on the beach under found myself slanting the details to put the
cover of the darkness. I went up and over big guy in the wrong.
the pizza display window, down the steps,
and through the circle of seconds and side- He wrote it all down in a little notepad
kicks to try to grip onto him. He was using while I got down on my hands and knees
his fist and the shaggy-haired kid, a local with a bucket of soapy water and a hot rag
for sure, was using his elbow. They were and washed the blood from the pavement.

About the Author

Matt Conte is a New Jersey-born writer with an MFA from
Rosemont College. He lives in Philadelphia and makes pizza
dough.

121

BAD FORTUNE
AROUND MEETING

THE PRESIDENT

by Kurt G. Schmidt

Since my father had threatened Mom with time or whenever I returned from fishing
a .22 rifle, life had been reasonably calm for with a pile of small sunfish and tossed them
over three years. However, the cat popu- to the hoard of growling, hissing compet-
lation at our house during this period had itors. In the winter pregnant females and
risen to twenty-one. Mom and my sisters kittens were allowed inside, although once
had become addicted to the cuddly things after a heavy snowfall, a black-and-white,
and allowed feline sex lives to run rampant long-haired male named Piachi returned
without any thought to giving them away from a two-year absence with a wild de-
or getting them spayed. Some of the adult meanor that prevented Mom from coaxing
cats became fed up with overcrowding and him into the house but allowed her to feed
headed for the woods. And though some him in the shed for a few days before he dis-
died, there always seemed to be pregnant appeared again forever, knowing perhaps
female ready to replenish the supply. One that becoming a stud in this house meant
round-bellied cat rejected the towel-lined a shaky life in which two rabbits had joined
carton Mom had placed near the warmth the fray and become targets for kittens that
of the wood stove and insisted on sleeping jumped off chairs onto their backs.
at the foot of my bed until, in the dark of
the night, she gave birth there to the first But the cats were minor problems com-
of four, carried it to my pillow, and caused pared with those that arose during the
me to wake up screaming for Mom because summer when I was sixteen, when hare-
I thought there was a mouse in my ear. brained behavior had nothing to do with
rabbits. First, there was my introduction to
In the summer the cats stayed outside President Eisenhower. Then, my family’s in-
mostly and hung around the barn at feeding troduction to Bud Blake, a local stud with a

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huge belly that jiggled on top of a low-slung administrators pass out a small booklet on
belt. Other than both men being bald, and state government, saying we’ll be given a
both being infatuated with power, the Presi- little test on the material. I don’t know why
dent and Bud Blake had nothing in common. such a fun week should be marred by a test,
but I stretch out on the campus lawn with
That spring began with my selection Stuart, studying the booklet.
from the high school’s a cappella choir to
be in the All-State Music Festival. I could be Stuart says, “I heard a big 4-H group just
excited if it were all-state baseball, but the arrived on campus. They’re having a dance
J.V. baseball coach thinks I’m too small to hit tonight. You want to go?”
the ball any distance, even after I blasted
some scorching line drives. Big disappoint- I know I’d feel awkward being the
ment. Being a reserve on the team is killing smallest boy at a dance, so I say, “Nah, I
my dream, and the uniform is too big. think I’ll stick around and study for the test
tomorrow.”
The all-state chorus creates an exciting
sound, but my mind is on the whack of the Stuart says, “That government stuff is
bat hitting a baseball. I hardly have a chance boring. You’d have more fun at the dance.
to play though, and then only at second Just about all the guys I know are going.”
base, not shortstop. I think life is unfair.
Stuart is right. The dormitory is empty at
In May the town’s American Legion night. One hundred and seventy-eight guys
Auxiliary announces they will sponsor me from Boys State must have gone to the 4-H
to attend an event called New Hampshire dance. So I study civic government alone.
Boys State — one week in June at the Uni- The material is dry, but I think if I’m using it
versity of New Hampshire. The Women’s as an excuse to avoid the dance, I might as
Club will sponsor my friend Stuart. Organi- well try to do a good job on the test.
zations like the Lions Club and Rotary Club
will sponsor nine other boys from our high The next day the late-night guys and I
school. Theoretically, Boys State is intended take the test in a big hall. Most questions
to teach New Hampshire boys about state are true and false and seem fairly easy. I
government. But the guys gathered at leave the hall with the satisfaction of having
UNH seem more interested in having fun done my best.
than learning about government. So I find
plenty of tennis action. And John Ineson The following day at the final ceremo-
from Rochester plays his guitar and sings nies I sit with Stuart and the contingent
Elvis Presley songs like “Hound Dog” and from our school. Boys State administrators
“Heartbreak Hotel.” On talent night, Pete announce awards and certificates, while ev-
Wright and I sing “Tell me Why the Stars Do eryone whispers that John-the-Elvis-man is
Shine,” but the guy who sings Elvis songs is a sure thing to be one of the two chosen to
the star of the show. I think participation in go to Washington, D.C., for Boys Nation. You
the mock elections is worthwhile as long as have to send a guy who can play guitar and
I don’t compete with the state’s big wheels sing “Hound Dog.” So when they announce
for offices like Governor, and so I’m elected John Ineson’s name, no one is surprised as
Clerk of the Senate and supervisor of the John-the-Elvis-man walks up front.
voter checklist. Near the end of the week,
They announce the second name, and
I think it must be someone whose name

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sounds like mine. I don’t move. My friends dynamic when it comes to campaigning for
poke me and say congratulations. As I walk Boys Nation president and other governing
to the front, I hear someone say, “He got positions. Particularly impressive are the
the highest mark on the test.” southern boys, who talk like preachers
about God and country and their view on
By some strange miracle, I’m going to whether to pass our mock Senate bill to
Washington. It is the first time I feel spe- abolish the electoral college system. John
cial, as if the asterisk next to my name says Lee Frye from Huntington, West Virginia, is
something good instead of too small. the best, winning our election with ease.
When we proceed through a reception line
Newspaper articles over the next few at the Capitol to shake hands with Vice Pres-
days make it sound as if I am special, as if ident Nixon, John Lee Frye is out front with
going to this Boys Nation thing, as if being the American Legion chaperones, making
the first boy ever chosen from my school, that important first contact.
is a big deal. When my parents drive me to
the nearby YMCA camp where I’ve been John Ineson and I meet New Hampshire
spending part of my summer each year, the senators Styles Bridges and Norris Cotton
camp director speaks to them for the first at the Capitol. They treat us to lunch and
time. He has smiles and congratulations ask what we intend to do after high school.
that he usually reserves for the affluent I can’t tell them I need a college that pro-
families. Somehow my good luck has ele- vides a free education because my family
vated my family. I still doubt this change of can’t afford a flush toilet. But Mom has
fortune until I leave camp and my parents suggested one of the service academies be-
drive me to Boston and I’m on the train with cause they don’t cost anything if you get in,
John Ineson to Washington. Mom says if I so I say I’d like to go to Annapolis. I could say
meet President Eisenhower, I can tell him West Point, Air Force Academy, or the Coast
that he and Grandpa played cards in the Guard Academy too but want to appear de-
same poker group when Ike was president cisive. Senator Bridges says to contact him
of Columbia University. if I remain interested in an appointment to
Annapolis.
John and I and some huge guys from
states like Texas and Nevada are housed in ***
the dormitories of the University of Mary-
land. The huge guys are kind to me and do I am sixteen and only five foot two when
not razz me when I challenge one of them I meet President Eisenhower. On the day
to some Indian wrestling. I place my right of our White House tour, the American Le-
foot against the right foot of a muscular guy gion chaperones for our Boys Nation group
from Nevada and grasp his right hand. I ram say we will not meet him. Big disappoint-
our clasped hands down and drive his arm ment. The President is still recuperating
behind his leg. He loses his balance, moves from abdominal surgery. The tour ends,
his back foot. He wants to try again. Same and someone tells us to wait on the White
result. Others want to try. Same result. I am House lawn. Someone says Ike is coming
recognized as the Indian-wrestling champ. out. The group forms a semicircle. I can’t
Low center of gravity has some advantages. see over everyone. A chaperone notices my
problem and leads me to the front on the
I am glad for this small recognition be-
cause the other boys are so mature and

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far left-hand edge. Ike comes out smiling A professional photographer captures
and says how we represent the best in the the Boys Nation events, and I come home
country. He moves forward to the center of with an 8 x 10 glossy of Ike and our group,
the semicircle and shakes hands with John showing me clearly in the front row. I have
Lee Frye. Then Ike steps back and scans another 8 x 10 of John Ineson and me with
the front row until his eyes lock on mine. our New Hampshire senators. Mom tells
He walks directly to me, sticks out his hand, me to bring my photos to Bud and Joan
and says, “You’re a small fellow. Where are Blake’s house, where we’ve been invited to
you from?” socialize. She says Bud and Joan would be
interested in my trip. I think my meeting the
I shake his hand and say, “New Hamp- President might impress the Blake’s attrac-
shire, sir.” tive older daughters.

Ike says, “I’ve been to New Hampshire a ***
few times.”
I can tell that Joan and Bud Blake are not
I know Ike likes to fish, so I say, “You interested in my trip to Washington. This
should bring your fishing rod next time you situation is different from other homes
come. I caught a five-pound smallmouth we’ve visited, where the adults and the
bass once.” kids gather around the TV. The Blake’s teen-
age daughters are missing, and it is only
Ike says, “Sounds like you’re a good fish- my sisters and me in front of the TV. From
erman.” my vantage point, I can see Bud is flirting
with Mom, and Joan is flirting with Dad.
I smile. Ike says good luck and begins They are drinking beer together, but each
shaking hands with guys next to me. I level couple’s conversation is separate from the
my camera for two close-ups of him. It’s other. I feel as though something strange is
hard to believe the President picked me going on.
out because I was the smallest kid. I think
maybe he did it because he is only a few When we arrive home, Dad wastes no
inches taller than me. When I saw him on time snapping at Mom. He says he knows
TV, he seemed tall. But Ike has empathy what Joan was suggesting. “If you think I’m
for small boys, and now something good going to sleep with Joan just so you can fuck
has come from this handicap. Only a few Bud, you’d better have your head examined.”
more guys in the front row get to shake his
hand before Ike waves and retreats into the Mom says, “You know how to ruin every
White House. social situation with your perverted imagi-
nation.”
I have the feeling my luck in life is getting
better. If I achieve good grades my senior “If I catch you with Bud, I’ll kill you both.
year, if I score high on the College Boards, I’ll kill the kids too.”
Senator Bridges might appoint me to An-
napolis. If I grow two more inches, I can I hear a scuffle in the kitchen, and my
meet the minimum height requirement for fear returns to the shooting incident three
Annapolis. This trip to Washington, which years ago. Threatening to kill us kids is a way
never would have happened if I’d gone to to control Mom, but I’m afraid he’ll actually
the 4-H dance, has opened up exciting pos- do it next time.
sibilities for my future.

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*** Bud keeps squinting and chewing the
cigar. He thinks I’m too young and stupid to
A couple weeks later Mom comes home know what he’s up to. I just want to kick that
from work with two brand new fishing rods. fat bastard in the balls and tell him to leave
She says a friend at work gave them to her, my mother alone. He doesn’t give a damn
and I should use them. It’s mid-August, a about our family. The fat bald bastard with
good time to cast lures off Teddy Olsen’s the soggy cigar thinks he’s a handsome stud,
dock and try for a big bass. I’m walking entitled to whatever action he can find.
down the road to the lake with the new
fishing rods when Bud Blake stops his truck. Finally Bud Blake drives away. I spit
His windows are open, and for a moment in the direction of his truck. I continue to
he just chews on his cigar butt and stares Olsen’s dock and try fishing, but I can’t
at me. enjoy it. There are too many bad thoughts
pounding in my head. I think Mom is poking
Finally, he says, “Where’d you get those the dragon again.
fishing rods?”
I walk home and remove the .22 rifle and
I say, “From my mother.” the 12-gauge shotgun from the depths of
the large storage closet in my bedroom. I
People like Bud Blake squint sometimes dismantle each gun and wrap the pieces in
when they’re pissed off. Bud is squinting newspaper. I hide each piece deep again in
and talking slow and soft. He says, “I gave my closet in various locations. I feel safer
those rods to your mother.” now, but at night I have the same dream I
have so often. A man with a gun is shooting
“She said I could use them.” at me, and I’m running to escape. I wake up
sweating and gulping for air.
“Maybe. But I gave them to her.”

“You gonna take her fishing?”

About the Author

Kurt Schmidt’s essays and memoirs have appeared in
Bacopa Literary Review, The Ravens Perch, Grown and
Flown, The Good Men Project, Eclectica, Snapdragon, and
as a “best essay” in the 2017 Adelaide Literary Awards
Anthology. He also authored the novel Annapolis Misfit
(Crown), won awards in technical writing, and had a
coming-of-age memoir as a finalist in a Bread Loaf creative
nonfiction competition. You can view Kurt’s work at
www.kurtgschmidt.com.

126

REFUGE WITH LAST
BLACK MAN IN SAN

FRANCISCO

by Mellody Hayes

“The only thing effective immigrant parents how he guided us from store to store, in and
are doing is raising kids who will someday out, without any overarching sense of direc-
disrespect them,” I said to my date, Vincent. tion. My internal compass points straight
to the spirit world and I haven’t yet found
He is French. And African. His mother my true North in this one, so I am left to
had eyes the color cyrene, and his father allow him to lead us through San Francis-
hailed from an African country whose name co’s Mission District. He takes me to a jew-
I didn’t know. He said the name of the elry store--Love and Luxe--and I imagine he
country three times, his French accent ca- thinks that the positive association of the
ressing and distorting the sounds to my ears. beauty of these objects will be conveyed
onto him. But my mind is meta, watching
Finally, I gave up and he frowned, stating him watching me as I watch us in streams of
that he was no longer surprised by how little sociology, psychology, and evolutionary bi-
geography Americans knew. I toss my syn- ology. French and African, the colonizer and
thetic braids behind my shoulder, amazed the colonized. Black and American, claiming
that after all these years in this country, he freedoms spiritual and material. Man and
still doesn’t understand what it is to be an Woman, biology with a question of chem-
American. Our ignorance is combined with istry.
arrogance --that therein is our American
privilege. I willfully never bother to look up On date number two, we watch Last
the name of his father’s homeland and we Black Man in San Francisco, a movie poorly
are still scheduled for date number three. billed as being about gentrification. The film
is about “story”--creating yourself through
On date one, he dizzied me. No, I was a narrative that inspires and empowers. A
not in awe. I mean I was literally dizzy from

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story that organizes your pain into meaning, them from their families. The colonizer and
your time into purpose. Dismantling the the colonized…
flat-bootied stories we have been handed.
Usurpers, upstarts, lyrical geniuses, creators His eyes and lips smile as reply to my
of new language, we write ourselves into comment and I see the gap in his teeth, the
being, using symbols of power and privilege African sign of beauty--royalty. (We were all
that dominants stories say we could have royal, ain’t that right?) I had used that gap
never own. to flirt with him on the dating app.

Over dinner, he tells me that his father “Yes, I can see you in two weeks when
has this cultural rule that one must never your family leaves town, but don’t get
touch the father’s head. braces in the meantime.”

“Yes”, I acknowledge, “the symbolic His reply two weeks later, “I checked and
meaning is that one must never threaten the gap is still here--can we meet?”
to take the throne.”
“Sure, just be sure you bring the gap.”
But proper parenting, I tell him, has in
it the seeds of insurrection. To be a good I am mindful of the gap. Not just in his
parent is to empower your child to think for smile, but that narrows between us. I am
himself and someday overthrow you, to dis- from the land of children-are-made-to-be-
respect you. This is especially true for some seen-and-not-heard Mississippi, but he says
immigrant parents, I say, thinking of my he sees the African in me. We talk about
own migrate childhood. My father is from our recent mutual overthrows of our fa-
the rural south, where he grew up picking thers, both occurring weeks ago. He raised
cotton, putting it into guney sacks, sacks the his voice, corrected his father aggressively,
women folk cut up to sew into sheets. These putting him in his place, clarifying that his
ambitious parents, if they did their job right, father did not have expert knowledge on all
they push you far away from themselves topics. His elbow was on the table and I wit-
through education and opportunities. Later, nessed his bicep visibly flex as the energy
your best love becomes how to hide your from the recollected conversation flowed
dissimilitude, your consternation at their into him. And I—Southern, Holy Ghost-
“backwardness.” filled—swore at my father for the first time.
My nephew had run away from my father’s
They love you, push you, support you home and called me in desperation. He was
into not understanding them. Love becomes barely able to speak through his tears and
tinged with tolerance. Or, as a Sri Lankan terror, his fear at going back to the apart-
friend described of her mother’s weeklong ment where his older brother had beat him
stay with her, daughter now demonstrates for his poor report card. When I called my
her maturity by her forbearance, avoiding father, he took no responsibility for the fact
arguing, and not mentally overpowering that his 14 year-old ward was wandering
her with the scientific knowledge she now the rough streets of Long Beach in the dark
wields professionally--that her parents of night. Still unaware that parenting means
lack. Fucking western education, steals the accountability, my father erupted defen-
smartest, most eager and needy Black and sively, “I wasn’t my fault when you ran away
Brown kids from their homes by estranging either!” Me, now the calm anesthesiologist,
recently freed from residency, throwing off

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mental subjugation and gaslighting wher- He is playful, charming, successful, and
ever I met its remnants, I cursed at him. F… like me, he speaks Mandarin so—unlike the
ree. functionally monolingual American-Born
Chinese I have dated, we can actually speak
The lights are low in the upscale Indian to each other in Mandarin. He is intense.
bistro but I am sure that our eyes shine with His mind as analytical as mine, and when
bloodlust as we recall these first swings at I listen and feel the powerful force behind
independence from patriarchy. These bold, his words and watch the way he moves in
late-in-life moves to be the person who the world, I know that he is a natural leader.
sits upon the throne of our own minds. But around me he becomes the confessor
Laughing, I tease him, “You raised your and I his priestess as he tells me every truth.
voice, that’s like coming after him with a He hides nothing, wanting to be known and
knife.” He smiles again and I see the slit accepted at this price--a bargain, really. I
of darkness between his teeth, a vacancy, mean, what is the going the cost of a heart
an invitation--the space where whispered that is recently broken, only months sepa-
secrets first escape, slipping from behind rated from his ex-wife?
white bars to be heard…
In the car, his nerves bolstered by the
*** sake we shared, he looks towards me with
a downward tilted head, unable to look me
“You may be the last Black man that I date,” directly in the eye, he breathes, “You are
I confess on date three. We sit over Japa- beautiful.” He is shy with me, and I hear it
nese food and he introduces me to the again as a confession from the heart. My
Japanese set menu omakase, which he ex- peak compliment of the last man I dated
plains means, “I let you decide.” He pours was, “You are discerning,” because he saw
soy sauce into the small, blue, ceramic dish, my soul, my invisible parts, and super-
mine first and then his own, as he explains powers. Part of me feels sad for this gen-
how in his ten years working in China he va- tleman sitting across from me if beautiful is
cationed in Japan frequently and became all he can see...
more than fluent in the cuisine. I confess
that I am nervous because our initial match ***
seems so good. He feels like the “every-
thing” for which the old me didn’t even After the date, he emails me—“In Novem-
hope to consider as a possible option. And ber, if we are still dating, I want to go see
then there are the unexpected paroxysm of this movie”. There is a link that I click on
goofy, belly laughter that erupt from “seri- and I view the trailer for “Queen and Slim”.
ous me” on each date. I explain to him that Suddenly I am catapulted into scenes of
stakes feel higher when on a date with a violence, tinged with the American’s con-
Black man. In my heart, I wonder if will we temporary story of race and police violence.
overcome Chris Rock’s dire prognostication. Because movies about White police officers
“Even if you meet the perfect person, it ain’t and Black citizens having a nonviolent civ-
gonna be at the perfect time,” Rock jokes, ic interactions are not yet being made, the
“You’re married, they’re single. That’s right. plot of Queen and Slim is that the Black
You’re Jewish, they’re Palestinian.... You’re man kills the police officer in self-defense
a Black woman, he’s a Black man.” and a romantic first date between a Black

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man and woman turn into “Bonnie and a Black woman,” he said and Spirit asks, “Is
Clyde on the lam.” that really what I am?”)

After watching the trailer, I am filled The movie I would create for our collec-
with horror. My fingers move quickly over tive imagination? Thousands of boring, civic
the keyboard, alarmed, and I write. “Look, and professional police stops happening
there are are two purposes to storytelling. everyday because both parties have babies
Storytelling reports and prescribes a reality. and dreams to which to go home. We don’t
These have been the stories that they label have time to act out being each other’s
as ‘Black people stories.’ Stories of violence, worst nightmare; Let’s free each other from
pain, and abuse. To imbibe them automat- those projections. I want happy beginnings
ically is to continue to endorse them as a and endings for Black love stories. (Yet, my
possible future reality. Unless you are an in- favorite love story—Love and Basketball,
tentional visionary, like, say a Martin Luther Sinea Lathan’s character was perfect and
King, Jr. or a Gandhi, one is merely reiter- loved Omar Epps, but he left her neverthe-
ating the stories of pain that will be lived less. And she had to fight for his love. Black
out for the next 200 years. Unless you raise woman warrior, always at work. But I have
the psychology, emotional expectation of learned to allow and receive...)
a positive outcome, the same outcome is
destined, because it is the outcome that has ***
been pre-rehearsed on our visual cortex, in
our imagination when are dreaming.” On Bastille Day, he makes brunch for us. He
knows how to make perfectly soft boiled
Spiritual writer David Dieda says that the eggs and he shows me the way to decap-
superior man meets his woman’s challenge itate the head of the egg. He says that he
with unmoving love. Yes, I challenge and wants to read Black Rage and I ask him why.
he is unmoved. He doesn’t respond to this
monologue. And I see that in the reflex of “You have to know about the past, to
fear, it had taken me taken me two days to know the struggle,” he answers.
appreciate the sweetness of his email. He
had asked for a date in November, so many “Yes, I agree, but how are you going to
months away. Oh…in his visual cortex, his make your vision for the future stronger
imagination, and in his dreams of a possible than your knowledge of the past?”
future…he sees me.
How to walk into a new future, hopeful,
He is a tourist to this race story in confident, without being constricted by fear
America and wants to jump into the deep from the past?, I ask him. He’s not Black
end first. Having grown up in the French American, why put those psychologies and
countryside, the view outside his window programs in his head when he can live free?
sheep “baaing” (or what do sheep say in Why curse himself with this particular ghost
French?), he has the lookie-loo curiosity of —to be haunted by doubt in his next pitch
an uninvolved foreigner. He rubbernecks on meeting. Are they judging me? Are they
this race story and I wonder if he will slow holding within them the psychology that
my transport to more internal spaciousness oppressed others? Why imprisoned himself
with these topics ( “I’ve never made love to in stories and expectations of the past in-
stead of furtively creating a new future. Per-
haps his mind, free of circuitously winding

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self-doubt and suspicion, can find more a group. Later, however, after soaking in the
direct path out of the maze in which I once Epsom salt bath he drew for me and letting
found myself lost. him knead the spasm out of the muscle, he
held me, not on his back, but in his arms as
Does he think he can sample this indig- I slept the sleep of the exhausted.
nation—oh, so righteous—and not have his
brain changed? To take a hit and not be af- Once so independent, having sampled
fected by newfound paranoia? This newbie this thing called togetherness with him, I
wants to take on the high of the freedom feel changed. I am shocked by the joy in his
fighter, of the cause so morally superior. face as he looks at me. Witnessing his smile
Does he actually think he can stay whole is a complete experience--I feel moved and
without being connected to community sated both. I love the sight of the muscles
and in spiritual traditions of love? I feel him in his back as he raises out of bed, tired yet
wanting to storm the gates, to take in all determined, to meditate with me at 5am.
that ammunition. Grabbing his shaved head, I am amused by our linguistic play as we
feeling the bristles his salt and pepper hair say goodbye to each other in the morning
poke my hands, I squeeze his face tightly in Mandarin—I tell him to work hard and
I say, “Stay French.” Be free of this partic- he wishes me a good day in the operating
ular American drama, stay confused by it. It room.
should never make sense to any of us.
***
***
I remember a slow moment on an overnight
I am confused by why I fought relaxing into UCSF call shift, between kidney transplants
the soft rhythms of being with him. With and emergency spine surgeries, lounging at
friends, French and American, we do a the front desk with our multicultural crew.
twelve-mile hike in Point Reyes and my We were “shooting the shit” until our 7am
new hiking shoes allow no flexibility in my release to go home. The topic of interra-
foot’s stride, causing a muscle spasm in my cial dating came up and, remembering the
hip. I hide the pain, keeping it to myself as smile of one of my dates, I remixed the clas-
we lunch at the beach, but during the final sic “Once you go Black, you don’t go back.”
miles, the pain deteriorates my walk into With a faux moan, I offered, “Mmmm, once
a limp. Meanwhile, he is still full of force you had the curry, there is no hurry”. And
and energy and seeing my injury, he asks to the OR nurses and staff each chimed in
carry me the last bit of the way. My heart with their own, each from their own cultur-
fluttered at the offer, but I declined. The al background.
idea wafted in my mind as a vision, so de-
licious, of being carried like a playful teen- “Once you had the lumpia, you want
ager, being uplifted, and my spirit experi- some up in ya.”
enced it as joy. But it felt so silly to grown-
up me, this notion of being on his back, and “Once you had Chinese, you’ll be hungry
I even worried that he might reference this in five minutes.”
moment of my frailty and weakness in our
future. I was embarrassed to receive such And the show stealer, “Once you go
an intimate gesture in the presence of the White, your credit is right!” And we roared
with laughter until the next kidney trans-
plant had to be started.

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But what of this French (mixed with are meant to be waif thin. Their walks even
Burkinabe) kiss… “Once I’ve tried the brie, changed. Mentally I noted, “Are you poking
will my heart be free”? I always wanted to your butt out instead of trying to tuck it in?”
live in France, to experience the freedom Free…
that Baldwin and Baker said they discov-
ered there. But he found me here… For me, it’s can you shelter my dreams
in your hope, faith, and confidence, even
Can love ever be free of sociology? Of your male privilege, while I work to bridge
power and of its shadow game —an at- the gap between my previous beliefs and
tempt to escape feelings of shame and so- my growing knowledge of the possibility
cial vulnerability? we can create? Can I date to walk around
in your freedom? I won’t wear the pants,
Love is free, but public commitment can but can I share your worldview, that says
be a power game. My thinking about why ease, abundance and that life is a yes to
some people choose their partner changed me? Share a window into your reality so I
completely when a White girlfriend told me can expand my sense of privilege, question
the following story. She and her Black boy- the solidity of my old stories, check the re-
friend were in Martha’s Vineyard, walking actions of a previously doubtful and vigilant
down the street together. She turned to him, nervous system?
with what I imagine was Olive Oyl hero wor-
ship and said, “I feel so safe walking down ***
the street with you.” His response? “Really,
I feel so safe walking down the street with A year ago, I went on an amazing first date
you.” And then it hit me—the utter phys- with a Mexican-American lawyer, smart,
ical vulnerability some Black men may feel sexy, athletic, who after explaining minutiae
and the experience of safety and possibility of the tiny laws that govern our society said
that even the most “woke” brother may feel that these laws were why Black and brown
with a White partner to sponsor them into people “will always be on the bottom.” His
safety. Asylum seekers, like Salvadorans in societal prediction made it our last date. I
San Francisco churches, finding refuge from studied sociology of equality as a college
the ravages of social violence. Like political student at Harvard, with book shelves full
satirist Baratunde Thurston’s TED talk about of documentation of the inequality in edu-
race implied—that police stop may go more cation and healthcare. I know the past and
smoothly with a social safety sponsor in the the present, but I disagreed with him about
passenger seat. the direction of the future. Nah, Boo, your
dreams of the future don’t belong on a pil-
Asylum seekers all. Maybe that’s what low beside my own.
we are. I see the utter vulnerability of some
Black American men, hidden in masculinity, ***
and I wish them that shelter. For my White
girlfriends over the years, they experienced “You’re complicated,” my French-African
refuge the first time they dated a Black had said on our second date. And I laughed
man and realize that they could be “thick” my laugh, the joy reaching high to the ceil-
instead of overweight, learning that they ing. See, I am giggly and bubbly between
could love their ample asses. They got to be metaphysical discourse. “No, it’s good,” he
refugees from the crazy idea that all women reassures me. His utterance of “good” is gut-

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tural and expanded, “goooood” with um- mid-sentence and said, “Between seeing
lauts and thick like camembert. He shook you, I forget how beautiful you are,” and I
his head, relieved by the rarified paths my think, ”I could get used to this.” The softness
mind takes. His countenance looks befud- of being connected. The feeling of needing
dled, almost scared, as he mentally recalled and wanting. Letting go of arid self-suffi-
conversations with others. His eyes widen, ciency and defensiveness, my mind shifts
eyebrows raise, and he is nonplussed as he out of sociology, psychology, and history,
declares, “Simple people confuse me.” He and I am merely aware that I want to be his.
is spiritual, brilliant, a physical savant, ener- It’s on a sun-filled Sunday afternoon, that
getic, and driven. And in his matching com- I fall from my mind and into my heart as I
plexity, I experience refuge. feel him sleeping against me. Watching his
muscular chest rising and falling, wisps of qi
*** sawing in and out, my mind and heart feel
calm. I told him to nap and he was asleep in
On date number one he had read me cold. seconds, and I laugh inwardly at the amount
“You are a strong woman who only recently of peace he says that I give him.
learned to be vulnerable.” The accuracy of
that statement melted and scared me. And On our most recent date, we sit in the
after each one of our dates, I told myself I dark, watching The Farewell, a funny Chi-
wouldn’t see him again. I dissuaded myself nese movie about the cultural differences
by saying that something was missing. But I in how to show love for someone. Knowing
was unable to resist each subsequent invi- that I am likely to arrive having forgotten
tation. I would arrive, adorned with make- about dinner, a pattern leftover from my
up, sporting high heels, glad each time his habit of busyness, he has snuck cherries
wide smile and open heart greeted me. My into the theater for me. Letting language,
own heart has been in a multi-staged sur- shifting light, and laughter wash over me in
render. I remember my old mental image of the darkness, I pop rubies of juicy summer
my singleness—I was a gazelle that I would into my mouth. When I finish that Tupper-
continue to run; the lion would have to take ware bowl, he finds my hands in the dark-
me down because I refused to be caught. I ness to place another container of rubies in
was alone, evading the predator, alert, re- my hands for my joy. I find myself full. In-
gal, free, and definitely not weak enough to stead of eating more, I reach out my hand
fall on the savanna. for his and interlace my fingers with his
own, feeling my heart held, carried, and up-
But recently, talking to me while he lifted.
roasted salmon for our dinner, he stopped

About the Author

Dr. Mellody Hayes is a Harvard College graduate and UCSF
trained physician-writer who lives in San Francisco. She works
as anesthesiologist with a focus on palliative care. Founder and
CEO of Ceremony Health, a psychedelic medicine clinic, she is
passionate about creating peace and health for all people.

133

A MURKY FUTURE

by Jennifer Nelson

I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, Scott on the other side. He was probably
until the morning I started bawling in the out on assignment. I was safe. I could es-
newsroom. cape without anyone noticing. The article
about Melissa Rosenberg’s successful ac-
Tears gushed down my face, blurring my counting firm would just have to wait.
vision as I struggled to read my interview
notes for an article about a local accounting The fresh air would clear my mind—and
firm. The clock was ticking. In an hour, my blanch my rose-colored cheeks and blood-
editor would scold me for tying up the edi- shot eyes. Gingerly, I peered over my cubicle
torial process and accuse me of slacking off. as I wiped tears from my eyes and stood.

Come on, just start typing. “Where are you going?” Scott poked his
head above the cubicle wall.
Certainly, I could do that. After all, I had
penned stories for the business journal for “On a walk.” What the hell! Why wasn’t
almost two years—and I had never missed he out? I lowered my head so he couldn’t
a deadline. The adrenaline always kicked in see my face.
when I had to produce copy.
“Is everything okay?” he said.
I closed my eyes, searching for a Zen-like
state that would allow sentences and para- The usual “fine” that spilled from my lips
graphs to flow effortlessly as they usually regardless of my troubles at home refused
did. At one time, the newsroom had been to come. “Not really. I should go.”
my salvation, a place where I’d bonded with
an all-male editorial staff while my mar- The ever-affable Scott approached me,
riage dissolved. But now, new owners were a look of concern on his face. “Maybe you
bombarding reporters with requirements want to talk about it. I can join you on a walk.”
for more stories. I couldn’t hack it. I was a
failure. “Don’t you have a story to write?” I asked.
I wasn’t sure I should confide in him. For a
Hunkered down at my desk, I squelched long time—ever since my husband and I
my sobs so as not to be overheard whim- had separated—I’d taken care of problems
pering like a trapped animal. Mark, behind on my own, not relying on others to ease
the cubicle wall to my right, was conducting the burden.
a phone interview. No sound came from
“That can wait. I’ve never seen you this
upset.”

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“I need to get out of this place,” I said, his staff to cover industries in depth—and
sniffling. “I can’t go for long. John wants the had given us time to craft insightful, ana-
story on Rosenberg.” lytical stories. The new owners believed
readers wanted shorter stories—and more
Honestly, I no longer cared about Melissa of them.
Rosenberg growing her accounting firm into
a multi-million dollar operation over four “Why couldn’t George have waited an-
years. I was pissed at how I had called her other couple of years to sell the paper?” I
three times before she’d released the com- lamented.
pany’s revenues and profits—without those
figures, John would not run the story. Didn’t But, George’s wife had complained
she understand we were a newspaper not about being the paper’s office manager,
a public relations firm? Scott grabbed his and had convinced her husband that it was
windbreaker from the coat rack; we de- time to retire to their Block Island home. It
scended the narrow staircase in the three- had taken George two years to find a buyer
story, downtown building. who’d agree to his terms and conditions—
except those maintaining a reasonable
Outside, the warm, spring air refreshed workload for reporters.
me. I glanced at the cloudless blue sky. It
wouldn’t be long before we were blasted “The new owners don’t seem that bad,”
with heat and humidity, just around the said Scott, his curly blond hair glued to his
time of my divorce in late June. head. “You’ll get used to them. You’re a
hard worker.”
“At least, it’s not raining,” I said, in a
feeble attempt to start a conversation. “But, I can’t work until 8 at night. I need
to pick up my kids at 6.”
“I can see why you’re anxious with all
the changes at the magazine,” said Scott, a “Could you come in early in the morning?”
thirty-something want-to-be hipster. “I’m
feeling it too.” “Not really. I get them off for school at
8:15.”
Trust Scott to cut to the chase, though
the break-up of my marriage also weighed “That’s tough.”
on me. “It’s insane what they want us to do
now. I can’t write three stories a week and As we walked rapidly, I looked at the
two or three briefs every morning.” beautiful tree-lined street. The ash trees
stretched upward, their branches strong
Scott nodded. “You can do it. Just inter- and sturdy as if they could handle any dis-
view fewer sources—and pick stories that turbance.
are easy hits.”
“I just don’t know if it’s worth it,” I said.
“I’m already doing that,” I said. “And I’m “Maybe I should start looking for another
completely stressed. I don’t want to cover job.”
events superficially, but that’s exactly what
we’re now doing.” Scott sighed. “I’d hate to see you go.
You’re a good reporter. And you like jour-
“We had it good with George.” nalism.”

George, a former Time writer and The snuffling resumed. “You’re right
founder of the business journal, had trusted about that.”

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Scott recommended that I not rush a But I managed to leave the office at
decision. With time, he felt I could adjust precisely 5:00 p.m. I couldn’t keep my kids
to the workload, though initially I’d need waiting at their after-school care program.
to work longer days. Was there a babysitter The few times I’d been late, I’d gotten dirty
who could help out for a month or two? looks, and a warning that if this continued
I’d be charged extra. Besides, my children
His suggestions made sense to me. But deserved a mom taking care of them for at
would I ever get used to cranking out three least a few waking hours. Their father, too
stories a week while raising three young occupied by a business career, couldn’t be
children? counted on to pick them up by 6:00 p.m.

Scott gallantly opened the building door, Back at home, I quickly prepared dinner:
gesturing me to enter. “If something’s both- macaroni and cheese, ready-made ShopRite
ering you, I’m always up for another walk.” meatballs with pasta, and take-out pork
fried rice. As the kids got ready for bed, I
What a sweetie! I nodded, almost snapped at them for dawdling. Couldn’t
bursting in tears again. We climbed the stair- they hurry up so I’d have a few minutes to
case to the second floor. “Is my face red? It read some newspapers to get ideas for fu-
always gets red when I’ve been crying.” ture business stories? I’d lose my patience
when Patrick, 8, couldn’t find his pajamas,
“A little. But it’s fine.” He patted me gently or Emily, 10, refused to go to bed, or Nich-
on the back before returning to his cubicle. olas, 9, teased his brother. Couldn’t they
just behave like little angels? I was too ex-
In the upstairs’ bathroom, I splashed hausted to handle even the slightest mis-
water on my face and caked powder on my behavior.
checks to hide all signs of distress. Scott
would keep quiet about my issues. No one Regularly, I fantasized about quitting
else needed to know how I was drowning my job. Why not move to my mother’s
at my job. mountain retreat in Lake Tahoe where the
children and I could live rent-free? There,
Over the next few weeks, I churned out a I’d write for the newspaper The Bonanza
slew of stories, viewing myself as a machine and only have a couple of stories to pen
on an assembly line without any respite weekly. But my children’s father wanted to
from production. see his kids regularly; he’d be devastated
if we moved away, a lost Nordic soul with
I no longer chatted with reporters, took no joie de vivre. Besides, after the divorce,
hour-long lunches with colleagues at At- I couldn’t legally relocate unless I got a job
tilios, or pondered over company reports. with a comparable salary that would allow
I interviewed sources in less than thirty a certain standard of living. A weekly news-
minutes—on the phone, never in person. I paper wouldn’t cut it—nor could I uproot
allotted an hour to write a story—at most my kids from all they’d known and loved.
eighty minutes—as I raced to complete an
article every day. Bathroom breaks were So, I had two choices: adjust to the de-
limited to five minutes, twice a day—and I mands at The Business Chronicle or find an-
never peered over my cubicle to gauge how other job. No matter what, I would bust my
others were coping. I evolved into an over- butt to hand in stories on time, and hope
worked and under maintained robot, my
worth measured in terms of efficiency and
productivity, not quality.

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that the stress didn’t lead to a nervous “I feel so drained. I used to have fun in
breakdown. Long term, I worried I would this place. Now it’s a grind. It’s just story
become a basket case. But I wasn’t thinking after story with no time for reflection.”
that far into the future. Take it day-by-day.
Keep in check my exhaustion by not over- “I agree. Our new leader doesn’t want
scheduling myself on weekends. Most im- analysis. It’s tough for me too. But I’m get-
portantly, maintain a positive attitude that ting used to it. Just report less and write
I could do it all. more. That’s the winning formula.”

At work one day, after a restless night of I smiled—and I appreciated the sim-
pondering my future, I approached Bill, a plicity of his solution. “It sounds like you’re
senior writer and editor. The door was open talking about winning a car race.”
to his private office, meaning he’d welcome
visitors. It was his time to laugh. “Jen, it’s hard for
you because you have to leave early to take
“How can I help you?” asked Bill, a schol- care of your kids. You’re under time con-
arly gentleman with a law degree, looking straints. I don’t have that responsibility. This
up from his computer. “Sit down. I hardly might not be the right job for you. Maybe
see you these days.” you should consider teaching.”

“There’s too much work,” I said, sitting in “Teaching?” I asked incredulously. Didn’t
a chair next to his desk. “I barely have time he know how I’d disliked teaching in Niger
to breath.” as a Peace Corps volunteer after college
graduation? That had been twenty years
Bill leaned back in his chair, and chuckled. ago—perhaps I’d never mentioned that to
“It’s the new regime. They’re cracking down him.
on us. You’re keeping up with the work.
John hasn’t complained about you.” “Why? What’s wrong with teaching? Re-
member how your predecessor Sarah left
I breathed in deeply. “I don’t know how here to teach Spanish at a public school?”
much longer I can keep it up. I’m completely
stressed out. I lash out at my kids. I’m al- I nodded. “She likes her new job?”
ways rushing. I don’t have a second of down
time.” “From what I understand, she’s very happy.
She earns more money, works fewer hours,
Bill stared at me, his kind blue eyes comes home when her kids do, and gets
sympathizing with my plight. “You’re not better retirement and health care benefits.
thinking about quitting, are you?” I don’t think she misses this place one bit.”

I sniffled. “No, I need a job. You remember “Her kids are young, right?”
that I’m getting a divorce next month.”
“I think so. She was always pressed for
“You could change your mind,” he said, time—just like you. Now, she’s found a way
pushing back from his forehead his thinning to balance raising a family and earning a
blond hair. living.”

“I’m not sure I will. We haven’t lived to- I rubbed my forehead, thinking about
gether for years.” the benefits of teaching, but my heart re-
jected such a move. “I like reporting and
“You never know.” writing.”

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“For the past month, you haven’t been a degree in English and I’d learned French
happy. You don’t smile anymore and I can’t as a child, though I hadn’t used it in years.
remember the last time I heard you laugh.”
“So, your French is little rusty,” said Bill.
He was right about that. I wasn’t en- “You’ll remember it. You’re going to know so
joying life. I felt like a slave to the news- much more than anyone in high school.”
paper. It wasn’t fair to my children to devote
so much energy to my profession. These I glanced at my watch—ten minutes had
years would zap by, and I didn’t want to vanished and what had I accomplished?
regret being an absent mom. Did it really No words had been written, no source in-
matter that my sense of identity came from terviewed, but Bill’s insight had given me
being a journalist, and that I’d committed hope. Perhaps I should consider teaching. It
to the profession when I’d gotten a masters would be a way to see my kids more often.
degree in journalism form Columbia? How Teaching couldn’t be nearly as stressful as
many sacrifices was a job worth? Weren’t the newsroom. Was it so important to be
my kids as important as my job? passionate about a job once I had kids?

“You know Bill, I used to wake up in the Nevertheless, I couldn’t discount how
morning super excited to be going to work. my dad had encouraged me to find a profes-
I loved this place. I wanted to see you guys sion I loved with interesting colleagues and
and go out and report on companies. It was tasks. After all, I’d be spending one-third of
the best.” my waking hours there. I’d be miserable if I
didn’t like the work.
Bill frowned. “It’s changed—and I’m not
sure it’s for the better. It is what it is. I’ll stay “Thanks Bill for your suggestions,” I said,
around for a while. But I’m also thinking getting up from the chair. “I should get back
about exploring other opportunities.” to work.”

My eyes brightened—it wasn’t just me “I’m glad you stopped by. By the way, I
who was considering a change. “Where think you’d be a great teacher.”
would you go?”
“Really? Why?”
“Perhaps Washington. I’ve been con-
tacting government agencies. Maybe I “You’re personable—and fun—when
could be a spokesperson or work in com- you’re not stressed out,” he said.
munications.”
Did I detect a hint of flirtation in his
“That’d be quite a move.” voice? He was single. Once I got a divorce,
would he make his moves on me? He was
“It’s tough breaking into government Catholic—they never messed around with
work. But for you, teaching might not be married women—and he was old fashioned
that bad. You could teach English—and enough to never consider dating a divorcee.
French. I seem to remember you speak Besides, maybe he was a closeted gay—at
French. There will be job openings this fall.” least, that’s what rumors had circulated
around the office. No matter—he had
As Bill talked about the benefits of being proposed a solution to my professional di-
an educator, I saw how it could work. I had lemma, and for that I was grateful.

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About the Author

Jennifer Nelson is an author and French teacher who holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction
from Vermont College of Fine Arts and an MA in Journalism from Columbia University. She’s
a features writer for The Woven Tale Press, and her work has also appeared in brevity.com
and writingthrudivorce.com, as well as other publications.

139

I DO NOT RECALL
THE NAME

by Sara Wetmore

Even after all these years, I think I hate Literature. I was still optimistic then, and had
him all the same. Perhaps more now that I great ambitions for who I would become
have had the time and space to dwell, like when I finally completed my degree.
a breath of air coursing over burning em-
ber, catching light instead of extinguishing. I was fiercely ambitious, believing the
Though I have come to understand him a pinnacle of success was conquering the
bit better in these last few years as I’ve re- academic world, staying in school as long
gained trust in myself, I find it hard to move as possible to fill my head with books, his-
beyond the bitter memories he has left be- tory, and theory. I wanted to be the type
hind. Yet, I tell myself again and again, he of person who leads in their field, with an
is not solely at fault. I should have known audience for my study and pupils to guide
better, should have seen myself for who I through their own educational journeys.
really was and not for who he wanted me What’s more important is that I thought this
to be. So many young women that came victory was possible, and that in a matter of
before me have had their hearts broken years I’d earn the title of “Doctor” and lead
and repaired themselves, living delicious, a life filled with intellectual intrigue.
meaningful lives after the fall. I trust that
one day, I will be able to do the same. But The class was strenuous and commanded
perhaps before that day comes, I’ll need to all of my attention. Yet, as the weeks flick-
learn how to forgive him for what he’s done ered from one to the next, the professor
to me, or at the very least, forget. trying his hardest to teach us about post-
modern theory, I noticed this man slithering
It began with his form drawing nearer, his way closer to me. His t-shirt stretched
slowly, like an ice cube melting, pooling into tightly across his muscled chest and tat-
its own expanding winter pond. I arrived in tooed arms. The corners of his thin mouth
class so very naive and young—eager to learn creased and the edges of his eyes pinched
about literary criticism and theory, the first into the tiniest of wrinkles. Like an imposing
of many undergraduate stops on my quest to glacier, cold and slippery, he was a man
earn my doctorate in English Language and above all the other students, and he caught

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my eye just as I caught his. Eventually, he He pulled out his cell phone and looked
perched in the seat beside me, boasting of at me expectantly, his tea-colored eyes glit-
brighter days in the Air Force with tales of tering in the sunlight. I told him my number
London fog and Cyprus beaches. and he told me his, and thus began our tu-
multuous affair.
He told the class, “This reminds me of
a time when I was in England and I was On our date, I was fascinated by his blind
writing my own book…” charisma. I would fall down and worship his
every word. I wanted his approval so badly
Immediately, he peaked my interest, that I would tout my own little accomplish-
though I could tell he was baiting for my at- ments—as many as one could have at the
tention. I wanted to see England someday tender age of nineteen—but my moment in
and write my own book. Hungry for the his glory would extinguish quickly, followed
adventurous life I’d not yet lived, I swam only by a grander example of his excellence.
towards his lure. This would be the first of many times he
would scatter the ashes of my self-confidence
I had never met anyone like him before. beneath his hallowed feet. For months, each
He was so well-traveled and accomplished, thing I did was eclipsed by his ego, and sadly
with his military experience and talk of it is only now I realize there was so much for
self-published books. The worldliness and which I deserved recognition.
self-possession I saw in him was what I wish
I had seen in myself, but he was ten years Over the course of a year, the abuse be-
my senior, and there was so much life I had came more than simply ignoring or belittling
not yet lived. my accomplishments. When his tales grew
stale, I grew less concerned with what he
Maybe if I knew then what I know now, I had done in a past life and more concerned
would have waited, wading in the dating pool with my future.
of my own age group and never getting too
serious. I would have focused on my studies “What do you think of Princeton Univer-
and the arduous goal I had set for myself. I sity for graduate school? I believe F. Scott
would have dabbled in art and writing more Fitzgerald went there. Wouldn’t that be
freely and taken more time to explore the cool?” I said.
world around me. I was so bored with life as
it was, not yet embodying the picture of my “Not this again. If you’re thinking of ap-
future, that I forgot to live at all. plying to a school, you should at least run it by
me first. What if I don’t want to move there?”
After class, he chased after me on
campus, his footsteps falling with severity I remember thinking it was bold of him
as they followed my own. to assume he was going to join me on my
journey. He hated that I ceased lauding
“That was a great class, wasn’t it? Are him to focus inward and ultimately out-
you enjoying the book?” he said. “Yeah, it’s grow him. In fact, the more I lived in the
really good so far.” I said. present, the more irked he would become.
He grew jealous and insecure and needed
“Do you ever want to read it, like, to- my blessing even more than I needed his.
gether sometime?”
Things I liked that did not conform to
Little did he know that reading was on the person he had molded me to be were
my list of dream dates. I had to say yes.
“Sure!” I said, trying to reel in my enthusiasm.

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abhorred, and I would immediately fall I was lying and, unable to be convinced
victim to his bitter tongue, plagued by the otherwise, demanded an apology from me
most censorious taste. for days. He waited and waited, but I never
apologized. I wanted nothing more to do
Piece by piece, he became more human with him, and it took one night of furious
to me, and I began to see him for who he phone calls, sharp-tongued voicemails, and
really was: an insecure boy stuck in the past, a storm of defamatory texts for me to no-
unable to move toward the future because tice that I had been abused all along.
he was so petrified that things might never
get better, that his best life had already I wish we could have left things at that, but
been lived and saw no need for self-im- he persisted in trying to get me to confess.
provement. He tore down others to main-
tain his superiority. Things must have been And once he realized my fidelity was never
great for him once, and I feel sorry that the in question, he tried even harder to lure me
world moved on without him. back. He would contact my family and leave
flowers on my car. He would call me crying and
But I was much the opposite. The past apologizing, and then call me angry for not
was forgettable, and the future beckoned surrendering to his pale performance. He was
me with its limitless possibilities. I didn’t such a nice guy, he would say (as most abusive
have to be who I once was, or who I was partners do), and he loved me fiercely—too
then. I could be anything, do anything, go fierce to let me go. But I was free.
anywhere—it was all terribly exciting, and I
was anxious to fast forward to a time when In that first week, I put on my favorite or-
I was less pathetically me. ange mandala dress and danced alone in my
kitchen listening to “Jesse’s Girl” on repeat
He must have begun to suspect we were and crooned to Lana Del Rey, an act of de-
pulling in opposite directions, because one fiance. He had once criticized me for liking
night I quit my job and went out to celebrate one of her songs. For the first time in nearly
without him. He knew it was over before I did. two years, I felt happy. Happiness, though,
As I was sitting on the barstool, my phone kept cannot be sustained forever, and so naturally
vibrating, pulling me out of the conversation I stabilized into the ebb and flow of highs and
with my colleagues. I looked at my screen and lows that accompanies daily life. It took a
saw his name flashing over and over again. moment to realize that though I was glad to
Then my phone would vibrate again. This time, be free of him, I was immeasurably damaged.
a voicemail. I excused myself from the table
and stepped aside to listen to it. For years after we broke up, I tried to
date again, but I was afraid of intimacy
“Where the fuck are you? I want to know and attachment. I had given my love to
who is there; I deserve to know who you are him so freely, splaying open my chest and
cheating on me with. If you don’t call me giving him my dancing heart without ever
back right now, it’s over.” asking why. He had not earned it, but I
gave it all the same. I was not in love with
What’s funny is I would have stayed with him, but rather the world he represented.
him, maybe forever, if he hadn’t accused He accepted this gift and bit into it like a
me of cheating on him that night. I hadn’t, ripe apple, devouring its fibers and juices
as I was only out with work friends for no until his teeth cut into its defenseless core,
more than an hour or two, but he insisted leaving nothing to plant and start anew.

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I could not rid myself of the thought that out for graduate school. Lower your stan-
each partner, male or female, was sworn dards. The voice crept into all the corners
to govern me. All of the red flags I missed of my body, tying itself to the synapses of
before suddenly materialized in every new my brain and rewiring me for failure. I gave
relationship I tried to forge, and I’d find my- up on everything.
self thrust backward in time to the night-
mare he once had wrought. The sound of When I graduated, I was without direc-
my phone ringing induced a panic, so when tion. In my hand, I held a useless human-
someone showed interest in me, I drew ities degree and had no prospects for a job
tightly inward and became unreachable. or future. I had floundered through my last
Sometimes I would disappear entirely. year in college, being much more preoc-
cupied with cancelling plans than making
When I sat down to try to write again, them. I abandoned my ambitions. Instead,
I could feel myself sweating with his voice I cast myself into the depths of a wild and
scratching the back of my mind, trying to unfathomable depression; one out of which
break his way in, past locked doors and I am still clawing to escape.
drawn blinds. My own self-loathing had
morphed into him and his voice: deep, I think by now I’ve realized that win or
thunderous, and wicked. My mind would fail, I could never appease him. Nor should
go blank, frozen by the fear he instilled. I continue to try after being separated all
Although he was gone, I was still treading these years. He is simply a shadow of my
water, never to become anything more. past, and I was wrong to award him so much
With no way forward, neither writing nor presence in my soul. He is just a man, and I
reading could save me, though they had am so much stronger than his abuse. This, I
once been an integral part of me before I should clarify, does not absolve him of his
was broken. sins, nor will my loathing ever desist. He will
still haunt me in the future—and I fear I will
I gave up on trying to apply to graduate listen instead of believing in myself. But to
school entirely. I remember he had told me be hurt is not to be defeated. It inspires me
not to get my hopes up. I ignored him at the to become more. And one day, I hope, I will
time, angered by his doubt in me, but even- rise above him entirely, begging question
tually he got through. So, I listened. Not cut when they mention his name, “Who?”

About the Author

Sara Wetmore is a creative nonfiction author and Lindenwood
University MFA student based in Salt Lake City, Utah. Her
work has appeared in The Write Launch, At First Glance: An
Anthology of Poetry and Prose, and Etched magazine. She
enjoys experimenting with themes and form, finding deeper
significance in the common and mundane.

143



POETRY



APOLLINAIRE

by Timothy Robbins

Apollinaire “Zone” of sparrows, ravens, falcons, owls
and hummingbirds cavorting
This morning I read Apollinaire’s “Zone” with airplanes, swarming from the ends
and thought him silly. Meaning of the earth to celebrate their
being a vagabond, his being a vagabond, new brother. Think what he didn’t
it’s no surprise he wandered foresee: birds by the thousands shredded
along silly’s crooked paths starting with each year — and only a few
a Proto-Indo-European root for that, kamikaze-like, manage
‘happy,’ which he certainly was to smite their foe. Think of
in Stavelot, dancing with Wallonian girls, power lines, towers and turbines —
skipping out on his hotel bill or all creations of his beloved
springing from the Art Nouveau modernity — all killers of birds.
Underworld of the Metro, his imagination Think of this and ask yourself, was he
as fertile as Persephone. ‘foolish’ or was he ‘innocent?’
He was ‘blessed,’ he was ‘pious’ as he I think of the Roc and the Phoenix
tells us himself when he and his boyhood (And why not? Icarus too was just a myth
friend René crept from the dormitory to when he was born) and I’m
pray all night in the college chapel. inclined to declare him innocent. Then I
He was ‘harmless,’ he was think of that photo again —
‘pitiable’ trailing after an English his wound from man’s first flying war.
governess. Look at this photo I think how he died weakened
from 1916, a bandage round his (another meaning of silly) from his part in
shrapnel-torn temple, the wild look in his that war, and it’s clear:
eyes and snarling shape of his mouth, Clinging to one’s innocence is foolish.
and tell me he wasn’t ‘stunned
by a blow.’ Read the description in

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At The Track Adelaide Literary Magazine
Aviary

They run again more fiercely than before. Last time I consulted my geese by the river
Rick wants to hurt people. His dad wants to on their guano spotted lawn, immunity’s
hurt people. Both assume everyone wants walls rose tall and fast around me. I may
to hurt someone. Jones avoids hurting have just misled you. You’re probably
teammates no matter the cost. Winston picturing some Big Muddy or another stream
feels that running on a prescribed grand enough to float a rootless casino.
path with all his impetus and skill is the The Colorado may be waltzing through a
perfect incarnation of Will. Ernesto runs chasm in your mind to the legato and pizzicato
for Christina, which might prove chivalry of An der schönen blauen Donau or the
flowers from a seed that stirs in certain youths Grand Canyon Suite if your knowledge of
in all times and all places. Rounding classical music is more than passing.
the curves they make a pounding in my Our elbow of the Huron is no grander than a
ears so loud it can’t be wholly real. Each creek. Wading it without wetting your thighs,
stride makes them younger. Sweat absolves, you might think, “This was made by a leak.”
sweetens and renders them enviable in the
sight of the gods of pleasure and health. We like to think its birds are people-watchers
At times they seem to run in place. admiring our brisk nervous movements.
For one or two this will come to be the See the big one go out and come back with
way they think about young spring. They run fodder. The small one cooks it up and both
blindly at me, all bunched together as mouths water. The small one waits at the
though it were a tide that pulled, not their backdoor for the airport shuttle. The big one
toes that pushed, waves of glistening watches the front lest the driver not bother
torso and legs, arcs bisected by running shorts. to honk or phone. When the small one flies
They rush at me, panting and pounding. away, the big one sings sad songs. When the
I see myself in the middle of the track big one goes, the little one sinks into glum
cross-legged and still, exploring my page. repose. We like to think they glance at us
They part and flow around me. They and swap knowing looks just before they
could be running water, could be equipped step off our balcony, telegraphing: Someday
with built-in radar. Running so close, we’ll teach you to scorn gravity. I have just
they stir air that reminds my face of the shore. misled myself. We will not learn such scorn.
I could break them into metaphors. I could As for immunity, there never was a wall.
touch their calves and caress their sores. There was, and is, you — a deterrent, but
On they go, their feet scarring the track. far from insurmountable.
One, with the determined look of a swollen
cherry, eyes the girls on the grass. One
runs an utterly different course. His white
shorts tighten, afraid to pass.

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